I woke up with a start.
"Oh no, not some nightwork again!"
My head still was dizzy from last night's pleasures. As usual in my nights off, I just had dropped out of the workshop's backdoor and entered the neighbouring backdoor, traditionally reserved for those who come for entertainment and education, or to fulfil their duties as craftspersons. As far as I was concerned, whichever door I used, Margala's girls always were adept at providing their services in exchange for mine.
Take that dirty grin off your face. No, keep it there, these things happened once or twice, too... but that's a different story.
My services were, of course, those of my craft as a jeweller. The simple fact that uncle Brin had not thrown me out in my four years of apprenticehood should be sufficient proof that my skills as a jeweller were good. I do have an eye for quality gems, a good hand at replicas, and a light touch at modifying pieces of jewelry past easy recognition. This was due in part to some natural talent I seem to share with my uncle, but also his expert if a bit harsh lessons, and many hours of real work, to finance my other nights off. Well, you can hardly spend your adolescence in Karse in the house next to Margala's and not be drawn into its glamorous world.
Margala and her girls were good customers of mine (and of Brin's), anyway, and it helped our business a lot to know just which trinket would be perfect on which girl.
Now imagine a lad of thirteen, freshly arrived from his grandfather's house outside of Seapolis, exposed to all these deliciously scanty-clad beauties of Margala's Temple of Love. Naturally I was curious about them, and my sleeping-pad below the roof offered me a good opportunity for some daring glimpses on the proceedings next door. Up the loft ladder, upon the roof, and down into Margala's loft soon became a known routine, for all its daring on an ofttime slippery roof. I would have had proceeded further had I found a notion to move the heavy lid upon the stairway leading up from Margala's chambers of sweet promise. However, there were a few knotholes allowing me to view small pieces of reality below me, and most attractive pieces they were. So attractive that one night I failed to notice the arrival of Young Hereward, at that time still a junior Mocker and frequent guest of one of Margala's girls. He had come the Mockers' Highway, just as I had, though over a longer distance, and now wanted to find out about the unlicensed competition he suspected in me.
The Mockers, as our local ring of Lanbrili thieves and consorts are called, are as tough a bunch of cutpurses and even cutthroats as you will find in Kethaela. Being in constant competition with the Jaws of Krarsht who would take over the trade at once given any chance they were careful to keep the roofs clear from any intruders, lest they be foul chaos. Sometimes their members became outright patriots, and on one occasion every lay brother (and sister) had been alerted for a chaos hunt over roofs and through the sewer. Most of the dead bodies drifting through the harbour next morning likely were nothing worse than hired thugs ignorant that they were working for the Hungry Maw, but one of their leaders escaped by teleporting away, likely a Tongue or even a Mouth, and another we caught and interrogated definitely was a Lip. Only three days ride from Larnste's Footprint there was an endless supply of Krarshti to harrass Karse...
There I was on the roof, interrogated with a knife at my throat. I don't want to reiterate the details, but I had a hard time convincing Hereward I did not worship the devouring maw, that I would not enter his business, sweating blood and more in the process. I think Hereward carried on the interrogation long after he had been convinced, just for the fun of it. When he was finished with me, he "promised" to keep an eye on me. As it turned out, he did, drawing me into the activities of the Mockers.
I never was required to tip off customers of Brin. I did serve as a letterbox for some time, receiving and passing on strange messages making no sense to me, at least at first. I remember that when I had learned a bit of the thieves' cant, I was disappointed at the banality of some of the messages. Once or twice I was allowed to accompany Hereward, either as a receiver (of cut purses), or simply as a watchout.
Naturally, when I jumped up from my precious restful sleep, I expected a grinning Mocker or a lovely girl from Margala's to have knocked on my window with some thrown pebble, bearing another urgent request for a rework. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pushed open the shutters and peered out. I couldn't have slept longer than an hour or two, yet the city was almost alight as from bright stars. There wasn't anybody around that I knew, though.
Somewhere down the Baron's Court I saw a shadow within a stable entrance, hardly discernible from its surroundings. There was, however, a hand on the doorframe, stretching out the right number of fingers to make me collect my tools and other gear, sling fasten the silken rope that Argan Argar trader had charged me such an exorbitant sum to the beam protruding slightly from the roof construction next to my window, and slide down. I had left my room this way more often than I can recall, usually returning through Margala's estate and the loft trapdoors. I could have left through Margala's, too, but my friends from the Ring were too impatient to wait for the multiple goodbyes I had to spread on that way. A pity... So I slung the scarf holding a set of the tools of my trade around my waste, fastened the sword belt with the twin pair of Rhigosite sabres over that, and grabbed a sea sack with those implements too bulky to wear on my person. Heck, if they'd just give me the pieces and let me work them over in a silent minute in the workshop, the results would be better, but often enough the guys seemed to get burnt fingers from their untreated treasures. For a finishing touch I added a fancy hat and a foppish cloak, the kind currently en vogue in Nochet, and relying on my work gloves I slid down the rope, then untwisted it and stowed it away. Sliding aside a few steps, I left the shadow of Brin's workshop, motioned as if to fasten my trews, and staggered merrily over from Margala's to Jason's Arms. There still were a few sleepy retainers keeping company with their masters' steeds in the open stable annex of Joshua's, but as usual the saddle blankets hanging from the beams obscured my descent, and after a short glance whether they had to leave with their master they nodded off again.
My contact waited impatiently for me to stagger his direction, then hissed the required phrase in my direction. I didn't know him, he had to be a licensed visitor from someplace else where our local Ring of Lanbril had contacts. Obviously he hadn't been instructed very thoroughly about what and whom to expect, and he seemed angry enough to give away his presence as well as my camouflage. "Do you think you're funny, boy?" he almost spat at me. "We got nightwork to do, not flash around on some bloody ball in the castle!" Clearly not from around, from the tilt of his consonants a Caladrian. Rhigosite? No, that inflection I knew well. Porthomekan, maybe, speaking the singsong Heortlander mix with Tradetalk most urbans used, even the oh-so-learned Mhytes. Still, his gloved hand which had grabbed my cloak right below my throat sported three rings, so he seemed to be something of a high flyer among the Brotherhood. The distribution was odd, though, and I hadn't been initiated to this ranking system beyond simple observation of my customers. He wore rough leather, blackened, but somewhat battered, and quite solid boots. A rubbler, likely, not used to the finer points of camouflage in a city. Oh well, no point in lecturing, so I shook him off making some retching noises. Before he could explode, I included "How do you think would I cross the Court from Margala's, wearing your kind of clothing?", and after another set of fake retching, "Master". This latter seemed to mollify him a bit.
I followed the stranger upon an angry and short sign with his hand. Sliding off Baron's Court along Jason's, I couldn't help but wonder at the sight of the city in tonight's starlight. Somehow the city looked different, as did the sky. Swirls of colour could be seen behind the stars, and it was as if the sky dome glowed in itself. There were some differences with the city, too. Margala's next door appeared like a fabulous pearly spire, a good match to its interior, and Brin's workshop definitely reminded of a ship-like form. The castle loomed more impregnable than ever, and the white cliffs beyond stretched farther up than I ever saw them.
My strange companion seemed not to notice any changes, and he urged me on across Guildsman Lane through a couple of backyards into the doorway of Garwn's stable in Horse Fair. We went past the sleeping stable-hand up into the hay-loft, whose contents had been pretty much used up. My companion led me into a corner where a some dark canvas covered the floor.
The master-thief drew at two ropes hanging from the roof, and the canvas lifted up to form a tent where I could light the lamps for my work without being seen from the outside. Good, so I wouldn't have to use my cloak, which already showed slight singes from work for less considerate night customers. I lighted three oil lamps with gilded mirrors, and placed them in small tripods to illuminate my portable worktable -essentially a piece of plank with a miniature anvil nailed to it, and a small charcoal furnace made from terracotta with a tripod to hold crucibles. After completing these preparations I was given a fist-sized pendant, a disk depicting a ship in half-relief. From his raised eyebrow I knew he wanted to hear an appraisal. Still a bit miffed about being addressed as "boy", I set out to impress him. However, taking a closer look, it turned out that it was my part to be impressed. This trinket was old!
The pendant was well-crafted, and while it had recently been polished, there still were thick layers of tarnish in unaccessible seams and edges. The design was different from any depiction I had seen so far, but reminded of Nolosite traders, though sleeker, and oared in addition to lavish rigging on the three masts. Triangular and square sails shaped from mother-of-pearl and backed with silver protruded slightly in half-relief from the background, which was a thin disk of blueish-green opal in a silver circlet. Incredibly detailed silver filigrane work, partly hidden under tarnish, showed accurate detail even in the knots of the rigging when cleansed carefully. The hull was a bar of silver engraved with the planking, at least where the polishing had been done carefully. Thanks to the protruding oars little damage had been done, but a few of the oars had been destroyed. Below the hull there were images of deep-sea creatures carved from big but faulty pearls, their backs encased in a thin layer of silver, too, holding them against the opal backside. A triple wave-line of thin silver ran across the lower third of the disk.
"Where did you find this?" I couldn't help asking, quite against the rules of No Questions Asked. The stranger just scowled, so I guessed, "Old Karse?" He shook his head, but seemed to relax a bit. I was on the right track. "The ruins across the river?" I ventured, reasoning that he must have aquired the piece hereabouts, or he would have consulted some experienced fence in Nochet or Jansholm. He nodded slightly, and I viewed him with renewed respect. Both Old Karse and the God Learner ruins below the Shadow Plateau were considered haunted, and for good reason, too. It would take an experienced rubbler to enter, find anything of worth at all, and survive the supernatural guardians. To retrieve something like this, he must have spent weeks over there.
I continued my appraisal. "This is an odd design, definitely from before the Closing. Say 700 years old. Silver, mostly, with opal, inferior pearls, and mother-of-pearl. The material only could be sold for two wheels, without the pearl beasties - too fragile already. But a collector would spend several dozen wheels. Why, were it of iron, I'd know a sage down in Seapolis..."
Finally the stranger chose to speak, interrupting me: "I don't care about the price. What do you think about the ship?"
"Strange hull, wouldn't stand the Ritual of Opening more than once. But for the sea creatures below the waves, I'd have said this is a fancy boat for a sea like Choralinthor bay, with little or no wave action. The rigging reminds me of Western sails, or Vadeli, but it is fancier than anything I have seen afloat. You'd need magic to keep it from capsizing."
"You seem to fulfil the promise I was given. I take it you are from a shipwright family?"
"By my mother, yes. What does this mean? What do you want from me, if not a meltdown or an alteration? Do you want me to clean up this toy? Why didn't you come during the day?" I was growing angry, and again I spoke without considering to whom.
"I do want an alteration," the thief said, apparently undisturbed by my disrespect. "Make it seaworthy."
"Make it what?" I stared at him in disbelief.
"Make this ship able to withstand the Closing. You seem to know what to do about it. Get to work!"
Still taken aback, I examined the ship more closely, carefully removing the tarnish with a foul-smelling ointment distilled from tanners' treat, if I could trust Malabar. The stuff had almost cost me a hand, since Malabar tends to involve any visitor in his experiments, which rarely remain within their crucibles or retorts. Still, he asks fair prices, and I thought I could rely on my reflexes. The ointment was worth every clack, and brushing it in I uncovered the ship's structure. The hull proved to be slim, flat-bottomed, and low of freeboard, with the oars let down from a gallery. There was a main beam running from fore to aft, like one of the dug-outs used by the poorer fishermen all over the coast, and more planks fitted to its side, giving it a smooth and even bottom.
I tried to remember what my uncles had told me of their craft when they were in a good humour, and once more I reviewed the scene of my father's ship passing majestetically through the harbour gate of the City of Wonders, the last I had seen of him and his ship. There was something else, too, but too hard to put into concious thoughts, let alone words. Still, I was sure about one thing: all the current vessels had a keel, and were clinkered, with a steady rise, not an edge like on this pendant. They were wider, too, and likely less prone to capsizing.
"This is going to cost you, sir," I murmured while trying not to inhale the ointment, but the stranger just shrugged and said "You will find your reward worthwile, little brother, by my fingers." That was ring-talk, and reassured me that the Mockers would cover up this work's effort, if not he himself. Good, I could use some extra money after tonight.
I pulled open my sea sack and grabbed a scrap of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a pen made from a guardian crane feather I had found on the beach of my grandfather's village, five years ago. Then I proceeded to sketch the hull as it was on the pendant, and added the differences I could recall. There was little I could do about the width above the gallery, but below I could surround the hull with a broader body, and a keel. I'd need some of that silver sheeting we used for mirrors...
About two hours later I had shaped a new lower hull for the vessel. It was hard to hammer away in silence, so I rather used the heat from the furnace, blowing through a small brass tube to direct the heat. I had alwas found that the easiest way to shape after a model was to use the same technique, only in the material I had at hand, so I cut little planks out of the sheet of silver from the box with my materials and fused them carefully onto the ribs I had formed from thick silver wire. This resulted in a quite realistic hull, except where the ribs had given away in the heat. Still, my silent companion who had supervised and even assisted my work all the time seemed to be satisfied when I fitted the last of my "planks" to the pendant. The resulting vessel had much more draft than the original one, but I remedied this by removing the top waveline, and adding it below the others. That way I also gained two more feet of freeboard, which made this vessel somewhat believable. I didn't touch the rigging, though, which was just as well - I doubt I could have reproduced the knotwork even on a decent worktable.
Passing on the pendant, I stretched my back and shoulders. I was cramped, and wished myself back into Megaid's embrace, none of Margala's girls could knead your shoulders - or other parts - like her. Since I was lacking her company, I had to do some of the swordsman's exercises I had been taught last winter, but only after closing down my workshop, and stowing away the cooled pieces in their padded boxes.
"I think you did it," the Lanbrili said, without forewarning, after keeping his silence for the entire working session, making me jump.
"So, what about my payment?" I demanded. He tossed me a bag of coins - two wheels, and six guilders. A generous payment, to tell the truth, even for nightwork.
"There's more in for you, if you go to the harbour," he added. "You will know where to go."
I nodded, biting back my triumph. Of course I'd collect any extras! I didn't fear any muggers - the Lanbrili knew me, and in two years of tutoring by I had learned enough swordwork from Berengar of Rhigos to hold off any hiring crew long enough that the guards would arrive. If Berengar had only refused the challenge of that thrice-cursed slayer Aldarch Roven-Drax! I could have become a real blade-master. As usual when I thought of my former patron and swordsmaster, my hand went to the blade I had inherited from him, after that fateful duel. The Rhigosite sabre was one of a matched pair, of the best bronze Caladrian smiths could produce, light enough for the two-sword style yet tough enough to block even a greatsword - at least usually. Its twin had broken when Roven-Drax' broadsword went through with unnatural speed and cruelty, slaying Berengar at once. The money Berengar had left me had provided a new, locally made blade for its handle, so I could wear a matched pair, but still the left-hand sword felt different from the original righthand blade.
The stranger shooed me off while he collapsed the tent. Since I still felt too much tension, I decided not to return to my room at once, but instead to take a stroll to the harbour. The Sea Gate would be open by this time, with the first fishermen departing for this morning's catch and the last crewmen returning from the less renowned brothels.
The guards were sleepy, except for an elderly sergeant I knew from before. He was a hardliner Heortlander, the kind of bully who liked to step on Esrolite, Islander and mixed-blood toes. I had been on the receiving end in the weaponmasters' court a couple of times in my early companionship with Berengar, but after a couple of weeks training with the Rhigosite swordmaster I had been able to stand him off, which seemed to have annoyed him greatly. Ever since he had liked to scrutinize me, to my (and my Lanbrili contacts') chagrin. Tonight would be no different, except that this time I had my workshop with me, and nobody to hide it on... I was about to veer off and take the back route to Laticia's whorehouse - about the most repugnant etablissement within the city walls, but the only good cover for a lawful if tasteless citizen in the streets at this time, when his attention was drawn to some disturbance upon the quayeside. He shoved his companions to attention and dragged one of them with him to clear whatever trouble was brewing. The remaining guard was less eager to cause trouble, and just waved me through.
The trouble was a ruffle between two foreign sailors and a gang of early dockers, with old Rhesus Creal once more in the thick of action. The brown-skinned foreigners wore long flowing robes rather than the usual trews and tunics, and they seemed to try to shrink into wall before the dockers. Vadeli. I couldn't stand the creeps, but I knew that beating up a few of them wasn't the wisest idea - whoever tried often ended up with a strange curse, or floating in the harbour. Apparently the sergeant was as wise, unlike Creal who reveled in the sailors' timid pleas for forgiveness. I slipped off to the far side, where I felt I was expected.
There she lay, a sloop of slender build but sturdy of mast and rigging. I didn't know why, but I felt drawn to the craft, a gentle tug and warm beckoning. Its lines were exquisite, but the planking was rough, and the rigging seemed coarse. Still, it had a familiar touch to it, almost like home, so I boarded. Not really knowing what I was doing I fetched in the lines, set the sail and laid off, all the while humming some nursery rhyme that wouldn't leave my head. I steered the sloop out into the mighty current of the river, while the fiery swirls in the night sky gave way for the red and yellow sky dome. As I looked south I noticed a blue streak over the morning mists slowly rising from Choralinthor's bed, and I knew I could ride the current faster than ever. Around me, the scene shifted slowly - the river seemed to swell to a width I hadn't even seen when the tidal wave had run up Choralinthor Bay three years ago, following an ominous rumble from the Vent where Fire and Sea had clashed. Now the full might of Lorion seemed to follow the blue streak, as if the Godking never had blocked his way with the Lead Hills. Thunder rolled across Heortland from the Storm Mountains, and a pitch darkness and cold hung over the Shadow Plateau, almost forming a phantastical spire reaching to heaven, spiting the rising sun orb.
- to be continued -