SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) (7 page)

“Can ravens really talk as good as Gariff says they can? He says they can sound just like a person,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” replied Paplov dismissively, “Gariff is right. Some are fantastic talkers.”

Paplov halted for a second, and tapped his left hand to his forehead.

“Where was I… Oh yes, it was pointed out that reductions in crop prices were not at all quantified; it wasn’t clear if the reduced prices meant that you had to buy through the town’s common market – which is always more expensive – or if they applied when buying directly from the farmer, the way most sensible folks go about business. At any rate, it’s our job to ensure that Webfoot gets—”

“Are there really white ravens at Dim Lake too?” I said.

“Maybe,” he replied, again dismissively, “not that I’ve seen… As I was saying, we have to ensure that Webfoot gets good—”

“Gets a good deal,” I finished. “Can we get a raven like Uncle Fyorn’s, except white?”

Paplov raised his voice. “NO!” he said. “We’re NOT getting a raven.” He fixed his eyes straight ahead and pursed his lips. “And NO about getting a good deal. Well yes, I mean…” Paplov seemed a little flustered.

“Nud, you’re almost sixteen now, and you can already sign documents in my place as aide and successor. Like so many others in this business, you seem to have more authority than the smarts to use it.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I blinked.

“It’s time to WAKE UP,” he impressed, “PAY ATTENTION, and GET INVOLVED in what’s going on around you. You’re too young to… you’re too young to go out all night like that. And even when you’re not too young, you still shouldn’t. I don’t plan to do this forever. I should have been done years ago… I thought I was done years ago, until…”

Paplov’s head was shaking as he spoke; no, it was quivering. His hands were quivering too, and he continued to quiver for a long minute after his words trailed off, after he stopped short of saying
It
.

He bowed his head slightly and held it that way, looking very old again.
Yes, he is aging in spurts,
I thought. When next he spoke, Paplov’s voice was low and it wavered a little.

“You’re the one who’s going to inherit these responsibilities,” he said. Paplov found his stern voice again. “You’re the one who needs to learn how to take care of the future. It’s
your
future, not mine. My legacy maybe, but you have to live with it, day in and day out. Sooner or later, I’m free of it. And Harrow…”

Paplov shook his head and let time pass before calling again upon his diplomatic voice. He started over. “Back to the task at hand,” he said. “We have to ensure that Webfoot gets good REP-RE-SENT-A-TION in the deal-making process. It isn’t just about getting the best deal, or even a good deal. A deal that is too good for Webfoot is likely poor for Proudfoot, and that fact will carry forward into the next negotiation – it has its own… memory, and that can have undesirable consequences. It all needs to balance out. In the long run, it’s about building good relationships, acting honorably, and having faith in the good folks you’re dealing with – in this case the Proudfoot Stouts. Honor and faith are the pillars of trust and trust is the foundation of good relations.
”

“What if you’re not dealing with good folks?” I said.

“Then you tread ever so carefully,” said Paplov, like it should have been obvious.

He was right. The agreement with Proudfoot was meant to be long standing, and it influenced my future more than his – he wasn’t getting any younger.

“Can’t someone else just handle it?” I said.

A heavy, disappointing silence lingered between us for the rest of the journey.

All things tangled from the outside
in,

All things joined in
purpose.

All things bent to the One True
Will,

Until the Next
Insurgence.

- The Diviner

Chapter X

Diplomacy in Proudfoot

B
efore long, the wooded wetlands fell out of sight behind us and we came upon lush fields of young wheat on gentle, rolling hills, fresh with the passing of new rain. The dirt road cut through bright green pastures dotted with grazing cattle. Ahead it rolled alongside cornfields, sprouting vegetable gardens, many a farmhouse, and many a barn. Stretches of the Dim River gleamed in the distance. Diamond-bright flashes marked the division between a nest of craggy hills on this side of the river and the ghost pines of Whisperwood on the other side. An hour later, we passed into the Flats and sighted the ferry dock to Proudfoot and the curtain wall that rose above the opposing shore. The pang in my stomach reminded me dinner would be late.

The Stout town lay nestled at the merger of the Upper Malevuin River running southeast out of the Western Tor and the Dim River running due south from Harrow. The “Dim Crossing,” as it is commonly called, is more of a back door to the town and the least traveled of Proudfoot’s two river crossings. The wide, flat ferry had just landed on our side of the Dim as we approached. Two Pips and a Stout manned her, and two horses – one per side and facing opposite directions – powered the waterwheels. When the horses were calmed and the off ramp set, local farmers spilled out of the boat and onto the pier. With heavy feet, they led their horse-drawn carts and carried their sacks of leftover wares after a long day at the marketplace. In the midst of the crowd, a handful of bearded prospectors bearing sturdy packs chatted one another up, minds surely bent on the promise of gold or other earth-borne treasures of the Outlands. Those few who return with the bounty sought go on to become local heroes and inspire other adventurous spirits. The rest are mostly lost.

The return trip began with the horses’ directions reversed and the waterwheels spinning the other way. I watched the beasts as they clopped along, every step propelling us across the slow, strong current of the river. Soon my eyes turned to the water. I peered into the river depths, trying to make out the shadowy shapes on its bottom: deadwood and rocks mostly, and the broken skeleton of a sunken dory resembling those seen in Abandon Bay.

The Stout ferryman minded the horses while one of the Pips steered. The remaining Pip did nothing, mostly, until we reached the other side, at which time he opened the rail gate, jumped out and roped the ferry in. Since there were no carts, he couldn’t be bothered to set the ramp.

The next stop was the gatehouse. Paplov provided his name to a guard and handed over his letter of intent, complete with the official wax seal of Proudfoot pressed into the upper left corner. He also produced his diplomatic colors. That granted us access without a fuss or even the usual toll. Paplov told the guards I was his assistant – no papers required. He left a gratuity anyway.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“The ferry only runs until twilight,” he replied. “If I’m ever stuck and need to get across, it doesn’t hurt to have a good rapport with the guards – they can call the ferrymen to make another crossing.”

The town layout was an inviting one, emphasizing greenery and openness in a park-like setting. Proudfoot Lane, the main cobblestone throughway, ran from the east gate to the west gate and cut through the entire town. Lined with pink and white crabapple trees at measured intervals, it was wide enough for a horse drawn carriage to make a complete turn. Each tree had a small walled garden around it, and the sweet bouquet of apple blossoms scented the air. A series of cascading gardens also lined the road, putting on display all manner of shrubbery and seasonal flowers.

Sleek passenger boats with Pip rowers glided along the boatway parallel to the road, passing under numerous bridges that connected the common part of town to a neighborhood of stately homes owned by the more affluent Stout families. The network of narrow canals linked “anyplace to everyplace” throughout, with the flow of water regulated by floodgates and locks at the river junctions. The main east-west line fed into a southbound canal that eventually opened into the turbulent Lower Malevuin – a tricky run to navigate even for those familiar with the waters.

Stouts, Pips, Men and the occasional Outlander came and went as we made our way along the sparsely populated main street. I was reminded that Proudfoot Stouts are generally taller, slimmer and fairer than their Bearded Hills cousins, but no less resilient or of the earth. Their particular blend of affinity for the land has them taking more to farming than tunneling and mining though. Men often called them the “fair folk” and it is easy enough to see why.

To the west, the far end of town looked busier, with modest activity still underway in the market area. We soon came to a grand and decorative bridge about mid-town that arced over the southbound waterway. I slowed my pace and took a moment to look around and take in the sights. It was so much different from the bog.

“I really like how the Proudfooters built their town,” I said as we passed over the south canal. “Gariff would like it too. It looks sturdy, but not so barren as the Hills… and the water’s all… organized. This place has a nice feel to it.”

Paplov stopped to gape at me in disbelief. “No, no,” he started, head shaking. “Mind your history, Nud.” He inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled a lesson. “Proudfooters had little to do with the actual construction of this town, they just live here. They don’t even know how it runs, really. They did not build the wall, they just man it. They did not build the gardens, they simply tend them. Who do you think crafted that ferry we were just on? I don’t know who, but one thing’s for sure… it was not a Proudfooter.”

Paplov paused, and seemed to engage in a moment of reflection. His words softened.

“I’m not being completely fair: they dug the canal,” he said. “I’ll give them that much, and the selection of all manner of greenery is to their credit.” But his soft voice was short lived and his words were soon firm again. They became as rigid as the stubbornness of old age. “But you should know that the skilled hands of Bearded Hills folk built this town and everything in it, back in a day when common foods were traded for gold. Many worked themselves to near death just trying to feed their families back home, while perfectly good food spoiled in the cellars of hoarders. How ‘nice’ is that?” He ended with a scoff.

I had learned about the famine years and the long winters that accompanied them in my lessons with the Diviner. Everywhere in the Land, life had dwindled, was dying: crops, animals, and people alike. Even the bounty of the sea could not be counted on for sustenance. Everywhere, that is, except lush Proudfoot and the ever-fertile Stoutville Flats. Deepweald remained somewhat impervious, as the story goes, but during that period, the Wild Elderkins would let none pass into their realm. It was even worse than the desolation that hit the Scarsands, or so I am told. Hearing Paplov’s words that way, I finally understood his caution in dealing with what appeared to be simple, hardworking folk. When it comes right down to the very essence of getting ahead in life, all bets are off with regard to decency.

“What are Pips best known for?” I said.

Without pause, Paplov responded. “The culinary arts, woodcraft, diving and river boating… those sorts of things.”

“How did
we
survive the famine?”

“You mean Pips? That was long before even I was born. The first item on your list, I suppose. We Pips always had to be creative about how we foraged and what we ate. The Pip diet is a varied one.”

“But food is just about everywhere, any time of year.”

Paplov laughed. “You only know that because it has been hammered into your head since you were just a newt. Few Stouts, if any, see the natural world the way we do. Food comes on a plate to most, complete with knife and fork; or from the market; or is hauled up out of cold storage.”

I shrugged. “I guess so,” was all I said.

Paplov and I kept up a brisk pace through to the west side, but each time we passed by a water fountain I wished I could kick off my shoes, cannonball in and wade through the ruffled water. Three grand fountains graced the main throughway as we neared the marketplace, each three levels high. On top of the first, a bird spouted water from a long, curved beak; the second showed a whale, spraying water from its blowhole; and the third – the largest and most spectacular of the three – dominated the market square. Even from a distance, I could clearly make out its cascading assortment of spinning waterwheels.

Seeing the fountains triggered something – a memory. No, not quite, but something. The Mark on my arm began to tingle. A sudden blackness overcame me. A picture began to take shape in my mind:
Stouts… Bearded Hill Stouts…. thin… drawn… serious words of war… weapons clanging… attack… attack!… chains.
The image swirled and shifted like a cloud of dark smoke:
gardens… torn up… fountains… toppled… statues erected… massive statues… sea creatures… leviathans!
All at once, the image dissipated. I found that I was still walking alongside Paplov. He was talking. I interrupted him.

“The Bearded Hills was planning an attack.”

“What?” said Paplov. He sounded confused.

“During the famine. They were plotting to take over and force Proudfooters to work for them, as
slaves
.”

“I’ve never heard that,” he said. Paplov stroked his white beard. “That might explain a few things in the historical record, perhaps.”

“And the fountains… they were going to be destroyed.”

“Destroyed? Where did you get this information?”

“I… I don’t know, exactly.”

“You don’t know? Then you are pulling my leg.”

“No.”

“Well, it’s that or a ‘false recall,’ and I only ever heard of one case of false recall happening back… I don’t even know when. I would have to check Webfoot Hall.”

“I’m not lying.”

“But Nud,” he said, sudden concern in his voice, “the fountains were built
long
after
the famine.”

“Oh,” was all I said.

We walked in silence. My behavior clearly disturbed Paplov and I tried to sort out in my mind what had just happened.

Before long, the faint but distinctive dirty smell of coal-smoke carried on the air as we made our way through the market square towards the Helmfast Inn. Paplov politely declined many a merchant as we strode past, while they peddled everything from tools to furs to spices to tapestries, to name a few. The Helmfast boasted the most respectable accommodations in town. Visiting dignitaries routinely opted for it, known for its hosting courtesies and hearty cuisine.

When we arrived there, Paplov again showed his letter, this time to the Stout attendant, who happened to be the innkeeper. He was a round-faced and pleasant looking man, seemingly content to be in the thick of midlife. He stood behind a high desk.

“Lord Mayor Otis’ aide dropped by this morning to reserve our best room,” he said. “It has a balcony overlooking the market square. There will be dancing and entertainment later tonight. We have a performing troupe in from Dennington – theatre and songs.”

“Very nice,” said Paplov, pretending to be thrilled.

The innkeeper’s hands soon were busy gathering paperwork and a quill as he chatted on. Motioning to an inkwell on the desk, he handed Paplov the quill and then the paper. “Please make your mark at the bottom so I can validate your attendance with the mayor, Councillor Lenokin.”

“Thank you kindly,” Paplov replied. He carefully studied what he was signing, and only then returned the paper with his mark.

“Streets are a little quiet this evening,” said Paplov.

“Yessum. Been quiet for days. As soon as it starts getting dark, most everyone packs up – ever since the incident on the Outland Trail. Not tonight though!”

Paplov raised an eyebrow. “Incident?”

“Haven’t you heard?” said the innkeeper. “The whole town’s talking about it. One of many lately – a bad batch of low-life bandits from the Outlands, I say. And that’s not all. Merchants and other travelers raided just outside of town, and traders raided
inside
town walls just the day before last, right out there under my nose, at dusk.” He pointed to a window overlooking the square. “Unbelievable.” He shook his head.

The innkeeper leaned forward on the desk, rested his chin on his hands, and stared out of the window. He looked as though he were about to speak, but no words came out.

“And the incident?” said Paplov.

The innkeeper look confused for a moment, then straightened up and slapped his forehead.

“Oh yes, pardon me,” he said. “I got sidetracked. There hasn’t been a lot of outsider traffic since a few days ago. Three, no four, or two. Two days. Mostly just locals about town. It’s making for a slow start to the season.”

“I see,” said Paplov as he took the keys handed to him.

“One for each of you,” said the innkeeper.

For a moment, the two just stared at one another.

“And…” prompted Paplov.

“And…” echoed the innkeeper, eyes wide and inviting, palms open to suggestion.

“The incident,” said Paplov.

“Oh yes, the incident, pardon me. It was a most foul murder and theft – and good upstanding Proudfooters they were, falling victim that is – up your way near the split, so I hear. The whole town’s talking. Outlanders, I say.”

Paplov tilted his head at me. His eyebrows raised in all seriousness: “We best keep our heads up and our ears pricked.” He turned back to the innkeeper. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, and flipped the man a coin.

Despite the lizard incident, we had kept good time and so could afford a short rest in our chamber before changing into more formal evening attire. Our itinerary began with dinner at the lord mayor’s house at dusk, over which Paplov would no doubt engage in the usual polite conversation. Meanwhile, I could focus on enjoying a much-needed meal after such a long day of travel, politely nodding when prompted, and sipping last year’s sweet summer wine from the local vineyards.

*

The evening began well, and my culinary visions seemed not far off the mark. We crossed the canal to Proudfoot Manor – the mayor’s house, which was warm and aromatic on the inside from an afternoon of cooking. Immediately, we were greeted by the gracious mayoress and a gracious staff that led us to a hot meal as grand as anything I could have hoped for. Dimly lit lanterns and scented candles on ornate chandeliers set the ambience. I had already helped myself to a fair portion at the mayor’s table before being called upon to take part in the evening’s dialog. I did not even notice the tension building in the air.