by Mike Truk
Yet the differences from Port Gloom quickly became evident; the Port Lusander Trident was displayed on various limp flags that hung from poles scattered across the docks, but a good half of all the mercantile activity was taking place on what looked like a set of private docks on the far side of the bay. Large ships equal to the Bonegwayne but in better states of repair and boasting obvious complements of guards on deck were loading serious amounts of cargo into their holds.
I slowed as I examined them; there seemed to be three different groups using these private docks, each distinct from the other.
“Look,” I said, stepping out of the flow of traffic beside some lobster crates and nodding at the ships. “What do you think that’s all about?”
“Much better organized,” said Cerys. “And private; see that line of demarcation between the common docks we’re on and their property? Looks like an actual fence with guards at a gate there.”
She was right; the fence was more symbolic than anything else, but the pair of guards stationed at the gate were obviously serious about their charge, wearing professional-looking chain and leather armor, halberds at the ready, watching the goings on of the public docks with a wary eye.
“Three sets of flags,” said Tamara. “See? Two ships with that blue ram’s head, three with the red griffin on a black background, and - is that a snail’s shell?”
“A nautilus,” I said. “What? There used to be an inn at the harbor called the Nautilus. Burned down a few years ago. Everybody stopped serving city trolls after that, but - yeah. Looks like three ships with that on their flag, including that monster of a flagship.”
“The private companies,” said Cerys. “The ones that ship the xanthan vine.”
“The slave owners,” said Tamara. “Right? The one’s Pogo complained of?”
“Interesting.” I rubbed my hands on my hips. “They must have some serious clout if they can requisition half the bay for their private usage. Regardless. Unjust as it all seems to be, it’s got nothing to do with our quest. Thirsty?”
“I could drink a glass of wine,” allowed Cerys.
“Wouldn’t go amiss,” agreed Tamara.
“Then let’s head over there. That mermaid with a foaming tankard looks promising.”
We climbed up several ramps to the top tier of the docks where shops, warehouses, and taverns faced the bay, shoulder to shoulder like a crowd of eager workers hoping to be picked by the dockmaster for a day’s labor.
The Mermaid was doing good business even at this early afternoon hour. Pushing open the heavy door I saw a welcoming if gloomy interior; a massive fireplace was devouring a heaping pile of logs, the flames dancing and warming the largest dog I’d ever seen who had claimed the area immediately before it. The bar was a thing of beauty, waxed so heavily that it glimmered like a lost gold necklace espied at the bottom of a murky pond, stools lined around its curving edge, while patrons sat in booths set around the walls or in small clusters by the bar. The walls were covered in old portraits in heavy gilt frames, paintings of old sailing ships, and I saw a curious series of charcoal sketches depicting mermaids resting on spray-tossed rocks, swimming beside ships, or reclining on beds of kelp and looking out at the viewer in a manner that could only be described as seductive.
An old man was sitting in the corner, a guitar on his lap, and from this he was absent-mindedly plucking a melancholy song, strumming it quietly as if to pass the time and without real intent of entertaining the clientele.
“This is nice,” said Tamara with obvious surprise, rubbing her hands together.
And it was. The air was warm and smoky from the fire, the murmur of conversation subdued and pleasant, as if those gathered here knew each other well and were catching up on recent news, and the smell of what might have been chicken being fried filled my mouth with water.
I stepped up to the bar where a young man with a long face and thinning hair was staring out into the middle distance. “Good afternoon.”
“Hmm.” He blinked, slowly drew his thoughts back, and turned to me with a professional smile. “Possibly, possibly. The verdict is still out. New to the Frothy Mermaid? I’ve not seen you here before.”
“Just arrived on the Bonegwayne,” I said. “Could we have three ales?”
“Assuredly. But you can have them for free if you can answer a riddle. Care to try it?”
I glanced at my companions. “Why not? Free ale’s a goal always worth striving for.”
“This was told to me by a goblin shaman when I was but twelve,” said the young man, leaning one elbow on the bar. “She said I’d not achieve my heart’s desire until I puzzled it out, and thus far she’s been proven correct.”
“Wait,” said Cerys. “Achieving your heart’s desire is only worth three ales?”
His smile was wry, knowing, and self-deprecating all at the same time. “I’ve discovered that I need not offer much more in order to interest people in giving it a go. Originally, I offered ownership of the entire Mermaid, but have learned that three ales will get just as much attention. Now: ready?”
“Try us,” I said, placing both hands on the bar.
The young man cleared his throat.
“Treasure waits beyond the reach,
gold within a hold,
remnants of the dead are stitched
to keep the living whole.
Broken bones among the weeds
scattered 'round and ‘round,
where untouched gems wait silently
o'er blades upon the ground.”
I played the words over in my mind, then glanced uncertainly over at my companions. After a few moments of consideration, they both shook their heads.
“Sorry,” I said. “No idea.”
“No need to apologize. Six years I’ve been putting that riddle to my customers, and nobody’s guessed it yet. I just hope someone comes up with the right answer before the shaman passes away.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cerys. “How is this riddle preventing you from achieving your heart’s desire?”
The youth’s smile was bitter. “My dream is to book passage to Carneheim and there enroll in the Magisterial Academy. I believe I have some talent for magic, but tuition fees are exorbitant. Even if I sold the Mermaid for a profit, I’d never be able to afford it. Yet there’s a family legend that my great, great uncle was a buccaneer, and buried his treasure somewhere close to Port Lusander. When I was but twelve I searched for any hint as to where it might be, and eventually found myself deep in the swamps asking for help from an ancient goblin shaman whom everyone said could converse with the spirits. She told me the treasure existed, but when I pressed for its location, she gave me that riddle. I’ve been trying to crack it since. No luck yet.”
We stood in contemplative silence until the youth pushed away from the bar. “But never mind. Three ales, you said. We’ve Trident good heavy, thick and muddy, a small batch of swamp apple cider, and a golden Mermaid Ale that tastes like condensed sunshine. What’ll it be?”
I ordered the good heavy, Cerys the ale, and Tamara the cider. When the youth returned I slid over a gold crown. “As we said, we’re newly arrived. Anything going on we should know of?”
The youth flicked the coin up and snatched it out of the air as it spun. “Festival of the Maritime Equinox is upon us. Old custom, that, particular to Port Lusander, I hear, but quite fun. We all get soused and then leap into the water at midnight. The White Sun’s trying to put a stop to it, says it hails from our dark past, but nobody cares. There’s a young woman who calls herself the Emerald Enchantress who’s putting on a popular show at the Fever Dream, or so I’ve heard. Too rarefied for me, plus I’m not one to pay for love. Not to cast aspersions on those who do, of course, namely the companies. Mighty fond of the Fever Dream, they are. What else? The magistrate’s offering a copper for each slankwort scalp that’s brought up to the castle, in case you’re in need of coin -”
“Slankwort?” asked Cerys.
“Aye, imagine an amphibious rat with six legs and the cunning of a monkey who likes nothing more than to raid food stores and piss on what they don’t eat. Nasty buggers. Port Lusander’s overrun with ‘em.”
I sipped my Mermaid’s Ale. It was surprisingly good. “That’d be Magistrate Beauhammer?”
“The very same.” The youth’s voice was studiously neutral.
“Oh,” said Tamara, voice artless as if she didn’t care. “The same who sells tickets to people who want to explore the dungeons in his hill?”
I winced. Her artlessness couldn’t have come across as more artificial.
The young bartender paused in the process of drying a glass. “Why yes, actually. Incidentally. The very same. Magistrate Beauhammer. He’s hosting his annual delve in a few days. Was going to mention it.”
“He’s still alive and well then?” Tamara clearly thought she was being very casual. “How nice. Do you know when these licenses are going for sale? Just out of curiosity, of course.”
“Of course,” said the bartender, clearly restraining the urge to smile. “Actually, the licenses are for sale now. They’re a constant source of speculation amongst us locals. There’s a gambling pool as to how expensive they’ll be this season. Not that you’d be interested in that, of course.”
I went to interject, but Tamara was on a roll. She shrugged her shoulder casually and leaned on the bar with one elbow. “Not really, but that sounds like a mildly interesting topic. How much did they go for last season?”
The bartender placed the glass under the bar and drew another from what was probably a soapy bucket by his feet. This he set to drying in turn. “Of course, of course. Only around a thousand six hundred gold coins, though Beauhammer insists they be of either Port Gloom or Carneheim denomination.”
“A thousand six hundred?” Tamara’s voice quavered, but she took a quaff of her cider and sighed. “The price people will pay to engage in foolishness. Do you, ah, know how many licenses are still available?”
I saw the bartender hide his smile as he ducked to set his glass under the bar and draw out a fourth, his expression neutral when he straightened once more. “I don’t, alas. I guess it’s not all that interesting. But if you want to learn more, you could visit the magistrate’s office off Galleon Square. They’ll be able to tell you the going rate, number available, and so forth.”
“Oh, the magistrate’s office? No, I don’t think we need to go so far as that, not to satisfy idle curiosity.” Tamara looked out over the Mermaid as if bored. As her gaze passed mine, she gave me a conspiratorial wink.
The front door opened and five men entered. The mood in the Mermaid immediately shifted. Conversation stilled, patrons tensed, and the young bartender paused mid-mug shine.
I turned to consider the new arrivals. Nothing special. They were a group of wiry humans that could have served as a band of enforcers back in Port Gloom. All of them in need of a good bath, their greasy hair pulled back in ponytails that had been chopped off short, the nub at the back dipped in tar to hold it together. Their leader was a surprisingly bland-looking fellow, balding, round shouldered, with a bit of a belly and his thumbs tucked into his bright yellow suspenders. I immediately got the impression he was proud of them, thought their bright yellowness served as a badge of some kind.
“Hello Matteo,” said the leader, moving up to the bar and ignoring us completely. “How’s business?”
“Slow,” said Matteo, putting his mug down carefully. “Surely you can tell?”
“Aye, it’s a hard life, the business-oriented one. You have my sympathies! Our collective sympathies, don’t he, lads?”
It was obvious what was going on. To my professional eye, it was even amateurish. The only question was: should I do anything about it?
Matteo stayed silent, hands on the bar top, jaw set.
“Heard about the Lovey, did you? Aye, sad business that, tragic. Down at sea with all hands. Twenty-five doughty souls, good lads, and all the cargo in her hold. Jessie had her heart set on that windfall, and now, well. She’s heartbroken.”
“I did hear,” said Matteo. “Please convey my sympathies. Business ventures can be, as you said, challenging.”
“Aye, aye, challenging is the right word.” The man snapped his suspenders. “But now Jessie finds herself short of funds. We’re not quite ready to outfit another ship, but she’s an eye on a sloop, and if we can raise the capital from good and willing friends, well, this time she’s sure she’ll turn a profit like no other.”
“I already paid my dues last week,” said Matteo, voice stiff.
“But that was last week, and the Lovey done sunk since then, hasn’t it? Now, as one of Jessie’s constituents, you’ve a moral obligation to helping her out. It’s the basic premise of all civilized society, isn’t it? The social contract. The people gotta support their leader, pay their dues so that their leader can do what needs doing. As such, and this pains me more than you know, Matteo, I’m going to have to insist on next month’s dues… well, a little ahead of schedule, shall we say.”
I glanced at my companions. Tamara was pale, eyes wide, clearly alarmed. Cerys was in turn watching me, her expression inscrutable. And suddenly, I was filled with doubt. Was she judging me? Waiting to see how I would act? Our conversation back on the Bonegwayne came back with complete clarity. Did she expect me to intervene? Would that demonstrate good character? Would my staying out of it indicate a rise in my king troll nature?
Cerys raised an eyebrow and then looked back to the five men.
Time for some quick calculations: Tamara wasn’t a combatant, which meant Cerys and I against the five, not impossible odds but I’d not yet replaced my blade which was idiocy on my part and these guys, while not exactly Exemplars of the Hanged God, were clearly no push-overs.
The smart thing would be to stay out of it. I knew exactly how this would play out. We’d rebuff these five, they’d come back with larger numbers and rough up the place, shake Matteo down for more, make a show of it to intimidate the others and send a clear signal: don’t fuck with Jessie.
The only way to stop this sequence of events was to come in with extreme force. Kill these five, track down Jessie and kill her, kill her lieutenants, burn their base, and then let it be known that the Mermaid was under our special protection and whomever replaced Jessie had best be wary.
But that whole sequence wouldn’t really reassure Cerys as to my good nature now, would it?
Fuck! What should I do?
“Listen, Bennie.” Matteo’s voice shook ever so slightly as he clearly fought to hide his emotions. “I don’t have those dues. I just don’t. So I can’t pay you. I can pay you next month. But not before.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’m sorry too. It’s been quite the morning. Nobody’s been pleased. Everybody’s said the same thing, at least at first, and, of course, it’s understandable, more than understandable, who appreciates a volatile market? No, no, predictability is where it’s at. Even Jessie loves predictability, because all this is only going to stir the pot, and no doubt some folk are going to get it into their heads they’d be better off without Jessie’s protection, and then she’ll need to bang those heads, and that takes effort, and who do you think will do the banging? Me and my lads. And believe you me, Matteo, our knuckles are already plenty sore. So how about you save us all a spot of bother and just dig real deep into your reserves. Think of those twenty-five poor souls who went down on the Lovey and cough up a little coin, hey?”
No sword. I could step forward, kick the large man next to Bennie in the side of the knee, make it fold the wrong way. Bennie himself didn’t look tough, he was the talker, he could wait. Draw the large man’s blade as he went down. Cerys would move at the same time, her reflexes were good. Ignoring Bennie, that would make it two against three, much better odds. Could all be over in seconds.
And then? We’d have committed ourselves to some savage gang warfare minutes after stepping off the boat.
“You all right there, son?” Bennie was scrutinizing me. “You’re looking a little off. You eat something that didn’t agree with you?”
“I’m just thinking about the poor sailors who went down with the Lovey,” I said, spouting the first thing that came to mind.
“Oh aye? Taking the piss, are you?” Bennie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and I revised my opinion of the man right then and there. Took a hard man to exude such a hard stare. “I’d advise you to step back and not get involved.”
“Well, funny thing that. I’d no intentions of getting involved, but this day and age everyone’s got opinions, and some of us can’t help but open our traps as to share them.”
The other four men turned to orient on me as well, a subtle air of menace rising up amongst them.
I plowed on with absolutely no idea as to what I’d say next. “See, I’m not exactly a stranger to these kind of affairs, and understand you’re just doing your job, maybe enjoying it a bit more than is strictly necessary, but what’s the harm in that? You’re just earning your pay like any other man, and if you derive a little satisfaction from crunching fingers and breaking noses, well, that’s icing on the cake, and why shouldn’t you enjoy your trade? But see, your line of work has certain specific perils, and those perils can suddenly escalate matters from the broken fingers tier to the broken jaw tier, the shattered spine tier, the head-held-down-in-a-bucket-of-shit tier until you stop blowing fecal bubbles out your nose and instead inhale all that gloopy mess into your lugs and drown in another man’s black tar.”
The men exchanged glances.
“What’s he going on about?” asked the largest, a looming fellow with a head like a badly treated anvil. “He threatening to put me head in the shitter?”
“Not threatening,” I said, and within me began to arise that swirling, delicious sense of confidence, of power, the knowledge that I could impose my will upon these men by simply leaning on them, showing them how I was superior in every way. My words, when I spoke next, felt charged in exactly the same manner the air becomes before a terrible storm.