Sweet Silver Blues

16

The river barge Binkey's Sequin reminded me of a shopkeeper's wife. She was middle-aged, middle class, a little run down, a little overweight, extremely stubborn and set in her ways, needing masterful coaxing and cajoling to get her to give her loving best, but also faithful and warm and unsinkably optimistic in her care for her children. Morley hated her at first sight. He prefers them sleek, lean, taut, and fast.

Master Arbanos, her skipper, was an oversize gnome of that ethnic minority the ignorant sometimes confuse with hobgoblins (though any idiot knows hobgoblins don't come out in the daytime because the sunlight would broil their eyeballs). After he got us settled in what, with a smile of self-mockery, he called the cabin, he pulled me aside and told me, "We won't be able to sail till morning. Hope that don't throw you off schedule."

"No." But being naturally nosy and suspicious, I wanted to know why.

"Cargo's late. Best part, that is. Twenty-five cask of the TunFaire Gold, that they don't trust nobody but me and my brother to get down the river unbruised."

TunFaire Gold is a premium wine with a reputation for traveling poorly.

"So here I sit," he complained, "with eight ton of potato, two ton of onion, three ton of pig-iron billet, and forty hogshead of navy salt pork turning to mold while I wait for them to baby that spoiled grape juice down from TagEnd. If I didn't get paid more for hauling that than the rest put together, I'd tell them what to do with their TunFaire Gold poison! You bet I would."

Cargo manifests. How thoroughly exciting. "No problem for us. As long as we get there in a reasonable amount of time."

"Oh, won't be no problem with that. We'll get there almost the same time we would have."

"We will? Why?"

"We'll be going out with the tide, with an extra five knot of current running where the river is usually slowest. I just thought you might be in a hurry to move at this end, what with the way your friends are keeping out of sight down with the codfish smell. The way I hear tell, you landsider don't favor fish odor too much."

I had not mentioned the stench, being the naturally courteous guy that I am. But, "Now that you bring it up... "

"What?"

"Wait."

One of the Tate cousins or nephews was limping down the dock, checking ships with mad eyes. He was covered with dried blood. People stepped out of his way and stared after him.

He spotted me, staggered faster. I went to meet him.

"Mr. Garrett! They got Tinnie and Rose! They said if we don't give them Denny's papers—"

He collapsed. I caught him, lifted him up, and carried him aboard Binkey's Sequin. Master Arbanos gave me an appalled look. Before he started complaining, I tossed him a couple of marks. His personality shifted like a wolfman's under a full moon. You would have thought he was the boy's mother.

A draft of brandy bubbling in the gut got the kid into a state to tell his tale.

Rose and Tinnie, as was their custom, had gone out to do the afternoon marketing. Lester and the usual cousins and nephews and some kitchen help had accompanied them, again as was customary. When they were returning with the servants and two boys lugging vegetables and whatnot, disaster had struck, in the form of Vasco and a half-dozen thugs.

"They grabbed Rose and Tinnie before we could drop the groceries and get our weapons out. Uncle Lester was the only one who was able... They killed him, Mr. Garrett."

"You all do them any damage?" The kid wouldn't have been in such bad shape if they hadn't tried. I needed to know how much blood was in it to tell if the women had a chance.

"Some," he admitted. "I don't think we killed anybody. We had to back off first. That's when they said we could have them back if we gave them Denny's letters and notebooks and stuff."

Well, they had no real reason to commit murder. The blood was balanced. One of their lot for Uncle Lester. A trade could be made. The problem was, they would find out I was headed south if I had much to do with the exchange.

I grinned.

"Sounds bad to me," Morley said.

"Thought you were staying out of sight." I wondered how long he had been sitting on that sack of onions listening. Not that he had heard anything he shouldn't.

He shrugged.

"They tell you where to get in touch?" I asked the kid.

"Yes. The Iron—"

Old Man Tate himself materialized. I thought he never left the family compound. He stormed aboard, shaking all over. He was winded from his hike and so damned mad he couldn't do anything but sputter.

"Sit down, Pop," I said. "I'm working on it already."

He plopped onto another bag of onions, giving Morley a curt nod. Master Arbanos winced but kept his yap shut.

"Here's the lay," I said. "We've got to make the trade."

Tate sputtered but nodded, then wheezed, "If it was just Rose, I'd be tempted to tell them to go to hell."

"Right. Look, I put the papers and whatnot in a box and moved them out of your place so those clowns wouldn't get them when they broke in. I didn't figure them for this. Anyway, what we have to do now is set the exchange up in such a way that we get the women back in one piece. I think I can do that, but you'll have to trust me on it."

Tate started sputtering again.

Morley said, "He's the expert, Mr. Tate. Permit him to exercise his expertise." His tone was more diplomatic than what I usually manage.

"I'm listening." Tate glared at me.

"Master Arbanos. What time are we going to take off tomorrow?"

"Five minutes after the seventh hour."

"Right. Mr. Tate, you go over to the Iron... " I snapped my fingers at the kid.

"Iron Goblin," he said.

"The Iron Goblin. Tell whoever meets you there that he's to deliver the women here at five after the seventh hour tomorrow morning. Or no deal. I'll tell them where they can get the papers when the women look like they'll get back to their own people okay. In fact, if Master Arbanos will provide me pen and paper, I'll write the instructions."

Tate wanted to argue. He always wanted to argue. The old goat would disagree if you said the sky was blue. I let him simmer while I scratched a note. Master Arbanos was going to get rich selling me favors.

"Just pretend you're me," I told Tate when I finished. I folded the note and handed it to him. "Don't argue with them. Tell them that's it, take it or leave it."

"But—

"They'll take it. They won't expect me to trust them. They would know I'd try to set up something so they can't mess us around. And they'll check around about me. They'll find out that I've done a couple of these things before and held up my end every time."

That was true. As far as it went. But this time a snatch and switch was not the whole story. This time the snatch was part of something bigger.

I was starting to take things personally, too.

Tate got his spleen out, and yakked his fear into submission, then took my note and marched off. We got the kid cleaned up and bandaged and sent him home.