Chapter 32 - Ingold

"Do you like redfish?"

Gartus considered the question, "I like to eat them. I don't like 'em personally, they're vicious bastards."

"How many fingers does a redfish have?" Ingold asked.

The big man frowned, pushing up mountain ranges across his brow. He chewed at the side of his cheek. "Hmmm..."

"It's a joke Gartus, it was a rhetorical question!" Ingold spread his hands in mild exasperation.

"Oh," said Gartus. He continued to stare at the Rock. "How are we going to get in there then?"

"One for each fisherman who tried to catch it."

"What?" Gartus turned to look at Ingold, "What are you wittering about man?"

"That's the punch-line. One for each fisherman who tried to catch it."

"Very funny."

"You ruined the timing..." Ingold muttered, rubbing at the reddish stubble on his chin.

"So, how are we going to get in?" Gartus asked.

"Well ... we could batter the gates of the Inner City open with your head. Or," Ingold countered hastily as Gartus made to rise, "you could concentrate on the plan."

"I'm all ears."

"So you like to eat redfish?"

"This is the plan?" Gartus growled.

"When did you last eat one?" Ingold continued doggedly.

"I'm warning you bard, if this is another joke..."

"When?"

"Parsus city, Reeses Tavern on Lockheer Street, roast redfish on a bed of parsnips..."

"So you see..."

"...with plum-wine sauce and broccoli."

"So..."

"And eight flagons of 'Bishop's Tipple'. Gods! I hate living in the mountains!"

Ingold looked up from the fallen tree he sat upon. His elbows propped on one knee, and his chin rested in cupped hands. He raised his eyebrows, waited a moment, then continued.

"So, it was in Parsus city. Ever had one anywhere else?"

"No."

"So, we have a big red fish that bites the fingers off fishermen and has to be caught in triple-ply horse-hair nets."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Gartus grumbled, "And why?"

"I played to the fishermen at the summer villages along the Parsus River. Anyhow – where do you think they get the biggest reddest redfish?"

"Where?" asked Gartus.

"Where the Parsus River is fed by a smaller river that escapes from under the Rock. The boldest fishermen take their boats into the caves that run under the Rock there." Ingold paused, studied Gartus, then continued. "You've been to the Blooding five times. I seem to recall crossing a bridge, shortly after getting to the bottom of the shaft?"

Gartus nodded. Ingold pursed his lips, then stood, brushing bits of wet bark from his cloak.

"So let's go," he said.

"Where?"

Ingold pinched his brow and with great restraint sat back down. "The redfish you like, to eat, so much – they swim from the river you cross on the way to the Blood Chamber. They're big red bastards for the same reason you're a big red bastard. Hell, for all I know, you taste just as good with parsnips and a plum-wine sauce." He shook the idea from hi head. "We can avoid fighting Handelf's army, and everyone else on the Rock, if we find a way to follow that underground river up from its confluence with the Parsus." A pause and then he stood. "Can we go now?"

"We can go," said Gartus.

Ingold regarded Stilt Town with distaste. Even the name upset him, brutally functional and lacking in any imagination. The collection of shacks rested on a forest of stilts between which a profusion of nets hung in impenetrable cobwebs. Each 'stilt' was essentially a tall poplar, shaved of branches and bedded deep in the riverbed.

Stilt Town nestled in shadows, overhung by granite cliffs on the river-side of the Rock. Few chose to live there, despite the lucrative fishing. No sign of the money to be earned showed in the clustered dwellings. Most of the shacks looked to be cobbled together from driftwood. At this time of the year the place would be pretty much deserted.

The waters of the Parsus swept the river-side of the Rock from the onset of winter. The river would recede only after the spring floods had made an island of the Rock for several weeks. Behind the forest of stilts Ingold could make out the tops of cave-mouths; many more lay hidden beneath the dark surface. When the waters fell away, leaving Stilt Town high and dry, the river Crimbourne would reveal itself, issuing from the caverns.

An expanse of river, nearly quarter of a mile wide, separated Ingold and Gartus from the shantytown. Ingold stood by the water's edge. He could just make out faint shouts from the approaching rowboat. On a flat rock beside Ingold three triple-ply horse-hair nets lay drying in the weak winter sun. With so little room or sunshine available in Stilt Town the fishermen often used the nearest shore. Gartus finished folding up the first net and set to work on the second.

"Those are my nets... ...you ... pirates!"

"What did he call us?" Gartus asked.

"I didn't catch it all," Ingold said, "I think there were some nautical terms in there."

The furious rowing took its toll and the fisherman had no breath for further shouting. He reached the shore and leapt from his boat into the shallows. The man laboured up the pebble beach, his crimson face a match for Gartus's. The man's anger seemed to have robbed him of a sense of proportion. Advancing on Gartus he snatched the net from his hands. At this point he noticed he was almost a yard shorter than the net-thief.

"Calm down. We don't want your nets," Ingold said. He offered a charming smile.

"No. It was just a ruse to bring you to shore," Gartus added, helpfully. "We want your boat."

In one swift motion the fisherman whipped the hook-knife from his belt. Gartus reached for it with a sigh, "Give me that too."

The wickedly sharp gutting blade flashed through the air. It sliced through Gartus's palm, grating on bone. The big man grunted but didn't snatch his hand back; he held it open, palm up. The slit closed, sealing from one end. In the space of three heartbeats no trace remained. Trembling, the fisherman dropped the knife into the waiting hand.

"Thank you," said Gartus. He made to follow Ingold to the boat, then turned and rummaged in the pocket of his fleece. He drew something out between thick fingers and dropped it in the fisherman's hand.

"I hate boats," Ingold said as Gartus clambered in beside him. The boat now sat dangerously low in the water.

The fisherman watched the pair row toward Stilt Town. He stood transfixed, lips slightly parted. In his open palm, still unnoticed, a ruby glittered, the size of his thumb-nail and red as blood.

Beneath Stilt Town the waters swirled amongst the stilts, rubbish danced around them. Caught on eddies the debris twirled, pieces changing partners, before the undertow hooked them and they vanished below the surface.

Gartus rowed relentlessly. He lacked the fisherman's economy but to Ingold it looked as though he could go all day, all year, if need be. Ingold held on to the prow, knuckles white, as if by exerting sufficient pressure he could stop the craft rocking.

"Over there!" Ingold offered. "Left a bit. My left!"

By degrees they plotted a course that brought them to the mouth of the river-cave. The roof sat perilously close to the water. At times the swell would lift to within three feet of the ceiling. Ingold peered in.

"There's more space further back. Get us in there."

The water foamed as Gartus started to row in earnest. The small boat lurched forward and they were swallowed whole.

The sudden transition as they entered the cave took Ingold by surprise. Immediately the sound of the oars was huge and resonant. The light changed, the weak sunshine replaced by a shifting reflections, with every ripple copied on the cavern roof. The roof sloped lower, threatening to meet the water and Gartus bent low into the boat. Then lower, then finally, with much complaint, pressing himself into the slopping bilge water. For the first twenty yards Ingold lay on his back and propelled them forward using his feet against the rock above. The cave soon opened out and Gartus resumed his rowing.

Once more time, in a tight spot, Ingold had to employ his feet. The light failed entirely now and they advanced blindly. When the roof opened out above them again, Gartus lit a flame. The fierce little fire dancing in Gartus's palm illuminated a huge cave, domed to cathedral height.

Gartus set the flame burning by Ingold, on the prow of the boat, and returned to rowing. He dipped the oars quietly into the water, hushed by the majesty of the vast space around them. It felt to Ingold as if he were a tiny bug inching across a wide floor. Dwarfed by the dimensions around them they moved over the still waters.

They beached the boat on a pebble shore opposite the low neck through which they'd entered. Close by, the Crimbourne river bubbled up from underwater. Ingold stood perplexed until, above the river's point of entry, the dry mouth of an older course caught his eye.

"There! We climb up there and track the river back."

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