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“I will, my lord,” Peregrine promised. “Good day.”
“And good day to you, fair Peregrine.”
Peregrine did not feel very fair in his ragged clothing, but he bowed prettily as he’d been taught and hoped he’d been courteous enough not to disgrace the Ljouwert cloister. If Alistair complained to Mistress Fokje about his behavior, she would have his hide.
Happily, the dragon went off in the opposite direction from the cloister, and when Peregrine could no longer see him from his bowed position, he righted himself and continued on his way. If he was out too long, he’d be punished, and he’d rather not go without dinner again.
* * *
In the time it took Peregrine to breach the general vicinity of the ventjager, its barrels had been rolled off the ship and set bung-side up on the towpath. The crowd had thinned somewhat, but it still took a significant while before Peregrine was able to approach the seafaring merchant overseeing the sale of offloaded goods.
To his delight, he discovered Lus was the one hawking the ship’s wares.
“Good day, Lus.” Peregrine smiled at the Attendant, who was nearing his fortieth year, and had started to go silver at the temples. Years at sea had toughened his skin, and fine lines now wrinkled the corners of his eyes. One of his ring fingers was missing—the result of an accident during a catch—but rather than hide the imperfection, he wore colorful woven bracelets on the wrist of his damaged hand that Peregrine was sure were meant to draw the eye. To most, it would seem intimidating to so boldly display an injury, but Peregrine was of the opinion that Lus was one to celebrate differences. He was rough-and-tumble, yes, but beneath his hardened exterior lived a gentle soul Peregrine had come to consider a friend.
“Good day, Peregrine,” Lus said with a curt nod. “Harbert came through this time, didn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
Lus slapped the top of one of the barrels of herring several times, drawing Peregrine’s attention its way. “He’s afforded the cloister an entire barrel. About time, with the king’s ransom he’s been making from the fishery. Rumor has it there will be fifty new herring busses joining the fleet next season.”
Peregrine cared little for the size of his grandsire’s fleet. What he did care about was the barrel Lus had declared the dragon had set aside for his cloister. If set upright, it would come squarely to Peregrine’s chest and was twice as wide as he was, if not more. And filled to the brim with salted herring, it would weigh twice as much as well.
“You can’t be serious.” Peregrine flicked his gaze from the barrel to Lus, but there was no trace of humor in his eyes. “All of it?”
“Every last stave.”
“How am I supposed to carry this?”
With a grunt, Lus rolled the barrel forward. “You aren’t. You’re supposed to push.”
It seemed impossible for someone as small and slender as Peregrine to be able to push such a massive thing all the way back to his cloister, but he had no other choice in the matter. Lus was busy with his work, and the crew was not responsible for ensuring delivery. Mistress Fokje would punish him if he returned empty-handed, and that would mean no dinner for the foreseeable future. And if he were to request one of the Pedigree omegas abandon their lessons to help him, he might never eat again.
“It isn’t that bad,” Lus assured him as Peregrine positioned himself behind the barrel and braced his palms against its metal rings. “Once you get it moving, it’ll stay in motion. From there, all you need to do is steer.”
“Steer?”
“With your body weight,” Lus explained. He came behind Peregrine and leaned over him to give the barrel another push. With his help, Peregrine was able to get the barrel pointed in the right direction. “Now, off you go. Come track me down in the next few days if you find yourself in want of a conversation and I’ll regale you with tales from my adventures at sea.”
“I will,” Peregrine promised as he rolled the barrel down the towpath. “Good day, Lus.”
“Good day, Peregrine.”
With nothing more to say, off went Peregrine and his barrel. While he walked, he dreamed of the stories Lus would share, and hoped someday he might have one to share of his own.
* * *
An incline brought the barrel to a slow stop minutes from the cloister. To keep it from rolling backward, Peregrine had to throw his body against it and push with all his might, but he wasn’t strong enough to get the thing to budge. The more he pushed, the weaker he became, until the barrel began to slip.
“Please, no,” Peregrine begged through gritted teeth. “Don’t roll back. You can’t. I need you at the cloister.”
The barrel, curmudgeonly as it was, did not listen. Worse, it seemed to grow heavier. Peregrine’s arms began to tremble, and even as he leaned into it with his shoulder, he was aware that he was being pushed back.
Mistress Fokje would not like this one bit.
Peregrine squeezed his eyes shut, dug in his heels, and fought, but it was a losing battle. The barrel would not go up the hill. He would have to set it somewhere, return to the cloister to ask for help, and pray no one took it while he was gone. When Mistress Fokje found out, he would be denied dinner, and he would go to bed more hungry than he already was.
It all seemed so impossibly cruel.
