The Cartographer's Apprentice: Leave them wanting more

By Jim Webster

Four short stories from the Land of the Three Seas casting a light on the early career of Benor Dorfinngil. The trials and tribulations of a young cartographer; this book features duels, savage halfmen, gassy beer, blood feuds and most dangerous of all, beautiful women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Aug 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781783331758

Jim Webster

I can cope with being described as fifty-something. During the course of a reasonably quiet life I’ve done a number of things. I’ve farmed cattle all my life, and at the same time have been a consultant and a freelance writer. I also fit in being a husband and father. My life has included some intriguing incidents, at the age of twelve, my headmaster was somewhat put out to discover that not only was I selling ammonium nitrate to other boys to make bangers, it wasn’t actually forbidden by the school rules. I’ve watched Soviet troops unload coffins from a transport plane at Tashkent; been questioned by an Icelandic gunboat captain, not so much at gun point as at 40mm Bofors point, and according to the nice man at Frankfurt airport, I inadvertently invaded Germany. I was perfectly happy to believe him, I am happy to believe anyone who points a Heckler & Koch MP5 at me. Brought up on the classic masters of SF, I bought Jack Vance, ‘The Dragon Masters,’ in the early 1970s and that book taught me that the world or society the characters lived in was every bit as important as the plot. I’ve also written Supplements for Pelgrane Press to go with their ‘Dying Earth’ role-playing game, inadvertently contributed to the design of the FH70 Field Howitzer and living where I do on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness most of my mates have at one time or another built nuclear submarines. Me, I tend to seasickness on a particularly bracing bus trip.

Book preview

1988.

The Prequel’s Prequel

Benor Dorfinngil swung himself up the vines spreading along the side on the house. He was still smarting from the argument earlier that evening. His father, Jillig Dorfinngil, had been adamant. Benor’s older brother, Sar, was already captaining one of the family boats having learned his trade as mate and supercargo, so Jillig didn’t see why his second son should sleep ‘til noon and then spend his nights out ‘on the tiles.’ Benor was to leave Toelar and travel to Meor where he would study cartography.

Benor had demurred, pointing out that arrangements would have to be made and these take time. Jillig, who in his youth had used similar stratagems, countered that the arrangements had all been made; one of the family’s boats, ‘The Channeler’s Dog’ was sailing at dawn. Benor was to be on it.

Benor had pulled himself up to his full height (which to be fair wasn’t impressive,) and stormed out of the house. Had not the pretty Haitha Giltbar winked at him over her husband’s shoulder this afternoon as she sipped a herbal tonic at the House of Infusions? She had also held up three fingers. Benor had made discrete enquiries and discovered that her husband, Gartan Giltbar, was supposed to be travelling to the family estates on the west bank of the Lower Maran that very afternoon. Hence Benor felt that he had received an invitation not to be missed.

He scrambled further up the vines and then hauled himself over the balustrade that ran across the front of the second floor of the house. From there it was a simple task to climb the downspout to the eaves. He moved swiftly to the roof ridge and jogged along at a sensible speed. When he reached the new tiles that marked the next house he looped a rope round the chimney stack. Then he lowered himself down, off the roof and down the wall until he came to the wide double window that served the master bedroom. The clock on the tower of the Compassionate Society Workhouse struck three.

Benor smiled; a Toelar Roofrunner was always punctual. The ladies expected it. He ‘walked’ along the wall and reached the window. Inside all was dark but the window was unlatched and stood invitingly open. Indeed, on the latch there was a lady’s glove. So he hadn’t been mistaken, it had been an invitation.

Benor carefully opened the window. Then he quietly swung himself into the room and let go of the rope. He stood silently. Some ladies would at this point light a candle, the better for their suitor to appreciate their beauty. Others, for whatever reason, preferred the darkness.

No candlelight was forthcoming, so Benor stalked noiselessly to where the bed was just visible by the thin moonlight. Then there was a click as someone opened a dark lantern. Haitha Giltbar lay in bed, a look of guilty desperation on her face. Standing next to the bed was her husband, Gartan, a tall, heavily built and brooding figure with a lantern in one hand, a stout cudgel in the other. Near the door was a footman, holding a poker.

Gartan raised his cudgel. Get him.

Benor didn’t hesitate, he grabbed the dress that was draped over a chair and threw it at Gartan, entangling him. Picking up the chair he darted towards the footman. As that worthy swung at him with the poker, Benor thrust the chair at him, catching the poker and shoving the footman aside. As the man reeled back, Benor snatched open the door and ran through it. The stairway was brightly lit by suspended lanterns. Benor sprinted down the stairs, ignoring for the moment the sounds of pursuit behind him. Half-way down the stairs stood the cook, squat and immovable; Benor jumped onto the banister and swung himself down onto the return flight of stairs below. In the main hall he took one look at the front door - massively bolted - and darted into the front parlour, slamming the door shut behind him. As Gartan Giltbar warily opened the parlour door, Benor was already leaving by the front window. By the time Gartan reached the window, Benor was out of sight.***Sar Dorfinngil was untying the last rope that fastened ‘The Channeler's Dog’ to the quay when he saw Benor running up in the early morning light. Benor’s jacket was undone; his cravat was tucked into one of the pockets, and on his feet were a pair of those light, soft soled shoes preferred by those roof runners who didn’t go barefoot. The outfit was topped off with a sack-like hat in such clashing colours, Sar suspected it had been purchased in the dark.

Intending to go far? Sar asked, watching with interest. Benor reached him, put his bag down and sat on the bollard to catch his breath.

Well, I’ve been thinking about it, Father is probably right, he normally is.

Sar stared cynically at his brother and was rewarded with a look of hurt innocence. Eventually Sar gave up. Come on then, get your bag on board. Let’s get moving.

Benor threw his bag onto the deck and gracefully jumped after it. Sar threw him the rope, which Benor caught and started coiling as his older brother jumped across the slowly increasing gap. Benor passed the coiled rope. I think I’ll take my stuff down below. Find myself somewhere to sling a hammock, that sort of thing.

Sar shouted to three seamen, standing waiting with poles, and together they pushed the boat away from the quay. Then more shouting and the sails were shaken out, and ‘The Channeler's Dog’ started to make her laborious way out to sea. As the crew went about their business, Sar pulled out his glass and stood at the stern, watching as his beloved home town slowly receded.

Eventually he saw a group of figures running along the quay, and heard their distant shouts. With the glass he could see fists being shaken and thought to recognise some of the men. He shut the glass and smiled to himself as he followed Benor below.

The Insulted Party

Chapter 1

Benor, the newly articled Cartographer, sat and stroked his moustache meditatively. If someone had accused him of being inordinately proud of it, he would have taken umbrage. Still, he was happy to admit it was a finer exemplar of its type than was normally sported by members of the student body in Meor.

Unfortunately the excellence of the moustache was not matched by the excellence of what he was drinking. He had taken the jug back to the bar to be refilled. The jug was first half filled with a thin, sour beer, then topped up with cider so rough that you had to take care not to spill it on delicate fabrics. Benor had once used it clean the rust from his dress rapier. Still, if you drink at ‘The Gallows’, a plain tavern near the barracks in Ointment Gripe, you cannot afford to be too precious. When Benor got the jug back to the table, Hurdelk poured in a good slug of plum brandy from a hip flask. Benor then divided the contents of the jug between their five glasses.

He sat down, raised his glass and offered as a toast: To our futures. The others echoed the toast, drank and lapsed once more into desultory conversation.

Benor looked at the group round the table. Benor himself was from the southern city of Toelar. Known as ‘the pearl of the Middle Sea’, it was a pleasantly civilised city.

Sitting next to him was Hurdelk, a mine captain’s son from Tarsteps. Benor had known him for five years now and rated him as his closest friend. Hurdelk, like Benor, had been attending lectures at the Cartographers’ Guild as well as at the Magistrorum. Next to Hurdelk was Amor Amiche-Aranillu from Seramis. Son of landed gentry with considerable landholdings in the Visa valley as well as interests in the town’s clothing trade, Amor still managed to run through his allowance in three weeks and lived in dismal poverty for the rest of the half-year. Next to Amor was Palothos Custeel, Amor’s friend and room mate. Palothos’s family owned land outside Meor, where the hunting was good but tenants paid their rent in kind. Palothos turned up at the start of each year with two sacks of oatmeal and a smoked haunch of horrocks. The fifth member of their group was not yet a student. Tiel also came from near Meor and was intending to start a course in the next semester. Currently his aims seemed to be limited to making friends and acquiring cheap student accommodation that was only modestly squalid.

Palothos asked So what are those of you who have finished your courses planning to do?

Hurdelk grimaced as he took a long drink from his glass. Well I’m off back to Tarsteps. I’ve learned the theory, but to follow my father as a mine captain I’ll have to get a lot of underground experience.

What about you, Benor?

As I’m now an articled cartographer, I’m looking for work. Hurdelk has promised to see if there’s anything available in Tarsteps, otherwise I’ll look for anyone needing mapping or surveying work done. Merchants can be reasonable patrons, having you check routes and suchlike. Pays poorly but the expenses are normally reasonable.

Amor seemed to be thinking. Well really I’ve got to get back to Seramis. It’s time to grow up and take over the estates. My father’s executors have run things for nearly twenty years. It’s time I shouldered the burden.

Palothos looked at Tiel. Have you got yourself anywhere to stay yet?

Tiel nodded. I was lucky to fall in with you people. I’ve only known you for a week and Hurdelk has assigned his room to me.

Well I’m not going to need it in two days time, am I?

Tiel stood and picked up the jug. Drink up, it’s probably my shout. I’ll see if I can run to something a bit better, as a thank-you to Hurdelk. He came back three minutes later with the jug once more full.

"We’re in luck; Dannan behind the bar is fortifying wine again." Tiel emptied the jug into the five glasses. Benor took a cautious sip.

Don’t you mean he’s using wine to colour raw spirit?

Tiel grinned happily. It might be that way about. He grabbed his glass and confidently drank off about half of it. The others watched with interest as he coughed and gasped for breath. I suppose... it might be... a bit smooth, he said eventually.

***

It was the start of a complicated evening. Tiel seemed to have money; in ‘Beldam’s Carcanet’ off Isenglass alley they drank hot spiced wine. At the ‘Blue Grapes’ they were ejected when they heckled the singer. It was growing late by the time they arrived at the ‘The Painted Orid.’ Reputedly the worst alehouse in Meor, the ale is notorious for a tarry aftertaste loved by the regulars.

As they leaned against the bar, Palothos asked somewhat hazily, Whose turn is it to buy the next drink?

Tiel paused and started working back on his fingers. Amor I think.

Probably, Amor sighed. He reached into his belt. Sod it, my purse has gone. Someone’s picked my pocket!

Tiel laughed. Don’t worry; if you’re broke just say so. It’s no matter among friends. He put his hand in his pocket to fetch out some money, but Amor interrupted him.

No, I’ve been robbed. I’m not in the habit of scrounging off my friends. I pay my share.

Tiel pulled his hand out of his pocket and looked at the coins. About thirty dregs, that should cover it. He winked ostentatiously at Amor. We’ll worry about the pickpocket tomorrow.

Amor struck Tiel’s hand and the coins flew across the bar. My pocket was picked, I do not lie.

Tiel, swaying slightly, fixed him with a stare. If you pick the coins up, you’ll have enough to pay for the next round.

Goaded, Amor punched Tiel, who went down. Benor helped him up. Look, will you two calm down? I don’t think Tiel intended to insult you Amor.

Tiel shook Benor off. He struck me, I demand satisfaction!

Amor sneered, "Challenge me