“Tell it, then.” Tiym Panner stifled a yawn, his beringed fingers wrapped about a mug, his own outfit resplendent with a trader’s wealth from his shoes (not boots) to the cap atop his head. “That’s a tale I’ve not heard in a while.”
“Well known it is, but still never to be understood,” Sweetbrook countered. “Before the Strangers came, the Nylara, great river that she is, rushed through Ginton Valley bringing both blessing and curse, as any great river does. So it is with a Dweller’s life. Sun can be too much and not enough, earth rock-hard or quicksand-soft, fire to burn us or protect us.
“The Nylara has a wide, stony bed, sharp and difficult to traverse, yet her broad waters must be crossed to tie together our peoples and provinces. At the flats of Ginton is the best place to cross her if it is to be attempted at all, and there are songs and stories of the tragedy of trying it. The clever Kernans tried to build a bridge cross’t, to no avail. The arrogant Galdarkans said they could cross the Nylara wherever they pleased, but they could not find a better fording place. So the Nylara ran wild.”
“Aye,” mumbled Clem Barrel around a chaw of toback stuffed in his gums. “My granduncle drownded there.”
A murmur of agreement ran around the room, and Sweetbrook waited for it to die out before going on. He laced his fingers behind his head as he sat back, his pipe dwindling in the smoking bowl balanced on his knee, smoke trailing up in a thin, silvery wisp. “Now the waters of Nylara defied all the attempts to build a bridge. Nothing could be done but rebuild ferry docks over and over once they were flooded out, and begin again, and the ferries themselves were chancy to take but better than nothing. If not over the river, then it would be close to a month’s travel to find a way to cross it, where she narrows steep and swift through the mountains, even then the weather oft closing it off. You can see why the Nylara was cursed many a time.”
“Yet there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Nylara is second only to the Andredia in th’ beauty of her waters—fresh, clean, and good—even through those scorching lands which carry water rarely. She is far more needed and cherished than cursed, and we must live with the ways and will of her. Then the Strangers came.”
Grace could not contain a tiny shiver that ran through her as the words passed through the walls and into her hearing, carried on scented toback smoke. Nutmeg slid a hand up and patted her wrist, as quiet as a mouse with only a tiny rustle of her clothes. The closeness of her sister helped diminish her worry a little, and then the warmth disappeared as Nutmeg crouched even closer to their peephole. She’d missed a few sentences, but Sweetbrook’s gestures caught her eye and she bent nearer the crack.
“Disadvantages even to them, keeping their strength at bay in the north. The elves wanted a way clear to deal with all the lands as they would. It is said the Gods treat with the Vaelinars, even though they do not bow to them, and powers are given to the elves beyond our abilities. The Kernans might argue that, but the Gods have turned their faces from them for the sins of the Magi, so who is to say? It must be true, for they built a ferry across the Nylara that even the forces of the river cannot deter. It is a Dark Ferryman who handles the rudder, but flood and drought have never stayed him. We took the ferry cautious at first, then the traders saw their own advantage in using it, and it became commonplace, although the mysterious shadowy figure exacts a toll from each and every passenger before crossing. Only once was the Ferryman halted in his chore.
“Willard Oxfort is Merchant King. He has braved fire and flood, wind and ice, raiders and pestilence to bring us goods. If he has profited—and some say mightily—by his efforts, who can deny that time and again, he has risked all? Still, the Dark Ferryman chafed at him. The toll, he felt, was an extortion of the Vaelinars. What right had they to make a profit off the wild waters of the Nylara? And so he complains to his son, time and again, as they cross the Nylara on their many excursions. His son is a dutiful son and guards the trader convoy while learning his father’s business.
“They came upon the southern shore of the Nylara, and out of the morning mists, the Dark Ferryman appeared, leaning on the rudder of his vessel. He beckoned for them to come aboard, and took the coins from Willard Oxfort with scarcely a notice, all bone and shadow covered with robes. Who can say within that cowled hood if eyes really watch or not? Yet he seems to know exactly what toll each passenger should pay.” Sweetbrook paused, and a shiver went round the room from all those who’d encountered the spectral figure.
“On the other side, and waiting for three more crossings for his entire caravan to be boated, Willard grew angrier by the moment. Good profit wasted instead of turning to more investment, extortion paid to Strangers, who knows exactly what ran through the trader’s mind? We only know that he complained loudly to his son and when the last caravan had been landed and the convoy started north again, Bregan reined his horse about, drawing his sword.
“Bregan had a reputation then as an outstanding swordsman. He more than guarded his father’s and others’ convoys, he was known as one of the best in all the provinces. Quick yet strong, with a keen eye and steady temper, his fame alone kept many a bandit away. Young then, he decided to rid his father of his tormentor, and he drew down on the Ferryman who stood and merely waited as if blind to the attack.
“On the first pass, he cut the coin purse from the black leather belt twisted about the Ferryman’s figure. On the second pass, even as the Ferryman raised his staff to parry, he cut the specter in half, his sword passing through dark shadows that exploded in a burst of black fire and sparks with the very stink of hell itself. The fiery blast threw Bregan to the ground, and when he finally stood, nothing remained of the Ferryman.”
A tobacco leaf could have fallen to the floor and been heard for the stillness in the smoking parlor. Sweetbrook looked around. He pulled his pipe up, relit it, and took a long, deep draft from it before laying it down again.
“His sword had melted away to nothing. His entire side, from foot to scalp, blackened and numb, Bregan staggered up. He picked up the coin purse and handed it to his father, the Dark Ferryman vanquished.”
The tall figure in the corner unwound, standing straight, his cloak falling from his body in a cascade of silken folds, his very movement stopping the miller in mid-breath. His gaze raked the room, his angular face cast in the planes of Vaelinarran beauty, his pewter hair swept back into a long braid, his pointed ears plain as could be. “Tell the story properly or do not tell it at all,” he suggested, drawing his cloak back about his shoulders gracefully. He pointed at Tolby. “I hear you know the truth of it.” With that, the man swept out of the room, only the bang of the door at his heels to tell he’d even been there at all.
Tolby’s eyebrows rose high enough to set up a ladder of wrinkles across his forehead as Sweetbrook traded looks with him. The miller nodded. “Tell it, then, if you know it,” he said, his voice a little unsteady.
Tolby looked thoughtful before nodding back. “As there is more than one way to skin a stinkdog, there is more than one way to tell a tale, sometimes. This is one that takes place in our lifetime, and so the telling of it has wound round and round about, as slyly as the bed of the River Silverwing.”
“True enough,” muttered Honeyfoot, as he shifted his weight, candy bag rattling and crumpling in his hold. “More’n one way to hitch a wagon, I always say.”
“And who would be knowin’ more than you who canna get it right the first time?” came a shout from a corner Grace could not see, laughter following it and chasing away the tension she’d felt in the room.
Tolby grinned about his pipe stem, waiting till all grew hushed again. “As I have heard it, the elves did not bring the Ferryman out of their own desire to conquer the road north and south, as has often been said. Instead, it was the people of Ginton who went to them and asked for their help to somehow bless the ferries which crossed it daily and oft dashed to pieces on the rocky shores. Being a people close to the Gods, it had been thought that they could bring safety to the ferries and their operators. Instead, the Vaelinars brought their own magic to the river, their own ferry and their own ferryman. It did not happen in a day or a year or even a ten span of years. They studied the river long before they finally built a ferry to their satisfaction. They lost their own lives on the Nylara learning its flood and neap tides, so many bloods stain those docks. When it was done, they explained that they could not bless a mortal being, hence the Dark Ferryman existed to bring the boat safely back and forth. The toll they exacted would be used to maintain waiting docks at either side, and so forth. From traders they exacted more, because of the weight and wear and tear on the ferry. So the Dark Ferryman crosses the Nylara, come hell or high water.
“ ’Tis true Oxfort chafed at the tolls like a pack animal with harness sores. He likes the Vaelinars not at all. On that day, he had his coins ready, although still he argued with the spectral figure over what he intended to pay. The shadow, saying but little, insisted on his exact toll. In disgust, Oxfort dropped the coins in his hand and loaded the first caravans and had them ferried over. The second and third load went the same, with Oxforts on the north shore awaiting the last of their convoy. It was then the Dark Ferryman stood adamantly, refusing to bring the rest of the caravans over.
“Oxfort turned crimson with fury. He shouted at the implacable figure, which finally put out its spectral hand and rained counterfeit coins from its fingers, brightly painted slugs, upon the ground. Oxfort had not seen fit to pay his toll honestly. Humiliated in front of his drivers and guards, he threw the last of his gold crowns at the Ferryman and rode off, not waiting to see if his convoy would be transported. It was, in the Ferryman’s own good time.
“Meanwhile, Bregan stewed at the smear on his family’s name. Never mind that it had been an impetuous act on his father’s part, and who can blame him in a way, for having to give up hard-earned money to an unfeeling shadow. With a yell, he charged the Ferryman who parried with his staff, and a dire warning. ‘Touch me not or the sins of the father will fall on the son,’ it told him. Embarrassed at being foisted off like an inexperienced youth, Bregan growled and charged again. Yet a second time the Ferryman neatly parried the blade and nearly sent Bregan backward off the ass of his steed. The third time, Bregan did not fail.
“He paid dearly for his father’s and his own vanity. The Ferryman vanished and did not return for a span of years, and only after much entreaty by the folk of Ginton, after mortal ferries could not stand up to the willful Nylara. As for whether this is true or not ...” Tolby paused. “I can only say that I was one of the young guardsmen riding in hire of that convoy.”
Grace let out her breath, but had no longer to marvel at the tale, for Nutmeg began to scramble backward out of the storage room corner, pulling and tugging on her skirt. They hastily made it back to the yardage shop and milliner’s, praising the joys of a drink they had not had, leaving Rivergrace even thirstier than before. If Lily noticed the faint aroma of toback on them, she did not say so.
Chapter Sixteen
HOSMER HUNG ON the side of the corral, boots planted firmly and elbows hooked over the top rail, watching the horses and ponies milling about, their coats still shaggy and dense from the winter, their hooves freshly trimmed for the herding to market, their eyes rolling at the strangeness of many people about them. He wore the longcoat of the Silverwing militia, a homespun tailored coat, dyed the dark crimson of the tart winterberry, with a knotted kerchief about his left upper arm. Keldan jumped up to perch on the rail, laughing when a wild-eyed pony trotted past to nip at his boots, and Garner scaled the fence by his older brother.
“Thought we were going to eat first.”
“Not yet.” Hosmer stared intently across the pens.
“Know what you’re looking for?”
“Pretty much. Short croup, good legs and hooves, large eye. Nothing fancy, just a good post road mount.” Hosmer ticked off the features that would mean stamina and a good riding gait, agility and intelligence. Almost any horse he looked at in this corral would ride smoother than his wagon horse, no fault or virtue of either, one could not blame a horse for doing what it was bred to do. It wouldn’t hurt to have one whose trot didn’t feel like it would send his spine jolting through his skull either. Banner was a good horse, but he’d grown too old to do the kind of work Hosmer needed. He’d be retired back down to pulling the wagons and carts, or carrying Grace and Nutmeg around.
Garner drummed his fingers on the rail. He knew his brother could stand transfixed for an hour or two, just watching the beasts. He, on the other hand, would rather be down at the fairgrounds, strolling about and watching the pretty young ladies who were out strolling the booths, looking for handsome young men. Keldan twisted and squirmed about on his rail seat. Kel would rather be doing most anything involving dancing, running, juggling,
moving.
Garner put his hand on Hosmer’s shoulder. “Why don’t I take the lad exploring while you look over the stock?”
Hosmer’s head jerked about, an irritated expression racing across his square face, and then he nodded. “A’right then. Go about, but mind you’re a Farbranch.”
Garner winked at him as he pulled Keldan down from the railing. “Could we be anything else?” With a cheery whistle, he sauntered away from the stock pens and the air redolent of manure and feed, beckoning Keldan toward the dance field and fair booths. As they closed on it, crossing the main street of the village, the faint sound of piping drew Keldan who stopped and threw his head back, rather like one of the colts they’d just seen in the horse pens. He raised his arms.
“Listen!”
“I hear it, and smell it, too.” Far better smells than the ones they’d just left. Garner grinned and poked Keldan to stir him.