Arc 1 Chapter 3

Troublesome Beasts

I drop my pruning shears in the garden—sorry if they rust mamma—and rush to the side of the house where I might be able to look down to see the shore.

Mother comes out to watch the coast with me, and sure enough the white sails of a galley comes into view between the valley's slopes. 

The orcs—barely visible on deck—stop rowing and begin stowing the sails. 

Fuck! Please just be traders.

My mother rubs my back, obviously understanding my fear. "We don't know that it's him, it's still a little early, he said before the end of the month," she tries to soothe me but there's a hint of suppressed anxiety in her voice.

"He also said two weeks, it's him." I don't try to hide my dread.

"Then we'll figure something out, help me load the cart, maybe if we speak to him without your father present we can work something out."

Right, we're not out of options. Father said Sicklemouth was more pleasant than Lumberhaver, he might be reasonable enough to call it off if he knows I'm unwilling. 

I go with mother and begin loading the goat-drawn wagon with a few casks of last year's wine and a few wheels of goat cheese. Mother adds a smaller cask of an older vintage, just in case they're interested. Then we fetch our biggest goat and herd it to the cart's yoke. We struggle a while to get the damn beast to behave then coax our disinterested animal down the path.

Goats are hardly ideal beasts of burden, they aren't that strong and they hardly have the temper for pulling ploughs or carts, but in the Crater we really don't have many options—few air-breathing species can survive the invisible miasma that bubbles up from the water. In the whole Crater Sea, there's really only trolls, goats, goblins and the goblin-ogre hybrids we call orcs. Oh, and bugs, unfortunately bugs are miasma-resistant. Cockroaches especially are everywhere.

According to grandmother, goblins had once lived in peace, separated from mainlanders by the miasma for longer than anyone remembered. Until one day centuries ago an Ogre General heard a rumour that ogre-goblin hybrids were most of the size and strength of pure ogres, but grew to their full size much faster. The General decided to buy all the miasma medicine he could and with a hundred ogre-raiders came to burn and pillage the Crater Sea. He took back to the mainland 3000 she-goblins and bred the first ogre-orc mercenary army. I mean that he personally bred all 3000 she-goblins. And people still say goblins are too fecund. 

The saga of Bog'ra The Virile and his Band Of 10,000 Sons is a classic tale amongst orcs and is considered the beginning of their race and mythology. It's told by orcish parents to encourage young orcs to follow their passions. Although I think in their version the she-goblins are all wooed by Bogra's intense masculinity and came willingly. My mother tells a different version about Bog'ra the Blood-Stinking, a cautionary tale about the cruelty of mainlanders. Either way, Bog'ra killed a lot of goblins, and the Band of 10,000 Sons took the Crater Sea and began the Age of the Orc. 

Mother and I have to stop the cart and spank our goat as it decides that the heather growing next to the path is too juicy to pass by. At times like this I understand the romance of tales about oxen—the mythological creatures sound far better than our piss-stinking goat.

"No need to worry about selling wine right now," my uncle says unwelcomely from up the path behind us, "This must be Sicklemouth's boat. Leave the cart and let's make haste to greet him."

It figures mother and I weren't the only ones to hear the galley-drum, I'd hoped to talk with my fiance without the menfolk present. At least it's uncle rather than father—uncle tends to be put off by mother. Following my uncle is Taros, my only remaining cousin now that Topar and the others left. I never really liked Taros. I think he took after my uncle too much whereas Topar—my favourite cousin—took after my aunt's kind and clever nature. Well, he's still family, so we get along well enough—goblins survive by sticking together.

Mother gives him a good glare, "And what if it's not Sicklemouth? Or what if the ship wants to buy wine anyway? We might as well bring the cart now that we're here." 

My uncle falters under my mother's stern expression. I never really understood why he yields so easily to her. She's only a little strict, and sometimes stubborn, and judgemental... and a little violent sometimes too. Ok I guess she might be a devil of a sister-in-law.

We get the goat moving again and make the rest of the way to the shore. The cart can't go over the beach's shingles so we stop at the heather and untie the goat to let the wiley beast graze.

Goblins from all the farms of Perrifare are joining us, we aren't the only family that makes its bronze from trading with sailors.

Most of Perrifare's income is from orcish trading galleys that come to resupply themselves. Whenever Perrifite goblins hear a drum we gather and hawk our goods together at this beach. My family mostly sells wine, but others sell hard-tack, olive oil and fresh water for the sailors. We also buy everything we can't make ourselves, like tools and most of our cloth. Or else we have to take small sailing yachts to Pickland to buy goods, like when my father and uncle left and met my orcish suitor. Missing from the group of gathered islanders are any of the fisher-trolls, but they have their reasons not to want business with orcs.

The ship is beached aground, and its crew anchor it to the red shingles. The assembled goblins gather around the ship's orcish navigator, who sets and climbs down the gangplank to meet us on the heather.

"Good folk of Perrifare." The navigator greets, "I come on behalf of my captain and master, who wishes to purchase wine and hard-tack to resupply our good ship the Tax-Me-Not." 

One of our neighbours swears quietly from where he stands next to me, his family mostly sells casks of well water. It seems he won't have much business today.

"Furthermore," the orcish navigator continues, "I have with me a dictation from the Merchant Navy of Grabosh." 

As well as coin, trading ships often bring with them news and adverts. For a few bronze nails, anyone can have a ship spread a message. 

I really hope this news isn't about me or my husband-to-be. Although no one mentioned him having anything to do with the Merchant Navy, but he must be wealthy enough to be amongst their rank.

The navigator fumbles a paper scroll tied under the poncho-like cloak that wealthy Graboshens wear, and begins to read aloud, "The Kingdom of Grabosh has discovered a new sunken starship off its coast."

Oh thank fuck it's not about me.

"The Merchant Navy is building a floating minting town directly over the wreckage, and is welcoming every good swimmer to dive for their fortune. Diving licenses are sold for the fair price of 3finger a month, equipment and housing leased separately, financial aid is available."

The gathered islanders turn to murmur amongst themselves. Diving into the sea for ancient bronze is a dangerous job, but if a man is skilled and lucky he can find hundreds of palms worth of bronze. 

Of course, most divers would likely find little or drown—or be eaten by sea beasts. I suspect the Merchant Navy will ultimately keep most of the bronze anyone finds after the divers pay their licencing fees, minting fees, got their supplies and pay their rent for a bed. And "financial aid is available" sounds like an addition from a loan shark.

Very few of the island's men are considering going, the cost of the fare to Grabosh alone would put a lot of stress on a Perrifite budget. Let alone the licenses and tools. I notice however that my uncle leans over and discusses something with Taros. It makes sense I suppose, the boys used to dive for shells—not that they ever found any good ones around here.

At this point, most of the sailors have climbed onto the beach, and are stretching and pacing on the dry land. Most of the oarsmen seem to be trying to work knots out from their tired muscles, but a few men seem interested in the gathered goblins. My mother and I especially catch some interest. It might have been weeks or months since they've seen women, and I did get my figure from somewhere. 

One tall and surprisingly elderly bull-orc seems especially interested in me. I worry he's Sicklemouth for a moment but I doubt an elderly oarsmen could afford my bride-price. Most of the sailors though are content stretching or sitting to rest on the shingles. Most orcs aren't interested in goblins, pretty women or not.

The navigator—who had very politely decided to give us time to discuss—continues his oration, "Furthermore, the Merchant Navy of Grabosh is hiring women to cook and launder, with pay at 2nail each day." 

At this, my mother and I looked with hope at one another. 14nail a week is very good money. The farm often makes only 15nail a month. Even my brothers working as oarsmen only make 8nail a week. 

The navigator hides the scroll back under his poncho. l almost worry he's got another announcement, but instead he briskly approaches one of my neighbours' cart and begins negotiating the price of hard-tack.

'Navigator' is an odd job. Every mouth aboard a galley takes water, wine and bread, and most of the crew is needed to row so the space is limited—every crew member must work their weight. What's more, very few educated men want to spend time at sea, so a ship's navigator ends up doing most of the cerebral work—as well as minding the star charts and maps, he keeps inventory of supplies and rosters the shifts of the oarsmen. On some ships, the owner will ride along to make trade, but if the ship's owner doesn't want to spend his life at sea, he'll pay the navigator to act as his agent—deciding what the trading ship ultimately buys and sells. In some matters, the navigator even outranks the captain, whose main job is to mind the crew and make sailing decisions.

Under different circumstances, I'd be quite curious what strings Sicklemouth must have pulled to get Topar an apprenticeship for such a respected position, although Topar certainly has the head to do well as one, he was too thoughtful to be a vineyard worker.

The elderly oarsman continues to watch my mother and me, but he doesn't approach. I still feel his gaze burn into me though, I don't like the cut of his jib, as the sailors would say.

The navigator eventually reaches our cart and begins to sample and discuss the price with mother.

 She's laying it on thick. No one ever said it aloud, but I think there's a reason it's mother's and my job to sell the wine. Mother did once say it's morally okay for her to abuse her charm, at least if a man is so boorish to pay attention to an obviously married woman. She said it's not okay for me though, she thinks I'll send the wrong signals and cause offence—I choose to take that as a compliment.