SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) (8 page)

Now, Lord Mayor Otis Dagger was known to be a cantankerous and irritable sort, but Paplov was quite masterful in the art of diplomacy. As a councillor, Paplov was adept at building up a trusting relationship in short order, able to break the ice quickly and establish common ground. The way I heard him talk with people, I sometimes made the mistake of thinking he was catching up with an old friend when, in reality, he had just met the person.

As I heaped a second helping of greens onto my plate to “fill in the corners,” the mistress of the household leaned forward from across the table, smiled at me and near whispered: “You carry the same look in your eyes as your mother did.” The woman had the gentlest voice.

“You knew my mother?” I was caught off-guard by the mention of her. Most people avoided the topic altogether.

“Briefly,” she said, “though I would have liked to have known her better.” The mayoress looked at me with an intense gaze as she continued. “Your mother had a warm heart and bright eyes filled with wonder and excitement.” One of her daughters smiled shyly at me from across the table. She had a simple, friendly look to her.

“Yes, she did,” I said. “Thank you.” I recalled the warmth most of all.

The mayoress straightened back into her seat and shot her burly husband a loving smile before sipping more red wine. That was when I noticed the mayor’s stern demeanor, and that his wife’s smile had been wasted on him; to reciprocate might have broken his face.

“Harrow wants the Malevuin Bridge dismantled for larger vessels to pass,” the lord mayor told Paplov. “Stoutville too.” He shook his head. His tone was harsh. “They already have us floating across on the Dim side.”

“Oh?”

The Upper Malevuin Bridge was a landmark in the region that stood as a testimony to the town’s pride and sense of accomplishment. Intricate and overdone in every detail, the bridge received enterprising parties from Fort Abandon and the Bearded Hills, plus business-minded travelers from as far west as Dennington, and in days past, the Star Sands. The Stoutville bridge, on the other hand, was simply practical, especially for farmers and ranchers with land on both sides of the river.

“Naturally, the whole town is up in arms,” Otis went on. “And who will they blame? It could cost me the next election.”

“Most certainly.”

Mayor Otis scowled at Paplov’s response.

My body tensed as I looked to the mayor. His anger was palpable. And as his irritation grew, my outward disdain for Harrow grew along with it. How Paplov could remain so calm was beyond me, especially considering his suspicions. Although he had been careful to keep any such mention of Harrow to a minimum over the years since my parents’ disappearance, the topic managed to creep up every so often. For the most part, we had moved on with our lives, or at least we convinced ourselves that we did.

“Do you know what it costs to run a ferry?!” Mayor Otis raged. “And who wants to wait?! Let Dim Lake pay, I say!” Fists clenched, the toe of his shoe tapped loudly against the floorboards. “And the ferry that we do have is treacherous in the winter… treacherous.” He shook his head, and as he did so, his shoulders dropped. He rubbed his forehead.

“What can I do?” he continued, deflated.

Paplov sighed. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants.”

Otis nodded, but the common saying only added fuel to his fury. He grimaced when he spoke. “I was trying to say ‘there is just no negotiating with Harrow’… before you interrupted!” The mayor’s face became beet red and the tie around his neck looked so tight it seemed his head might pop off. It wasn’t an interruption though. Otis had clearly paused long enough for Paplov to inject a comment.

“I apologize, lord mayor,” said Paplov.

What? Paplov’s not going to buckle under, is he?
My head started to throb.

The mayor waved a finger at him. “And you’re next, you know,” he added. “Harrow has spies all over your bog looking for some damned ancient battleground. They’ll do anything to find it. And what do you think will happen once they do?”

What?
I had heard similar talk before, but this time it really hit me. A new anger arose within, and the implications of the mayor’s heavy words bred like wildfire in my mind. Negative thoughts ignited and multiplied. Consequences pressed against my inner skull, and nearly split through it. The lanterns and candles all flickered.

“Is there a draft in here?” wondered the mayoress. She rubbed her shoulders to ward off the phantom chill.

Mayor Otis’ words still hung in the air. As worked up as ever I’ve seen him, he lifted his right hand a few inches from the table and let out a controlled, yet powerful slam to the hardwood top. I didn’t think his face could turn redder, but I was wrong. He became so angry he started to shake.

Paplov remained calm despite the seriousness of the matter, and looked about curiously at the lamps and the candles. His eyes fell back to the mayor and he looked the man in the eye. “How do you know this?” he said.

“A friend in Harrow, about our size,” he explained. “He works in the entertainment and culinary industries – organizing events, catering and such. He hears things.”

I could not hold my composure any longer. I thought of the vision: the torn up gardens, the fountains toppling…

“We can’t just sit here and take it!” I said. “Why doesn’t someone stand up to Harrow?” The words just spewed out – there was no way to contain them. But really I didn’t want to contain them, and unfortunately for Paplov I didn’t try to hide the disgust I felt in my expression either. He was about to roll over to Mayor Otis the way he rolled over to Harrow years ago.

“Nud! Mind your place,” he said. In the midst of his interjection, the room went dark.

The women all gasped, followed by a long hush.

In good time, Mayor Otis rose from his chair. “A moment,” he said. In near darkness, he fumbled for a match, lit a lantern, and adjusted its dial for intensity.

“Ah, good,” said Paplov. In the new light, he shot me a stern look then turned to the mayor, who was in the midst of igniting the next lantern. “Please excuse my grandson; he is a bit off today. Clearly he is out of line.”

“No, you are,” I said. “Why doesn’t anyone else see it? Harrow—” Paplov cut me off.

“That’s enough out of you!” he said. “Mind your tongue or… or I’ll… you’ll… regret it.”

I felt my jaw tighten. We glared at one another. I opened my mouth to speak, about to say something I would probably regret.

That is when the mistress of the household reached up and gently squeezed her husband’s arm. Her head tilted slightly towards the mayor and when he turned and locked eyes with her, an unspoken kindness transpired between them. I swallowed the words on my tongue. Mayor Otis lowered his head and let out a loud sigh. He sat down beside her. The redness in his face began to dissipate.

“The boy is passionate, I’ll give him that!” he exclaimed, “and with enough hot air to blow out all the lights. He’ll make a fine politician some day.” Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except for me.

Turning to Paplov, he went on: “But such words are easier said than done – something experience has taught us both.”

Paplov nodded his head, “Indeed.”

“I suppose they are one in the same with Harrow – want and take,” the mayor said. “We were told to ‘take it down your way or we’ll take it down for you.’ That was the negotiation.”

Biting his upper lip, Paplov shook his head. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants,” he repeated, “always has, always will. There is little anyone can do about it. Proudfooters will know that it isn’t your fault.”

Great, another excuse to do
nothing.

The mayor nodded as he met Paplov’s gaze. “Indeed,” he said. Otis sighed and seemed to relax a little. He shook his head quickly – almost a shiver – several times.

Then Otis smashed the table again. His voice boomed. “Give up the swampland, Paplov, or we’ll…”

“Give it up for you?” said Paplov. They both laughed. The comment made more sense when served with wine.

Mayor Otis raised his glass to Paplov, “Our negotiations will take a more civilized route, no doubt,” he said.

“Certainly,” said Paplov, raising his own glass to the mayor’s.

And with that, all the tension between the two fizzled. But it would take more than a toast to drown my emotions on the matter. I reached across the table and helped myself to a pint of ale. Paplov chose to ignore my indulgences and I returned the favor by containing any further outbursts.

“I take it you have full authority in the matter before us?” said Otis.

“Of course,” said Paplov. “I have been fully briefed and empowered by our own lord mayor and council, and I have all the necessary paperwork to prove it.”

“Very good.” Otis motioned to one of his daughters. Paplov looked to me. I fumbled through his carrying bag, eventually producing the relevant documents. The mayor’s daughter came over and I handed them to her.

Now I hadn’t expected official business to be conducted over dinner, but with those words, the dealing began. Paplov and Otis filled and refilled their cups as they spoke of economy and risk, of present and future value, of obligations, balance, taxes, who had devoted what forces to the security of the Triland area, the upkeep of the trail, and the dibbing up of the many concomitant roles and responsibilities that went along with the simple leasing of a parcel of land.

I kept an ear to the conversation, but also made small talk with the misses and her three chatty daughters. The youngest acted very strangely. Giggling, saying weird things and making weird faces. The middle one wasn’t much different. Both were pretty, but I tried to avoid topics that led to input from those two, which mostly resulted in some kind of teasing. Instead, I focused on sensible conversation with the eldest and the misses.

Eventually, the spirit of a deal was hammered out and the two diplomats stood up, wobbled, and shook hands. Otis steadied himself with his other hand on the back of Paplov’s chair.

After a half-pint of ale and a generous serving of desert, I retreated to the mayor’s study with Paplov and Otis where they worked out the finer details of the deal. I was responsible for recording and witnessing the agreed upon arrangements. The mayor’s assistant performed the same duty. She happened to be his eldest daughter, several years my senior, and was the one who had sat across from me at dinner. All I had to do was listen, write, retrieve forms from Paplov’s carrying bag, and quickly draft up any understandings settled upon, organizing their wine-soaked notions into coherent and well meaning sentences.

As negotiations drew to a close and we took to packing away our things, Otis’ daughter – the assistant – made her way over to me, smiling pleasantly.

“Will you be joining us later tonight in the market square for the dancing and entertainment?”

That was unexpected. Apparently, not everyone was afraid to be out at night.

I wondered how I might avoid stepping on her delicate toes.

Oda was friendly, and she was not bearded.

Chapter XI

Good company

T
he journey home was cold, wet, and tiresome. I had been up all night feasting and dancing with Oda and her sisters. Paplov, too stubborn to call for a wagon, would never have made it all the way to the Handlers’ Post without falling over. I carried everything.

Otis had warmed up to Paplov considerably after dinner, behaving like his new best friend before the night was through. They shared stories about all the deal making and underhandedness on the political scene lately, then raided the wine cellar and sang songs until daybreak.

Wyatt looked like a drowned rat by the time he dropped us off at home, past nightfall. Paplov and I were equally drenched. The lizard handler had met us nearly halfway to Proudfoot after we didn’t show up at the post on time. He’d heard the same rumors that the innkeeper had passed on to us, and was worried we might present a tempting target for would-be thieves. Paplov tipped him generously and thanked him profusely.

I slept dead to the world that night and Paplov left me undisturbed. Mid-morning, when I began to wake, my feet and legs ached from the long hike and the soaked-in chill of the rain. When I tried to move, my neck felt cramped from the way I had slept, my head pounded, and my shoulders were terribly sore and chaffed from all the backpacking. I wasted an hour or more just debating whether or not it was worth getting up to eat. Finally, I could no longer ignore the rumbling in my stomach. I rolled out of my night sack and lumbered to the study.

Paplov rested in his favorite chair sipping tea, slowly digesting a book and a biscuit. The tea was a special blend, steeped from young five-finger leaves picked just outside of Proudfoot before we left. Paplov claimed the remedy soothed his throat and eased his aches. He was still in his night robe. A heavy wool blanket lay folded over his lap. I slumped into the chair opposite him.

A few nibbles of biscuit and the occasional handful of wild berries were all he could keep down. We were due to hit the trail soon, so preparations had to start right away.

Paplov knew it too, and he sighed when he looked at me with those tired eyes. He stared for a long minute, as though weighing something within. Then relief washed over him, and without cause for concern, he bade me to gather the arrows made, my wits, and some good company. I was to get myself together, stop at Town Hall to file the land lease records, and take my leave come morning the next day. He insisted I make the journey to my uncle’s cabin with friends this time, saying he wanted me out of the hut until his ailment ran its course.

“Fyorn’s eyes’ll light up like fireflies when he sees some fresh young faces for a change,” he said. “I gather he’s getting plenty tired of that ole coot he sees in the mirror every day, with only one other old coot’s company to look forward too.” Paplov began to laugh, but his laugh became a cough. He had choppy words of advice for me, and a request: “Give him my best ; keep one eye on the water and the other on the tree-line; and no laggards.”

Paplov shut his mouth tight, filled his cheeks with air, and did his best to muffle an oncoming flurry of coughs. I took the opportunity to blurt out something that should have been said years ago.

“Last time I went… there was something not right about the forest,” I said.

“Not right?”

“I thought it was a tree at first, but…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to say it.

“But what?” he said.

“It moved.”

“Pardon?” he wheezed, trying to suppress the inevitable.

“It moved,” I replied, “and not just a little. It came at me. It was gnarled and crooked, with jaws and teeth and…”

Red-faced, Paplov raised his hand, shook his head, and then began to cough-roar at the notion. The act cleared his throat, at least. His voice was scratchy.

“Oh really?” he said, swallowing. “Boogalies too? And did you hear the flip-flap-flopping of their floppy wet feet? Maybe they were in the trees.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said.

He cough-roared again, then took a long moment to regain his composure.

“Maybe you
are
having false recalls,” he said. “One thing’s for sure, Uncle Fyorn doesn’t miss a beat, especially in his own woods. And he never, ever mentioned anything to me about talking trees.”

“They chased me. I didn’t say they could ta—”

“I meant
walking
trees… whatever . You just have a vivid imagination.”

I didn’t say anything, but the glance I made at my branded wrist tipped him off.

“That has nothing to do with anything,” said Paplov. “Looks like a rash. Better get it checked out – the Diviner probably has an ointment or some other remedy that’ll take care of it. Did you scratch yourself against something up in that attic?”

My eyes went wide.

“Yes – I know you were there,” he continued. “Rashes can be stubborn. They can persist for years. Does it come and go?”

I shook my head. He took a closer look, and muffled another cough.

“That mark has been there just about as long as I can remember, so no worries. You know, I’d say it was smaller years back , but you’ve grown since. Your stubborn little friend probably just grew right along with you.”

His explanations were ludicrous, but to pursue the matter further would be pointless – my grandfather had no real answers to offer, only mockery and half-disguised criticisms.

*

The rest of the day I spent at Webfoot Hall and that evening, I packed what I needed. At the hall, I met up with Old Remy and filed the lease records Paplov and Mayor Otis had agreed upon. He sat by himself in a cluttered corner of the administrative wing, stacks of paper and rolled maps strewn everywhere. He was the only one in Webfoot who understood the filing system, if you could call it that. The grizzled old Pip’s head was unusually small and shriveled, with only a few tufts of white hair that sprung forth from the scalp. Frog-like, his bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets. He reminded me that Council would still have to sign off on the final documents before they would become valid. While I was there, I got to talking about mineral claims. Old Remy provided me with a claims map and the forms that I would need to stake a claim. He said I could have them free of charge, but I paid the normal fee anyway. He also said I would have to make my own claim posts.

Back at home while packing, I pondered the coming excursion. Going to Deepweald without Paplov just didn’t seem right at first, but as night drew nearer the idea grew on me. It could be fun. I would combine my two trips into one. What could be better after visiting Fyorn than a treasure hunt? And maybe – just maybe – we could get a start on a mining claim.

I debated which cloak to bring and whether or not to bother with boots. I chose the heavier of my two cloaks, despite the fact that the weather was warming up. It would keep the bugs from biting through the material in the evening on our way home, and it would also show better to Holly. And oh yes, Holly definitely would be invited. I could only hope that Mer remembered to make that point clear when he passed on my message to Bobbin at the Flipside – Stout memories are so unreliable.

Boots… I hated wearing them. The return trip could be problematic though, with bugs nipping at my toes near sundown. I decided to carry a light pair in my pack. I hooked my bow in as well, unstrung, in case my uncle had time for target practice. I expected a lighter load on the return trip, since Paplov already had a full stock of deepwood. As for the stone that Mer had referred to as some form of light-emitting, ancient tree gum, I wrapped it in leather to hide the flashing and stuffed it into my pocket.

*

The next morning, I skipped breakfast to save time. Fully burdened, I made my way to Paplov’s night chamber to bid him farewell. It was empty. I stumbled in the dark to the study, and found him asleep in his favorite wicker chair again.

Now Paplov would have never let me go to Fyorn’s without him if he was not sick, and adding time for treasure hunting afterwards would have been a tough sell. Lately, there had only been time for work, one kind of training or another, and chores. It was suffocating. Not to mention the recent dangers to travelers that everyone was talking about.
This trip is freedom
, I decided, as I watched him in his sleep.

Paplov jerked when I touched his shoulder ever so lightly. In the dim light, the spittle that ran down from the corner of his mouth was barely noticeable. I spoke quietly.

“I’m off to Uncle Fyorn’s now, OK?” I said. “And then some treasure hunting.”

Eyelids pumping, Paplov turned his head towards me and murmured something unintelligible.

I took that as a “Yes,” whispered a soft goodbye, and left him sleeping as I set out to town. And that is how, without so much as breakfast, I was out the door and down the road in no time flat. Making up the lost meal would be easy enough: plenty of wild forage could be found on the way, even that time of year – sour moss berries that had wintered well and bitter catkins, for starters.

I picked up Gariff along the way, already hard at work with his kin – it was a family business. His “Pops” liked to get out early and accomplish as much as possible “before the bugs woke up” as he would say. With both hands grasping the sturdy wooden handle of his shovel and leaning all his weight on it, Gariff’s father spoke with a gravelly voice.

“Come to steal away my best worker?”

“I’m not go’in anywhere,” said a cousin.

Gariff was in the midst of lifting more than he should. He couldn’t even see over the blocks he was carrying. The stumble in his step didn’t deter him. When he unloaded, he looked up at his father like a hound waiting to fetch. All he got was a lecture.

“Why didn’t ya tell me earlier?” said Pops to his son.

“Never plan yer day around a Pip,” said an uncle. “Don’t ye know that?”

Gariff shrugged his shoulders. Pops rubbed the beard on his chin, thick and grey-speckled, then sighed. “There’s no arguing that point. Ahh, go on,” he said. “It’s nigh summer. Just be back in town before dark. Got it?”

“Got it!” said Gariff.

“And bring Kabor wit’ya this time!” he said. I detected a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Gariff brushed the dirt off his shirt and pants, took his hat off to give it a shake, and then placed it firmly on his head. According to him, Kabor hadn’t left the Flipside, so we headed there next to round up the other three.

When we arrived at the inn, we met round Bobbin first, who just happened to be tidying up the foyer. As Pips go, he was a bit of a novelty. In the right light, the splotches of color along Bobbin’s neck matched the pattern of a devil’s paintbrush, replacing the usual muted green or brown markings that appear on most Pips with a slash of red. Although a few years younger than the lot of us, he made up for that deficiency through sheer entertainment value and, being the only child of the more than generous Numbits, by virtue of the palatable benefits that extended to his friends. He habitually raided the kitchen on our behalf.

“Hello Nud! Hello Gariff!” he said as we entered. “Mer told Holly who told me all about the treasure hunt and the claim staking. Are we leaving already?”

“Right away,” I said. “I have to stop at my uncle’s first though.”

“What?” said Gariff.

“Is he the important Elderkin you were supposed to meet?” said Bobbin.

“That’s him,” I said.

Gariff mumbled something under his breath.

“Where’s Holly,” I asked Bobbin.

“We don’t serve holly here,” Bobbin tootled. “The berries are toxic.”

Gariff shook his head. “Here we go.”

“Don’t worry,
Loverboy
,” Bobbin said to me. “I’ll find her. She’s excited about going. Give me two shakes to get some food together too. We have to eat, you know.”

Loverboy
? My face felt hot, flush.
What does he mean by that?
Gariff chuckled and Bobbin wore a goofy look from ear to ear.

“Shut up!” I told the Stout, and gave him a shove. It was like trying to move a tree stump. He turned to Bobbin.

“Have you seen my busy cousin?” he said.

“I didn’t know you had one,” replied Bobbin.

“Too busy for work, that is,” said Gariff.

Bobbin stopped. “Oh,
that
kind of busy. I haven’t seen him at all this morning. He’s probably still sleeping.”

The young Numbit ran out back to the cookhouse to pack as much food as he possibly could carry and also to find Holly, who was not in her room.

Gariff went to fetch Kabor, leaving me alone in the foyer.

It was too early for the breakfast crowd. The greeter’s desk was vacant, the hearth gloomy and lifeless. Stepping into the great room, I immediately felt a sense of loss, as though I had just missed my own birthday party. The place didn’t look quite right so empty, so calm. It was too quiet, and too tidy.

The floor had been swept and the tables wiped clean, and extra chairs stacked up to one side of the stage. Windows were open, but the fresh morning breeze could not hide the layering of smoke, ale-soaked wood, and scented hints of old clothes left too long in a pile.

My stomach began to churn. I couldn’t stop thinking about Holly. I wanted to remember everything about that night, but only if it was good.
And what if it wasn’t?

Just then, Holly entered the great room, alone and carrying a book. She wore a loose shirt and a form-fitting skirt. Her lean athleticism struck me.

“Hello, Holly,” I said. “You look good.”

“Thank you, Nud,” she replied. “And good morning, what brings you here so early?”

“Plans have changed,” I told her, “We’re visiting my uncle
and
going treasure hunting, all in one day.”

Holly bounced with excitement as though her perfect wish had just come true. “We get to do both!” she exclaimed. “That’s even better than what Mer told me.” She went on to very specifically confirm that, indeed, we were to visit a real, bonafide Elderkin.

“What’s his name?” she asked, ears pricked. Her olive eyes shone and her slender jaw hung slightly open with anticipation.