by CC Hogan
Chapter 9 – Plans
The journey down from the hut to the Neuath took less than a day, but it was a further day of walking till they reached the outskirts of the small trader port, Taken Town. Where the base of the mountain merged into the foothills, the island changed dramatically. Despite the towering rock above, the plain was gently rural and the few residents lived in tiny farming communities, the fields separated by low, dry stone walls and trees. It was less flat than it had looked from the mountain, the gentle hilliness just enough to protect the land from the sea winds and storms. It was an unfamiliar landscape for Farthing who had been brought up in the dusty world of Wead-Wodder, but for Weasel it was very much closer to his native home of Tepid Lakes. By the time they reached the harbour, the spring had returned to the magician’s gate, despite still suffering the after-effects of his search for the boat and nursing a mysterious boot-shaped bruise on his face.
“I haven’t been here for a long time,” he said as they walked along between the lines of fishing baskets and piles of freight waiting to be loaded onto boats. “I haven’t the foggiest who is who anymore which will not be much help. Just to make it a little more complicated, I don’t think I know the part of Bind where your sister’s boat was heading, so we are starting from scratch. Ah, in here.”
The shop, like most of the buildings along the sea front, was a substantial stone structure with small windows that probably dated back hundreds of years. The building was much deeper than it was wide and was stuffed with boating paraphernalia, fishing equipment and wooden racks of charts. Not much light penetrated this man-made cave and illumination was supplied by glowing lamps fuelled with whale oil; smelly, but a satisfactory light. Weasel headed over to a large counter that had a huge map varnished into the surface. He pointed to the middle of the map.
“This is Taken, this is Wead-Wodder,” he pointed over to the west. “And this is where I think they are going.” He waved his hand over an area of Bind that lay many leagues to the north-east of Taken. “It looks like it is mostly desert over there, but I don’t know the area at all. I couldn’t even tell you what it is called.”
“Bind?” suggested Farthing.
“That is just what we call the entire continent. No, I meant the particular region. This is who we need.”
A small, round, balding man wearing a thick woollen jumper appeared from the back of the shop carrying a bundle of maps under his arm.
“These be what yers be needings, gentlemens,” he said in a characteristically nautical accent and dumped the pile on the desk. Farthing and Weasel stared at the man, wondering what magic this odd person possessed. He merely pointed up. “Mirrors, sirs, mirrors. Any gentlemans looksing for a maps comes to this here desks and starts pointings all over the place. I can normally works out which one of those points is the important points without having to shift my arses from my comfy chair.”
Farthing considered that the arses referred to had probably avoided a work out more often than was healthy. Weasel began looking through the maps.
“What is this region called?” He had unrolled a detail of the area that he was interested in, but it was worryingly devoid of markings.
“That be part of Jerr-Vone, sir,” said the balding map-maker. “Ain’t much theres, or weren’t whens this was mades.”
“When was this mades then?”
“By my fathers, methinks, kind sirs. So, fifties years?”
“So, there could be something there now?” Weasel was looking a little irritated, but mostly hiding it.
“Coulds be, coulds be. I ain’t beens and if no persons don’t tell me no things then no things will get drawn, will its?”
Farthing added up the negatives, decided there was actually the right number and nodded. “Anyone else have more details?” he asked.
“Maybes. Maybes not. What times would you have?”
“Just after lunch,” said Weasel.
“I means, what times of years is it, sir?”
“Summers, I mean Summer,” said Weasel.
“Then yes. Another elses will knows. He's in the Pub by the Waters. Cants miss hims, he gots the blight in one eyes.”
“Which pub?” Weasel asked.
“The Pub by the Waters; it's what's it is called and it be a fine place selling fine stouts!” The bald man started to roll the maps up. “You be wantings any of these rights away gentlemen?”
“If we can find out what we need, then yes, but we might need you to mark them up.”
“Fairs enough. That’s I can do for you once I know what's needs markings. No one goes much to Jerr-Vone, so no one much is going to be asking for these. They be still heres when you returns. Have a fine days, sirs!” He grabbed his maps and vanished back into wherever his comfy chair lived without another word.
“Pub by the Waters?” asked Farthing.
“Well, not by this water,” said Weasel as they left the smell of whale oil behind. “All these inns are called the regular seafaring names.” And they were; Sailmaker’s Tavern, The Old Gull, Galley Ho, they were all there. “Let’s get back into the town proper.”
The Pub by the Waters turned out to be a tiny inn next to a large stream, about half a league outside of the port in a small hamlet of farmhouses and a couple of workshops. Inside it was about as un-seafaring as you could imagine and looked like the typical farm inn found throughout all rural communities that like their beer, just scaled down.
“Everything is really small here,” commented the tall Farthing, ducking his head to go into the common room. It was nothing more than a room with two tables, a couple of benches and a bar that was only long enough to allow for two stools.
“There’s not enough of us to make it bigger, gentlemen,” said a large, grey-bearded man, appearing from somewhere beyond the bar. “Many of us come from other lands and like our ways, but most of the community are not permanent, so we have just what we need and do other jobs to make up the difference. I am the blacksmith too and I go out on the whalers as a hand if I must.” He reached over the bar and shook both their hands. “Mr Jipperson is the name, and my stout is the best around if you want to try some.”
Farthing smiled and pulled up a stool. Suddenly he felt exhausted. Weasel gave him a studied look.
“Four stouts, Mr Jipperson, if you please,” said Weasel. “One for Mr Farthing here, one for your kindly self, one for me, Mr Weasel, and one for your other guest, a gentleman with a bad eye that we have been referred to by the map-maker near the harbour.”
“You would be wanting my brother, then, and he would prefer rum if I know him at all. One moment please.” The friendly landlord of the inn vanished around the corner of the bar. “Mr Jipperson?” he called in a huge voice.
“Yes, Mr Jipperson?” came a distant reply.
“Some gentlemen would like to purchase a rum for yourself. Are you able?”
“Aye, Mr Jipperson, I am able and will be down on decks before the bell.”
“He will be down in about ten minutes Mr Weasel and Mr Farthing. He has been at sea for the last year and has not adjusted yet. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”
Weasel had been noting the way Farthing was slumping forward onto the bar.
“You have rooms here, Mr Jipperson?”
“I have. Two that are free and clean.”
“Then we will take them both, sir.”
“A pleasure, Mr Weasel. I will just pour your stout and then I will see to them immediately.” Jipperson the elder, as it would emerge that he was, poured three stouts and a rum and lined them up on the bar. “There you go, Mr Weasel. By the way, would you like me to fetch some liniment for that bruise on your face? It looks remarkably like a boot mark if I am not mistaken.”
Weasel and Farthing sat at one of the small tables by the fire and supped the excellent stout while Weasel rubbed at his face.
“How far did you carry me?” he a
sked Farthing. The young man had a distant look.
“All the way down. I was telling the truth about the goat, by the way. That small goat we met at the top led me down by a safer path. Well, a bit safer.”
“And my face?”
“I trod on it by accident when I was lowering you off a ledge.” Weasel looked surprised, then puzzled and then, as he rubbed at a sore ankle, he finally worked it out.
“You lowered me head first.”
“Your legs are stronger than your arms,” Farthing said. “I trod on you when I climbed down the ledge, just after I had banged your head against a rock.”
Weasel nodded as various unexpected injuries were explained. He sipped his stout and thought through the episode a little more.
“Now I understand why you are out on your feet, Farthing, and you are still getting over that onga sting. I owe you. Thanks.” Farthing just nodded. He was too tired to do much else.
“Gentlemen?” A very short, bandy-legged man in his middle years with a thin red scar down the left side of his face and a damaged eye, swayed into the bar, grabbed his rum, and sat at the table. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I am still trying to calm this island under my feet. She is a tempestuous lass, it would seem.” He grinned broadly. “Now, what can Mr Jipperson the younger do for you?” He held out his hand and they both took it briefly and introduced themselves.
Farthing wondered whether anyone around here actually used or even owned first names. Weasel pulled out a piece of paper and roughly sketched the Prelates Sea and Taken Isle. He then made a mark to the north-east.
“I am told by the map-maker at the harbour that this is part of Jerr-Vone, but his maps show it as empty. He said you might be able to fill in some details.”
The younger Jipperson frowned. “Well, not by a lot, I think. That area is almost all desert right down to the sea. Nobody lives there cos there is no fresh water. At least most of the year there ain’t.”
“What do you mean most of the year?” asked Farthing.
“Well, once a year the rains from the inland mountains build up and it is enough to create a river down through the desert that eventually empties into the sea. It only lasts about a month or so, but for that time, either side of the river, plants pop up and even grass. It looks like a miracle, apparently, though I have never seen it myself. Why you be asking?”
Farthing looked at Weasel, not sure of what he should say.
“We are looking for some thieves and we heard they were heading there,” Weasel said carefully. The short seaman fixed him with his good eye.
“Well, if they be heading to Jerr-Vone, then they be thieves of people.” Weasel, caught out by the directness, nodded. “Once a year, as that river springs up to life, an illegal slavers market is held on the sands about five leagues upriver from the coast. Been going these last ten years by my reckoning. It lasts the whole time the river remains.”
“Slavery is legal in parts of Bind,” Weasel commented. “How is this illegal?”
“Oh, in several ways,” explained Jipperson. “Firstly, in those places that have slavery they can only be slaves for a fixed length of time, and then they have to be freed. Also, they have to be treated right. More importantly, you can’t just make anyone a slave, it has to be for something like a payment of debt or something. Not that any of that makes it right, if you ask me. A man’s life is his and no one else’s my people think.”
“Where do you come from?” asked Farthing.
“My brother and me are from the Ices, lad. A rare place and a cold place up north at the land bridge between the two continents, but hard as it is, it is also a fair place.” He staggered to his feet and wandered over to the bar. “Mr Jipperson?” he called.
“Yes, Mr Jipperson?”
“A refill if you please, on our tab!”
“Indeed, Mr Jipperson. Be there presently.”
“Now,” Jipperson the younger said, sitting back down at the table. “So, there is a legal way of being a slave. What is not legal is to just grab someone and sell them to someone else for life, and that is what happens in the desert. These slavers come from all parts of the Yonder Sea. Yes, I know you call it the Prelates Sea, lad, but I am not from the Prelates. They grab anyone they think will make them money and they set up shop during the river time and sell what they can.”
“And that is the biggest shame of it all,” Mr Jipperson the elder said has he joined them at the table with a large jug of stout, a bottle of rum, and some hot pig’s skin crackling in a bowl. “Cos any they don’t sell just gets left in the desert.” The table fell silent and Farthing’s expression changed from tired to dark and angry. The older man looked at him carefully. “Someone you know that you be chasing, lad?”
“My sister.”
The Jippersons looked at each other. “Then you have a big problem lad,” the younger said. “You need to get there as soon as you can. Have you a boat?”
“We have transport,” Weasel said, a bit evasively. “What we need to know is where we are going.”
“How good is your navigation,” Jipperson asked.
“Very good.”
“Fine. Then, first thing, I will come down to the map-makers and I will mark up a chart. I can mark the tides and the winds too if that will help.”
“The winds would help a lot,” Weasel said.
“Where you from, Mr Farthing?” The older of the Jipperson brothers poured Farthing another stout.
“Redust. My sister worked at the Prelate’s palace. She and the Prelate’s daughter were taken about nine days ago. We’ve been chasing them, but ….”
“Nine days?” the younger Jipperson interrupted. “How did you manage to get from Redust to here so fast? And, for that matter, if you are well behind the boat with your sister, how in hells did that get past us here so quick?”
Weasel glared at Farthing. “I think they have a wind talker on board. We have been hard-pressed to catch them.”
“Especially without a boat, Mr Weasel.” The older Jipperson was grinning. “So, there has been this story coming down from the mountain in the last couple of days about the dragons up there being all in a mood because one of their kind has been carrying humans! Well now, a good bit of gossip is just a bit of gossip and means nothing much unless the truth of it turns up at your inn asking for directions.”
Weasel grimaced. It would not be the first time that he had been outsmarted by a landlord and probably not the last. “Mr Jipperson, Mr Jipperson,” he addressed both brothers. “You have found us out.” He smiled politely. “But the truth is still that we believe a slaver has this lad’s sister and we have to get to Bind before she is sold.”
The smiles fell from the brother’s faces.
“Indeed, you do,” said the elder. “And you will not do it if don’t have what you need. When do you leave?”
“We are waiting for our friends to get back, possibly tomorrow, though perhaps the next day if they were caught by the storm of yesterday.”
“Well, my brother can get your charts sorted out and can tell you where to go to get provisioned without being fleeced in the process. Us out on the plain are honest enough folk, but the traders at the harbour have their own ways.”
“In the meantime,” the younger brother joined in, “I suggest you both get rest. I do not envy your journey or what you may find the other end.”
Farthing sat at the end of the rough and simple bed feeling lost. For the last few days, he had driven the thought that his sister had been captured by slavers to the back of his mind, hoping that there was some other explanation for her disappearance. Now, it seemed that the worst of his imaginations had come true. Not only was she enslaved, but had been taken by slavers working illegally and was to be sold to some person who had no qualms about buying slaves from an illegal market in the middle of a desert. How had this happened? It was crazy. It would have been more understandable had
she been grabbed from a backstreet somewhere, though slavery was illegal in the Prelates. But to be taken from the Prelate’s island palace? Along with the daughter? It was almost inconceivable.
Slipping on his boots and coat, Farthing made his way quietly out into the lane and leant against the wall of the small bridge that crossed the stream. The trickle of water was somehow calming. This island was small in so many ways, at least at the level of the town. Even his room was small, and having been sleeping out in the open or just under canvas for the last few days, it felt claustrophobic.
“I like it out here.” The younger Mr Jipperson walked out of the darkness and leant on the wall next to Farthing. “At sea, I am only below deck when I am sleeping. I am a tillerman, you see, and my life is either at the rudder or checking the line of the sails or navigating by the stars. I even eat out on deck. So, when I get back home, it takes me quite a few days to get used to our small house again. By the time that happens, I am looking for another ship.”
“Have you always been at sea?” Farthing welcomed the distraction.
“No, not always. We were hunters up north. We would travel up to the ice and snowfields with the dogs. We would spend weeks out on the tundra pushing up towards Hoar North, or as far as we could go without freezing ourselves ridged.”
“How did you end up on Taken?”
“A long story that, lad, but the short of it is that when the hunting was off the two of us took to riding the whalers. Then one day, the one we were on got near ripped apart by a storm and we limped in here. The boat wasn’t repairable, and the wood was sold for scrap. We were short of money, didn’t know much what to do, and were well off route for getting back to the Ices. I managed to get a short trip on a trader who was needing a navigator, so I pooled what money I had with my brother so he could survive here and off I went. Well, by the time I got back two months later, my brother had managed to buy this place. It was ruined you see and he got it cheap, and was getting the inn up and running. I had a bit of cash left from the trip, so I threw that in and we got it smartened up, the bridge repaired, which had fallen into the stream, and a small smithy opened. My brother had made all the harnesses and sleds for the dogs up at the Ices you see, and he only had to change what he was making, he reckoned, cos he already knew how. Anyway, we were both young and had not started with family, so we stayed. That were forty year ago now, and we is still here.”
Farthing was envious of the two brothers but grateful too. “Have you got family now?”
“No lad. Well, I haven’t ever gotten around to it. I like the sea and the more I play with her, the more I like her. Apart from the odd whore, I have never had time to get anything family like going. My brother had a wife many a year ago, but that is an unhappy tale, and I will leave it there. It is just the two of us now. We got a good little business here and all my crew wages just get saved up and never spent. When we get too old to work, we will just sell this place up and find something small and private for our last days. All neat and simple.”
The two of them stood in silence, listening to the night sounds on this strange island. Taken was just a little less than six leagues long and only two leagues at its widest. The mountain and foothills took up two leagues of that and the rest of it was the rolling, rural plain. It was just big enough to have some variety when it came to plants and animals, and the small woodlands and little, shallow valleys could fool you into believing that you were in a far bigger land. Most of the birds seem to be seabirds though Farthing had recognised a few small species of land birds on the walk down from the mountain. The area that seemed to be the least coastal was where he stood now. He had never seen this sort of small rural community before, but he felt drawn to it. Maybe it was simply because it was sheltered and comforting, and at the moment he felt very exposed and scared.
“Tell me about your sister, lad.”
The question startled him and he wasn’t quite sure where to start.
“I don’t know. She is a couple of years younger than me and smaller. She has always been wisp-like, or that is how our mother described her. She is light and delicate somehow, though she is as strong as anything.” Farthing furrowed his brow. “We have lived on our own for ages now since my mum died and my father jumped a passing trader and vanished. Never saw him much before, really. Didn’t like him, don’t miss him. Neither of us.”
“So, you orphans then?”
“Suppose so. I was young when my mum died, but was already pushing a cart to earn. Rusty, my sister, was younger. It was hard on her, but we had friends and they made sure we could stay on in the apartment and not end up in the street like many of the kids where we are. We both have jobs of sorts; hers is more reliable than mine being a maid and all. That makes us a lot luckier than others. We’re close, though, my sister and me. A bit like you and your brother, I think. We are each other’s family. I have no idea whether we have anyone else; no one has ever turned up. The same friends have helped me now.”
“What, the magician you mean?”
“I didn’t know him before, but the friends sort of dragged him into this.” Something registered with Farthing and he looked at Jipperson. “How did you know he is a magician?”
The short tiller man laughed. “Been at sea a long time I have, lad. I recognise the likes of a wave talker when I see one smelling the salty air, especially when they is so rare. Never seen one before and didn’t think I ever would, but he is the second one I have heard of recently.”
“Two of them? Weasel thought he was the only one.”
“Did he now? Well, that is interesting because you see there was a boat through here about a month ago heading west, according to them down the harbour. I saw it about a hundred leagues from here while we were on the hunt. I could see the way it moved and it definitely had a wave talker on board. I am not the only one neither. When I sailed in a few days ago, the harbour master was still complaining about it. Apparently, it had sailed out of here some weeks back without paying its mooring fees. The harbour master had got caught out because the boat had sailed out as quickly as anything against the tide. Now that is a trick not even I can pull and I have been doing this with the best of them for a lot longer than most.”
“Can you tell Weasel all this when we go to the harbour in the morning?”
“Course I can, lad.”
“Because it will explain a lot about why we have not been able to catch the boat despite being carried by a bloody great big dragon!”
Weasel was quiet as the three of them walked along the small rural track between the drystone walls into Taken Town. The confirmation that there really was a second wave talker on Dirt did not sit well with the magician. Firstly, unless something was very out of order, this had to be a relative. And secondly, if that were so, then why had he not known they existed and why were they working for an illegal slaver?
The noise of the small but busy seaport snapped Weasel out of his musing; there was nothing he could do now to discover the identity of this wave talker, so it was not worth worrying about yet.
“You mentioned places where we could stock up, Mr Jipperson?” he asked.
The small, bandy-legged seaman had found his land legs and was setting a fair pace to the harbour. “Aye, there are a few friends off the main tack, but I will take you to them once we have this map sorted out. Was it Mr Biggerman you saw yesterday?”
“Short fellow, speaks in plurals and has a way with mirrors?”
“That be him. He and his son run the shop together, but his son has been eying up this lass for the last fifteen years and has been building up the courage to tell her his intentions, so he is not always in attendance.”
“Fifteen years?” Farthing was stunned. “I am not the bravest around women, but I don’t think I would take that long.”
“You would if she lived five hundred leagues away. Young Mr Biggerman has only met her on three occasions i
n all that time and he is totally besotted.” Mr Jipperson had a wide smirk on his broad face and Farthing wondered at the truth of the tale. “Here we go, Mr Farthing, Mr Weasel, Biggerman Charts and Sundries, one of the oldest establishments on the quay.”
The smell of the whale oil lights wasn’t terrible, they were much used in Wead-Wodder too, but the cramped quarters of the map shop did give them an extra piquancy that Farthing could happily have done without. The owner appeared from behind the large, chart table when they walked into the shop.
“Mr Jipperson,” the owner said formally.
“Mr Biggerman,” Jipperson the younger replied. “And I believe you met Mr Farthing and Mr Weasel yesterday.”
“Indeed I dids, Mr Jipperson, and sents them to yous and your brother’s finest Inns. Gentlemens, welcome backs to me shop, I trusts you founds the stouts to your liking. It’s the finest on the isle, tis it.”
“It was very fine, Mr Biggerman,” Weasel said with a genuine smile. Farthing could see that the magician was thoroughly enjoying the banter of these people from Taken, and had he had fewer worries he would have enjoyed it more himself. There was an ingrained openness and friendliness, carefully protected by the formal tone of speech and address, that was missing from his young experience. He knew some genuinely good people in Wead-Wodder, but distrust was the flavour of most days. He reflected that Barkles, Hetty, Geezen and Truk would fit right in here and wondered if any of them had ever ventured to the island. He knew the answer of course. Truk plied only the coastal routes and the others never left the town. Biggerman pulled out the maps he had shown them the day before from under the chart table.
“I had suspicions that you two gentlemens woulds return, so I kept these handys,” Biggerman told them. He rolled out the chart of the north-west quadrant of the Yonder Sea, as it was named on the chart, and a closer detail of the coast of Jerr-Vone.
“Not much marked on here, Mr Biggerman,” remarked Jipperson.
“Well, I has hads that signs up on the windows offerings coins for knowledge this pasts forty years, Mr Jipperson, but you seaward fellows never seems to make it pasts the pubs, by which times you has forgottens most of what I needs!”
Jipperson grinned at Mr Biggerman. “Well, maybe I can add a few extra titbits for your charts later and we can celebrate the event with a drop or two from your father’s old bottle of rum, Mr Biggerman.”
“Well, we will have to sees abouts thats, Mr Jipperson. It is a reals ancient and rare thing that bottle she is. Anyways, Mr Farthing and Mr Weasel heres do not want to be wallowing in tales of our bottles, so let us to the charts.”
From a drawer under the map table, the small man produced a wooden tray with several bottles of ink and assorted quills and nibs. The two men leaned over the chart of the north-east quadrant first and Jipperson suggested a route that took the best advantage of the winds.
“You will be needing resting places, I assume, gentlemen. Unlike the eastern way you came in, there are a few small islands, though they are not very well known and can be hazardous to a ship if the master is not attentive.” Farthing noticed that Jipperson was gently waltzing around the fact that they were going by air and not by sea. It was probably a good thing, he was coming to realise, as not all places were like Wead-Wodder where people simply ignored those things that didn’t get directly in their way.
“Are all these islands normal, Mr Jipperson?” Farthing asked. His experience of islands so far had been rather mixed.
“Normal, Mr Farthing?” Jipperson seemed bemused. “Well, they are not those floating patches of red reed, if that’s what you mean, but yes, they are just islands. They ain’t going nowhere. Not like the Hidden Isles or anything like that!” He smiled broadly and Farthing looked surprised. “No, don’t fear, the Hidden Isles is an old tale and nothing true to it I reckon.”
“You never knows, Mr Jipperson,” Mr Biggerman said. “There is rumours, you knows, rumours a plentys for many years.”
“Now, don’t you be fishing out your old father’s stories, Mr Biggerman,” Jipperson reprimanded the shopkeeper. “There was more than one reason why his old rum bottle had such a reputation!”
Farthing looked over to Weasel, who very subtly shook his head.
“Now, gentlemen,” Jipperson continued. “Let’s be adding some detail.”
Over the next half an hour, Jipperson worked on the map of the Jerr-Vone coast while the fine hand of Biggerman drew in the tides, the winds, the landmarks and even the odd whale and maid of the sea. Farthing was fascinated. This small, odd man who had no concept of singular and plural in his speech, has the mind of an artist, and the plain map danced into life before his eyes. Weasel leant forward and whispered in his ear.
“Watch carefully, for that is true magic, in my mind.”
Once again, another layer of the complex man rose to the surface. Despite an underlying wariness, Farthing realised he was beginning to like Weasel.
Charts finished, Weasel settled with Mr Biggerman and the maps were folded into a light, waterproof, canvas map bag which Weasel tossed to Farthing. A few friendly formalities later and the three made their way to a provisioner that dealt with the Jipperson brothers and who gave them an honest deal, agreeing to send on their small number of supplies with some pig iron the brothers needed for the smithy later that day.
“It is an odd thing,” Jipperson commented as they made their way back out of town. “That mountain is chocked full of iron I reckon, but because of all the claims, we can’t touch it, and we have to import it from our old home in the Ices. It is not that we need much of it, but recently we have been making up some iron bracing for some of the larger ships; it's lighter than adding more hardwood beams you see and the merchantmen are looking for more and more speed.”
“How is Fren-Eirol going to find us?” Farthing had been worrying the dragon did not know where they were.
“She knows that I will have headed to an inn because she knows me well,” Weasel explained. “But she also knows I won’t drag you into the sort of inn that I generally frequent, so that crosses most of the ones from the town off the list.”
“On that basis,” added Jipperson, “it only really leaves the small village pubs and there are only three of those.”
“Quite, Mr Jipperson,” Weasel agreed. “So, taking that all into account she should find us right about…”
“Weasel!” Mab-Tok shouted out as he landed nearly on top of them. “I need your help. Fren-Eirol has broken a wing.”
“What?” Farthing was dismayed. Suddenly, all their plans were collapsing again.
“Magician, if we can hurry, we can fix it before it becomes a serious problem, she just caught it a few minutes ago. Jump on my back.”
“Can you take me?” Weasel had never flown on something smaller than a sea dragon.
“Of course, or I wouldn’t suggest it. And I don’t have the hang-ups of those big lumbering idiots on the hill.”
Weasel shrugged and pulled himself up on the back of the small dragon, like a child climbing onto a parent. To Farthing’s complete amazement, the Draig Bach-Iachawr just jumped into the air and headed straight off as if the magician weighed nothing. He and Jipperson stood watching the dragon disappear into the distance toward the hamlet.
“So, a healer too, your Mr Weasel,” Jipperson said thoughtfully. “And a Draig Bach-Iachawr and a Draig Morglas? My, but you have collected together an interesting crew, Mr Farthing.” He looked at the young man. “Come on lad,” he said in a much less formal tone, “looks like they be headed for our pub. Suppose we should be hurrying along?” Farthing nodded and the two set off up the road.
Fren-Eirol was leaning back and braced up against a tree with pain in her huge eyes while Weasel held her wingtip and pulled.
“Harder, magician, I have to have it straight!” Mab-Tok spoke sharply, but he knew what he was doing.
“Fren-Eirol,” started Farth
ing.
“Shut up boy!” the large sea dragon growled from between clenched teeth. Suddenly there was a sickening, snapping sound, and Mab-Tok slapped a wet dressing over the wing bone near the tip.
“Got you!” he shouted with triumph. “Okay, let it go … slowly!”
Weasel gently released the dragon’s wing and she sagged against the tree with an audible sigh of relief.
“I haven’t done that since I was young,” Fren-Eirol said with a note of dismay as Mr Jipperson the elder appeared from the pub with a big pale of what looked like steaming, warm water. “Oh, bless you, sir!” the dragon exclaimed and downed the contents in one gulp. Farthing blinked; he had rather assumed the water was for the wing. “Oh, and that had rum in it too!” A broad smile grew over Fren-Eirol’s face. Now it was young Mr Jipperson’s turn to look dismayed. He picked up the bucket and sniffed.
“Mr Jipperson,” he addressed his brother, a little more abruptly than usual. “Exactly how many bottles of my rum did you empty into this pale?”
“Not enough for you to fret about, Mr Jipperson,” the elder brother replied with a smile. “Just the two…”
“Two!” Any pretence at formality disappeared in a flash. “Ronald, if I am short at the end of the week, you will be brewing me a new batch personally!”
So, they did have first names, mused Farthing.
“Brother mine, I would never deprive you of your precious tipple; I have three crates in store, just in case.”
“Really?” The younger brother looked taken aback. “Well, Mr Jipperson, in which case, the large young lady here can have another to ease the agony.”
But the large young lady was already out like a light, her head tilted backwards and her tongue lolling out.
“Strong spirit and dragons are an ill-advised mix,” Mab-Tok explained. “Don’t get me wrong, we like the taste, but we don’t handle it very well. Still, it will help the healing, which is why I asked for it.”
Farthing’s smile became a frown and he walked over to Mab-Tok. “Thank you, Mab-Tok, but how long will it take to heal?”
“Well, it is not as dramatic as it sounds. What she did was catch the top of the tree and she has torn a bit of the cartilage. The dressing I have put on will set hard and that means she can fly, with a little care, but we should delay a day, I am sorry to say.”
It wasn’t as bad as Farthing had feared. He had worried that they had been effectively grounded. The elder Jipperson was looking at the sea dragon with interest. She had slowly slid off the side of the tree and was lying on the ground belly up. Weasel had taken some of her cloths from the bag she had brought back and had pulled them over the dragon.
“Will she be alright, Mr Weasel?”
“She will be fine, Mr Jipperson,” Weasel told the older man. “Her headache should take her mind off her broken wing,” he added with a grin. “And not wishing to leave her feeling like an exception in the morning, shall we adjourn to your outside tables? Mr Jipperson, would you oblige us with some flagons of your finest stout?”
“It would be an honour, Mr Weasel,” exclaimed the older Jipperson as he, Weasel and the younger Mr Jipperson headed to the pub. Mab-Tok pulled Farthing aside quietly.
“I hope you do not mind, but I persuaded Fren-Eirol to allow me to accompany you to Bind if that is where we are headed. I have reasons to leave this isle and I would welcome travelling with people I know.”
“You have been very helpful, beyond any agreed fee, I imagine, so I am happy with that. However, I should point out that where we are going is desolate and far from friendly.”
The small dragon looked amused. “Well, that sounds interesting. I have a fondness for desolate. However, I need some of my own things and I have a replacement bag that Fren-Eirol can use. Her other bag suffered storm damage while it was back at the shallow sea. So, if you don’t mind, I will forgo the stout tonight, but I will be back later in the morning.” The smaller dragon jumped quietly into the air and disappeared towards the mountain. Farthing watched him go with a touch of a frown. He was an interesting character, but he was irritating to a level that made Weasel appear positively homely.
“Don’t worry, young man,” a slightly slurred and rather quiet voice said. “I will keep an eye on him and he may be useful, but you are right to be a little distrustful of him, I think.” Farthing turned to thank the dragon, but her head finally slipped off the trunk and landed on the ground with an audible thump. Farthing winced, but the dragon simply groaned once and started to snore.
