WIP 6b I - The Writer's Washroom Annex

Chapter Five - Harbordown by Day (part II)

        Melbourn ran up three short steps and stopped at a door.  Hearing soft fiddle music from inside, he listened until the piece was complete before knocking.  When he heard footsteps, he stepped back.  The door was unbarred, unlatched, and unlocked.  Sloan opened the door.  Melbourn tapped the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

        “You have the book?” Sloan asked.

        Melbourn smiled.

        “Come in, then.”  Sloan waved him inside.  “How did it go?”

        “No trouble at all.”

        “Good.”  Sloan led him through the kitchen without slowing.  Melbourn helped himself to a link of hard sausage, a pot of spicy mustard, and a wedge of smoked cheese.  He followed Sloan down a short hallway, pretending not to notice how some floorboards squeaked as he trod on them.  At the end of the hall, they passed through a short doorway and into Sloan’s laboratory.

        The room, which was once a large bedroom, was littered with desks, tables, bookshelves, stools, rolls of parchments, scrolls of magic, books open and closed, inkwells, candles, lamps, maps, lists, drawings, pots, jars, cups, and one pitcher of cold water.  In one corner, the floor was kept clear and clean; a pentacle was carved into the stone floor.  On the far wall, Sloan had hung his favorite instrument, his lute.  In the nearest corner, Elenaya Sloan leaned against a stool, fiddle and bow in hand.  She was tall, light-haired, and stunning.  Melbourn had never understood how dull, plain Elias Sloan had ever got her to consent to marriage, but he suspected sorcery was involved.

        “Good afternoon, Melbourn.  Make yourself at home.”  She didn’t have to motion at the kitchen loot to make her point.  She put her fiddle under her arm and kissed Sloan on the cheek.  Melbourn looked away.  Too much of her presence was intoxicating.  She smiled at him as she left the room.

        Sloan took his seat.  Melbourn perched on a stool and pulled the leather bag from his shoulder.  He opened it.

        “What’s in the scroll case?”

        “Just a little something I picked up,” Melbourn answered.

        “How many little somethings did you pick up?”

        “A few,” he said, handing over the book.  “I got you a pipe.”

        “Lovely.”  Sloan opened the book and began to scan the pages.  Melbourn took the black cloth-wrapped pipe from his vest, unwrapped it, and set in on a teetering pile of books.  He pulled out his own briar, packed it, and reached for a lit red candle.

        “I really wouldn’t, if I were you,” Sloan said without looking up.

        “Oh?”

        “That one is keeping the demon Ghoros from finding us.”  He still didn’t look up.

        Melbourn glared at him.  You could never tell whether to believe him or not.  Deciding not to risk it, he reached for a different candle, paused to see if it was being used for any diabolic protection spell, and then lit his match with it.  He lit it and took a long draw.

        “Very nice,” Sloan finally said, looking up.  “We now have Lord Barrendon where we want him.”

        “By the short and curlies?”

        “Yes.  He’ll do whatever I ask.”

        “What’s that?”

        “I want an invitation to a wedding.  And I’ll get it.”

        “Because we have a ledger?”

        “No, because we have the ledger,” Sloan answered.  “Are you certain this is the correct one?”

        “It was better hidden than the others.  I checked it against them; it seemed to be the most detailed.  But in case I was mistaken…”  He pulled three other books from the bag.  “I brought them all.”

        Sloan took them, flipping through them, and dismissed them.

        “No, you were correct.  This is the real ledger.  Did he see you?”

        “Aye,” Melbourn answered.  “I waited long enough.  I thought he’d never wander up for a private chat.  I had time for some drinks, a good smoke, and a read.”

        “And, of course, there were the trinkets.”

        “Of course.”

        “He’ll know you waited there for him?”

        “I left three bowls of ash in the dish and decanted a bottle of sherry.  I even took time to build a fire.”

        “Sounds cozy.”

        “Quite.  I’ve decided to become a man of leisure.”

        “You’re already that.  You’re the essence of leisure, the paragon of laziness.”  Sloan looked at Melbourn’s face.  “Your jaw is swollen.”

        “Quarterstaff.”

        “I thought you said it went well.”

        “I’ve still got ten fingers, ten toes, and my cock.  I call that victory, most days.”  Melbourn glanced up at the lute and waved in its direction.  “Too bad you weren’t there last night.  I could have used you.  I could have used your lute, that is.”

        “Why’s that?”

        “Suffice it to say I amended my escape route through the musicians’ gallery.  Now everyone at Barrendon’s Ball knows that someone broke into his home.”

        “Everyone?”

        “Everyone in the ballroom. I must say it’s remarkable how effective a simple masque can be.”

        “I see.  You did well.  No, you did very well.  I’ll consider the extra ledgers your gift to me.”  Sloan went back to reading.

        “You do that.  Are we now even?”

        “Yes, we are.”

        “I’ll be on my way.”

        “Do that.  Leave the mustard and try to refrain from ogling my wife.”  Sloan looked down into the ledger again.

        Without speaking, Melbourn stood, snatched the mustard and one other item from the desk.  Before Sloan even noticed, he slipped down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboards as he went.  Hand on the doorknob, he looked down at the red candle in his hand.  Chuckling, he blew it out and slipped out of the apartment.

 

* * *

 

        Malcolm McMarsen stood on the deck of Dragonfish and listened to the sounds of the harbor chaos:  shouted commands, workers’ grunts and curses, the creaking of wooden booms as they strained under their heavy loads, and the cries of boredom and dismay from the oxen and horses tethered to the wagons that littered the wharf below them.  He watched idly for any coming trouble, though he knew he’d find none.  He’d posted his marines near the pile of goods waiting to be transferred to Rinnicker’s warehouse.  In this case, overkill was the name of the game, and he had about twice the number of men posted to keep away any wharf rats that might amble off with any precious cargo.

        He looked toward the bow.  The second mate and an assistant were hoisting the ship’s information flags – nation of origin, cargo, and so on.  The three square yellow flags along the bottom announced that they wouldn’t be departing any time soon.  He glanced over and saw the ship’s master approaching, a combination of worry and happiness on his face.

        “My men will see the cargo safely to your warehouse before I release them, captain,” Malcolm said.

        “Very good, Mr. McMarsen, thank you.”  Rinnicker sighed and smiled.  “You should make a good bit of coin from this.”  He waved a hand toward the battered Red Wind, which was berthed alongside them.  Malcolm knew that was true.  Besides his ten percent of the cargo, he would earn fifty percent of the prize – Red Wind’s value.

        “This is true, sir, but I have my men to pay.” 

        “Even so, you should be well set.”

        “I hope so.  Being shot at generally pays well.”

        Rinnicker smiled.  “I’ll meet with the prize and salvage boards as soon as I can.  She should fetch a nice price.  Are you certain you don’t wish to purchase her back?”

        “Quite certain.”

        “I suppose the gold will be more helpful over the winter than a banged-up ship lying in a frozen harbor.”

        “That was fairly well my thought,” Malcolm answered.  “If you’ll excuse me, captain, I have places to be, people to see, and a bath to take.  A run ashore is exactly what I need.”

        “I’ll call upon your agent once arrangements are made.  It’s Mr. Sloan on Net Street, is it not?”

        “It is.”

        Rinnicker extended a hand to Malcolm.  They shook.

        “I hope you’ll be available when I said next,” Rinnicker said.

        “I’ll try to be, captain.”  He pointed to the yellow signal flags.  “Are you planning another voyage before winter?”

        “I doubt it.  I prefer the idea of staying put until spring.”

        “Frankly, captain, so do I.  I could use the quiet,” Malcolm said.  He tipped his floppy hat, turned, and left the poop deck.  Collecting his gear from one of the ship’s boys on the gangway, he strode off Dragonfish and onto the dock.  He passed Luka Jurem, slapped him on the shoulder, and made his way through the crowd of bustling dockworkers until he reached his lieutenant.

        “This was a good one, Silas.  The men did very well.”

        “Thank you, sir.”

        “You and the men have your advances?”

        “Aye, sir, we do.”

        “Good.  Stay with the goods until Captain Rinnicker releases you at the warehouse.”

        “Aye, sir.”

        “When we hear from the boards, I’ll send word and we’ll divide the shares.”

        “That’ll be fine, sir.”  He also shook Malcolm’s hand.

        “You know where to reach me,” Malcolm said.  “But tonight at least, I’ll be at the Shining Way.”

 

* * *

 

        Tzal Rynn shrugged his bag higher up onto his shoulder as he hurried along the flagstones of Dock Street.  The crowd on the thoroughfare pushed him from both sides and behind.  He kept one hand on his bag and one hand on his belt.  He’d made it from Geshuan to Harbordown with his wallet hidden inside the thick leather belt, and he planned to make sure it finished the trip with him.

        It appeared that he’d arrived at the cusp of the day when half the city rushed through the streets to finish their tasks and the other half moved into the streets to begin theirs.  Along the left side of the road, dockworkers and teamsters hurried to get as much work done as they could before full dark set in.  To his right, watchmen, lamplighters, beggars, barmaids, and nightingales slipped into the bustle of the busy avenue.

        He drifted toward the warehouse side of the street.  The press of bodies eased and Tzal spied a broad road leading away from the harbor.  Crossing the current of travelers, he was expelled into the side road and found its name on the side of a looming warehouse – Abelard Street.  He looked down at the once-white stones he trod upon and took a deep, relaxing breath.  Cinching up his bag again, he wandered deeper into town.

        His ears were grateful for the decrease in noise, but his nose received no such respite.  The fetid odors of the docks began to mingle with a greater variety of odors.  He smelled sewage, various types of cooking food, and a mélange of perfumes and scents.  Still, it was better than being aboard ship.  At least here he didn’t have to smell stale human sweat, mildew, and salt pork farts while below deck.

        Soon the fortress-like warehouses, many three and four stories tall, gave way to smaller businesses and rowhouses.  Constructed of wood, or sometimes wood and stone, they were narrower and more flimsily built.  Small shops appeared.  Many were open to the air, with jutting counters and canopies that could be closed and locked.  He spied a swaybacked roofline here, a crumbling chimney there, and in one small alley, two buildings that had sagged in enough that their eaves supported each other.  He stayed toward the middle of the street, not wishing to find out if Harbordowners gave the courtesy of the “Dunny down!” shout before tossing the contents of the pisspot out the window.

        Nearly as many people were hurrying toward Dock Street as were moving away from it.  Tzal followed those leaving the docks until he reached an eddy in traffic and realized that Abelard had ended at the back of a warehouse.  A pair of women leaned against the building’s stone loading platform, looking at him.  He nodded to them; they didn’t respond.  He returned to the flow of traffic, which led him around the front of the warehouse.  He glanced down at the flat gray stones and realized that Abelard hadn’t ended; it just lurched around the building and went on.  Unwilling to be marked as a rube by the locals, he adopted a look of purpose and continued.  Only a minute of walking brought him into a neighborhood with no businesses and only rowhouses stacked alongside each other.  He eased to a halt.  There was no way he was going to be able to find the church without some help.

        After a few moments, a door opened and an older man stepped into the street.  Wearing clothes that were a bit ratty and frayed at the edges, he bore an open expression on his face.  With his speckled brown-and-white beard and his bald head, he would’ve seemed at home in Geshuan.  Tzal waved to him.  The man nodded then approached.

        “I’m sorry to bother you,” Tzal said, “but I’m looking for the temple of Semessa.  Can you point me to it?”

        The older man stopped and scratched at a balding patch in his beard.

        “Aye, that’s the Purple Lady, right?”  He pointed to a trio of colored scarves that dangled from Tzal’s belt.

        “That she is.”

        “A moment, please.”  The man looked down the street and called to a boy.  The boy, carrying a four-foot pole tipped with a glowing flame, came toward them.

        “Dorren, can you help this man?”

        “Maybe I can,” the lamplighter said, turning to face Tzal.

        “I need directions.  Can you help me, please?” Tzal asked.

        The lamplighter chuckled.  “I’m sure ya do.  Ya come by boat?”

        Tzal nodded slowly, which furthered Dorren’s chuckling.

        “Ya’ve got yar bindle there, and yar talking all polite-like,” he said.  “It just marks as bein’ new.  What ya lookin’ for?”

        “The temple of Semessa.”

        “Crops?  No, magic!  Are ya a magician, then?”

        “A priest.”  Tzal shifted his pack to his left hand and raised his right to show the men a ring.  He tapped it with the thumb of the same hand.  A large purple stone flashed in its setting.

        “Nice,” Dorren said.  “It’s a haul, gettin’ to the temple.  Go to High Town.  Ask for directions there.”

        “Is that it?”

        “Ya’ve got a few miles to go still.  High Town’s at the farthest end of town.”  He pointed in the direction of the harbor.  “Ya’ve got to circle ‘round-like,” he said, making circles in the air with his free hand.

        Tzal laughed.  “Thank you.”

        The bald man coughed gently and motioned to the boy with his head.  Tzal cocked an eyebrow.  Suddenly realizing what was expected, he reached under his belt, where he kept a few loose coins, and handed the boy a copper penny.  The boy bowed a ‘thank you’ and ran back to his lamps.

        “You’ve made a friend,” the bald man said.  “Most people would only have given him a bit or two.”

        “So I’ve further marked myself as one new to town, then?”

        The bald man nodded.  “Are you truly a priest?”

        “I am.”

        “I’m going to presume on you.”

        “Go ahead.”

        “I have an old friend.  His wife is sick.  Would you look to her?”

        Tzal nodded.

        “Then, please, follow me.”