Upon their arrival, Paithan sent the overseer to find out how long they would have to wait. Quintin returned with a number that marked their place in line and said that they might be able to cross over some time the following cycle.
Paithan shrugged. He wasn’t in any particular hurry, and it appeared that people were making the best of a bad situation. The ferry landing had come to resemble a tent city. Caravaners strode about, visiting, trading news, discussing current trends in the marketplace. Paithan saw his slaves settled and fed, his tyros petted and complimented, and the baggage secure. Leaving everything in the capable hands of the overseer, the young elf left to join in the fun.
An enterprising elven farmer, hearing of the plight of the caravanners, had hastened down to the landing with several barrels of homemade vingin packed in a wagon, cooled by ice. [15] Vingin is a strong drink made of crushed grapes, fortified by a liquid derived from fermented tohahs. Its fiery taste is favored by elves and humans alike. Paithan was particularly fond of it and, seeing a crowd gathered around the barrel, he joined them.
Several old friends of Paithan’s were among the crowd, and the young elf was welcomed with enthusiasm. Caravanners get to know each other on the trail, sometimes banding together for both safety and companionship. Humans and elves alike made room for Paithan and a cool, frothy mug was thrust into his hand.
“Pundar, Ulaka, Gregor, good to see you again.” The elf greeted long-time associates and was introduced to those he didn’t know. Seating himself on a crate next to Gregor-a large, redheaded human with a bristling beard-Paithan sipped his vingin and took a brief moment to be thankful Calandra couldn’t see him.
Several polite inquiries about his health and that of his family followed, which Paithan answered and returned in kind.
“What are you carrying?” asked Gregor, downing a mug in one long swallow. Belching in satisfaction, he passed his mug to the farmer for a refill.
“Toys,” said Paithan, with a grin.
Appreciative laughter and knowing winks.
“You’ll be taking them up norinth, then,” said a human, who had been introduced as Hamish.
“Why, yes,” said Paithan. “How did you know?”
“They’ve a need for ‘toys’ up that way, so we hear,” said Hamish.
The laughter died, and there was gloomy nodding among the humans. The elven traders, looking perplexed, demanded to know what was amiss.
“War with the SeaKings?” guessed Paithan, handing over his empty mug. This news would make Calandra’s day. He would have to send a faultless back with it. If anything could put his sister in a good mood, it would be war among the humans. He could almost see her counting the profits now.
“Naw,” said Gregor. “The SeaKings has got their own problems, if what we hear be true. Strange humans, coming across the Whispering Sea in crude ships, have been washing up on the SeaKings’ shores. At first, the SeaKings took in the refugees, but more and more kept coming and now they are finding it difficult to feed and house so many.”
“They can keep ’em,” said another human trader. “We’ve enough problems of our own in Thillia, without taking in strangers.”
The elven traders smiled, listening with the smug complacency of those who are completely unaffected, except as it might concern their business. An influx of more humans into the region could only send profits soaring.
“But . . . where are these humans coming from?” asked Paithan.
There was heated discussion among the traders, the argument at last being settled by Gregor stating, “I know. I have talked to them myself. They say they are from a realm known as Kasnar, that is far norinth of us, across the Whispering Sea.”
“Why are they fleeing their homeland? Are there great wars being fought there?” Paithan was wondering how difficult it would be to hire a ship to take him and a load of weapons that far.
Gregor shook his head, his red beard brushing against his massive chest. “Not war,” he said in grave tones. “Destruction. Total destruction.”
Doom, death, and destruction.
Paithan felt footsteps crossing his grave, his blood tingled in his feet and hands. It must be the vingin, he told himself, and set his mug down hastily.