Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) by Peter David Page A

disappointed. He stopped so abruptly that James almost collided with him from the back and prevented that only at the last second with strategic deployment of the walking stick.
    â€œIs that what it’s come to, then?” said Thomas. “We’ve been sharing everything the whole trip, no questions asked. Food, money, resources. What’s mine is yours and the other way around. And suddenly we’re going to start keeping watch on whose is what?”
    Absolutely. That’s absolutely right. I’ve been more than keeping up my end of this entire insane affair, and now when geography itself is trying to tell us something, that’s where I’m drawing the line.
    And he saw the defiant look in Thomas’s eyes, but also one of hurt, even betrayal.
    He lowered his gaze, and said, “Of course not. We’re a team. Whatever I can do to provide for this”—and he allowed a small smile—“this mad adventure, I’m there for it. But”—and he now looked back into Thomas’s eyes—“who do we hire? For that matter, where do we hire them?”
    â€œIt’s a sea,” said Thomas, visibly relaxing at the re-affirmation from his longtime friend. “Where there’s a sea, there are going to be port cities. We head down to the shoreline and start walking until we find what we’re looking for.”
    â€œWhich way?”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œWhich way,” said James, “do we walk? The land stretches off in either direction.”
    Without hesitation, Thomas said, “South.”
    â€œWhy south?”
    Thomas shrugged. “Because south is usually warmer.”
    James smiled broadly at that. “I like the way you think,” he said, the mist emerging from his mouth not unnoticed.
    They made their way down from the hillocks, treading carefully and nearly stumbling over some treacherous roots that seemed to exist solely to trip them up. Once they reached the shore, they turned and headed south.
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    THE FIRST VILLAGE THEY CAME UPON WAS little more than a few ramshackle homes strung together supposedly—according to the residents—for mutual protection. It was a ludicrous notion since, as far as Thomas and James could discern, even an army composed of twenty addled cripples armed with unstrung crossbows could have laid waste to the place. But they didn’t dwell on it beyond wishing the residents good day and continuing on their path along the shore. This eventually brought them to a city called Seaside, which appeared to have a small but busy port. There was a permanent aroma of brine in the air, and James had to step carefully over the seemingly endless stream of rats that were skittering around the docks. One particularly fat one approached him with far more audacity than James was comfortable with, and he swung his walking stick at it, using it like a cudgel. The rat dodged away and ran, stopping only to give him a glare with its beady eyes.
    â€œJames! Over here!” It was Thomas calling to him, and he turned and saw that his friend was standing on the deck of a brigantine. Next to him was a well-dressed man in a long coat and a tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head. He was thick browed with a salt-and-pepper beard, and had a pleasant enough expression. His very presence seemed to inspire confidence, and James trotted up the gangplank. “Captain Rackam, this is James Skelton,” Thomas said by way of introduction. “James, the captain here is giving us passage.”
    â€œI hear you’re heading toward Blackridge,” said Rackam.
    â€œWe are?” said James, looking questioningly at Thomas, and then quickly amended, “I mean, we are.”
    â€œShorewall is where we’re bound,” said Rackam. “We have some cargo to transport over there, so it’s not as if we’re going out of our way. Blackridge is not too far, a couple day’s journey.