that its warmth would hasten the drying.
“Are you writing Sir Alistair?” asked Max.
“Ms. Richter. She left us a third sheet whose twin she keeps. I updated her on our progress and told her about the battlefield.”
“Any word on Cooper?”
“No. I think if there was news—good or bad—she’d have written.”
Max nodded and tried to smile, but his spirits were low. The horrors of the battlefield lingered in his mind. Rubbing his temples, he stared at the lantern’s golden light.
“What if there is no Piter’s Folly?” he wondered aloud. “What if it’s just a burned-out hulk like that castle?”
David shrugged. “Then we’ll gather whatever information we can and continue the search for Madam Petra. If we can’t find her, we’ll go home. War doesn’t come with guarantees; we just have to do our best and hope that it’s enough. Get some rest, Max. You’re worn out. I’ll keep watch with Toby.”
Max was dead asleep in a warm nest of blankets when a thunderclap shook him awake. Bolting upright, he blinked stupidly out the window as he got his bearings. He’d been asleep for much longer than he’d intended, for they were on the move again and climbing uphill. Wind howled outside, bombarding the wagon with an icy mixture of sleet and rain. Pushing aside a cask of phosphoroil, Max peered through the small shutter that was just behind the driver’s seat. David and Toby were hunched low, each disguised as goblins, as the smee drove the mules through the storm.
“Where are we?” Max yelled, struggling to be heard above the wind.
David turned to him, his eyes frosted slits. “Close!” he shouted back. “Ten, maybe fifteen miles. We should be there by dawn.”
“Do you want me to drive?”
“I want you to brew some coffee!”
By morning, the weather had calmed. When Toby brought the wagon to a stop, Max climbed out and gazed around. The rain had dwindled to a steady drizzle, but the storm’s fury was evident in every icy pool and battered branch. Max caught the smell of cooking fires on the wind, its aroma a welcome comfort after so many days on the road. Piter’s Folly was just ahead. Through his glass, Max caught glimpses of the town amid the fogbanks below.
Once David renewed Max’s illusion, the three squeezed next to one another on the driver’s bench and eased the wagon downhill. Training his glass on the settlement, Max made out more details as the morning mists retreated.
Piter’s Folly was built upon a wooded isle in the midst of an enormous gray lake. Apparently, the settlement had outgrown these limits, for many other buildings had been constructed upon platforms and rafts that radiated out from the isle like the spokes of a wheel. Smoke trickled from makeshift chimneys, and Max even heard the lowing calls of cattle carry across the still morning. His heart beat excitedly. The town seemed relatively unscathed by the war, and there still appeared to be thousands of people living here. Since Astaroth’s rise to power, Max had not seen such a large settlement of free humans beyond Rowan’s borders. He had often wondered whether any existed.
Once they reached level ground, a lane diverged from the road and curved toward the shoreline. Arriving at the water’s edge, they discovered a heavy bell suspended from a pole near the end of a short pier. Stretching out, Toby rang the bell with all his might. Its notes echoed eerily across the lake, drowning out the loons and the lapping waves upon the pebbled sand. Moments later, there was an answering call from out in the gray mist.
“A ferryman will come,” explained Toby, settling back under his blanket. “Remember, don’t act too friendly. The humans need the goblins, but they don’t like them much. I’ll do the talking.”
Max nodded and peered out into the gloom while the loons and bitterns called in the cold, wet morning. Thirty minutes passed before a shape emerged from the haze—a flat-bottomed raft capable of ferrying several wagons across. A dozen grim-looking men stood about its periphery, leaning on long oars that dripped with lake mud. The leader squinted at the caravan and its three passengers. He barked something irritably in a Slavic-sounding language.
“I don’t understand,” said Toby nervously.
“Where are other wagons?” inquired the man, his words slow and suspicious. “You ring bell three times. Three rings means three wagons. I bring more men for three wagons. You pay for three wagons.”
“Oh,” said the smee. “I didn’t know. Three it is, then, but we’re in a hurry.”
The man laughed bitterly. “Aren’t we all?”
Max handed Toby some coins. Once they tossed the exorbitant fee across, the ferrymen used their long poles to position the raft against the dock. Hurrying off, the men helped lead the mules aboard and secured the heavy wagon at the raft’s center with a system of ropes. The workers were brisk and efficient but offered no greetings or conversation as they went about their business. Many were badly scarred, missing fingers or limping from some past injury. Max imagined each must have survived untold horrors before arriving at Piter’s Folly, where there was safety in numbers and the lake’s deep waters served as an enormous moat.
“What you bring?” asked the leader, glancing at the wagon once the ferry had pushed off.
“Coffee,” replied Toby. “Some sugar. Two casks of phosphoroil and a hundred iron ingots.”
“You should have brought more iron,” the ferryman grunted. “Blacksmiths are busy. People want weapons before they leave.”
“Leave?” asked David. “Where are they going?”
The man shrugged and lit a pipe of strong, black tobacco. “West … north … wherever they can. Aamon’s winning the war, little goblin. His armies will be here soon. I hear his scouts have passed in the night. Prusias may leave us be, but Aamon will not. No humans live in Dun. Soon none will live here.”
As they sculled ahead, the town slowly emerged as a cluster of brown and gray shapes against the morning gloom. Now Max could hear hammers and saws, a woman’s call. They passed moored platforms where crops were growing in floating soil beds. A small cottage loomed into view at the end of a long dock. A bundled little boy was sitting at the end, dangling a hook into the water while the mutt at his side waited patiently for his breakfast. Upon sighting the goblins, the boy stiffened. His dark eyes followed them until they had eased past and out of sight.
They passed a number of similar houses and floating gardens before they reached the town’s main dock. Anchored to the island, the landing was already crowded with crates and baggage and anxious residents. It appeared the ferryman was correct and many intended to flee before Aamon’s forces arrived. It was a chaotic scene, and it was clear that some were displeased with the ferryman for transporting goblins when time was scarce and many desired passage across.
Ignoring the hissing rebukes and angry muttering, the ferryman tossed ropes to his associates, who moored the raft against the pier. Clearing a path through the multitude, the ferryman and his workers led the mules and wagon down the ramp and gruffly reminded the crowd that honest travelers were to be left to their business, lest trade should wither. Cuffing a youth who was prying at the caravan doors, the ferryman repeated his admonition in a louder voice. He was apparently a person of some influence, for the throng withdrew so that the caravan now had an unobstructed path to the island’s narrow lanes. Emptying his pipe, the ferryman came around to where Toby was waiting anxiously.
“I can’t take you back until nightfall. If I were you, I would not haggle too hard. Watch yourself and meet me here when the bell rings for evening watch.”
Toby nodded and gave the man several coppers by way of gratitude. Shaking the reins, he called out to the mules and they clopped forward, brushing past the crowd and down into the lane.
The way was relatively narrow but well maintained, encircling the island while smaller lanes branched off, leading to grazing pastures and gardens, shops and dwellings. Everywhere, there were cats slinking about in their wake or darting across their path. Toby shivered at the sight of them.
“I don’t like cats,” he confessed. “Don’t like the way they look at me—like they know a secret.”
“I wonder why there are so many,” said Max.
“Keeps the rodents down,” David muttered, “and some believe they drive evil spirits away.”
“Now let’s see,” said Toby, “Kolbyt said it’s the largest house at the end of the lane that runs along the shoreline. Here we go.…”
