| Chapter II | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 23 2009, 05:29 PM (56 Views) | |
| Beta | Jun 23 2009, 05:29 PM Post #1 |
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Chapter II Nathan raised his hands in what was hopefully a calming gesture “Look, Mrs Fennister, you can't just do this without-” “It's still wearing the damn shoe-iron!” someone shouted next to him. It wasn't really that helpful a thing to be shouting at the distressed mother, but Nathan had to admit, it was a pretty convincing point. No-one in their right mind would hold a baby that had a scrap of horseshoe iron around its neck and scream about changelings and baby-swapping. If true, that of course leant credence to the suggestion that Mrs Fennister wasn't entirely in her right mind. Nathan regarded her critically as she stood weeping in the middle of the bridge, dangling a naked baby – her own son- over the rushing water, her dirt-ridden smock twisted and torn beneath her bosum and what appeared to be a piece of dung dangling unattractively from her wispy hair. Mrs Fennister's lack of sanity was a suggestion that might be worth considering. He kept an eye on the boat ponderously making its way downstream. Polin was, hopefully, going to be able to get the barge underneath the bridge and maybe catch the babe in time, if the widow finally dropped it. The Hindle wasn't that wide at the bridge, so as long as the distressed mother didn't fling the boy wide out, there was a chance of saving it, with a bit of luck. The crowd gathering at both ends of the bridge were gambling on this. Nathan had already heard someone mention rushing the mother as soon as Polin was in position. That meant he had about two minutes to try and talk her down. He'd faced tougher propositions, but not by much. “Mrs Fennister!” He strode confidently forwards. It was better to act confident – at least then someone would think he knew what he was doing. He sure as hell didn't. “Mrs Fennister!” She turned to face him. He stopped where he was. Her slightly withered face was tear-stained, and she seemed to be focused on something that wasn't there. He wondered for a moment if she'd gone blind. “It's not my son,” she croaked, alarmingly quiet and human in comparison to the wailing, manic speech she had made a few minutes earlier. Nathan looked at the child she was holding at arm's length over the rail. It was sobbing in coughing, choking motions, quite unlike the normal healthy wail of a young babe. “It looks like your son,” he said, hesitantly. He hadn't seen the child since it had been a new-born, and only fleetingly then. He couldn't truthfully claim to be more sure than the mother. The old woman didn't really seem to hear him, but she turned to regard her child. “The Fey switched my young'un with this thing,” she said. Nathan was slightly wary of the way she waggled the dangling baby so casually. He turned to check that the rest of the crowd were staying put. It occurred to him that he had never signalled for them to do so, but nevertheless, they seemed happy to let him talk to the brain-addled mother alone. He turned back to find that she was staring at the river through the planks “Ah, did you.. see them?” he asked It was always best to cater to the fantasies of the deranged as much as you could. He'd learnt that at Kynnton, but that had been dealing with a different kind of derangement. Lives didn't depend on what some merchant's wife convinced herself she could wear. It was always much more real, here in the north. That was a point being rammed home hard. “They took my baby,” she muttered, ignoring him. The arm waggled again. “Well, then we'll get it back,” he said, lowering his posture to try and meet her gaze. “We'll call the town together and go to counsel with the Fey...” “No!” she hissed, suddenly, snapping her head up. Nathan jerked back reflexively, but caught himself. Her eyes still seemed unfocused, but they burned with mania nonetheless. “Don't you want your son back?” he asked, trying to keep his unease hidden. She looked at the child with a strange expression, and Nathan had a split second of realisation. Then she released it. His flailing swipe over the rail caught only air, and the naked babe was plunged into the cold, rushing waters. “Crazy bitch!” screamed a female voice, as the crowd surged forward to envelope the fragile old woman, lifting her bodily from the ground. *** “It's alive!” came the shout. Nathan breathed a sigh of relief, and began to shoulder his way through the crowd. Polin was stood on the bank, cradling the precious package he had just snatched from the water. “Breathing,” announced Polin, distractedly staring into the crowd, as if looking for instruction “It's breathing.” Nathan pushed past an old woman who must have been twice Mrs Fennister's age and found himself looking at the child he had thought dead not four minutes ago. “I just fished him out,” said Polin, reverently staring down at the blue, sputtering face. “I got him by the charm with my pole, and...” he raised the child awkwardly in demonstration. “Just like a pair of boots.” Nathan smiled at the reference. Polin probably wasn't even aware he was doing it. The smile disappeared quickly as he examined the baby Fennister. “We need to get this lad warmed up,” he said, urgently “Who has a blanket?” A woman had already pushed forward bearing one, and now she took the child, wrapping it in a chequered blanket and lifting it out of Polin's muscular arms. The look she gave Nathan clued him in that his help was no longer needed. Not that he'd really helped much. Together, he and Polin made their way back up the slope to the bridge. Around them, the crowd flowed. While one group was fussing around the woman who carried the precious bundle they had just delivered, another group wrestled with the sender, who was being forcefully subdued despite her screeched protests. “Can't blame me,” she wailed “T'weren't no human babe I dropped!” A middle-aged woman kicked her hard in the mouth, and she fell silent, blood pouring over her chin and her eyes rolling. She was lifted up off the ground and dragged roughly down the path towards Holcaster. Someone clapped the woman on the shoulder, and she nodded, breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed with anger. “She's a mother,” Nathan observed solemnly. “Aye,” agreed Polin “That's Missus Huckle – she lost a babe last winter.” “Ah.” Nathan watched as the rest of the crowd gradually dispersed, drifting down the path in twos and threes. Mrs Huckle was the only one who walked alone, though a couple of people tried intercepting her before they saw her face. There was someone who would be making sure Fennister got brought to account. Nathan saw Polin watch her with a grim, heavy expression. “Must sting,” The boatsman said, shifting his boots across the planks. Nathan nodded his agreement. “She knew,” he said, inclining his head to where Fennister had stood screaming her garbled intent, dangling her child. “She knew it was her child, and she still dropped it.” Polin looked surprised, but only for an instant. He fumbled with his hands, as was his custom when he was really thinking on something. He always needed something to do with his hands when he thought, Polin. If you considered the money he made from whittling his little wooden statues, that meant he had had an awful lot of time to think. “Spose we shoulda guessed that,” he finally said. Nathan was gratified that Polin didn't question how he knew what he had said. “She knows the iron-charm works,” continued the big boatman “And she saw it round that child's neck, just like the rest of us.” Nathan grimaced and nodded. “The Fey haven't come a'changing in some time,” he supplied. “It's not like she had any reason to reckon that way, did she?” Polin chewed his lip. “She might not a'had any reason at all, Nath,” he said, after a pause. Nathan remembered the glimpse he had seen in the woman's eyes. “I dont know about that, Polin – I reckon she had some.” He stood straight, not wanting to dwell further on the woman's motives, or lack thereof. Polin moved with him, apparently sensing the mood. By unspoken agreement they both started to head back to where Nathan had left his cart. Nothing to do now but get his stuff into town and set up stall. Oh, and the other thing, of course. “Always more real, in the north,” said Polin. “See it every time I come back up, y'know, - I guess this was our welcome home.” “The north is a bitch,” replied Nathan. Reality was, mostly. *** They left the cart outside Mel's Inn. Nathan had tied his mule to a post, but there wasn't too much risk of his cart getting moved. Mel would keep an eye on it, anyway. Nathan stayed at the inn enough for his patronage to be worth protecting. Right now, he and Polin were headed for the Arms. Everyone knew this about Holcaster. While Mel's served ales, and some questionable food would be produced from the back kitchen if you asked for it, it was the Holcaster Arms that you visited for good ales and warm food. Not exceptionally good food, really, just a short menu; gruel, sausages, mutton steak, fish or broth. Served with bread, no matter what you ordered. Nathan was practically drooling at the expectation. Trading was one of those occupations where you tried to minimise your expenses until you had enough profit. The problem with that, of course, was you never really considered yourself to have 'enough' profit. Nathan never had, anyway. But maybe that was just his wares. Anyway, even the fare at the Arms seemed heavenly compared with the weak gruel and stale bread he'd been eating in Kynnton. “We gonna tell 'em all at once?” Polin asked, pausing to gesture at the town around them. Nathan regarded Holcaster critically as he remembered the message they carried. The streets were just dirt paths separating or leading to people's homes and workplaces, with the exception of South Road, which lead, with a typical Holcastrian attitude, west, to the bridge Nathan had just crossed and then eventually to what was known by most of the world as the North Road. Of course, it lead south. Well – if you came from Holcaster it did. Things got a little confusing for Holcaster folk that headed south. Nathan knew that better than most. “Nah,” said Nathan, watching a mother shepherd her young boy home. “I reckon it's best to tell Goram, and let him make the announcements.” Polin nodded sagely. “As you like, Nath – I'll let you handle Goram then.” Nathan chuckled to himself as the two continued on their path. “Oh how nice of you, Polin – here's me thinking you'd be having a nice chummy chat with him about trading.” Polin chuckled back, though somewhat less amused. “Oh he'll come around soon enough, old Goram,” he replied, shaking his head as they approached the tavern. Nathan just nodded. Polin and Goram had fallen out over some goods Goram had bought off a trader Polin had ferried upriver from Johnsdeep. Polin had refused to hand the trader over to Goram after the blankets had frayed and the baskets rotted within the week. There had been a bad mood between the two ever since, and recently Nathan had felt a bit of the hostility washing over onto himself, which was never good for business. The tavern's thick wooden door was opened with difficulty, the wood jamming even in the relatively mild temperatures of early autumn. Could be worse. Nathan had walked in taverns down south where the doors didn't even shut properly, the rooms kept warm purely by the crowds of people and the roaring, smoky fires. There was a roaring fire in the Arms, of course, but the tavern could hardly be described as crowded. Denson, the owner, stood behind the bar drawing a pint from a keg of ale, while his two girls swept around cleaning tables. A couple of punters enjoyed a pint here and there. Noise from the kitchen suggested that Denson might have gone ahead and hired another girl in the time Nathan had been away. “Hey Denson,” called out Polin, “Get us a couple of pints, will'ya?” Denson looked up and smiled briefly to see the pair of traders, passing a mug to the patron he was serving then turning to draw a draft for each of them before they reached the bar. “Good to see the pair of you,” he commented, sliding the mugs across the bar and taking a couple of coins from Polin. Nathan had bought the drinks the last time the pair had visited a tavern, down in Johnsdeep, so Polin could take the bill this time around. They both took a draught before replying to the balding barman. “Good to see yah too, Denson,” said Nathan, savouring the taste of a good ale. “Got some stock you might be interested in, on the morrow'.” Denson looked up with interest. “I'll be sure to give it a look-over then – your stock's always worth an eye-up, Nath.” He tapped on a wine-casket by way of illustration “This has sold well – brought some good business way the past few months.” Nathan ran his mind over his purchases, a mental inventory he had built up almost reflexively over the past eight months serving him well. “I got another keg on the cart, but I'll make sure to get a good stock next time I get to Kynnton.” Denson nodded his thanks “Good'n, Nath – Say, there any news from Kynnton?” Polin nudged Nathan, who was suddenly reminded also. “Yeah, I'll fill you in later, Denson, have you seen Goram around?” The barman gestured to a sheltered table in the corner by the fire, and Nathan wondered how he'd missed the elder, sat in his usual chair and talking to another grizzled Holcastrian, as if he hadn't moved in the past year. “Good'n, Denson,” he said, and set his mug down, walking over to where Goram was finishing off a pint while his drinking buddy span a long-winded tale. “Goram,” he called. The elder looked around warily, and Nathan felt some of the associated ill-will in that look. But it quickly softened. “If it ain't young Nathan,” he said, rising to clasp a firm grip on Nathan's wrist. “Good trading down in the soppy south?” Nathan made a half-laugh. Holcastrians had a misconception that the south of Elbon was better off than the north. After experiencing eight long trips down to the south, he had been forced to abandon that viewpoint. As far as he could see, the miserable weather was equally applied across Elbon, and miserable people the same, as his purse-strings would testify. “Aye, well enough,” he replied “Listen, I need a word, Goram...” he waved out to the centre of the quiet taven. Interest piqued, the man followed him until they stood away from everyone else, in the centre of the room. “What's the matter, then?” Goram spoke softly, his eyes flickering only once to Polin by the bar. That matter really ought to be dealt with soon. “There's some news from Kynnton I thought you better hear ahead of the others,” Nathan replied softly. “Oh aye?” Goram said, flicking an eyebrow “Well go on, lad, what is it?” Nathan twisted his thumb. The news wasn't any fault of his, but that didn't stop him being nervous about delivering it. “King Villem has bowed his head to the Union,” he muttered. Goram twitched in shock, his moustache rising as his upper lip wrinkled. “Villem's dropped his crown?” he asked incredulously, glancing around the tavern as he moved closer. Nathan made a vague gestures with his hands. “Sort of,” he replied “The news in Kynnton was a bit confused, but I think Villem managed to keep his crown, just in fealty.” Goram nervously tugged on a charm hung around his neck. The issue of Union envoys pestering Ebon's continental regent had been sparking discomfort across the north for some time now. There was no doubt this news was going to cause trouble. “So what does that mean for us, lad?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Norland is Union land now,” replied Nathan, feeling a slight chill as he heard himself say it. “They're including Ebon in that, too. Lord Wrikhem's accepted a Legion from the continent into Abnerscathe, and some even say an Augur came with them.” Goram spat on the floor at the name, and Nathan followed the gesture hesitantly. The Augurs were one of the principle reasons the Union was so distrusted in the north. Witchery was not an acceptable practise to people who still feared the touch of the Fey. There was a short silence as neither man spoke. From the quality of the atmosphere around them, Nathan was fairly convinced everyone else in the tavern was trying to listen in to the conversation. That included Polin, who'd already heard the news but no doubt wanted to listen to how it went down. “This ain't good news, lad,” said Goram heavily, finally breaking the pause. “The town's going to be in an uproar – heck, I'm pretty riled myself.” Nathan shrugged. “T'ain't my doing, Goram,” he said “I don't like it any more than anyone else.” Goram flashed a wry smirk at him. “I know, Nath – I ain't gonna blame you – but some folk'll place you as part and parcel of this deal, whether it's right or not.” Nathan hadn't considered this. The Union usually spread its poisonous propaganda through the traders and merchants, the word from the continent said. They promised removal of tariffs, favourable taxes and all the other things the more successful merchants tended to want, so that the wealthier commoners would support them when they came a'knocking. Nowadays, many people thought all traders to be secret - if not outright - Unionists. For him to be the one bringing this news... But who else was there? Only the traders like him and Polin travelled south on any regular basis. They were the only source of news for isolated townships like Holcaster. Neither of them had ever knowingly spoken to a Unionist, yet they would be the ones to take the blame for Villem's submission, being both traders and the ones who brought the disturbing news. Even carrying word of the Union brought you trouble, it seemed. This was not good. Nathan didn't like the idea of fellow Holcastrians thinking he was in league with the foreign revolutionaries. He found it tough enough to get a kind word as it was. Some of his worry must have shown in his face, because Goram clapped him on the arm reassuringly. “Don't fret,” he said encouragingly “I'll talk folk around and make 'em see it ain't your doing, aye?” Nathan smiled his thanks, though the issue was still weighing on him now Goram had suggested it. “Aye, thanks Goram,” he replied. A thought crossed his mind. “Oh, and something happened on the way in,” he said. “Mrs Fennister tossed her babe into the Hindle, claiming it was Fey-changed.” Goram groaned, rubbed his face, and ran his fingers through his beard. “The babe alive?” he asked. Nathan nodded. “But chilled,” he added. “Shivering cold and blue as a button.” Goram nodded thoughtfully. “And Mrs Fennister?” he questioned. “They took her into town,” Nathan replied. “Didn't see where they went, but I'd reckon she's under lock.” Goram sighed. “You bring me nothing but joy, Nathan,” he said, scuffing his boots and turning back to his corner “Alright, I'm having another pint. We'll tackle this pretty bundle later.” Nathan smiled, and went back to join Polin by the bar. No doubt he'd have to relate the whole conversation the moment Denson's back was turned. Hopefully he'd manage to get a fair few pints out of the boatsman before Goram dragged him off to confront the town with the news. He got the feeling he'd be needing all the courage he could muster for that encounter – liquid or otherwise. |
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12:55 AM Jul 11