eighteen, almost nineteen?
When they’d entered the Nalta River’s mouth, the captain had sent a boat ashore to the semaphore station, to signal to Pol of the voyage.
Gareth was holding hard, counting the yards left to go as the
Zarafshan
dropped all sails but one and turned toward the Radnor factory. As soon as the mooring lines went across and the damned ship was tied firm, he’d hire a carriage to his uncle’s house and sleep for a week.
No, two weeks.
There were people waiting at the quay. There was his uncle, surprisingly his wife, Priscian, some servants, and two men, strangers, waving wildly.
Then he recognized the strangers, grown though they were: the last survivors of his native village, Thom Tehidy, a bigger barrel than before, and Knoll N’b’ry, his quick-witted companion.
Fatigue fell away.
Just let him get his feet on solid land, and then there’d be a time to remember!
Five
I did not expect to see either of you again,” Gareth said, feeling a little drunk, although, unlike the others, he’d had nothing but charged water with his meal. His uncle and aunt had cheerfully invited Thom and Knoll into their home, although Gareth thought he detected a slightly quizzical expression from Aunt Priscian over his friends’ stained working dress.
They’d eaten lavishly, after Gareth had bathed and ordered his sea clothes to be burned. Then Thom had suggested they go out, seeing Gareth’s uncle hiding a yawn.
“That might not be too wise,” Pol said, before Gareth could answer.
Knoll had lifted an eyebrow.
“A couple of years ago,” Gareth said, “I did something pretty dumb, and I’ve got a certain lord upset at me.”
“Which one, if I might ask?” Knoll asked. “For since we’ve been in Ticao, we’ve learned there’s some to walk most small among, and others, generally the biggest blow-mouths, to never worry about”
Pol had given Gareth a look, signifying he’d said more than enough.
But Gareth cared little for secrets, then or ever.
“Lord Quindolphin,” he said. “I loosed pigs at his daughter’s wedding.”
“Mmph,” Thom said. “That’s bad, for he’s a vengeful bas — pardon, Lady Radnor, not a nice man at all. His son’s worse, and they carry goons about with them like body lice, ever ready to do their bidding, as long as it’s bloody-handed.”
“But we know a tavern,” Knoll said, “where not Quindolphin, nor his kin, nor his swordsmen would dare enter.”
“Then why should a boy like Gareth be safe?” Priscian asked. Gareth concealed a wince. She would probably always think of him as a babe, even if she lived to see him as a graybeard.
“Which tavern would that be?” Pol asked, interested.
“The Slit Nose,” Thom said, a bit proudly.
“I know it,” Pol said. “A place of thieves, rogues, villains — ”
“And watermen,” Knoll said. “Which is what we are.”
“I’ve not been in a public house like that in … twenty years,” Pol said, just a bit wistfully.
“And well you shouldn’t,” Priscian said. “A King’s Servant, soon to be a Merchant Prince? Highly out of his station.”
Pol smiled gently, didn’t reply, and, not for the first time, Gareth wondered about his uncle.
“Come, then,” Thom said. “I fancy a rough pint, and I see your family’s a-yawn, and we keep no one up past his bedtime.”
Gareth wondered why he hadn’t collapsed two hours ago, nose into the meat pasty, but still felt fully alert.
His friends made their thanks for the meal, were told there would be a proper feast in the next few days celebrating Gareth’s homecoming and that they were more than welcome.
It was a spring night, but there was a chill coming off the river. The three pulled their cloaks about them, and Gareth noted Knoll’s was more than a bit threadbare.
Taking side streets, they went to the waterfront, then down a noisome alley.
“Follow the screeches,” Thom said, “and you’ll never get lost.”
The Slit Nose’s
When they’d entered the Nalta River’s mouth, the captain had sent a boat ashore to the semaphore station, to signal to Pol of the voyage.
Gareth was holding hard, counting the yards left to go as the
Zarafshan
dropped all sails but one and turned toward the Radnor factory. As soon as the mooring lines went across and the damned ship was tied firm, he’d hire a carriage to his uncle’s house and sleep for a week.
No, two weeks.
There were people waiting at the quay. There was his uncle, surprisingly his wife, Priscian, some servants, and two men, strangers, waving wildly.
Then he recognized the strangers, grown though they were: the last survivors of his native village, Thom Tehidy, a bigger barrel than before, and Knoll N’b’ry, his quick-witted companion.
Fatigue fell away.
Just let him get his feet on solid land, and then there’d be a time to remember!
Five
I did not expect to see either of you again,” Gareth said, feeling a little drunk, although, unlike the others, he’d had nothing but charged water with his meal. His uncle and aunt had cheerfully invited Thom and Knoll into their home, although Gareth thought he detected a slightly quizzical expression from Aunt Priscian over his friends’ stained working dress.
They’d eaten lavishly, after Gareth had bathed and ordered his sea clothes to be burned. Then Thom had suggested they go out, seeing Gareth’s uncle hiding a yawn.
“That might not be too wise,” Pol said, before Gareth could answer.
Knoll had lifted an eyebrow.
“A couple of years ago,” Gareth said, “I did something pretty dumb, and I’ve got a certain lord upset at me.”
“Which one, if I might ask?” Knoll asked. “For since we’ve been in Ticao, we’ve learned there’s some to walk most small among, and others, generally the biggest blow-mouths, to never worry about”
Pol had given Gareth a look, signifying he’d said more than enough.
But Gareth cared little for secrets, then or ever.
“Lord Quindolphin,” he said. “I loosed pigs at his daughter’s wedding.”
“Mmph,” Thom said. “That’s bad, for he’s a vengeful bas — pardon, Lady Radnor, not a nice man at all. His son’s worse, and they carry goons about with them like body lice, ever ready to do their bidding, as long as it’s bloody-handed.”
“But we know a tavern,” Knoll said, “where not Quindolphin, nor his kin, nor his swordsmen would dare enter.”
“Then why should a boy like Gareth be safe?” Priscian asked. Gareth concealed a wince. She would probably always think of him as a babe, even if she lived to see him as a graybeard.
“Which tavern would that be?” Pol asked, interested.
“The Slit Nose,” Thom said, a bit proudly.
“I know it,” Pol said. “A place of thieves, rogues, villains — ”
“And watermen,” Knoll said. “Which is what we are.”
“I’ve not been in a public house like that in … twenty years,” Pol said, just a bit wistfully.
“And well you shouldn’t,” Priscian said. “A King’s Servant, soon to be a Merchant Prince? Highly out of his station.”
Pol smiled gently, didn’t reply, and, not for the first time, Gareth wondered about his uncle.
“Come, then,” Thom said. “I fancy a rough pint, and I see your family’s a-yawn, and we keep no one up past his bedtime.”
Gareth wondered why he hadn’t collapsed two hours ago, nose into the meat pasty, but still felt fully alert.
His friends made their thanks for the meal, were told there would be a proper feast in the next few days celebrating Gareth’s homecoming and that they were more than welcome.
It was a spring night, but there was a chill coming off the river. The three pulled their cloaks about them, and Gareth noted Knoll’s was more than a bit threadbare.
Taking side streets, they went to the waterfront, then down a noisome alley.
“Follow the screeches,” Thom said, “and you’ll never get lost.”
The Slit Nose’s
Similar Books
