MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (26 page)

"True enough," Jubal agreed. "I hardly expected the opportunity to fall my way like ripe fruit
.
.
."

"Two conditions," the Old Man interrupted. "First: four weeks before you own my stall. If I repay the money—you don't own my stall
.
.
."

"All right," the slaver nodded, "but
.
.
."

"Second: anything happens to me these next four weeks you take care of my wife. It's not charity; she knows the wharf and the nya—she's worth a fair wage."

Jubal studied the Old Man a moment through hooded eyes. "Very well," he said finally, "but I sense there is much you are not telling me." He left the room and returned with the silver coins which rattled lightly in his immense palm. "Tell me this, Old Man," he asked suspiciously, "all these terms—why don't you just ask for a loan?"

"I've never borrowed in my life," Panit scowled, "and won't start now. I pay as I go—if I don't have enough I do without or I sell what I must."

"Suit yourself," the slaver shrugged, handing over the coins. "I'll be expecting to see you in thirty days."

"Or before."

The silence between father and son was almost habitual and lasted nearly until they had reached the town again. Strangely, it was the old man who broke the silence first.

"You're being quiet, boy," he said.

"Of course," Hort exploded. "There's nothing to say. You order things we can't pay for, sell your life-work to the biggest crook in Sanctuary and then wonder why I'm quiet. I know you don't confide in me—but Jubal! Of all the people in town
.
.
.
And that talk about conditions! What makes you think he'll stand by any of them? You don't trust soldiers but you trust Jubal!"

"
He
can be trusted," the Old Man answered softly. "He's a hard one when he's got the upper hand—but he stands by his word."

"You've dealt with him before? Nothing can surprise me now," Hort grumbled.

"Good," his father nodded. "then you'll take me to the
Vulgar Unicorn
?"

"The
Vulgar Unicorn
!" He was surprised.

"That's right. Don't you know where it is?"

"I know it's in the Maze somewhere, but I've never been there."

"Let's go."

"Are you sure you want the
Vulgar Unicorn
, Old Man?" Hort pressed. "I don't think a fisherman's ever set foot in there. The people who drink at the
Unicorn
are mercenaries, cutthroats, and a few thieves thrown in for good measure."

"So they say," the Old Man nodded. "Wouldn't be going there if they weren't. Now, you leading or not?"

All conversation stopped as they entered that infamous tavern. As he struggled to see in the darkness, Hort could feel the eyes of the room on his, sizing them up, deciding if he was a challenge or a victim.

"Are you gentlemen looking for someone?" The bartender's tone implied he didn't think they should stay for a drink.

"I want some fighting men," the Old Man announced. "I've heard this is the place."

"You heard right," the bartender nodded, suddenly a bit more attentive. "If you don't know who you want, I'll be glad to serve as your agent—for a modest fee, of course."

Panit regarded him as he'd regarded his fellow fisherfolk. "I judge my own people—go back to your dishes."

The bartender clenched his fists in anger and retreated to the other end of the bar as the Old Man faced the room.

"I need two, maybe three men for a half-day's work," he called loudly. "A copper now and a silver when it's over. No swords or bowmen just axes or pole-arms. I'll be outside."

"Why are we going to talk to them outside?" Hort asked as he followed his father into the street.

"I want to know what I'm getting," the Old Man explained. "Couldn't see a thing in that place."

It took most of the afternoon but they finally sorted out three stalwarts from the small pack that had followed them. The sun was dipping toward the horizon as Panit gave his last man the advance coin and turned to his son.

"That's about all we can do today," he said. "You run along and see your friends. I'll take care of the trap."

"Aren't you going to tell me your plan?" Hort pleaded.

"Haven't got it all worked out yet," the Old Man admitted, "but if you want to see what happens, be on the dock at first light tomorrow. We'll see how smart this monster is."

Unlike the day before, Hort was at the dock well before the dawn. As the first tendrils of pre-dawn light began to dispel the night he was pacing impatiently, hugging himself against the damp chill of the morning.

Mist hung deep over the water, giving it an eerie, supernatural appearance which did nothing to ease Hort's fears as he alternately cursed and worried about his absent father. Crazy old man! Why couldn't he be like the other fishermen? Why take it on himself to solve the mystery of the sea-monster? Knowing the best way to combat the chill was activity he decided to launch the family's boat. For once, he would be ready when the Old Man got here.

He marched down the dock, then slowed, and finally retraced his steps. The boat was gone. Had Sanctuary's thieves finally decided to ply their trade on the wharf? Unlikely. Who would they sell a stolen boat to? The fishermen knew each other's equipment as well as they knew their own.

Could the Old Man have gone out already? Impossible—to be out of the harbor before Hort got there, the Old Man would have had to take the boat out at night—and in these waters with the monster.
.
.
.

"You there!"

Hort turned to find the three hired mercenaries coming down the pier. They were a sullen crew by this light and the pole-arms two of them carried gave them the appearance of Death's own oarsmen.

"We're here," the leader of the trio announced, shifting his battle-axe to his shoulder, "though no civilized man fights at this hour. Where's the old man who hired us?"

"I don't know," Hort admitted, backing down from this fierce assemblage. "He told me to meet him here same as you."

"Good," the axe-man snarled. "We've appeared, as promised. The coppers are ours, small price for a practical joke. Tell that old man when you see him that we've gone back to bed."

"Not so fast," Hort surprised himself with his sudden outspoken courage as the men turned away. "I've known the Old Man all my life and he's no joker. If he paid you to be here, you'll be needed. Or don't you want the silver that goes with those coppers?"

The men hesitated, mumbling together darkly.

"Hort!" Terci was hurrying toward them. "What's going on? Why are there cut-throats on the dock?"

"The Old Man hired them," Hort explained. "Have you seen him?"

"Not since last night," the lanky fisherman replied. "He came by late and gave me this to pass to you." He dropped three silver coins into the youth's palm. "He said if he wasn't here by mid-day that you were to use this to pay the men."

"You see!" Hort called to the mercenaries as he held up the coins. "You'll be paid at midday and not before. You'll just have to wait with the rest of us." Turning back to Terci he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What else did the Old Man say—anything?"

"Only that I should load my heaviest net this morning," Terci shrugged. "What's going on?"

"He's going to try to fish for the monster," Hort explained as the Old Man's plan came clear to him. "When I got here his boat was gone."

"The monster," Terci blinked. "The Old Man's gone out alone after the monster?"

"I don't think so. I've been here since before first light. Not even the Old Man would take a boat out in the dark—not after the monster. He must be
.
.
."

"Look there! There he is!"

The sun had finally appeared over the horizon and with its first rays the mist began to fade. A hundred yards offshore a small boat bobbed and dipped and in it they could see the Old Man pulling frantically at the oars.

As they watched he suddenly shipped the oars, waiting expectantly. Then the boat was jerked around, as if by an unseen hand and the Old Man bent to the oars again.

"He's got it! He's got the monster!" Terci shrieked, dancing with delight or horror.

"No!" Hort disagreed firmly, staring at the distant boat. "He doesn't have it. He's leading it, baiting it into shallow water."

It was all clear to him now. The metal trap! The monster was used to raiding the Old Man's traps, so he fed it one that couldn't be crushed. Now he was teasing the unknown creature toward shore, dragging the trap like a child drags a string before a playful kitten. But this kitten was an unknown, deadly quantity that could easily attack the hand that held the string.

"Quick, Terci," Hort ordered, "get the net! It won't follow him onto the shore."

The lanky fisherman was gaping at the scene, his mind lost in his own thoughts. "Net the monster?" he mumbled. "I'll need help, yes, help
.
.
.
help!" He fled down the dock screaming at the still-dark, quiet huts.

This was not the Maze where cries for help went unheeded. Doors opened and bleary-eyed fishermen stumbled out to the wharf.

"What is it?"

"What's the noise?"

"Man your boats! The Old Man's got the monster!"

"The monster?"

"Hurry, Ilak!"

"The Old Man's got the monster." The cry was passed from hut to hut.

And they came, swarming over their boats like a nest of angry ants: Haron, her sagging breasts flopping beneath the nightdress she still wore; Omat, his deformed arm no hindrance as he wrestled his boat onto the water with one hand, and in the lead, Terci, first rowing, then standing, in the small boat to shout orders at the others.

Hort made no move to join them. They were fishermen and knew their trade far better than he. Instead he stood rooted on the dock, lost in awe of the Old Man's courage.

In his mind's eye Hort could see what his father saw: sitting in a small boat on an inky sea, waiting for the first tug on the rope—then the back-breaking haul on the oars to drag the metal trap landward. Always careful not to get too far ahead of the invisible creature below, yet keeping its interest. The dark was the Old Man's enemy as much as the monster was; it threatened him with disorientation—and the mist! A blinding cloud of white closing in from all sides. Yet the Old Man had done it and now the monster was within reach of its victims' nets.

The heavy net was spread now, forming a wall between the mystery beast as it followed the Old Man and the open sea behind them. As the boats at either end of the net began to pull for shore, the Old Man evened his stroke and began to move steadily through the water
.
.
.
but he was tired now; Hort could see that even if no one else could.

"There!" Hort called to the mercenaries, he pointed toward the shore-line. "That's where they'll beach it! Come on!"

He led their rush down the dock. He heard rather than saw the nets scoop up its prey; a cheer went up from the small boats. He was waiting waist-deep in the water when the Old Man's boat finally reached the shallows. Grabbing onto the cleats, Hort dragged the boat to the beach as if it were a toy while his father sagged wearily between the oars.

"The trap," the Old Man wheezed through ragged gasps, "pull it in before those fools get it tangled in their nets!"

The rope was cold and hard as cable, but Hort dragged the trap hand-over-hand away from the sea's grip. Not surprisingly, it was full of nya that shimmered and flopped in the morning sun. Without thinking, Hort reached behind his father and dumped the fish into the boat's live well.

All the boats were ashore now, and there was splashing and thrashing around the net in the shallows.

"What is it like?" the Old Man gasped; he could scarcely raise his head. "What's the monster like?"

"It looks to be a large crab," Hort announced, craning his neck. "The mercenaries have got to it."

And they had; waving the crowd back they waded into the water to strike at the spidery giant even before the net was on the shore.

"I thought so," the Old Man nodded. "There weren't any teeth marks on the traps. Some damn sorcerer's pet run loose," he added.

Hort nodded. Now that he could see the monster it fit the rumors he had heard from time to time in the town. The Purple Mage had kept large crabs to guard his home on the White Foal River. Rumor said he was dead now, killed by his own magic. The rumor was confirmed by the crab; it must have wandered downstream to the sea when its food no longer appeared.

"Whose catch is that?"

Hort turned to find two Hell Hounds standing close beside him. Simultaneously he noticed the crowd of townsfolk which had gathered on the streets.

"Everybody's," the Old Man declared, getting his strength back. "They caught it. Or anybody's. Maybe it's Terci's—it's mangled his net."

"No, Old Man," Terci declared, approaching them. "It's your catch. There's none on the wharf who'd deny that—least of all me. You caught it. We netted and gaffed it for you after the fight."

"It's yours then," the Hell Hound decided, facing the Old Man. "What do you plan to do with it?"

It flashed across Hort's mind that these soldiers might be going to fine his father for dragging the crab to the beach; they might call it a public nuisance or something. He tightened his grip on the Old Man's arm, but he'd never been able to hold his father.

"I don't know," Panit shrugged. "If the circus was still in town I'd try to sell it to them. Can't sell it for food—might be poisonous—wouldn't eat it myself."

"I'll buy it," the Hell-Hound announced to their surprise. "The Prince has tasters and a taste for the unknown. If it's poisonous it will still make table-talk fit for an Emperor. I'll give you five silvers for it."

"Five? Ten—times're hard; I've got debts to Jubal for my fish-stall," the Old Man bargained, no more awed by the Hell-Hounds than he had been by Jubal himself.

At the mention of the slaver's name, the tall Hell-Hound scowled and his swarthy companion sucked air noisily through his teeth.

"Jubal?" the tall man mumbled as he reached for his pouch. "You'll have your ten silvers, fisherman—and a gold piece besides. A man should have more than a slaver's receipt for this day's work."