Deadhouse Landing

The next morning a knock at his door woke him. He wiped groggily at his face, called, ‘Yes?’

‘Noon,’ a woman answered. Shrift. ‘The owner says he’ll come at noon.’

‘Okay.’ He dressed and went down to break his fast.

The Napan crew were already up and about, seeing to their assigned duties for the day: guarding various properties, showing the flag on the streets, and generally letting everyone know who was in charge of the bars, warehouses and flop-houses they controlled.

After his meal of stewed barley, cheese, a wedge of bread, and an apple – a meal he selected very carefully, imagining that not even Urko could ruin it – he went upstairs and knocked on the office door. He waited, but no one answered. A flush of sudden rage took him by the throat and he threw open the door.

Wu was leaning back behind the desk, feet up, fingers twined over his chest, snoring. Dancer felt a twinge of guilt over his anger and gently closed the door behind him. He crossed to the side table and poured a glass of water, set it on the desk, and loudly cleared his throat.

Wu coughed, smacked his lips, and cracked open one eye.

Oddly, the wet snoring noise continued in the room. It seemed to be coming from overhead. Dancer slowly raised his gaze to the rafters above and there lay the hairy long-limbed nacht, pink mouth agape, fast asleep. He threw a wadded sheet of parchment at it and it coughed, smacked its lips, and cracked open one eye.

Dancer experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.

Wu spotted the glass of water and drank it. He stretched, groaning – as did the nacht above – and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So, what’s the word?’

‘Noon. He’s coming at noon.’

‘Excellent.’

Dancer sat on the edge of the desk. ‘And … we do have the money, yes?’

‘Oh, yes. After a fashion.’

He didn’t like the sound of that, but refrained from questioning. He already knew the fellow didn’t like to explain himself. ‘Fine. You should eat.’

‘Have Surly send up a meal.’

To that Dancer could only crook a brow. ‘I don’t think that would go over so well.’

Wu raised a finger into the air. ‘Appearances, my friend. One must maintain appearances.’

Dancer straightened. ‘Well, if you put it that way…’ He headed to the door.

Behind, he heard Wu conspicuously clear his throat, and he turned back. ‘Yes?’

The little fellow was twining his fingers together, his belly up against the desk. ‘I’ve been thinking about what to call myself…’

Dancer nodded. ‘I noticed.’

Wu gave a curt bob of his head. ‘Indeed. Like you, I think I require a new working name. But in my case something grand, of course.’

Dancer clenched his lips tight and let out a hard breath. ‘Like?’

‘Well … something with the strong hard kay sound, like Keth, or Kell. Plus, the sinister and menacing vee sound, such as Val, or Veth, or Ved.’

Dancer looked to the ceiling. Oh, good gods …

Wu was oblivious, as usual. ‘Like Vethkedell the … something or other. Murderous, maybe. Or Menacing.’

‘No.’

Wu blinked, surprised. ‘No? No to what?’

‘To that. Something else with kell and ved.’

Wu’s head shot up. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’

‘There. What you just said. Kell … something.’

‘Kell and ved.’

Wu snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! Very well done, my friend.’

Dancer felt his brows crimping in confusion, and annoyance. What in the Abyss just happened?

He gestured to the door. ‘I’ll have a meal sent up, then.’

Wu waved his hands impatiently. ‘No, no. Not now. Have Surly deliver it during the negotiations.’

Dancer wanted to raise his fists to him, but refrained. He sighed instead in tired resignation. ‘Fine. During the negotiations.’ He opened the door. Wu leaned back, setting his dusty-heeled shoes on the desk, and knitted his hands over his stomach, a satisfied smile taking shape on his face. Dancer headed downstairs.

*   *   *

The owner arrived at noon. Dancer had Tocaras and Choss tail him from the vessel to make certain there would be no interference from Geffen and his boys. He was a veteran raider, grey-haired and grizzled. He entered the common room and stood peering round in the relative dark, uncertain whom to address. Dancer was waiting next to the door and he extended a hand to invite him upstairs. As he followed him up, it occurred to him that the owner looked just as worn down as his vessel. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed and sunken, and his cheeks, which showed an unhealthy grey pallor, unshaven and drawn. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept well in a very long time.

Dancer reached round him to open the office door, and Wu came out from behind the desk to invite him in.

‘Kellanved,’ Wu introduced himself, and Dancer blinked, startled.

‘Durard,’ the old fellow growled.

Wu – Kellanved? – motioned to a chair. ‘Please, sit. Care for a drink?’

‘Wouldn’t say no to a glass,’ the fellow answered, and sat with a weary sigh.

Wu – Kellanved? Dancer repeated to himself – looked to him. ‘Would you be so kind?’