Free Web NovelChapter 56: Fate Doesn’t Haggle
James’s lips had barely closed again before he found his answer, more instinct than thought, the way most of his best ideas arrived.
"Aye, well."
He lowered his end of the chest with care, looking like a man with all the time in the world despite the fact that two seconds ago he’d had absolutely no plan. "Turns out I’ve already got a fix for that. Give me a minute."
He straightened, brushed imaginary dirt from his hands, and headed toward the grey moss.
"Goin’ to see a man about a mule."
Bert blinked. "A man about a... a mule, Captain?"
"Aye."
The composure cracked a little, "There is no man here, Captain. There is no one here at all beyond the four of us and whatever creatures inhabit this swamp."
"Ye’re thinkin’ too hard, Bert."
Jim only shrugged, leaning against one of the chests as though he expected a proper break.
"Man’s got his reasons. Probably needs a piss."
James let them keep that explanation.
He slipped into the palmetto scrub a stone’s throw from the boat, crouched behind some saw palmetto, then glanced back over his shoulder. The others had already gone back to talking about something else and weren’t paying him the slightest bit of attention.
He stayed crouched. Old habits had a way of surviving.
"Right then."
James muttered, barely louder than a whisper. "I need a mule. Cart too, while we’re at it. Somethin’ that’ll carry three chests without lookin’ like it fell off the back of a French supply wagon five minutes before we showed up. I’m good for the Fate."
I would like to point out that this does not surprise me. It does, however, exhaust me.
"Providence is the whole point of the category, aye?"
James kept his voice low, though urgency had driven out most of the embarrassment. "Supplies delivered when things get inconvenient. Well, here’s inconvenient for ye. Three chests, four men, and not a mule within forty miles in any direction I’d trust."
The category description does specify circumstances that have become inconvenient. I dislike that you are correct. I dislike it considerably.
The display shimmered into existence before him, suspended in the humid swamp air where nothing should have been.
⚓ [FATE SHOP — PROVIDENCE]
Mule and Cart
A sound pack mule and a two-wheeled handcart, harness fitted and ready to load. Precisely the sort of thing a trading party should have brought with them in the first place.
Cost : 5.1 Fate (Dynamic)
The price adjusts to reflect the circumstances of the request. Circumstances, in this instance, meaning a man who loaded his cargo onto a boat before ever considering how it might continue its journey once it reached dry land.
James watched the number with a growing frown. It bothered him, though it took a moment before he understood why.
That hadn’t been the price a heartbeat ago.
It had climbed the instant this became the only answer.
Just like a ferryman doubling his fee after a man’s boots were already soaked. Just like a smith charging twice as much once the horse had gone lame and the enemy was already marching over the hill.
It reminded him of opening a ride-share app after a concert. The fare would triple, the app would apologize for the inconvenience, and somehow expect gratitude for the explanation.
"Fine." He dragged a hand down his face. "Take it, ye robbin’ bastard. I’ll have the mule."
Five point one Fate deducted. Remaining balance: five. A pleasantly tidy number. Possibly the only tidy aspect of this entire transaction.
James nearly admired that response.
Nearly.
The palmetto rustled a few paces away.
The fronds parted, and a mule stepped calmly out of the brush as though she’d been there all along, entirely unconcerned with the impossible journey that had brought her there. A two-wheeled cart followed behind, already harnessed and fitted as if it had been waiting in the swamp for years.
She found a patch of grass, decided it was good enough, and immediately began eating.
James took hold of the rope halter that had appeared with her and led the mule back into the clearing.
He stopped near them.
Bert, Jim, and Tomás had gone completely motionless. The chests sat forgotten at their feet.
No one spoke for several long moments.
"Captain."
Bert finally broke the silence, placing each word with caution, as though the ground itself had become unreliable. "I confess I cannot account for the animal’s presence."
Tomás started to raise a hand toward his chest, falling into the old habit of making the sign of the cross.
The gesture stopped halfway before he seemed to remember he no longer knew what it meant.
His hand slowly fell away.
"Captain... where... how did you..."
Neither question ever reached the end.
Jim ignored them both. He walked straight to the mule and ran a hand down one of her forelegs, inspecting her like a buyer judging livestock at market.
"No spavin, no sores from the harness either. Whoever ye traded with knew good stock."
James grinned. "Fair price, considerin’."
No one looked convinced.
No one seemed eager to ask for a better explanation, either.
They lifted the three chests onto the cart and lashed them down with rope from the boat. The mule accepted the weight without complaint, flicked her ears once, and went into an easy, steady pace along the trail.
The swamp slowly gave way behind them. Cypress trees thinned until pine and scrub oak took over, and the ground grew firmer with every mile.
A thin ribbon of gray smoke drifted above the trees ahead.
The trail widened into a proper road, its deep cart ruts packed hard by far more travelers than four men and a mule. Cleared fields spread out on both sides, and somewhere off to the left an axe struck wood in an even, unhurried rhythm.
At last Mobile came into view around a bend in the road.
The settlement sat behind a timber palisade that wasn’t much grander than Pensacola’s, with rough wooden houses crowded together inside the walls. Even so, something about the place made James uneasy. Soldiers patrolled along the palisade with clipped efficiency, accustomed to suspicion, watching everyone because they expected to be watched in return.
"Right."
Jim rolled his shoulders like a fighter about to step into the ring. "Leave the talkin’ to me. I’ve got this."
They had gone perhaps thirty yards when a sharp voice rang across the road.
"Qui va là?"
A French soldier stepped out from behind a low picket fence, his musket held loose but ready. A second man rose from a nearby stool without any sign of urgency, though his attention stopped on them just the same.
Jim walked forward at once. He spread both hands wide to show they were empty, then slipped into the warm, easy courage he’d used while charming a girl back in Martinique.
"Bonsoir, mon brave. Quels yeux superbes vous avez ce soir."
