Lower Docks – Obligations
There are those who say, often drunkenly and always erroneously, that once the world was overflowing with creatures of every form and description; that in a mythical, forgotten past, one could travel from the balmy shores of southern Prunus to the barren wastes of Ardenia, finding a trove of creatures that defy description for every step of the way.
Some of these alleged abominations are described as large, hulking creatures with snow-white, pupilless eyes, covered in feathers yet unable to fly; bearish-birds who call raucously through the forests and gorge on only the flesh of infants left to them by scared and superstitious townsfolk.
Equally ridiculous, others talk of thin men, twenty-feet tall and made entirely of swirling darkness, giants framed in spiked armor a part of their form itself. Beings who would leave tracks as deep as a child is tall just beyond light’s reach at the edge of a town or outside an isolated farmhouse on certain moonless nights of the winter months.
Still others speak warily of a people deep within the dappled forests of Arlo who have notched ears, fair skin, and black-and-red mottled teeth which they have carved to points and cover with dripping brown poison. They are devious tricksters, delighting in luring merchants into ancient forests with promises of riches to leave only the trader’s merchandise untouched on the trees' edge with no trace of their gullible prey to be found.
It is said that all these creatures, and a suitably unimaginable number more, were a creation of High King Pyre, The Proto-Protector, who built the forests and melted the great ice lands of Ardenia to fill our seas. It was he who drug the mountains from their hellish depths and left them as smoking, haphazard heaps upon the land, serving as walls around his lustrous gardens.
The unwise, unwitted, and un-encumbered by sobriety say that ‘He’ did these things in his sleep, using magics long-since dead to build a world from nothing and into a luscious paradise for creatures great, small, savage, and kind. The wisest and most educated of us know that this isn’t true, that the man, if he ever existed at all, was just that, a man. One possessed of extraordinary talents, perhaps, who stumbled half-dead upon a lost library in the far-reaches of the Withered White and was guided by some seer or sickness there to embrace the magics held therein. It is from these books, scrolls, and glowing tablets, it is said, that he learned the devilish sorcery of illusion and hallucination that breathed life into the many wondrous and terrifying creatures of that time.
Do we not today do the same with the wondrous machinations of the alchemists in the Second Tower of Oxycarpa? Are the unassailable tomes of our University scribes, the records of our Maesters, not the work of magic to those in the savage island and wasteland tribes abroad? Are the savage pirates of Aji in the south or the blue goat-riders of the east today not monsters all their own to those they terrorize along our borders?
-Analysing The Legend of King Pyre: First Protector of the West
Maester Sophiorni of the Twelfth Tower of Avium
Pica was unsure of his dreams as of late. They were strange, blurry things that hung like honey to his mind when he awoke most mornings. He had queried his friends, trying to force parts together into an explanation of an event he wasn't entirely sure had occurred in the first place. Often, by the time he may have succeeded, he had circled back enough times to have purged the memory of the dream of a memory from his mind altogether.
‘Are we passing the hospital on the way out of the gatekeep?’ He gave up his latest attempt at remembrance and looked to Tacca over his shoulder. She answered with a raised eyebrow of confusion. ‘It’s just that lamb from dinner, I’d like something for my stomach.’
The sergeant reached out to stop him briefly, pulling him from the march to peer into his swollen eyes carefully. She assessed each carefully, tilting his head in her hand this way and that to catch the sunlight peaking over the high walls. ‘You alright?’ She poked at his face gingerly and stood back to allow his answer.
‘Fine Sarge, just my stomach.’
‘Gonna shit your pants?’
‘I-’
‘Didn’t think so.’ She determined hime healthy enough. ‘No, and no time now anyway, Pica. Get up earlier and you can void your bowels before we march.’ Her words drew laughs from the others who had managed to somehow get dressed and fed long before he stirred for four days running now, she smiled at him. ‘We’ll get you something when we get to the market, can you wait that long?’
He nodded, steeling himself and pushing forward to regain the others who were already pushing through the crowd ahead.
Today’s duties had the troopers patrolling the lesser-regarded lower districts of Avium, heading through the industrial heart of the ancient city on the way to augment the city watch in their duties maintaining security around the Old Docks. They wound their way down sloping streets, hobnailed boots adding to millennia of erosion that had worn the bricks flush and near-seamless. The generous homes that lined their path were stout, two-story things with few windows and thick, oaken doors sealing most closed to the day’s sun; based on the looks they garnered on the tight road, Pica had begun to think that the doors would be likewise closed to the inquisitive soldier. He was about to remark on the third person shuffling conveniently down an alley when they strode onto Baker’s Row.
Situated precisely on the Protector's Avenue connecting the ancient Old Docks to the affluent High City to the north, the small mercantile district was a crucial midpoint between the two districts. Even before the construction of the new dockyards, it had been among the busiest thoroughfares in all of Avium, the prestigious Row having long ago built up a respectable day market for the many travelers moving goods one way or the other. Today, it seemed busier than ever as many, seeking the cheaper tariffs offered in the now secondarized southern dockyards, moved their goods there as often as they did to the Grand Market to the north.
As youths in nearby Heartwood, Pica and Simen hadn’t been able to purchase from the multitude of bakers, fishmongers, and sausage makers lining the congested roadway. Sometimes, they had managed to sneak a fish off a too lightly observed smoking rack or find a discarded loaf of bread not pale enough to meet the preferences of the buyers up the hill. If lucky, they had been able to trade an honest day’s labor for food or a bed at one of the innumerable manufactories or warehouses: spending a day soaking and hanging leathers for curing; shoveling coal and pumping massive bellows in the steel foundries near the water; carting all manner of raw and produced items to the uncountable stores clustered along the avenue.
Today, the scents of morning yeast cooking away, fat chestnuts roasting, and molten sugars caramelizing wafted around the tight bend to meet them on their descent and as if cued, the Triplets surged forward, taking point on the journey as they jostled for the honor of the first black boule, almond cake, dense honey-date pudding, or powdered autumn-apple tart. Tacca allowed her squad their pleasures, releasing them as the compact market opened before them.
The soldiers incorporated themselves seemlessly into the already thronging mass of patrons, residents, and shopkeeps about their daily duties, each seeking the immediate desires of their hearts and as was more likely for the Triplets, stomachs. Though the space was small, much had been packed into the many tight corners and alleyways branching off into the city in every direction. For hundreds of years, it had functioned as a key interchange in the city and it was the sergeant’s belief that such a place would offer plenty to occupy her young troopers as they killed time before their afternoon duties further south. With a brief series of orders regarding behavior and expectations with respect to timeliness of return, she allowed them to sniff out their own beats throughout the lively mercantile. The soldiers all but ran in their excitement, and Tacca smiled fondly at the eagerness of youthful freedom.
The youngsters' pockets were weighing heavily after a morning visit from the Mellivora accomptant had provided them with the first payment for the completion of their contract across Fraxinus and Populus provinces. Even Pellia, a registered provisoria of the Company for 18-months, had been given a generous amount of thin, shiny tablettes bound together in sets of five by a singular iron ring. She held a stack of copper ones before her as Sily pointed to the thin sections which subdivided the back of each tab, allowing them to be broken into ten uniform ‘clips’ for trade and payment.
With a grin, the northern woman bent and snapped one into clean halves, handing the now freed piece of ‘five-cent’ to the merchant frowning down at her from behind his high, streetside counter. He nodded as he accepted the strip of metal, handing her a small, paper-wrapped bundle which she delightedly shoved into her pocket.
‘I’m sure he’ll love it, Pell.’ Pica assured her, ‘it is certainly beautiful.’
Sily nodded her agreement and eyed some nearby street urchins standing in a shaded corner nearby as she made sure Pellia tightly sinched the money purse on her belt.
‘They wouldn’t.’ Pellia laughed, gesturing at the bright, freshly painted brigandine they wore. ‘With you right here?’
Sily nodded grimly, ‘they’ll cut a soldier’s purse if they think they can outrun 'em. Just stay vigilant, as usual.’
Pica didn’t appreciate the implication that the poor youths were up to no good simply because they were present in a public space. He thought of the many times he had spent entire days doing the same, watching passers-by for lack of anything better to do or more often, because this was the best chance of finding some quick work or a dropped meal that wasn’t worth picking up for anybody else. He knew the value of a last bite of a dry roll, the bit of cheese melted to a discarded bit of waxed paper, and looking at the young destitutes, he thought the visibility of collarbones and cheekbones and knobby knees suggested them more likely to attempt to steal a poorly guarded boule of rye than anybody’s wallet or purse. He said nothing as they continued, knowing the futility of mentioning that to the Populan woman and the out-of-water northerner.
They were quickly drawn to a painter's small display at the mouth of a crooked, disused alleyway. She welcomed them with a broken smile, ushering them forward to view her works where she had affixed them to the nearby walls with bits of string hanging from crooked and broken brick corners. Sily was entranced by the details captured in the illustrations and cooed appreciatively as she leaned over to admire each in turn. ‘I wish Scribe was here, he would love these.’ She sighed.
Pica wondered how she knew the man ‘loved’ anything. ‘Where is he on this fine morning anyway, he tell you?’ The man watched as a quickly bored Pellia’s eyes began wandering to other nearby shops and stalls. He readied himself to follow after if, as she was wont to do, she strolled off without warning.
Sily frowned at him briefly over her shoulder. ‘You know he doesn’t tell me anything. When he has to be somewhere, he goes there. Whatever that might be is no more my business than ours is to the people in this market now.’
Pica sensed a defensiveness there that he hadn’t intended to stoke. He raised his hand apologetically and attempted to change the conversation but he was yanked away by a tug on his arm. He spun to find Pellia dragging him away and across the plaza.
‘Leave her alone, Pica,’ she admonished him, ‘she’ll catch up with us. C’mon!’
With a quick glance over his shoulder at the already reengaged Sily, Pica followed his enthusiastic friend into a small shop specializing in trinkets, baubles, and all variety of mystic tools and instruments. He paused as he entered, finding himself assailed by the kaleidoscopic effect the spinning ornamentations cast as they caught a wayward strand of light sneaking through poorly shuttered windows. The effect was one of wondrous abandonment as they forayed deeper into the tightly packed shop, deflected rainbows shimmering across dusty piles of small bones and intricately carved divination sticks; Pica tiptoed his bulky frame around items whose valuation he couldn’t appraise one way or the other, wondering whether he walked through rows of treasure or waylaid junk.
‘Good…ahem…morning.’ A thin voice, sounding as disused and dust-stricken as all else in the shop, crept between the dense items arrayed all around.
‘Hello?’ Pica blurted, turning about carefully in search of the source of the words. Pellia giggled and strode forward confidently, turning this way and that, and arriving before the fragile old man peering blindly into the shop from behind a crooked desk.
‘Hello there,’ she chirped, ‘I’m looking for a Fourth Night gift.’
The man beamed, turning his head slightly but still not quite looking at the two huddled figures. ‘Well, I do expect we can help you there young Badgers. Yes, I do indeed believe we can help you there.’ He smiled broadly and with a deep warmth as he spoke, gesturing for them to come closer and be welcome in his small shop. ‘My name is Lemmini, purveyor of little lost antiquities and occasionally total rubbish. Welcome to my humble shop and home. Can we offer you anything while you peruse? Water? Tea perhaps?’
Pica nodded to the question but realizing a verbal cue likely more appropriate based on the wandering way the man’s head turned as he listened, voiced loudly that tea would be a most welcome idea, if only to learn more about who the other members of ‘we’ might be. He watched as the wrinkled figure walked behind his counter. He led himself more by feel of memory than that of fingertips, disappearing through a previously unnoticed curtain hiding a set of thin stairs to the floor above.
‘What are we looking for here, Pell?’ Pica asked as the man’s shuffling faded. ‘Most of this looks like junk.’
‘Not all junk is junk, Pica. Just depends on your perspective.’ As if to emphasize her point she held aloft a tight toothed comb of what appeared to be ivory for his review.
‘These are beard combs,’ she explained, ‘they are a very common gift where I come from, taken from place to place and passed down through families or friendships for years. A ‘treasure’ to my people but perhaps ‘junk’ to yours.’
Pica couldn’t help but take heart from the woman’s consistent ability to overturn his own implicit assumptions, he reflected on the truth of her words as he accepted the small item from her.
‘A beard comb?’ he reaffirmed, ‘like this?’ Pica pulled the thing through his own short-cropped, scraggly whiskers and winced as it caught immediately on a snag. With a skeptical look to the woman, he left it hanging there as she laughed.
‘It isn’t going to be easy the first time or two, just be gentle. Maybe there is oil in the market too.’
Moving slowly, she pulled the comb from his mess of facial hair and moved it to a place lower down and not directly in the middle of the beard. With firm, short passes, she gently began to detangle the multitude of knots which he had unknowingly hoarded in his last few days of foggy misremembrance, turning his head with a firm hand or admonishing him for flinching as needed.
‘Oho!’ the old man exclaimed as he reemerged, ‘the tusk brush is a good find indeed, young lady!’ He sounded approving, as if discerning between the junk and a treasure was a requisite part of the shopping experience in his odd little shop. ‘We do additionally have a nice scented saff-oil if you would like.’
Without waiting for a reply, he wandered over to a shelf stacked with tubes and vials of an impossible number of colors, shapes, and contents, returning with a small clay pot of rich brown oil. Pellia did not wait before skimming a small amount of the thick product off the top and running it into Pica’s beard roughly. Finishing with a last quick combing, the young woman took a step back to admire her work.
‘Excellent,’ she breathed, satisfied with her efforts and turning to the old man, ‘how much for both?’
The shopkeep was thoughtful, turning between the hopeful foreign-born woman and the soldier staring into a mirror with a stunned expression on his face. ‘One silver clip. Ah, no not the tab,’ he corrected her fumbling of the strange currency, ‘just a single clip off the end there.’ He helped her to snap a singular piece off a silver strip and handed her the rest nonjudgmentally. ‘Keep that in your purse now, they tend to disappear faster once they’ve been snapped the first time.’
‘Thank you!’ Pellia all but squealed as she squirreled away her new treasures. She turned to Pica who was still stealing glances at himself in a nearby mirror. ‘Do you not like it?’
‘Uh. No, I just… a bit different, isn’t it?’ He couldn’t remember his beard being so long. When had he last shaved? Why had he not been drug to the baths yet to have it shorn off by a particularly regulation-minded officer?
‘It takes some getting used to, I’ll grant you that. But based on the smell alone, I am going to call it an improvement.’ She laughed and winked at his scandalized look.
‘You need to stop hanging out with that Populan woman is what needs to happen,’ he grumbled. ‘Screwing up your perspectives-’
‘I mean, I disagree!’ the bronzed woman announced as if spawned by reference alone. ‘Pellia and I are the best of-’ she stopped as she joined them, eyeing Pica’s beard appreciatively and whistling low. ‘Well, that’s a nice change!’ She laughed as Pica flushed and occupied himself with randomly digging through a box of assorted sea glass and crystals. ‘Love your work, Pell. Truly outstanding. Hope this sticks, especially with those bulls I call brothers who, Mother would be stricken to learn, have forgotten their grooming entirely it seems.’
Shifting gears with her typical abruptness, the woman spun to the shopkeep without pause, bowing slightly and gratefully accepting the tea he already proffered her way. ‘And a fine morning to you sir! I do love your shop!’ She peered around for emphasis as the old man was washed in her enthusiastic positivity.
‘A pleasure for me as well, young Badger. I assure you! Is there something which you are looking for in particular today?’
‘I do need something for the aforementioned boars,’ she admitted with a glance that expressed her doubt that this shop in particular was the place for that.
‘Hmmm…’ he considered for a moment, ‘Populan lads, big and strong.’ Lemmini stated the fact, correctly guessing the stereotype, and miming the large men perfectly despite surely never having seen them. Pellia and Sily both stifled giggles at the thin old man’s theatrics.
‘They like games, I am sure.’ He postulated aloud, correct again. ‘Perhaps you will find something in the corner there, by those scrolls on dyes and inks.’
Sily followed the guiding line of his outstretched finger with renewed interest. Detecting an opportunity for multiple stops to be significantly pared down, she grabbed Pellia and drug her off without delay, a distorted ‘thanks’ floated back from beyond the over-weighted shelves. The merchant turned to Pica, a look of benign expectation on his wrinkled face.
‘And for you? Do you partake of the solstice celebrations, young man?’
Pica thought for a moment, wondering what to get for a man who was increasingly annoyed with anything at all. ‘What do you get the man who prefers the… simple pleasures?’ he asked eventually.
The shopkeep considered for a moment, pouring more steaming water over fresh tea leaves and unsuccessfully offering the same for Pica.
‘Perhaps… hmmm…’ The elder shopkeep faded away into thought for a moment, a hand swatting ate a drifting cobweb absentmindedly. He took a good look at the man before him, leaning forward to get a proper angle past cataracted eyes. ‘An Avium lad?’
Pica nodded.
‘Heartwood? Like you?’
The soldier was taken aback at the insight. He had long ago thought the marks of those time long faded by time and the substantial growth of his body and experience in the time since. ‘We are.’
‘Ah. Of course.’ He turned and trotted smartly through the memorized aisles.
Lemmini was gone time enough for Pica’s mind to start to wonder, his stomach gurgled uncomfortably, and he eyed the tea suspiciously.
‘Here we are then.’
To Pica’s delight, the shopkeep held a beautifully ornamented tin box. It was about the size of the palm of his hand as he accepted the thing from the man and he turned it over in the diffused light to take in the delightfully intricate, and somewhat rude, scene of men and women who cavorted and romped all across the six sides of the vessel. His eyes settled on what he assumed was the object’s top; if he turned it just right in the light, a pinhead-sized button was proudly visible. He pressed it lightly and a door opened silently to reveal what appeared to be a set of two lidded compartments and, just above them, a shallow dugout section in the metal which otherwise filled the space. He looked to the old man with an arched brow. He in turn held his hand out to take the object back from the confused lad.
‘Here.’ He deftly produced a bag from his shirt pocket and smacked it against his hip twice, popping it open and perfectly filling the small trench with three precise portions of some herb. A paper appeared in his mouth and after swiping it across his tongue, he placed it gingerly against the inside of the lid, snug against the smoking herb, and closed the box with a click.
‘Ready?’ He winked at Pica and the bewildered man nodded in response. Lemmini clicked the small button once more and as if magic, a perfectly rolled example of Simen’s favored pastime was exampled before him in the merchant's crooked fingers.
‘You’re kidding!’ He laughed.
‘Certainly not, I assure you. And…’ he clicked it closed once more, securing the small roll in the same shallow dugout from which it had come, ‘it will stay perfectly intact and fresh until it is needed. Right in there.’ He handed the box back to the now-very intrigued man. ‘That one is on the house, just let him know I’m here if he’s interested in other such devices and things.’ In response to Pica's confused expression, he added, ‘Smoke isn't the most popular of hobbies in the empire, y'know? Dependable clientele can be hard to come by and soldiers fresh off-contract are the best their are.’
‘Oh, I am sure he will be delighted. But how-’
‘And, I think, this as well.’ The old man interrupted to handed over a pocket-sized, soft leather-bound booklet. Pica accepted it, curiosity clear as he inspected a blue binding so cracked and faded that no ink or stamping remained to identify it easily.
‘What is this?’
‘That,’ he beamed, ‘is a copy of A Child’s Grove by revered storymaster Setonix. An essential collection of stories for those growing up in the Grove. The common fables and stories of heroism we all had the pleasure to grow up with.’
Pica was obviously confused as he looked between the man and the book. ‘What?’
‘It is an essential tool,’ he continued unabated, ‘for all those who are learning what it means to be a part of the grand forest which surrounds us.’ The man gestured around with a sweep of his gnarled hands. He looked pointedly at the two women, one sorting through a pile of scrolls and the other holding the ones under consideration by the tall Populan in a growing pile in her arms.
Ah, Pica realized what the old merchant was on about suddenly, Pellia. He returned his look to the smiling man. ‘I am not sure she would be interested. To be honest, she is more a fighter than a reader.’
‘Indeed, young man, indeed. But do you not read aloud to one another when you are alone in the forests or hiding from the cold rains? Is your fireside one deprived of the pleasures of shared imagination on the hard campaign?
‘I think you may find this to be extremely valuable as well as a fantastic gift for your comrade.’ He gently pushed the book further into Pica’s grip.
A small mountain of things crashing onto the counter startled the confused Pica as Sily returned with a further emburdened Pellia in tow.
‘You undersold your stock, old man!’ Sily reintroduced herself smoothly. ‘How much for this and can we organize a delivery to Keeptown this afternoon?’ She instinctively held forth a full tab of silver and looked at Pica still gripping the small, blue book and tin box. ‘And whatever that is. I’ll take care of that as well.’ She snatched the objects from the flushing Pica and tossed them onto the pile.
Their first official duties of the day greeted them under a depressingly weak noon sun as they continued the journey down the wide, brick road to the Old Docks. Pica recalled the avenue from his youth, the long days following the thick masses of traders, pack animals, and over-topped wagons funneling up to the lucrative markets in the north of the city.
The completion of the High Dock had changed much for the area it seemed, putting a final nail in the coffin for the Old City and sealing generations of depopulation to the better opportunities offered near the Grand Market. The ships of a better caliber and patronage had quickly moved to take advantage of the closer proximity to the prime marketplace sitting at the foot of the clifftops and the marble estates thereon, enjoying the higher status and privileges that had sprouted around the massive port. Today, the only ships using the lower docks anymore were either those devoted to the industry of the lower-city itself, bringing in the people or goods unable to attain the permissions or pay the fees needed to access the newer hub to the north.
The effects the change had wrought were clear as they worked their way further into the lower districts of the city. Then, the wealth flowing through the streets had been as a river, a crucial flow of jobs and opportunities spreading itself throughout the lower districts. Today, it reminded Pica more of Heartwood where he and Simen had laid their heads most nights growing up, the boarded windows and doors, dismantled signage, and graffiti-scrawled alleyways displaying the decay of the area since they had last prowled it for the odd rasher or lost pay slip.
The small guardhouse greeting them near the lower docks emphasized this depressingly. A ramshackle structure in need of much more attention than simply a painting, it was hardly more than a box to stand in when it rained. It accompanied a tall assembly of wood which one had to suppose was a gate which hadn't been closed in the better part of a decade. It leaned in a way which promised that trying to change that mode would be a poor idea for any involved or nearby. It was crewed, so to speak, by guards of the more civilian variety: a trio of scrawny young men who stared at the members of Fourth mutely as they came to a disorganized stop before the mess of a checkpoint.
Sily winked at a particularly lanky member of the silver-and-blue guardsmen gaping at them from behind a mis-sized and askew cooking pot of a helmet. His large brown eyes, peering from under the wide-brimmed monstrosity with the disinterest that accompanies a day spent doing absolutely nothing, locked on the fearsome Mellivora patch the troopers wore proudly on exposed shoulders.
Another two, seated across the street and ostensibly responsible for the operation of the paralyzed gate, had resumed playing dice on the top of a barrel upon deciding that they weren’t a concern their pay merited and continuing on with their game despite the look of concern spreading across the first guard's shaded face. The soldiers exchanged smirks as they took in the state of the place and its custodians.
Things had changed much indeed, Pica thought as he looked with verging disgust at the depressing state of the ‘guards’ before him. A snort to his left grabbed his attention, a splotched example of just such a creature drawing attention to himself from the stool he occupied in the shade by the shack-guardhouse structure. Pica hadn't noticed him at first and now wished he hadn't still.
The sound had come from a drunk, pimple of a man, an armband marking him as the person supposedly in charge of the station, and fast asleep in the middle of the day while his charges took care of whatever it was they were supposed to be taking care of.
Tacca looked at him, her mouth twitching as she struggled between pushing the man over in outrage and laughing aloud at the state of the so-called checkpoint; it would be her pleasure, she was sure, to deposit her troopers here, meeting unitarian obligations to supplement the city guard whenever stationed once more in Avium. She wondered what that might entail for her squad, as she further inspected the rundown station and the street it straddled, finding herself displeased and searching for the tall landmarks that would reaffirm their location was the right place.
Looking at the sergeant’s scowling face, Pica found he shared her thoughts on the pitiful display of the so-called Shields of Avium. What purpose were such a slovenly, ineffectual lot supposed to serve?
‘A lot of what was bad already has gotten a helluva lot worse since we were here last,’ Tacca said to the squad as the shifting troopers began drawing the attention of passerby, ‘let’s get this over with.’ She pushed past the still-gawping tall one and planted herself precisely before the also still-snoring ‘officer.’
‘This your shithole?’ The sergeant raised her voice in the hopes of waking him. He only snorted in response.
‘Oi!’ Sily shouted, retrieving what could be argued was a small cobble and pitching it into the small guard shack.
It clanged precisely off the man’s discarded helmet on the tiny table crammed therein, all watching as it fell to the paving-stones, drawing passing eyes and smiles from the two guards who hardly stopped counting out a roll of the five cheap dice they had just dashed from a cup and onto the barrel top. The quality of the gear was demonstrated for all as it bounced clankily into the street; the thin, riveted plates, many already loosening from wear and inattention, clamoring as the helm tumbled to a rolling stop. All stared at it as it rocked to settle on the new dent marring the fore.
The head guard jolted and rocketed to his feet, displaying a level of agility that Pica would have bet unlikely based on his soft frame and obvious affinity for a more liquid variety of breakfast. ‘You broke muh helm, ya welp!’ He looked about, eyes hostile and ferocious. They landed on the sergeant with an almost audible thunk, his spongiform brain belatedly submitting its findings on the context clues of the situation. He grunted resignedly and returned to his seat with a groaning sigh. ‘Badgers.’ He spat, but Pica couldn’t tell whether that was in relation to them or just a requisite bodily function. ‘Here to ‘supplement the guard,’ are ya? Look like we be needin’ supplementation, do we?’
Tacca turned her nose to the man. ‘Indeed. I assure you we would rather be otherwise posted ourselves. I am told there is value in such arrangements for all parties, however. Something to be learned.’ There was an insinuation meant to offend the lesser-officer, but as it failed to register or he ignored her entirely, she pivoted to face her squad instead.
‘Sily, you’re in charge of making time and getting the squad to the Grand Market for afternoon duties. You and Pell orient yourselves and make sure to get there by the second bell.
‘The rest of you, best behavior for our comrades in the City Watch.’ Her eyes hopped from Simen, to Rusa, to Alces, to the two guard-boys ignoring everything across the street. ‘No trouble, no gambling.’
‘As if.’ Simen looked about, incredulous that she would suggest any such thing. ‘What do we look like?’ He took one large step and gently lifted the glass hood on the lantern beside the guard post door, accessing the sickly flame beneath. Leaning forward, he introduced one of his notoriously loose-rolled papers to it and inhaled deeply of his day’s first breathful of thick smoke. He sighed out satisfactorily.
Without even shifting her gaze from where it had returned to the sneering man on the stool, Tacca reached over to firmly clap Simen on the back of his helm. His herbal pastime fell from his mouth and decisively onto the ground, rolling as if predetermined to where Tacca’s boot fell as she naturally adopted a wider stance beside him.
The siblings guffawed loudly, their deep laughs melodic in their similarity and enjoined by the boisterous cawing of a herd of children who had begun rapidly multiplying behind the group of soldiers and their stern mother hen. Pica tried, quite successfully, to stifle a grin as he stared coldly at the pack of grungy young con artists-, pickpockets-, and bowlers-in-training arrayed before them. He tried to intimidate them into taking their light-fingered arts anywhere other than within literal eyesight of the guards, adopting an expression he thought might have worked against himself when he was of a similar age, disposition, and internship. Based on the look Simen gave him, and the imitations pouring in from the tittering mass, he wasn’t succeeding at much beyond adding to the spectacle.
‘Yeah, you’ll be fine. Any questions? No? Great!’ Waiting for nothing, especially from the wart of an officer to which she was leaving her troopers' care, the Sergeant turned and endeavored to melt into the crowd beyond the checkpoint. Were it not for her stature holding her a full head over most others on the street, she would have been much more successful, but she was gone soon enough regardless as she turned confidently into a nondescript alleyway.
Pellia waited exactly no time before bolting toward the chittering street orphans, eyes like saucers as she fell upon them. ‘Oh my Gods, I love them!’ she squealed, fawning as she took in their grubby faces and crooked teeth. She quickly handed out pieces of whatever bits of food she had in her pockets as they scampered around her, honking like black-winged gulls. Pieces of jerky disappeared as quickly as they were produced, falling like fish down gullets; little butterscotches she had bought with her first disbursement ended in much the same way. She produced tiny paper flowers for them, folding the sticky, colorful candy wrappers left after they shoved the confections into their mouths, and intertwining them expertly in frayed lapels or tucking them behind an ear alongside wayward, unwashed hair.
The Watch sergeant fell upon them all with lazy swipes of a battered baton, scattering children like squawking parrots and sending them fleeing with loot held high, whooping their successes as they disappeared back into the milling crowd and leaving Pellia standing alone and shocked at the sudden change in atmosphere.
‘Back with the others, ya ugly little whelp.’ The grubby watchman nudged her in the direction of her troop and turned to address them all, ignoring the outraged expressions at the treatment of Pellia.
‘Now,’ he sneered at them, ‘as per usual you lot have to pitch in around the old homestead while you’re back from your little adventures killing townsfolk and babies and whatnot.’ The words were pointed and flew arrowlike at the young soldiers, the last indicating which rumors had been floating about guardroom fires at night. He continued. ‘Since we don’t want to hurt the Protector’s precious Badgers or get any dirt under them pretty nails…’ he paused, belching as he looked about his own meager force, and ensured a laugh was returned. ‘Nah, gotta make sure we take good care of you lot, we do.’
The red-faced watchman squinted as he tilted forward expertly on his toes to count them. ‘Right, seven. Solid number. You, Lates, get your scrawny ass over here. Hurry it up now!’
‘S’uh.’ The boy with the mismatched armor and too-large helm stumbled forward, his mouth still agape. Pica wondered if that was just its natural position, the jaw returning to its lazy hanging immediately after addressing the officer.
‘Take these fine young soldiers,’ his officer sneered at the slate-and-rose armor arrayed before him, ‘down toward the Quarter and do the rounds. Take-’ He paused, looking annoyed for a moment before he spotted another watchman peaking from an alleyway nearby, ‘-you! Dianema.’
This one, more of a boy, had been relieving his bladder when the commotion began and never being quite sure of how the situation would play out, had been peering anxiously from the site of his relief. Now called out, he stumbled forward to join Lates in front of their sergeant, his thin sheath clattering behind as he clutched at an unsinched belt and sought to remedy his uniform while ducking a firm backhand from his red-faced superior. He stood straight and piped a light ‘Sah!’ at the man, affecting a good natured grin that undercut the belligerence of his much larger harasser.
‘You go with ‘em too, Runt, we know how much your plank of a friend here likes to ‘get lost’ on the way back to post, don’t we?’ He cuffed the other lad for good measure, knocking the helmet around on his head and forcing him to stumble a bit in disorientation.
Pica could feel the heat coming off Simen beside him and wondered if he too radiated so. They glared daggers at the officer bullying his men and wanted nothing more than to give him the beating they were sure had been coming for a very long time. Pellia’s tight grip on his hand as she stood increasingly behind their large shadows kept him steady and he leaned in toward Simen instead.
‘Maybe we can find something to bring back for the old windbag.’ He hissed, indicating the guardroom and the sergeant’s poorly hidden morning bottle behind one of the crooked legs of the small table.
It had been upset in the mild commotion and most was now seeping into the splintered timbers below. Based on the rank smell of it, and the bottle looking more akin to medicine than liquor, it had been something desperately cheap in Pica’s experience of such things. At most, a small drink was all that remained stuck between the squared sides and the chipped glass mouth. Had the man noticed and that was why he berated his underlings so?
‘He’s sending us to the Quarter, to get him more.’ Simen agreed. ‘Bet.’
Before Pica could respond to Simen’s wager, the watch sergeant was pulling loose clips from a pocket on his belt and leaning close to whisper to the taller of the boys, the one he called Lates, as he painstakingly counted and handed them over one by one. He straightened the young guard’s helm in an almost paternal way and turned to the waiting soldiers. He startled as if he had forgotten them ,but if he had, his recovery was masterful.
‘You lot, Badgers,’ he all but spat their name at them, ‘follow young Lates and eh… Dianema here to the Quarter for patrol. You know how it works: pop in, make yourselves seen, answer any questions the nice townsfolk might have, and - and I know this will be hard for such dangerous warriors as yourselves - don’t kill anybody. Then come back.’ He looked at them crustily. ‘Simple stuff. I'm sure even such as you can manage it if the lubberwort and shortarse over here can.’
He didn’t wait for them to respond before pushing past the lot of them. With a belch, he sailor-walked toward the same alley from which Dianema had come and intent on the same purpose. ‘You vicious little bastards behave yourselves and don’t go killing no old folks or wee babes,’ he shouted again from his obscurity, ‘be back by the time that cow of woman comes to collect you.’ The yellowed sergeant chuckled to himself, endeavoring to forget them altogether and content to wait for his lunch to arrive.
The two across the way rolled their dice.
There was no denying that Company Mellivora was in vogue for the season, returning hot and successful from the defense of Avium and her interests; removing the poison of rebellion from settlements so close as Cerasus. They drew stares from the people as they moved through tight residential areas, doing as bade by the monstrous watch sergeant and being seen by the denizens of wherever they were. Many of the passersby smiled or offered a hand for a soldier's clasp as they recognized the distinctive armor and sigil of Mellivora. Overhead, a few voices shouted down praise from a high catwalk and issued the distinctive salutes of the Protectorate Naval Forces as the Badgers passed below.
Pellia gawped at them, her neck straining as her feet continued carrying her forward despite the demands of her eyes to get every possible detail of the great, arched structure. She bounced off Rusa's stomach as he caught up with her dragging steps from his position to her rear and propelled her forward once more. The young woman stumbled but caught her step easily before resuming pace beside Sily.
‘Propaganda mills must be churning overtime,’ the elder woman offered under her breath after yet another of the endless such passerby stopped them to offer their support for them and Protector. ‘We’ve never been asked to do the whole ‘kissing babies’ routine.’ She stuck her tongue out for emphasis as if the distaste in her voice were not clear enough.
Pica considered her words and found himself agreeing. The welcome into Keeptown had been unusual, that many gathered to welcome home old Mellivora Company? It wasn’t unusual to meet some old friends from a different army or to exchange a few warm words with the guards upon return, but they had been greeted as if they had just won a crucial battle in one of the old imperial wars; like they had just scourged Vladi Battalion from the Grove as their Badger ancestors had. He pondered that.
‘Let’s hope we don’t run into anyone who disagrees with the Protector regarding such matters of domestic policy and defense.’
His friends mumbled and nodded, taking an extra look at this shadowed doorway or that recessed alleyway for good measure. Pellia looked uncomfortably around the busy atmosphere. ‘Why would anyone be upset with us for Cerasus?’
‘Because someone always has something to say about everything. Even in Avium, even against the Protector.’ Sily clipped smoothly. ‘Plus, can’t help being an attraction when they’ve ordered you into a circus,’ she conceded with a sigh.
The words were true, or at least as good-as could be considering they tended to arise around a late-night game of cards or dice. They reflected the opinions of most of the general soldiery in Keeptown; the Protector was fond of showing off their Unitary soldiers and seemed to go to great lengths to ensure the membership of the likes of Mellivora, Dorylus, or Hystrix were seen often and prominently as they completed their obligations to the city. It was something which had been remarked upon in committee and some officers had demanded a vote on having those requirements removed altogether during renegotiation with the Grove. Nothing had ever come of it as far as Pica could tell; no vote on it had taken place during his time and he sure wasn’t going to be submitting the measure himself during the next meeting.
The Squad had begun wondering if they could somehow remove their armor and store it safely without getting caught when they stumbled out of yet another tight alleyway to find themselves on a broad, brightly lit avenue. They stood stunned. They had been following the watchmen with no real idea of where they were, following the only guides who knew how to efficiently navigate such backways. They weren’t in the Quarter, that was for certain, and they strained against sun-dazzled eyes as they tried to find out where they had been taken.
‘Tanner’s Lane,’ the slack-jawed one supplied just as the self-explanatory odor hit them squarely. He scratched his nose, fingering the thin little strip of hair he was developing for himself there, and dropped his hand back to his side. He felt the bag on his hip and looked southward down the road hungrily.
In the light of the wider street, Pica finally got a good look at the two adolescent guards who had been assigned to babysit them.
The taller of the two, the boy named Lates, was a gaunt and pale specimen. Pica wondered where he had been recruited from and by whom he had been given a uniform and weapon despite the faint yellow hue of his skin. ‘Need… to get Sarge’s medicine.’ His breath chattered in his lungs and his teeth clacked together as he spoke. He didn’t wait for them as he turned and walked unsteadily away to some shops further north up the road.
The other watchman stood by resolutely, stiff and watching every move of the Badgers as they finished reorientating themselves. He was short and a bit chubby, likely the younger of the two though it was difficult to say considering the sheer amount of dirt and soot which could conceivably be harvested from either. He scratched behind his ear absentmindedly as he awaited anything happening that would give them something to do. Pica thought he would make a good soldier based on the amount of hurry up and sit he was clearly willing to endure and wondered how long it would be before they saw young Dianema in Keeptown rather than near the lower docks.
‘So…’ Pellia looked about uncertainly, ‘what do we do now?’ Nobody answered for a moment and she turned to Pica, ‘Does your stomach still hurt? We can probably find you something like ground coral and salt around here…’ her voice trailed off as she craned her neck about on her long neck.
The short northerner looked at Rusa frustratedly and he grinned at her in response, kneeling so she could clamber up his broad back and perch herself comfortably atop his shoulders. Now able to see above the heads of the milling crowd, she asked, ‘So where are we going then?’
‘We like to go to the docks on the early week days,’ Dianema said, taking the initiative and directing the party’s steps efficiently onto the crowded street. ‘They load up all the old bread and such with the other supplies for shipping down to Pyrus. That's what all this traffic from Highhill’ The boy was excited, beginning to speak and walk a bit faster as the activity around them increased on the industrial street.
From the grimy stone of the lower districts, they had somehow leapt north to the revitalized manufacturing sector hugging the southern perimeter of the Grand Market Pica realized.
‘This isn’t the Quarter.’ Sily assured all with a frown of disappointment.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dianema assuaged, mistaking her concern for one of duty rather than menial pleasure, ‘Sergeant Polybia won’t be any the wiser. Come along!’
They tagged along behind the young guard, his too long sheath bouncing sharply against the cobbles despite having been sinched as well as he could manage considering the state of the uniform and its wearer in general.
‘What about Lates? Where did he go?’ Pellia called down from her high seat.
‘That’s why the sarge won’t know,’ he winked up at her over his shoulder, ‘the blackstrap swill Polybia can afford is bought down Tanner's Lane. Gods help us if he ever goes looking to the Quarter trying to get it himself for once.’ He laughed, clearly unbothered at the odds of such an event coming to pass. ‘Lates’ll meet us as soon as he has the bottles,’ he continued, ‘our job is to get to the docks early.’
Pica couldn’t help but laugh at the plan that was rapidly revealing itself. Two scrawny boys, doing what they needed to, and adding a little extra trouble on the side to have something to enjoy later. He snuck a peak at Simen through the corner of his eye, he couldn’t tell if his friend saw himself in their youthful cleverness as well. Was he too pondering the times of their youth? Taking an odd job at the docks to make their calories for the day or to afford a little something extra.
It was interesting that this part of the city had not suffered the same debilitation and degradation as the center had; the streets here were wider than last, the buildings flanking them taller and made of stronger stuff than he remembered. Obviously much had gone into building this specific section of Old City districts. Pica suspected he knew from whence the labor, materials, and wealth had come as he reflected on the desperate state of the inner-city from the morning.
‘They’re calling it ‘re-development.’ The young guard explained, using the word clumsily but affecting an air of doing so out of proper pronunciation rather than being a new concept he'd overheard a time or two around his daily duties. ‘A lot of money been flowing in from Highhill and the Market is the rumor. New money from those who've made the most from the new docks.
‘I heard from a few of the dockworkers who get the big ticket contracts to work the High Docks that there is talk of expanding south from there. Says that the ones buying here are betting they’ll be in the best position when the lower docks are finally torn down.’ He rubbed his fingers to them over his shoulder in the universal sign of money demanded and turned, passing under an archway that was suddenly looming to their right and cutting directly through the rowhouses which lined the street.
As if passing through a stygian portal, a reek of airborne salt, decaying seaweed and fish, seagull excrement, and rotten eggs washed over the group as they pushed through the small go-through and onto the expansive quay of the Old Docks beyond. As one, many in the squad began retching openly, the smells clinging in their noses as if something oily and more than one clapping a protective scarf or hand to their faces in protest of the noxious odors.
Until now, the stench had been blocked by the thick wall of buildings, the mass of rowhouses and stores insulating much of the surrounding neighborhood from both the smell and the savage winds of winter squalls. But now stepping into it, there was no amount of shielding which would stop the eyes watering and the nostrils swelling in protest. Pellia let out a squeek of dismay and half tumbled, half leapt from Rusa's broad shoulders in the hopes that the offensive fetor would be less acute near the filthy cobbles.
‘Now that let's you know you're alive! Am I right?’ Dianema took a deep, appreciative breath. ‘Now that let's you know you're alive! Am I right?’
He took a second helping which to Pica's eye seemed a little less enthusiastic. Youthful bluster. The soldier smiled to himself.
‘Anyway, as ordered and expected by your boss,’ the young guard continued, waited for dramatic effect before splaying his arms wide before them. ‘The Old Docks!’
The pleasant dimness of the closed street giving way to the bright flurry of activity of any industrial port, Pellia gasped and shielded her eyes from the oppressive sun now glaring down on them. ‘It’s massive!’ the northerner exclaimed as the dockyards in all their ancient, bustling glory came into focus.
The great wharf of ancient Avium was a sprawling mass of wood and stone reaching ever further into the Grey Sea. Uncountable generations had pushed tenuously out toward the unseen continental shelf lurking in the depths below and today, it was a chaotic misconfiguration of poorly matched piers built at all manner of times in the city’s past. Some, long stripped of use as a berth for modern ships or locked in by rows of stilted buildings to either side, took on new life afterwards, serving as bustling trading hubs full of shops, stores, and taverns right on the water. And based on the prevalence of laundry flapping about on high clotheslines, neighborhoods for the merchants, sailors, and dockworkers as well; a floating pseudo city sprouting from the pier's timbers.
A few of the oldest piers were still the most widely used and stretched far out into the sea on great sunken pillars, beyond the reach of their wooden counterparts huddled about and sprouting from their shallower sections. Prior to the construction in the northern city, these piers had been the only meaningful deepwater access available to Avium for generations, providing a guaranteed investment from any who wished to deal in extreme quantities over vast distances. And the benefits had been great for the neighborhoods, the once beautiful stonework of the Heartwood attested to just how much wealth had poured into the city once-upon-a-time here, Pica considered, but clearly times required more than the lower docks could provide anymore.
Despite the activity along the shoreline, it was clear to them as they stepped onto the piers properly that much of the dock itself was empty with the exception of some decrepit trawlers unloading nearby; a strange vessel with parallel sails and a wide, square bow; and the bobbing bathtub of a merchant collier. Knowing next to nothing of such vessels, Pica could tell it was old based solely on the warped paleness of decaying timbers peeking through the flaking grey paint that attempted to cover them. The name it had been given on its launch day, an event Simen speculated aloud was likely a century ago, was hard to decipher, the gold paint gone brown and impossible to see except from in flashes from extremely inconvenient angles.
Dianema informed them it was called the Arothron, an old Navy hauler now relegated to an end-of-life consisting of short runs along the rocky west coast between Pyrus and Glauca. It would continue to do so until it was sailed to one of the coves-turned-graveyards that dotted the coastline to be scratched from the Protectorate Fleet rosters for good. Considering the season and the ship’s clear state of disrepair, it was a solid bet that the thing might go naturally and without too much trouble on its own, scuttling itself to a bad wind or mistimed tide right here.
Today, the mighty relic rocked on the calm water of the late morning, gently bumping against the crumbling stone jetty which matched the vessel in decrepitude. Sailors shouted to one another as they prepared for loading, gearing up large complexes of stout pulleys and rigging them from thick spars high above. A carpenter and her apprentice hung in a basket along the back of the port hull and put away their tools, ensuring all was securely stored before hauling themselves back to the deck above. They had been clearing something stuck in one of the drainage ports that evacuated various waste and bilge water to the sea; the smell of the water caused more than a few wrinkled noses as they walked fully around the back of the tub.
Two score grimy workers curiously turned to them as they approached. They were lined up in a cluster of mismatched and poorly patched greys on the brick dockhead and at the end of the pier housing the decayed hauler. They eyed the approaching soldiers warily, a few shifting uneasily as the distinct uniforms of the Badgers displayed them as something akin to a venomous jeweled lizard or brightly colored jellyfish. A few looked to Dianema uncertainly and he called out reassuringly as they closed on the huddled group. ‘Don’t worry ol’ timers, just Dianema and company.’
‘Some company,’ one of the laborers murmured past chipped teeth, ‘Badgers.’ He spat weakly past his scraggly beard, intending to insult the soldiers eyeing him skeptically and managing only to further soil his tattered boots. Pica thought they may have actually been cleaner as a result.
‘Look,’ the Mellivora soldier raised his hands in appeasement and stepped forward to the workers, ‘we aren’t here to cause any trouble, just spending the day with our young friend Dianema here.’ He gestured to the youth who stood taller at the mention.
‘Just here to get a few crumbs, same as the rest of us.’ Dianema affirmed, spinning with open arms to better display Fourth Squad to the bedraggled array. ‘Friendly Badgers, may I introduce Pteromys, head of the Rock Row laborers here in the lower docks.
‘Pteromys,’ he gestured emphatically as the groups eyed and nodded to one another, ‘Fourth Squad.’
‘Hmmm… heard they a bunch of murderers and thieves.’ One of the laborers spoke up from the group. ‘Burned Cerasus in her sleep, we heard.’
There were murmurs among them that hinted that more than just this man had heard the rumor.
‘We murdered no one.’ Sily was incensed. ‘We did our duty and killed those who raised arms against us and the Grove!’ Her brothers hmphed behind her and Rusa lifted Pellia as if removing an errant leaf to return her to the ground. ‘That would be your Grove,’ Sily continued with a gesture about, ‘at the pleasure of your Protector.’
Pica felt how poorly this played with the group before them, he looked between Dianema and Pteromys desperately.
‘Well, they intend to work or just start shit here?’ the labor captain interceded smoothly, his voice cutting the tension and erasing the few seconds in rough jest. He gestured to the rows of laden carts arrayed nearby. ‘We have a ship to send to her final run, if you haven’t noticed.’ They needed not look at the Arothron to know which ship he suggested.
‘We’ll work,’ Pica offered without hesitation and before his lazier comrades could find a reason not to.
‘Doubt you know the meaning,’ the first old worker taunted once more. He spat again, successfully this time and landing the gob between Sily’s boots.
For a second time, the two groups stiffened. Sily bridled against the preemptively placed hand of a brother restraining her shoulder; she attempted a small step forward.
‘The fu-’
‘Alright, I’m here!’ Lates appeared amongst them conveniently, removing the rhetorical flame just as the pot boiled over. He looked around, mouth ajar as it was wont to do, and sat the cloth bag onto the pierhead; the jingle of settling glass bottles chorused for all and finalized his taking of their attention. Flipping open the canvas flap, he revealed six square bottles of thick, black liquid within and selected one at random, standing with a small grunt. Cracking the wax and removing the underlying cork in a single experienced twist, he offered it to Sily. ‘Think we need this, eh?’
She affected a dramatic bow, making sure to include the now-grinning Pteromys standing to his rear as she accepted the bottle. ‘Thank ya, young Lates!’ She took a hearty pull from the cheap glass bottle, grimaced, and felt the blood flee from her face; a greenish feeling crawled up from her belly. She held it well, not flinching more than once as the locals didn’t attempt to smother the snickers of old-timers watching a new-hire squirm, and exhaling stiffly as she returned the liquor to Lates. ‘Good stuff…’ she gasped.
The onlookers laughed a little more, but there appeared to be new consideration as they watched her recollect herself.
‘Don’t mind dredge, do she boys!’ Pteromys’ tease was softer now in sentiment, and louder, with a bit of begrudging regard. He grinned at her as his team nodded approvingly.
The poorly uniformed patrolman didn’t drink himself, instead turning to offer it to the head laborer who took it gratefully and with a genuine thanks in a mumbled word the soldiers didn’t recognize before taking his own swig from the inky liquid. It stained his lips and teeth as he smiled broadly.
He drank, Sily thought, substantially less of it than she had, and she wondered if that had relevance to her reaction now as her stomach attempted to melt through first her abdomen and then her armor. He sighed with deep contentment as he returned the bottle to Lates with a smile, the way the slack-jawed guard took a much more moderate pull from the greasy bottle as well told her that was probable.
Things calmed substantially as a blanket of oily alcohol cooled tensions and warmed humors for the moment. Simen, ever perceptive of an opportunity for gossip and keen to dig a story of an exploding shop Dianema had hinted at earlier, took Pellia to join the two watchmen where they had walked with Pteromys to the edge of the crumbling pier. The large man produced his bag of pastime and handed it smoothly to Pteromys as the man pulled a pipe conveniently from his own belt. The labor leader grinned rusty graciousness at the soldier, his dredge-colored teeth showing a bit of the genuine comradery that comes with finding a fellow addict.
A crowd of workers, led or shepherded by labor bosses from other areas and with varying degrees of respect for their subordinates, had begun arriving in disparate waves by the time the bottle had made the rounds and been tossed empty into the sludgy water slapping at the pier. They stood in long lines and huddled together as they waited for the order to work to be given. It was likely that this would be the only such work available for many of them today, Pica knew, and he tried to count them as they continued streaming in. How many would the ship hire when the time came? How many would have to go home empty-handed or worse, watch as the chosen few were given bread and then bed down for the night where they stood now until they could try again tomorrow. Did any have accommodations even in the floating shanty over yonder? He didn’t envy them their position.
The order arrived in a hail of creaks and shouts as a team of Navy cargo officers ignored the concerned braying of mule-teams pushing through the crowd. They came to a staggered halt at the wide mouth of the pier.
On cue, the sailors on the great ship began dropping lines onto the planking below and with a great groan, the rounded belly was pulled to rest solidly against the dock and to steady its gangway; the dock exploded with activity as labor bosses suddenly competed with one another to grab one of the few contracts being handed out by the officers on their tall wagon suddenly shouting down at them. Pteromys promptly secured a job for himself and his men, his close relationships with the hiring master earning them a personal vouching to the purser ahead of time and earning papers without question.
He and his team quickly began the hard work of unloading the overloaded wagons, throwing the lumpy canvas sacks down for loading onto trollies and then down the pier to the waiting Arothron. With a shrug, Fourth joined in.
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