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!”

Dirty Work, Part 5 of 9

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DIRTY WORK

5. 

A week after leaving the wreck, the company finally straggled into the small village, no more than a dozen houses and other outbuildings on either side of the road. “Finally!” Yerzle gasped, as he climbed out of his makeshift harness and dropped it to the ground. Beside him, Dozer merely grunted as he did the same. 

“What are you writing?” Portia asked Stillwell. “You’ve been doing that ever since we left the ship.”

“Nothing!” the elephant snapped, slamming the small, leatherbound volume closed. “It’s totally not a journal of my descent into madness, that’s for sure!”

“That’s good to know,” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked past the bath chair. “You don’t have to show it to me, I was just curious.”

After she passed, Stillwell opened the book once more, angrily scribbled something more, then closed it again and tucked it behind his back in the chair. “It’s also not an enemies list!” he called out.

Rubbing his shoulder where the abrasions from the harness had been worst, Yerzle walked a ways down the road into the village. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody out,” he said, puzzled. He turned to look for Sashi. “There were definitely folks out and about when we found the place, weren’t there?”

“Yes. Do you think there are fields on the other side of town that they might be working in?”

“Everyone?”

“Unlikely,” Sashi admitted. “There should be old women and young children, at least. Maybe a crippled beggar, or a hunchback. Something.”

“I’ll go check things out, but someone should stay here with Stillwell. Anyone want to volunteer?”

“I can take care of myself!” Stillwell shouted. “If anyone causes me trouble, I’ll throw empty rum bottles at ‘em!”

“I’ll stay with the lad,” Dozer said, mopping his brow. “I’m tired of walkin, anyway.”

“Fine, then. The three of us will look through the village and find out what we can.” He turned first to Portia, then to Sashi. “Ready?” They moved forward, and after two dozen paces approached what approximated the center of town.

“There’s a smith,” Portia said, pointing to one of the buildings. Its wide front door was ajar, and they could see an anvil and bellows in the half-light within. “And there’s a mill.” They traveled farther up the road and came to a cross street. The new road ended where they stood, and led off to the north-east, past what they took to be farm fields.

“Empty,” Yerzle said. “Where is everybody?”

“Hiding from you bandits,” said a voice from behind.

By the time Dozer caught up, panting and puffing, the high-pitched shrieking had ended. Portia and Sashi had their swords drawn and faced two newcomers, a donkey with what looked like a cooking pot on his head, and an enormous rabbit with an equally enormous hammer. Yerzle lay on his back between the two pairs. “What’s goin on?” the boar asked, hefting his axe. “Who was doin that screamin?”

“Don’t look at me,” Portia said, brandishing her sword at the strangers. “They came out of nowhere and surprised us!” Sashi silently pointed at the prostrate Yerzle.

“Nowhere?” the donkey asked indignantly. “We live here! You’re the ones who came out of nowhere!” Dozer saw that he carried a hatchet, and besides his cookpot-helmet was wrapped in a bolster and had what appeared to be a serving tray strapped across his chest with several loops of cord.

“You’re bandits!” said the rabbit, and Dozer realized with a start that she was a woman. A very large woman, taller than any of them except Stillwell, with powerful arms to wield the hammer she carried. “You’re with the other bandits, and we’re not going to give you anything! Get out of our village!”

“We ain’t bandits,” Dozer said, watching the rabbit’s hammer warily. “We come from a shipwreck, down the coast.”

“That’s what the other one said,” the donkey replied, his black-tipped ears skeptically lying flat. “But at least he said straight out that he was a bandit. He called himself ‘the Scourge of the Greensward’ and ‘the Terror of the Borderlands’. That gave us something to work with.”

“Rendtooth,” Yerzle said, sitting up. “He claims he’s a bandit lord, and attacked our caravan several months ago, but none of us could remember him.”

“Rendtooth?” Portia said, incredulous. “He was on that ship? As crew?” Yerzle climbed to his feet, looked around at the drawn weapons, and stepped behind Portia, who shot him an exasperated look.

“As a captive,” Sashi said. “We met him in the hold. He must have fled the ship after we ran aground.” He addressed the donkey. “Stocky hyena fellow, with a prominent fang on the left side?”

“That’s him.” The donkey’s eyes narrowed. “You know him, but you’re not bandits? We’re supposed to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” Yerzle said from behind Portia, and told the two villagers their tale of sea-adventure, shipwreck, and capture, wrapping up with the escape from the slavers and flight to the shore.

The rabbit lowered her hammer and leaned against it while she eyed them all critically. Hard muscle stood out beneath her brown fur. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

“I believe you,” said the donkey. “And what are we going to do, Szera? Fight them all? In the whole village, we’re the only two who came out, so I think that if they wanted to, they could take care of us in short order.”

“Speak for yourself,” she told him, but did not object as he took a step forward.

“I’m Gustaf,” he said. “Welcome to Jorke End. We have something of a bandit problem.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Portia, sheathing her sword. “Is it just Rendtooth, or does he have a gang?” Sashi and Dozer followed her example, and stood down.

“A few layabouts in town took up with him,” Szera said. “Good riddance to them, mostly, even if one is my cousin. On the other hand, as long as they’re prowling about, we can’t get things back to normal.”

Yerzle exchanged glances with the others. “We might be able to help you with that,” he said. “In exchange for that, we could use some help of our own.”

“Mercenaries!” Szera huffed. “You’ll still rob us, only now we’ll have to thank you for it!”

“Calm down, Szera,” Gustaf told her. “What is it you need?”

“A place to rest up for a few days and get our friend Stillwell healed up fully, then some food and directions when we’re done,” Yerzle said. “We’re headed for Farien.” “We can do that. You can stay in the loft above the smithy. Let’s get your friend into town, then we can figure out where to go from there.”

Dirty Work, Part 4 of 9

DIRTY WORK

4. 

STILLWELL’S TRAVEL JOURNAL 

DAY: 1

MORNING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 0 MI

Yerzle and the others are finishing up the final work. I still can’t put any weight on my leg, but it doesn’t hurt much, even after that fall. Sashi had to re-tie the splints, and it’s propped up. I get to ride to the town in this neat wheeled chair! Sashi says it would take him only two days to reach the village we’re heading for, though with me and Portia slowing everybody down it might take us longer.

DAY: 1

EVENING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 150 YDS

This isn’t going the way any one thought. The chair doesn’t roll so well over the sand, and not even Dozer was able to push me much. Yerzle and Dozer tied ropes to the chair and tried to drag it backwards. After a while I started to feel bad, and then I got sick. That made Portia feel bad, because she was walking behind the chair. By then we were at the base of a dune, and the sun was setting, so Yerzle suggested that rather than fight the hill in the dark, we call it a day and start fresh in the morning. That seemed to be a good idea, so everybody agreed to that. When they come back from the ship tomorrow, we’ll be off!


DAY: 1

NIGHT

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 150 YDS

I have a lantern! The dunes sure are windy at night. Sleeping in the wreck, I never realized just how windy it was. It’s not cold, but the sand blows around a lot. The wind almost sounds like people talking in the distance, close enough to know they’re there, but too far away to actually understand what they’re saying. It’s creepy. When’s sunrise?


DAY: 2

AFTERNOON

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 2 MI

I learned more about sand last night than I ever wanted to know. For instance, dry sand blown by the wind gets into every crevice, and I mean every crevice. The others showed up early, and we started fresh. The sun is hot, and there’s no wind during the day here in the dunes.


DAY: 2

NIGHT

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 3 MI

Now that we’re farther from the actual beach, the wind over the dunes has picked up. It never stops completely, only rises and falls. Now it doesn’t sound like people off in the distance, but like people right behind you, whispering. People in the dark. Sushushushushushush. All night.


DAY: 3

MORNING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 3 MI

All night, all night. The wind never let up. The sand doesn’t last forever, and both Yerzle and Sashi claim there’s a road not too far ahead, once the ground gets more solid, but we’re so much slower with me in this chair that we can’t tell how much farther we’ve got to go.


DAY: 3

AFTERNOON

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

Sashi has gone ahead to scout a good path. Yerzle and Dozer are exhausted from pulling me all day, but Portia looks better.


DAY: 4

MORNING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

I wonder if anyone else hears the whispering. I saw Portia staring up at the top of one of the dune ridges last night, but when I asked her about it, she told me she was looking for Sashi, except that I know that he went in the opposite direction.


DAY: 4

NIGHT

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

We did not move at all, today. The sun beat upon our company relentlessly, forcing us all into a listless torpor. Mousashi-san did not return until well after moonrise, although he brought felicitous news. The road we seek is not so far off as we thought, perhaps two days’ travel at our current pace!


DAY: 5

MORNING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

The others are making preparations for the resumption of our journey, but I must make note of the winds during the previous night. It coursed ceaselessly through the dunes, its susurrations ever-present in our ears, in our minds. I saw my comrades casting wary glances beyond the edges of our camp, into the darkness beyond our meager fire. What do they look for? What do they fear?



DAY: 5

AFTERNOON

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 10 MI

Having left the accursed wreck, I am confined to this infernal chair. I fear madness creeps upon me from inactivity. The others are no better, stunned by the fierce assault of the sun by day, and the drone of the wind upon the sand by night, and by the general monotony of the scene. The large ones drawing my conveyance are now little more than stupid beasts of burden, straining against their makeshift harnesses and panting mindlessly in their exertions. The erstwhile witch prattles on about “beach volleyball” and “barbecues” and other nonsense. The foreigner is silent, but I can see his eyes. They flit from one of us to another, calculating. Plotting. I must remain vigilant against his inevitable treachery.


DAY: 6

EVENING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 12 MI

Our supplies run low, most especially the rum. The sweet, sweet rum. I am keeper of the victuals, as they ride alongside me in this chair. The others are all against me. ALL OF THEM. I know this because the wind tells me so. It knows everything; it sees all. None can hide from its unfailing ability to discern the truth. It comes to me in the night, whispering in my ear, transmitting to me what the others have told to it. It feeds the truth to me, my one true friend in this wilderness, while placating those about me who scheme and conspire in opposition. Curse my feeble body! If I were but able to stand upon my own legs, they would learn the consequences of their machinations, to their peril!


DAY: 7

MORNING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 12 MI

The wind tells me that the stars are right. Soon, the Sleeper shall awake!


DAY: 7

EVENING

DISTANCE TRAVELED: 15 MI

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Dirty Work, Part 3 of 9

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DIRTY WORK

3. 

Yerzle grunted and strained, pulling against the spoke of the windlass, working to prevent the stout rope wrapped around the axel from playing out uncontrolled. Dozer and Vacamar strained against their own spoke, one-third of the way ahead of and behind him. The line trailed over the gunnel where Sashi stood, trying ineffectually to control its descent. From overboard came a series of bangs and thumps, each followed by a yelp or shout. “Watch out!”

“Many apologies, Stillwell!” Sashi called out. “We’re doing the best we can!” He tugged at the rope, thicker than his own arm, to little avail.

“Do better!” came the response.

“Tell him if he don’t like the ride, he can jump from there,” Dozer said through clenched teeth as they slowly lowered Stillwell to the beach in a modified bosun’s chair.

“Dozer says that if you don’t like the ride--”

“Belay that, Mister Mousashi!” called out Vacamar. “What Mister Stillwell doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“How much farther?” Yerzle asked with a gasp. The rough wood of the spoke tore at his palms, and his feet were slipping on the deck. “I can’t keep this up much longer!”

“Only about six feet,” Portia reported from where she stood at the gunnel beside Sashi. “Now five... four....”

The windlass jerked, Vacamar called out a panicky “Ahoy!” and the axle spun violently, knocking Yerzle in the back, and sending him sprawling to the deck. Stillwell let out a dismayed trumpeting, then cried out in pain as he hit the ground. Yerzle scrambled to his feet and rushed to the gunnel. “Stillwell! Are you all right?” Dozer, Vacamar, and Portia crowded around Yerzle and Sashi to check on their friend.

Below on the sand, the bull elephant lay on the beach moaning in pain. “Stillwell!” Portia called out in concern.

Stillwell opened one eye a fraction, looked around, then opened both eyes fully. “I landed on something,” he said, then sat up. He felt at his injured leg. “But I don’t think I hurt myself any worse.”

“Where’s Mister Pauly?” asked Vacamar. “He was supposed to guide you to the ground.”

“I’m not sure,” Stillwell said. “I couldn’t see him below me, so--” The canvas seat of the bosun’s chair, splayed across the sand beneath Stillwell’s considerable bulk, began to writhe and undulate. Stillwell yelped in surprise, and struck down hard upon the largest bulge in the seat, producing a squawk of pain.

Stillwell peeled back the canvas and the Lendri’s first mate crawled out from beneath, glaring at his assailant. “Found him!” Stillwell called out to Vacamar.

“If yer done,” Dozer said, “then get offa the seat and outta the way, so we can get the rest down!” With a grunt, Stillwell rolled himself off the bosun’s chair and Mister Pauly dashed several paces backwards to avoid being caught again beneath the young bull elephant.

Dozer and Vacamar reeled in the rope with the windlass, pulling the seat back up on deck. When it arrived, Yerzle and Sashi removed the canvas seat and attached the ropes to either end of a large wicker bathing chair they had found. The slavers really did have an amazingly diverse amount of loot on board.

“All right, Portia,” Yerzle said when they’d finished. “It’s your turn.”

Portia, dressed in her new-found outfit of tunic, breeches, and vest, was examining her new sword, a narrow blade the length of her arm. She turned it this way and that to catch and reflect the sunlight, and didn’t seem to have heard Yerzle. “Portia!” he repeated. “Hey!”

She finally looked up. “Have you seen the pattern in my sword?” she asked. “Lombir steel, the finest in the Middle Kingdoms! I still can’t believe this ship’s filled with so much high-quality stuff! Those slavers must have never put ashore to sell anything, even though they would’ve needed to do deal with their captives somehow. Why take them, otherwise?”

“You picked a good one,” Dozer observed, casting an eye to the mottled pattern on Portia’s sword. “But are you sure it’s the type for you?” Even from where he stood at the windlass, Yerzle could see how the steel looked like running water when the light caught it just right. It was an elegant weapon, with tiny elaborate runes in filigree near the cross-guard and a pommel in the shape of a clenched fist, far more refined than his own plain broadsword or the heavy bearded axe that Dozer normally carried.

“I wouldn’t have taken it if I wasn’t,” Portia said testily, and waved it beneath Dozer’s snout before sheathing it. “I grew up learning how to use one of these, even if I wasn’t ever going to rule, myself. I wasn’t ever going to be Queen, either. What else was I going to do to fill my time? I’ll be much more useful in a pinch with my new sword than with that little apple-carver I used to carry, certainly.”

“I think Jain might debate that,” Yerzle said, “if she was still alive to debate things. Are you really sure that the sword is all you’ll have?”

“When the Duct closed, it closed hard,” Portia said. She leaned against the bathing chair and sighed. Yerzle could see that after three days resting aboard the dhow she was stronger and her face was less sunken, but she still tired quickly and moved carefully. “I can feel the magic,” she continued, stretching out one hand and staring into the middle distance. “I know it’s there, and I can reach out to it, but I can’t take hold and direct it. It may come back, or I may be cut off from it forever; I suppose only time will show me which is true. Until I know for sure, I’ll need to keep the blade handy.”

“If that’s yer choice,” Dozer said, “I can live with it. C’mon, lad, let’s get offa this tub.” Dozer, Vacamar, and Yerzle muscled the bathing chair over the gunnel, to be lowered in place of the bosun’s chair. Sashi put several bundles of supplies in the chair, and then Portia carefully climbed in.

After seating herself, she cast a dubious eye at the set-up, then peered nervously over the edge at the distance to the beach below. “Is this really the best way to do this?” she asked.

“You want to get off my ship,” Vacamar said as he looked down into the chair, his hands on his hips. “There’s no gangway, so you can either climb down the ladder, or ride down in the chair. You told us you didn’t think you could make the climb. It appears your options are limited.”

“It’s not your ship,” Portia grumbled. “The Lendri was wrecked by the kraken.”

“I’m claiming it by salvage,” the bull said. “Mister Pauly and I will find a town along the coast, and establish the claim. Who could challenge us? Not the slavers, whatever you did with them.”

Yerzle saw Portia wince at the mention of the missing slavers. Despite several early attempts by himself and the others to find out, she had refused to say much except that she had not killed them, and they had dropped the subject. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. She waved her hand imperiously. “Lower the chair.” Once again, Yerzle, Vacamar, and Dozer operated the windlass while Sashi guided the load. This time, there were no mishaps.

“If you change your mind, you can still catch up to us,” Yerzle said to Vacamar as he strapped on his own sword. “Once we get to that village Sashi and I found, we expect to be there a few days at least, to let Stillwell heal some more. From there we’ll figure out exactly where we are, and how to get to Farien.”

He cleared his throat self-conciously, and his ears flattened against his head in embarrassment. “Sorry about wrecking your ship, and all....”

The captain clapped Yerzle jovially on the shoulder. “Maybe hunting a leviathan with a greenhorn crew wasn’t my best idea,” he admitted. “There’s enough loot left on this wreck to make up for it, though. If we need to, we’ll come after you, but I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

The others had already climbed down, and Mister Pauly had climbed back up, leaving only Yerzle to disembark. “Good luck in the city,” Vacamar told him, offering his hand. Yerzle shook it enthusiastically. “And good luck with the wreck,” he said, then climbed down to the beach.

Dirty Work, Part 2 of 9

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DIRTY WORK

2.

The cabin was low-ceilinged, and Yerzle could not stand fully upright. He realized that there had to be another deck below this one in the forward part of the ship, since the slave pen in the aft portion was high enough that none of them had been able to reach that hatch opening. It was slightly stuffy, and the air held the scents of exotic spices and incense. His nose twitched, and he fought back a sneeze. He stepped off the steep stairway to the main deck -- almost a ladder -- and glanced about the cabin. It was not nearly as dark as he’d thought it would be, and his eyes quickly adjusted. Standard portholes let in light, and more came in through cracks in the hull that had developed in their final rush for shore. The large space was divided into nooks and cubbies instead of separate cabins, each filled with cushions and blankets, no doubt plunder of the slavers. He could not see Portia in any of the nooks, so he made his way about the space as quietly as he could. He found her in a midship nook aft of the hatch, with a large porthole and several large pillows. She lay with her face to the bulkhead and her back to him, cocooned in a blue and red quilt with only her white hair visible.

Even from that position, Yerzle though she looked beaten and exhausted, and he hesitated before speaking. “Portia?” he asked softly. She did not answer. He called her name again, then stepped haltingly towards her sleeping place, although he did not enter it or touch her bedclothes. Still, she did not respond, and he decided to return abovedeck. As he turned to climb the stairs back, he heard the cushions rustle.

“How’s the shuffleboard tournament going?” Portia’s voice was thin and dry. She rolled over just enough so that she could see Yerzle without turning fully away from the bulkhead. The sun through the porthole glinted in her green eyes. “I told Stillwell I’d join, but I admit I don’t feel up to it right now.”

“I just got here,” he replied, stepping over to her bed. “They got so wrapped up in organizing the entertainment that they forgot to look for me.”

“It’s scheduled as a double-elimination, round-robin event,” Portia said with a faint smile. “The brackets have to be seeded carefully.” She sniffed, then wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Also, you smell like kelp.”

Yerzle chuckled. “You can smell that, under all this patchouli? Well, that’s what broke my fall. I had to untangle myself once I woke up, and I’ve got sand in places I didn’t know sand could get. I’ll itch for days.”

He squatted at the entrance to her nook, resting his elbows on his knees. “Dozer told me you were resting, but I thought I’d check on you, anyway.”

She turned her face back to the bulkhead. “I saw you fall overboard when we first struck the beach,” she said, so softly that he could barely make out her words. “I saw you fall, but couldn’t do anything about it. All my power, all that power I was channeling, I could only use it to keep pushing the ship forward, not to save you. Not to do anything but go. I didn’t know whether you’d fallen into the sea, or onto jagged rocks, or even how far up in the air we were. Then we hit the boulders.” She sighed raggedly, like the final puff of a worn out bellows. “All that power, and I couldn’t do anything....

“Then it was all gone."

“Hey, I’m here, you’re here, everyone’s here, and there’s a shuffleboard tournament ready to start! If we get out of this only with Stillwell’s broken leg and your exhaustion, that’s a success in my book. It beats the slave pens for sure, don’t you think?”

“Exhaustion,” she murmured, and rolled back over and sat up a little, keeping the quilt wrapped around her. The tip of her black-and-white striped tail poked out from the bottom end. “Right.... I’ve felt better, for sure, and considering I’ve been dead, that’s saying something."

“You didn’t die,” Yerzle said with a nervous smile. “It was close, sure, but--”

“You weren’t there,” she said flatly. “You couldn’t possibly know.”

He didn’t try to argue the point, and sat down on the edge of the pillows. “I was worried for you. I was afraid that being a Duct would take too much out of you."

“You have no idea,” she said wearily, and pushed herself up into a half-sitting position against the bulkhead with slow, careful movements. Now that he was closer, and she was in more of the light, Yerzle could see Portia’s drawn and haggard face, her sunken and bloodshot eyes, he dry, cracked nose, and the brittle exaggeration of her movements. The white fur of her face and muzzle seemed to have a yellowish tinge, like old bones, but he couldn’t tell if that was real, or only a trick of the light. “Being a Duct siphoned nearly everything out of me,” she said. “My strength, my spirit, my will. I feel like an empty husk of myself. I’d hoped that the ten years I lost would be off the end of my life, not taken immediately.”

“Is that what’s happened?” Yerzle’s concern for his friend grew.

“I’m not sure. The lore regarding Ducts is spotty and incomplete. It’s a last-ditch maneuver, not something wizards take on readily, and the effects aren’t well understood. But, as you said, it beats the slave pens.”

They sat quietly for a while, watching dust motes in the sunbeam that shone through the porthole. “I’m glad you’re all right,” Portia said finally.

“We’re all all right,” Yerzle said. “Even you, you’ll see.” He gestured up at the ceiling. “Do you want to go topside? Mister Pauly should be done setting up the buffet. You could get the last of the day’s sun in one of the lounges, as well.”

“That ridiculous costume disappeared when the Duct shut off,” Portia said, then ran her fingers through her hair. “It left my hair short, though.” Yerzle could see that her hair did end just before her shoulders, unlike the ponytail she normally wore. “I couldn’t find my other clothes, either.”

“Disappeared, you say?”

“I see that look on your face!” Portia said, sounding more like her normal, forceful, self. “You can wipe it right off! The punks who fished us out of the ocean have plenty of gear and equipment, so I’m sure there’s something around that’ll fit me. But you’re going back up top before I go looking!”

Yerzle smiled as he climbed the stairs to rejoin the others. Everything was sorting itself out.

Dirty Work, Part 1 of 9

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DIRTY WORK

1.

The waves crashed upon a smooth, gently-sloping beach. The mid-afternoon sun hung in a cloudless sky, the summer heat tempered by a cool breeze that blew in from the sea. Just beyond the reach of the breakers, a pair of green-backed peckers darted to and fro, poking their narrow snouts into the wet sand, searching for edible bits of sea life. Further up, the beach was littered with the debris of high tide: mats of seaweed, driftwood, dead fish, the detritus of the shipping lanes. Beyond that, the wreck of a two-masted dhow rested among a cluster of boulders, a wide furrow in the sand leading from the high-tide line to the broken stern.

Nothing moved around the wreck but another pair of peckers, which froze when an unnatural groan issued from a nearby pile of kelp, thongweed, and bladderwrack. The pile stirred, groaned again, then begain to rise. The fox tod buried beneath the seaweed climbed to his hands and knees, then cast off the leafy blanket and stood. Brushing sand out of his russet fur, he surveyed the beach and the wreck.

“Sheesh.” He ran a hand through his prominent forelock, and sand trickled onto his snout. He began searching the nearby piles, similar to the one he’d been covered by, looking for his companions. They’d all been held captive aboard the dhow after their own vessel had sunk, but had managed to free themselves and overpower their captors, although they’d caused significant damage to the ship in the process.

Portia caused it, he reminded himself. The rest of us didn’t do anything at all, stuck down in the slave hold. He would not panic yet, not after what they’d all endured, but his search carried an urgency that an everyday beachcomber’s could never have. “Hello!” he called out. “Dozer? Stillwell? Are you there? Portia? Sashi? Anybody?”

A head appeared above the dhow’s ruined stern, the broad bovine face and horns of Vacamar, their former employer and then their fellow captive aboard the ship, when it had been crewed by slavers. “Ahoy, Mister Yerzle!” the sailor called out. “Up here!”

“Vacamar! Have you seen anyone else?”

“There’s a rope ladder on the port side,” the former captain said. “Get yourself up here!”

The bull had not answered Yerzle’s questions, but he followed the directions and hauled himself up the lines. As he topped the gunnel, he noted with some exasperation that Vacamar reclined in a chaise lounge, his sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, with several other empty lounge chairs beside him on the deck. A brightly-colored pavilion shaded him from the sun, and a small table crowded with several large bottles stood amidst the other furniture. “Catching some sun, are you?” he asked.

“I was,” Vacamar said, a bottle in his hand. “It got pretty hot, though, so I moved into the shade. There’s not much else to do, right now. Mister Pauly is in the galley, getting the rest of the buffet prepared.”

“Buffet?”

Vacamar nodded and took a pull from his bottle. “Those slavers had all sort of loot stored aboard this tub. Food, liquor, clothing, weapons, you name it! The salvage on this will set me up fine!” He took another drink.

“What about the others?” Yerzle asked, and Vacamar gestured towards the bow with his bottle, indicating three of his friends clustered around the stump of the foremast, then took another swig.

“Yerzle!” Stillwell called out to him as he approached the group. His elephant bulk was sunk deep into a deck hammock. “You made it!”

“To find the rest of you drinking rum and sunbathing while I was passed out on the beach,” Yerzle grumbled. “Was I the only one who fell overboard when we ran aground?”

“Sashi pitched over the bow just afore we hit the rocks,” Dozer said, turning from where he and the rat were examining something upon the deck. “Me and Vacamar had to haul him aboard, so that we could all pull Stillwell up.”

Yerzle turned to Stillwell. “Why? What happened to you?”

“He rolled forward into the fo’c’sle when we ran aground,” Sashi explained, his long naked rat’s tail lashing back and forth. “That’s where we found the hatch to the larder, and the shuffleboard supplies.” Looking over Sashi’s shoulder, Yerzle could see the lines of a shuffleboard court marked out upon the deck, and tangs and biscuits scattered about.

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Yerzle grimaced. “So you decided to play shuffleboard instead of looking for me? Nice to know I inspire such loyalty. So, where’s Portia?”

“She’s resting below,” Stillwell said. “We didn’t forget about you, we just had bigger problems. First, they had to pull me out of the fo’c’sle compartment.”

“Then the shuffleboard?”

“No,” said Dozer. “Then, we had to set the big lug up in the hammock, since he busted his leg in the fall.”

“Really?” Yerzle asked. He belatedly noticed that the bull elephant’s right leg was propped up on large pillows and splinted with a shuffleboard tang. “How’s it feel?”

Stillwell raised a large golden goblet with a small paper umbrella poking out of the top. “The mai tais help,” he said. “I can’t walk, though. That’s not because of the mai tais,” he added hastily.

“It doesn’t appear to be a serious break,” Sashi said. “On the other hand, he’s got a lot of meat between the skin and the bone, so I can’t be entirely sure.”

“I get to use a tang as a crutch!” Stillwell called out. “Also, I’m running low on crushed ice!”

“Mister Pauly is steward fer now,” Dozer reminded Stillwell as he practiced his launching technique on the court. “I reckon you can bring that up when he comes by next.”

“So you were delayed a bit,” Yerzle said, exasperated. “But you still didn’t come looking for me.”

“Well,” Stillwell said, “after hauling all the equipment out, it seemed like a waste to not make better use of it, so we were organizing a shuffleboard tournament. Then, you showed up. So, problem solved, right?”

These were the sorts of conversations that always made Yerzle’s blood pressure rise. “You got somethin in yer eye?” Dozer asked, scratching his chin. “It’s started makin a funny little twitch.”

Yerzle sighed and silently counted to ten. “Never mind,” he said. “I want to talk with Portia.”

“She’s restin,” Dozer said. “Gettin us ashore took a lot out of her. You might want to let her be, for now.”

“I’ll just look in. If she’s sleeping I’ll be right back.”

“We put her in a nook below the forward hatch,” Sashi told him, pointing it out just behind Stillwell’s hammock. “The fore is separated from the aft slave pen.”

“Thanks.” Yerzle opened the hatch and descended into the gloom of the dhow’s lower deck.