Elven Star

10

Paithan and his caravan were able to cross over on the ferry the following cycle. The crossing took an entire cycle, and the elf did not enjoy the trip, due to the fact that he was suffering from the after-effects of vingin. Elves are notoriously bad drinkers, having no head at all for alcohol, and Paithan knew at the time he shouldn’t be attempting to keep pace with Gregor. But he reminded himself that he was celebrating—no Calandra to glare at him sternly for taking a second glass of wine with dinner. The vingin also conveniently fogged up Paithan’s remembrance of the daft old wizard, his stupid prophecy, and Gregor’s gloomy stories about giants. The constant clatter of the turning capstan, the snorting and squeals of the five harnessed wild boar who drove it, and the constant urgings of their human driver blasted through the elf’s head. The guck-covered, slimy vine cable that drew the ferry over the water slid past him and disappeared, winding around the capstan. Leaning up against a bundle of blankets in the shade of an awning, a wet compress over his aching head, Paithan watched the water slip away beneath the boat and felt extremely sorry for himself. The ferry had been operating across the Kithni Gulf for about sixty years. Paithan could remember seeing it as a small child, traveling in company with his grandfather—the last journey the two’d made before the old elf vanished into the wilderness. Then Paithan had thought the ferryboat the most wonderful invention in the world and had been extremely upset to find out that humans had been responsible for inventing it.

His grandfather had patiently explained the human thirst for money and power known as ambition—a result of their pitifully short life spans—that led them to all sorts of energetic undertakings. The elves had been quick to take advantage of the ferry service, since it markedly increased trade between the two realms, but they viewed it with suspicion. The elves had no doubt that the ferry—like most other human endeavors—would somehow lead to a bad end. In the meantime, however, the elves magnanimously allowed the humans to serve them. Soothed by the lapping of the water and the fumes of the vingin lingering in his brain, Paithan grew drowsy in the heat. He had the vague memory of Gregor having becomed embroiled in a brawl and nearly getting him—Paithan—killed. The elf drifted off to sleep. He woke to Quinrin, his overseer, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Auana! Auana[20] Quindiniar! Wake up. The boat is docking.” Paithan groaned and sat up. He felt somewhat better. Though his head still throbbed, at least he didn’t feel like he was about to tumble over in a dead faint when he moved. Staggering to his feet, he lurched across the crowded deck to where his slaves crouched on the wood planking, out in the open, with no shelter from the blazing sun. The slaves didn’t appear to mind the heat. They wore nothing but loin cloths. Paithan, who kept every inch of his fair skin covered, looked at the deep brown or black skin of the humans and was reminded of the vast gulf that lay between the two races.

“Callie’s right,” he muttered to himself. “They’re nothing but animals and all the civilizing in the world won’t change that. I should have known better than to go off with Gregor last night. Stick to my own kind.” This firm resolve lasted all of, say, an hour, by which time Paithan, feeling much better, was visiting with a bruised, swollen, and grinning Gregor while both stood in line, waiting their turns to present their papers to the port authority. Paithan remained cheerful during the long wait. When Gregor left for his turn at customs, the elf amused himself by listening to the chatter of his human slaves, who appeared ridiculously excited at seeing their homeland again. If they’re so fond of it, why did they let themselves get sold into slavery?

Paithan wondered idly, standing in a line that moved with the speed of a mosslug while human customs officials asked innumerable, inane questions and pawed over the goods of his fellow caravanners. Altercations broke out, generally between humans, who—when caught smuggling—seemed to take the attitude that the law applied to everyone else but them. Elven merchants rarely had any trouble at the borders. They either studiously obeyed the laws or, like Paithan, devised quiet and subtle means to evade them. At last, one of the officials motioned to him. Paithan and his overseer herded the slaves and the tyros forward.

“What’re you haulin’?” The official stared hard at the baskets.

“Magical toys, sir,” said Paithan, with a charming smile. The official’s gaze sharpened. “Seems a queer time to be bringing in toys.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Why, the talk of war! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard it?”

“Not a word, sir. Who are you fighting this month? Strethia, perhaps, or Dourglasia?”

“Naw, we wouldn’t waste our arrows on that scum. There’s rumors of giant warriors, coming out of the norinth.”

“Oh, that!” Paithan shrugged gracefully. “I did hear of something of the sort, but I discounted it. You humans are well prepared to face such a challenge, aren’t you?”

“Of course we are,” said the official. Suspecting he was being made the butt of a joke, he stared hard at Paithan.

The elf’s face was smooth as silk and so was his tongue.

“The children love our magical toys so much. And Saint Thillia’s Day will be coming up soon. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the little tykes, now, would we?” Paithan leaned forward confidentially. “I’ll bet you’re a grandfather, aren’t you? How about letting me go on through without the usual rigamorole?”

“I’m a grandfather all right,” said the official, scowling darkly. “I got ten grandkids, all of ’em under the age of four and they’re all livin’ at my house! Open those baskets.”

Paithan saw that he had made a tactical error. Heaving the sigh of an innocent wrongfully condemned, he shrugged his shoulders and led the way to the first basket. Quintin—all officious, servile politeness—undid the straps. The slaves, standing nearby, were watching with what Paithan noted were expressions of suppressed glee that made the elf extremely uneasy. What the devil were they grinning about? It was almost as if they knew … The customs official lifted the lid of the basket. An array of brightly colored toys sparkled in the sunlight. Casting a sidelong glance at Paithan, the official thrust his hand deep inside.

He withdrew it immediately with a yelp, waving his fingers. “Something bit me!” he accused.

The slaves roared with laughter. The overseer, shocked, began laying about him with his whip, and soon restored order.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir.” Paithan slammed shut the lid of the basket. “It must have been the jack-in—the-boxes. They’re notoriously bad about biting. I really do apologize.”

“You’re giving those fiends to children?” demanded the official, sucking his injured thumb.

“Some parents like a certain amount of aggressive spirit in a toy, sir. Don’t want the little tykes to grow up soft, do we? Uh … sir … I’d be particularly careful with that basket. It’s carrying the dollies.” The customs official stretched out his hand, hesitated, and thought better of it. “Go on with you then. Get outta here.”

Paithan gave the order to Quintin, who immediately set the slaves to work, hauling at the reins of the tyros. Some of the slaves, despite the fresh lash marks on the skin, were still smirking, and Paithan wondered at the strange human trait that led them to enjoy the sight of another’s suffering. His bill of lading was hastily inspected and passed. Paithan tucked it in the pocket of his belted traveling coat and, bowing politely to the official, was starting to hurry after his baggage train when he felt a hand on his arm. The elf’s good humor was rapidly evaporating. He felt a throbbing in his temples.

“Yes, sir?” he said, turning, forcing a smile.

The customs official leaned close. “How much for ten of them jacks?”

The journey through the human lands was uneventful. One of Paithan’s slaves escaped, but he’d planned for such an eventuality by bringing along extra hands, and he wasn’t overly concerned about many of the others. He’d deliberately chosen men with families left behind in Equilan. Apparently one slave thought more of his freedom than he did of his wife and children. Under the influence of Gregor’s tales, Zifnab’s prophecy began to gnaw again at the elf’s mind. Paithan tried to discover all he could about the approaching giants and in every tavern, he found someone with something to say on the subject. But he gradually became convinced that it was rumor, nothing more. Outside of Gregor, he couldn’t find one other human who had actually talked directly to any of the refugees.

“My mother’s uncle ran across three of ’em and they told him and he told my mother that—”

“My second cousin’s boy was in Jendi last month when the ships was coming in and he told my cousin to tell his dad who told me that—”

“I heard it from a peddlar who’d been there—”

Paithan decided at length, with some relief, that Gregor’d been feeding him soom candy.[21] The elf put Zifnab’s prophecy completely, finally, irrevocably out of his mind.

Paithan crossed the border of Marcinia into Terncia without a border guard so much as glancing into his baskets. They gave his bill of lading—signed by the Varsport official—a bored glance and waved him on. The elf was enjoying his journey, and he took his time. The weather was particularly fine. The humans, for the most part, were friendly and well mannered. Of course, he did encounter the occasional remark about “woman stealers” or “flithy slavers” but Paithan, not one to be hotheaded, either ignored these epithets or passed them off with a laugh and an offer to buy the next round.

Paithan was as fond of human women as the next elf, but—having traveled extensively in human lands—he knew nothing could get your ears (and perhaps other portions of one’s anatomy) cut off sooner than dallying with human females. He was able to curb his appetite, therefore, contenting himself with admiring stares or snatching a quick kiss in an extremely dark corner. If the innkeeper’s daughter came to his door in the dead of night, wanting to test the legendary erotic skill of elven men, Paithan was always careful to bundle her out in the mistymorne, before anyone else was up and stirring.

The elf reached his destination—the small and unsavory town of Griffith—a few weeks past his scheduled arrival. He thought that pretty good, considering how chancey travel was through the constantly warring Thillian states. Arriving at the Jungleflower Tavern, he saw his slaves and the tyros settled in the stable, found a place for his overseer in the loft, and took a room in the inn for himself.

The Jungleflower was apparently not much in the custom of housing elves, for the proprietor looked a long time at Paithan’s money and rapped the coin on the table, wanting to make certain mat it had the sound of hardwood. Hearing it thump true, he became somewhat more polite.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Paithan Quindiniar.”

“Huh.” The man grunted. “Got two messages for you. One came by hand, the other by faultless.”

“Thanks very much,” said Paithan, handing over another coin. The proprietor’s politeness increased markedly.

“You must be thirsty. Seat yourself in the common room, and I’ll be bringing you something to wet your throat.”

“No vingin,” said Paithan and sauntered off, the missives in his hand. One he recognized as human in origin—a bit of cheap parchment that had been used before. Some attempt had been made to efface the original writing, but that hadn’t succeeded well. Untying a frayed and dirty ribbon, Paithan unrolled it and read the message with some difficulty around what apparently had once been a tax notice.

Paithan walked over to the window and held the parchment to the light. No, he couldn’t make out when they said they were returning. It was signed with a crude scrawl—Roland Redleaf. Fishing out the worn bill of lading, Paithan looked for the name of the customer. There it was, in Calandra’s precise, up-right hand. Roland Redleaf. Shrugging, Paithan tossed the scroll in the slop bucket and carefully wiped his hands after. No telling where it had been.

The proprietor hurried in with a foaming mug of ale. Tasting it, Paithan pronounced the brew excellent and the highly gratified innkeeper was now his slave for life or at least as long as his money held out. Settling down in a booth, propping his feet up on the chair opposite him, Paithan lounged back and opened the other scroll, preparing to enjoy himself. It was a letter from Aleatha.