The Stone of Farewell (108 page)

Sinetris the fisherman looked the new arrival up and down. The stranger was a full head taller than him, broad as a gate, and soaking wet from the rain that hammered on the ceiling of the boat stall. Sinetris weighed the advantages and disadvantages of circling slowly around this newcomer until he could address the man from outside the tiny shelter. The disadvantages of such a plan were clear: it was the kind of day today that made even the hardiest shiver by the fire and praise God for roofs. Also, it was Sinetris' own stall, and it seemed terribly unfair that he should have to go outside so that this stranger could growl and champ and suck up all the air while the fisherman stood miserably in the storm.

The advantages, however, were equally clear. If he were outside, Sinetris could run for his life when this panting madman finally became murderous.

“I don't know what you're saying, Father. There are no boats out today. You see how it is.” Sinetris gestured out at the sheeting rain, flung almost sideways by the force of the wind.

The religious man stared at him furiously. The gigantic monk, if that was indeed what he was, had gone quite red and mottled in the face, and his eyebrows twitched. Strangely enough, Sinetris thought the monk seemed to be growing a beard: his whiskers were longer than even a week's razorless travel would cause. To the best of the fisherman's knowledge, Aedonite monks did not wear beards. Then, again, this one was some kind of barbarous northerner by his accent, a Rimmersman or some such: Sinetris supposed that those born beyond the River Gleniwent would be capable of just about any eccentricity. As he looked at the ragged whiskers and the chafed pink skin gleaming beneath, his unwholesome opinion of the monk grew more pronounced. This was definitely a man with whom to have as little to do as possible.

“I don't think you understand me, fisherman,” the monk hissed, leaning forward and squinting in a truly frightening way. “I have come nearly through Hell itself to get this far. I'm told that you are the only one who would take his boat out in such bad weather—and that the reason is because you overcharge.” A beefy hand closed on Sinetris' arm, occasioning a squeal of shock. “Splendid. Cheat me, rob me, I don't care. But I'm going downcoast to Kwanitipul and I'm tired of asking people to take me. Do you understand?”

“B-but you could go overland!” Senitris squeaked. “This is no weather to be on the water ... ”

“And how long would it take to go overland from here?”

“A day! Two, perhaps! Not long!”

The monk's grip on his arm tightened cruelly. “You lie, little man. In this weather, through that marshy ground, it would take me a solid fortnight. But you're rather hoping I'll try, though, aren't you? Hoping I'll go away and sink into the mud somewhere?” An unpleasant smile flitted across the monk's broad face.

“No, Father! No! I would never think so of a holy man!”

“That's strange, because your fellow fishermen tell me you've cheated everyone, monks and priests by the score among 'em! Well, you shall have your chance to help a man of God—and you shall have your just and more than ample payment.”

Sinetris burst into tears, impressing even himself. “But Eminence! We truly dare not go out in such weather!” As he said it, he realized that for once he was telling the truth and not merely trying to raise his price. This was weather that only a fool would brave. His pleading took on a note of greater desperation. “We will drown—you, God's holiest priest, and poor Sinetris, hard-working husband and father to seven lovely children!”

“You have no children, and pity the woman who will ever be your wife. I talked to your fishing-fellows, don't you remember? You are the scum that even Perdruin the Mercenary has driven from her shores. Now, name your price, damn you. I must get to Kwanitupul as soon as possible.”

Sinetris sniffled a bit to give himself time to think. The standard ferrying charge was one quinis, but with rough weather—and they certainly had that today, with no exaggeration—three or even four quinis would not be out of line.

“Three gold Imperators.” He waited for the bellow of anger. When none came, he thought for a delirious moment he might have made his summer's income in two days. Then he saw the pink face drawing close, until the monk's breath was hot on his cheeks.

“You worm,” the monk said softly. “There is a difference between simple robbery and rape. I think I should just fold you up like a napkin and take the damnable boat—leaving a gold Imperator for your imaginary widow and seven nonexistent brats, which is more than the whole leaky thing is worth.”

“Two gold Imperators, Eminence? One for my imag ... widow, one to purchase a mansa for my poor soul at the church?”

“One, and you know that is a gross overpayment. It is only because I am in a hurry. And we will leave now.”

“Now? But the boat is not fitted out... ! ”

“I'll watch.” The monk let go of Sinetris' throbbing wrist and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Go ahead, now. Hop to it!”

“But kind Father, what about my gold piece... ? ”

“When we get to Kwanitupul. Do not fear you will be cheated, as you have cheated others. Am I not a man of God?” The strange monk laughed.

Sinetris, snuffling quietly, went looking for his oars.

“You said you had more gold!” Charystra, the proprietress of the inn known as Pelippa's Bowl put on a practiced look of disgust. “I treated you like a prince—you, a little marsh-man—and you lied to me! I should have known better than to trust a dirty Wrannaman.”

Tiamak struggled to keep his temper. “I think, good lady, that you have done very well from me. I paid you on arrival with two gold Imperators. ”

She snorted. “Well, it's all spent.”

“In a fortnight? You accuse me of lying, Charystra, but that might as well be theft.”

“How dare you speak that way to me! You had the best accommodations and the services of the best healer in Kwanitupul.”

The ache of Tiamak's wounds only added to his anger. “If you are referring to that drunken person who came to twist my leg and hurt me, I am sure his fee was scarcely more than a bottle or two of fern beer. As a matter of fact, he appeared to have enjoyed the payments of a few other victims before he came here.”

The irony! To think that Tiamak, author of the soon-to-be definitive revision of
Sovran Remedys of the Wranna Healers,
should be forced into the care of a dryland butcher!

“Anyway, I am lucky I kept my leg,” he growled. “Besides, you moved me out of the best accommodations quickly enough.” Tiamak waved his thin arm at the nest of blankets he now shared with Ceallio, the simpleminded door keeper.

The innkeeper's frown turned into a smirk. “Aren't you very high and cocksure for a marsh-man? Well, get on with you, then. Go to some other inn and see if they'll treat a Wrannaman as kindly as Charystra has.”

Tiamak choked back a furious reply. He knew he must not let his anger get the better of him. He was being dreadfully cheated by this woman, but that was how things always went when Wrannamen put their fortunes in the hands of drylanders. He had already failed his tribe, on whose behalf he had sworn to go to Nabban and argue their case against higher tribute. If he were thrown out of
Pelippa's Bowl,
he would fail Morgenes as well, who had explicitly asked for him to stay at this inn until he was needed.

Tiamak offered a short prayer for patience to He Who Always Steps on Sand. If his staying in such a place was so important to Dinivan and Morgenes, couldn't they at least have sent him money with which to pay for it? He took a deep breath, hating to grovel before this red-faced woman.

“It is foolish to fight, good lady,” he said finally. “I am still expecting that my friend will show up, bringing more gold.” Tiamak forced himself to smile. “Until then, I think I still have some little bit of my two Imperators remaining. Surely it is not all spent quite yet? If I have to leave, someone else will be earning gold for giving
their
best accommodations to me and my friend.”

She stared at him for a moment, weighing the advantages of throwing him out against the possibility of future money-gouging. “Well ...” she said grudgingly, “perhaps out of the goodness of my heart I could let you stay another three days. But no meals, mind you. You'll have to come up with more coins, or else find your own food. I set a lavish table for my guests and can't afford to give it away.”

Tiamak knew that the lavish table consisted mostly of thin soup and dried bread, but also knew that even such meager fare was better than nothing. He would have to feed himself somehow. He was used to going long on little provender, but he was still quite weak from his leg wounds and resulting illness. How he would love to bounce a sling-stone off this woman's mocking face!

“Very fair, my lady.” He gritted his teeth. “Very fair.”

“My friends always say I'm too good.”

Charystra swaggered back into the common room, leaving Tiamak to cover his head with his odoriferous blanket and contemplate the grim state of his affairs.

Tiamak lay sleeplessly in the dark. His mind was spinning, but he could think of no solution to his problems. He could barely walk. He was stranded without resources in a strange place, among bandit drylanders. It seemed that They Who Watch and Shape had conspired to torment him.

The old man Ceallio grunted in his sleep and rolled over, his long arm flopping heavily against Tiamak's face. Painfully thumped, the Wrannaman moaned and sat up. It was no use being upset with the ancient simpleton: Ceallio was no more to blame for their uncomfortable proximity than was Tiamak himself. The Wrannaman wondered if Ceallio was upset at having to share his bed, but somehow he doubted it. The cheerful old man was as guileless as a child; he seemed to accept everything that came his way—blows, kicks, and curses included—as acts of fate, unfathomable and unavoidable as thunderstorms.

Thinking of evil weather, Tiamak shivered. The hovering storm that had turned the air of the Wran and all the southern coast hot and sticky as broth had fallen at last, drenching Kwanitupul in unseasonable rains. The normally placid canals had turned choppy and unpredictable. Most ships rode at anchor, slowing the business of the thriving port city to a crawl. The heavy storm had also nearly choked off the flow of new visitors, which was another reason for Charystra's unpleasantness.

Tonight the rain had stopped for the first time in several days. Not long after Tiamak had crawled into his insufficient bed, the constant rattle on the roof had suddenly gone silent, a silence so deep it seemed almost like another noise. Perhaps, he thought, it was this unaccustomed silence that made it so hard to sleep.

Shivering again, Tiamak tried to pull his blanket closer about him, but the old man beside him had caught up the whole tangle in a death-grip. Despite his advanced age, the fool seemed to be a great deal stronger than Tiamak, who even before his unfortunate brush with the crocodile had never been robust, even by the standards of his small-boned people. The Wrannaman ceased struggling for the covers; Ceallio gurgled and murmured in the throes of some dream of past happiness. Tiamak frowned. Why had he ever left his house in the banyan tree, in his beloved, familiar swamp? It was not much, but it was his. And unlike this drafty, damp boat-house, it had always been warm....

This was more than just night-cold, he realized suddenly, wracked by more shivers. There was a chill in the air that pierced the chest like daggers. He initiated another doomed struggle for blankets, then sat up again in despair. Perhaps the door had been left open?

Giving vent to a full-throated groan of anguish, he crawled away from his bed, forcing himself to stand. His leg throbbed and burned. The tosspot healer had said that his poultices would take the pain away soon enough, but Tiamak had little faith in such an obvious drunkard, and so far his doubts had been borne out. He limped slowly across the rough wood floor, doing his best to avoid the two upended boats that dominated the room. He managed to stay near the wall and thus evade these large obstacles, but a hard stool leaped up before him and cruelly battered his good shin, so that for a moment Tiamak had to stop and bite his lip as he rubbed the leg, holding in a screech of pain and anger that he feared would have no ending. Why had he and he alone been singled out for such ill treatment?