Max nodded and peered out into the gloom while the loons and bitterns called in the cold, wet morning. Thirty minutes passed before a shape emerged from the haze—a flat-bottomed raft capable of ferrying several wagons across. A dozen grim-looking men stood about its periphery, leaning on long oars that dripped with lake mud. The leader squinted at the caravan and its three passengers. He barked something irritably in a Slavic-sounding language.
“I don’t understand,” said Toby nervously.
“Where are other wagons?” inquired the man, his words slow and suspicious. “You ring bell three times. Three rings means three wagons. I bring more men for three wagons. You pay for three wagons.”
“Oh,” said the smee. “I didn’t know. Three it is, then, but we’re in a hurry.”
The man laughed bitterly. “Aren’t we all?”
Max handed Toby some coins. Once they tossed the exorbitant fee across, the ferrymen used their long poles to position the raft against the dock. Hurrying off, the men helped lead the mules aboard and secured the heavy wagon at the raft’s center with a system of ropes. The workers were brisk and efficient but offered no greetings or conversation as they went about their business. Many were badly scarred, missing fingers or limping from some past injury. Max imagined each must have survived untold horrors before arriving at Piter’s Folly, where there was safety in numbers and the lake’s deep waters served as an enormous moat.
“What you bring?” asked the leader, glancing at the wagon once the ferry had pushed off.
“Coffee,” replied Toby. “Some sugar. Two casks of phosphoroil and a hundred iron ingots.”
“You should have brought more iron,” the ferryman grunted. “Blacksmiths are busy. People want weapons before they leave.”
“Leave?” asked David. “Where are they going?”
The man shrugged and lit a pipe of strong, black tobacco. “West … north … wherever they can. Aamon’s winning the war, little goblin. His armies will be here soon. I hear his scouts have passed in the night. Prusias may leave us be, but Aamon will not. No humans live in Dùn. Soon none will live here.”
As they sculled ahead, the town slowly emerged as a cluster of brown and gray shapes against the morning gloom. Now Max could hear hammers and saws, a woman’s call. They passed moored platforms where crops were growing in floating soil beds. A small cottage loomed into view at the end of a long dock. A bundled little boy was sitting at the end, dangling a hook into the water while the mutt at his side waited patiently for his breakfast. Upon sighting the goblins, the boy stiffened. His dark eyes followed them until they had eased past and out of sight.
They passed a number of similar houses and floating gardens before they reached the town’s main dock. Anchored to the island, the landing was already crowded with crates and baggage and anxious residents. It appeared the ferryman was correct and many intended to flee before Aamon’s forces arrived. It was a chaotic scene, and it was clear that some were displeased with the ferryman for transporting goblins when time was scarce and many desired passage across.
Ignoring the hissing rebukes and angry muttering, the ferryman tossed ropes to his associates, who moored the raft against the pier. Clearing a path through the multitude, the ferryman and his workers led the mules and wagon down the ramp and gruffly reminded the crowd that honest travelers were to be left to their business, lest trade should wither. Cuffing a youth who was prying at the caravan doors, the ferryman repeated his admonition in a louder voice. He was apparently a person of some influence, for the throng withdrew so that the caravan now had an unobstructed path to the island’s narrow lanes. Emptying his pipe, the ferryman came around to where Toby was waiting anxiously.
“I can’t take you back until nightfall. If I were you, I would not haggle too hard. Watch yourself and meet me here when the bell rings for evening watch.”
Toby nodded and gave the man several coppers by way of gratitude. Shaking the reins, he called out to the mules and they clopped forward, brushing past the crowd and down into the lane.
The way was relatively narrow but well maintained, encircling the island while smaller lanes branched off, leading to grazing pastures and gardens, shops and dwellings. Everywhere, there were cats slinking about in their wake or darting across their path. Toby shivered at the sight of them.
“I don’t like cats,” he confessed. “Don’t like the way they look at me—like they know a secret.”
“I wonder why there are so many,” said Max.
“Keeps the rodents down,” David muttered, “and some believe they drive evil spirits away.”
“Now let’s see,” said Toby, “Kolbyt said it’s the largest house at the end of the lane that runs along the shoreline. Here we go.…”
Max thought it a rather conspicuous address for a smuggler. The house was by far the largest and most luxurious residence they’d seen, a pale yellow Victorian with three stories, a dozen gables, and a half-dozen chimneys poking from its slate roof.
Situated on a sloping, pastured outcropping, the estate boasted its own herds and a private dock that Max could glimpse through occasional gaps in the hedge. A white fence bordered the property, and Toby drove the mules within its broad gate and down the gravel driveway to the main residence.
“I thought we’d be knocking on a door in some alley,” said Max. “What’s Petra’s legitimate business supposed to be?”
“Furs mostly,” replied Toby. “And land. You can’t build anything on Piter’s Folly without going through her, and she wrings out every last copper. Speaking of which, I’ll need more money—at least fifty silvers’ worth. Gold is better if you have some.”
Max counted out the money and handed a small pouch to the smee, who weighed it lovingly before reining the mules to a halt on the circular drive. The front door opened and a young girl in a green smock slipped outside, twirling a paintbrush between her slender fingers. Leaning out over the porch, she gazed down at them disdainfully.
“What do you want?” she said, speaking English and sounding bored.
Whipping off his hat, Toby stood and bowed. “Greetings,” he croaked in Kolbyt’s hoarse voice. “We beg an audience with Madam Petra.”
“You’re supposed to go round back, you know,” sniffed the girl. “The service entrance.”
“Very sorry,” said Toby, reaching for the reins.
“Don’t bother,” she scoffed. “Madam Petra’s busy and cannot possibly see you. Try again in a week.”
Toby seemed to anticipate this. The ensuing negotiations were swift and exceedingly expensive. When the girl had weighed Max’s purse in her hand and counted every last coin, she turned on her heel and walked back to the front door.
“Mother!” she bellowed. “There are three goblins here to see you!”
“Don’t shout, dear,” came a silky voice from an upstairs window. “Take them around back and Dmitri will meet them in the rose garden. Offer them something to drink.”
The girl fixed them with an acid stare. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Wine if you have it,” said Toby cheerfully. “Water if you don’t.”
Rolling her eyes, the girl shooed them impatiently toward a garlanded gate that led around the house. Once Skeedle started the mules in that direction, she stormed back inside and slammed the door shut behind her.
“She’s pleasant,” muttered David, ducking a low-hanging branch.
“This isn’t quite what I expected,” whispered Max, gazing through the house’s windows as they wound around toward the back. Inside, he saw maidservants dusting and cleaning rooms whose rich appointments evoked a tranquil estate rather than some secret smuggler’s den. Passing by one broad window, Max spied the easel and canvas where the girl had been working on a still life in the style of the Dutch masters. He saw no evidence that Madam Petra’s household was in a state of alarm or intended to flee before Yuga or Aamon’s armies.