A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [59]
The texture was like raw egg yolk, the flavor slightly salty, richer than any seafood he had ever tasted. He chewed briefly, then swallowed, the slimy mass coating his throat on the way down.
“What do you think?” Kerny asked.
“Really good,” Jason said, surprised.
“Honestly?” Rachel asked.
“Try it,” Jason challenged.
Rachel dripped some oil into her shell, then downed the contents. Her expression brightened. “We’ll take a platter.”
Just then a man jostled into Jason from behind. Turning, he saw a short, stocky fellow who had been seated at a table near the door. The man had thick black hair and dense stubble on his face. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back over hairy forearms bulging with muscle.
“I’ll have the chowder,” he growled in a deep voice.
“Not until you bring in some money or wash some dishes,” Kerny responded, overly articulating his words. The bartender glanced apologetically at Jason.
“I’m not good enough to wash dishes,” the man blubbered in despair. “I’m not good enough for chowder. Sorry to bother.” He wheeled around and plopped down at a nearby table, laying his face on folded arms.
“What’s his problem?” Rachel asked softly.
Kerny shook his head. “He’s depressed and dizzy. Nobody should sit near the outer wall when we’re spinning this briskly. I extended him some credit, but there are limits to what a person can do. I pity him for his mishap, but I can’t let him bankrupt me.”
“What mishap?” Jason wondered.
“Where have you been? He’s the sole survivor of the Giddy Nine. Poor sap.”
Jason whirled. So somebody did jump from the raft! His rescue attempt had not been a total failure. He felt a rush of relief knowing he’d saved at least one person’s life.
“Will you take your food at the bar or at a table?” Kerny asked.
Jason turned back. “At a table. And I’ll buy that man some chowder.”
“Suit yourself. What will you and the young lady drink?”
“Water,” Jason said.
The bartender shrugged and moved away.
“Notice he didn’t ask me what I wanted,” Rachel whispered.
“Now is not the time to discuss women’s rights,” Jason whispered back. “Did you want chowder too?”
“Water is fine. But I wanted to be asked.”
Jason sat down beside the man he had rescued. Rachel sat across from them. “I’m Jason,” he said. “This is Rachel.”
“Tark,” the man replied in his gravelly voice, not looking up.
“I ordered you some chowder.”
Tark raised his head, smiling. He leaned back as he looked at Jason, as if trying to bring him into focus. “That was right gentlemanly of you.”
“No problem. I heard about your friends.”
“They were the lucky ones,” Tark moaned, clutching his hair.
“But didn’t they die?” Rachel asked.
“Like I was supposed to.”
Jason tried to cover his surprise and confusion. The one person he’d saved was devastated at having survived? He cleared his throat. “So, uh, what instrument did you play?”
Tark eyed him. “You aren’t from hereabout.”
“We come from far off.”
“I play the sousalax.”
“What is that?” Rachel asked.
Tark huffed. “Merely the largest of all lung-driven instruments. Only six or seven men along the coast have the capacity to sound it properly. Away north they use the instrument to summon walruses and sea elephants.”
“That sounds handy,” Jason said, sharing a small smile with Rachel.
Tark nodded obliviously. “I was supposed to play to the end. The sousalax lays the foundation for the other instruments. You know? And it was more than that. Listen, this stays between us. Simeon, our leader, had been absent a long while. He had a habit of going on excursions. One day Simeon shows up claiming a prophetess told him if we floated down the river to the waterfall playing music, we would summon a hero to help depose Maldor. He had an exact date and time in mind. At first we thought he was having fun with us, but he just kept staring, grim as a widow on her anniversary. We discussed the idea a long while, and eventually came to a unanimous accord. I mean, what do we need today more than a real hero? Not these fakers looking for a free ride to Harthenham—I mean the kind of heroes we sing