Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (38 page)

“I
must ask you, young men, how long will Astholf’s ships remain unmolested on the
lake? How long will Khorgan’s gates be open to Astholf trade no matter the
means of transportation? We believe, perhaps, six weeks. Another six weeks and
a Salchek fleet will be tying up at Astholf’s piers.” Belstan shook his head as
he continued to examine the map. “The North has always posed obstacles to
trade. You are correct, young Jeff. Rugen does sit near many treasures. But
look you where it sits.”

Belstan
pointed at Rugen’s location on the map. “Nowhere! The city is in the middle of
this land but close to nothing. It has poor roads when any exist at all. Close
by are nearly impenetrable forests and mountains inhabited by warlike peoples.
Without Astholf and Khorgan to link with, it is hopeless.” Face impassive,
Belstan sat down and folded his arms.

After
an interval of silence, Jeff quietly said, “Without a reliable source of trade,
resistance to the Salchek is doomed to stalemate at first, then defeat. When
last they invaded, this land was freed only by the happenstance of their voluntary
withdrawal. I believe it foolhardy to once again rely on the intervention of
providence. I will not pretend to be aloof from your decision, for it is
crushing. Yet in spite of that decision the defense of this land remains a duty
that cannot be denied or assigned. What must be done, Carl and I will venture
to do. Without your help if necessary, but with sadness.” Jeff gazed evenly
into Belstan’s eyes. “Do you, then, counsel despair?”

Belstan’s
expression was unreadable. For minute after silent minute, he studied Jeff and
Carl. Rogelf gave the impression that he was not listening. Instead, he
appeared to be examining the cabin floor as if searching for defects in
workmanship. Belstan pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

“The
substance of your question is basic to this affair and to life. Despair is the
resort of fools and the weak. As I said, we have thought deeply on this matter
and,” waving a finger at Jeff and Carl, “on you both. We are finished in the
South not only because of what happened at Tradertown, but by choice.”

“Belstan
and I understand trade,” Rogelf broke in smoothly, “and in doing so have come
to some understanding of people as well. Without people of value, nothing of
consequence may ever be accomplished. We have both, Belstan and I, come to feel
a deep respect for you, Jeefry, and a growing respect for you, Carl.”

“Indeed,
indeed,” Belstan said with firm authority. “Words that lead to action and
accomplishment.”

One
step removed from the interaction’s intense emotion, Carl had been watching the
traders closely and more objectively than Jeff. These guys are good, he thought
admiringly. What a team. Yes! Rogelf’s turn!

“Events
surrounding the Salchek invasion will likely spin themselves out over the
balance of our two lives and a large portion of yours before the outcome is
known. What has passed between us today has been necessary so we may decide on
a course of action. I am satisfied.” Rogelf turned to Belstan with eyebrows
raised in silent query.

Totally
mystified, Jeff looked to Carl for insight but only got a supportive wink.

Belstan’s
face broke into a huge smile. “As am I. Despair is for dogs! Rogelf and I will
assemble all that remains to us in Astholf and journey to Rugen in caravan as
soon as it may be arranged.”

Jeff
was stunned by what seemed a complete turnabout. He glanced at Carl and got
another wink. Looking down, he shook his head and laughed wryly.

“You
two are something else. Now that’s what I call teamwork.”

“Even
though our ploy was necessary, I apologize for abusing your trust,” Belstan
replied, and patted Jeff on the shoulder. “We had to be sure of your
steadfastness of purpose. What lies ahead will be no easy thing.” Belstan
rubbed his hands together. “But such a challenge! To be the ones who open
large-scale trade with the North!”

Jeff
was feeling very sober and did not respond. It was unsettling to realize that
Belstan and Rogelf’s decision had crystallized only after grilling him. One
immature reaction such as an angry retort might have tipped the scales the other
way. So much hanging on a few words, he thought, and I didn’t have a clue!
Thank God I didn’t blow it.

Shortly,
Belstan once again had them clustered around the map. “Here is what must be
done. As you have implied, Rugen must become the center not the end point of
trade routes.” Belstan’s finger moved around the map.

“For
many years to come, Rugen’s prosperity will lie not to the south in Astholf,
Khorgan and Borgo, but in establishing trade routes to Torsberg and the island
of Skene in the east.” His finger skipped to the west coast. “Here lies real
hope—Jutenberg and Ruun, and to the north, Trunstad and Hochberg.”

Rogelf
continued the train of thought. “These designs will consume perhaps five years’
labor. The challenge Rugen must first meet is surviving the siege that is
nearly assured. The supplies we bring will be of value. It is our intention to
convert the greater portion of our holdings to products a city under siege will
find useful.”

Impressed
by the scope of the traders’ imagination and ambition, Jeff was also aware of
the risks they were willing to assume with no promise other than their faith in
him and, to an extent, in Carl. That made him uneasy, knowing in his head if
not in his heart that he could easily wind up dead in some northern forest.

“In
return for all that is proposed and risked, you must be given a charter by the
city of Rugen to develop and control these trade routes. You must also be given
ironclad guarantees. This will be my first task upon arrival at Rugen.”

Belstan
and Rogelf were pleased by Jeff’s proposal. A planning session ensued and
continued for the rest of the day. The first and only really important debate
centered on the small matter of survival for the next year or two. The meeting
broke up when they received a message that the ship would be tying up at
Astholf within the hour.

One
look at Astholf while they were tying up and it became apparent that it was a
smaller clone of Rugen. Anxious citizens eager to hear the latest information
greeted the Tounae’s crew when they disembarked. Ostfel’s arrival, it seemed,
had stirred up a hornet’s nest.

Jeff
and Carl hit the streets early the next day under the guidance of Golfin, one
of Rogelf’s employees. The few items of clothing that Carl had picked up in
Khorgan would never stand up to hard use. Astholf was a frontier city, and
purchasing rugged clothing fit for the trail posed no problem. However, they
had no luck at all finding a sword that was both well made and suitable to
Carl’s tall frame.

“I
think it’s a lost cause, Jeff. Maybe I can find something in Rugen.”

“Not
likely. The swords I’ve seen there are no better. Wish I‘d picked up a sword
while in Tradertown. The only positive thing I have to say about the Arzaks is
that they know how to forge good steel.”

Golfin
suddenly snapped his fingers. “Thank you, Jeffrey. Perhaps there is yet hope.”

Wearing
a grin of anticipation, he led them to a seedy shop in a back alley. On the way
Golfin explained that the proprietor, a small-time weapons dealer, was deeply
in debt to Rogelf and had been dodging payment for some time. More importantly,
it was nearly certain he had Arzak dealings through his wife’s family. The
proprietor winced when they entered.

“All
right, Golfin, what will it take to settle.”

Golfin
smiled toothily and watched Bortog sweat for a few moments before saying,
“That’s not why we’re here. These gentlemen wish to look at swords, good swords
and,” waving his arm to include everything visible, “not this refuse.”

Brightening
at the prospect of making a profit instead of having his feet put to the fire,
Bortog disappeared into the back of his shop. After a period of dimly perceived
activity he returned with an armful of weapons.

“These
swords, gentle sirs, are of the finest quality but were forged in Arzak. I
would be most appreciative if that fact did not become generally known.”
 

With
a sense of relief, Jeff and Carl sorted through a wide selection of weapons
that were equal in quality to Saafir’s collection in Tradertown. Carl
eventually gravitated to a rapier that fit his hand as if made for him.
Stepping outside, Jeff and Carl traded a few passes to test the rapier’s
balance and length. Both were close to perfect, the action a lot of fun.
Although accustomed to a foil, Carl took to the rapier like an old friend.

While
Bortog fitted him with a sword harness, Carl picked up and set down a slim
poniard so often that Jeff handed it to him for dessert. For his last encore,
Golfin guided them to a stable in search of a horse for Carl. It happened to be
the one Cynic was quartered in, and Jeff enlisted his help.

It
was dark inside the stable so they moved to a corral and inspected horse after
horse as they were led by. Cynic rejected each with contemptuous snorts and
acid criticism. After a dozen or so had passed, he suddenly shot his head in
front of Jeff and brought his teeth together with a sharp clack only inches
from the horse trader’s arm.

“Gods
and demons!” Fishko did a respectable standing broad jump away from Cynic.

“My
horse does not respect many two-legs. In this instance, I agree with him
completely. You have shown us nothing but wind-broken crow-bait, and most of
them lame to boot.”

Fingering
the haft of his sword, Jeff stared at Fishko until the oily fellow shifted his
eyes and feet.

“Either
produce

horses
worthy of the name or you will receive no business from ourselves or anyone we
are associated with.”

Cursing
under his breath, Fishko spat a brown stream and lead them to an adjacent
corral. He waved a hand at the horses inside the corral.

“Now
don’t go gettin’ hasty. This yere bunch is good horseflesh.”

“Right.”
Jeff unlatched the corral gate
.

“Horse-brother,
would you be so kind? If there are any that meet your standards, cut them out
so we may view them closer.”

“With
pleasure, horse-brother.”
Cynic trotted into the corral.

Fishko
looked on with slack-jawed amazement as Cynic chased, intimidated or provoked
every horse in the corral. He settled on two and herded them over so Jeff could
get a look.

“Good
work, horse-brother. They both appear sound. Which do you prefer?”

Cynic
snorted and whuffled a bit before sending a sleek chestnut closer
. “His
spirit is good, and I believe he will display courage on a long run.”

“We’ll
take that one.”

“But
that is my personal horse!”

“Do
you wish to make a sale, or do we search out another stable?”

Fishko
writhed, spat, kicked at the dirt and cursed. “He ain’t cheap.”

Astholf
was less than half the size of Rugen, and the number of shops within its walls
limited in proportion. Not surprisingly, there were also fewer shops that dealt
in quality products. Zimma and Rogelf wandered through a number of food stalls
and groceries but found none that were acceptable. Hope was fading late in the
day when she found a grocery that had promise. The building was nicely painted
and the walkway in front swept clear of debris.

Entering,
Zimma nodded at the sight of youngsters fanning flies away from neat stacks of
cheese, dangling rows of summer sausage, and symmetrical piles of fresh
produce. Picking up a fruit the size of a grapefruit but blue in color, she
found it and others in the display to be almost ripe and not bruised.

“This
shop will do, Father. I am so relieved!”

Rogelf
found nothing to criticize in the store and just nodded. They wandered the
aisles, Zimma plucking items from various displays as they went until the
wicker basket she had brought along was filled.

The
store’s proprietor didn’t recognize them, an uncommon occurrence in Astholf,
and they chatted while Rogelf paid the tab. It proved such a pleasant experience
that Zimma would have talked longer, but she could feel that time was running
out.

Arm
in arm, they strolled toward the warehouse. Zimma was so happy that every so
often she skipped a few steps. Rogelf had not seen Zimma skip since she was a
young girl and looked away to conceal his emotion.

It
was a soft summer evening and neither of them was in a hurry to see it end.
Zimma could not remember the last time she had gone anywhere with her father
and felt a stab of remorse. It had been such a delightful afternoon. Squeezing
Rogelf’s arm, she turned her head to smile at him.

“Thank
you for accompanying me, Father. It has been so wonderful having you all to
myself that I am reminded of the years when I did not consider such an
opportunity worthy of my presence or time.”

Rogelf
examined his daughter’s face while reviewing those heart-wrenching years during
which he had helplessly watched her slip away. He patted her hand.