The Merchant and the Menace (3 page)

Brelg smiled and his eyes took on the faraway look
Kael often noticed when they spoke of the Zodrian Guard and the capital city.

“That would be a fine day, wouldn’t it?” whispered
Brelg lightly nodding his head. “If Aemmon were chosen for the Guard ...”

Brelg’s voice trailed off. Kael smiled and put a
hand on his father’s shoulder.

“That would be a fine day for all of us, even
mother.”

“Yes, if she were here she would be proud of you
both,” sighed Brelg. “She loved you dearly. However, I think she watches me
from somewhere shaking her head in disapproval over this trip you’ve
concocted.”

“Mother never objected to your trips,” said Kael
with a sly grin. “As I recall you went on plenty, leaving the three of us to
manage the inn.”

“Business is business,” huffed Brelg. “Besides, I
was younger then and settling down proved difficult.”

“Exactly,” winked Kael.

Brelg frowned deeply at the smiling boy. Kael
continued to grin until Brelg chuckled and tousled the boy’s mop of black hair.

“Get to work,” laughed Brelg. “Or you’ll never get
out of here.”

Kael spun and dashed toward the kitchen to retrieve
a mop.

“You better hurry with your chores,” called Brelg
after the boy, “and tell Cefiz to get the stove fired up. I don’t want my
customers slipping on a wet floor, on their way to a breakfast that has yet to
be cooked.”

Cefiz, the inn’s handyman and cook, stood yawning
in the kitchen.

“You best get your fires started or he’ll have your
head,” smiled Kael.

“Who? Good old Sarge? Angry with me? You must be
joking?” Cefiz laughed.

Kael always grinned when Cefiz called the demanding
innkeeper ”Sarge”. Aemmon and Kael picked up on the moniker and often used it
to refer to their father, but never in his company. Brelg, on the other hand,
took to calling Cefiz “chubby”, and constantly teased the cook concerning his
expanding waist.

In Kael’s early memories, Cefiz was a powerfully
built young man employed by the inn to carry out odd jobs and general
maintenance. Since the death of Kael’s mother, Cefiz became the cook of the inn
as well. His hair had begun to frost and a noticeable paunch hung over his belt
line.

Cefiz pulled wood chips out of a box and stuffed
them into the stove.

“So today is the big day?” yawned Cefiz.

“Today is the day,” repeated Kael with a smile.

“I suppose you still don’t care for my suggestion?”
said Cefiz.

“Just as I told Sarge,” said Kael eyeing the door.
“I’m not a boy anymore. I don’t need you to come along and watch over me.
Besides, I think your ‘suggestion’ came from Sarge more than yourself.”

“Are you accusing me of being a deceitful
scoundrel?” smiled Cefiz.

“Not a deceitful scoundrel,” said Kael. “Just a
loyal one.”

Kael retrieved his mop and returned to his bucket
in the common room. While he scrubbed the stone floor, he contemplated his
journey through the Nagur. Were any of the dangers real or the stories true?

An inn is a wonderful place to pick up bits and
pieces of information. Kael excelled in this ability. He badgered customers for
stories from their travels. He lingered over tables where woodsmen or hunters
were discussing events in the faraway corners of the kingdom. He ferreted out
all he could about places he would never visit and people he would never meet.

However, the recent rumor of trouble didn’t come to
Kael by the usual ways of a small village. No local washerwoman or merchant
passed the information onto him in casual conversation. Instead, Kael found out
in the manner he gathered most of the truly important information in the town
of Kelky. He used the Touch.

For as long as Kael could remember he was able to
employ the Touch. It was as natural to him as breathing. However, something
warned him it wouldn’t be considered normal by others, so he spoke to no one
about it, not even Aemmon.

Usually, he performed the Touch when he was engaged
in one of his boring chores in and around the inn. He might be washing dishes
in the kitchen, mopping the common room floor or hanging laundry in the yard
when the desire struck him. He concentrated, forcing his mind to block out all
distractions. The banter in the common room faded, the chickens in the yard
went still and the rushing of the wind quieted.

Kael focused on what he needed to “touch”. Not in a
physical way. Instead, he reached out to an event with something other than his
hands. He forced his senses to “brush” against the scene he wished to view.
Even if a conversation were whispered in a room full of rowdy patrons, Kael heard
it as if he sat hunched over a table with its participants.

The Touch is how he came to hear the rumors
concerning the Nagur. A few evenings earlier, two loggers ate dinner in the
common room. They were fresh from an excursion to the forests of the lower
Zorim Mountains where they cut for weeks then bundled their timber and
circulated through the small villages of the Southlands selling their haul.

Often, the loggers held back a portion of the wood
and traveled to Luxlor. Although the Grey Elves lived within a massive forest,
they never put ax to living wood. They often referred to themselves as “guests”
within the Nagur and refused to harm it. The Grey Elves paid a premium for the
fresh lumber and the loggers claimed a tidy profit in the Elf city.

This pair of loggers sat within the common room of
“The King’s Service” as their foreman returned from Luxlor. He joined the men
at their table as Kael passed with an armload of dirty dishes.

“Drovor,” said one of the loggers. “How did you
fare? Profitably I hope.”

“Aye,” replied Drovor. “The Elves always pay a fair
price for timber. I unloaded a full ...”

Kael stepped past the kitchen door and dumped the
stoneware dishes into a tub of hot water. His hands plunged in, retrieved a horsehair
brush and he slowly began to scrub the hardened mess from the plates. A moment
or two into his chore, the boy let his mind wander. Boredom quickly overcame
him as he stacked the third of the cleaned plates. He closed his eyes and let
himself calm. The bustle of the nearby common room faded. The chatter at the
bar grew faint. The Touch drifted from his body.

Kael stood over the tub of soapy water, but another
part of him passed through the kitchen door and back into the common room. He
couldn’t “see” the room or its occupants, but was well aware of everything and
everybody in the dining hall. In fact, the Touch gave Kael more clarity.
Rushing through life distracted him, but the Touch let him sit back and truly
observe.

He sensed the loggers and moved the Touch toward
their table.

“... are always quite free with their coin as long
as you treat them fairly,” Drovor was saying.

“Thank heaven. We’ll be out of a job if the Grey
Elves ever decide to cut the Nagur,” said one of the loggers.

“True,” muttered Drovor.

“What’s bothering you?” The other man asked. “A
fine haul, no accidents and a tidy profit. What more could you want?”

“The Nagur,” stated Drovor. “Something felt wrong.
Something was wrong.”

“The only thing wrong with the Nagur is the fact
that we don’t cut there and sell the wood back to the Grey Elves,” said the
first logger.

“That’s what you think, eh?” An edge entered
Drovor’s voice. “Sell ‘em their own wood, that’s your plan?”

“Sure, why not?” continued the man. “The Elves
don’t even travel north of the Efer River much. The whole of the North Nagur is
there to be cut. We travel all the way to the Zorim for wood that can be had on
the Elf’s very doorstep.”

“Let me tell you something,” growled Drovor.
“Cutting the Nagur is one of the dumbest things you could do.”

“That’s hogwash. We could be rich if ...”

“Dead!” cut in Drovor. “You could be dead. Men have
tried it before. Men like yourself who see nothing but coin in front of their
faces. Men who haven’t been on the crews long. Off they go to cut the Nagur and
after four or five weeks with no news, everyone realizes you can’t, or
shouldn’t lay an ax to that wood. They end up as just another group of fools
who tried to log the Nagur and were never seen again.”

“How?” asked the first logger. “The Grey Elves?”

“No,” scoffed Drovor. “The Grey Elves are good
people. I should know. I’ve dealt with ‘em for years. Actually, I’ve never had
a clue as to why those men disappear. That is until now.”

Kael heard the creak of a chair as Drovor leaned in
close and lowered his voice.

“I saw some strange tracks this last visit. Tracks
of something big. Never seen the like. Maybe .... eighteen feet long.”

“What d’ya think made ‘em?” asked the first logger.

“Don’t know,” replied Drovor. “But I decided not to
press my luck and got out of there as fast as I could. I picked up my pace and
had a strange feeling someone ....”

“Don’t fall in and drown,” laughed Cefiz, breaking
Kael’s concentration.

The Touch lost its hold on the common room and Kael
lurched as his senses sprang back into his consciousness. A loud crash snapped
Kael’s eyes open and his breath came in short bursts. The small earthenware
bowl he had been washing lay in broken shards at his feet.

“Sorry to startle you, lad,” chuckled Cefiz. “You
looked as if you were about to pass out into the wash tub. I would hate to
inform Sarge that you drowned in the dishwater while I was outside collecting
fuel for the fires.”

Kael turned to find the cook standing upon the
threshold to the yard, hefting a stack of split wood. The boy blinked and ran a
hand through his dark hair.

“Uh, thanks,” smiled Kael weakly. “Didn’t sleep
well last night.”

That was two nights ago. Now Kael rushed through a
day of chores in the hopes that he and his brother could head off into the very
wood from which Drovor raced. The boy thought over the foreman’s story for the
past two days. Slowly he convinced himself that Drovor imagined much of what he
saw. Certainly, a bear or other large animal was responsible for the tracks.
What other explanation was there? An animal certainly wouldn’t attack only
those cutting trees. The whole idea was absurd.

Kael left the kitchen and went to help Aemmon bring
firewood into the main hall. They proceeded to work on the remainder of their
chores for nearly two hours.

 As Kael fed the chickens, a rickety old cart
slowly headed up the southern trail. The boy smiled at the old man driving the
cart.

“Jasper. Good morning,” called Kael.

“Kael. Already feeding the chickens eh? You woke
early today,” called the old man on the buckboard.

Jasper stopped and stepped down in front of Kael.
The tinker was old. How old, Kael couldn’t be sure. Jasper’s stark, white hair
lay cropped close to his scalp. He wore silvery stubble on his deeply tanned
and lined face.

 In contrast, the old tinker’s eyes defied age. Neither
young nor old. Every time Kael talked to Jasper, the intensity in the old man’s
eyes startled the boy. Those eyes were a piercing, silver blue. They captured
your attention.

Jasper wore a heavy leather jerkin which shared the
shade and texture of his complexion. He sported sturdy wool pants beneath it.
Normally, a pipe hung lazily out of his mouth, but today it wasn’t present.

“Come around, boy. Come around,” coaxed Jasper,
motioning Kael to the back of the cart.

A stern faced, broad shouldered Zodrian sat on the
open gate.

“Good morning, Rin,” Kael remarked.

The man hopped from the back of the cart and
stepped from Kael’s path.

“My son is quiet as usual,” Jasper stated. “So I
will conduct our business. Take a good look over the merchandise, Kael, while
you tell me how your family is getting on. You know I haven’t visited Kelky in
months.”

Rin untied a bundle and spread the contents out for
Kael to see.

“You’ve been gone for quite some time this season.
My brother misses your stories by the fire. You captivate him with news of the
greater world,” Kael paused. “How much for the Elven blade?”

“Ah!” said Jasper “Now there is a man with a keen
eye. That is a quality piece of weaponry. What do you offer in trade?”

“How does a free meal and a night’s lodging sound?”
Kael offered.

“Kael,” frowned the tinker. “One should never take
an opponent for a fool. You know I’ll receive a meal from your father for
simply trading some news of the world before the fire tonight. Now come, come.
Try me again.”

After some consideration, Kael sighed, “I own a
Westland bow. It isn’t much, but I take good care of it.”

“Done!” cried the old man with a laugh. “The dagger
is yours. You outfox me again, my friend.”