WIP 6 I - The Writer's Washroom Annex
Chapter Five - Harbordown by Day (part I)
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.
“I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.
“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.
“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”
Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.
“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”
“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”
“But why? You work so hard.”
“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”
“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”
“I don’t want to make you leave, Mr. Sloan.”
“I don’t think I’d like that either.”
“You’ll have my money next week?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.” She handed the smudged, crumpled message to him. He peeled it open and read it. He looked back down at her.
“Is the boy wearing a blue scarf?”
“Yes.”
“Is he waiting outside?”
“Yes.”
“Send him in.”
Mrs. Grabzhinko left and Sloan stepped back out of his doorway. As he did, a long, soft feminine hand brushed against his neck.
“Something interesting?” A throaty voice asked him.
“It looks like I’ll be going out tonight,” Sloan told his wife.
* * *
Melbourn rolled over and groaned. His jaw hurt, his feet hurt, his back hurt, and his knees hurt. He threw the thin blanket away from him and rolled out of bed. His knees popped as he stood. His knees almost always hurt; it was one of the perks of the profession. He rubbed his jaw and scratched, looking down briefly at his nude form. He inhaled a bucketful of air and felt the power in his chest. He was in excellent health and always had been – other than the knees, of course.
He crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The windows were glassless, as were most windows in his part of the city. Sunlight poured through the opening, following closely by a cool breeze. He looked first at the sun burning in the glossy blue sky, then at the street below, with its bustle of morning business.
“That must be a glorious show for the neighbors,” a woman’s voice purred to him from the bed. Melbourn turned to look at her.
“My neighbors have had the opportunity to gaze upon this every morning as long as I’ve lived here.” He smiled and walked back to the bed.
The woman rolled onto her back, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was Astaran, and as such, her skin was the color of chocolate and her hair the color of night. When he had shoved the blanket away, he had unwittingly pushed it off her as well. Her hips, revealed by his casual movement, were her best feature, he though; wide and womanly. He sat next to her and ran his hand across her belly. After a moment, he moved it to play across one of her breasts.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked, through half-lidded eyes.
“In this room or in Harbordown?”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Twenty years.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“I’m older than I look. How old are you?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you brought me up here?”
“Piffle. ‘Twas you that seduced me.”
She smiled. “I could only hold out so long.”
“It was five days, woman. I’m not that strong a man.”
“You’re stronger than you look – particularly for such an old man.”
“For that you shan’t have thirds.”
“Fourths,” she corrected. “At least it was for me.”
“Ah, youth.”
“I’m nineteen.” She smiled at him. “Is that too old?”
“No. I would venture to say that it’s too young.”
“I’m not too young.”
“I daresay I agree with you. But I was living in town a year before you were born.” He pulled away his hand. “I’m nearly two hundred years old.”
She rolled to her side and rested her hand on his chest.
“Where did you live before this?”
“I lived in Tassen for many years.”
“Did you? Did you come to Astar when you were there?”
“Yes. I sailed to your lovely island and spent several months there, fifty-some years ago. That’s when I discovered the joys of women with brown skin.”
“Who did you meet?” She asked him, coyly.
“I’d rather not say. I’d prefer not to know if you’re my granddaughter.”
She pulled her hand away from his chest for a moment and then touched it again.
“You have scars.”
“Many.”
“What are these?” She pointed to one of several cross-shaped scars, all about an inch from point to point.
“Crossbow bolts.”
“Oh. They must hurt.”
“Yes.”
“What about this long one?” She traced a line along his belly.
“Slash from a sword. I got that in Tassen.”
“Why did you leave there?”
“I had to.”
“Oh. What about this one?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been there as long as I can recall. I think it’s a knife wound.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. What you never hear about sidhe is that we begin to lose memories after one hundred years or so. The unimportant ones, that is. The more important they are to us, the more likely we remember them. But after some time, they will all fade.”
“Have you forgotten things?”
“Yes. I can’t remember what my home looked like.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
“My father was tall and handsome. My mother was beautiful, like all mothers.”
“Do you have any other family?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Were you born in Tassen?”
He thought a moment. “I can’t remember.”
* * *
Dunbar Stormglow held his blade at arm’s length. He stared down the length of the steel, focused on a lush green elm twenty yards away. Above him, seagulls circled and cried out. Six hundred feet below him, surf pounded into a rocky granite cliff. He was in the Garden, one of the highest districts of the city. Here, structures were restricted; none had been built in decades. Thick green grass covered the Garden and bushes grew in clumps and lines. Trees grew in orderly fashion in some places, wild and free in others. In the wilder area of the Garden, near the cliff, Dunbar felt the most comfortable.
He stood on the grass alone, away from the white gravel paths. Below him, the grassy slope fell away about twenty feet to the bluff, and then dropped to the cold harbor waters. He focused on the point of the blade. He stood still as the sun moved through the sky. With no warning, he exploded into a flurry of movement.
He spun his battered broadsword, tossing it from hand to hand, spinning it up and around his back. He threw it up into the air, caught it with his left hand, and tossed it back up. Dancing in circles as he moved, his long body whipped around with every turn. He thrust at invisible foes, dodged invisible enemies, and parried invisible blows. Broadsword whirring through the air, he took the head from an invisible demon and hurled the blade into the air. Without watching, he snatched it as it fell, dropped to his knees, and plunged it into the ground.
His bare chest rose and fell as he stood to catch his breath. His arms, torso, and shoulders shone with sweat, and his hair was wet and dripping. He pulled a long dagger – one to replace the one last at the Dark Wife – and began to spin it around his hand. He turned as he spun the blade to watch a messenger approach; he had heard him several moments previously. When the messenger arrived, Dunbar tossed the blade up and over his head.
“Good morning, Tully,” he said as the boy staggered to a stop.
“Oi, Dunbar, got a message.”
The dagger plunged into the ground behind him with a shunk.
“Go ahead.”
“Malcolm’s ship was spotted coming into the harbor this morning. It was held up, but he’ll be docking sometime today.”
“Thank you. Who sent the message?”
“Giorg. He thought you guys might want to be there tonight. How long has he been gone?”
“Months. What about the others?”
“They’re both coming.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Tully.” Dunbar reached into his belt and tossed him a copper penny. Tully snatched the coin from the air with the same amount of skill that Dunbar had caught his sword, and turned away. He was running before he completed the circle, and had vanished within seconds.
Dunbar turned around. The dagger had landed less than a handspan away from the sword. He smiled and retrieved his weapons.
* * *
Tzal Rynn climbed up the ship’s gangway and onto the main deck. Overhead, seagulls circled, cawing at each other and at the forest of masts, spars, sails, and shrouds that jutted up from Harbordown’s waterfront. He hitched up a large bag onto his shoulder and strolled across the deck to the port gunwale, where the officers waited. The captain and first mate nodded to him. The others did not.
Tzal returned the nods and leaned against the thick wooden bulwark. He inhaled the salt smell of the harbor and gazed up at the gulls. Leaning back and resting his hips against the starboard rail, he set his bag on the deck next to him. It was bulky, heavy, and misshapen. It had been torn, repaired, sun-bleached, and stained by rain and mud, yet it was his favorite possession, because it was the only one he had that could carry everything else he owned.
He stretched and let the sun wash over him. Broad in the chest and shoulders, and a few inches over six feet, he considered himself well-constructed. As he usually did, he wore blue trousers and a white shirt, stained gray in streaks. He owned a long purple cloak, but preferred not to wear it shipboard, leaving it safe in his bag.
He ran his fingers through his black curly hair and blinked. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he realized that Waverider’s sails were furled. He turned to face the officers.
“Why have we stopped?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for a pilot boat,” the first mate answered. Tzal expected that. So far he was the only one of the officers to have been friendly with him. He suspected it was because he was a non-paying passenger.
“What’s that?”
“That’s the only way we get into dock,” the first mate said. He joined Tzal at the rail and pointed at the water, some hundreds of yards away. “Look there, to that tower.”
“I see it.”
“On the port side, where the sea meets the stone, what do you see?”
“I don’t know. What am I looking for?”
“The first link of one of the harbor chains. Each link is about three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm.” He put his hand on his bicep.
“I can’t see it,” Tzal said, squinting.
“If the tide’s high, you won’t. That chain reaches from the tower to the shore.” He pointed to the nearest shore, nearly two miles away. “They use it to keep invading ships out.”
“But it’s underwater.”
“Aye, it is. But it’s not more than a few feet down. A ship that tries to cross it gets scuttled. The harbor is crisscrossed with chains; you have to sail around them.”
“So the pilot boat guides us in?”
“That’s it.”
“I see. How long until the pilot boat arrives?”
“Not long. There’re two ships going in now. One’s a trader, Dragonfish. The other’s been crippled; it looks like a pirate vessel. It’s in tow to the other, so they must have captured it.”
“A trader captured a pirate?”
The first mate grinned. “Appears so. It’s probably McMarsen. He’s the only battle captain I know who hunts pirates from fat-bottomed brigs.”
“How long do you figure before we’ve docked?”
“A few hours. Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’ve wanted to come here for a long time. Now I have to.”
* * *