The Dark Ferryman (34 page)

"BAD WEATHER, AND EVERYWHERE, it sounds like.” Tolby Farbranch eyed this end of Calcort, where vineyards and nut orchards and fruit groves abounded, before the rugged rock wall and ridge that protected the city gave way to even rougher scapement that any army would hesitate to boil over. The soft side of the city had gates and walls, thick and tall and brawny but they were beyond the city limits of that, and as a Dweller who liked his horizons far flung, it pleased him to live here on the outskirts. This was his vineyard and his cider house down below, with his small home, and while it was not the spread he’d held on the Silverwing, he could still be proud of it. Proud and worried.

“It all comes round, doesn’t it.”

Tolby patted his youngest son on the shoulder as he straightened, and dusted the soil from his hands. It drifted on the wind, fine and dry, as he would wish it didn’t. Soil should be rich and moist. He squinted at the horizon where only the faint wisps of clouds looked like they bore any rain at all. Row after row of trimmed-back vines spun away from him like spokes on a wheel. They’d be all right, for now. They were dormant till the earliest of spring, but like all life, they wouldn’t thrive on just a moment of rain or a quick answer when there were thousands of questions or one meal when a lifetime stretched far ahead of one. No, nurturing was ever ongoing and cumulative.

Keldan said, “I’ll finish with these rows. I think I heard Garner and Hosmer scuffling in the house.”

“Did you now? Over what?”

“Hard to tell. It’s not like Hosmer to be off duty so early, so it might be something important.” Keldan, the youngest, the one with the farthest to go when he decided to leave, just smiled faintly and went back to turning minerals into the rows with his hoe, one step at a time, his mind far away on whatever it was Keldan thought about.

Tolby got to the main house, at town’s end, in time to see Hosmer swing up on his horse and trot off in a huff, his left hand to his jaw. The boys had been tumbling around a bit, it seemed, and Garner looked up with a guilty start as Tolby stomped the dust off his boots at the doorjamb and came in. Tolby’s gaze swept the room and saw the pack and traveling clothes and raised his eyebrows.

“Where do you think it is you might be going?”

“Like father, like son,” grumbled Garner. “This is just the same discussion I ended with Hosmer.” He blew on his bruised knuckles.

“It’s never ended. One battle breeds another. Is it something that will bring a tear to your mother’s eye?”

“No, sir, never that.”

“So what is it, then, you’re heading out the door to do?”

“Word on the street is that the Oxforts are hiring caravan guards. Hosmer has been leaned on to go and join up, by way of spying on the traders and see what they’re up to. I talked him out of it, for to do that, he’d have to abandon his post with the Town Guard and his reputation, and he’s worked far too hard for that.”

“You talked him into disobeying orders.”

“No, Da. ’Twasn’t his commanding officer who did the leaning, but a fellow who was just curious and thought they could earn some extra merit by having an adventure. Not wise, I told him. Not wise at all.”

“I tend to agree with you on that. Why is it better you go instead?”

“Now this part you won’t be liking at all, but you asked,” Garner said solemnly, giving him a look from under a lock of hair hanging low across his brows, reminding Tolby not a little of their recalcitrant little mountain stallion, Bumblebee. “I gamble a bit, and have gambled with him, and have even been into him for some coin.” He held his hand up before Tolby could bite off a gruff word. “You asked, Da, so now listen. I’m not proud of it, but there it is, and that’s the way it is with gamblers. I learned. Most don’t. I gamble, but I stop when I’ve lost what I can afford, which is very little. But Bregan Oxfort has a sharp memory, swift as a trap on a fur line, and he’ll think that my wanting to get out of town quickly and with a bit of muscle around me and money in my pocket to solve my troubles will be the right of it. He’ll never suspect me of spying on him.”

"Sound thinking.”

“I thought so. Hosmer disagreed with me a bit, but I persuaded him.” Garner bent to pick up his pack. “I’m off, then. I left a note for Mom, and now this talk with you, and I’m done.”

“You’ll be back when?”

“When I know enough to be of some help to the City Guard and Sevryn.”

“Sevryn?”

Garner cleared his throat. “Well, now, I might have forgot to mention that he came through to put the bug in Hosmer’s ear.”

“That’s some forgetting. Did he carry word from Meg and Grace?”

“Nothing on paper. He said only that the queen is knotted up in plans and that we should be hearing from the girls soon.”

“Ah.” Tolby rocked back on his heels, visibly disappointed. He had hoped for more, and his work-worn wife would be far more disappointed than he. He stuck a thumb in his belt to gather other thoughts. “He’s going with you, then?”

“Sevryn? Not him. If you believe in being Demon-ridden, he is. He has other missions, elsewhere, and scarce took enough time to stop and talk with us. Aymaran stood tied to the rails, and blowin’ hard but Sevryn barely took notice of him. He had somewhere else to be, and quickly.”

“And I keep you from your destiny, too, it seems.”

“I am going, Da.”

“I know. I guess I canna say no. You’re grown and you’ve full memory that I used to be a caravan guard myself, once. Not a misspent youth but a hard one, with hard teachers and long lessons.”

“I know that.” Garner gave him an honest smile, reminding Tolby of the long-ago days when all his sons were just knee-high lads. He stood in the doorway, both impatient to be off and just as patient to listen to his father. Tolby would be lying to himself if he hadn’t known his son spent a lot of nights gambling, for there were days when the money Garner slipped into the family earnings were all that had kept the vineyards and cider house going in the early seasons.

“So what lesson did you learn, son?” asked Tolby quietly.

Garner paused, and then answered, “Don’t be catching me upside the head for this one, Da, but I learned that Bregan Oxfort is a cheat and if I’m going to play him, I need to be a bigger cheat than he is.” He gave a wink before ducking hastily out the door.

Tolby considered the rough wooden planks before patting down his vest and finding his pipe. Smoking instrument in hand, he went out the door as well, good slow paces so as not to see his son riding down the road, and headed to his cider press. He had a bit of work to do before starting another crush; as he stepped into the building, the scent of apples overwhelmed him, beautiful crisp apples in all their hues of red and gold and even a flushed pink, waiting to be pressed and made into a drink that Tolby Farbranch could boast about. He sat on an overturned empty barrel and tamped down a bit of toback in the bowl of his pipe, lit it, and then enjoyed a deep draft or two while considering what he would tell his wife about their son. It was likely, he conceded, that she probably already knew as much about the affair as he did, with the exception of Garner’s actually leaving, for Lily was as wise about the children and family as any woman he had ever known. He smiled about the stem of his pipe. He couldn’t have married a finer lass, and the wonder of it was that she loved him as much as he loved and adored her. Hard as some of the years had been, still, he would not have had his life any other way.

He smoked a bit more, thinking, and then let his pipe go cold, before putting it away and rising to work on the presses. With his whittling knife, he stooped over the workings, trying to smooth out a piece that stubbornly refused to mesh its gears with the others as well as it could, nothing that would stop it from doing its duty but still brought a clenching to his teeth when he heard it during the crush. Some time later, with the winter sun gleaming through the windows, and himself covered in fine shavings, he could hear a bit of commotion out on the streets. Curiously, he walked to the doors of the great cider house and peered out as a strident voice hawking wares reached him.

“Gods awaken! Gods be a-listenin’ again. Buy your altars here! Prepare to hear Their guidance. Great portents and omens begin to stir! Be ready!”

Tolby snorted as he saw the man, a priest, bedecked with poles like any street vendor, staggering a bit under the weight of his relics, children trailing him and occasionally poking sticks at his thin ankles in hopes of tripping him to raise an even greater excitement. Tolby emerged as he saw that and flapped his arms at the younguns, scolding them for their treatment of a priest, for all that he himself did not put much stock in the Kernan strain. Sandals flapping and robe dusty, the Kernan came to a halt, his poles swaying and gave him a grateful smile. “Thankee, Master, these children do be curious and feisty these days.”

“You’re a bit away from the temples, yourself, and decked out like a spring garland for the fairs.”

“Ah, but that’s my lot,” the priest said, and drew his sleeved arm over his forehead which glistened with sweat despite the chill of the winter day. “When the Gods speak again, all should hear!”

“Aye? After all these centuries, what seems to be the rush?” Tolby eyed the pottery which looked like miniature water wells and statue nooks, shaped by hand and fired hastily from the crackled glaze on them.

“That’s the point, in’t it, Master? All these years without divine guidance, but we never gave up, did we? And now the signs point that the Gods have examined us closely, found us worthy again, and lean close to speak!”

“Indeed?” Tolby took a moment to knock the fine shavings off his clothes before meeting the priest’s eyes again. A-course, that was the Kernan way of things. Dwellers had never conversed directly with the Gods, so never felt the lack of communication when the Kernans were cut off. Dwellers knew well the deep voices and workings of the Gods in the world about them, and were never bereft of guidance and judgment. Kernans, though, they were a nervous and insecure folk.

“Buy one, good master, for I would hate to think a fine fellow like you could be left behind when the Gods speak again. Only a silver bit, although if you wished a grander one, I could bring one by later when it’s painted and such.”

“Exactly what is it?”

“A listening altar. A bit of incense, a little wine or hard cider, a sprinkling of petals or herbs here.”

“And I would hear through it . . . how exactly?”

“Why, with your ears, good sir! With your ears? How else?”

Tolby scratched one. “I already have ears, good priest, and I don’t see an extra pair among your relics.”

“Indeed not! No, no, these altars and alcoves attest to your faith and your readiness, so that Their Voices reach you when the time comes! This is your testament that you are prepared.” The priest beamed at him, a flight of wrinkles spreading across his worn face, an earnest gleam in his eyes.

“Ah.” Tolby patted his vest unconsciously to remind himself that his pipe had been cold when he’d placed it there. He’d only put a still-lit pipe in his clothes once, but the smoldering and burning that had ensued was enough to keep him wary even decades after the event. “Good man, I’ll bring you a cup of cider and send you on your way while I think about it and discuss it with my wife. You understand how wives are, no doubt, and if she desires one, why then I’ll find you at the temples.”

The priest flapped his mouth wordlessly for a moment as if unsure whether he’d been rejected or accepted, but then finally nodded. “A drink would be appreciated. This is my third load today.” He lowered his voice so that the scattered children, who’d stayed nearby to see what might be made of this priest, could not hear him so easily. “ ’Tis said even the Oxforts at Hawthorne have ordered a custom altar for their manors.”

More like the Oxforts had something to do with the selling of them, Tolby thought, and made a noncommittal sound appropriate to the gossip. With a duck of his head, Tolby took to his heels and fetched a nice draw of cider. He patted the Kernan on one shoulder, being careful not to upset the poles balanced there, and sent the priest on his way. He watched him go, children trailing at a distance and throwing glances at him to see if he would interfere with their fun again. He shook his fist and growled at one who skittered away.

Priests selling goods like common street vendors. Not that the temples didn’t do a fair business of selling things, oh no, Tolby was not so naïve as that. Still, the sight of the Kernan struck him as both odd and unnerving. On the heels of so many other things changing in his world, he did not like the idea of the Gods springing back to life and stirring the pot, as it were. He didn’t like the idea at all.

"THE COLUMNS ARE MARCHING,” Tiforan said solemnly, as he gave a kneeling bow before Abayan Diort. Diort looked on him coolly. Tiforan was not his choice as a second-in-command, but as third or fourth, he might do. Thus, he would be left behind as Diort moved on to Ashenbrook. His tattoos, deeply etched into his cheekbones, twitched as if he sensed the small disapproval Diort felt when looking upon him. Weathered by the badland sun, his golden-bronze skin had darkened to a warm brown, and the corners of his eyes were etched near as deep as the knife-carved tattoos, though those markings were not the august ones worn by Diort.

“Good. Tell Hefort I want the sands cast.”

“Today, Warlord? After the men have already marched?”

“It’s not for my army, Tif. Their fate is already set. The Warrior Queen of the Vaelinars wants a quick battle, I wager, a handful of days at the most, to achieve her point. I read the sands for another answer. Now go.” Diort watched the man get to his feet and leave in haste, and thought again that this was someone he would not willingly leave in charge, for he did not wish to be questioned over something so trivial as an oracle. Now, if he were to argue battle tactics instead of minor occurrences, that might give Abayan hope. He sat down and pondered his chain of command, trying to decide if he wished to make changes.