Their sad assortment of trade goods barely rated them a spot in a side alley that was, as Broadax put it, “If’n not a dead end, it’s at least mortally wounded.” Their primary trade goods were kept in barrels, with sailors and marines sitting on them, guarding them from the teeming Stolshanity that swept around them. The bartering was carried out first by Petreckski, who set the initial rate for each item. (Guldur muskets seemed to bring a particularly good price.) Then that price was used as a basis for trade by the more experienced crew members.
Although he wasn’t entrusted to barter, Corporal Kobbsven was assigned by Lieutenant Broadax to be in charge of security. A duty which he accomplished primarily by looking huge and intimidating in his red jacket with a pistol tucked into his belt and the hilt of his huge two-handed sword sticking out over his shoulder.
A light, warm rain was coming down, and off in the distance between the low mud buildings they could catch a glimpse of the sea, for the amphibious Stolsh were never far from water. In the opposite direction, the Moss-coated pilings of the Pier could be seen. From here on the ground the bulk of the Pier was invisible, but its pilings looked like an orchard of white telegraph poles, each with attendant ladders and stairways, all ending abruptly like Aladdin’s magic rope as they entered two-space. Periodically people and cargo appeared and disappeared, as they came in and out of two-space.
A motley crowd of Stolsh moved around them, leavened by Guldur, Goblan, and other creatures from throughout the frontier region. One cute Stolsh girl squatted in the muddy street directly in front of them, wearing only a short kilt. She was giggling and jiggling, making a great show of prodding at a small frog as her four breasts did interesting things and other intriguing things winked from beneath her single garment. All the guards were intently watching her.
Kobbsven was far, far from the sharpest knife in the drawer. (Indeed, by that classification standard he was more in the fork or even the spoon family.) But he had the virtue of single-minded dedication to an assigned task, combined with a deep veneration and even deeper fear of Lieutenant Broadax. It slowly dawned on him that his men were neglecting their duties, and suspicious hooded characters seemed to be sidling in from several directions. Furrowing his brows in the painful process that passed for deep thought (making his one eyebrow beetle up like a cockroach conference), he snatched up a jug of the cheap local wine that they’d been drinking. Then he strode over, scooped up the frog, and swallowed it in one gulp with a swig from the bottle.
The Stolsh girl’s eyes went wide and she began to jabber to all who would listen, while Kobbsven ignored her. A few of the cloaked figures who were shuffling in toward them began to advance on him. He drew his two-handed sword from over his shoulder in one smooth motion, looked nonchalantly at them, and they thought better of it. He went back to scowling at all passersby. His sword was still out, but he wasn’t “flourishing” it. Men who truly know what to do with weapons never bother with flourishing them. In the end it was more intimidating that way.
“Corporal,” said Petreckski, distracted from his bartering, “this girl says you ate her frog. Did you swallow her frog?”
“Aye, sir. Her and that damn’d frog was distractin’ da troops. One uf them had to go.” Furrowing his brow in concentration he looked down at the monk, “Ya reckon I made a bad call, sir? Ya suppose I shoulda et her instead?”
The purser blinked distractedly. ” . . . No, Corporal. No, she seems to have lost interest, and all’s well that ends well.” Then he left them to begin purchasing food.
They had brought their strongbox across from Kestrel, and there was a small supply of gold from the captured Guldur strongbox as well, so some funds were available. The grateful Stolsh admiral had already freely contributed water, ships provisions and miscellaneous cordage, spars and lumber. Their purser’s primary goal was to purchase greenstuffs for the ship, as well as livestock for the wardroom and for their captain. With him were “Ducks” and “Butcher.” These were individuals who, like “Chips” and “Guns,” took their names from their position. Ducks was responsible for their poultry, and Butcher had authority over the four-legged food stock, which consisted mostly of pigs and a few goats kept for milk.
After a short and intense period of bartering, a menagerie of huge white geese on leashes; coops full of gray pigeons and small brown hens; low, hairy brown swine; and tall, slender black nanny goats were all herded to the Pier alongside carts full of greenstuffs. The pigs and goats were hooded and swayed up into Flatland one by one, where they loudly communicated their distress at the process and their strange new surroundings. The livestock was penned up in the lower forecastle until quarters below could be prepared for them.
Once the food was purchased, the harried purser set out to find a cargo that would be of value in Ambergris, which was their next stop. Ambergris would probably be under siege. (As would this world, but the general population didn’t know that yet.) And Ambergris was a world low in phosphates. Thus a load of saltpeter was the purser’s goal, and he was pleased with the deal he cut. He used the last of their gold to lock in the deal, quickly moved to the alley where the last of their trade goods were being sold, took that money and the security detail to get the saltpeter, and completed one of the most exhausting and satisfying trading days in his life. There was something special about starting from the ground up, and having inside knowledge about the pending invasion gave him an advantage that he savored.
“Well, Captain,” he asked as they were pulling away from the Pier, “are you satisfied with our stop?”
“Aye,” said Melville. The two of them were standing with their hands on the quarterdeck railing, looking at the far horizon. “We even picked up a few stray hands to fill in some of the holes in our crew. How did it go on your end?”
“Well enough, sir, well enough,” his purser replied. “It’s a miserable backwater port. No one will ever make their fortune here. Even their plagues are half-hearted. The best they could muster was a Plague of Frog, but the redoubtable Corporal Kobbsven was able to dispatch it for us. All things considered, I am satisfied.”
And so they left Pearl, the sails sheeted home one by one, placing the strain slowly upon the masts and rigging, until Fang again gained her splendid speed of almost thirteen knots. Properly supplied and equipped, they sailed toward Ambergris and the likelihood of combat against the forces that were probably besieging or invading that world.
Melville had done as much as he could to prepare his ship. His men had faith in him, based on his victory on Broadax’s World and his cunning scheme that gained them their current ship. In their eyes he was responsible for not just snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, but actually yanking a Fang from the slavering jaws of defeat. He knew that his men expected more miracles from him, and he felt unworthy of their trust. He tried to explain his philosophy one day while most of his officers were his guests at dinner.
“It’s called maneuver warfare. It was first developed by the Germans in the early and mid-twentieth centuries, then picked up by the United States military late in that century. There were many pioneers in the field, but one of the greatest was Robert Leonhard. In his book, The Art of Maneuver, he put it this way, ‘Maneuver warfare is, to put it simply, a kick in the groin, a poke in the eye, a stab in the back . . . Maneuver warfare puts a premium on being sneaky rather than courageous, and it is not at all glorious, because it typically flees from an enemy’s strength. It takes its name from its most common practical application: outmaneuvering the enemy.'”
“Aye, Captain,” said Hans, admiringly, ” ‘Ats wot ye did ta the curs all right! Poke ’em in the eye an’ kick ’em in the balls! Is ‘at wot ya plan ta do at Ambergris, too?”
“I’m not sure, Hans,” Melville replied scowling thoughtfully. “I hope to use surprise and our superior accuracy. We’ll take down all the new sails and cruise in looking like one of their ships. We bluff our way through if we can. Westerness policy is to remain absolutely neutral. We can only attack them if we are attacked, so we will have to wait for them to fire first. When they do, we’ll run up the Westerness colors, set all sail, and let them know that Westerness is here. And a world of hurt is coming with us.”