Beyond the Moons (20 page)

“Let’s hurry, sir.” A gigantic sneeze shook the fabric. “It’s hot, and it itches my nose,” complained the voice inside.

“To the waterfront, then,” Teldin said cheerily. “An inn and a ship, in that order. And if all else fails, we can become street comedians!”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” muttered Gomja from deep inside his cowl.

*****

Teldin plopped onto the bed in their room. The hostler of the Golden Dory had been wary of letting his place to such a strange pair. Teldin’s eastern accent easily marked him as a stranger to Palanthas, and the cloaked giff hadn’t made matters any easier. Still, Teldin doubted the innkeeper would have given them a room at all if he had seen Gomja uncovered. As it was, it took some hard bargaining, along with a few well-timed growls from the giff, to secure lodgings. Only the farmer’s assurances and a little extra steel soothed the man’s fears.

Up in the room, the human thought and planned while the giff shrugged his way out of his cloak. With a whooping gasp, like a swimmer breaking the surface, Gomja cast the tentlike mantle into a corner. “Thank the Great Captain!” he cried, glad to be out of his confinement. Gomja carefully unbuckled his sword, then sat on the floor with a resounding thud. “What next sir?”

Teldin looked up, roused from his thoughts. Fingers poised before his lips, he considered their choices. “A bath and a shave, then I’m off to find a ship.” Gomjas mouth opened, ready with an offer to come along, but Teldin cut him off. “You’re staying here. It’ll be easier that way. I’ll arrange for the innkeeper to bring up a meal. Stay in the room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir” Gomja answered sullenly, his eyes downcast. “But I should go with you – I’m your bodyguard.”

“Since when?” Teldin countered firmly as he pulled off his boots. He did not want an answer, so he continued before the giff could give one. “And if you answer the door, make sure you’re covered up. We don’t want to give some poor servant a fright.” Teldin opened the door and stepped into the hall barefooted. He stuck his head back in the room and added, “Now, I’m going to see about hot baths.”

Later, a clean-shaven and scrubbed Teldin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. A laundress had even managed to get some of the grime out of his clothes, though his pants were still damp as a result. Going to the table, the farmer studied his reflection in the water basin. Teldin looked unchanged, except for haggard circles under his eyes and a few singes and bruises, as if none of his adventures had ever occurred. He was back, once again, to his handsome self. The farmer finished dressing, then paused and mentally adjusted the cloak, reducing it again to a small collar. Teldin had heard of cursed treasures that plagued their owners and could not be lost or removed. If the cloak was cursed, at least it was accommodating.

“I really should go with you, sir,” protested Gomja for the umpteenth time.

Teldin only shook his head. “You’re too obvious. I’ll have to be on the watch for Vandoorm.” The giff only frowned. “Look, Gomja, if I’m alone, I can avoid him, but you’ll stand out like a torch in the night. Even with the cloak there aren’t many people as tall or as broad as you.

“Then at least take a sword, sir,” Gomja urged.

Again Teldin shook his head no. “I’m no good with them. I’d more likely hurt myself in a fight. Besides, carrying swords in Palanthas makes people nervous.

“Well, at least that’s something I can do,” the giff said with a petulant sigh. “I would be glad to teach you how to fight, sir.”

Teldin rubbed his smooth chin, considering Gomja’s offer. Until last night, the farmer had always assumed he would be able to handle himself in a fight. He could brawl with the best of them, but a real battle, like the previous night’s massacre, showed how much he really needed to learn. The violence of actual bloodletting was frightening. Swordsmanship was not one of the arts he had learned with the Whitestone army. After all, no one expected mule skinners to fight.

“Agreed,” he said, “but not right now.” The giff gave a wan smile, proving he was mollified in some small way.

Teldin finished with his preparations and left the room, pausing outside long enough to be certain that Gomja did not try to follow. Satisfied that the giff was following his instructions, Teldin left the inn and headed for the waterfront. He warily watched along the way for any sign of Vandoorm or his men.

Walking along the quays, Teldiri was amazed by the number and variety of ships. He could hardly tell that Palanthas had suffered through two wars in recent memory. Perversely, those wars, the War of the Lance and the Siege of Palanthas, which had threatened to destroy the city, only managed to bring greater prosperity. During the War of the Lance, the threat of blockade had forced the ruling lord to spend vast sums improving the harbor and its facilities. The second war, marked by Kitiara’s invasion, reinforced the need to maintain the port, and the Lord of Palanthas had paid greater attention to his harbor ever since.

Palanthas had been a large port before, but now it was even larger and busier. Coasters, fat, round-bottomed ships from Kalaman, Caergoth, and Eastport, were tied next to the tall and graceful elven caravels. The shimmering silken banners of the Silvamori ships were, in turn, a contrast to the gaudily decked little cogs from Hylo. That the kender ships, with their crazy patchwork of “borrowed” parts and endless streams of multicolored sails, could float at all seemed like something of a miracle to Teldin.

“How do I know where they sail?” the farmer asked himself. “Or when they sail?” There were so many ships bobbing against the wooden piers that Teldin did not have a notion of how or where to start. He leaned on a piling, elbows resting on top, chin cradled in his hands. During the war it seemed there had never been enough ships coming to Palanthas. The threat of siege had hung over the city. Now there were too many. The port was alive with strange vessels and stranger crews.

“Well, my boy, find a gnomish ship,” Teldin finally resolved. He began walking up and down the quay. He had no idea what kind of ship gnomes would use, but he guessed it would be little. They were not a tall people, so it stood to reason that they would not have a big ship.

Teldin walked the length of the marina without any luck. There were small ships, particularly kender vessels, but they looked distinctly unseaworthy. Teldin didn’t care if those ships were going to Sancrist. He wasn’t about to sail on one of them. Finally he gave up and called to one of the porters hauling a bundle aboard a salt-stained galley. “Where can I find a ship to Sancrist?” Teldin shouted over the noise of the laborers.

The sweating worker stopped and let his load crash onto the dock. “The Hall of Merchants, where else, ye big lubber!” the man said, pointing toward a large, white marble hall at the far end of the waterfront. “All ships in port register there.” Before Teldin could thank him, the man heaved the bale onto his shoulder and turned away. The farmer ignored the man’s attitude, picked his way through the wagons waiting to be laden, and headed to where the man had indicated.

The Hall of Merchants was a guildhall, the headquarters of the masters who controlled trade in and out of the city. Teldin’s greeting at the hail was barely more courteous than the porter’s. The yeoman felt distinctly out of place and spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon being passed from one apprentice clerk to another. Finally, just before Teldin’s patience gave out, a thin-nosed scribe looked over the top of his dog-eared register and said in answer to Teldin’s inquiry, “I think there is one going for Sancrist tomorrow. Let me see – the
Silver Spray
, it is.”

“That’s just fine,” Teidin exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “Where can I find it?”

The clerk peered from under his visor to look skeptically at Teldin. “The
Silver Spray
is an elven ship. I don’t think they will take passengers – at least not you. You are – human.”

“Tell me where to find it,” Teldin demanded. He was in no mood for lectures by an apprentice money-counter.

“Her, not it,” the clerk corrected, tsking under his breath. “The big pier at the end of the main avenue.” He consulted the register before him. “She flies a banner of a silver wave on a field of green.” The apprentice held his hand out, expecting payment for his minor service.

Teldin ignored the man’s greed. Even if he could afford to leave the clerk a gift, he was in no mood to be generous. Without a thanks, he turned and left. Behind him the clerk slammed the register shut, punctuating it with a loud huff that echoed through the marbled hall.

Out on the wharf, the day’s activity was slowly winding down. The tide was out, revealing slimy, green muck on the pilings. Porters, sweating miserably in the hot weather, stowed the last of their cargoes while a few seamen finished odd jobs on board, such as patching sails, splicing hawsers, or tightening rigging. Here and there small dories bobbed alongside larger vessels as men inspected and scraped hulls. Most of the ships were lightly manned, the crews ashore for one last night of revelry.

The clerk’s directions were good and Teldin had little trouble finding the
Silver Spray’s
pier. He walked down the dock slowly, studying the flags that hung limply from the masts. About halfway down he found the vessel he sought. The green banner fluttered weakly in a passing breeze, showing the arching silver wave that was its owner’s coat of arms.

The
Silver Spray
seemed aptly named. The ship was a caravel of carefully balanced proportions. Although broad of beam, the ship’s width was offset by the length of her keel. The arching prow and the intricately carved sterncastle lent an image of grace. More surprising was the hull’s color. The vessels around the
Silver Spray
with their brown and black hulls, looked dour and sluggish compared with the gleaming bright, silvery ash wood used for the
Silver Spray’s
planking. The ship’s fittings were polished to red-gold, brass, and silver highlights. The figurehead, a cresting wave, was freshly painted blue and white. The three masts’ sheets were ready for tomorrow’s sailing.

Even Teldin, a landlubber, felt a sense of awe rising in him as he looked upon the ship. He wondered if he really could get passage aboard such a fine vessel. Biting back his feeling of intimidation, the human strode up the gangplank. A lone sailor’s figure sat on the deck, its back to Teldin.

“Excuse me. I have heard your ship is sailing to Sancrist,” Teldin hailed in his best manner. He stood on the gangplank, uncertain whether to go any farther.

The sailor casually turned about, until she could see Teldin over her shoulder. He tried not to gape but hardly had expected a woman to respond to his call, much less an elven maiden. Long, fine, ashen hair fell over one eye. The other, finely shaped and pale gold, scrutinized Teldin. “You’re a human,” she finally commented in the Common tongue. Then, in a burst of nimble grace, the elf leaped about and to her feet, as if to show that she could do it. She moved lightly, barely making a noise while strolling across the deck to where Teldin stood.

The elf was small and thin, her legs long, her waist narrow in a delicate balance of height and slimness, much like the few other elves Teldin had seen. The elf’s straight silvery hair hung loosely over her shoulders, covering the distinctive sharp-tipped ears of her kind. If she was a sailor, her skin was bizarrely pale, almost translucent. The lips, nose, chin – all her features except her eyes – were thin. The simple leather and linen clothes she wore barely disguised her femininity. That in itself was a major contrast to the other sailors Teldin had seen.

The elf woman stood at the edge of the deck and made no attempt to invite Teldin aboard. “If we sail to Sancrist, what business is that of yours?” she asked coldly.

Teldin tensed. “A friend and I need to get to Mount Nevermind. We’re looking for someone who will take us as passengers.” The farmer could not suppress the proud defiance in his voice, especially since the elf’s words came as such a challenge.

“You’re a human. This is an elf ship.” The sailor turned to leave as if that explained it all.

Anger rose within Teldin, and he walked farther up the gangplank. “Where’s your captain?” he demanded. “You’ve no authority to turn me away.”

The elf wheeled around, her eyes hard. Only the faintest shimmer of golden light showed through her narrowed lids. “I am Cwelanas, the mate. For you, that is as good. But if you want to talk to the captain, I will summon him.” The elfs words were cold. “Wait here. Do not step on board.” The elven mate disappeared down the companionway at the head of the sterncastle.

Teldin waited nervously at the edge of the deck, uncertain whether he had just ruined any hopes of getting to Sancrist. There was still a chance, if the captain was any more reasonable than the mate. It was not a possibility that filled the farmer with confidence. He wondered what he could say or what he could offer that could possibly make a difference. Teldin’s fears were interrupted by voices from the companionway, which he could barely make out.

“I do not like him, father,” spoke the woman’s voice. Teldin’s heart sank as he recognized her.

“You do not like any human, Cwelanas. I will meet with him and decide. Perhaps he will be different.” The second speaker sounded like an older man. His tone was calm and reasoned, a contrast to the mate’s fiery temper. As quickly as he had lost heart, Teldin regained his hope. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“My mate tells me you seek passage,” spoke a soft yet firmly commanding voice. Teldin feigned a small start of surprise and turned to the speaker. Slightly stooped with age, the patriarchal elf captain still stood taller than his daughter. Long arms, seeming little more than skin over bone, dangled from the bottom of a near-sleeveless robe. The elf’s face was tight and drawn, the skin so translucent that Teldin could almost see the old elf’s cheekbones, even the sharp crease of his nose, through it. The elf captain’s hair was white and silky thin, hanging in a long fringe around the top of his balding head. He was, for Teldin, a stork-man, glistening pearly white with a sharp-beaked face. His daughter, the mate, stood on the stair slightly behind him.