Rise of a Merchant Prince (15 page)

Roo looked down, saw that he was tracking mud on the floor they were trying to clean, and winced. Taking the rag out of the metal pan, he cleaned his own boots and then the tracks he had made. “You don't do much of this when you spend your life barefoot.”

Jason nodded. “I guess.”

“Now, about this wonder . . .”

“Sylvia. Sylvia Estherbrook.”

“Yes, Sylvia. When have you seen her?”

“She sometimes travels here with her father, on her way to shop in the city. They live out on the edge of the city, near the Prince's Road, on a large estate.”

Roo shrugged. He knew that in Krondor the King's Highway was called the Prince's Road, and he had traveled it with Erik the first time he had come to Krondor, though they had left the highway and cut through the woods and some farmland. Later travels had been by the southern road to the training ground where he had learned the soldier's trade, so he had never seen the estate of which Jason spoke.

“What's she look like?”

“She has the most amazing blue eyes and blond hair that's almost pale gold in color.”

Roo said, “Blue, not green? Blond hair?”

“Blue eyes, blond hair,” answered Jason. “Why?”

“Just checking. I met a really beautiful woman who almost got me killed. But she had green eyes and dark hair. Anyway, go on.”

“There's nothing more to say. She rides up with her father and then goes off after he gets out. But she smiles at me, and she even took a moment to speak to me once.”

Roo laughed. “That's something, I guess.”

A shout and the sound of a large wagon moving near caused Roo to turn. Heaving around the corner, looking for a moment as if it were about to attempt to enter the building, came a horse, as tired, old, and ragged a creature as Roo had ever beheld. A loud grinding of wood upon wood was punctuated by oaths and the sound of a lash as a wagon wheel ground across the open portal and the driver came into view.

An instant was all Roo needed to realize this man didn't possess even the most rudimentary knowledge of driving a wagon and had tried to turn the corner too sharply, jamming the wagon against the side of the building.

Ignoring the driving rain, Roo turned and moved in front of the horse, grabbing the animal by the bridle, while shouting, “Whoa!”

The animal obeyed, as it was hardly moving at all because of the jamming of the wagon against the corner, the deep mud, and near-total exhaustion. “What's this?” demanded the driver.

Roo look up at a young man, only a few years older than Roo, thin and snaked through to his skin from his appearance. It was also obvious he was a sailor, as he wore no boots or shoes and was sunburned and drunk.

“Heave to, mate,” cried Roo, “before you run ashore.”

Trying to look threatening, the young sailor shouted belligerently, “Clear away! You're fouling my rig!”

Roo moved around the animal, its sides heaving from the exertion, and said, “You cut that too sharp, friend, and now you're hung up. Do you know how to back this animal?”

It was obvious he didn't. The sailor swore and jumped down, losing his balance and falling facedown into the thick ooze. Cursing and slipping as he tried to stand, he at last regained his feet and said, “Damn the day I tried to do a favor for a friend.”

Roo looked at the overloaded wagon, now up to the wheel hubs in mud. It was piled high with crates, all covered and lashed down with a canvas cover. “Your friend did you no favor. That load needs two horses or, better, four.”

Just then Jason yelled, “What is all this?”

Before Roo could answer, he heard Kurt's voice shouting, “Yes, Avery, what is this?”

“A blind man could see we have a wagon stuck in the doorway, Kurt,” he answered.

An inarticulate growl was the best reply he got. Then McKeller's voice cut through the sound of the driving rain. “What have we here?”

Roo hurried away from the mud-covered sailor and ducked under the neck of the still-panting animal.
Without bringing more mud into the entrance, he peered into the coffee house. McKeller and some of the waiters stood there just beyond the splash of mud and rain and watched the spectacle of a horse almost inside the establishment. “The driver is drunk, sir,” explained Roo.

“Drunk or sober, have him get that animal out of here,” demanded the ancient headwaiter.

Roo could see Kurt smirking at the order.

Roo turned and saw the sailor starting to walk away. He took three quick steps—as quick as possible in the ankle-deep mud—and overtook the man. Swinging him around by the arm, he said, “Wait a minute, mate!”

The sailor said, “Yer no mate of mine, bucko, but for all of that, I'll not hold it against you. Care for a drink?”

“You need a drink like that horse needs another lashing,” said Roo, “but, drunk or not, you need to get that wagon from out of my employer's doorway.”

The sailor looked halfway between anger and amusement. He took that pose of control assumed by drunks who don't wish to appear drunk, and slowly said, “Let me explain to you, me lad. A friend of mine named Tim Jacoby—a boyhood chum I just met today—convinced me that it would be better to be a wagon driver in his father's employ than to risk another voyage.”

Roo glanced back and with alarm saw the horse was attempting to kneel in the mud, an impossible act because of the confining traces. “Oh, gods!” he said, grabbing the sailor's arm and trying to pull him back toward the wagon. “He's colicking!”

“Wait a minute!” shouted the sailor, pulling away.
“I haven't finished.”

“No, but the horse has,” said Roo, grabbing the man again.

“I was saying,” continued the sailor, “I was to deliver this wagon to Jacoby and Sons, Freight Haulers, then get my pay.”

The horse started making a sick, squealing noise as Mc-Keller's voice sounded from the doorway, “Avery, move along, will you now? The customers are starting to be annoyed.”

Propelling the sailor back to the wagon, Roo found the old animal down on its knees, with its back legs trembling furiously. Pulling a knife from his tunic, Roo quickly cut the traces, and as if sensing freedom, the horse struggled to its feet, staggered forward, then collapsed into the mud. With a sigh that sounded like nothing so much as relief, the horse died.

“Damn me,” said the sailor. “What do you think of that?”

“Not bloody much,” said Roo. The horse had managed to stumble around the corner, so that now the other entrance was half-blocked. The exiting and entering patrons could now choose how they would get soaked and muddy: climbing around a filthy wagon or over a dead horse.

McKeller said, “Jason, you and the other boys pull that animal and that wagon away from here.”

Roo shouted, “No!”

McKeller said, “What did you say?”

Roo said, “I meant to say, I wouldn't advise that, sir.”

Roo could see McKeller peering past the wagon from the doorway as he said, “Why is that?”

Hiking his thumb toward the horse, Roo replied, “That animal was old and sick, but it's a draft horse. It weighs fourteen hundred pounds if it weighs an ounce. The entire staff's not going to be able to pull it from that sucking mud. And that wagon was too heavy for it to pull, so we won't be able to move it.”

“Do you have a suggestion?” called McKeller to the now completely snaked Roo.

Roo's eyes narrowed and a slight smile crossed his face for a moment as he said, “I think I do.” He turned to the sailor. “Walk to your friend's company and tell him that if he wants his cargo he can come here to claim it.”

“I think I'm going back to sea,” said the sailor. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a leather wallet, bulging with documents. “You can have this, sir,” he added with a drunken half-bow.

“You do and I'll hunt you down myself and kill you,” said Roo. He took the wallet and said, “Go tell your friend's father his freight is here at Barret's and to ask for Roo Avery, then you can go drown yourself in ale for all I care.”

The sailor said nothing as Roo shoved him away, but he turned in the direction he had indicated Jacoby's lay and not back toward the harbor.

“Jason!”

“Yes, Roo?”

“Run and find some knackers—wait!” he corrected himself. Knackers would charge money to cut up and haul away the animal. “Run to the Poor Quarter and find a sausage maker. Tell him what we've got here and that he only has to come and haul it away. The knackers are going to sell the meat for sausage anyway; why pay a middleman?”

Jason's voice could be heard asking McKeller if that was all right, and when the answer came in the affirmative, he ran out into the rain and disappeared quickly toward the Poor Quarter.

Roo quickly inspected the wagon and knew that it would never be moved until it was unloaded. “I'm going for some porters,” he shouted to McKeller. “We need to unload the cargo before we can move this rig.”

McKeller said, “Very well. As quickly as possible, Avery.” Roo hurried down to the next street, then one street over, until he came to a Porters' Guild hiring office. Stepping inside, he saw a dozen burly men sitting around a fire, waiting for work. Moving to the small desk where the Guild officer sat, he said, “I need eight men.”

“And who are you?” asked an officious little man sitting on the stool behind the desk.

“I'm from Barret' s and we have a wagon stuck in the mud in front of the coffee house. It needs to be unloaded before it can be moved.”

At the mention of Barret's, the man lost some of his officious manner. “How many men did you say?”

Years of being around teamsters and porters served Roo well, as without hesitation he said, “Your stoutest eight men.”

The officer quickly singled out eight of the twelve men and said, “There's an extra charge for the weather.”

Roo narrowed his gaze. In his best no-nonsense tone he said, “What? They're now tender boys who can't stand to get wet? Don't try to hold me up so you can cadge some extra drinking money, or I'll be talking to the Guild Masters about how many other
clever little schemes you may have conceived over the years. I was loading and unloading wagons since I could reach a tailgate, so don't be telling me about guild rules.”

Roo actually had no idea what he was talking about, but he could smell a con in his sleep. The man's face turned red as he made an inarticulate sound in his throat and said, “Actually, that is for snow and ice, not rain, now that I think on it. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Roo led the eight men back into the storm to the wagon. He unhitched the tailgate and pulled up the canvas. “Oh, damn,” he said. The cargo was mixed, but right before him was a large pile of fine silk, worth more gold than he'd make this year and the next, if he was any judge of fine fabric. But once wet and muddied, it might as well be homespun for the price it would command.

He said to the lead porter, “Wait here.” Rounding the wagon, he found McKeller still at the door with a mixed company of waiters and customers, the latter watching the performance with some amusement.

“I need one of the large, heavy tablecloths, sir.”

“Why?”

“Some of the cargo will have to be kept dry and . . .” He glanced around. Seeing the unused building catercorner to Barret's, he continued, “and we can put it there for the afternoon. But we'd probably have less difficulty if we kept the cargo undamaged. They might claim we damaged their goods and should have let it sit where it was until they came to collect it.”

That argument might not have convinced any inn or tavern keeper in Krondor that it was a good idea
to possibly ruin a precious tablecloth, but Barret's was an establishment founded on protecting cargo, among other investments, and McKeller nodded. With dozens of litigators among his clientele, he wanted nothing to do with a possible hearing before the local magistrate. “Fetch a large tablecloth,” he instructed Kurt.

Looking pained to have to do anything to help Roo, Kurt turned and moved between the patrons, returning a few minutes later with a large cloth.

Roo held it close to his chest and hunched over in an attempt to keep it as dry as possible as he ran to the back of the wagon. He pushed it under the tarp and then loosened the two end tie-downs. Holding the canvas up with one hand, he climbed awkwardly into the back of the wagon, making sure he didn't touch the precious silk. He motioned to the nearest porter and said, “Climb up here, but be cautious you touch nothing. Get any mud on this cloth and you'll be discharged without pay.”

The porter knew from the exchange in the hall that this boy knew a thing or two and that one of the Porters' Guild's reasons for existing was for goods to be carried without damage, so he was cautious enough to be almost slow in getting up next to Roo.

“Hold the canvas so it keeps this dry,” Roo said, pointing at the silk. Roo tried to examine the balance of the cargo, which was difficult in the dim afternoon light of this heavy storm. After a moment, he was convinced it could withstand a little water. He unfolded the table cloth and made sure that only the clean side, not the mud from his tunic that had gotten on it, touched the silk. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the entire bundle covered and turned
over and covered again by the large linen cloth, but when it was as protected as it was going to be, he said, “Now untie the rest of the tie-downs.”

The other porters hurried to obey, and when the job was done, he said, “Wrap this canvas around the bundle.”

Two porters jumped into the wagon and did as instructed, while Roo jumped down and started across the street. “Bring it here!” he shouted to the porters, urging them to move as quickly as possible.

He reached the door of the abandoned building and saw that there was a small, decorative lock on the door. He inspected and then rattled it. With no idea how to pick such a lock, he sighed, raised his boot, and kicked as hard as he could. The lock remained intact, but the small hasp's four screws pulled from the wood as the door swung inward.