by Grace Draven
Alair shrugged. “My dear, the mermaids of the City are famous…”
“Mermaids! You’re pretty calm about the possibility of seeing mermaids.” Martis’ move to lean over the handrail was pulled up short by Alair’ grasp.
“Take care, they’re chancy things.”
“You mean those stories of luring sailors to their death—is that why the sailors have their eyes closed?” Martis looked over his shoulder at the sailors blindly groping their way round the ropes.
“You’re confusing mermaids with sirens,” Alair replied. “These won’t sing you to your doom, but they do bite.” He snapped his teeth together by way of emphasis.
Habilus grinned. “No, that they won’t. I’ve never heard them singing. It’s just that sailors who’ve been at sea a long time seeing their first pair of bubbies in months get distracted. And distracted gets them et, and I don’t mind them being et, so much. It saves in wages, but I’m buggered if I want to pay for a scrape to the paint or worse if some lad lets his attention slip as we moor.”
Martis peered over the side, keen to see the bubbies.
“But it’s safe for you to look?” Alair asked. “You don’t like bubbies?”
Habilus shrugged. “Saw a lad once, who fell overboard one night. When they found him in the morning, he was white and swollen with water but with livid red wounds on his body. Teeth marks. He had a smile on his face, I grant you, but it doesn’t matter how nice a pair of bubbies are, they’re not worth that.”
Alair snorted, and moved forward to join Martis.
There, close to the ship, a head appeared. Then another, and another, until there were ten faces peering up at them. They were pretty enough, with long hair, some blond, some dark haired and all with a welcoming smile.
“They seem friendly enough,” Martis said, smiling back.
Alair sighed. “You will try to be less trusting won’t you?”
“What? Oh yes, yes I suppose so.”
Habilus gestured at one of the sailors, who brought a large joint of raw meat to his captain. “Some people need to see before they can see, if you know what I mean.” He took the meat in his hand and swung hard, throwing it in a long arc to the waiting creatures. One rose up out of the water, driving her tail powerfully against the waves, jumping up to snap at the gift. She flicked her tail again, surging out of the way of her sisters who reached out with sharp fingers to steal her prize. She sank her teeth into the meat, and worried at it like a dog with a bone. She managed only three bites before the joint was tugged away from her by another.
Martis took in a long sharp breath. “I see what you mean.”
“I thought you might,” Alair murmured.
The joint stripped clean, the mermaids gathered by the ship again.
“Throw out the line,” Habilus shouted.
The sailor by the prow let loose the rope, which was caught in the air by a leaping mermaid who jack-knifed into a dive underwater.
“They’re not going to pull us to shore are they? They don’t look strong enough.”
“They’re not, and don’t ask what is. Just accept that something is towing us into harbour,” Habilus said.
Something dark moved under the waters at the prow of the ship. The ship shuddered and lurched forward with a groan of its timbers. A long wave formed either side of the ship, getting larger as their forward speed increased. The mermaids made a high wailing sound, full of excitement. Some sailors crossed themselves, and others moved to the handrails to watch as the pod rode the waves, flicking in and out of the foam, tails winking in the sunlight.
Alair leaned into the wind, taking in all the scents, tasting the salt of the spray, feeling the warmth on his back, and knowing this would be the last innocent joy he would taste until he left the City.
Whatever was pulling the ship into port slowed, the ropes went slack and then came free, and the mermaids gave one last call up to the sailors before disappearing under the water to scurry after the dark shadow moving back out into the lagoon.
The ship was still some distance away from the dock, though close enough to catch the reek of the port. A small boat headed towards them, bobbing around in the swell, carrying two sailors.
The one at the prow stood, legs apart, braced against the movement of the ship. “Ho, the ship! Are you ready for a line?”
“Aye,” Habilus said. “Which berth do we have?”
“Number three, iffn you please.”
“And if I don’t?” Habilus said with a grin.
“It’s still number three,” replied the sailor, matching his smile.
“I thought it might be. Throw us a line then.”
Habilus caught the rope on the first throw, passing it to his men, who made it fast round a capstan. A bulky creature stood squat on the docks, with the other end of the rope wrapped round his meaty hands, there was a pause until Habilus gave the signal and the beast began to pull on the rope.
“What’s that?” Martis asked, keeping his voice low in case the beast had preternatural hearing to match his strength.
“Could be a magical construct, something fashioned from stone and then imbued with life,” Alair replied. “I’ve never heard of anything truly living that looks like that.”
Habilus frowned. “You don’t ask that sort of question here. Never. For one thing, you might get an answer and you’re probably better off not knowing, and for another the magical construct might take exception. And he’s a big lad.”
“He is that,” Martis said soberly.
“Not that the littl’uns are any safer. This place is dangerous, and you can have that advice for free.” Habilus grinned. “Unlike passage, and I’ll thank you gentlemen to pay up now.”
“With our good will—and a little extra if you can name somewhere decent for our first meal in the City,” Alair replied.
Most cities are beautiful from a distance, but closer to you can see the sordid details that keep it working: the sewers, the rubbish in the streets, the unwashed and grubby citizenry and the poor begging on the streets.
There was none of that with the City.
“The place is so tidy,” Martis said. “Even the harbour is clean.”
“Best not ask what’s keeping it that way,” Alair replied.
The wide dockside was busy with people coming and going, the unloading of cargo and the haggling of merchants. A large stone building stood square on, watching over the harbour with many windows, where the harbourmaster and his staff lodged. To the right, a wide canal led deep into the City, with dark tributaries threading their way between the buildings, transecting the City into smaller and smaller blocks of houses. To the left, other ships were moored, not those of the merchants but tall warships with cannon ports and many reefed sails—the City’s ships.
Martis and Alair turned right, towards the canal, their path taking them near to the thing which had hauled their ship into port.
The magical construct was even larger close to, seemingly made of stone but with the bulge of living muscle shifting beneath its skin. A young woman rested against its massive paws, its curved beak pressed against her as she murmured something into its ears. She had long dark hair, and a trim figure that caught Martis’ attention.
“Er, thank you,” said Martis in the general direction of the couple.
The woman stared at him. “For what?”
“I was thanking your friend for his help in bringing the ship into port—he does understand me, yes?”
“He does.” Her brow furrowed in slight surprise.
The construct made a gargling noise.
“He is pleased by your thanks, and offers you good wishes for your stay in the Pearl. A man with good manners will make the friends that he needs in this city.”
“I should be pleased to make friends here,” Martis replied, and bowed to the construct.
The construct leaned forward, his cruel beak dangerously close to Martis’ face, making another noise.
The girl blushed. “I do
n’t think I want to translate that.”
Martis didn’t move or blink. “I think I understood the gist.”
Alair grinned at his cousin. “I think he understands you very well.”
“Nevertheless, I would be grateful for the honour of your names,” Martis said.
“You couldn’t pronounce his name, but he does answer to Gargoyle, and I am Hartest.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Martis said, and offered his hand to Gargoyle.
Gargoyle tilted his head, eyeing Martis like a hawk watches a mouse, then extended a clawed hand to briefly touch hands with Martis.
“He says you’re very smooth, and I should keep an eye on you,” Hartest said.
Martis smiled. “I would only be too pleased if you kept an eye on me, but Alair here is the smooth one. He’s the poet. I’m just an honest merchant looking to make his way in the world and hoping for some charming company one evening.”
“Poets are ten a penny in the City,” Hartest replied. “Unlike honest merchants. Gargoyle is free for a drink any evening.”
“And I should be happy to share one with him,” Martis took her hand and bowed over it, but stopped short of kissing her fingers. “I’m sure he has many interesting things to say, but I would have to ask for your company too, to translate his many words of wisdom.”
Gargoyle made a hissing sound, clearly the laughter of his kind.
“You can find us at the docks in the daytime,” she said. “And of an evening, try the Red Dragon, but beware, Gargoyle has a deep thirst.”
“I shall look forward to seeing you both again.” Martis waved a hand in the direction of the City. “But in the meantime breakfast calls—we’ve been told of a place on Glynde Street; could you point out the way?”
The place that Habilus had named was away from the main square, down a small side street hemmed in with tall buildings then through an arch which led to a bridge over a long, thin canal that opened in the distance onto the sea. The morning light reflected the warm colours of the russet bricks in the water, which lay still and calm.
“It’s pretty enough,” said Martis. “Will you be writing some more of your poems about it?”
“Perhaps. Let’s see how good the eggs are first—perhaps they will deserve the sonnet. Habilus said the cooking was that good.”
“He also said we should look for the sign of a unicorn, and that’s… not.” Martis squinted at the sign swinging above the door to the eating house. The shape on it was white, and there was a long spike coming from one end of the painted animal, but it looked like it had been created by someone who had never seen a unicorn or even a horse.
Alair grinned, and waved Martis through the door. “I’m sure Habilus wouldn’t have steered us wrong.”
He hadn’t. The food was marvellous—tiny shrimps on hot buttered toast, delicately seasoned coddled eggs, stewed berries with soft rolls of bread and a spiced omelette that set fire to the throat, washed down with a strong tea that made the world a better place.
Martis chased the last of the egg round the plate with some bread, which was quickly consumed. “That was very good, worth every penny.”
“I agree, and they’re my pennies, so it’s my opinion that matters.” Alair sighed contentedly and settled more comfortably on his chair.
Martis snorted. “You always think that your opinion matters most.”
“I’ll not argue with that.”
“So, in your opinion, when do we kill Dovestone?”
Alair settled his cup on the table, and gave his cousin a bland look. “We?”
“I notice you don’t deny the killing.” Martis smirked faintly. “You see, I wondered why you were travelling to the City. You could be here to pick up the trading agreements now that my brother is dead, but you’re no trader, and my father’s not been made that stupid by grief that he’d let you.”
Alair shrugged. “No, but this is the City of poetry, so where else would I be? No one sends their eldest sons here, for they are Heirs and sober and sensible and cannot be risked, but inconvenient third sons are the perfect target to be risked. Especially after your brother…”
“Oh there’s no love lost between your father and mine, cousin, but he wouldn’t risk your life for the oyster trade.”
“Or yours.”
Martis dipped his head in agreement. “And I know you, better than most. Under that indolent exterior, you’re the second most dangerous man I know.”
“Second?”
“Dovestone is the first.”
“Oh, my dear boy, you may rest assured that I am far more dangerous than him.” Alair raised his cup in an ironic toast. “Because if I decided to take over the oyster trade, I wouldn’t use murder as a stratagem, and if I did no suspicion would light on me, and really, you should remove the family root and branch if you’re going to take that approach. He lacks style, he lacks competence, and soon he’ll lack his life.”
“Perhaps he’ll try root and branch now that we’re here.”
“I hope so.” Alair’s smile would have made a mermaid nervous. “I am rather counting on that.”
“So, let’s be clear, this is a joint enterprise, and I expect to be rather more than the bait to whatever trap you are setting.” Martis slapped his hand down on the table by way of emphasis, making the pots jump.
“I wouldn’t have used you as bait, not without asking. That would be discourteous.”
“And we must observe the courtesies. I’ve the greater claim—he was my brother.”
“I can’t deny it, though I wish you’d let me arrange things. Your father has already lost one son, and mine… has many to spare.” Alair sighed. “But there we are—We, it is then.”
“So what is our first step?”
“Acquainting ourselves with our lodgings and our coffers then… We shall see what the tide brings us.”
They hailed a boatman and gave directions to their new home. It was rather grander than the title of lodgings would indicate—a small palace on a minor canal that led off from the main water route that transected the city, dividing the haves from the have nots. They were on the side of the haves: it might be a small palace, but it was still a palace, with the arched windows and filigree tracery of the more ornate and larger palazzo on the main canal.
They directed the man to the mermaid gate at the rear of the house, where the water reached into the centre of the building so that mermaids could conduct their business with the occupants without having to heave themselves out of the water.
They hauled themselves out of the boat onto the small pier that was blocked by wrought iron gates, dark and heavy and covered with protective amulets to ward off evil, small krakens, gargoyles, magical workers and Dovestone and his ilk.
Alair rang the bell by the door, and a short, stout man, looking as old as dirt, shuffled into view to stare at them, then begrudgingly open the gate.
“Good evening,” Alair said. “You’re Barnardis, yes? The steward.”
The old man grunted, but didn’t deny the charge. “I don’t know why you couldn’t come in round the front,” he said. “Makes less work for me.”
“I don’t conduct my life to make it easier for others,” Alair replied. “It’s one of my less agreeable characteristics.”
Barnardis stared and then grinned. “Aye, you look the sort.”
“How very gratifying,” Alair said. “Where’s the rest of the servants?”
“It’s Friday, sir, they’re all out enjoying theirselves. We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.”
“It’s the early bait that catches the fish,” Martis replied.
“A theory I’ve made it my life’s work to avoid testing,” Alair murmured, eyeing their surroundings with approval. “The only reason to see the dawn is if you’ve been up all night drinking and carousing and are heading to bed.”
The marble hall was large, running from the back of the building and the mermaid pool right up to the front door which was studded an
d barred with a piece of large oak. The hall was flanked by white statues in various states of undress, holding ornate candelabrum stuffed with unlit red candles. The windows were high up and also barred, letting in a little light, giving the place the air of an upmarket mausoleum.
“Our luggage is still on the docks,” Martis said. “Send a boy to pick it up. Ask for Habilus of the Mermaid’s Honour.”
Barnardis nodded. “When the boys get back, I’ll send them off for your things. Meantime, do you want some wine, young masters?”
“Wine, yes indeed,” Alair replied. “Bring it to the study, with all the correspondence that has built up since Calford … left us.”
“And the accounting books,” put in Martis. “I’ll want to look over those.”
Barnardis heaved a sigh, then pattered off into the corner to pull aside a red curtain which was draped over a door. “In here, young sirs,” he said, waving through into a cosy room, lined with book cases stacked three deep, with a floor heaped with dark red and gold Bokhara rugs.
“I hope Calford didn’t spend a fortune on these,” Martis said, eyeing the carpets.
“I hope he did.” Alair prodded one with his toe. “These are stock, to be sold to the right bidder, and just what we need to open doors.”
“And mouths, ears and eyes,” Martis added.
“I expect mouths are busy enough right now announcing our arrival in the City. It will be interesting to see who makes the first move to acknowledge we are here, and with what motives.”
“What do you think Dovestone will do?”
“Either send an assassin or an invitation to dinner.” Alair smirked. “Or perhaps combine the two and invite us to dinner and a poisoning, though that is the least likely option.”
“Why?”
“It’s just so terribly impolite to poison a guest, and the City does like to seem civil.”
Martis snorted. “Bloody convenient though.”
“Yes, there is that.” Alair settled in the ornate chair behind the carved desk. “It’s something of a dilemma for him, and whilst he is considering whether it is better to be rude or careless about loose ends, we shall be making our own move.”
