Lord of the Isles (39 page)

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Authors: David Drake

BOOK: Lord of the Isles
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“
T
here's eels here in this harbor as big as a man's leg,” Sidras or-Morr said with gloomy assurance. “Oh, they won't fool with a living man. But let a body go into the water and
fst
! it's gone. We'd never be seen again.”
“Not as big as
your
leg, Cashel,” Mellie said cheerfully. “Anyway, there wouldn't be so many scavengers if people didn't dump garbage into the water the way they do.”
Cashel brought the oars forward close to the surface so that
water streaming from the blade wouldn't make too much noise. He stroked with gentle grace. There was enough mist over the harbor basin to shroud a small boat, but sound carried.
“You've been a waterman yourself, I shouldn't wonder,” the broker said. “That's the only luck there is in this whole business. Listen to them!”
The snarl of the mob in Harbor Street filled the night the way a storm does. Down on the water the deeper notes predominated, but occasionally a scream of bestial rage carried across the mist-wrapped piers and jetties.
“They're serious now,” Mellie said. “It won't be long, I think.” Then she added, “I like him”
“I'm a shepherd, sir,” Cashel said with his easy return and stroke. “I've helped the fishermen, sure; and if you've rowed a loaded fishing boat in from the sea with a storm building, then a harbor skiff is no great shakes.”
“That's the
Golden Dragon
or her twin,” Sidras murmured. “Nothing on the seas looks like a Serian cargo hauler, but they swim like ducks for all their strangeness.”
“Call out from here, Cashel,” Mellie directed. “Otherwise the Highlander watching on top of the mast may shoot. They're not really very accurate at any range, but”—She laughed—“you're a big target.”
Cashel looked over his shoulder and called, “Jen! Frasa? This is Cashel returned by boat. Don't shoot!”
Voices called in the mist. Either the words were distorted or they were spoken in an unfamiliar language. Somewhere oars hit the water raggedly. Cashel couldn't judge distance by sound over this enclosed water. No one out this night was their friend, and no few were enemies.
Sidras rose to his feet in the stern without rocking the skiff. He was middle-aged and below middle height; from the way he moved Cashel judged that more of the broker's bulk was muscle than fat, but there was fat as well. He shouted in a powerful voice, speaking first in what Cashel assumed was
Serian, then in a mixture of clicking and gutturals that had to be the Highlanders' separate tongue.
The quarterstaff lay lengthways over the skiff's thwarts. Cashel wasn't sure how good a weapon it'd be for a struggle between light watercraft, but he supposed it'd serve. It always had in the past.
A voice jabbered quickly and enthusiastically from the
Golden Dragon
's dark bulk. Sidras seated himself again. “Take us to the dock, lad,” he said. “I make sure there's always a mirror and some glass beads for each of those upland cannibals when I come by the factory. They'd give me a bite of their grandmother's liver, they love me so much.”
Cashel brought the skiff the remainder of the way in to the dock ladder near the vessel's stern. The quay was parallel to the shore and extended far enough into the harbor that a good-sized vessel didn't ground. The
Golden Dragon
was moored alongside, its squared bows toward the harbor mouth where signal fires marked the passage between the jetties.
He thought of asking Mellie if Highlanders really ate their own grandmothers. He decided that it wasn't a subject he needed or wanted to pursue.
Servants carrying large lanterns made of yellow paper trotted onto the quay through the gate from the factory yard. One of the brothers—Cashel couldn't tell which as he tied the bow line to the ladder—was among them. He heard Highlanders talking but he couldn't see any of the little men.
“Master Cashel, we were praying that you wouldn't try to return tonight!” said Frasa. Cashel found the Serians' voices more distinct than their features. “We've been concerned that we might be attacked from the water. Is it safe?”
“It is
not
safe, Master Frasa,” said Sidras as he swung himself onto the quay behind Cashel. “Don't even think of taking your cargo off by lighters. My colleague Themo appears to have organized the watermen against you. Spent no small sum of money doing it, too.”
“My brother's in the office,” Frasa said. “Perhaps you'd join us there?”
“I didn't come here to admire the harbor view,” Sidras grunted, striding into the factory with the nonchalance of a familiar guest. “And if you're wondering how we managed to hire a boat ourselves, your envoy Master Cashel has a persuasive way about him.”
“They shouldn't have spit at me,” Cashel muttered in embarrassment. “I'm not a dog to be kicked and spit at.”
“There's three boatmen who got a bath in the harbor they didn't expect,” Sidras said in satisfaction as he led the way through the goods stacked in the yard. “And they didn't chase us, either, because he knocked a bottom plank out of the other boats with that battering ram he uses for a stick. Impressive lad, that.”
The
Dragon
's cargo was packed in hardwood chests rather than barrels or wicker baskets in the fashion with which Cashel was familiar. There were few enough buildings in Barca's Hamlet as sturdy as these Serian crates.
Aloud Cashel said, “I'll go back by daylight and pay them for the damage. When the one fellow spit, I lost my temper and then there wasn't much choice I could see.”
The lantern bearers didn't enter the building. Inside, oil lamps hung from hooks on the walls in a brighter artificial illumination than Cashel had ever seen before.
“Oh, I'll square them, lad,” the broker said as he stumped up the stairs. He moved heavily because of the weight of the money belt Cashel had seen him wind around his waist beneath the tunic. “I know all three of them; they do jobs for me more days during the year than they don't. Which wouldn't have kept them from knocking
me
on the head when they're full of Themo's wine and nonsense about devil worshippers.”
Jen waited at the stairhead and bowed Sidras into the office. The broker bowed back. He remained standing until Frasa shifted the chair behind him and nodded toward it. Cashel backed against the wall and smiled at the secretary standing stiffly beside him.
The sound of the mob on Harbor Street made the walls of
the factory vibrate. It had been obvious to Cashel that there was no way to return to the factory by land tonight, and even the broker's suggestion of hiring a boat had proved risky.
“You boys got under Themo's skin like a horsefly,” Sidras said musingly.
“Master Sidras,” Frasa said, “my brother and I attempted to engage Themo to job our present cargo. He became enraged when his dishonesty was demonstrated. I offer you our abject apologies.”
Sidras shrugged. “Personally I've always thought Themo crawled up from the bottom of the harbor,” he said, “but that's neither here nor there. It's just how the situation is that matters; and that's a problem.”
The brothers seated themselves with tented fingers. The rap of stones being thrown against the thick outside wall sounded in the office like hail on the mill's slate roof.
The broker hitched up the skirt of his tunic without the least concern for propriety and began undoing the triple buckles of the multipouched leather belt against his skin. He wore a breechclout like a peasant, though it was linen rather than wool. His thighs were startlingly white beneath a coat of fine blond hair.
“I've gone through your inventory,” he said. “It's a good cargo and one I wish I could sell here. But I can't, not the way things are now in Carcosa. They'd burn my warehouse, Themo'd see to that, and
that's
only if I could carry it out of here by wagon—which I could not.”
He twitched his short auburn beard toward Harbor Street again.
“So it's got to go to Erdin,” Sidras continued, “Sandrakkan's got its own problems but they're not lynching Serians there, not yet.”
“We don't have a broker in Erdin,” Jen said with the least hint of anger.
“Ah, but I do,” Sidras said. “A Serian, as a matter of fact: Master Latias. His compound's hard by the Fellowship Hall just up from the harbor.”
“You propose to give us a note on Master Latias, then?” Frasa said in the same distant tone his brother had used. “The gentleman may be of our race but he's not known to us personally, sir.”
Sidras laid his belt on the table with a jingle like that of muffled bells. “I propose to give you gold, here and now,” he said. “This gold. I'll tell you frankly that it's only sixty percent of what I'd offer for the goods in normal times, but these aren't normal. I can bring gold to you here. I
can't
move goods through the streets, not to you or to take yours away.”
“You're accepting the risk of transporting our cargo to Erdin,” Jen said, touching the belt with two fingers without trying to open it. He was making a statement, not asking a question.
“Aye, but you're providing the labor,” Sidras said. He grimaced and said, “I figured after Themo you'd be shy of trusting Carcosa brokers.” He slapped the table with his palm, making the coins ring again. “Gold you can trust.”
“You we can trust,” Frasa said, rising to his feet. He spoke a quick command to the secretary in his own language. The man went out of the room, repeating the orders at shrill volume.
“We are having the
Golden Dragon
reloaded,” Jen explained as he rose also. “The situation outside appears to be becoming more serious.”
“That's Themo too,” Sidras said, standing and tucking his tunic back down over his thighs. “I don't know if he figures to loot the place or just burn you out for spite. Nasty piece of work I've always thought, but I guess he satisfies some.”
He nodded toward the money belt. “The coins are a mixed bag, mostly Haft but I used whatever I had on hand to make up the weight. There's an account in the first pouch you'll want to check them against.”
“I don't think we'll need to do that,” Frasa said. “If the Goddess permits us to survive, Master Sidras, you'll won't be the loser for your trust.”
The secretary reentered the office; every time the door
opened, the mob's voice was harsher. Jen picked up the belt by the buckle end and handed it to the servant with a low-voiced instruction.
“I'll head home then,” the broker said. He stepped toward the door.
“Should I … ?” Cashel said, his question for Sidras as well as the Serians.
Sidras grinned at him. “I grew up on the water, lad,” he said. “I'm willing enough to let a youngster do the work when he's available, but I don't guess I've forgotten what a pair of oars feels like.”
He pointed a finger toward the ship. Lines of sailors, chattering with excitement and seeming lack of organization, were grabbing cargo chests and lugging them toward the twin gangplanks. “You're needed here to help get my goods aboard—and like enough for other things if I judge the temper of the folks out in the street. Just remember what I said about the eels.”
Sidras left the office. Cashel was a step behind him, delayed fractionally to slant his long staff so that it didn't catch in the doorway. Frasa and Jen stayed to talk with their heads close together.
“Sir?” Cashel asked quietly as he followed the broker down the stairs. The entrance hall was empty except for the quartet of Highlanders, drinking some sort of thick liquid from wooden mugs as they ignored the impacts hammering the outside door.
“Lad?” Sidras said over his shoulder.
“Sir, why are you doing this?” Cashel said. “You and I arranged for earnest money and a note on Latias, not the full amount in gold.”
“Aye, so we did,” Sidras agreed as he strode through the bustle in the rear of the factory building. Fabrics and spices were stored under cover, though the packing chests seemed to Cashel proof against the worst storm of
his
lifetime. “And Jen and Frasa would've taken the deal: they're over a barrel, right enough, and they'd given me the whip when they didn't
let Themo rob them like he'd planned. But you know …”
He waved his arm back toward the Goddess of Mercy and her attendant demons. “It's not that I hold with devil worship, but I've been dealing with that pair and their father for twenty years now. In all that time there's never been a short weight or second-quality goods packed under a sample layer of firstrate stuff. I guess if the Sister drags them down to the Underworld when they die, that's her business.
My
business is to treat a man like he's treated me.”
The two Haft citizens strode side by side into the lantern-lit chaos of the factory yard. “Besides which,” Sidras added, “if I can do that boat-worm Themo one in the eye and make a fat profit on the deal, well, either part would be worth the risk I'm taking.”

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