Daemon Gates Trilogy (14 page)

'Something, ain't she?' Widmer asked, seeing their gaze. 'Gerta! I'm parched, woman. Bring me another ale.'

Gerta stepped out and wordlessly thrust a full mug at him, snatching the other and the proffered coin from his grasp. She asked if Alaric or Dietz wanted anything else, and Dietz was fairly certain, the way her gaze lingered on him, that she meant more than mere food. Then she retreated inside again.

'Where are you headed?' Alaric asked casually after she had left. Dietz had to stop his mouth from falling open. His friend couldn't be serious. That thing looked like it could barely float, much less travel quickly. He'd sooner go back into the Border Princes than step foot on that so- called boat.

'Nowhere in particular,' Widmer answered, taking a long swig of ale and then belching. 'Got enough money for three days' food and drink with Gerta, and after that, who knows? Maybe down, maybe up, maybe more fishing, or I'll see if they need any cargo hauled from Wissenburg or Maselhof.' He eyed Alaric, and Dietz could see the merce­nary gleam in the grizzled sailor's eye. 'Why, you needing passage somewhere?'

'We are indeed,' Alaric agreed. 'We're heading upriver, towards the mountains.'

'Hm.' Widmer finished his ale and idly dropped the empty mug on the ground at his feet, scratching himself as soon as his hand was free. 'Can't get all the way up, gets too narrow once you're past the foothills, and the currents go crazy up that way. Could take you as far as Dotternbach, though.'

'How far is that?' Alaric asked, making Dietz groan and Widmer grin.

'A week's travel by boat,' the captain answered. 'Two months by foot, mayhap more. Just past the first foothills.'

'That would be excellent,' Alaric said eagerly. 'We may not need to go that far, actually. We're sort of, following

something, and I don't know where we'll need to put ashore.'

'Hunters, eh?' Widmer said. Thought as much. Knew ye weren't no fishermen, nor merchants neither, not from your garb.' He shook his head as Alaric started to explain. 'No, I don't want to know what you're chasing, or who. None of my concern.' He grinned, showing the gaps between his remaining, yellowed teeth. 'Least, not so long as your coin is good.'

Dietz sighed. He could see there was going to be no talk­ing Alaric out of this, but at least he could stop the noble from doing anything even more stupid. 'How much?' he asked, cutting Alaric off before he could name a figure. Dietz almost groaned. His friend was good at many things, but bargaining definitely wasn't one of them.

'Well now, let's think on that,' Widmer answered, tugging at the hairs on his chin. Dietz knew at once that he was facing a fellow haggler. "We'd be looking at a week's travel, mayhap more if the wind's against us. There's only the two of you?' Dietz nodded. 'And no mounts?' A shake of the head. That's food for three, then, for a week, plus other sundries, and the wear and tear on the Flying Trout. There's rocks up in the mountains, y'know, makes the river treacherous up that way, chance of tearing out her hull and the like, so that risk ups the price.' He smiled widely. 'Let's say ten gold crowns.'

'Ten crowns?' Dietz spat the words out and clenched his jaw, his glare warning Alaric to stay out of this. 'That's absurd. For that price we could have taken a ship all the way from Nuln! And brought a horse along!'

'Perhaps,' Widmer conceded, 'but you aren't in Nuln, eh? Harder to find ships here. Even if you trekked back up to Wissenburg you might not find anything heading that far, and the captains there'd rob ye blind 'cause they'd know you had no other choice.'

There's always another choice,' Dietz reminded him. 'We've walked this far, we can walk the rest of the way.' He

shook his head. 'For two gold I could buy a cart and a mule, and we could ride instead.' He didn't mention that, as far as he could tell, no one in the village had a cart they'd be willing to sell. The point was still valid. 'Three gold,' he countered, 'more than you'd make in two months normally, and enough to buy a month of food and drink from Gerta.'

'It's not the time, but the danger that's raising the price,' the boat captain reminded him. 'I've got me livelihood to think about. If anything happens to the Trout, I'm sunk, lit­erally.' He leaned back against the tavern wall and considered. "You seem like decent folk, and I haven't had company aboard in a while. I could go as low as eight gold, I'd say.'

'Halve that and you've got a deal,' Dietz told him firmly. 'I could probably buy a boat for eight, never mind book passage on one.'

'But could you sail it?' Widmer asked shrewdly, and nod­ded at the blank expression he saw on Alaric's face. Thought as much. You're not sailors, either of you. I'd have lowered the price if you were, since you'd be lending a hand, but as it is you're nothing more than cargo, and cargo that requires feed­ing, at that.' He frowned. The fish aren't biting as much this late in the season,' he admitted, 'and there hasn't been as much work from the other towns as I'd like, so I'm inclined to go below me normal asking price rather than lose your business. Seven... no, six and a half gold will do.'

'You're mad if you think you're getting more than five from us,' Dietz answered. Then he thought of something else. 'Five, and we'll supply the food and drink.'

Widmer's eyes narrowed, as he was clearly calculating the value of the offer. 'Food and drink for two weeks,' he bargained, 'so I've got supplies to get me back.'

'Done.'

Widmer nodded and extended a weathered, heavily callused hand. 'Done!' They shook on it, and he shook

with Alaric as well. 'When'll you want to be leaving?' he asked.

'As soon as possible.' Alaric answered. He was never com­fortable with haggling, even when he wasn't the one doing it.

'Fine/ the captain agreed, rising to his feet. 'See to the food and ale, I'll make sure the Trout is fit and ready to depart.' He stuck his head in through the doorway of the inn. 'I'm off, Gerta.' he shouted. 'I've got to ferry these fine gents somewhere up the river.' Then he turned and started back down the path to the river.

'Are you mad?' Dietz hissed as soon as the man was out of hearing. That thing looks barely able to float and you want to take it up into the mountains?'

'Just shy of the mountains, actually.' Alaric answered eas­ily, rising and dusting off his trousers and jacket, 'and it's less a question of want than need. I don't see any other boats around, do you?'

'No, but-' Dietz stopped as Gerta stepped outside again.

'He wasn't lying, then.' she said, seeing the looks on their faces.
A
brief twinge of regret washed over her own. 'Not that he lies much, that one: exaggerates, boasts, promises, but rarely lies'

'Is that... boat really river-worthy?' Dietz asked.

You wouldn't think so to look at it, but yes.' she answered. 'Not that I'd ever go on it, but I doubt you'll drown.'

Thank you.' Dietz smiled down at her. 'We may stop this way again, on our return.'

Gerta smiled back at him, and yes, she was definitely not unpleasant-looking. 'That'd be welcome.' she admitted. 'Now, did I hear Jonas say something about food for the trip?'

She sold them
food and ale at what Dietz realised was a fair price, and he told himself privately that he would try

to make good on his promise to return later. It had been some time since he'd enjoyed the company of a woman, and he'd certainly met far uglier. But their quest came first, and before dusk they were stepping onto the Flying Trout, lugging casks of ale and baskets of bread, cured meat, and salted fish. That, plus the boat voyage, would take nearly the last of their money, but at least they would eat well along the way.

Up close, the boat didn't look any better. It was as weather-beaten as its captain, and almost as malodorous, with flaking paint and wooden rails worn smooth by the water and wind. It did seem sturdy enough, though, if ungainly, and Dietz's worst fears subsided. Besides, Wid­mer clearly had been sailing for some time, so it was unlikely the boat would sink the minute they pulled free of the bank.

'Good, good,' the grizzled boat captain said, taking the food and drink from them and stowing it in the ship's small hold. 'Heh, this is good stuff, Gerta must have liked you.' Dietz didn't answer, but the man's grin widened any­way. 'Wish she liked me half as well, I'd marry her!' Widmer chortled, then gestured them towards the strange roofed cabin. 'There's only the one cabin,' he explained, as if they couldn't see that, 'but there's room enough for all three of us within when it rains. On clear nights, I sleep out on deck. That's all the gear you've got?' They nodded. 'Then toss off the ropes and we'll be off.'

Alaric did as requested, moving once more with the easy grace he'd always shown, and Dietz knew this had been the right decision. Even if the boat moved no faster than they could have walked, it meant not exerting themselves along the way, and that would give Alaric time to recover fully.

Dietz had a feeling they would need to be at their best when they finally caught up with whoever had taken the mask, particularly if he was still with the beastmen.

Widmer spun the wheel, and the Flying Trout slid back­ward, away from the pier. For a second, the boat was caught by a powerful counter current that threatened to carry them back the way they had come. Then the captain spun the wheel again and tugged on the sail lines at the same time, belling the sail for just long enough to catch a burst of wind that tugged them forward and to the side. The little boat shuddered as it slipped across the water, then it landed in a new current and shot forward hard enough for Alaric to stumble, and for Dietz to clutch at the rail.

Yes, they would need their strength, provided they sur­vived this damnable river voyage.

He clung to the rail and stared out at the bank, watching as the village quickly disappeared behind them. He had told Gerta he meant to come back. He hoped he got the chance.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

'Up and at
'em, lads,' Widmer called out from his posi­tion near the front of the deck, one callused hand resting lightly on the wheel. 'The sun's climbing into the sky and there's work to be done.' Then he coughed, the same horrible hacking sound he produced throughout both day and night, and finally spat something over the side.

'I hate you,' Dietz muttered in reply, staggering to the railing and clutching it, half-hunched, as if his life depended upon it. 'I really, really hate you.'

It had been like this for the past two days, ever since they had left the town. Widmer had been gruff, but not unpleasant, and Dietz had been surly and just short of murderous.

Not that Alaric could entirely blame his friend. He knew how much Dietz hated water travel, and boats in particu­lar, and this journey was proving even more... interesting than any of their previous excursions.

Widmer hadn't been lying when he'd said the Flying Trout skipped across the waves, but Alaric wasn't sure that was how a boat was supposed to travel. Didn't most ships cut through the water, or float atop it? He'd never heard of one that bounced across it. Yet here they were, and the Fly­ing Trout certainly seemed to be skipping, its raised prow slamming hard into the water and then rising again, its stern doing the same. Spray accompanied the ship's con­stant motion, and Alaric resigned himself early on to being drenched for the duration. He also learned to compensate for the boat's rolling, jerking motion, and to keep his feet set well apart to balance on the worn wooden deck. Once he'd gotten used to it, he found the Flying Trout's mode of travel amusing.

Dietz disagreed.

This isn't a boat, it's some sort of captive leaping fish,' he snarled on the first night, after he'd emptied his stomach over the side, and the heaving had quieted enough for him to speak again. 'Or an enormous shingled frog. No boat would move like this.'

Alaric tried to defuse the situation. 'Perhaps it's the shape of the hull,' he pointed out, 'but we are moving, and faster than if we had walked.'

'I'll take walking over this madness any day,' Dietz spat out, wiping sweat and river spray from his forehead. 'He'll kill us all, or shake our bones right clear of our skin.'

'Nonsense,' Alaric told him. 'It's just a matter of getting used to it. In a day or two you'll barely even notice the motion.'

But here they were, two days later, and Dietz was still pale and sweating, his stomach still rebelling at the thought of food. Alaric suggested he sleep it off, but his friend complained that he couldn't sleep on a floor that was constantly shifting and rolling beneath him. Widmer's stench and raspy cough didn't help, especially when it rained and he crawled into the boat's tiny cabin with

them. Glouste, of course, seemed completely unfazed, and the little tree fox annoyed her master further by scamper­ing about, exploring the boat's many nooks and corners, and generally having a grand old time.

Ah well. If things went well they would be off the boat soon enough. Widmer still held that he could not take the Flying Trout any farther than Dotternbach, so they would part company with the strange sailor there and walk the rest of the way, assuming, of course, that the mask went past Dotternbach.

Alaric glanced out over the water again, looking past the churning caused by the Flying Trout's presence. The river moved smoothly, the water sliding quickly past, and in the early light it seemed black as coal and silvery as moon­light, revealing no hint of what lay beneath.

But that was not all Alaric saw. He could see the river, and the banks to either side, but he saw other images as well. There was a patch of something on the water, a swirl of colour like an oil patch, dark, gritty and slimy to the touch. Beyond that he saw another, this one broken by a small shape at its centre: a rotting fish head, part of its torn spine still attached. More patches stretched beyond those, several of them marred by objects: dead and decaying fish and birds, their bellies ripped apart, their eyes little more than bloody stains upon their faces; torn planks from some other boat, deep blotches staining them, and blood dripping from their splintered edges; shreds of gore- drenched clothing, some of it too small for a man or even a woman, all of it too damaged for any hope that its for­mer occupants had survived. Clearly the path continued.