“Aye,” K’lars said. “I’ll take a look.” He left, closing the door behind himself, his footfalls receding.
The captain removed the bracelets and rolled up his map, replacing it then walking over to another cabinet. He retrieved a fluted red bottle and two thick glasses, brought them back to the table, and sat heavily.
“Sweet cherry wine,” he said, pouring Direfang a glass first, then one for himself. “With a little extra: rosemary, fennel seeds, sage, lemon peels-distilled and aged to perfection.” He took a sip and closed his eyes appreciatively. “I’ve some stout and pine drink too. But they pale to this.”
Direfang copied him, finding the liquid heady and like warm syrup on his tongue. It would be easy to down it in one gulp; he’d never tasted anything so sweet. But he’d seen men in Steel Town after too much drink, and he didn’t want to dull his senses or show any weakness to the captain.
“It is good indeed,” Direfang pronounced, thinking he should say something about the drink.
“Aye, it is that.” Gerrold held his finger against his lips. “Shh. I don’t share it often. Not even K’lars knows I have this.” He took another sip and held it in his mouth, savoring it before finally swallowing. “So tell me, Direfang, why all the secrecy? Why the Qualinesti Forest?”
The captain was not one to let a question go unanswered, the hobgoblin decided. He took another careful swallow and set the glass down on the table between two gold necklaces. “The place is supposedly empty of elves,” he began. “A place free of ogres too. A place to be free. Mudwort says we should go there, says it is the best place. And Mudwort is to be trusted.” He held onto the base of the glass, his thumbs slowly circling against the smooth crystal. “It is a place to build a nation, and a place to be left alone.”
Direfang surprised himself, confiding in a human. It couldn’t be the drink; he’d not yet had enough to muddle his senses. But the captain had a genial, easy nature … when away from the ship’s wheel. And he spoke to Direfang as an equal, in a manner that not even the Dark Knight priest and wizard exhibited. Perhaps it was that easygoing manner that coaxed so many words out of the hobgoblin.
He told Gerrold tales about the difficult work in the mines, and after he finished his first glass and they’d both started on their second, he revealed some of the atrocities he’d witnessed, including a Dark Knight priest magically slaying Graytoes’ unborn baby.
“Not all men are so ugly,” Gerrold remarked. He ran his finger around the lip of the glass, producing a faint humming sound. “Though I trust that you’re making a good move, heading to the forest. Big enough to lose yourself in, despite the thousands of goblins you’ve with you. And the elves abandoned the forest, most of them anyway. Not all men are ugly, you should know. But most of them are thick with prejudice and won’t accept you and your kin. Keep on hunting you and enslaving you. Best that you do as you prefer, go to Qualinesti, build a nation and hide away there.”
“Why so sympathetic?” Direfang hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud. He thought it bordered on being rude, yet he blurted it out.
Gerrold shrugged then tipped his glass up and drained it. “My father served on a ship, not quite so fine as this one. He was pressed into the work, never to see me or my mother again. I don’t know if he’s still alive. So I understand slavery. And I understand men. The body is a shell that conceals the inside, Direfang. Mine, yours, K’lars’s. See, K’lars doesn’t get on well in most places. People don’t like the looks of him. The minotaurs on the Wavechaser, they have it worse in spots. I’ve other mates of mixed … parentage. It’s what’s inside the shell that counts, I’ve learned.” He poured the rest of the wine, dividing it between his and the hobgoblin’s glasses. “Was it this priest who killed the baby?”
Direfang shook his head and glanced down, seeing his reflection on the surface of the wine. “This priest was the least of Steel Town’s evils.”
Gerrold worked a kink out of his neck and wrapped his right hand around his glass. The fingers of his left hand played slowly over the links of a thick necklace. “The priest … Horace … I don’t think he wants to be a slave anymore. He wants to join my crew.”
The hobgoblin looked surprised, turning the glass, his reflection distorted by the ripples in the wine. “Fine. But only after the Clare reaches the Qualinesti Forest. A slave until then.”
“And the wizard … Grallik N’sera?”
Direfang took a long pull on the wine, letting it ease down his throat. He felt warm, and his tongue felt thick. He’d not planned to drink so much that his senses whirled.
“The wizard bought this ship,” the hobgoblin said. His words sounded thick too.
“Bought it for you, Direfang, I understand. With gems worth more than our take from the Blithe Dagger.”
“Won’t need the ship beyond the Qualinesti Forest.”
“Then I could buy it back from you,” Gerrold suggested. “Everything I have here for the Clare. Though that would be a bargain for me and a bit of a loss for you, given what you paid the original owner.”
“So be it. Fine.” Direfang took another pull. The wine had relaxed him. He didn’t mind quite so much the rocking of the Clare anymore.
“And I ask again, the wizard? Grallik N’sera?”
Direfang raised an eyebrow. The captain was a persistent devil.
“What about the wizard? Why does he interest you so much?” the hobgoblin asked.
“Will he remain your slave after we reach the Qualinesti Forest?”
Direfang finished the wine and rose from his chair, careful to hold on to the table to steady himself. He’d not had anything so strong since … well, probably never, he realized. He grunted at the captain. Some questions he still wouldn’t answer. The hobgoblin leader shuffled over to the corner where the packs and scroll tubes were piled up, and began to riffle through his treasures.
THE WOODEN RELIC
Mudwort’s stomach clenched. She sat in the hold on a tall crate at the prow, as alone as possible in the crowded wooden cave. The motion was worse there with the ship rising and falling. It was not so pronounced at the opposite end, where most of the goblins huddled, including Saro-Saro, who was wrapped in his green blanket, his head on a pillow he found somewhere, trying to sleep.
She didn’t like the close air and longed terribly for a fresh breeze that would carry away some of the mustiness of her kinsmen. The smell from all the bodies crammed together was strong and clung bitterly to her tongue. No amount of spitting would get rid of it. She breathed shallowly and cupped her hands over her mouth to keep out the foulest of the aroma. Added to everything was the smell of waste and vomit, which hung heavy in the room as some of the goblins were perpetually sick from the motion of the ship. And a dozen seemed to be still sick from the illness that had taken so many by the river.
“S’dards, not to have washed with the skull man in the sea,” she muttered. “S’dard Direfang, not to wash the sick ones over the side now.” The hobgoblin had to know that some of Saro-Saro’s and Cattail’s clans were ill with spots, she thought. Though she hadn’t seen the hobgoblin down in the hold since the beginning of the trip. Maybe he was oblivious that the illness lingered. “S’dard Direfang.”
How could her fellow goblins not be bothered by the nasty smells in the stale, close air? They seemed more worried about the sea. Perhaps it was because their senses of smell were not as keen as hers. Perhaps it was because so many of them slept and were oblivious.
Not all of the goblins were down in the hold breathing all of that fetid atmosphere. Some were in the galley; the cook had demanded they eat in shifts. The goblins did not argue about which clan should go first; they were subdued from the storm and the loss of their kinsmen to the storm. And they were grateful for something cooked that was certain to be tasty.