MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (25 page)

"That's wise," Panit agreed. "Slow now."

Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise. His oars trailed loose in the water.

"There's only one float!" he announced in dumb surprise.

"That's right," the Old Man nodded. "It's nice to know you haven't forgotten your numbers."

"But one float means
.
.
."

"One trap," Panit agreed. "Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still, having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap."

The Old Man's dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort's mind was racing as he reflexively maneuvered the boat into position by the float.

One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact number always varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hort known him to set less than ten traps. Of course the nya were an unpredictable fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is—they came readily to the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their random wanderings.

One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happened with any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catch until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and reputation he could do the same
.
.
.

"Old Man!" The exclamation burst from Hort's lips involuntarily as he scanned the horizon.

"What is it?" Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

"Where are the other boats?"

The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. "On the dock," he said brusquely. "You walked past them this morning."

Open-mouthed, Hort let his memory roam back over the docks. He had been preoccupied with his own problems, but
.
.
.
yes! there had been a lot of boats lying on the dock.

"All of them?" he asked, bewildered. "You mean we're the only boat out today?"

"That's right."

"But why?"

"Just a minute
.
.
.
here!" Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it onto the boat. "Here's why."

The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were caved in and those that weren't dangled loose. If Hort hadn't been expecting to see a nya trap he wouldn't have recognized this as something other than a tangle of scrap wood.

"It's been like this for over a week!" the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity. "Traps smashed, nets torn. That's why those who call themselves fishermen cower on the land instead of manning their boats!" He spat noisily over the side of the boat.

Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?

"Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it's safe! Bah!"

Awed by the Old Man's anger, Hort turned the boat toward the shore. "What's doing it?" he asked.

There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought his question had gone unheard and was about to repeat it. Then he saw how deep the wrinkles on his father's face had become.

"I don't know," the Old Man murmured finally. "Two weeks ago I would have said I knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today
.
.
.
I just don't know."

"Have you reported this to the soldiers?"

"Soldiers? Is that what you've learned from your fancy friends? Run to the soldiers?" Panit fairly trembled with rage. "What do soldiers know of the sea? Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the water? Order the monster to go away? Collect a tax from it? Yes! That's it! If the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it'll swim away to keep from being bled dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!"

The Old Man spat again and lapsed into a silence that Hort was loath to break. Instead he spent the balance of the return journey mentally speculating about the trap-crushing monster. In a way he knew it was futile; sharper minds than his, the Old Man's for example, had tried and failed to come up with an explanation. There wasn't much chance he'd stumble upon it. Still, it occupied his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.

"Are we through for the day?" he asked. "Can I go now?"

"You can," the Old Man replied, turning a blank expression to his son. "Of course, if you do it might cause problems. The way it is now, if your mother asks me: ‘Did you take the boat out today?' I can say yes. If you stay with me and she asks: ‘Did you spend the day with the Old Man?' you can say yes. If, on the other hand, you wander off on your own, you'll have to say no when she asks and we'll both have to explain ourselves to her."

This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in the fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man was capable of hiding his activities from his wife with such a calculated web of half-truths, Close on the heels of his shock came a wave of intense curiosity regarding his father's plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his wife.

"I'll stay," Hort said with forced casualness. "What do we do now?"

"First," the Old Man announced as he headed off down the dock, "we visit the
Wine Barrel
."

The
Wine Barrel
was a rickety wharf-side tavern favored by the fishermen and therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker, Hort doubted the Old Man had ever before been inside the place, yet he led the way into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.

They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since childhood plus many he did not recognize. Even Haron, the only woman ever accepted by the fishermen, was there, though her round, fleshy and weathered face was scarcely different from the men's.

"Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?"

"There's an extra seat here."

"Some wine for the Old Man!"

"One more trap-wrecked fisherman!"

Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at his entrance. He held his stride until he reached the large table custom reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.

"I told you, you'd be here eventually," Omat greeted him, pushing the extra bench out with his long, thin leg. "Now, who's a coward?"

The Old Man acknowledged neither the jibe nor the bench, leaning on the table with both hands to address the veterans. "I only came to ask one question," he hissed. "Are all of you, or any of you, planning to do anything about whatever it is that's driven you from the sea?"

To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.

"What can we do?" Terci scowled. "We don't even know what's out there. Maybe it will move on
.
.
."

".
.
.
And maybe it won't," the Old Man concluded angrily. "I should have known. Scared men don't think; they hide. Well, I've never been one to sit around waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now."

He kicked the empty bench away and turned toward the door only to find Hort blocking his way.

"What are you going to do?" Terci called after him.

"I'm going to find an answer!" the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his scorn. "And I'll find it where I've always found answers—in the sea; not at the bottom of a wine cup."

With that he strode out the door. Hort started to follow when someone called his name and he turned back.

"I thought that was you under those city clothes," Omat said without rancor. "Watch over him, boy. He's a little crazy and crazy people sometimes get killed before they get sane."

There was a low murmur of assent from those around the table. Hort nodded and hurried after his father. The Old Man was waiting for him outside the door.

"Fools!" he raged. "No money for a week and they sit drinking what little they have left. Pah!"

"What do
we
do now, Old Man?"

Panit looked around then snatched up a nya trap from a stack on the dock. "We'll need this," he said, almost to himself.

"Isn't that one of Terci's traps?" Hort asked cautiously.

"He isn't using it, is he?" the Old Man shot back. "And besides we're only borrowing it. Now, you're supposed to know this town, where's the nearest blacksmith?"

"The nearest? Well, there's a mender in the Bazaar, but the best ones are
.
.
."

The Old Man was off, striding purposefully down the street leaving Hort to hurry after him.

It wasn't a market-day; the bazaar was still sleepy with many stalls unopened. It was not necessary for Hort to lead the way as the sharp, ringing notes of hammer striking anvil were easily heard over the slow-moving shoppers. The dark giant plying the hammer glanced at them as they approached, but continued his work.

"Are you the smith?" Panit asked.

This earned them another, longer, look but no words. Hort realized the question had been ridiculous. A few more strikes and the giant set his hammer aside, turning his full attention to his new customers.

"I need a nya trap. One of these." The Old Man thrust the trap at the smith.

The smith glanced at the trap, then shook his head. "Smith; not carpenter," he proclaimed, already reaching for his hammer."I know that!" the Old Man barked. "I want this trap made out of metal."

The giant stopped and stared at his customers again, then he picked up the trap and examined it.

"And I'll need it today—by sundown."

The smithy set the trap down carefully. "Two silvers," he said firmly.

"Two!" the Old Man snorted. "Do you think you're dealing with the Kittycat himself? One."

"Two," the smithy insisted.

"Dubro!"

They all turned to face the small woman who had emerged from the enclosure behind the forge.

"Do it for one," she said quietly. "He needs it."

She and the smithy locked eyes in a battle of wills, then the giant nodded and turned away from his wife.

"S'danzo?" the Old Man asked before the woman disappeared into the darkness from which she'd come.

"Half."

"You've got the sight?"

"A bit," she admitted. "I see your plan is unselfish but dangerous. I do not see the outcome—except that you must have Dubro's help to succeed."

"You'll bless the trap?"

The S'danzo shook her head. "I'm a seer, not a priest. I'll make you a symbol—the Lance of Ships from our cards—to put on the trap. It marks good fortune in sea-battles; it might help you."

"Could I see the card?" the Old Man asked.

The woman disappeared and returned a few moments later bearing the card which she held for Panit. Looking over his father's shoulder, Hort saw a crudely drawn picture of a whale with a metal-sheathed horn proceeding from its head.

"A good card," the Old Man nodded. "For what you offer—I'll pay the two silvers." She smiled and returned to the darkness, Dubro stepped forward with his palm extended. "When I pick up the trap," Panit insisted. "You needn't fear. I won't leave it to gather dust."

The giant frowned, nodded and turned back to his work.

"What are you planning?" Hort demanded as his father started off again. "What's this about a sea-battle?"

"All fishing is sea-battle," the Old Man shrugged.

"But, two silvers? Where are you going to get that kind of money after what you said in the boat this morning?"

"We'll see to that now."

Hort realized they weren't returning to town but heading westward to the Downwinder's hovels. The Downwinders or
.
.
.
"Jubal?" he exclaimed. "How're you going to get money from him? Are you going to sell him information about the monster?"

"I'm a fisherman, not a spy," the Old Man retorted, "and the problems of the fishermen are no concern of the land."

"But
.
.
." Hort began then lapsed into silence. If his father was going to be closemouthed about his plans, no amount of browbeating was likely to budge him.

Upon reaching Jubal's estate, Hort was amazed at the ease with which the Old Man handled the slaver's underlings who routinely challenged his entry. Though it was well known that Jubal employed notorious cut-throats and murderers who hid their features behind blue-hawk masks, Panit was unawed by their arrogance or their arms.

"What do you two want here?" the grizzled gate-keeper barked.

"We came to talk to Jubal," the Old Man retorted.

"Is he expecting you?"

"I need an appointment to speak with the slaver?"

"What business could an old fisherman have with a slaver?"

"If you were to know, I'd tell you. I want to see Jubal."

"I can't just
.
.
."

"You ask too many questions. Does
he
know you ask so many questions?"

That final question of the Old Man's cowed the retainer, c–onfirming Hort's town-refined suspicions that most of the slaver's business was covert rather than overt.

They were finally ushered into a large room dominated by a huge, almost throne-like, chair at one end. They had been waiting only a few moments when Jubal entered, belting a dressing gown over his muscular, ebony limbs.

"I should have known it was you, Old Man," the slaver said with a half-smile. "No other fisherman could bluff his way past my guards so easily."

"I know you prefer money to sleep," the Old Man shrugged. "Your men know it too."

"True enough," Jubal laughed. "So, what brings you this far from the docks so early in the day?"

"For some the day's over," Panit commented dryly. "I need money: six silver pieces. I'm offering my stall on the wharf."

Hort couldn't believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. He had been raised to know better than to interrupt his father's business. His movement was not lost on Jubal, however.

"You intrigue me, Old Man," the slaver mused. "Why should I want to buy a fish-stall at any price?"

"Because the wharf's the only place your ears don't hear," Panit smiled tightly. "You send your spies in—but we don't talk to outsiders. To hear the wharf you must be on the wharf—I offer you a place on the wharf."