Dirty Work, Part 9 of 9

DIRTY WORK

EPILOGUE 

Two junior under-ministers of the Aurac Ministry of Finance, identifiable by their blue tunics and red breeches, pushed a cart into the stockyard behind the Royal Treasury. It was loaded with full sacks, each one stenciled “20# JORKE END QUALITY DIRT AAA RATED”. After positioning the cart against the loading dock, the two junior under-ministers got to work unloading the sacks.

They made a neat pyramid upon the dock, then the taller one pulled a cord next to the door. Somewhere inside the building, they could hear a bell jangling in time with the yanks on the cord. Having completed their assignment, the pair climbed from the loading dock and pushed the cart away.

A short time later, an intermediate under-minister of the Ministry of Finance, identifiable by his red tunic and blue breeches, opened the door. “Ah!” he said. “Finally, a new shipment!” He turned back inside the building. “Phileus!” he called out. “Burtram! Come help me!” The two other intermediate under-ministers joined him on the loading dock and together they made short work of the fifteen sacks of dirt that had been delivered, moving them from the dock to an interior room.

This room had a wide window at knee-height that overlooked a tangled stream gorge, and the sacks were stacked nearby. Along the back wall, flanked by a stout door on either side, a hopper descended from the ceiling. The intermediate under-minister who had first opened the door took up a position at the hopper. “Phileus, let’s begin.”

Phileus, a gray fox, took the first sack off the stack, slit it open along its top, cutting through the cording that had sealed it in the first place, and then he and Burtram dumped the contents out the window. Completing that, they turned the empty sack over to the first man, who fitted it against the hopper and pulled a lever. A clinking stream of coins cascaded from the hopper to fill the sack. This continued for a few more sacks in silence except for the faint sound of Phileus’s knife cutting through the sacks, the whisper of the dirt tumbling into the gorge, and the jangle of the coins.

“Josip, why do we do it like this?” Phileus as he handed over another sack. “Why does the Ministry buy sacks of dirt? Why not just buy the sacks?” “Beats me,” Josip said. “All I know is that these are the best sacks in the kingdom, and they come filled with dirt. Who can explain why the peasants do what they do?”

Dirty Work, Part 8 of 9

DIRTY WORK

8. 

Some minutes passed, with no more apparent activity at the door. Gustaf released his breath in a gasp. “Quiet!” Portia whispered.

“Easy for you to say,” the donkey muttered, gesturing at the door with his hatchet. “You do this all the time.”

“Not quite.” She spoke in a low tone, barely above a whisper.

Gustaf responded at a similar volume. “Well, they seem to have given up, right? Maybe something scared them off?”

“I hope not,” Portia said. “If they don’t fall for it the first time, it may not work at all.”

More time passed, with no further sounds from the door. Gustaf knelt and wiped his brow. “It’s hot in here. Are you hot? I’m sweating like a... like a hot, sweaty thing.”

Portia choked back a laugh. “No, but I’m also not the one wrapped up in blankets.” She sat back on her haunches. “Maybe they did give up,” she said. “When Yerzle and Dozer get here, we can ask what happened.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. “Or,” she said, “maybe not.” Another rap, harder this time, followed by a scraping sound. They climbed back into crouching positions behind the millstone.

“What are they doing?”

There was a series of metal-on-metal taps, then the creaking of splitting wood. Something heavy fell to the ground just outside the door. “Taking the door hinges apart, I think,” Gustaf said. “They’re putting more into this than I thought.”

“They’re desperate,” Portia said as there was another soft thud.

Then the door was open and they could see two silhouettes framed in the doorway, one tall and lean, the other shorter and broader. The tall one had the slender horns of a goat, and the other had obvious rabbit ears. “That’s Szera’s cousin Roz,” Gustaf whispered. “The other one is Vhin.”

Roz and Vhin rushed in to the mill, then stopped just in front of the millstone. “I can’t believe they finally found out why the royals want our dirt!” Vhin said. He carried a hammer and chisel. “If it’s worth that much, we can set ourselves for life with just a few sacks!”

“We gotta get it out, first,” Roz replied. He carried a club, and pointed with it towards the door to the addition. “That’s where they’re keeping it,” he said. The bandits moved across the mill to the new door and examined it.

Portia felt Gustaf lean in close to her, and his muzzle brushed up against her ear. “There’s only two of them,” he whispered. “What about the others?” She gave only the barest of shrugs and slightest shake of her head in reply.

“This door isn’t near as thick as the front,” Roz said.

Vhin let out a bleating laugh. “They never figured we’d make it in, so why put much into it? Stand back!” He backed up, drawing perilously close to where Gustaf and Portia hid.

“What’re you gonna do?” Roz asked. “Bust it down?”

“You bet!” The goat lowered into a crouch and lunged forward, aiming his head and the thickest part of his skull at the door handle. He collided with the door to the sound of splintering wood, but the door held. Vhin bleated in pain.

“Shut up!”

“I hit the latch!” Vhin whined. “I think I’m bleeding!”

“I said shut up! We’re making enough noise already! You’re going to have to do it again.”

“But I’m hurt!”

“And if we’re caught, you’re going to be more hurt! We need to get going fast, before anyone notices what’s going on!”

Vhin backed up again, and Portia tapped Gustaf on the back of the neck. “Get ready,” she whispered. The donkey nodded in acknowledgement.

Vhin took another run at the door, bursting the latch and stumbling into the new room. Roz scrambled to follow. “It’s too dark in here!” the rabbit exclaimed.

Portia nudged Gustaf, but before either of them could move, a new group appeared at the front door of the mill. In the lead was the unmistakable hunchbacked form of Rendtooth. “Vhin! Roz! You miserable double-crossing backstabbers! What do you think you’re doing?”

Portia tugged on Gustaf’s sleeve. “Let’s let this play out a bit,” she whispered.

Four other bandits entered the mill. Rendtooth definitely carried a short blade, about as long as his forearm, but Portia couldn’t tell how the others were armed. “You two are going to blow this for the rest of us!” the hyena shouted. “Did you think we’d just let you wander off? Get your tails out here!”

“Make us!” Roz called back from inside the addition.

“Fine,” growled Rendtooth. “But you’ll both regret it.” He gestured with his free hand. “Colin, Magnus, take Vhin. Rikk, we’ll take Roz.” The four entered the mill and blocked the door to the addition.

Portia grabbed Gustaf’s sleeve and pulled him to her right. “Go around the other side,” she told him. “When they all enter the other room, go get the others!”

“What? You’re going to hold them all?”

“I took out Rendtooth once, I should be able to do it again,” she said. “And it will be easier once they’re all in there.”

“All right,” Gustaf said reluctantly.

“Trust me.” With a shrug, the donkey worked his way around the millstone until he was close to the open front door of the mill while Portia circled in the other direction.

“I’ll give you one last chance,” Rendtooth said to Vhin and Roz, but received only a spray of raspberries in reply. “Right. Go!” The four bandits lunged into the other room.

“Go!” Portia echoed, and sprinted for the open interior doorway. Gustaf ran from the mill and out into the street. By the time she reached the addition, a full-scale brawl was in progress. Growls, curses, yelps, bleats, and the sound of fisticuffs issued from the dark. She took a position blocking the doorway, and decided to let them fight it out.

In short order, the fight stopped. One of the bandits caught her naked sword reflecting what little light was filtering into the mill, and let out a surprised yelp, followed by a pained grunt as someone (Portia thought it was Rendtooth) punched him in the gut. That yelp was enough to get the others to look up, though. “Hey!” Vhin bleated. “Who’re you?”

Six sets of eyes fixed on her. “I know you,” Rendtooth said. “You’re that witch from outside Pervis Gap. You’re traveling with the others, are you?” She heard him scramble around in the addition. “Where’s my knife?” he called out, then cackled triumphantly. He approached the doorway, blade in hand.

Portia gestured with her own sword. “Sit back down, bub.”

“What’re you going to do? You caught me by surprise back in the forest, but I was also alone. There’s six of us, now. Do you think you can handle all of us?” The other bandits rose and joined their leader.

Portia laughed at him, and Rendtooth and his minions were all taken aback at the ferocity and lack of concern it conveyed. “I can do all that and more,” she said, and took a defensive position in the doorway. “Would you care to learn what the Fencing Master taught me?”

Rendtooth growled deep in his throat, crouched, and leapt.

~~~ 

When Gustaf led Yerzle, Dozer, Szera, Sashi, and several other villagers into the mill, lighting the way with a lantern, Portia was leaning against the jamb of the addition’s doorway, arms crossed nonchalantly. Rendtooth’s knife was stuck into the wall behind her. “It’s about time,” she said.

“What happened?” Gustaf asked. He thrust the lantern into the addition and found the six bandits huddled together in a far corner of the room. None of them appeared seriously injured although Vhin held his left arm awkwardly and one of the other bandits, a young horse, appeared to have a few fingers that pointed in the wrong direction. Rendtooth himself was rubbing his jaw. The donkey turned back to Portia, who shrugged.

“I passed some of what the Fencing Master taught me on to them,” she said. “And one of those lessons was that it can be much more painful to be disarmed than to simply be run through.” A low moan issued from the bandits, and was quickly shushed. “For instance, getting your fingers dislocated hurts. A lot. Isn’t that right, Magnus?”

“I guess,” the horse mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Portia said sharply, “I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”

“I, uh, said you’re right,” Magnus stammered. “Ma’am.”

“That’s better. Rendtooth would agree, but I’m pretty sure I broke his jaw.” The hyena let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a moan.

“That’s amazing!” Szera said, awestruck. She looked at Portia with a mixture of respect and fear.

“Actually, it’s mostly leverage,” Portia replied. “So, now what?”

“I’ve got chains in the smithy,” Szera said. “That will hold them for a while.”

“We’ll send for the magistrate in the morning,” Gustaf added. “That will take a few days, since he lives in Barril, about halfway to Farien.”

“In the meantime,” said one of the other villagers, an older donkey with features similar to Gustaf’s, “we’ll put them to work on the harvest.”

“Good idea, Uncle Ivor,” Gustaf said. “Maybe we can make up some lost time.”

“You gotta tell us,” Roz said from the huddle. “What makes the dirt so valuable? Why do they want it in Farien?” “Beats us,” Szera said. “But that was a good story, right? It pulled you all in, after all.”

Dirty Work, Part 7 of 9

DIRTY WORK

7. 

Two evenings later, Yerzle and Gustaf stood on either side of Stillwell in his bathing chair as they watched a pair of villagers push a cart of dirt into the mill. A new addition had been built onto the building, without windows or doors, yet three other villagers with farm implements stood about the perimeter. “Those three aren’t very discreet,” Gustaf observed.

“That’s the whole point,” Stillwell said. “They’re supposed to look like they’re being subtle, and failing. So, they’re actually succeeding at failing.”

The donkey rubbed his chin and regarded the workers dubiously. “If you say so,” he said. He took off the cooking pot he still wore and ran his fingers through his bristly mane. “Did the leak go as planned?”

Yerzle nodded. “Szera said her brother left the house just before sunset, and was seen heading towards the hills. He returned about two hours later. That part seems to have worked.”

“Then we just wait.”

“It may take a day or two,” Stillwell reminded them. “You’ll need to rotate.”

“We’ll take care of that,” said Gustaf.

Portia walked up behind them, from the direction of the smithy. “So,” she said. “I’ll go first. Who wants to join me?” She already had her sword buckled on, and rested both hands on its pommel.

“What do you mean you’ll go first?”

“It means exactly that,” she said, and stared at Yerzle critically. “I know that we’re ready! You weren’t planning on keeping me out of this, were you? I thought I made things clear back on the ship. I can take care of myself!”

Yerzle spun through a number of conflicting ideas and emotions, some of which he did not care to admit even to himself as he worked to sort out a sensible answer. “All right,” he finally said. “You’re up first.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Gustaf said. “It’s my village, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Yerzle asked. “You’re no warrior.”

“But he and Szera were the only two to challenge us,” Portia said. “That counts for something.” She tapped the donkey’s cook-pot helmet. “And why let this stylish helmet go to waste? Besides, if everything works out correctly, there’ll be very little danger after all!”

“If you say so,” Gustaf mumbled, although he did not sound or look convinced. “I just want to get this over with so that we can get the dirt harvest in. We haven’t shipped anything out in nearly two weeks, and I’m afraid that our buyer in the capital will find another source for his dirt! If that happens, it’ll be worse than the borers!”

“This has been bothering me ever since I first learned about it,” Yerzle said. “What do they actually do with the dirt you send?”

“Who knows?” Gustaf replied. “Who cares? Jorke End is at the end of the road, literally. We don’t grow any food, and don’t have any resources besides our dirt. We harvest it, mill it, pack it into sacks we also make, and ship it off. If someone is willing to pay for our dirt, how can we complain? We use the money we make to buy our food and other supplies.”

“Well,” said Portia, scratching herself behind one ear, “if the dirt is so good, why don’t you use it to grow food and sell that? You might make more money that way, plus you’d have, y’know, food.”

“My father before me grew dirt,” Gustaf said firmly. “His father before him grew dirt, and his father before him grew dirt. In fact, every family in the village has a similar tale. We are a proud dirt-farming people! Who am I to challenge the traditions? That would be like saying the hills aren’t haunted!”

“But you never go into the hills!” Portia said. “So you can’t really say whether they are or are not, can you?”

“You’ve never been into the hills,” Gustaf pointed out. “So you can’t say, either.”

Portia opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She opened it again, and then closed it again. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she muttered.

“You’re lucky all she’s got right now is that sword,” Stillwell told Gustaf as they watched her walk up the street, tail dragging in the dust. “Otherwise, you might have caught a snout-full of lightning.”

True to her word, Portia was back at the mill within the hour. Gustaf was also there, dressed once again in his makeshift armor and carrying his hatchet. Yerzle stood beside him. “Let’s get this going,” she said, and opened the door to the mill.

She and Gustaf entered, and the donkey shut the door behind them. Inside, the only light came from four small windows in a cupola, dim now at sunset. The millstone occupied the majority of the space and the earthen floor was hard-packed from years of either beasts or men traveling in a circle as they pushed and pulled the stone. On the right was a small door that led to the new room. Portia and Gustaf took their place in the far left corner, hidden from the front door by the stone.

“Do you think they’ll come tonight?” Gustaf asked?

“Who can say? They’re probably pretty desperate after all this time, so, probably. Not before full night, I don’t think, but likely soon after that.”

“I hope it’s soon. I want this over with.”

“The waiting is hardest,” Portia agreed.

They sat in silence as the gloom within the building grew. “You really never ask what happens with the dirt you sell?”

Portia could just barely see Gustaf shrug, guessing his reaction more from the rustling sound the bolster made. “We don’t ask many questions. We usually don’t like the answers we get.

“I get the idea that’s not your style, though.”

Portia chuckled. “No,” she said. “I’ve challenged a lot of traditions. I always want to ask ‘Why?’” She sighed. “Not that I always like the answers I get, either.”

“But it got you out of your village. What’s so funny?” he asked as Portia repressed a snort of laughter.

“My ‘village,’” she said with a giggle. “You could say that.”

“I sometimes wonder about leaving Jorke End, about seeing what the Middle Kingdoms have to offer. Is it worth it?”

“It’s amazing,” she said. “And terrifying, and gratifying, and aggravating. There are people like Rendtooth, who’d knock your teeth out for a few copper moons, and there are people like Yerzle who’d step up to keep you from getting your teeth knocked out. There are people far worse, and far better.”

She shifted on her haunches and swept her tail up into her lap. “People have died so that I could live. I’ve died, and people fought so hard for me that they pulled me back. I don’t regret leaving the palace, even though nearly every day I wonder whether I made the right choice.

“So, my answer to your question is yes, but be careful what you wish for.”

“That’s what I figured,” Gustaf said. “Now, what was that about a palace? And about dying?”

Portia began to answer, but at that instant the front door to the mill rattled.

“This is it!” Gustaf whispered. He scrambled to his feet.

“Stay low!” Portia whispered back. She climbed into a crouch and drew her sword. She tugged on the donkey’s sleeve, and the two moved to put more of the millstone between them and the front door, while keeping the door to the addition in view. Both crouched behind the bedstone, staring hard to see through the darkness. The door rattled again, then once more. Too far away to hear anything, Portia and Gustaf took a firmer grip upon their weapons, clenched their teeth, and waited.

Dirty Work, Part 6 of 9

DIRTY WORK

6.

Crowded around a table in the loft above the smithy floor, the company, joined by Gustaf and Szera, pored over a drawing of the town. “The key to Jorke End has always been Elm Street,” Szera said with authority, tracing the road that ran past the farm fields with her finger. “That’s been the path of invasion ever since the Eastern Kingdom fell.”

“I can’t see anything!” Stillwell called out from his bathing chair.

“Invasion?” Gustaf asked. “Except for these folks, there hasn’t been an invasion around here since the red borer infestation, and that was forty years ago!” He had removed his makeshift armor, although the cooking pot remained upon his head.

“And it devastated the village,” Szera replied grimly. “The townsfolk were so bored that it took nearly ten years for the economy to recover!”

“Wait,” Portia interrupted. “You’re saying these red borers--”

“Were very boring, yes.” Szera pointed to a small range of low hills, just beyond the fields. “Rendtooth and his gang are probably in these hills, since they’re considered haunted, and we don’t go up there, much.”

“What hills?” Stillwell asked. “I can’t tell what’s going on!”

“Relax, lad,” Dozer said to him. “You still got that bum leg, and this table’s too small to get yer chair in. Just keep listenin.”

“But I’m a visual learner!” Stillwell complained. “If you come up with a plan, and I can’t see it, I might not be able to remember it properly. And if I can’t do that, then who knows what I’m liable to try!”

“I'll have to agree with him there,” Portia said, remembering her experience with Stillwell during Yerzle’s trial by the Order of St. Farceur. “Make room.”

The group shuffled themselves back and forth, jostling to clear enough space so that Stillwell’s battered bathing chair could be wheeled into place. “Better?” Portia asked.

“The map’s upside-down.”

“Not to me,” Szera said with a frown. “Who’s giving the directions?”

“Well, you, of course,” Stillwell said, “and you can leave it like that if you don’t mind me possibly going left when you really want me to go right.”

The big rabbit sighed. “Fine.” She spun the map around so that it faced Stillwell. “How’s that?” she asked through grated teeth.

Stillwell scratched his chin as he examined the map. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, this should work.”

“I’m so very glad you approve. Now, as I was saying, the hills are considered haunted.”

“How so?” Yerzle asked. “A curse? The restless shades of wronged men? Malicious forest spirits?”

“All of the above,” Gustaf said. “Malicious forest spirits placed a curse upon innocent travelers for no good reason, trapping them within the maze of the hill valleys. Now, their indignant ghosts roam the same paths, seeking to escape and venting their frustrations upon any fool unlucky enough to take his chances passing through.

“Plus, there’s a ruined castle, or tomb, or dungeon up there, as well.”

“You’re sure this is where they’re hiding?” Sashi asked as he examined the map.

Szera indicated the rest of the map with a sweep of her hand. “There’s nowhere else to go,” she said. “To the north and northwest, the land is flat and open. As you know, the sea lies to the south. To the west, the plains extend until you reach the Spine of the World.”

“So.” Yerzle screwed his face up in thought as he studied the map. “Are the hills really haunted?”

“Who knows?” Gustaf said with a shrug. “We never go up into them.  They’re supposed to be haunted, remember?  Nobody in town is brave enough to take the chance.”

“Right,” Portia said with a huff. “So we’re going to chase half a dozen peasants through a maze of hills that are allegedly filled with malevolent specters? A fine plan.”

“Nay, lass,” Dozer said. “We don’t need to chase em, we need to pull em out of the hills where we can deal with em. Set up an ambush, or the like.”

“How do we do that?” asked Gustaf. “What can we lure them with?”

“Bandits are generally after treasure,” Yerzle said.

“This is a village of dirt farmers,” Szera said. “We don’t have any treasure.”

“Food, then,” he said. “Bandits are always hungry.”

“We’re dirt farmers. We don’t have any food, either!”

“Oh, please,” Portia interjected. “That’s absurd. What are all those fields for? What about the mill?”

“Where do you think the dirt comes from?” Gustaf asked. “And we mill it to ship it more efficiently in sacks up to Farien.”

“Dirt?” Yerzle asked in a brittle voice. He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over backwards. “You farm DIRT?” he shouted, leaning over the table and the map.

“Do you have something in your eye?” Szera asked him, indicating her own right eye. “It’s making a funny little twitch.”

“Never mind that,” Portia said as she righted Yerzle’s chair and pushed down on his shoulder until he sat down. “If you don’t have treasure, and you don’t have food, what do you have to use as a lure?”

“They don’t need anything!” Stillwell cried out. All heads turned to him. “You don’t need to set up actual bait,” he said. “You need to run a con!”

He closed his eyes and smiled as he hooked his thumbs into his armpits. “And if there’s anybody here who can set up a con, it’s me!”