“The mad disease?” asked Minrah.
“A distemper of the blood. It makes the brain go savage, and the corruption foams up from the animal’s bowels and out of the mouth.”
“That’s what the crew are all saying,” said Minrah, “though I daresay that the howling was like no cur I’ve ever heard. Do you believe them, or do you think they’re covering something up?”
“Why should I not believe them?” asked Rophis. “They’ve nothing to hide, do they? Had it been a savage beast, they’d be crowing their bravery for all the passengers to hear.”
“If it were someone’s hound, then where is the body?” asked Cimozjen.
“They weighted it with a stone and cast it overboard last night,” said Rophis. “Didn’t you hear the splash? To leave it to lie would risk spoiling the foodstuffs and perhaps even turning the rats mad. However, it is all done and done with, so there’s no need to speak any more of it. Continued talk of dead curs and foaming rats will put me off my appetite.” Rophis patted his ample belly and rose. Bowing genteelly, he took his bread and cup to a different table.
Minrah watched him as he struck up a conversation with another group of passengers, a smile jumping quickly to his face.
“Fascinating,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Merchants lie to each other for a living,” said Minrah, “and no merchant I’ve ever met would pull the crew’s wagon so readily. Chances are the sailors have something on him.” She sipped from her cup. “Or he on them.”
The Silver Cygnet sailed down the Karrn River through the day. A cold northerly wind blew without respite, and the crew used both sail and oars to make excellent speed. Cimozjen stood near the bow, wrapped in his longcoat and watching the banks for any sign that the horrid thing from the cargo hold might have floated downstream and hung up on a snag or rock.
The day passed slowly and uneventfully, and the rumors of the morning faded into nothing as the story of a foaming wolfhound gradually won the field.
That evening, as Cimozjen and Minrah dined again on cabbage stew and hardbread, Rophis came and seated himself next to them, plunking a dark bottle and three tin cups in the center of the table.
“Allow me to apologize, my friends,” he said. “I imagine that the manner in which I ended our conversation this morning was on the wrong side of abrupt. It was plainly rude. In recompense, I’ve brought you a gift that we might share a drink together.”
Cimozjen turned the bottle to look at the label. “Soldier’s Gruel, eh?”
“What’s that?” asked Minrah.
“Stout that’s been distilled,” said Rophis, “then aged in oak casks. They’ve reused the same casks for centuries, so it has a slight earthy taste. But it’s thick with a kick, a meal in a tankard. Not that we have a tankard, of course, so these cups will have to suffice.”
“I’ve made do with far worse,” said Minrah, “and with far less savory gentlemen. I’ll pour!”
As she busied herself with serving, Rophis asked, “So tell me, young woman-”
“Minrah is her name,” said Cimozjen, taking his cup.
“Of course it is. My apologies; I am not the best with names.” He took a healthy swig from his cup. “Tell me, Minrah, what do you do when not sailing with valiant warriors?”
“I write. And I sell my work to the chronicles.”
“Is that so?” Rophis said, leaning forward. “And you earn your keep just writing? You must be very good.”
Minrah blushed and raised her cup. She took a small sip, keeping the cup at her lips as an unconscious shield. “I do my best, and I sell enough to keep me in coin. Sometimes I have to do something boring like write a saga of some noble’s inflated self-image to make ends meet, but mostly I just write stories about things that I see.”
Rophis sat back and stroked his chin, a lopsided grin on his face. “Tell me then, what sort of things do you see?”
She giggled behind the rim of her cup. “I see more than you think.”
“Show me. What sort of things do you see when you look at me?”
Minrah smiled, took a deep drink from her cup, set it down, and then reached out and took Rophis’s hand. He leaned forward, watching as her hands glided up and down his palm, then turned his wrist this way and that.
“I see that you are a very wealthy man,” she said, “one who earns enough to pay his own scribe. You certainly don’t perform your own manual labor. You enjoy using the power you have. You’ve had extensive training in the use of martial weapons, but have not been in the position to practice the art in the streets or on the battlefield. You’re used to the companionship of women. You want to keep certain details of your identity a secret. And although you claim to be from Fairhaven, you just as likely hail from Karrnath.”
Rophis shifted and pulled his hand away. “That’s-you saw-are you a seer, that you read all that in the palm of my hand?”
“Of course not,” said Minrah. “When I said I see things, I meant just normal items that everyone else looks at but doesn’t really notice. I look at details, and I think about them and what they could mean. My father taught me how, and I practice it every day of my life.” She shrugged. “It helps me put my stories together.”
Rophis stroked his chin. “Indeed? So how did you determine what you just said?”
Minrah picked her cup back up, speaking between small sips. “Well, for starters, you have neither a notch for a quill nor ink stains upon your finger, hence someone does your scribing. You also have someone clean and polish your fingernails, although it’s been a week or so since that’s been done. Your hands are not calloused, so you don’t do hard work. But they are strong, which can be explained by regular exercise with swords and the like. And you usually wear a ring on your right middle finger, which is often where a signet would go. Since you brought neither that ring nor your servant with you, you’re hiding your identity.”
Rophis smiled wryly. “And what of your comment regarding women? Not that I object, nor should I boast.”
“You didn’t flinch or tense when I stroked your hand.” Minrah giggled. “You should have seen Cimmo here when I first took his arm.”
Cimozjen grumbled. “Minrah, I-”
“Don’t make it worse for yourself,” said Rophis with a hearty laugh. “Such a pretty young creature is sure to put most men off their stride. No, my dear Minrah, your skill at observation is very good, but your conclusions are, unfortunately, off the mark.”
“Are they?” said Minrah with a pout. “Bad luck, then. Would you care to point out my errors?”
Rophis leaned back in his chair and ran his hands up and down his belly for a few moments, then said, “Very well, I shall, for your face delights me.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “My hands are strong not from weapons, for I’ve had no formal training. Rather they have been strengthened from carrying heavy bottles by the neck and pouring drinks for those who purchase my wares. While bottles are not as heavy as a sack of potatoes, they are heavy and they do not leave the sort of calluses that one gets when moving crates. As for my ring and nails,” he said wearily, “I indulged myself rather too deeply in luxury last month in Fairhaven, following which a deal in Korth unfortunately went sour. As a result, I had to sell my sapphire ring to fund the purchases I needed to make this trip a profitable venture. It is shameful for a merchant to run his hoard dry, as one needs wealth to make wealth, but this I have unfortunately done.” He smacked his lips. “And now you know my failings. I trust the candor of my confession will attest to its truth.”
He drained his cup, reached for the bottle, refilled it, and drained it once more. He patted his belly again, then looked up at her and smiled warmly. “Well. Thank you both for your time,” he said. “It has been most diverting. And Minrah, your play at perception and deduction has given me a new hand of tales with which to regale my customers.” He rose, bowed politely, and sauntered off, chuckling to himself, “Me, a warrior? Oh, what an idea!”