A TRIP UPRIVER (b)
River Sea 3057.7.22
On the third day Seama and Angren were woken with a welcome gift of rahi. Though the nights were cool they had preferred to sleep above deck as the quarters had a muggy, salty atmosphere. The "Cottle" was a requisitioned fishing barque and smelled like it. It was one of Mador’s agents who sought them out, a big strong man with an easy and open manner; his name was Garaid Barbossa, of House Anparas.
Angren groggily raised himself to his elbows.
"Thanks, Garaid," he said with a voice full of gravel. He hated mornings. "I shall savour every last drop. You never know when you'll get another in this business."
"Don't say that. I'm not sure I can function properly without rahi first thing."
"Or beer later, eh?"
"I am quite partial to a drop, now as you mention it. Saddens me to say that moderation is in order from now on, but I suppose I'll get used. Besides I get too fat on ale."
"Rubbish! Good ballast I call it. Anyway, with all the women and the warring a young man like you shouldn't be getting fat."
Both Seama and Garaid laughed at that: no one could fail to notice that Garaid already carried a lot of reserve flesh.
"Not everyone can be like you, Angren,” said Seama, "I am continually astounded at your great ability to drink the house dry and still fight well, but how do you stay so slim?"
Angren put on a confident smile and, smoothing back his sparse hair, said: "Well, I'm no wizard, I claim no miracle cures but, in all honesty, may I point out that I am the perfect example of the human male.” And just to prove it he flexed his biceps for them.
"Even if your head is a little swollen! Now, before this hero has me puking, I'm getting up. How far have we come, Garaid?"
"How far? Not quite sure. I couldn't count it in miles but Bibron says nine hours should see us to the marshes, if that helps. He's a bit worried about the marshes though: can't understand how he's supposed to get through them."
"Oh, you can tell Bibron not to worry about that. We'll get through, take my word for it. We're making good time. If you can stir yourself, Angren, we have a few things to sort out with the good Captain. Meanwhile, I'm off to feed the fishes."
"Lucky fishes. Have one for me while you're at it." As the wizard headed off Angren curled up again in his blanket. He wanted to get back to a dream he had been enjoying: he could not remember exactly what it was about but he knew there were women in it.
When eventually he did get up it was past mid-day. Seama was bound to have said all he needed to say to Bibron and Angren had decided instead to pay his respects to the horses, but a commotion of laughter and jeering in behind the wheelhouse pulled him off-course.
With over sixty aboard, if you included Bibron’s sailors, it was surprising only that things had been so quiet up until now. At last that natural reserve between folk all prone to keeping secrets and obeying orders had given way to an even more natural banter and jest and, by the sound of it, gambling too. Angren could not help but approve. And better: while Bibron had the beer barrels well guarded and strict rations enforced for the sake of good order, the sheer level of noise raised gave Angren a campaigner’s hope that all this foolery might well be fuelled by something a little stronger.
Strangely, he was right but not as he suspected.
The women on board, each agents of the King, had mercilessly taken advantage of Captain Bibron’s more gentlemanly instincts by accepting the Captain’s quarters as their own, while the poor Captain had to sleep in the hammocks with his men. Only two of them had so far mixed with the others, a rough spoken giantess and a shortish, sharp tongued, black haired minx that Angren had quite deliberately shied away from. Up till now Angren had presumed they were the only women present but today a third had emerged from the cabin. She was causing quite a stir among the men.
It was an arm wrestling competition. At a table liberated from the galley sat a burly tattooed sailor with forearms wider than pork shanks and opposite him sat the giantess, dressed in brown leather, hair close cropped, eyes fixed on her opponent with an intensity that must have made him nervous.
“C’mon, ‘Berta: he’s just a baby.” Her supporters cheered; the sailors jeered.
Garaid stood behind ‘Berta’s chair waving a clutch of white and green paper: Gotherian tally notes, exchangeable for real money at any of the King’s banks.
“Any more?” He yelled above the din. “Ten to one on the bosun, fives on the lady.”
Angren cursed his lack of funds. This ‘Berta looked too good a prospect. A few more wagers were laid and then the referee stepped in to start the match. She moved into Angren’s line of sight, laughing at something said that he had missed, and shaking that mane of gold in denial. It was the girl he had seen on the quays back in Riverport and this time, as she counted-in the bout, he could see her face.
The black eye was shading to red, the scratches on her right cheek were fading. It must have been quite a fight, or a beating. Angren, leaping to conclusions in typical fashion, promptly decided that some man had done this. The memory of Rixbur’s young and daily battered wife surfaced and left him with a strong feeling of anger that must have showed in his face. It must have showed because at that moment, as though she could feel his gaze upon her, she looked up and caught his eye and then instantly looked away.
The revellers roared. ‘Berta had picked her moment, forced down hard and fast and smashed the bosun’s hand into the table. Amid the cheers and the scramble for winnings and the picking of the next pair of contestants Angren’s golden haired girl had slipped from his view. He considered moving closer. He could talk to her, perhaps: easy enough to pick a topic of conversation. But then it occurred to him that he was not exactly the only man trying to gain her attention. The injuries did not disguise the beauty of her face, the clingy dress she wore certainly did not obscure the desirability of her body. She was surrounded by a score of men made quite silly by her presence. For most of them this arm wrestling contest was simply an excuse to impress. Angren decided not to bother.
Well, he thought, I may as well see to my nags then and leave this filly to her fanciers. It was a sort of bravado: tearing himself away was a bit of a wrench.
Seama had brought both Bellus and the Mule with him, and Lord Anparas had presented Angren with a fine warhorse named Bayling: a strong, clean-limbed chestnut; the weapon-master had promised to take turns with the wizard at the grooming.
Angren was a fair horseman and, though he preferred to fight on his own two feet, a good horse beneath him did wonders for his confidence. For one thing a horse could be a lethal weapon and for another it could run away a lot quicker than a man could. In one way or another, horses had played an important part in keeping Angren alive for the past thirty years, and in recognition he made it a firm rule that before he went to sleep and as soon as he woke he would give his horse all the attention it needed. What a pity for the many horses he had owned that he so often failed to rouse himself before noon.
The horses were hobbled in the open hold of the barque and, to judge by their testiness, they were not pleased about it. Here the stench of fish was offensive. Bellus bore this ordeal with fortitude typical of her breed and her master and made no complaint. The same could not be said of the Mule. As soon as anyone came near he would break into the foulest braying that ever the son of a donkey could manage. It was as though he was swearing.
"Pack it in!" Angren said sharply, "I already have a headache from sleeping on this smelly heap: it doesn't need you to worsen it. You're wasting your time anyway: there's no alternative unless you can swim."
And as though the Mule understood the sense of this argument, after only a few more desultory grunts, he shut up.
"Seama has you well trained, hasn't he?" the swordsman smirked, and then backed off quickly as Mule tried to butt him. Luckily for Angren the tethers held.
Angren found Bayling hobbled alongside Bellus and the Mule. Mule's discontent was catching: the horse snickered as he approached. Stroking its flank, Angren was surprised to feel that Bayling was sweating and trembling.
"Don't like the water, young fella? Well neither do I, but don't worry, we won't be out here much longer."
The animal was not comforted no matter how much he was groomed and fed and so Angren went to ask Seama if he could do anything. Seama checked on all the horses and, after saying soothing and powerful words to several of them, he took Angren to one side.
"I know we're aship," he said, "and horses never like the motion, but these poor beasts are terrified. Your Bayling's not the only one. I don't know what's scaring them but horses are often more sensitive than men, so keep your eyes open. The trouble may be on the waters, or we may have brought it with us, but trouble there is - and it worries me."
Next: A Trip Upriver (c)
Wilf Kelleher Jones
wkj fantasy
A Song of Ages
previous:
Trip
Upriver (a)
12/5/2012 wkj fantasy
for fast navigation click site map on Home page
NEW
12/5SOA Passage (c)
6/5 SOA Passage (b)
29/4 SOA Passage
21/4Madmen and Paradise
8/4 Ministry Rat part 2
16/4 SOA Halfi (b)
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |