Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“We were heroes this afternoon,” Jarek objected, “me and Darll. We whipped those bastards.”

“Now, now,” Graym said admonishingly. “You hardly knew them, Jarek. Don’t speak ill of people just because they tried to kill you.”

Darll agreed. “Other than being the usual low, sorry sort of lowlifes you find in these parts, they weren’t bad at all. They were bounty hunters.” He eyed Graym suspiciously.

“Seems an unfriendly way to make a living,” Graym said. He scratched his head, belched, and settled back. “Inventory,” he announced.

The others suddenly looked nervous. “Will we have to sign for things?” Jarek asked. “I hate that.”

Graym shook his head. “Nah, nah. This is just counting, and remembering”—he took another sip of ale—“and history. We started with nine barrels. Remember the loading? We pushed them on from all sides, and they shifted when we started rolling.”

Fenris nudged his brother. “And one rolled away and smashed on Dog Street.”

Fanris kicked him. “I couldn’t hold it. It was hard to see, it being dark and all.”

Darll’s eyes opened. “You loaded in the dark? For the love of Paladine, why?”

Jarek said reasonably, “We didn’t want to be seen.”

Darll laughed, a short bark. “No wonder the horses ran off. They didn’t even know you, did they? You stole them! And the cart, I’ll wager.”

“Jem and Renny, poor flighty nags. They never liked us,” Graym said sadly. “Well, that’s one barrel. Eight left.”

“There was the barrel on the bridge,” Jarek offered, “out side of town.”

“We’d picked up Darll, and he was putting up a fight—”

“That’s right, blame me.” Darll glared at them all. “I only wanted to leap off at the bridge.”

“And hit us,” Fenris said.

“And kill us,” Fanris added, hurt.

“And hit and kill you,” Darll agreed. “I did fairly well, for being hung over.”

“You might have drowned, sir,” Graym said. “That wouldn’t do when you’re in our charge, would it?”

“He hit me,” Jarek said, rubbing his head.

“And me,” Fen said.

“And me,” Fan added.

Darll settled back. “Stop whining. I didn’t kill you.” His scowl, fierce under his salt-and-pepper beard, seemed to add an unspoken “yet.”

After a short silence, Graym continued. “One of the barrels dropped into Mirk River, leaving seven. After that, we didn’t lose a one—not in the Black Rain, not in the Dry Lands, not in the swamps. We can be proud of that.”

Jarek squared his shoulders. The Wolf brothers grinned, exposing teeth best left hidden.

Graym went on. “And today we beat back a bettertrained force—”

“Any force would be better trained,” Darll muttered.

“That’s harsh, sir. We won through strategy—”

“Luck.”

“Or luck, but not,” Graym said sadly, “without casualties. We smashed two barrels, a major loss.” He stared, brooding, into the fire.

Jarek counted on his fingers twice, then said proudly. “I know! I know! That leaves six barrels—”

“Yes. Five full barrels,” Graym said. He walked unsteadily to the wagon. “And one other” He thumped it three times, pausing to let it echo. “One … empty … barrel.”

The others ducked their heads, avoided his eyes. “It leaked,” Darll said, shrugging.

Graym rocked the barrel back and forth and ran his hands around it. “Bone dry. No water marks, no foam flecks.”

“Ghosts.” Jarek looked solemn.

Graym snorted. “Ever seen a drunk ghost?”

Since none of them had seen a ghost of any sort, drunk or sober, they all shook their heads reluctantly.

“Might have been magic,” Fenris said.

“True enough,” Fanris said quickly.

Graym wiped the mud off the barrel end to expose a second, cleverly hidden bunghole. He felt in the comer of the wagon and pulled out a second tap. “And which one of you,” he said firmly, “was the mage?”

He folded his arms. “Now, I know it’s been a long, hard, dusty trip. A man gets thirsty. And you’ve all known me as long as you’ve worn dry pants. I’m not a hard man.”

“You’re a soft man,” Darll said, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“I’m a forgiving man.”

“Hah! If you were, you’d let me go, but no—”

“It’s a matter of principle, sir,” Graym said firmly.

“And the money,” Jarek reminded him.

“And the money, of course.”

“Tenpiece,” Darll said bitterly. “Took me straight from the Bailey of Sarem with a promise and a bag of tenpiece.”

“Plus twenty when we get to Krinneor,” Fen said.

“When we hand you up,” Fan said.

“Thirtypiece.” Darll shook his head. “The best fighter in Goodlund, second or third best in Istar, carted off to prison for thirtypiece.”

“But enough prologuizing.” Graym was swaying on his feet. “I can’t stand a fella who prologuizes all the time. Let’s say I’m forgiving and let it go at that. And, now, I’m going to ask who’s been sneaking ale while I wasn’t looking. I expect an honest answer. Who was it?”

Jarek raised one hand.

The Wolf brothers each raised a hand.

Graym looked at them in silence.

Darll raised a hand, his chains pulling the other after it.

After a long pause, Graym sighed. “Good to have it out in the open at last. Better to be honest with each other, I say.”

“ ‘True thieves best rob false owners,’ ” Darll muttered.

“I’ve always thought that a fine saying, sir,” Graym said. “Witty, yet simple. But I don’t see it applying here.”

Darll shook his head.

“Still and all,” Graym continued, “we’ve done well. Three months on the road, and we’ve four barrels left.” He shook a finger at the others. “No sneaking drinks from here. We’ll need it all at the end of the road in Krinneor.”

Jarek said eagerly, “Tell us about Krinneor, Graym.”

“What? Again?”

“Please!”

Jarek wasn’t alone. Fen and Fan begged to hear the story, and even Darll settled, resignedly, to listen.

Graym picked up a bowl and took a deep swig of Skull-Splitter. “I’ve told you this night after night, day after day—in the Black Rains, when the dust clouds came through, and in the afterquakes, and when we’d spent a long day dragging this wagon over flood-boils, potholes, and heaved-up rock on the road. And now you say you’re not tired of it.” He looked at them fondly. “I’m not either.

“Back in Sarem, I was nobody. Every town needs a cooper, but they don’t care about him. They buy his barrels and leave. And I’d watch them, and I’d know they were off—to fill the barrels, travel up roads, and sell their stock.”

Jarek leaned forward. “The city, tell us about the city!”

“I’m coming to that.” Graym loved this part. “Every time a stranger came down the road, I’d ask him where he’d been. And he’d talk about Tarsis by the sea, or the temples of Xak Tsaroth, and one even showed me a machine from Mount Nevermind, where the gnomes live. The machine didn’t work, of course, but it was a lovely little thing, all gears and sprockets and wires.

“But one and all, dusty from the road and tired from travel, told me about Krinneor, and the more I heard, the more I wanted to see it.” Graym’s eyes shone. “Golden towers! Marble doors! And excellent drains.” He looked at them all earnestly. “I hear that’s very important for a city.”

They nodded. Graym went on. “After the Claychasm—”

“Cataclysm,” Darll snapped.

“Cataclysm, thank you, sir. I keep forgetting. After that night, when the ground shook and the western sky was all fire, people were frightened. They quit buying barrels, saying that trade was too risky. That’s when I realized that no one was coming down the road from Krinneor, and no one was going there.”