Deadhouse Landing

Cartheron smiled again. ‘True enough, friend. True enough.’ He shouldered his kitbag and headed up the pier. As he neared the block containing the bar, Smiley’s, he noticed a large number of toughs lounging about the street corners. Many nudged their companions and pointed him out. Gods, what trouble has Sureth – Surly – got into now?

Turning a corner, he found himself confronted by a gang of the ruffians. Damn – I’m not ready for this. They were showing no weapons, but he was certain they were armed. All he carried was his sailor’s knife.

He dropped his kitbag to free his hands. ‘What is it? Like to talk, but I’m late for a drink.’

‘You Napans need to get your blue arses out of town,’ one fellow drawled.

Cartheron shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Buy us a berth.’

Another snarled, ‘Let’s just teach this one a—’ He shut his mouth. As one, the gang backed away. Though a touch mystified, Cartheron drew his sailor’s knife and crouched into a fighting stance; he knew something was going on behind him, but daren’t turn his back on the gang in front.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and glanced over. A youth now stood at his side, though he’d had no inkling at all of anyone’s approach. The lad was of middling height, very lean, with short dark hair. His hands rested crossed at his chest, inside his loose cloak.

‘Who’re you?’ Cartheron demanded.

‘One of your employers.’

‘That would be old Jeregal.’

‘Sold out and moved to warmer climes.’

The ruffians continued backing away. One pointed, mouthing, Later. Cartheron found himself alone with the newcomer among the wet cobbles and stained stone walls. He straightened, tucked his knife back into his belt. ‘It appears they don’t like you.’

The youth nodded. ‘They’ve learned.’ He gestured down the street. ‘I’m here to escort you in.’

Escort? What in Mael’s mercy is going on? He eyed the lad and the fellow nodded his understanding. ‘Surly will explain,’ he said.

Ahead, the shop-front of Smiley’s was a battered, boarded-up derelict-looking mess of broken glass and strewn garbage. ‘What’s this?’

‘An effort to put us out of business.’

‘Urko’s cooking must’ve got worse.’

A reluctant smile climbed the youth’s thin lips and he inclined his head. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

Cartheron pushed open the heavy door, noting at the same time the fresh blade hacks and burn scars that now marred its iron-bound planks. He found the common room empty but for members of the crew: Grinner, Amiss, and Lady Sureth, who was leaning up against the bar.

He turned to the lad, but he was gone. Frowning, he pulled the door shut behind him then crossed to Surly. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re embroiled in another war,’ she supplied laconically. ‘You been paid?’

‘Not yet. A war? What kind of war?’

‘The protection and extortion kind. Get paid – we need the money.’

He glanced about the empty common room. ‘I’ll say. Met a kid claiming to be one of our bosses.’

‘He is.’

‘Who are the rest?’

‘One. Claims to be a mage. An obvious lunatic.’

‘Great. Guess I’d better get my pay.’

‘Yes. But not now. Got a job for you.’

‘Do I have time to eat?’

Surly gestured to the kitchens. ‘Help yourself.’

He ducked through to the kitchen area and found his brother leaning over a stone oven. ‘Progress?’ he called.

Urko glanced at him from under frowning brows. He straightened, crossed his thick arms over his stained apron. ‘Damned scones won’t rise.’

Cartheron leaned back against a stone-topped counter. ‘Maybe it’s your age. You know, as you get older…’

‘Very funny.’ Urko took a cast-iron skillet from a hook, held it in his hands. ‘There’s fighting almost every night ’gainst Geffen’s boys ’n’ girls and Sur— Surly won’t let me out!’

‘Geffen? We don’t have the personnel for that.’

‘Tell that to those two crazies. They’ve taken him on and we’re in the middle.’

‘That’s stupid. Why did Surly go along with that?’

Urko hefted the heavy skillet. ‘The deal is they get us a ship.’

‘A ship.’ Cartheron leaned forward. ‘When all the ships and crews are controlled by Mock? That’s horseshit. This is a bad deal.’

His brother grasped the pan and the handle of the skillet. His thick forearms flexed, cabling. ‘I’ll say,’ he exhaled, hissing. ‘She keeps me cooped up in here when I could tear down that fucker’s entire building.’ The blackened iron creaked, screeching, and the skillet folded completely in half. He tossed the wrecked object aside then stood looking rather embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Still,’ Cartheron observed, peering about the kitchen, ‘you got a nice set-up here. Indoor oven, enclosed fire pit.’

His brother brightened, nodding. ‘That’s true. Beats having to go outside in the damned rain.’ Then he scowled, suddenly suspicious. He jabbed a meaty finger into Cartheron’s chest. ‘Don’t you try to pacify me.’

Cartheron raised his hands. ‘Wouldn’t dare. Listen, I’ll have a word, okay?’