David Cook - Beyong the Moons

“Let’s hurry, sir.” A gigantic sneeze shook the fabric. “It’s hot, and it itches my nose,” complained the voice inside.

“To the waterfront, then,” Teldin said cheerily. “An inn and a ship, in that order. And if all else fails, we can become street comedians!”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” muttered Gomja from deep inside his cowl.

Teldin plopped onto the bed in their room. The hostler of the Golden Dory had been wary of letting his place to such a strange pair. Teldin’s eastern accent easily marked him as a stranger to Palanthas, and the cloaked giff hadn’t made matters any easier. Still, Teldin doubted the innkeeper would have given them a room at all if he had seen Gomja uncovered. As it was, it took some hard bargaining, along with a few well-timed growls from the giff, to secure lodgings. Only the farmer’s assurances and a little extra steel soothed the man’s fears.

Up in the room, the human thought and planned while the giff shrugged his way out of his cloak. With a whooping gasp, like a swimmer breaking the surface, Gomja cast the tentlike mantle into a corner. “Thank the Great Captain!” he cried, glad to be out of his confinement. Gomja carefully unbuckled his sword, then sat on the floor with a resounding thud. “What next sir?”

Teldin looked up, roused from his thoughts. Fingers poised before his lips, he considered their choices. "A bath and a shave, then I’m off to find a ship.” Gomjas mouth opened, ready with an offer to come along, but Teldin cut him off. “You’re staying here. It’ll be easier that way. I’ll arrange for the innkeeper to bring up a meal. Stay in the room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir” Gomja answered sullenly, his eyes downcast. “But I should go with you-I’m your bodyguard.”

“Since when?” Teldin countered firmly as he pulled off his boots. He did not want an answer, so he continued before the giff could give one. “And if you answer the door, make sure you’re covered up. We don’t want to give some poor servant a fright.” Teldin opened the door and stepped into the hall barefooted. He stuck his head back in the room and added, “Now, I’m going to see about hot baths.”

Later, a clean-shaven and scrubbed Teldin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. A laundress had even managed to get some of the grime out of his clothes, though his pants were still damp as a result. Going to the table, the farmer studied his reflection in the water basin. Teldin looked unchanged, except for haggard circles under his eyes and a few singes and bruises, as if none of his adventures had ever occurred. He was back, once again, to his handsome self. The farmer finished dressing, then paused and mentally adjusted the cloak, reducing it again to a small collar. Teldin had heard of cursed treasures that plagued their owners and could not be lost or removed. If the cloak was cursed, at least it was accommodating.

“I really should go with you, sir,” protested Gomja for the umpteenth time.

Teldin only shook his head. “You’re too obvious. I’ll have to be on the watch for Vandoorm.” The giff only frowned. “Look, Gomja, if I’m alone, I can avoid him, but you’ll stand out like a torch in the night. Even with the cloak there aren’t many people as tall or as broad as you.

“Then at least take a sword, sir,” Gomja urged.

Again Teldin shook his head no. “I’m no good with them. I’d more likely hurt myself in a fight. Besides, carrying swords in Palanthas makes people nervous.

“Well, at least that’s something I can do,” the giff said with a petulant sigh. “I would be glad to teach you how to fight, sir.”

Teldin rubbed his smooth chin, considering Gomja’s offer. Until last night, the farmer had always assumed he would be able to handle himself in a fight. He could brawl with the best of them, but a real battle, like the previous night’s massacre, showed how much he really needed to learn. The violence of actual bloodletting was frightening. Swordsmanship was not one of the arts he had learned with the Whitestone army. After all, no one expected mule skinners to fight.

“Agreed,” he said, “but not right now.” The giff gave a wan smile, proving he was mollified in some small way.

Teldin finished with his preparations and left the room, pausing outside long enough to be certain that Gomja did not try to follow. Satisfied that the giff was following his instructions, Teldin left the inn and headed for the waterfront. He warily watched along the way for any sign of Vandoorm or his men.

Walking along the quays, Teldiri was amazed by the number and variety of ships. He could hardly tell that Palanthas had suffered through two wars in recent memory. Perversely, those wars, the War of the Lance and the Siege of Palanthas, which had threatened to destroy the city, only managed to bring greater prosperity. During the War of the Lance, the threat of blockade had forced the ruling lord to spend vast sums improving the harbor and its facilities. The second war, marked by Kitiara’s invasion, reinforced the need to maintain the port, and the Lord of Palanthas had paid greater attention to his harbor ever since.

Palanthas had been a large port before, but now it was even larger and busier. Coasters, fat, round-bottomed ships from Kalaman, Caergoth, and Eastport, were tied next to the tall and graceful elven caravels. The shimmering silken banners of the Silvamori ships were, in turn, a contrast to the gaudily decked little cogs from Hylo. That the kender ships, with their crazy patchwork of “borrowed” parts and endless streams of multicolored sails, could float at all seemed like something of a miracle to Teldin.

“How do I know where they sail?” the farmer asked himself. “Or when they sail?” There were so many ships bobbing against the wooden piers that Teldin did not have a notion of how or where to start. He leaned on a piling, elbows resting on top, chin cradled in his hands. During the war it seemed there had never been enough ships coming to Palanthas. The threat of siege had hung over the city. Now there were too many. The port was alive with strange vessels and stranger crews.

“Well, my boy, find a gnomish ship,” Teldin finally resolved. He began walking up and down the quay. He had no idea what kind of ship gnomes would use, but he guessed it would be little. They were not a tall people, so it stood to reason that they would not have a big ship.

Teldin walked the length of the marina without any luck. There were small ships, particularly kender vessels, but they looked distinctly unseaworthy. Teldin didn’t care if those ships were going to Sancrist. He wasn’t about to sail on one of them. Finally he gave up and called to one of the porters hauling a bundle aboard a salt-stained galley. “Where can I find a ship to Sancrist?” Teldin shouted over the noise of the laborers.

The sweating worker stopped and let his load crash onto the dock. “The Hall of Merchants, where else, ye big lubber!” the man said, pointing toward a large, white marble hall at the far end of the waterfront. “All ships in port register there.” Before Teldin could thank him, the man heaved the bale onto his shoulder and turned away. The farmer ignored the man’s attitude, picked his way through the wagons waiting to be laden, and headed to where the man had indicated.

The Hall of Merchants was a guildhall, the headquarters of the masters who controlled trade in and out of the city. Teldin’s greeting at the hail was barely more courteous than the porter’s. The yeoman felt distinctly out of place and spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon being passed from one apprentice clerk to another. Finally, just before Teldin’s patience gave out, a thin-nosed scribe looked over the top of his dog-eared register and said in answer to Teldin’s inquiry, “I think there is one going for Sancrist tomorrow. Let me see- the Silver Spray , it is.”