Brotherband 3: The Hunters (11 page)

He smiled at the crestfallen look on Jesper’s face. Democratic procedures were all very well, he thought. But sometimes, rank should have its privileges.

L
ate that afternoon,
Heron
slipped quietly into the river port of Krall, on the western bank of the river.

Krall was a small town. Its residents earned their living from the traffic that plied its way up and down the river. There were stalls selling ship’s stores – canvas, timber, iron work for deck fittings and so forth. On the outskirts of the town was a rope manufactory, where ropes of all sizes were braided, from thin painters to tie a skiff to a wharf to heavy, tarred ropes that would serve as the standing rigging on a ship.

In the centre of the town was a food market that operated every second day. Along the riverfront was the usual selection of eating houses and taverns to cater for the various appetites of the crews who stayed overnight. Some were large, well lit and cheerful. Others were smaller, dingy and less reputable. Usually these were in alleys set back from the broad avenue that ran along the riverfront.

All in all, it was the standard mix of businesses that would be found in most ports, anywhere in the world.

The port itself was formed by a deep, U-shaped bite taken out of the river bank, which formed a natural shelter. The water was deep right to the edge of the land and several large ships were moored alongside the bank, which had been reinforced with stonework. Other vessels, usually smaller and in varying states of disrepair, were moored to long, rickety timber jetties that ran out like fingers into the river.

As ever, Hal had lowered their distinctive yardarm and sail and brought the
Heron
into the port under oars. The Mangler was covered by a heavy tarpaulin. Thorn stood beside him as they made their way towards the shore. The sea wolf was casting his gaze around the harbour. After a minute or two, he saw what he was looking for and pointed.

‘Over there.’

He was pointing to a short jetty jutting out into the river, surmounted by a small, flat-roofed timber building on its very end. A gold circle with two diagonal black lines through it was painted on a board above the building’s doorway – the universal sign for money.

‘That’s the toll wharf,’ Thorn said. ‘Take us alongside.’

Hal slid the little ship alongside the wharf. The river was at half tide and the timber surface was a metre above their deck. Stig balanced on the gunwale, then jumped nimbly up onto the jetty, taking the mooring lines that Stefan and Jesper tossed up to him and making them fast around the timber bollards. Ulf and Wulf tossed wickerwork fenders on short lengths of rope over the side, then the others hauled the ship in close, the fenders squeaking under the pressure.

Thorn checked that he had his purse attached to his belt, and that there was a sufficient weight of coins inside it. Then he nodded to Hal.

‘Come on.’

They stepped up from the railing onto the wharf and made their way to the toll office.

In addition to the money spent by passing ships in the taverns, eating houses and chandleries, riverside ports like Krall derived a considerable income from tolls – charges levied on the ships that moored here for a day or two, in search of relaxation and diversion. The money went to the town council and was used, in theory, to maintain the port facilities. In practice, most of it found its way into the purses of the councilmen themselves.

Hefty taxes were also levied on those businesses that had their premises on the prime real estate of the waterfront avenue.

Thorn paused to look and see if there was a table of rates posted. Sometimes, they were assessed according to the ship’s length. Here there was nothing. He grunted and turned to Hal.

‘That means they’ll charge us whatever they think we can afford,’ he said. ‘And then a bit more. And you thought Zavac was a pirate.’

He pushed open the door and they entered. Inside, there was one large room with windows overlooking the river. A wooden counter ran across the middle, separating new arrivals from the officials seated at desks on the other side. There were currently three of these in place, with another two desks unoccupied. One of the toll collectors glanced up, then rose to walk forward to the counter. The others paid them no attention at all.

The official was a solidly built man, a little under average height and with an obvious liking for the pleasures of the table. His waist was circled by a heavy leather belt with a set of keys dangling from it. The dull scarlet jerkin he wore bulged out over the belt, all but concealing it at the front. He was clean shaven but his jowls were heavy and he had a double chin. He was sweating lightly. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

Thorn reflected that the question was an unnecessary one. There was only one reason why two strangers would enter the toll office. But he answered politely enough.

‘Looking for a mooring overnight,’ he said. They had long ago agreed that, when in port, Thorn would act as the ship’s captain. A skipper as fresh faced and young as Hal could only excite interest, and they didn’t wish to draw undue attention to themselves.

The toll collector heaved a sigh, as if they were interrupting his day for no good reason.

‘All right, let’s take a look,’ he said, and led the way out onto the dock. The crew glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the planks as he paced the length of the ship, hands on his hips. His lips moved silently, no doubt making mental calculations.

The toll collector studied the crew, then looked at Thorn.

‘Bit young, aren’t they?’

Behind the man’s back, Stig scowled at him. Hal made a small hand gesture for Stig to calm down. It would do them no good to alienate the toll collector, particularly before he’d assessed how much they were to pay.

Thorn met the man’s eyes for several seconds, holding his gaze and saying nothing until the toll collector shifted uncomfortably, aware that his words might have been provocative. Finally, Thorn answered.

‘They’re young. So they work cheap. Is that any problem of yours?’

‘No! No!’ The man made a fluttering gesture with his hand. There was something unsettling about Thorn’s unwavering stare. He glanced to where Rikard was huddled by the mast. The chain around his waist was obvious.

‘Who’s that?’ he said, frowning.

‘He tried to desert. And he backchatted me. I’m teaching him a lesson,’ Thorn said.

The man shrugged. It sounded reasonable. Then he came to a decision.

‘You’re staying overnight? That’ll be fifteen korona.’

The korona was the Magyaran unit of currency. Presumably that meant they saw a lot of Magyaran ships passing through here. But Thorn was shaking his head.

‘I don’t have that. I’ll give you seven,’ he said bluntly. He tapped the purse at his belt and it made a muted jingling sound.

‘Twelve,’ the man replied without hesitation.

‘Nine,’ Thorn said, ‘and I’m paying in Limmatan nobles.’

The Limmatan noble was worth slightly more than the korona. The toll keeper considered, then nodded agreement. They shook hands and Thorn transferred the money to him.

‘You can tie up at mooring number eight, on the second jetty across,’ the toll collector said, pointing to an unoccupied mooring. The moorings were all numbered, with the numbers painted on warped and cracked boards in fading letters. So much for the upkeep of port facilities, Thorn thought.

‘There’s one other thing,’ Thorn said and the toll collector turned back to face him, his thumbs hooked in his belt. ‘We’re looking for a black ship called the
Raven
. Has she passed through here in the last few –’

Before he could finish, the toll collector was shaking his head.

‘No! Stop right there! I don’t get involved in that sort of thing. I’m not an information bureau. I don’t say who’s been or who’s coming. It’s none of my business and I don’t intend to make it so.’

‘I could make it worth your while . . .’ Thorn suggested. But all he got in return was a hard look.

‘You don’t know what’s worth my while,’ the man said. ‘Your mooring rental is good until noon tomorrow. If you’re still here then, you’ll pay for another full day. Don’t make trouble in town.’ He glanced at Rikard once more, then turned on his heel and stamped back into the office, slamming the door behind him.

‘Friendly type,’ Hal remarked.

Thorn shrugged. ‘I’d guess a great deal of his business comes from Magyaran ships passing through. He’s not going to spill the beans on them. Let’s shift to that mooring.’

‘Yep. Saw that black ship not four days ago,’ the one-legged man told them. ‘Passed through here, stayed a couple of nights, then went south.’

Hal, Stig and Thorn exchanged a quick glance. The one-legged sailor noticed it and leaned forward. ‘Reckon that might be worth another drink, eh?’ he suggested.

Thorn nodded. ‘That could be the case. If you could tell us the name of the ship.’

They were in one of the dingier taverns in a narrow alley set back from the main thoroughfare that fronted the river. The one-legged man had attached himself to their small group, fascinated by the sight of Thorn’s beautifully crafted hook. His own prosthetic was a crudely carved peg leg.

‘She was the
Raven.
And her skipper’s name was . . .’ He paused, frowning. ‘Z . . . something. Zara? Zamat? No . . .’ He turned and called across the crowded, noisy room to another old sailor who was seated alone at a small table, blearily regarding the contents of his tankard.

‘Morgan! What was the name of that fellow from the black ship? Zara, or Zaba or something, wasn’t it?’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Thorn told him. It didn’t do to have their business shouted out across a tavern, he thought. But it was too late. He glanced around the room. A couple of drinkers had turned to look at them as the one-legged man shouted to his friend. Thorn noticed a swarthy, stockily built man at the bar who was watching them. As Thorn looked his way, he casually turned back to the bar.

Morgan looked up from his ale and frowned, trying to collect his thoughts.

‘Zavac,’ he called thickly, and the one-legged man pounded the table in triumph.

‘That’s it! Zavac! Nasty piece of work he was too. Now, how about that drink?’

Thorn scattered several coins on the table in front of the man.

‘Here. And get one for your friend. You’ve earned it.’

Pegleg looked at the coins with delight. There was more money on the table than he could scrape together in a week. He gathered the coins in, then looked hopefully at Thorn’s hand again.

‘So where did you say you got that fancy armpiece? Somewhere round here, maybe?’

Thorn shook his head. ‘Up north,’ he said. ‘In Skandia.’

‘Hmmm. Pity.’ He paused, looking down at the coins on the table in front of him. He tried to count them but they were blurring and shifting. ‘Nothing else you need to know, is there? I see most of the ships that come through.’

‘No. That’s all we wanted to know,’ Thorn told him. He couldn’t believe their luck. This was the first tavern they had entered and Pegleg was the first local they had asked about the
Raven
. And they hadn’t even had to seek him out – he’d come to them. Thorn could sense the barely contained excitement in his two young companions.

‘Let’s get back to the ship,’ he said and they rose. He glanced once more at Pegleg. ‘Thanks for your help.’

The old sailor waved a hand in the air. ‘Any time. Any time at all. And give my love to Zabar.’

As they left the tavern, Thorn glanced quickly at the swarthy drinker seated at the bar. But the man seemed to be paying no attention to them. The other drinkers who had turned to look when Pegleg had shouted across the bar also seemed to have lost interest in them. Satisfied, Thorn followed his companions.

The man at the bar was slumped to one side, so he could watch the Skandians without seeming to. He waited until the door had closed behind them, then slipped from his stool and hurried across the room after them.

As he went past Pegleg, he contrived to jostle him heavily, knocking him from his own stool. He bent to help the other man back up. As he did so, he leaned close to him and whispered.