Deadhouse Landing

Dancer walked the streets in the early morning light; or, more accurately, he tottered, paused, staggered, and dragged himself along. Early risers out on the streets to inspect the damage from the overnight storm took one look at him, gaped, and ran in the opposite direction.

He found the door to Smiley’s ajar, the common room a mess of overturned tables, chairs, and broken glassware. Surly sat on a tall stool at the bar, an old man bent at her bared arm, sewing up a long ugly-looking gash.

Seeing him, the Napan crew, Choss, Urko and Tocaras, all lurched to their feet, swearing, and came forward to help. He waved them off and eased himself down in a chair at a table next to the door. Choss came round with a tiny shot glass that he filled from some foreign-looking decanter. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged behind horses.’ He also draped a blanket over his shoulders.

‘Feel like it too,’ he answered, and tossed back the shot – only to hiss and wince when the alcohol stung his gashed lip. Blood now caked the glass from his smeared hands and he realized he badly needed to clean up.

‘Who’s after you?’ he asked of Surly.

The churgeon peered over and looked him up and down. ‘I’m good, but I’m not that good.’

‘I’ll take whatever you got,’ Dancer answered. He looked to Choss. ‘So. What happened?’

The burly mariner leaned forward on to his elbows, scowling. ‘We lost Hawl and Grinner. Shrift tried to throw in for Tarel an’ Crust is sore wounded.’

‘What of the locals – what was his name … Dujek?’

Urko jerked a thumb to the kitchen. ‘Him ’n’ Jack are making breakfast. We sent the rest of the troops off to rest.’

Dancer nodded at that. ‘Sounds good. I need that – and a bath.’

‘Don’t look at us,’ Tocaras told him.

The old churgeon looked round again and pointed down the street. ‘Try old lady Carragan. Runs a boarding house. She has a bath.’

Dancer tipped his head. ‘Many thanks.’ He tried to rise, then found he’d have to try harder if he wished to succeed.

The door opened and in strode a blood-splashed Dassem.

Everyone in the room stared for a time, silent. He answered their stares with a pinched brow.

‘So…’ Dancer finally said into the silence. ‘You held them off.’ The swordsman gave a curt assent. ‘I, ah, apologize for not being there. I was on my way. But I was … sidetracked.’

Dassem looked him up and down. ‘So I see.’

The door opened again and in walked their old enemy, Lee, and a huge street-tough.

Urko lurched to his feet, bellowing, ‘What’s this?’

Dassem raised his hands for calm. ‘They’re here to join.’

Urko fell back into his chair with a massive sigh. ‘Thank the gods.’

The young woman, his opponent from prior encounters, looked Dancer up and down. With a sort of sideways smile she said, ‘I see you met Cowl.’ Dancer nodded. ‘And I guess you won.’

‘I guess so,’ Dancer agreed. ‘You are here to join, then?’ Lee nodded. He pointed her to Surly. ‘Talk to her.’

Dassem peered round the room, then asked, ‘Where’s the mage – Kellanved?’

Dancer felt his face stiffen and he looked away. ‘Still … missing.’

A soft curse sounded from Surly at the bar. She poured herself a shot from the expensive foreign decanter and tossed it back. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘We need to organize,’ Dassem answered. ‘Mock may choose to strike against us now to gain favour—’

‘Mock no longer,’ Lee interjected.

Dassem looked at her. ‘Oh?’

‘One of the lasses let me know last night. He had an accident in the Hold. Fell off a parapet and over the cliff. A troika of captains rules now.’

‘Ah. None the less. They may strike.’

‘Let them,’ Urko growled, leaning forward. ‘We can take them!’

‘Not if they can unite all the crews,’ Surly warned.

Urko sank back into his chair. ‘Dammit.’

Surly waved Lee to her and the two spoke for a time. Two-ton thumped down at a table and poured himself a flagon of beer.

Then Dassem spoke to the room, addressing everyone. ‘My strength is tactics, and I am new, so it is not for me to say. But what is our position?’

Everyone eyed Surly. She pointed Lee aside, murmuring something to her, then sent a hard look to Dancer. Up to me, I guess, he decided, and he rose, wincing and hissing as multiple cuts stretched and reopened. ‘We rest up,’ he announced. ‘Keep a wary watch, of course. In a couple of days we’ll have a council to decide.’

Everyone nodded.

Dancer answered the nods. ‘Good. If anyone needs me I’ll be getting cleaned up.’ He walked stiff-legged out of the door, making for old lady Carragan’s.

*   *   *

The swampy delta of a salt marsh extends out into the harbour where the main channel of the Malaz river empties into the bay. Here, at dawn, the seabirds erupted into the air, cawing their complaints as something moved within the muck and slime.