Low-Pub
Chapter Eleven
Peary had not seen Marisa since he hit Low-Pub. It was morning now, and the cool gray was starting to give way to the sun and heat. He was too angry to see her, yet. Too embarrassed to tell her he’d lost everything because he’d chosen to help an injured old tinker half-dead. And he’d also have to tell her that the money she’d staked him for the trip was all lost… not to mention his sarfer, his dive suit and visor, and all of his gear. How could she love a man who let a pirate take everything from him? A thieving pirate, old and sick… was the old bastard even sick? Peary kicked at the sand and muttered under his breath. Marisa always told him that his kindness to strangers, more often than not, tended to hurt him. She said she loved him for that, but still she said it.
So he walked the town, from alley to alley, up and down the sandy rows of shops and sheds, looking for the Poet. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the old bastard. Wanting to kill him. His hands shook as he thought of the prospect of taking a man’s life. Then he squeezed his hand into a fist and struck his thigh. I’ll do it, though.
That’s when he saw it. The solitary piece of sand he was searching for in all the dunes of Low-Pub. He saw his sarfer, half hidden behind a shed structure that itself was mostly buried. One that used to be some kind of shop. The roof had collapsed, and someone had already begun to salvage the materials but hadn’t quite finished. The sarfer was tied down, but the haul rack was empty and the gear was gone.
He banged on a door and shouted, and eventually a woman, worn down by sand and life, hobbled to the door and glared out at him without saying a word. He felt his feet sink into the mush, probably wet from the drained wash, or the piss pot being dumped.
“I’m looking for the old man who came in that sarfer.”
“Look at the bar around the corner. Don’t know nothin’ here. Look down at the pub.”
The pub was thick at that hour with the regular kinds, the sand-stained refuse of life in the dunes. Morning drinkers and souls left over from the night before. A diver here and there, but not many of that kind, since most were up north or west looking for Danvar. The inevitable coin-changers were here though, and the clerks were too, drinking early after a yesterday with little trade. Up on the balcony were whores and their clientele, and here and there a seamstress or sandal hop plied the customers for work. There was a raising of voices, and then a clatter as a man who’d been playing cards was kicked backward and he and his chair toppled and slid across the spill and spit. This was met with laughter, and then the embarrassed man smacked a sandal hop for not moving fast enough to get out of his way, and everything reverted to type: shit flowing downhill.
Peary kept his head down, but his eyes worked the crowd, looking for the telltale sign of the old poet’s bandage. He’d walked the room several times before he realized he was starting to get some notice. A card player looked at him and then snarled. “You gonna walk, drink, or what?”
Peary met the man’s glare. “I’m lookin’ for a man calls himself ‘the Poet.’”
There was some laughter, then most everyone went back to whatever they’d been doing. Drinking. Forgetting. Dying. Sometimes all three. The card player sneered again. “Ain’t nobody wants or needs a poet, friend,” and then he turned back to his game.
Peary went to the bar and ordered a beer. He was thirsty, but he couldn’t afford water, and he knew he’d need to save coin. Even bad water, bean soak, or runoff could be used in the making of beer. Fermentation killed all pathogens. But pure water was precious.
The sandal hop who’d gotten a smack for being too slow pulled up a stool next to Peary and sat down. He was still rubbing his beard, and looked sideways at the diver. “If you’ve got coin and you’re needin’ a poem, then I’m your man.”
Peary took a sip from the flat, sand-temperature beer and then sat the glass down on the bar before looking over at the man. “Haven’t you been smacked enough for one day?”
“Day’s early, diver. Besides, I don’t sleep ’til I’ve been knocked around at least twenty times.”
“You’ll get there,” Peary said with a smirk. “At least you’re off to a good start.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“When it comes to motivating a good smack, you’re an inspiration.”
The sandal hop pretended to put his arms out for a hug, “Mum? Is that you?”
Peary sighed and turned to the sandal hop. “I’m not looking for a poem. I’m looking for an old man calls himself the Poet.”
“And again we come to the topic of coin,” the man said with a smile.
Peary rubbed his hand across his dive pocket. “I have coin, and a dive knife. One is for the exact location of the Poet. The other is for any man who even thinks about taking advantage of me.”
“Are you sure you aren’t my mum? You do sound just like her.”
“Do you know where the Poet is or don’t you?” Peary asked.
The sandal hop screwed up his face like he was considering his options. Then he exhaled and slapped the bar. “Okay, I’ve chosen to trust you, diver. Upstairs. Center room. Whore came out immediately so apparently he was only interested in the furnishings. But don’t tell him of our arrangement. Tinkers smack harder than coin-changers.”
“You had to know I’d find you.”
Peary took a threatening step into the room and closed the door behind him. He slowly drew his dive knife and held it up for the Poet to see.
The old man slid off the other side of the bed, stood, and then held his hands up before him, clasped in a sort of prayer. “I guess I misjudged your sentimentality, diver.”
“I’m going to take this knife, and I’m going to use it to carve the information I need from your soul. Then I’m going to cut you up and carry you out of here in the sheets and bury you in the dunes,” Peary said.
“I told you to kill me back when you were cooking my supper last night. It would have saved us all of this unpleasantness.”
“I’ll atone for my mistake right now, Poet. Where are my packs? Where’s the salvage from… the place?”
The Poet didn’t speak immediately, and when he didn’t, Peary stepped up onto the bed—which nearly caved under his weight—and put the knife to the old man’s throat. He held the blade firmly against the man’s carotid artery as he stepped back down on the far side of the bed.
“I was trying to save your lives—yours and your lady’s too,” the Poet said. He was sweating now, but his eyes didn’t flash with fear or indignation. They showed only resignation and defeat. As if whatever happened was only to be expected.
Peary lowered the knife and gave the Poet a stare through narrowed eyes. Then he head-butted the old man across the bridge of the nose. The Poet dropped like sand-cake from a slammed window, and crumpling to the ground, he began to laugh. Peary, enraged, kicked the old man in the ribs, which only elicited more laughs, interspersed with heavy, pain-drenched sighs.
“Where are the packs with the salvage, Poet?”
The poet pulled his arm up to support his bruised rips, then flipped over onto his back. He stared up at Peary and his old rheumy eyes were blurry from the crack across the nose. He blinked them to try to clear his vision. “I buried them in the sand so you wouldn’t be tempted to commit suicide by trying to sell them.”