“We’re going to have to time this right, if we want to go unnoticed,” Hatty told Slate. “They won’t be expecting any ships during Searching Season, but that doesn’t mean the coast will be unguarded. From where the patrol boats sit outside Jaidour, the glare from the ocean will be at its brightest in about an hour. Best place to hide in the ocean is the brightest. Hopefully we can get close enough to the calmer waters by that time that we can row the rest of our way.”
“And if we can’t?” Slate asked. “If they see us?”
“Well, we’ll have to come up with something else if that’s the case,” Hatty said matter-of-factly.
The rain subsided completely as the sun rose higher and the clouds dispersed. After idling in the still-choppy ocean for some time and readying the Jean Bee, Hatty gave Slate the order to move forward with their plan. A fortuitous current of air filled the headsail as Slate dropped it, which sent the sloop sailing swiftly toward the landmass on the horizon.
It was just before the lighthouse of Jaidour became visible as a shiny speck on the spit ahead that Verialus Cointer fell out of his cabin again, obviously refreshed in his drunkenness. He began to load one of the two lifeboats on the ship deck with small goods, mainly bottles of wine.
“Captain?” Slate asked to gain his attention. “Captain Cointer?”
“Don’t captain me, young man. Never seen so much disrespect in my life,” the pirate grumbled under his breath. Slate wondered what respect a pirate captain should expect.
“What, uh…” Hatty began, “What you doin’ over there, Verialus?”
“It might behoove you sea dogs to know that there are three ships approaching from the coast at great speed. In case you might be concerned about such a thing," Verialus sniffed. "But what would I know about anything?”
“What are you talking about?” Hatty asked, realizing at the end of his question with a quick look through his binoculars what the captain meant.
“What is it?” Slate asked Hatty, unable to see anything with his naked eye.
“Well…” Hatty said, “I can’t… Three ships, I think three… they aren’t flying any flags, though. That I can see, anyways.
Those’re government ships. The only ones allowed to not identify themselves, though it kind of gives them away,” the captain said with a cackle. “And I’m sure any one of them would love to bring in the Jean Bee.” As he was lowering the rowboat down on the ship’s winch, he lost control and the boat dropped into the ocean with a great splash.
“So he’s going to leave? Honorable to the end,” Hatty said.
“Listen,” Slate began, but Hatty stopped him.
“Let him go," he said. "We don’t have time for his nonsense. Take your position.”
Captain Cointer then threw himself off the Jean Bee, and managed to land in his escape boat. He must have knocked himself unconscious in the fall, because the boat drifted off with the current.
“Can you escape them?” Slate asked Hatty, refocusing on their new threat.
“No, I don’t think so. The fire power on those ships wouldn’t let us get more than five leagues,” Hatty said, scratching his beard.
“Hatty!” Slate cried. “What are we going to do?”
“Well… I’ve got an idea,” Hatty answered. “You ever fired off a blastporter before?”
“I haven’t, no,” Slate answered. “You’re not thinking of fighting those titans, are you?”
“Not fighting, just distracting,” Hatty murmured under his breath.
He spun the Jean Bee to where the starboard side paralleled the three ships now plainly visible on the horizon. They were fully rigged, which meant they were as fast as the sloop or faster, and they were loaded with blastporters of their own.
“Follow me!” Hatty shouted to Slate, as he leapt from the sterncastle and grabbed onto a nearby line, which he rode down to the deck. There, he began readying one of the seven small blastporters that poked their charred heads through the portals along the side of the sloop.
“Hey, come on! Let’s go!” he shouted at Slate, who was looking on with frozen shock.
Slate snapped to attention and raced down the boards to the third blastporter, where Hatty was preparing its charge.
“Like this!” Hatty shouted with hurried anxiety, demonstrating to Slate how to pack the weapon. He poured from a nearby store of gunpowder a fair amount of the explosive, and then packed it down with a long bristled swab, before rolling a heavy sphere that strained his neck muscles to bulging into the chamber. Slate moved on to the fourth blastporter to do the same, and soon the rest were ready.
“Now what do we do?” Slate asked.
“We wait,” Hatty answered.
“Until what?”
“Until they’re in firing range.”
“And then we fire?” Slate asked.
“It’d be a good time,” Hatty answered.
“What of the men onboard?”
“What of them?” Hatty asked. He began waving his arms to the ships as if asking for help. “The shells should only disable or slow them down, they aren’t explosive. Wave your arms, like this.”
“And then we turn back, or head north?” Slate asked, his arms in the air.
“No. You’ll see. On point now, they’re coming closer.”
It was still another ten minutes or so before the warships were within firing range. Slate just wished they could hurry up, to calm the acid in his stomach and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.
When the ships were very near indeed, they turned parallel to the little sloop and began to lift their sails and slow down.
“Here goes nothing. Take this,” Hatty said to Slate as he handed him one of two sparkboxes, “And get those fuses lit!”
Slate ran to the first of the seven blastporters and sparked the fuse as Hatty returned to the wheel. Just as the seventh fuse was lit, the first of the blastporters went off, with a huge plume of smoke and a noise like a clap of thunder. The force sent the blastporter rolling back across the deck of the sloop.
“You were supposed to secure them!” Hatty shouted.
“I didn’t know!” Slate screamed back.
The first three shells from the Jean Bee missed the towering ships completely, but the fourth and rest hit the closest square in the hull. This sent the warship careening off to the south, pushing the other two ships along with it as they strove to avoid collision.
“Ha ha!” Hatty shouted. “What a hit!” Load ‘em up again!”
Slate found the blastporters extremely hot to the touch, and seared his hand when he first attempted to re-load. He fumbled a bit with his burnt hand but was able to overcome the set-back and had all seven blastporters reloaded in little time.
“Spark ‘em when they’re ready! We gotta hit ‘em one more time before they split!” Hatty cried. He had maneuvered the Jean Bee a bit southward to compensate for the government ships’ relocations, and so the second volley of shells was able to directly strike all three of the ships, though the wide spread meant they were less effective than before. There was nothing in this second round of shells to dissuade the approaching ships at all; the sloop had lost its element of surprise. Soon the massive ships were separated and moving into attack position.
“We’re going to have to press forward!” Hatty cried. “Sailing right through them is our only hope. They’re too big to turn around, and they won’t shoot toward each other.”
“Toward them?” Slate gasped, as the sloop bounced wildly along the ocean under Hatty’s ace navigation.
The ocean put up its own resistance, in the form of foamy water that came up like a hand over the side of the sloop, smacking Slate hard on the back and soaking the store of blastpowder he was scooping from. As he struggled to move across the slippery deck toward drier powder, the sloop came up against a most formidable wave, one that lifted its front up at a near forty-five degree angle with the surface of the ocean.
The Jean Bee groane
d and moaned in agony while it was suspended there, before the wave collapsed on itself and the sloop sank back down, deep into the water, then rolled over far to the left, then the right, then came level again. The wild rocking almost pulled Slate into the ocean, but he managed to hang on, as the blastporters slid about the deck and Pilotte scrambled for footing.
When the sloop began to surge forward again in the direction of Proterse, the tangle of blastporters chased Slate and Pilotte across the deck, as Hatty did his best to fight against the wind-battered ocean. The sloop bounced and skipped like a rock cast from the shore, its planks and beams groaning and crying out as they struggled to remain together.
One of the government vessels was able to move swiftly enough that its many blastporters could fire off a round of shelling. Slate watched the smoke trace the shells’ way to the sloop, those that missed making a neat line of one-two-three-splashes in the water before the rest connected and sent pieces of the Jean Bee exploding upwards and outwards. After the dust and debris had settled, Slate could see that the damage was severe, possibly too much for the sloop to bear.
“We’re taking on a lot of water!” Slate shouted up to Hatty, who was locked to the wheel with a look of fierce determination.
“I can tell!” Hatty shouted back.
As the sloop maneuvered between the great ships, Slate could hear the men onboard them calling and shouting. Under the weight of the water the Jean Bee was accumulating, it began to lean to the starboard side, and to slow. The spit reaching out from Jaidour was only three or four hundred feet away at most now, but it didn’t seem like the boat was going to make it.
“What are we going to do?” Slate begged of Hatty.
“We’re going to have to beach her!” Hatty shouted back.
“What do you mean?
Hang on tight!” Hatty shouted.
Though the boat was water-logged and still losing speed, it was yet moving fast enough to where an impact with the coastline was going to be catastrophic.
“What should I do?” Slate shouted helplessly.
“Hope for the best!” Hatty shouted.
He roped the wheel into locked position and leapt up to catch hold of some rigging. “Try to hold on to something that moves!”
Slate spun around looking for something to hold on to. He saw Pilotte bracing himself and then his bag, washed into a corner. Just as he had made it to his bag and wrapped one hand around its handle, another round of shells sounded from the government ships, seconds before the sloop collided with the shore, hard. The whole of the already weakened ship buckled under the impact, splitting the deck into a 'v'. Pilotte leapt as the force catapulted Slate into the air.
He soared high, up past Hatty, who was snapped back by the rigging as if it were a leash, up past shells flying through the debris of the exploding ship. For a brief moment, he could see Jaidour, and then his body twisted in the air and he saw the three ships on the ocean, and then the rocky spit below him. How suddenly he was going to die, he thought, falling down into oblivion.
In that suspended moment, as the wind whipped around his head and soothed his thoughts, Slate didn’t feel scared of dying. He saw Pilotte land on the sandy shore. He saw the image of Arianna, and thanked her. He saw his brother. He felt the warmth of the sun. When his upward trajectory was at last thwarted by gravity, Slate began his descent to the jagged rocks below, closed his eyes, and prepared to die.
With a loud thwack of taught canvas his eyes popped back open, as he bounced off one of the sloop’s sails like it were a trampoline, just as the mast wedged itself into the coastline. He fell back to the canvas and bounced again, this time neatly and gently off onto the sandy beach just to the left of the still-settling shipwreck. Pilotte ran up to him and licked his face.
Hatty hadn’t been as lucky, which Slate discovered when he began to climb to where his bag was dangling from the splintered mast. The poor rogue was nearly split in two himself, splayed across rocks and broken wood.
“Hatty!” Slate cried. He rushed to the pirate’s side.
“You had better get out of here quickly,” Hatty said as he closed his strained eyes.
“Hatty,” Slate said, his eyes watering. “Hatty, I’m so sorry…”
“No, Slate. We all have to die. At least I died for something other than myself.”
And then with a deep groan, Hatty stopped breathing, and his splintered limbs stopped twitching shortly thereafter.
Slate wiped his eyes and managed to stand up. It was hard to move quickly with such grief weighing so heavily, but he knew he had to. Pilotte nudged him along into the waiting jungle as smaller boats from the ships out on the ocean were dispatched. The two raced through pieces of the exploded ship, and then bound toward the walkway leading to the lighthouse ahead. As fleetly as a wisp they flew over and across it, before disappearing deep into the waiting jungle on the other side.
It occurred to Slate as he ran that he should have taken Hatty’s quickshot with him, but it was too late now to turn back. He ran for what seemed like miles, but which was surely much less, until he found a cave. He charged deep into the cave and then hid, with Pilotte at his side. The two stayed there, waiting for someone to come searching for them, until the sun went down and then through the night.
The next morning, Slate was still waiting for a sign or sound that someone was looking for him, but there came nothing. Eventually, his fear abated enough for him to crawl back out of the cave. He hesitantly looked around, and Pilotte’s easy demeanor told him there was nothing to be immediately worried about. The two then continued through the jungle, coming out of it not long thereafter into a park. Slate used a fountain to wash off the dirt from the cave, and then he and Pilotte made their way into Jaidour.
Slate couldn’t help but stare up in awe at Jaidour’s architecture, despite the heavy sadness hanging on his shoulders. Many of the towering buildings were decorated with surreal sculpture, grotesque faces tinged green and yellow with moss. The wonders at street level were just as great: so many thousands and thousands of faces unlike any he had seen before, with greater variation than he ever imagined the human form to possess. The millions of emotions and stories behind the faces seemed unfathomable, and while Slate felt a bit rude staring, he simply couldn’t help it.
Slate asked one of the strangers how he might get to Aurora Falls. He learned from them that a trade freeze had interrupted passenger travel north over the sea, and that his only other two options were heading through the Ojikef Jungle, which the clerk heavily advised against, or a three-week land route that wound around the southeastern shore of the continent and then back up.
“What do you think, Pilotte?” Slate asked his companion. “I want to go back home as soon as possible. I don’t want to take three weeks to deliver Guh’s package. What about you?”
Pilotte smiled back.
“I guess we’ll decide soon enough, won’t we?”
The two made their way down the swirling green avenues in mid-town. They passed a man on a box shouting at passersby.
“The end is near!” the man cried. “Opal Pools will be the end of us all! Repent! Repent!”
Slate noticed that few of the other men and women in the street were paying the man any mind.
“Is the end near, Pilotte?” Slate asked.
Pilotte sniffed as if to say such thoughts were nonsense.
During a steep walk up a cobbled street a few blocks later, Slate heard voices calling in his direction.
“Catch him! Catch that boy!”
Slate turned back to see a young man running frantically down the street in his direction. The look on the young man’s face was one of sheer panic. Not far behind him were his pursuers. They looked menacing, and much older than the young stranger.
In an instant, Slate dove into a fron bush along the side of the road, just as the young man was about to pass by. He grabbed the stranger’s coattail, and then both of them tumbled into the bush, as Pilotte hid himself
in the bushes on the other side of the street. Slate struggled to quiet the stranger as his pursuers stopped outside the bush. Their investigatory blade was being thrust perilously close to the entwined young men when Pilotte surged from the foliage across the street. He gave a great howl and the gang of men threw up their arms and scattered in fright. After they were gone, Slate and the stranger rolled out into the street.
“What's the matter with you?” the stranger growled, throwing Slate off.
“I was only trying to help you,” Slate said. “You looked like you were in trouble.”
“Oh. Well, I was. You got that right. Here,” the stranger said as he handed Slate half a loaf of bread.
“What’s this?”
“Half the reason they were chasing me.”
“There were three men chasing you over a loaf of bread?”
“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve helped myself to their bread, let’s just say that.”
“Oh. Why do you steal their bread?”
“Because I’m hungry and I don’t have any money and no one will give me a job.”
“Oh." Slate said. “Did three of them really need to chase after you, though?”
“Do you think so?” the stranger asked.
“No.”
“Well, then we can be friends!”
“Alright, then.”
“Is that your snarlingwulf?”
“Yes, it is. Well, he isn’t mine, it’s not like I own him. You don’t really own a snarlingwulf. But he follows me, everywhere. Pilotte is his name. Mine is Slate Ahn. What’s yours?”
“Pilotte, Slate, my name is Ertajj Khomz.”
“Ertajj, it’s nice to meet you. Do you live here, in Jaidour?”
“No,” Ertajj laughed. “No, no.”
“Then why are you here?” Slate asked.
“Well, I’m actually still working on that.”
Slate sensed a kindred soul. “Any bright ideas?” he asked.
“Nothing. Thing is,” Ertajj said, “I snuck my way onto a freighter back in Cole and it ended up here by chance. I didn’t plan on coming here at all.”
“Why did you sneak onto the freighter?”
“Just runnin’.”
“What from?”
“You name it.”
“I’m new here, too, from Alleste, originally. That’s on Aelioanei. I’ve just had the most horrible experience…”
“If you have to know, the real reason we left were the jackals that burned our homes to the ground. First, they condemned the whole community. We were growing our own food, we had our own money. That doesn’t work for them, does it? Can’t tax it, can you? Development, as they call it, was just an excuse to get rid of us. Just like they get rid of anyone who doesn’t fit into their vision of society.”
Slate listened as Ertajj went on a wild rant interlaced with political ideology and conspiracy theory. When at last he reached some sort of conclusion, Slate had no idea what any of it had meant.
“Oh yeah, I understand,” he lied.
“So there’s that,” Ertajj said. “Now I’ve not been in Jaidour a week and there are gangs after me. What a life! That’s why you gotta have friends. Like you! Come on, let’s see if we can’t find my other mates.”
“The people you came here with?” Slate asked.
“Yeah. It’s me, Juke, and Dahzi. The Miscreants. They should be in the park.”
While Ertajj led Slate and Pilotte downtown, he offered endless commentary on anything and everything. Ertajj claimed to know the true history of Jaidour, how it had been stolen by people from the east after a mass-murder of the original inhabitants. It was for the natural resources the ground possessed that the invaders had taken their land, and as far as Ertajj saw things, little about the character of the Jaidourean people had evolved since then. In every house, the angry young man from Cole saw a monument to cruelty. Even the street signs supposedly bore names that told those in the powerful elite the city’s true history, written in blood. It was entertaining and sometimes funny, but Slate sensed a deep hurt beneath Ertajj's performance. The young man reminded Slate of Hatty, whose dying grimace Slate couldn’t seem to chase from his mind.
Slate and Pilotte waited outside a market while Ertajj bought cider.
“Now how are we going to get to Aurora Falls, buddy?” Slate asked the wulf.
Pilotte dropped his jaw and panted.
“I don’t have any idea, either,” said Slate.
“Hey, Slate, I found ‘em!” interrupted Ertajj. He was with Juke and Dahzi across the street, and had somehow gotten intoxicated in the short time Slate had been waiting.
“It’s Stanton and his Calloray, isn’t it, then?” asked the taller of Ertajj’s friends.
Slate recognized this as a reference to the tale of Stanton the Pretender from his treasured Legend.
“That’s the Legend, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Not bad, Ertajj, he’s up on his Legend,” the young man said.
“Absolutely,” said Slate. “And you must be…Vuvpil?”
“Cha-cha! From the mountains of the skies! No. Actually, I’m Juke. Nice to meet you.”
“Aw, look at them making friends,” Ertajj said.
“And you’re Dahzi?” Slate asked the third young man.
“Yes, I have been for some time now,” Dahzi answered.
“Well this is just perfect, isn’t it?” Ertajj asked. “Let’s not just stand about. Shall we get somewhere a bit more…secluded?” he proposed, flashing the bottle of cider hiding inside his coat.
The group took a long walk through the jungle surrounding the city, joking, stopping for drinks and pipes, and talking about their pasts. They climbed trees and skipped rocks. In fleeting moments, Slate felt like he was back with his brother in Alleste.
When the sun went down, Slate and his new companions drank and laughed themselves to sleep around a campfire on the outskirts of town.
“Beautiful morning,” Slate said groggily as he rose the next morning.
“Meh,” Ertajj said. “Same as any other.”
“Where should we go today?” asked Juke.
“Let’s go downtown and see what trouble we can stir up,” said Ertajj. “Who we can piss off.”
“Sounds good,” said Juke.
Pilotte walked out in front of the others as they made their way downtown, his tail wagging happily.
“These houses make me sick,” said Ertajj, scowling at the opulence around him. “They’ve each got enough room for a small village, and the city’s got a problem with homelessness. Bunch of Ghasts living around here, I’m sure.”
“Ghosts?” Slate asked.
“Ghasts. Not ghosts.” said Ertajj.
Dahzi giggled. “Ghosts. Ha.”
“Ghasts?” Slate asked. “What does that mean?”
“He’s thick,” Ertajj grumbled.
“He just doesn’t know,” said Juke. “Slate, if you believe it, the Ghasts are a secret society that controls the world from behind closed doors. How or where or why they originated is unknown. Supposedly, they travel the known lands, collecting information and artifacts from the Golden Age of the Gods. The time before the Fall.”
“The Books of Knowledge,” Ertajj interjected.
“The Books of Knowledge?” Slate repeated.
“That’s right. What do you know about them?” asked Ertajj.
“Oh, nothing. No more than you, I mean. Have you ever met one of them?” Slate asked. “A Ghast?”
“Oh no, I’ve never met one, no,” Juke said. “I don’t mean to make it sound as if they’re ubiquitous; it is all very underground. You hear about the Ghasts every once and a while, over a campfire or in gossip. Personally, I think it’s all very interesting, but I don’t believe it. It’s a myth. An urban legend. I live in the real world.”
“I believe,” said Ertajj.
“Really?” asked Slate.
“Don’t listen to Ertajj,” said Juke. “He has a wild imagination.”
“Jealous,” Ertajj said.
“Keep dreaming,” said Juke, rolling his eyes.
The five stopped to buy more cider and pipes, and jerky for Pilotte, then found a park at which to enjoy their indulgences. Once Slate had enough cider, he started telling the others what he had learned of the Books of Knowledge from Guh, stopping just short of revealing that he possessed some of the books himself.
“And here I thought you were a clueless island kid this whole time,” an impressed Ertajj said after Slate had finished. “You’ve heard some things. Bring it on, Opal Pools. That’s what I say. The faster we get this society ready for the revolution, the better, I say.”
“The revolution?” Slate asked.
“The coming revolution,” Ertajj said. “When the politicians and their vain stabs at power are finally brought to justice. They gather their Books, they lord over us and suppress the knowledge our ancestors left us. Their greed vilifies humanity!
Oh no,” Dahzi sighed, putting his head in his palm.
Loud with drink, Ertajj continued. “Since we first crawled out of the caves and began our domination of nature, human history has been a story of struggle, contests between exploiting and the exploited, those with information and the oppressed ignorants. But now we’ve got Opal Pools, and the Green Shield! And the Books of Knowledge! It’s the end of empires! The truth will set us free, and not only the truth and the knowledge from the books, but the knowledge of the books! Let everyone know that they have been subjugated and programmed from birth to be a pawn in the elite’s games! And that these days are over!”
“Tell it, Ertajj!” cried Juke and Dahzi in a tone both joking and sincere.
“I will, you nonbelievers!” Ertajj went on. “When that day comes at least I’ll be ready, while the rest of the world will suffer. I’m ready to die for the new world. I’m ready.”
“When the cider stops flowing, you’ll be singing a different tune,” Dahzi said.
“Tell it, Dahzi!” Juke said with a laugh.
“I heard that the Books of Knowledge were created by an evil sorcerer,” Dahzi said.
“Daz, there aren’t any sorcerers,” Ertajj said. “Just stupid men who can’t and shouldn’t be trusted with whatever is in those books. Man’s stupidity is his ruin.”
“I guess. Though, it would be better for people who could be trusted to possess the books, right?” Slate asked. “If they even exist?”
“You show me one person that can be trusted, and I’ll consider it,” Ertajj said in a dark tone, after taking a long swig of cider.
“You certainly can’t be trusted, you squatter. You loiterer!” Juke said.
“Or you, you shifty native-born!” Ertajj retorted.
“Or you, you island-born rube!” Dahzi said to Slate.
The three friends from Cole laughed.
“Anyways,” Slate said. “I’m headed for Aurora Falls; do any of you anything about getting there?”
“I know it’s not easy, with the trade freeze,” said Juke. “What are you headed there for, anyways?”
“I… have to pick something up,” said Slate. “It’s why I’m here on Proterse.”
“Pick something up?” Ertajj asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, good for you,” said Ertajj. “I hope it’s not too heavy.”
Slate rolled his eyes. “Do any of you at least know anything about passing through the Oji-something Jungle? I understand that it would be faster than the three weeks it would take to go the southern route?”
“It would be faster, but the Ojikef is a very dangerous place, Slate,” said Juke.
“I don’t have three weeks, though,” said Slate.
“Why not?” asked Ertajj.
“I want to get back to Aelioanei,” Slate answered. “There’s a family there…”
“Oh, but you don’t have anybody,” Ertajj interrupted. “Please. Whatever. Come on, boys, let’s go find something worthwhile to do.”
“You… now? You’re all leaving now?” Slate asked.
“Just like you,” said Ertajj. “See you ‘round, Slate Ahn.”
Dahzi gave a sad smile and Juke nodded an apology as they followed after Ertajj, who stalked off without another word.
“Goodbye!” Slate called after the three as they faded into the street crowd. “Guess it’s just you and me again, Pilotte. Come on, let’s see what we can see about this Ojikef Jungle.”
At the far outskirts of Jaidour, Slate stopped at a general store to ask if they knew anything about hiring guides. After the clerk told him no, Slate was approached by a dark man in a hat who had overheard his query.
“Did I hear you say you’re looking for a guide for the Ojikef?” the stranger asked.
“Yes, why?” asked Slate.
“Because I might be able to help you,” the stranger said. “Ever been through before?”
“No, I’ve never been in at all,” Slate said.
“Hmmm. Where do you want to end up?”
“I need to get to Aurora Falls.”
“Alright. I could get you through the jungle to Chreopoint, you’d be on your own after that. It’s about a week-long trip. What’s with the wulf?”
“That's Pilotte,” Slate said. "He's coming, too."
“He would make it easier. But listen,” the stranger said, “I’m not taking just you two. The dangers are too great and the pay too small for one person and a wulf. Find a larger traveling party and it might be worth it for me. At least four people."
"Four?" Slate repeated.
"And we couldn’t leave for a day or so, on account of that rain we had. We get too cold and wet in there and we might catch Direwreck Flu and die very painful deaths. Unless that sort of thing appeals to you.”
“Not especially. So when is the soonest we could leave?”
“Well,” the stranger calculated, “I’d say, to be safe, three days from today, if the rain holds off until then.”
“And what would you require as far as payment?” Slate asked.
“Fifty pieces of goldquartz,” said the man, scratching his stubble.
“Alright, fifty pieces,” said Slate, downplaying the large sum. He didn’t have that much, but hoped he might be able to find it. “Now, how can we find you? If I can find two others?”
“Any of those fifty pieces for me now?
No, I’m sorry.”
“Well. I’m usually downtown. I only just got back from a trip through today, in fact. Muddy as a sty in there. And we lost one.”
“Lost a…person?”
“No, a sock. Anyways, kid, my name is Theolus Reever. Look me up near the docks at the Blinking Fish if you’re serious about making the trip. I’ll be there for the next three days.”
“Certainly, thank you, Theolus. My name is Slate. Are you heading downtown now? I am. Perhaps we can travel together?”
“I travel alone, except when I’m pulling people through the Ojikef,” Theolus said. “No offense intended. I’ll see you soon, if you’re serious.”
“I am, trust me,” Slate said. “I’m so thankful I ran into you.”
“That’s great. Till next time,” said Theolus, considerably less gregarious than when he had first thought he had a sure sale.
Slate waited for Theolus to disappear down the thin road so that he and Pilotte could start their own way back to town. It took almost two hours, though when he got there, Slate realized he didn’t have the slightest idea where to go. He was wondering where he would possibly get enough goldquartz to pay Theolus when he heard a voice call out to him. He looked up to see it was Juke.
“Hey, Slate!” Juke said happily. “Where you headed?”
“Juke! What are the chances I’d find you here?”
“Small?”
“Probably. Hey, I was wondering, do you have any idea where I might be able to make some goldquartz?”
“I don’t really know the town,” answered Juke. “But you might ask Dahzi, he’s got a lot of mo
ney.”
“He does? You think he’d lend me some?”
“He does. And he might. But you’d have to ask him yourself. I can’t answer for him. He and Ertajj will be back from Buxd’s Cove tonight.”
“Oh. They’re gone? Why didn’t you go?”
“Just didn’t want to.”
“Okay,” Slate said. “What do you want to do until they get back?”
“Well, I might have come upon a bit of moone...” Juke teased.
“Really?”
“I’m headed to the park, want to come wait with me?”
“I could use the break,” Slate said. “Let’s go.”
The two lazed in the park, passing the time and a pipe of the relaxing moone. Pilotte caught a decent-sized curnot for dinner, which the three enjoyed around a fire. Slate was far from his worries when Ertajj and Dahzi returned, laughing and singing at the top of their lungs.
“I smell drugs! What’re you vagrants up to?” shouted Ertajj as he charged up an embankment to where Slate and Juke were relaxing. Dahzi shuffled along behind him.
“Don’t oppress me, oppressor!” said Juke.
“Hey guys! How was it, how was your trip?” asked Slate, struggling against the moone to rise and greet his friends.
“Jukey! Slatey! Fellas!” Ertajj said. “I smell moone, don’t I? Any of that left? No? Shit. Anyways, Buxd’s Cove, it was great. Amazing, colossal, incredible. I had always heard the girls in Jaidour had a cold shoulder, but I’ll tell you what, the rest of them is plenty warm!”
“Had a bit of luck, did you?” asked Juke.
“Did I ever. Even Dahzi got lucky!” said Ertajj.
“It’s true,” said Dahzi, huffing and puffing as he finally reached where the others were congregated.
“That’s great, guys,” Slate said. “Listen, Dahzi, I need to ask a favor...”
“Looks like someone found out who’s got the deep pockets,” said Ertajj.
“I know it’s awful forward, but I was wondering if you could loan me fifty goldquartz? And if you guys might come with me and Pilotte on a trip through the Ojikef, to Aurora Falls? We’d be leaving in three days.”
“Well. Let’s see,” Ertajj said. “Ponder, ponder…yes. Next issue, when do we get more smoke?”
“Really, yes? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me,” said Slate.
“Only when I thought you didn’t want anything to do with us,” said Ertajj.
“Oh, no, I like you guys. Dahzi, would it be too much?” asked Slate. “To loan me the money? I can repay you when we get to Aurora Falls.
Sure,” Dahzi said. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, great,” Slate said. “I was worried you wouldn’t want to.”
“What, are we going to slum it in Jaidour forever?” Ertajj asked. "All these larts around here, I wouldn’t be able to stand it."
“Oh, thank you all so much,” Slate said. “I already found us a guide, his name is Theolus Reever. He says he makes the journey through the jungle all the time, and he only needs fifty pieces of goldquartz.”
“Who has the gall to charge fifty pieces of goldquartz for guide services? How long is the trip, a week? At most? It’s not as if he’ll be preparing our meals,” said Ertajj. “Will he?”
“I agree with Slate, I think we need his help. Have you heard the stories about what happens to people in the Ojikef Jungle?" Dahzi asked.
"No," Ertajj responded.
"Of course you haven't, because none of them ever leave,” said Dahzi.
“Aw, please. You’re being offensive to Jukey here,” Ertajj said. “Those savage Nions in there are his ancestral people, you know.”
“Not exactly,” said Juke, a bit defensively. “I was raised in the same society as you were. And I share Slate’s fears about traveling through the jungle by ourselves. I think we could use a guide.”
“What does Ertajj mean? Nions?” Slate asked Juke.
“Where’d you think he got the marks from?” Ertajj answered for Juke, referring to Juke’s facial tattoos.
“Come on, Ertajj,” Juke said. “Stop it.”
“Never be ashamed of who you are,” Ertajj laughed. “Juke is from the jungle, Slate. He’s a Nion, raised as a non-Nion. Didn’t you ever think about why he looked so weird?”
“I never thought he looked weird at all,” answered Slate.
“Simple Slate,” Ertajj sighed. “You’re just the sweetest tit around, aren’t you? Anyways, you think it’s alright to entrust ourselves to this random guide you found? That's the recipe?”
“It’s better than going alone,” Slate said. “I’m going no matter what, but he said he needs at least four people. Will you come?”
“Fine, fine,” Ertajj said. “Go in there alone and you’ll die, dummy. But your guide is getting fifty goldquartz minus the cost of two jugs of cider!” He bounced back down the park’s embankment for a corner ale shop.
“Never a dull moment with that one,” said Dahzi.
“Though sometimes you wish there would be,” said Juke.
“I’m so glad you’re going to come with me,” Slate said, relieved. “I'm glad we'll all be together.”
The next afternoon, Slate found Theolus where the guide had said he’d be, the Blinking Fish, a foul-smelling alehouse in Jaidour’s fish-packing district. The young man gave Theolus half of the payment for the journey, on promise of the other half when they reached Chreopoint. Slate imagined that the money would likely be spent on drinks before the afternoon was over, but he had no choice other than to trust that he hadn’t just given his friends’ money to a scam artist.
For the next two days, the four friends scavenged around town for things that might help them in the Ojikef. They found packs, coats, boots, some bug netting, and a few canteens. Only somewhere as affluent as Jaidour would have such a store in its dumpsters.
Camping on the banks of the mighty Jai River amongst the fragrant mewdock flowers, Slate cherished the opportunity to sleep under the stars. It wouldn’t be long until he delivered his package for Guh and was on the way back home.
Chapter 15