Herald of the Storm

TWENTY-FIVE

The Tower of Sails was an ancient structure, built from rocks hewn out of the black cliffs that ran the length of the coastline. It looked out over the great crescent shaped bay, in itself an ingenious construction, which could comfortably moor a thousand ships. Though past its heyday it was still a bustling hub for freight, sprouting myriad trade routes across the Midral Sea, with galleons, caravels, brigantines, pinnaces and more coming and going in their hundreds every day. And it was from the Tower of Sails that all this movement was plotted, controlled and docketed in intricate detail.

As a structure of such importance it was guarded day and night by the Harbourwatch, their crown and anchor livery proudly displayed on tabards covering their red lobstered plate. Their distinct halberds stood ten feet long, the blades fashioned to resemble flying sails.

No one was allowed entry to the tower unless they had the correct authorisations, lest they interfere with the inner workings of the harbour’s administration. An audience with the harbourmistress herself needed to be applied for in writing, and it might take up to a tenday before the proper permissions were granted.

It took Merrick Ryder less than an hour.

‘Would you care for some wine?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?’

The harbourmistress stood next to a polished oak cabinet housing an array of wines and spirits, some in intricately blown glass bottles, others in decanters or moulded bronze jugs.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, Terese,’ Merrick replied, flashing his smile at her.

Terese was approaching her middle years, older than Merrick usually liked, but still relatively attractive. Though her hair was turning grey, it hadn’t lost its lustre, and her face was lined but far from wrinkled. Years presiding over Steelhaven’s vast harbour from a leather-bound chair had left her with a little extra weight about her arse, but Merrick could put up with that. He’d never minded a bit of meat on a woman.

‘Something stronger it is,’ she said, pouring two glasses of golden liqueur from a decanter.

She walked over and handed him the glass, then sat on the edge of her huge desk. ‘So, what can I do for you … or is there something you can do for me?’

There was a twinkle in Terese’s eye, and the suggestion certainly wasn’t lost on Merrick. He would have loved to show her; loved to have bent her over the desk and given her what she was asking for, but he doubted that was the way to go. Some women were all about that, all about giving themselves to the moment, but despite Terese’s flirtation he doubted she was that kind. Her desk was too meticulously tidy, every ledger in date order on its proper shelf, her quills arranged in order of size by the inkwell. There were no scrolls or manuscripts strewn about, everything had a place. It told him Terese was methodical, in control, and bending her over her desk might be momentarily pleasurable, but it probably wouldn’t get him what he needed.

‘I’m here representing certain parties,’ Merrick said after sampling the liqueur. It was hot and sweet. Whether Terese would prove similar was yet to be discerned. ‘Parties who appreciate speed and efficiency. Their cargo is perishable, and they need to be in and out of port within a night. These are parties who also reward discretion. Parties who would be willing to pay generously should you be able to accommodate their needs.’

‘Really?’ she replied, taking a sip from her glass. When she lowered it there was a half smile on her face, but nothing else.

She’s good, thought Merrick. And clearly this isn’t the first time someone’s offered her a bribe.

There were two ways to handle this. You could either try to keep talking and hope that something you said would resonate, that something you offered might sway them into accepting. Or you could keep quiet, wait for them to make the next move, give you a clue as to their price.

And everyone had a price.

Terese’s office was clear of sentimentality, but the furniture was finely crafted and expensive, a tapestry hung on one wall depicting trade routes throughout the Midral Sea which must have cost a fortune, and there were two paintings by old masters even Merrick recognised, and he was certainly no connoisseur of the arts. This room was not kitted out by a harbourmaster’s earnings. Terese had to have something else on the go, some other scam on the side that paid handsomely. Merrick knew if he kept quiet long enough, she would indicate just how handsomely.

‘How’s the drink?’ she asked after the silence had seemed to go on for an age.

Her resolve was starting to crack. ‘It’s fine,’ Merrick replied.

Another pause. More dead air in which they simply gazed at one another.

‘So who are the parties you represent?’ she said finally.

‘Like you care?’ he replied, smiling again so she could see the white of his teeth.

That got him a smile in return.

Then it was gone.

She placed her glass down on the desk beside her and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I’ve worked this harbour for twenty years,’ she said. Suddenly Merrick felt like a child being scolded by his nursemaid. ‘Many of the laws and regulations by which this harbour is run were put in place by me. One of them is the penalty for smuggling which, depending on the cargo in question, can run from a hefty fine to the loss of fingers and even to the gallows.’

This wasn’t going quite as well as he had expected. Merrick leaned forward and placed his own glass down beside hers. ‘I see. Then it appears we have little left to talk about.’

Her smile returned. ‘So eager to see me, and yet so quick to leave? Sit down, boy, and let me tell you how it is.’ She stood and walked behind her desk, easing herself into her chair so slowly the leather creaked as though it were in pain.

Down to business.

‘It will cost three hundred crowns per ship. That will guarantee you a berth for one night, complete discretion, and you stay out of the docking ledger. I want the money in advance and once it’s delivered you won’t try to contact me again. Are we clear?’

Fucking damn right. ‘As a bell, Terese,’ Merrick replied, smiling his best smile.

This time she didn’t return it.

‘Then if there’s nothing else, I’m a busy woman.’

She stared at him, but Merrick had already got the message. He couldn’t leave the tower and the smell of rotting fish behind him quick enough.

Back on the streets he felt elated. His heart was pounding and he could still taste the warm liqueur on his tongue. What he needed right now was a victory drink.

But where to go?

There were a thousand drinking holes in the city, and Merrick had drunk in pretty much all of them. This called for something special though; there was nothing like celebrating with friends and he wanted somewhere familiar, somewhere he’d be welcomed. There was only one place for it … The Soggy Dog!

Of course the last time he’d been here, there’d been a slight incident when he was caught cheating at cards. That in itself wouldn’t have been so bad if the man that caught him hadn’t subsequently found out Merrick had been sleeping with his wife. But surely everyone would have forgotten about that by now … wouldn’t they?

When he reached the door of The Soggy Dog he paused. Was it such a good idea? His hand drifted to the hilt of the sword by his side.

There was always that. The one thing he could rely on.

He opened the door, readying himself for a tirade of abuse, steeling himself for a flung stool or table or worse.

They never came.

‘Ryder! It’s been too long!’

Merrick looked across the tavern to see Uli the barkeep smiling at him from behind the bar. Carefully, Merrick made his way across the alehouse. He saw his old friend Olleg playing cards with Gerlin in a booth, and gave them a nod and a smile. Olleg raised one podgy hand and waved back, whereas Gerlin just scowled. Gerlin had never liked him anyway, so it was a bit much to expect a hug and a kiss from that end.

Karll was also standing at the end of the bar, giving Merrick a sideways glance as he approached. Not surprising after what his wife had done, but it wasn’t all Merrick’s fault.

‘What’ll it be, Ryder? Usual?’ asked Uli.

Merrick didn’t really have a usual; he drank ale, wine, spirits … whatever was on offer, but who was he to question his favourite barkeep?

‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘And a round of drinks for all my friends.’ With that he slapped a handful of coppers on the bar top. ‘Keep them coming, Uli. And have one yourself.’

At the promise of free drinks, Olleg and Gerlin finished their card game and practically fell over one another in their rush to get to the bar. Olleg sported a wide grin that split his fat face. Gerlin still wore his scowl.

‘Ryder, you old dog,’ Olleg bellowed for the entire bar to hear. ‘Where’ve you been hiding yourself these past few days?’

‘Here and there, Olleg. You know me — places to go, people to see.’

Olleg laughed and gave him a knowing wink. Uli placed a row of tankards on the table and filled them with wine from a pewter jug.

‘More like people’s wives to see,’ said Karll suddenly, raising his head from his drink and giving Merrick a reproachful look.

‘I never meant it to go so far, old friend,’ said Merrick, grasping one of the tankards and offering it to Karll. Olleg and Gerlin also took one. ‘Here’s to water under the bridge. We’ve all been friends a while now. Let’s drink to the future, not dwell on the past.’

‘Aye, the future,’ said Olleg, raising his tankard.

Reluctantly, Gerlin and Karll raised their tankards and the four of them, along with Uli, drained them with gusto.

When they’d all slammed their tankards back on the bar, and Uli began to fill them once more, Merrick slapped Karll on the arm.

‘Never mind, old mate. Have another drink.’ Uli had filled the tankards by now and Merrick was quick to offer Karll another one.

‘Yes, another drink,’ shouted Olleg. ‘I don’t remember a woman I couldn’t forget after a good drink.’ He raised his tankard to the ceiling.

Merrick furrowed his brow trying to follow the fat gambler’s logic, but it was too early in the day for any of that, and he satisfied himself by draining his tankard and demanding Uli fill it again.

Four rounds later, the room was satisfyingly hazy and the four of them were laughing together again like old times. It was good to block out the world and the Guild and mad slavers, to have a drink with friends without the threat of imminent violence.

The afternoon seemed to go by in a blur. Olleg laughed longest and loudest, but as ever became less annoying the more Merrick had to drink. They even managed to raise a smile from Karll, and it seemed Olleg had been right about the forgetting his woman thing. Gerlin tried to retain his sour expression, but Merrick managed to win him over eventually, and they were soon laughing like little boys about nothing in particular.

As the sky outside started to darken, a gaggle of drunken seamen stumbled in, doubling the number of patrons in an instant. A couple of them looked as if they were up for a bit of trouble, calling Olleg a ‘fat fucker’ on more than one occasion, as well as spotting Merrick for a preening fop — but he couldn’t argue there. It only took two rounds of ale for them to settle in though, and in no time the whole bar was joined together in a raucous chorus of ‘The Bosun’s Lost his Rigging’, quickly followed by a few verses of ‘My Dog Digs Deep Ditches’. Olleg insisted on singing the ‘put a stoat right down his britches’line louder than any of the sailors.

In all the excitement, Merrick realised he hadn’t taken a piss since he’d arrived — no small feat considering the amount he’d had to drink — and stumbled out the back, still laughing at Olleg, at the sailors, at life in general.

He breathed an audible sigh as his piss broke free and pattered into the gutter. Merrick had always pissed like a horse and derived much pleasure from it — many said it was a sign of good health and who was he to argue with that? Once finished he fumbled to tie the drawstring of his breeks, glancing up at the moon, which glared back down at him, fat and blood red.

The killing moon.

‘Not a good sign, is it, Ryder?’ In his surprise he almost caught the end of his pecker in the knot he was tying. ‘Red moon’s a bad omen.’

Merrick turned, wobbling slightly, squinting to see who had been watching him through the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ he called. ‘I warn you, I’m armed.’

‘We can see that.’ A figure walked out of the shadows of the alley, and Merrick felt the hairs prickle at the nape of his neck.

‘Shanka! How good to see you.’

‘I bet it is,’ said Shanka the Lender.

His long, lank hair framed a hard, angular face that was all malice and cruelty. Why had Merrick decided to borrow money from such a man? Was he insane? But then why did anyone borrow from men like Shanka — it was desperation.

‘I was going to come and see you, right after I’d-’

‘Save it, Ryder. It’s too late for any of that shit. You owe me, you’re overdue and it’s time to pay. One way or the other.’

Merrick knew without checking that the money he’d had in his coinpurse was all but gone. Not that it mattered; even before he’d bought drinks for the entire tavern he hadn’t had enough to cover the debt he owed.

‘Now, wait a minute, Shanka. I can pay. I’m working on a job for the Guild even as we speak.’

‘Yeah, it looks like it. If you were working for the Guild you wouldn’t be pissing it up in The Soggy Dog. You’d be doing your best to finish the job so they could pay you … and you could pay me.’

‘It’s the truth,’ Merrick said, more desperately than he would have liked.

The shadows behind Shanka suddenly moved and two more figures stepped forward, broad, dangerous-looking bastards. Merrick eyed the door back to the tavern, but before he could even think of using it, someone walked through, someone big and burly he didn’t recognise; another one of Shanka’s enforcers.

‘I want my money or I’ll take something you won’t want to lose. What’ll it be?’

‘You’ll get your money, Shanka. It’s a promise. I’ve just got to finish the jobuuufff!’

The nearest one of Shanka’s men hit him in the gut. It was a solid blow, one that went from your belly right down to your toes. Merrick was winded but he managed to stay on his feet, staggering back against the wall, conscious that he was wading ankle deep through muddy piss.

There was nothing else for it. He would have to teach these fuckers a thing or two. There was no way he was letting Shanka and his thugs take liberties.

Merrick stood as straight as he could, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, the other gripping the top of the sheath.

‘I feel it only fair to warn you, Shanka, I know how to use this. Don’t test me, or I’ll be forced to draw steel. I was schooled in the Collegium of House Tarnath, taught the sixty-six Principiums Martial by Lord Macharias himself. I’ve killed twelve men in single combat and I’ll feel no remorse when I stand over your bleeding fucking corpses. Now back off.’

Though his men looked to one another uncertainly, Shanka was distinctly underwhelmed. ‘Break this cunt’s legs,’ he ordered.

If his men bore any doubts, Shanka dispelled them instantly with his command.

Merrick drew his sword … or at least the hilt of his sword. As he pulled it free the blade remained stuck in the ill-fitting sheath, leaving Merrick holding nothing but a useless hunk of metal.

Bollocks!

Shanka’s men were bearing down on him now, the first one clearly fighting the urge to laugh his head off. Merrick flung the hilt, which hit the man square in the face, and then he tried his best to bravely flee. He hadn’t taken three steps before another of Shanka’s men hit him in the jaw.

Merrick fell against the wall, his knees giving out beneath him. Another blow to the face and he was lying on the ground, wallowing in a pool of piss and mud.

They weighed in then, sticking the boot in, punching him mercilessly. He felt one of his ribs crack, curled into a ball, but then he took one straight in the spine. Merrick yelped, trying to cover his head and his body and his back, but he simply didn’t have enough arms to block the deluge of kicks and punches that were raining down. His nose burst. His lips cracked. One of his teeth came loose.

They grabbed his arms, hauled him up, and through fast swelling eyes Merrick could see Shanka leering at him from behind dark locks of lank greasy hair.

‘What did I tell you, you little cu-’

A commotion behind Shanka made him turn. One of his men collapsed forward as if he’d been felled with an axe.

Merrick saw a figure in the shadows, moving fast and gracefully. Shanka’s thugs dropped him to the piss-wet floor, and he could do little more than listen to the cries and squeals of men in pain, men in a panic as they were beaten, a crack of a bone breaking, the slap of a body hitting the dirt.

He must have been slipping away fast. Must have taken one too many knocks to the head, because when the commotion had stopped, and he was just about to slide into oblivion, he was sure he heard a woman speak his name.

An angel spoke his name.