David Eddings - The Redemption of Althalus

He moved right along, since he wanted to be in the lands of the next clan to the north before the previous owner of his fine new tunic awakened. By mid-morning of the following day, he was fairly certain that he was beyond the reach of last night’s victim, so he stopped in the tavern of a small village to celebrate his apparent change of luck. The wolf-eared tunic wasn’t equal to all that unrecognizable wealth in Druigor’s counting house, but it was a start.

It was in that tavern that he once again heard someone speak of Gosti Big Belly. ‘I’ve heard about him,’ he told the assembled tavern loafers. ‘I can’t imagine why a Clan-Chief would let his people call him by a name like that, though.’

‘You’d almost have to know him to understand,’ one of the other tavern patrons replied. ‘You’re right about how a name like that would offend most Clan-Chiefs, but Gosti’s very proud of that belly of his. He even laughs out loud when he brags that he hasn’t seen his feet in years.’

‘I’ve heard tell that he’s rich,’ Althalus said, nudging the conversation around to the topic that most interested him.

‘Oh, he’s rich, all right,’ another confirmed the fact.

‘Did his clan happen to come across a pocket of gold?’

‘Almost the same thing. After his father was killed in the last clan war, Gosti became Clan-Chief – even though most of the men in his clan didn’t think none too highly of him on accounta how fat he was. Gosti’s got this here cousin, though – Galbak his name is – and Galbak’s about seven feet tall, and he’s meaner than a snake. Anyway, Gosti decided that a bridge across the river that runs through their valley might make things easier for him when he had to go meet with the other Clan-Chiefs, so he ordered his men to build him one. That bridge isn’t none too well-made, and it’s so rickety that it’s as much as a man’s life is worth to try to cross it, but let me tell you, that’s not a river that a man with good sense would want to wade across. The current’s so swift that it carries your shadow a good half-mile downstream. That rickety bridge is as good as any gold mine, since it’s the only way to cross that river for five days’ hard travel in either direction, and Gosti’s cousin’s in charge of it, and nobody who’s got his head on straight crosses Galbak. He charges an arm and a leg to cross, and that’s how it is that Gosti’s got a sizeable chunk of the loose money in Arum salted away in that fort of his.’

‘Well now,’ Althalus said, ‘how very interesting.’

Different lands required different approaches, and up here in the highlands of Arum our thief’s standard plan of attack had always been to ingratiate himself into the halls of men of wealth and power with humorous stories and outrageous jokes. That kind of approach obviously would not have worked in the stuffier cities of the plain where jokes were against the law and laughter was held to be in extremely bad taste.

Althalus knew that tavern stories are almost always exaggerations, but the tales of Gosti Big Belly’s wealth went far enough to suggest that there was probably at least sufficient money in the fat man’s fort to make a journey there worth the time and effort, so he journeyed to the lands of Gosti Big Belly’s clan to investigate further.

As he moved north into the mountains of Arum, he occasionally heard a kind of wailing sound far back in the hills. He couldn’t immediately identify exactly what kind of animal it was that was making so much noise, but it was far enough away that it posed no immediate threat, so he tried to ignore it. Sometimes at night, though, it seemed very close, and that made Althalus a bit edgy.

He reached the shaky wooden bridge he’d been told about, and he was stopped by a burly, roughly dressed toll-taker whose hands and forearms were decorated with the tattoos that identified him as a member of Gosti’s clan. Althalus choked a bit over the price the tattooed man demanded for crossing the bridge, but he paid it, since he viewed it in the light of an investment.

‘That’s a fine-looking garment you’ve got there, friend,’ the toll-taker noted, looking with a certain envy at the wolf-eared tunic Althalus wore.

‘It keeps the weather off,’ Althalus replied with a casual shrug.

‘Where did you come by it?’

‘Up in Hule,’ Althalus replied. ‘I happened across this wolf, you see, and he was about to jump on me and tear out my throat so that he could have me for supper. Now, I’ve always sort of liked wolves – they sing so prettily – but I don’t like them well enough to provide supper for them. Particularly when I’m going to be the main course. Well, I happened to have this pair of bone dice with me, and I persuaded the wolf that it might be more interesting if we played dice to decide the matter instead of rolling around on the ground trying to rip each other apart. So we put up the stakes on the game and started rolling the dice.’

‘What stakes?’ the bearded clansman asked.

‘My carcass and his skin, of course.’

The toll-taker started to laugh.

‘Well,’ Althalus began to expand the story, ‘I just happen to be the best dice-player in all the world – and we were playing with my dice, and I’ve spent a lot of time training those dice to do what I want them to do. Well, to cut this short, the wolf had a little run of bad luck, so I’m wearing his skin now, and he’s up there in the forest of Hule shivering in the cold because he’s running around naked.’

The tattooed man laughed even harder.

‘Have you ever seen a naked wolf with goose-bumps all over him?’ Althalus asked, feigning a sympathetic expression. ‘Pitiful! I felt terribly sorry for him, of course, but a bet is a bet, after all, and he did lose. It wouldn’t have been ethical for me to give his skin back to him after I’d fairly won it, now would it?’

The toll-taker doubled over, howling with laughter.

‘I felt sort of sorry for the poor beast, and maybe just a little bit guilty about the whole business. I’ll be honest about it right here and now, friend. I did cheat the wolf a few times during our game, and just to make up for that I let him keep his tail – for decency’s sake, of course.’

‘Oh, that’s a rare story, friend!’ the chortling toll-taker said, clapping Althalus on the back with one meaty hand. ‘Gosti’s got to hear this one!’ And he insisted on accompanying Althalus across the rickety bridge, through the shabby village of log-walled and thatch-roofed huts, and on up to the imposing log fort that overlooked the village and the bridge that crossed the foaming river.

They entered the fort and proceeded into the smoky main hall. Althalus had visited many of the clan halls in the highlands of Arum, so he was familiar with these people’s relaxed approach to neatness, but Gosti’s hall elevated untidiness to an art-form. Like most clan halls, this one had a dirt floor with a fire-pit in the center. The floor was covered with rushes, but the rushes appeared not to have been changed for a dozen years or so. Old bones and assorted other kinds of garbage rotted in the corners, and hounds – and pigs – dozed here and there. It was the first time Althalus had ever encountered pigs as house-pets. There was a rough-hewn table across the front of the hall, and seated at that table stuffing food into his mouth with both hands was the fattest man Althalus had ever seen. There could be no question about the man’s identity, since Gosti Big Belly came by his name honestly. He had pig-like little eyes and his pendulous lower lip hung down farther than his chin. A full haunch of roasted pork lay on the greasy table in front of him, and he was ripping great chunks of meat from that haunch and stuffing them into his mouth. Just behind him stood a huge man with hard, unfriendly eyes.