Robert Asprin - Shadow Of Sanctuary

'If you won't give me anything, just say so!' Hort exploded angrily. 'You don't have to rationalize it with a long tale of woe.'

'I'll give you a gift,' the Old Man assured him. 'I only wanted to warn you that it probably would not be money. More to the left.'

'I don't need your money,' the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. 'My friends have offered to loan me the necessary funds. I just thought it would be better not to start my new life in debt.'

'That's wise,' Panit agreed. 'Slow now.'

Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise. His oars trailed loose in the water.

'There's only one float!' he announced in dumb surprise.

'That's right,' the Old Man nodded. 'It's nice to know you haven't forgotten your numbers.'

'But one float means...'

'One trap,' Panit agreed. 'Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still, having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap.'

The Old Man's dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort's mind was racing as he reflexively manoeuvred the boat into position by the float.

One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact number always varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hort known him to set less than ten traps. Of course the Nya were an unpredictable fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is - they came readily to the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their random wanderings.

One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happened with any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catch until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and reputation he could do the same...

'Old Man!' The exclamation burst from Hort's lips involuntarily as he scanned the horizon.

'What is it?' Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

'Where are the other boats?'

The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. 'On the dock,' he said brusquely. 'You walked past them this morning.'

Open-mouthed, Hort let his memory roam back over the docks. He had been preoccupied with his own problems, but... yes! there-had been a lot of boats lying on the dock.

'All of them?' he asked, bewildered. 'You mean we're the only boat out today?'

'That's right.'

'But why?'

'Just a minute ... here!' Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it on to the boat. 'Here's why.'

The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were caved in and those that weren't dangled loose. If Hort hadn't been expecting to see a Nya trap he wouldn't have recognized this as something other than a tangle of scrap-wood.

'It's been like this for over a week!' the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity. 'Traps smashed, nets torn. That's why those who call themselves fishermen cower on the land instead of manning their boats!' He spat noisily over the side of the boat.

Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?

'Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it's safe! Bah!'

Awed by the Old Man's anger, Hort turned the boat towards the shore. 'What's doing it?' he asked.

There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought his question had gone unheard and was about to repeat it. Then he saw how deep the wrinkles on his father's face had become.

'I don't know,' the Old Man murmured finally. 'Two weeks ago I would have said I knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today ... I just don't know.'

'Have you reported this to the soldiers?'

'Soldiers? Is that what you've learned from your fancy friends? Run to the soldiers?' Panit fairly trembled with rage. 'What do soldiers know of the sea? Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the water? Order the monster to go away? Collect a tax from it? Yes! That's it! If the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it'll swim away to keep from being bled dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!'

The Old Man spat again and lapsed into a silence that Hort was loath to break. Instead he spent the balance of the return journey mentally speculating about the trap-crushing monster. In a way he knew it was futile; sharper minds than his, the Old Man's for example, had tried and failed to come up with an explanation. There wasn't much chance he'd stumble upon it. Still, it occupied his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.

'Are we through for the day?' he asked. 'Can I go now?'

'You can,' the Old Man replied, turning a blank expression to his son. 'Of course, if you do it might cause problems. The way it is now, if your mother asks me: "Did you take the boat out today?" I can say yes. If you stay with me and she asks: "Did you spend the day with the Old Man?" you can say yes. If, on the other hand, you wander off on your own, you'll have to say "no" when she asks and we'll both have to explain ourselves to her.'

This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in the. fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man was capable of hiding his activities from his wife with such a calculated web of half-truths. Close on the heels of his shock came a wave of intense curiosity regarding his father's plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his wife.

'I'll stay,' Hort said with forced casualness. 'What do we do now?' •

'First,' the Old Man announced as he headed off down the dock, 'we visit the Wine Barrel.'

The Wine Barrel was a rickety wharf-side tavern favoured by the fishermen and therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker, Hort doubted the Old Man had ever before been inside the place, yet he led the way into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.

They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since childhood plus many he did not recognize. Even Haron, the only woman ever accepted by the fishermen, was there, though her round, fleshy and weathered face was scarcely different from the men's.

'Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?'

'There's an extra seat here.'

'Some wine for the Old Man!'

'One more trap-wrecked fisherman!'

Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at his entrance. He held his stride until he reached the large table custom reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.

'I told you, you'd be here eventually,' Omat greeted him, pushing the extra bench out with his long, thin leg. 'Now, who's a coward?'

The Old Man acknowledged neither the jibe nor the bench, leaning on the table with both hands to address the veterans. 'I only came to ask one question,' he hissed. 'Are all of you, or any of you, planning to do anything about whatever it is that's driven you from the sea?'

To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.

'What can we do?' Terci scowled. 'We don't even know what's out there. Maybe it will move on...'

'... And maybe it won't,' the Old Man concluded angrily. 'I should have known. Scared men don't think; they hide. Well, I've never been one to sit around waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now.'

He kicked the empty bench away and turned towards the door only to find Hort blocking his way.

'What are you going to do?' Terci called after him.

'I'm going to find an answer!' the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his scorn. 'And I'll find it where I've always found answers - in the sea; not at the bottom of a wine-cup.'

With that he strode out of the door. Hort started to follow when someone called his name and he turned back.