Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (12 page)

“We'll get there the same way that anybody gets where they want to go when water's in the way. We'll go by boat.”

He continued down the path that wound steadily through the hillocks. James hustled to follow him, and said, “Thomas, I hate to bring this up, but I don't know how to sail. And unless you've been hiding some talents from me, you don't either.”

“I'm not suggesting we captain and crew a vessel ourselves, obviously.”

“Obviously,” said James, to whom it had not actually been obvious at all.

“We'll hire someone to take us across. We have the money for it.”

“You mean
I
have the money for it.”

This comment prompted Thomas to stop, turn, and face his friend. He did not appear angry; instead, he just looked disappointed. He stopped so abruptly that James almost collided with him from the back and prevented that only at the last second with strategic deployment of the walking stick.

“Is that what it's come to, then?” said Thomas. “We've been sharing everything the whole trip, no questions asked. Food, money, resources. What's mine is yours and the other way around. And suddenly we're going to start keeping watch on whose is what?”

And he saw the defiant look in Thomas's eyes, but also one of hurt, even betrayal.

He lowered his gaze, and said, “Of course not. We're a team. Whatever I can do to provide for this”—and he allowed a small smile—“this mad adventure, I'm there for it. But”—and he now looked back into Thomas's eyes—“who do we hire? For that matter, where do we hire them?”

“It's a sea,” said Thomas, visibly relaxing at the re-affirmation from his longtime friend. “Where there's a sea, there are going to be port cities. We head down to the shoreline and start walking until we find what we're looking for.”

“Which way?”

“Pardon?”

“Which way,” said James, “do we walk? The land stretches off in either direction.”

Without hesitation, Thomas said, “South.”

“Why south?”

Thomas shrugged. “Because south is usually warmer.”

James smiled broadly at that. “I like the way you think,” he said, the mist emerging from his mouth not unnoticed.

They made their way down from the hillocks, treading carefully and nearly stumbling over some treacherous roots that seemed to exist solely to trip them up. Once they reached the shore, they turned and headed south.

 

 

THE FIRST VILLAGE THEY CAME UPON WAS
little more than a few ramshackle homes strung together supposedly—according to the residents—for mutual protection. It was a ludicrous notion since, as far as Thomas and James could discern, even an army composed of twenty addled cripples armed with unstrung crossbows could have laid waste to the place. But they didn't dwell on it beyond wishing the residents good day and continuing on their path along the shore. This eventually brought them to a city called Seaside, which appeared to have a small but busy port. There was a permanent aroma of brine in the air, and James had to step carefully over the seemingly endless stream of rats that were skittering around the docks. One particularly fat one approached him with far more audacity than James was comfortable with, and he swung his walking stick at it, using it like a cudgel. The rat dodged away and ran, stopping only to give him a glare with its beady eyes.

“James! Over here!” It was Thomas calling to him, and he turned and saw that his friend was standing on the deck of a brigantine. Next to him was a well-dressed man in a long coat and a tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head. He was thick browed with a salt-and-pepper beard, and had a pleasant enough expression. His very presence seemed to inspire confidence, and James trotted up the gangplank. “Captain Rackam, this is James Skelton,” Thomas said by way of introduction. “James, the captain here is giving us passage.”

“I hear you're heading toward Blackridge,” said Rackam.

“We are?” said James, looking questioningly at Thomas, and then quickly amended, “I mean, we are.”

“Shorewall is where we're bound,” said Rackam. “We have some cargo to transport over there, so it's not as if we're going out of our way. Blackridge is not too far, a couple day's journey. Provided”—and he lowered his voice, glancing around with sudden fearfulness—“we don't run into any opposition.”

“Opposition?” echoed James, and now Thomas was looking uncertain as well. “You mean like . . . pirates?”

“Pirates? Pirates are the least of our problems. We need to beware”—and his voice went even lower, barely above a whisper—“
the kraken
.”

James gulped deeply, and Thomas looked pale. Rackam glared fiercely at them from beneath his furrowed brow, and suddenly his entire expression lightened, and a booming laugh issued forth. It shook his whole body, and Rackam clutched at his ample belly, which was likewise jiggling with mirth. Crewmen who were prepping the ship for departure stopped momentarily to enjoy their captain's amusement before they returned to their duties. “I'm sorry, lads,” Rackam finally said when he managed to compose himself and catch his breath. “Just me having some fun. The look on your faces, though . . . it was worth it.”

“So there are . . . no krakens,” Thomas said. “I mean, I've read about them, and they're supposed to be . . . well . . . rather formidable.”

“‘Formidable'? That's an understatement, my lad,” said Rackam. “According to legend, nothing can stand up against one of those monsters. Like a force of nature, they are. But that's just legend, like I said. Ain't no such thing, if ever there was one. Least not that I've ever seen, and I've been sailing these waters since I was about your age. So I wouldn't be worrying about it none if I were you.”

“Oh, we're not worried, are we, James?”

“Not at all,” James said hastily.

“So”—and Rackam clapped his hands together briskly—“you have payment? In advance, as agreed?” He looked from one to the other expectantly, and Thomas in turn looked to James.

“Right, right, of course. How much are we talking about?” said James, removing his money purse from within the folds of his cloak. Thomas told him the agreed-upon price, and James carefully counted it out before handing it over to Rackam.

“Excellent,” said Rackam cheerfully. “A pleasure doing business with you.” He raised his voice, and called, “Mr. Sawkins!” A deeply tanned man with intricate tattoos running the length of both arms approached. “Mr. Sawkins, see our passengers to their quarters, would you, please?”

“This way, gents,” said Sawkins with a gravelly voice.

He led them belowdecks, where there was a small, unfurnished room with a couple of bedrolls in the corner. James looked to Thomas uncertainly, and said, “This is where we're staying?”

“Finest accommodations we've got,” said Sawkins, and he laughed coarsely before turning and walking away.

“Nice,” James said.

“I know it doesn't look like much ...”

“It doesn't look like anything.” He dropped down onto the floor and looked up at Thomas. “Are you sure about all this, Thomas? Have you verified anything about this Rackam fellow?”

“He comes highly recommended.”

“By who?”

“By others along the docks.”

“Which means,” said James slowly, “that they could all be in on it together.”

“It? What it?”

James was ready to answer quickly, but then he realized he didn't actually have an answer. Just a general, free-floating, unnamed concern. “Nothing,” he finally said. “I'm just not thrilled about depending upon anyone except ourselves.”

“We'll be fine, James,” Thomas said with confidence.

It was a confidence that James did not feel, but he chalked it up to his natural tendency to see the worst of any situation, which he had always believed provided a natural balance to Thomas's occasionally infuriating optimism.

 

 

THE GENTLE ROCKING OF THE SHIP ONCE IT
had set out from the harbor had lulled James to sleep as he lay on the floor of the cabin. That in and of itself was surprising to him since he wouldn't have thought it possible to obtain any slumber under the circumstances: being in a strange environment, in the company of men—some two dozen crewmen—none of whom he knew. But they had been traveling steadily enough that he was far more exhausted than he would have thought, and thus into a deep and dreamless sleep.

It was the growling and the high-pitched, abbreviated shriek that awoke him.

He sat up, momentarily bewildered, uncertain of where he was in that way that oftentimes happens when one awakens in someplace strange. In the dimness of the cabin, illuminated by a single porthole, he wasn't sure what he was looking at. Then, when he did see it, he jumped back, crying out in confusion.

There was a rat mere inches from his face, but it was dead. Stone-cold dead and being held in the jaws of what was possibly the most unruly dog he had ever seen.

It was a mutt, that much was sure. Some sort of terrier but with several other breeds mixed in, with disheveled brown-and-black fur and a left ear that had been partly chewed off in some fight long ago. Likewise truncated was its tail, which was wagging fiercely and was little more than a stub with a bald patch where once fur had been.

There was a deceased rat hanging from its teeth. Its body was still twitching slightly, but that was clearly final spasms from a rodent already well beyond its death throes. James fancied it was the same one that had been snarling at him on the wharf but tended to think that was more his imagination than anything else. Even James Skelton, with his highly developed sense of perpetual persecution, didn't think that one dumb animal had pursued him onto a boat just to try and settle a score. But then again, who could say for sure?

“What the hell—?” came Thomas's incredulous reaction. He was on the far side of the room and had already gained his feet. Despite the fact that the boat was rocking, Thomas moved with it, having adjusted so quickly to the movement of the ship that one might have thought he'd been on the ocean before. This prompted a flash of jealousy from James, who never failed to marvel at how quickly Thomas was seemingly able to adapt to any situation. “Where did that dog come from? And what's—? Is that a rat?”

“It was,” said James, “but it's certainly not anymore.” He locked eyes with the dog, who was regarding him with an open stare and mild curiosity signaled by a tilt of its head. The dog then lay the dead animal at his feet, barked loudly several times as if announcing its triumph, and then simply stood there with its tail wagging even faster to indicate that it was obviously in a rather cheery mood.

“Scratch its head,” said Thomas.

“
You
scratch its head.

“Oh, fine,” said James, “but I've never been much for animals.” He obediently scratched the dog's head, and the dog flattened its ears and pressed its skull up into James's hand. For good measure it rubbed the rest of its body against James's leg.

“I think he likes you,” said Thomas.

“Everyone likes me.” He scratched the dog's head harder and even smiled. “I guess I'm in no position to be a snob. Near as I can tell, that rat was going to take a piece out of me, and the dog stopped him cold.”

“Good for him, then. You should—”

It was the irritated voice of Sawkins, who had been passing by the cabin and stuck his head in, probably upon hearing the barking. “Where did that mongrel come from?”

The question surprised both Thomas and James, and they exchanged confused looks. They had both just assumed that he belonged on the ship. Judging by the sailor's annoyed tone, they had jumped to a false conclusion.

“Come on, you!” shouted Sawkins, and he strode forward purposefully. The dog slunk back and growled, but Sawkins didn't hesitate. He yanked his belt out from his trousers, batted the dog's snarling attack aside as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant two-year-old, and then lashed the belt around the dog's throat so deftly that only a matter of seconds had passed from the discovery of the dog to its being effectively overwhelmed. The dog tried to snap at Sawkins, but he effortlessly yanked the teeth clear of him, and in moments the dog was whimpering pathetically. Sawkins then dragged the animal up and out of the cabin, and just before it was hauled out the door, it cast a quick, pathetic look in James's direction.

James hesitated just long enough to grab up the fallen rat, and then he took off after them, Thomas following. They sprinted up the short ladder to the main deck just in time to see Sawkins yanking the dog toward Rackam, who was stepping down from the bridge and regarding the animal with a suspicious stare. “And what have we here?” he asked.

“Mangy mutt from the docks, cap'n,” said Sawkins. “Must've crawled down into the hold and fell asleep there in some nook.”

“Well, over the side with it,” Rackam said impatiently. “We have no time for stowaways, especially the four-legged kind.”

This was obviously the answer that Sawkins wanted, and he started to haul the dog toward the side of the ship.

“Let him go!”
James had just emerged from belowdecks, and now he was crossing quickly, going right up to Sawkins and not backing down despite the intense glare from the seaman. “I said let him go!”