Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 148 of 150

The cart rolled toward the water. Ben watched the driver's back. The man had said it plain: the crate was worth more than the pay. A hungry driver with that knowledge was a danger. One word sold ahead, and every hunter on the coast route would line the road by dusk. Ben had silenced the hum. He had not silenced the man. He leaned forward. "You know what it's worth," Ben said. "So do the people who want it. If they hear you asking, they'll take it and leave you in a ditch. You'd get nothing." The driver said nothing. His shoulders stayed stiff. Ben saw the greed working in him, silent and slow. Ben reached into the driver's junk chest. He pulled out a small charming chest with brass fittings, then a barrel-shaped chest with iron bands. He set them side by side on the boards. "You want more coin," Ben said. "Then earn it honestly. Two more chests, packed like the first. Salt, rags, wet cloth. If anyone stops us, we open a decoy. They find junk. They let us pass." The driver turned. "Decoys." "Three chests. Same weight. Same look." Ben tapped the barrel chest. "Nobody knows which one holds the set. Not the hunters. Not you." That last part landed. The driver's jaw shifted. If he did not know which chest held the pieces, he had nothing to sell ahead. His secret was worthless now. Ben worked fast. He packed the barrel chest with salt and rags. He filled the little chest with a squeeze flask, a heavy wooden tankard, and a sleek travel satchel from the driver's stores. He weighted each to match the real crate. Then he shuffled all three under the cargo where even he lost track. Joe climbed up beside him. "You've hidden it from him," Joe murmured. "And from myself," Ben said. "For now." The driver watched the three chests vanish under the tarp. His face changed. The greed drained out of it, because there was nothing left to sell. He could not point a buyer to a chest he could not name. "Coast by dusk," the driver said again. But the words came flat now. He took the reins and drove. Two miles on, a rider blocked the track. He wore no colors, but his hand rested near a horn. "Heard a load came through," the rider said. "Something that hums." Ben's chest tightened. The driver did not flinch. "Junk run," the driver said. "Open one and see." He kicked the barrel chest forward. The rider pried the domed lid. Salt spilled. Rags. A dented tankard. He grunted and waved them on. The cart rolled past. Ben breathed out. The driver's silence was safe now, because his silence was empty. The coast route lay open ahead. But Ben still did not know which chest carried the set, and he would have to find it again before the boat.