Deadhouse Landing

They hadn’t the time to haul the Twisted up so Choss was in charge of repairs and caulking below decks while he handled everything aloft. It was painful to him to have to pass sub-par blocks and frayed line, yet on Mock’s orders no vendor on the island would sell them one nail or a single yard of canvas, even under the table. Still, they had managed to appropriate a few supplies.

It was dark, but they were working in shifts through the night by torch and lantern light, and had even taken to sleeping in the hammocks in the crew’s quarters before the mast. They had to make do with what they could scrounge, or steal, and that was Grinner’s area. Already he’d come through with some new line, lumber of questionable provenance, and fresh pitch.

Though they had been working like this for days, Cartheron still found it difficult to sleep given the occasional sightings of the ship’s unofficial mascot, the strange nacht creature. That thing made him uneasy still, while Shift flatly refused to bed down on the vessel at all.

Surly, for her part, remained ensconced in Smiley’s with her bodyguard, rarely showing herself. Running everything, collecting money, and no doubt impatiently awaiting the day of their departure.

He sat back and set his hands on his thighs, stretching his back and neck; but that was unfair. Her security was paramount to him as well, even though Geffen’s organization, now under a lieutenant of his, was lying low, focused on regaining its strength. And as for Mock with his council of captains, the man had had no reported sober day in weeks. And the local merchants, wisely perhaps, took their lead from the council.

He stilled, then, noticing that the chill wind was no longer blowing in off the bay, but luffing his shirt from the front. He peered up, puzzled, and was surprised to see thick dark clouds massing over the island. A blaze of sheet lightning made him flinch and blink and he rose, peering to the south. The deep purple night sky was clear there, which was odd, given that most storms rolled over them out of the south.

A thick mist was now even rising off the icy waters and climbing the wharves. He backed away to the cargo hatch and called down, ‘Hawl. Better get up here.’

Their mage was already on her way up the steep stairs. She went straight to the side and peered up the shore into town.

‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.

She turned to him, frowning her worry. ‘Shadow…’

‘Truly?’ He eyed the mist-shrouded streets. ‘You think, maybe … it’s our boy?’

A curse of alarm sounded from below and a short hairy shape burst from the companionway, swung over the side, and went loping up the pier to disappear into the swirling fog.

Hawl merely raised a brow in comment and Cartheron nodded. ‘We have to warn Surly. I’ll go.’

‘Not alone.’ Hawl leaned over the cargo hatch. ‘Urko! You still down there?’

‘Yeah?’ came an answering bellow.

She pointed a warning finger at Cartheron. ‘You take your brother.’

*   *   *

Grinner, Nedurian found, played a mean game of troughs. They sat before one of the two ground floor windows of Smiley’s. Nedurian had played a lifetime, campaigning all across Quon east to west, and now in the unlikely figure of this burly, scarred knife-fighter he’d found a fellow adherent as steeped in the game’s strategy as he.

He rolled again and considered his moves while Grinner chewed a thumbnail and eyed the board. When he hadn’t moved for some time the Napan peered up at him, frowning. ‘What is it?’

But Nedurian wasn’t listening. For some time a vague worry had been tugging at him despite his submersion in the game, and only now had it finally surfaced in a prickling all up and down his arms and the stirring of the small hairs of his neck.

He rose from the table, jostling it and upsetting the stones. Grinner pulled away, his hands going to the yellowed horn knife grips standing from his vest. ‘What is it?’

Mist shrouded the street outside beneath dark bunched clouds. Even as Nedurian watched, touching his Warren, shadows cast across the shrouds of fog seemed to shift and twist all of their own accord. He went for the door.

‘What is it?’ Grinner repeated.

Nedurian paused. ‘Some sort of magery.’ Pointing at Grinner, he warned him, ‘Stay indoors!’ and rushed out. He made for Agayla’s; if anyone would be familiar with such a manifestation it would be she.

Oddly enough, though the woman’s shop was only a few streets away, he almost became lost amid cobbled ways he didn’t recognize. He stopped to strengthen his touch upon Rashan. Immediately, the town seemed to snap back into place all about him. He raced on.

Eventually, after a number of turns that proved inexplicably wrong, he stumbled upon her shop only to find her out in the street already, a silk shawl about her shoulders, glowering at the overcast night sky.

‘Is it one of the island’s Shadow Moons?’ he asked, a touch out of breath.