The Axe and the Throne (42 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“This river travel has turned a bit tedious without the risk of collision.”

Keethro had to agree with his friend on that account. The pace of life aboard the raft had slowed greatly after paddling to the other shore, unaccosted by leviathans or whirlpools. It had become difficult to remember that they were in a faraway land, surrounded by foreigners who might wish to do them harm. Passing ships on the far shore were too distant to be of interest, and the occasional boat that skimmed ahead of them, pulled by the early morning breeze caught in its sails, did so without incident.

Even the insects had decided their raft was safe enough for harbor, as spiders had begun weaving webs in the gaps between the timbers. Keethro watched as a small frog hopped from log to log, and wondered if the webs would have the strength to hold him.

“These southern men do not look so different from you or me,” Keethro said. “Save perhaps for their lack of beards.”

“You call that a beard?” snorted Titon.

Without the aid of Kilandra's silvered glass and shears, Keethro had found cropping his beard a rather difficult task. He did his best with his knife, but he could only assume he'd formed a haphazard mess when compared to the close trim he preferred. The water's distorted reflection did little to confirm or deny his hunch, and there was certainly no chance of him asking Titon—not unless laughter and a loss of respect was the response he desired.

Keethro could see he would have no problem blending in among these new people, but that was thanks mainly to how he stood out among Galatai. Titon, on the other hand, still appeared to be very much the foreigner. Oddly enough, in spite of the warm weather, these southern boatmen wore enough fur to look as though they were in the cold of the North. And it would seem the South had its fair share of giant men, seen on passing boats, but none had the massive beard of the archetypal Northlunder who lived among the ice and snow.
Thank the gods Titon was never one to braid his beard
, Keethro thought, annoyed again by his godly reference.
And to hell with the gods, for I know he will not part with the thing.

“Perhaps it would be wise for you to shear that goat you have upon your face so we can better walk among these Southmen unnoticed.”

Titon stroked his prized beard and smiled. “What good would it do me to awaken my wife from her slumber only to have her stab me through the eye and go in search for her real husband?”

As I thought.
“Well, you can at least get it cleaned up some.” As Keethro spoke, the frog he'd been watching jumped, overshooting what would have been a safe place to land and arriving between two logs with an awaiting web. Keethro found he was satisfied to see his question answered. The web had been damaged, but the frog had not broken through.

“It would feel good to have a woman's hands tending to some grooming…among other things,” Keethro added. It was not the proper remark to get the ever-faithful Titon to comply, but it was the best he could do. “And honestly, it is an insult to the Mighty Three for me to be hiding this perfect jaw that they created behind such a mess.”

“Bah. A perfect jaw would not yap so much like a woman about grooming and the like.” Titon stood and moved to the rear of the boat. “I'm going to have a nap. Wake me if there's trouble.”

Keethro meant to respond but was transfixed on the battle before him. A spider far smaller than its prey emerged from where it hid. He had seen instances like these play out where the spider would pluck the creature free, fearing too much damage to its web to be worth the trouble. That was not to be, however. The black spider approached with caution, then began to wrap the frog with silk using its long skeletal legs. The frog, in its helplessness, looked not unlike the Dogmen they slaughtered, but with a burst of strength it struggled, twisting and turning and sending its attacker into retreat. That effort was ultimately without reward. Having only further cocooned itself without managing to break free, the frog lay in wait as the eight-legged assailant returned to finish the task of securing its meal.

Something inside Keethro stirred. He could not help but see the spider as evil, its ensnaring the larger, stronger animal by way of patient insidiousness a method of combat without honor, and Keethro was not without the power to intervene. He picked at the web with a finger, causing the spider to withdraw, and plucked the frog from certain death. He then spent the next hour meticulously pulling and cutting the sticky silk from its skin, each action threatening to cause more harm than good. With its head free from entanglement, the frog ungraciously clamped down on Keethro's finger with surprising force, causing him to laugh. The humor was lost, however, as he worked to free the frog's fragile arms and legs, just managing to do so without dislocating any joints, or so he hoped. Then came the toes and fingers. His neck aching from having been bent over his tiny patient for so long, Keethro fought his discomfort and continued. The rear feet took time, but they were freed with only some minor damage done to the webbing between the toes. The frog's hands were composed of such tiny-boned fingers that there seemed no way to remove the silk without mangling them. The web had more strength than bone, and every pull caused the creature to struggle, biting at Keethro as if he were worse than the spider. And he felt worse, as he tugged in frustration, his own fingers tired and simply too large for such delicate work, removing two of the frog's fingers along with the silk.

“Fecking hell,” he cursed aloud.
Had I just freed him the moment he was caught, this would not have happened.
His bitterness was amplified by the fact that the frog still had another hand encased in webbing, his fingers stuck together and useless. Keethro could think of no way to free the hand without mangling it as well.

“Your choice,” Keethro said, opening his own hand. The frog hesitated only a moment before jumping off, and a few hops later his dry skin drank in the river as he swam away. Any pride Keethro had hoped to feel from saving the critter was lost having maimed him in the process.

Keethro's pity was short lived. In the distance he could make out what appeared to be a series of boats tied to docks.

“Titon,” he called, knowing his friend had risen by the lurch of the raft. “A town.”

A place for trade and barter was as welcome a sight as any, as they were in desperate need of resupply. Having been forced to flee Port Phylan in a hurry, each still had a full purse of coinage that had done little but serve as extra weight. Well over three hundred marks remained after over a month of travel.

“Wear your best expression of boyish idiocy, and we will see if we cannot fool these people into thinking we are from these parts,” Keethro said.
We will look a pair of vagabonds no matter the case.

The men navigated their raft expertly enough to not cause any collision when pulling abreast the farthest of five boats tied side by side, forming their own extension of the dock. Most of the boats were dinghies with fixed oars, same as the one to which they tied. It was a fine-looking boat for a dinghy, with a keel and two sets of mounted oars.

“Will they mind us tying off like this?” Keethro would have felt far more comfortable moored directly to a dock, but the few thin docks that existed were completely packed by similar boats, tied beside each other in a series.

“It appears to be the custom,” said Titon. “I see no better place to tie off, and you intend for us to act like Southmen. I can stay with the raft while you get us some salt and meat. And a damn pot or skillet.”

The lack of a vessel in which to boil water had taken its toll on them both. This river, while mighty, was a far cry from the clear waters of the streams in the mountains. The results of drinking from it directly were not pretty, and required frequent stops to avoid further polluting the waters.

Keethro knew it would be a poor decision to leave Titon alone. “Let's remain together. I have no reason to trust these people yet, especially with a full purse of coins.”
And I have a point to prove about that beard.

Passing by a vendor selling dried fish for two marks per pound, they agreed to purchase some on the way back and proceeded to a shop with plenty of bags and crates of nonperishables in front. Titon already attracted a fair share of sidelong glances, and Keethro knew he was perceptive enough to notice. One does not last as a Galatai clan leader without the ability to sense mistrust and discontent.

Three shopkeeps worked the counter in the store they'd entered, and it appeared they got the grumpiest of the lot. He was an old man with a decent beard—for a Southman—of gnarly white hair, cut short at the chin but long on either side. He wore a perpetual frown that Keethro guessed was not just for the sake of negotiation. “What do you two drifters want?” he asked.

Keethro's eyes went right to the copper pot. “How much for that green piece of rubbish up there? And what is it, some sort of club?”

“Ten marks for the pot. No less.” The man's expression did not change.

It was twice what Keethro wanted to pay, but not a bad starting point. “I will do you a favor, old man, and throw it off the docks for you. Three marks.”

“Ten marks. No less.”

Keethro winced. “Do I look like a prince? How much do you expect a drifter can afford to pay for something he could find on the side of the river?”

“You find me a pot like that on the side of the river, and I will give
you
three marks for it.” The man's expression remained, but Keethro was happy to get him into some dialogue.

“How about that rope?” Titon's question sounded more like a demand.

One of the other shopkeeps turned to the third. “Ha, Randal! You owe me a copper. It
can
speak.”

Titon glared at the man who just went on about his business, unafraid.
Threats of violence do not seem to carry the same weight out here. Must be lawmen nearby
, Keethro reasoned.

Their shopkeep ignored the others. “Fifteen marks for the full coil, twelve marks for the half.”

“Gah,” said Titon, making a face of disgust.

“I will just take two pounds of salt then, how much will it be?”
Surely these men will not gouge us on salt.
In the North certain necessities were never haggled over, salt chief among them. Being so common and yet so essential, if a neighbor needed salt, one would give it to him and expect nothing in return. To do otherwise was unheard of.

“Twenty marks.”

Keethro scowled at the man, and Titon growled quite audibly.

The shopkeep returned their anger in kind. “I do not know where you two oafs come from, the permafrost by the looks of it,” he said, eyeing Titon as if to drive home his point. “But in these parts we have certain customs. You do not cheat a man on salt or fresh water, and if you are accusing me of such, then you can take your business elsewhere. We're all feeling the pinch of the new prices. I buy salt by the lot for nine marks a pound and sell it by the pound just the same to friends and for a hair more to strangers. And you're about as strange as they come.”

The man did not appear to be lying, so Keethro put ten marks on the table to diffuse the situation. “Just a pound, then.”

With his bag of salt in hand, Keethro said with finality, “And fifteen marks for the full coil
and
the pot.”

The shopkeep shook his head, but lacked the genuine anger he had concerning the salt. “You heard my prices.”

“Let's go, Titon. We will no doubt find a better price downriver.”

The shopkeep frowned as if confused by something but was quick to respond. “Eighteen and they're yours.”

“Done,” Keethro said, not expecting the man to have come down so far.

On their way back to their modest vessel, they spent another ten marks on dried fish—dried perhaps by southern standards; it was at best lightly smoked. It would do, however, if eaten quickly. Keethro felt rather accomplished having negotiated a fair price for their hardware while also allowing Titon see how much his beard made him look the Northman.