Bron thanked her for the kindness and went to the center of Averieom. The bottom of the shallow hole where the town’s Well had been held some water from the previous night’s shower. Perhaps in time it really would be a pond. The villagers had made a pile nearby of debris from the building that had been destroyed in the disaster, a few automobiles, and even some smaller items of technology now worthless without magic. It had the feeling and look of a bonfire. It was something that the town wanted to reduce to ash, but because it was mostly metal, there it sat, a pile of obsolescence, obdurate and glittering.
He found the caravan man in a small gathering of people partway between the pile of magical discards and the edge of the square. Several people were talking as Bron approached, gesturing with broad sweeps of the arm, pointing both north to the Burnt Mountains and eastward along their line. The group was a hodge-podge bunch of young and old, male and female, well-off townsfolk and weather-beaten farmers from the outskirts. They let Bron into their number easily enough, and there at the center was the man he sought.
The caravaner was a tall, thin fellow who managed to straddle the line between the more polished townspeople and the leathery-skinned folks from the fields. He looked like a man who knew his business but who also could weather a storm in an open plain. He stood and spoke with assurance, and it was clear that most of the people around him already trusted him to lead them through a suddenly dangerous and unknown wilderness.
At Bron’s approach the man turned toward him, a smile ready for greeting. He cut off the ongoing conversation with a wave of the hand, speaking directly to Bron. “Hello, there. I’m Thade Orinstone. Are you interested in safe travel out from Jalseion’s sphere?”
“I am.” Bron nodded gravely. “Please, convince me that your plans are truly safest.”
Thade Orinstone laughed, a strangely joyous sound in the midst of this troubled crowd. “A forthright man! I like that. Very well. You’ve heard the old saying, ‘The flock can travel where the wolf cannot.’ Never truer than in times of uncertainty like these. You would be safer in numbers than on your own.”
“I don’t dispute it. Why is joining your group better than gathering my own?”
“You would have trouble gathering your own in such numbers, for one. I have already gained the confidence of most Averieans who have decided to journey outward. We will pool our resources, sharing food and wagons, shelter and protection. I have hired trusty fighters to defend us from thieves. And, as a merchant who has traveled the route to Thyrion scores of times, I know the way as I know my mother’s kitchen.”
Bron nodded at each point, accepting. “I confess myself quite convinced.”
Orinstone smiled broadly, eyes twinkling. But he raised a hand, forestalling. “A stipulation. Until the political situation is settled again, I cannot accept local currency or bank notes. To be of worth to the group, you must come with something we all need. A wagon and yoke of oxen, food supplies, that sort of thing.”
“Mmm.” Bron frowned, narrowing his eyes. “What about skills? You say you are hiring guards. I am an excellent guard.” His hand fell to the throwing knife at his waist.
“Well, you’ll have to convince me of that.” Orinstone’s smile dimmed slightly. “We might be able to work it out, though. A good bodyguard is worth his room and board.”
“I seek passage for both myself and a companion.”
Orinstone’s hand lowered to his side. “Ah. This is less equitable. You might be worth your passage, but I doubt you’re worth double that.”
Bron folded his arms over his chest. “I allowed you to convince me. Give me the same opportunity.”
Orinstone tilted his head. “Fair enough. How do you propose to do that?”
“Call your best bodyguard. I will prove to you that I am worth two of him.”
Another bright, cheerful laugh. “Challenge accepted! Follow me to the inn.”
The crowd went with them, murmuring and curious. Orinstone’s best guard turned out to be a man a few years younger than Bron, a thick-chested, broad-shouldered brute who, by his familiarity, must have worked with the merchant guarding his goods for many years. He stood half a head taller than Bron and frowned down at him when Orinstone informed him of the challenge as if insulted by the idea. They went out to the courtyard for their first contest.
Bron threw his opponent over his shoulder in the first passing rush, then pinned him to the packed dirt and held him there until he pounded the ground. He also bested him at target practice with throwing knives, using a broken barrel provided by Mrs. Alver for their target. The brute beat Bron at arm-wrestling, but it was a near thing. And currency was not so worthless yet that plenty of it didn’t change hands when Bron’s arm finally gave way, letting his fist thump down on the inn’s wooden table. The crowd cheered, well-pleased with the entertainment, and Orinstone’s was not the only laughter that seemed true and joyous.
Bron stood, grinning, and shook hands with the caravan man, sealing the deal for passage for two. The match had done no favors for his still sore and misused body, but he had proved his worth.
Sometimes, perhaps, even complex problems could be solved simply. Bron was very glad to find it so.
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