City of Jade

28

FIRE AND IRON

MID AUTUMN, 6E6

When the Red Coach rumbled into Argon Ferry Town, Pipper and Binkton had the driver stop at the Sturdy Oar, an inn recommended by Brekka. They unladed their gear and took a room, and the next morning after breaking fast they asked the innkeeper, one Tarly Oates, a tall, skinny man, whether there were any theaters in town. He laughed and said, “Nowt in West Bank be there such a thing, and nowt across in East Bank nuther. Nar, you’d have to float downstream to Rivers End or fare across and all the way to Caer Pendwyr to find such.”

“Wull, then,” asked Pipper, “what about an inn with a stage and a high ceiling?”

The ’keep scratched his head, then said, “The Clearwater.”

“The Clearwater?” asked Pipper.

“That’s what he said,” growled Binkton.

“What I meant, Bink, is just where is this Clearwater Inn?” Pipper looked up at Tarly.

“Bain’t no inn, ’cause bain’t no rooms, but a saloon instead, and adown by the water ’tis, at th’ corner o’ Mudlane and Tow. Used t’be a warehouse, it did, till they built them new ones up by the landings. But, fair warnin’ ’bout the Clearwater; we call it th’ Bilgewater instead, ’cause them drinks they serve-ale and such-bain’t as fine as those here’t th’ Oar, and the regulars, well, much o’ them be a lawless crowd, Rivermen that they are.”

Binkton’s face fell. “Oh. Rivermen, eh?”

“That’s what he said, Bink,” snapped Pipper.

“I heard what he said, Pip,” Binkton snapped back. Then he turned once more to Tarly. “Only Rivermen frequent the place?”

“Nar. Now and again th’ toffs ’n’ their ladies and their bodyguards find it amusing to swagger along the ’front, ’n’ they make a parade of it, and them gents and ladies sometimes even drop in t’sample the swill.”

“Swagger along the ’front? You mean the waterfront?”

“Yar.”

“How do we find this place?”

The man pointed leftward. “Go yon till y’come t’Mudlane. Then head f’r th’ river. Right along the bank y’ll find Tow. And right there’ll be the Bilge.”

“Why do you even want to know, Bink?” asked Pipper.

“I thought we’d go look at it anyway.”

“But it’s Rivermen, Bink. Lawless. Didn’t you hear the man?”

“Yes, I heard him.” Binkton started for the door, saying, “But he said the gents and ladies also come to the tavern. So, I’m going to take a look regardless.”

“He said they only sometimes swagger along the ’front. It’s not like they’ll be there every night.”

But Binkton simply shook his head and stepped out from the Oar.

“This is a big mistake,” growled Pipper, yet he followed his cousin into the street.

Still quibbling, the buccen turned to the left and headed for Mudlane.

Unlike many of the thoroughfares in town, Mudlane had no pave-stones, and the Warrows followed the narrow dirt lane down to a road running along the steep bank of the river.

“Oh, lor, Bink, look at the Argon,” marveled Pipper. “Makes the Dinglerill look like a piddling leak, it does.”

They stood and surveyed the width of the mighty flow: fully two miles across it was, and it meandered southward to empty into the Avagon Sea some three hundred miles hence. And more or less equally divided by the grand run was Argon Ferry Town itself. The half Binkton and Pipper found themselves in was known by the locals simply as West Bank, with East Bank being on the opposite shore.

The buccen turned and looked leftward, and on both sides of the river some two miles upstream, they could see the docks where the ferries were moored, while others plied across the waters both coming and going. As to the ships themselves, though neither Pipper nor Binkton knew the kinds of craft they eyed, some were swift pinnaces but most were barques, all ferries being fore and aft rigged and nimble in the wind, though each carried oars to be plied by strong men should the air lie calm.

And up at the piers where the ferries docked, the Warrows could see a bustle of activity, with carriages and wagons arriving and leaving, but the buccen could not tell what was afoot, though Pipper said, “It’s probably the on-lading and off-lading of passengers, don’t you think?”

“You’re probably right, Pip,” replied Binkton. “Cargo, too. It looks like goods are moving in and out of those warehouses at hand.”

The Warrows then slowly turned about, taking in what they could see on both sides of the river: Extending southward from the ferry slips to run past the Warrows and reach far downstream, tow paths ran along the banks, nearly twelve miles in all-ways to be used by drovers and horses to pull wayward craft against the current and back to the piers should the need arise, especially on the days with no wind whatsoever during flood season, for then it was all the rowers could do simply to get from one bank to the other; hence, the street the Warrows stood on was simply called Tow.

And there at the southwest corner of Mudlane and Tow stood the Clearwater Saloon, clearly a former warehouse.

Pipper turned and looked at it and muttered, “Come on, Bink, let’s go look at the Bilge.”

The place was perfect for Pipper’s aerial show, with numerous beams and joists high above, and down below and against one wall there sat a platform they could use as a stage. As for the Spikes of Doom escape, that act would work equally as well with a drape of canvas hanging down from a crossbeam to use as a high curtain, and behind that high curtain another crossbeam from which Binkton could dangle. And with more hanging canvas to serve as wings to the stage, they could as well use their secret-paneled, flame-painted chest in which to disappear.

They spent the rest of the day planning, and then most of the evening negotiating with Tager Lynch, owner of the Clearwater. Finally, they came to terms, the Warrows agreeing to pay for the canvas curtains should the act not bring a fair return to the tavern. Likewise, the buccen agreed to pay for the broadsheets and handbills, again under the same provisions. But should the performances bring in enough additional income, then the buccen would get a quarter of the new. Haggling over this last took the most time, for it seemed Tager set his nightly income higher than what it was in reality, but Binkton surveyed the meager crowd and bargained him down.

The next day the buccen went to a printer and arranged for handbills and broadsheets. The printer also offered to supply a group of urchins to put up the broadsheets and distribute the handbills all over town, but especially to the higher-class residents, for a fee, of course. As well, the Warrows paid the ferry fees for half the urchins to cross to the other side and post and distribute them there as well. That same day, Binkton and Pipper purchased the canvas and hired men to help set all up.

A day or so later the printing was done and the broadsheets went up in both town squares and all of the common marketplaces. And the handbills were distributed widely over both West and East Banks.

They announced that in three days, straight from the mysterious land of the Boskydells, the extraordinary and quite rare Warrows of Fire and Iron would put on their first remarkable show, with amazing aerial acts and incredible feats of escape, this last by a strange and wily Warrow that no gaol could hold.

Pipper and Binkton then went to the captain of the city watch and invited him to the first performance.

“I’ve heard of you, Binkton Windrow,” said the captain, a tall, angular man with a scarred face that sported a narrow moustache. “Rumors travel fast by the Red Coach.”

“I’m flattered,” said Binkton. “But, you see, no rumors are these, but they are facts instead. The truth is, no gaol can hold me, not even yours.”

“Ha! Challenge me and my prison, would you? Well, then, I accept. But hear me now: unlike those flimsy hardtack crates you’ve broken out of, you’ll not master my locks or shackles, for I will strip you naked and examine every orifice and then throw you in a cell without a stitch. Then we’ll see whether or no you escape.”

Binkton paled, and the captain said, “What’s this? Do I see you blanch?”

“Never,” said Binkton defiantly, though his voice was a bit unsteady.

“Might we see this unbreachable stronghold of yours, Captain?” asked Pipper.

“Certainly,” replied the man, grinning at the apparently cowed Binkton, and he took them on a tour. Pipper seemed fascinated and bubbled over with questions, occupying the captain’s full attention, while Binkton lackadaisically lagged behind, wandering hither and yon, on the face of it completely discouraged and without purpose.

When they finally left the gaol, Pipper said, “Lor, Bink, what’re you going to do? I mean, he said they’d lock you in wearing nothing whatsoever, but for the shackles and chains.”

“Worry not, Pip, for you see, I have a plan.”

As in every town they had played so far, the Clearwater Saloon was filled to its warehouse walls with the crowd that had come to see the extraordinary and quite rare Warrows from the mysterious land of the Boskydells. Many of the spectators were common folk; others were shady wharf denizens; yet, as the Warrows had been told, the toffs and gents and their ladies and bodyguards were present in goodly numbers as well.

And they screamed and shouted in fear for Pipper’s life as he dived and swung and tumbled through the air high above, and swooped down to pass close over their heads only to fly back up and sail free through empty space to grab a bar and spin ’round, then leap and run along spidery ropes.

And then they cried out as Binkton slowly twisted and turned above tall, gleaming sharp spikes, and dropped once, then again toward the deadly points, only to drop once more, nearly to his doom.

They laughed at the antics of the mental act, and gasped as Pipper flipped through flaming hoops, and held their breath as Binkton escaped the tightly bound ropes.

At last, claiming that no gaol could hold him, Binkton challenged the captain of the city watch, and the challenge was accepted.

As promised, naked and with every orifice searched, and with his hands shackled behind him and fetters on his feet, Binkton was bundled into the cell and the door slammed shut and the lock thrown to.

The jailers then left Binkton to himself and went to the steps out front, where Pipper fretted and paced, while holding Binkton’s clothes.

Back in the cell, Binkton slipped his manacled hands under his heels and brought them ’round front. Then he sat down and peeled off the well-blended, soft leather patch from the sole of his foot, and straightened the wire within, then began shaping one end.

Outside, the captain confidently surveyed the crowd and smiled and nodded and smoothed his moustache, clearly in his element. But that self-assurance was suddenly shattered when the locked front door of the gaol opened a crack and fetters and shackles clattered out on the stoop and a voice called, “Might I have my clothes now?”

With their fortnight engagement at the Clearwater successfully concluded and their gear packed and ready for pickup and shipment, the buccen sat at breakfast in the Sturdy Oar and talked of bypassing all other towns and taking their show straight to Caer Pendwyr. They speculated that High King Ryon and Queen Dresha and their children might actually come to see their performance. But as they pondered their future, Bandy, one of the printer’s street urchins, came flying into the foyer, shouting, “Guv! Guv!” He dodged past innkeeper Oates, who had leapt forward in an unsuccessful attempt at capture, yelling, “Off wi’ y’! Off wi’ y’! I’ll nowt ha’e no-”

But Pipper recognized the voice of the lad and called for him to come to the dining room, much to the shock of Tarly, who threw up his hands and wondered what was an innkeeper to do if just anyone could let riffraff in.

Bandy rushed into the room and to the table where the buccen sat. “I seen it, guv. I seen it floatin’ by. Them what took it put it on a barge. It’s off to Rivers End.”

“What’s off to Rivers End, Bandy?” asked Pipper.

“Why, that chest of yours, guv, th’ one with th’ flames and all.”