Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 150 of 150

The boat pushed off from the shed with eight chests stacked in its belly. Ben sat among them and told himself the driver's threat was dead. Then he saw the boatman's face. The greedy driver had climbed aboard too, and now he leaned close to the boatman near the tiller. Ben knew that lean. A man buying a favor. If the driver cornered the boatman for a cut, word of Ben's cargo would spread up the coast before he could ever sell the set. Ben could not stop them talking. He could only make the talk useless. He needed the boatman to fear the cargo more than he wanted the driver's coin. Among the shed junk stacked near his knees sat a small silver jar. Hearts covered its sides, painted in soft colors, the word Friend curled across the front. A child's keepsake, useless. Ben lifted it and shook it once. Something inside rattled. He turned so the boatman could see. "You want to know what these chests carry," Ben said, loud enough for both men. "Half of them hold cursed goods. This one screams if you open it wrong." He set the friendly little jar on the lid of the nearest chest and stepped back. "The last man who split my cargo for coin drew the hunters straight to him. They took his hands." The driver's mouth tightened. He had helped load these chests. He knew salt and rags filled most of them. But he could not say so without admitting he had sold nothing to fear, and the boatman was already staring at the little heart-covered jar as if it might bite. "Open one," Ben said to the boatman. "Any one. See if you sleep after." The boatman did not move. He looked at the jar, then at the driver, then back at the tiller. His hands stayed where they were. Whatever the driver whispered next, the boatman gave a short shake of his head and turned his shoulder away. The driver tried once more. He reached for the boatman's arm. The boatman pulled free and spat over the side. "Keep your coin," he said. "I carry the load. I don't touch it." The driver sank onto a chest and said nothing after that. His hands hung empty in his lap. He had no name to sell and now no ear to sell it to. Ben picked up the little friend jar and held it in his lap the rest of the crossing. The rattle inside was only a loose stone, but it had bought him silence. By the gray of near-dawn the coast showed ahead. The threat on the water had died for good. But eight chests still waited on the boards, and only one held his twelve pieces. To sell the set, Ben would have to open every chest at the coast and find his cargo again before any buyer's men could reach the dock.