The Merchant Adventurer Read online

  “Well, that makes me feel better.”

  “Better?”

  “Yes, I would never do such a thing to my own family.”

  “Your extended family doesn’t own and fight over estates and dominions that cover nearly a third of the known world.”

  “Perhaps you have a point. But I would draw the line at assassinating my own family.”

  “I do as well,” said the Duke with an air of resignation, “but only because I don’t have the talent to get away with it.”

  Dimsbury frowned. “Oh, and I should mention, I’ve dispatched a raiding party.”

  “Raiding party, well, that doesn’t sound so bad. I mean, it’s understandable. Fit of temper and all. “

  “Of Orcs,” said Dimsbury

  “Horks? What are those?”

  “They ride wolves, Weeveston. Wolves.”

  “Well whatever they are, they can’t be very large if they are riding wolves.”

  “They are very large wolves.”

  “Yes, but what is a Hork?”

  “No, no, good fellow, an Orc. No ‘h’. They are my latest work. Terrible, terribly murderously bloodthirsty creatures. Stronger and faster than a man. Some cultivars have tusks, other do not. They all have greyish-green skin, almost impervious to weapons–if not for the constant interruptions I would have gotten that bit right… Look, it’s important that you know how bad I feel about this. Wiping out your entire Kingdom–” at the sound of the word Kingdom, the Duke flinched. “Oh, sorry, sorry, Duchy. Very sorry about that, didn’t mean to rub it in. Anyway, I feel terrible about all of this old boy, really I do, but it seems the only way to get the peace I need for my work.”

  “Well, I understand, you were upset, but it’s just a raiding party. Probably do the old town some good. A little raiding. Till up the soil, attract more Adventurers. Rallying to the cry of ‘defend good ol’ Robrecht!’”

  “No, no that’s not the point. You see, old boy, I mean to drive you out. Work salt into the earth so nothing will ever grow here again.”

  “Wait, how many people in this raiding party? I mean how many of these Horks?”

  “Orcs”

  “…do you have?”

  “Oh, a few thousand, by now I should say!”

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” exclaimed the Duke, breaking out into a smile.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Well if it was two dozen or so, it would be a mere raiding party. But a thousand, perhaps two. Yes, two thousand?”

  “I’m a Wizard,” said the Wizard, “just not with numbers.”

  “Well, a quick look at the treasury will reveal that neither am I. But, anything over 500 is clearly an army, right?”

  “So?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have abdicated, you see. I would have been INVADED!”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that solves my problem! I just slip away into the night. The warmth of exile in the Southron Kingdoms and the embrace of my wife–”

  “Weeveston, you’re married?”

  “Oh, yes, for ages now. Arranged, but she is pleasant enough, as wives go. But she took one look at this damp tower and left me. She repaired to her father’s estates in the south. Something about mold growing in her hair…

  “But never mind that now. You have released me old friend. You have released me! I will instruct my household to pack at once.”

  “Probably for the best. The Orcs should descend on the town shortly after midnight.”

  “Oh, how very gruesome and terrifying.”

  “Yes, I thought it a nice touch.”

  “The only thing, old boy,” the Duke said, the smile dropping from his face, “is my uncle. He will take it hard. He will come for revenge.”

  “No worries, Weeveston. I can handle your Uncle Torvalds.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “As a favor to you, I am happy to do it,” said the Wizard. Then he said, “Bon Voyage!” gave a half-bow, and, in the way of Wizards, disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  • • •

  He appeared, quietly, with no smoke or fanfare, in the shadows of a warehouse building along the river Swift. That had gone surprisingly well, thought Dimsbury. It would have pained him to have killed his old schoolmate Weeveston. Not much, but it is worth something to avoid even a momentary pang. To attack the city without resistance would mean his magnificent Orcs would not have their numbers greatly reduced by tonight’s Adventure. That pleased Dimsbury and, for a moment, he thought of conquering a bit more of the world.

  Ah, but ambition would wait until he had isolated the very source of Magic. And this attack would grant him the peace and quiet he needed. One good long push at the end, and he felt confident he would have it within his grasp. Everything, really. For who could resist a man with limitless power?

  But tonight. A respite from his labors. His feet carried him south. He knew of a place–not the finest establishment, or even reputable by the standards of a privileged Mercian upbringing, it is true–but as he had been living on things grown in a cave, it would do.

  Yes, a fine roast leg of lamb. Then a pleasant walk to a hilltop from which to watch the city burn. The only thing he regretted was that he would not have good company to enjoy such a delightful evening with. The sacrifices he made for his work were many.

  5

  Boltac dragged the unconscious Farm Boy out of his shop. He looked around for a place to ditch the kid. Across the street, he saw an empty bench in front of The Bent Eelpout Tavern. Perfect, thought Boltac. He’ll be just another drunk on a bench, sleeping it off.

  As he dragged the lad across the street, Boltac muttered to himself, “What were you thinking? Loan you a sword? Are you crazy? Well, of course you’re crazy. Forget I asked.” With much grunting, Boltac propped the lad up on the bench. He looked up at the hideous, twisted fish on the Tavern’s faded sign and a longing for ale filled him.

  “Look kid,” he said to the gently snoring Farm Boy on the bench, “It’s for your own good. I mean, if you didn’t see that coming, you’re not going to see anything else coming. And that wasn’t even tricky. You know what’s tricky? Adventures are tricky.” Boltac sighed heavily. “Believe me, go back to the farm.”

  Boltac watched the sleeping boy for a moment. Unconscious he seemed even younger. “Okay, no charge for the concussion. And you’re welcome,” Boltac said. Then he went inside.

  “Asarah, my love!” Boltac bellowed before the door had even had a chance to close behind him, “I have come to rescue you from all of this.”

  The harried, hard-working, beautiful mistress of the inn turned away from the table she was clearing. She flung a lock of dark hair out of her face and saw that it was Boltac. Her professional smile fell from her face and she asked, “And who’s going to rescue you?”

  Boltac climbed up on a bar stool and said, “No, no. I mean it this time. I have come to sweep you away from all this pointless drudgery. We shall journey to a far Kingdom where I am Lord and Master, and you will be my Queen.”

  Asarah walked behind the bar and set her hands on the well-worn wooden top. “Whattaya want, Boltac?”

  Eying the beautiful, dark-haired woman before him, Boltac had the courage to tell the truth because it would play as a joke. “Only you, my love.”

  “Yeah, well, all you’ve got is money, Boltac. And I ain’t for sale. Now what are you having?”

  “Asarah, can I borrow an ale?”

  “What? Borrow an ale?”

  “My point exactly!”

  “Borrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who asks such a thing?”

  “Precisely!” said Boltac, pounding his fist on the bar. “Who asks such a thing? But people do. I swear to the Gods they do. A young man, not 20 minutes ago, walked into my store and had the nerve to ask me if he could borrow a sword.”

  “What? You mean like you’d ask a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar?”

  “Yes, exactly. Exce
pt when you borrow a cup of sugar, you don’t go off and use it to get yourself killed trying to save some damn fool Priestess of Dar.”

  “Oh, virgin love,” she said as a moony look crept into her eye.

  “En-henh,” said Boltac. “How about I just rent an ale?”

  “Comin’ right up.” Asarah drew a tankard of ale from the keg and set it on the bar in front of Boltac. Then she asked, “So, did you loan him the sword?”

  “No,” snapped Boltac, foam flying from his lips as his blissful first sip was interrupted by the memory of the recent inanity. “I hit him over the head with a club, dragged him across the street, and left him unconscious on the bench out front.”

  Asarah’s eyes grew dark with anger. “How could you?”

  “It was easy, actually, I just took my… Look, woman, when you pick up a sword you pick up a lot of other things with it. And if the lad wasn’t ready to deal with the ambush of a shopkeeper with a trick knee, then he certainly wasn’t ready to deal with whatever dangerous and vile thing he meant to bash in the head of to preserve the Honor of his wench.”

  “That word again. Wench. I thought you said she was a Priestess.”

  “Oh, come on, it was a Sleeping Beauty. They were roping him.”

  “You don’t know that. It could have been True Love. True romantic Love. The kind that you only hear about in songs.”

  “Yeah, you only hear about it in the songs, because ain’t real.”

  “Your heart is full of money,” said Asarah. “Money and mistrust.”

  “No,” said Boltac, “It’s not full. There’s room for more money.” Asarah rolled her eyes. “Besides, that’s not the point. It’s not about my heart. My head is filled with common sense. Say he’s not being conned–which is unlikely, but what the hell–so I give him the sword, and he goes and gets himself killed. Then that’s on me, and for what?”

  “But that’s how she will know. The only way she can know!”

  “Know what, he’s an idiot?”

  “The girl, she’s in danger right?”

  “I think it was something more along the lines of a fight for her Honor, but sure, let’s say she’s in danger.”

  “Danger. She’s been kidnapped, let’s say. And she’s being held captive at the bottom of horrible dungeon.”

  “Certainly are plenty of horrible dungeons around Robrecht,” said Boltac, looking around the room for another subject.

  “It’s so romantic. And he goes to rescue her and when he does rescue her that’s how she knows.”

  “Eeeeyeah. You keep saying that. Knows what?”

  “That he Loves her. When he risks everything he has, when she sees that he’s willing to give it all up, that’s how she will know he really, truly Loves her above all others.”

  “That’s how she’ll know he’s a muscle-headed idiot who’s good with a sword.”

  “But he can’t because some fat, greedy Merchant wouldn’t loan him a sword.”

  “No,” said Boltac, struggling with his anger, “I could loan him a sword and armor and everything else in my store, and it wouldn’t make a difference. He can’t because he DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO USE A SWORD!”

  “Keep your voice down,” hissed Asarah. “You’re disturbing the other patrons!”

  “Patron,” quipped Boltac as he gestured toward the nearly empty common room with his empty tankard.

  Asarah slammed another ale down in front of him and said. “There’s no romance in your life. No passion. No wonder you are alone. I feel sorry for you Boltac.” And then she stormed off into the back.

  “Safer that way,” Boltac muttered into his beer.

  Behind Boltac, the door opened and an unseasonably cool wind filled the inn. A man in a black robe with a silver torque around his neck seemed to float across the common room as the door shut behind him. He took in the room with a raised eyebrow of disapproval then made his way to the bar. He sat and asked Boltac, “Do they have lamb tonight?”

  “They usually do.”

  “Hmm, good. Good.”

  “So stranger, what business brings you to our fair city?” asked Boltac.

  “Hmm, city?” asked the man, with a shake of his head, “Ashtantis, that’s a city. Squalipoor, Yorn, those are cities. This is a fish-drying village with delusions of grandeur.”

  “More like delusions of Glory,” said Boltac as he raised his ale, not sure he liked the other man’s tone. “You have traveled then, a trader?” asked Boltac, sniffing around for a profit.

  “More of a wandering scholar,” said the man.

  “What have you learned here?” Boltac asked, sure that the man wasn’t a scholar, but playing along anyway.

  “I have learned that this dismal little inn serves the finest leg of lamb I have ever had.”

  On cue, Asarah emerged from the kitchen and gave Boltac a withering glare.

  “You should tell her that,” Boltac said. Asarah noticed the new customer at the bar and replaced her frown with a smile.

  “Madame, I have traveled many miles today, and all of them were in anticipation of the meal I hope to have at your establishment. Please, tell me you have made your incomparable lamb this evening.”

  Asarah’s smile widened into one of true pleasure. She blushed and curtsied. “Well, I don’t know about incomparable, but we do have roasted lamb tonight.”

  “A leg if you please,” said the man in black robes, “and an ale.”

  “Of course, it’s a pleasure to serve such a refined customer,” Asarah said, and smiled at him in a way that Boltac didn’t like. Asarah slid the man his ale and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Boltac called after her. “Make that two.” Without looking back Asarah threw him a dismissive wave over her shoulder.

  For a moment, both men sat quietly with their ales. The man in black robes staring into space thoughtfully. Boltac staring at the door through which Asarah had just disappeared. The stranger broke the silence first. “What is an Eelpout?”

  “An Eelpout? You don’t know what an Eelpout is?”

  “I am, as they say, not from around here.”

  “Eeh, yeah, no doubt. So an Eelpout is, well, imagine an ugly fish.”

  The Man in Black’s expression did not change.

  “Seriously, envision it in your head.”

  “I am.”

  “Oh, well, then it’s nowhere near ugly enough. It’s so ugly, this Eelpout, that to think of it is to–”

  “I have seen a great many ugly things,” said the man in a way that indicated that he, the far worldlier man, was growing tired of this exchange.

  “But you’ve never seen an Eelpout, is what I’m saying.”

  “No.”

  “Ugliest Godsdamned fish in the world.”

  “And bent?”

  “Drunk, I’d guess. Probably nothing uglier in the universe than an Eelpout on a bender.”

  “Then why would one name an establishment after such a creature?”

  “No idea,” said Boltac. “Mystery of it all.”

  “Ah, mystery.”

  Asarah left the kitchen with a well-laden tray. She threw another high-powered smile at the stranger as she slid a steaming trencher of lamb in front of him. “Your dinner, sir.” When she turned to face Boltac, the smile slipped from her face. She slapped the plate in front of him, and delicious, savory lamb juice splattered the front of Boltac’s tunic. She turned and walked away without saying a word.

  The stranger swallowed his first bite and sighed with true contentment. “The only true mystery is why someone doesn’t take such a talented creature away from all this.”

  Boltac’s eyebrows lifted and only his mouth moved as he asked, “In the gentle words of the virgin Priestesses of Dar, come again?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just, such a rare creature. Such a rare talent. I wonder why she stays in this… squalor.”

  “Squalor? Buddy, I’m eatin’ here.”

  “Oh, I meant no offense. It is what you are used to after a
ll.”

  “En henh. Well, her husband owned this inn. He died, and that’s her hand of cards.”

  “Hmm,” the stranger grunted, as he tucked into his dinner in earnest.

  “So, uh, while we’re asking questions, what’s with the dismal garb, friend? If you are in the market for some more impressive garments, I have a fine store but a few steps away.”

  “Ah, yes. A Merchant. You would be. And as for the dismal garb, I prefer the term humble. I am a, uh, wandering scholar, in search of knowledge.”

  “Knowledge? Here’s something you can always count on: Don’t take any wooden nickels,” Boltac said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “What’s a nickel?”

  “You don’t know what a nickel is? Not much of a scholar, are you?”

  “I’m not concerned with insignificant matters like trade and commerce.”

  “Enh, but still. You know, clothes make the man.”

  “Ability makes the man.”

  “Yeah, that too. But nice clothes don’t hurt, I’m just saying. My name is Boltac, by the way.”

  “Dimsbury,” the man said, in a way that irritated Boltac. A way that implied a title lurking somewhere in the wings. Who was he to put on airs? Here they were, both in The Bent Eelpout, one as good as the other. If he was so high and mighty why wasn’t he gnawing on mutton at the Duke’s table? “Forgive me if I don’t shake hands,” Dimsbury concluded, sealing Boltac’s judgment of him.

  Dimsbury finished the last bite of lamb and threw a gold piece (more than ten times enough for the bill) on the bar. He said, “See that she gets that, my good man. And ask her to bring me another ale over by the fire. Nothing personal,” he said, with a thin-lipped smile, “I have a chill.”

  As he watched Dimsbury go, Boltac thought, you brought that chill with you, ya rich prick. Then he muttered a prayer to Dallios, “Just get me a chance to negotiate with that guy. He won’t feel so high and mighty after that, I promise you.” Since there wasn’t an offer attached, Dallios didn’t hear Boltac’s plea. But other, older Gods–the ones in charge of punishing Hubris–they heard Boltac loud and clear.

  When Asarah returned and saw the coin on the bar she exclaimed, “What a fine gentleman he turned out to be!” She held up the gold piece and marveled at it.