peace in Highport. He could quite happily spend hours here, taking in the smells, sights and sounds of the harbour. From the merchant ships that brought their cargoes of exotic goods, to the fishing vessels that brought the folk of the city their staple diet from the sea. He loved it all.
His eyes ran out across the water, beyond the harbour walls, where two ocean going ships drifted, both having found a deeper anchor. Each ship had a small landing-dinghy tied to its stern like two small children holding tightly onto their mother's hand, he thought, protected and not allowed to wander far.
Seamen worked away on the deck of the nearest ship, already loading its cargo into the hold, calling instructions down to their comrades below. Farther out still, in the deepest water, a three-masted ship unfurled its mainsail as the bravest members of its crew clung to the high rigging. From the cut of the canvas he recognised it as a vessel of the Commonwealth and it was leaving port. After the heavy fog of the last few days, today would have been the first morning for almost a week that the master could safely plot a way out into the deep water and back to his home. He wished them good luck, the journey was a tough one.
On either side of the entrance to the harbour rested the two rows of black-iron cannon, like loyal hunting dogs waiting for their master to return home. Except, he thought, these hounds had not barked in anger for some time. The two massive wooden wheels of the chain-lifting mechanism reached fully fifteen feet high and had been built on either side of the harbour mouth, set back a little behind the cannon. No one could remember the last time that the chains had been raised in response to an attack but the next testing was days away. A pity, he thought, as he never tired of the impressive sight.
oOo
Lieutenant Milo Cromwell looked north, across the harbour, towards the watchtower on the other side before reaching out to hold the handrail that ran down the length of the wooden steps to the waterline. He's already there, he thought, noting the shape of the Captain high up on the platform. He glanced down to his leather-armour jerkin, checking that the buttons had been arranged correctly and that the polish was just right. He wanted to give no reason for the man to criticise.
He climbed down the stairs and onto the quayside, picking his way around the wooden walkway that clung to the walls, a few feet above the high tide mark. Barrels and nets hung out to dry around the edge of the jetty even though the lion's share of the berths were empty; the boats that were usually moored in them would be out at sea by now, not returning until late in the day.
Cromwell's sword hung from his belt. It had been a gift from his mother and in truth it was too long for him, but he didn't have the heart to tell her. It bumped as he passed between two barrels, and without warning he felt it wedge him. He stopped, lifting it a little so that he could pass. He carried on a for a few more steps and he felt the sword pull from his hands. Now, it had become snagged on a fishing net which had been left unattended at the side of the dock. That was all he needed.
He glanced up at the watchtower again. He couldn't see the Captain's face from this distance but he was sure to be laughing at him. Why did it always happen to him? he wondered. He struggled to pull his weapon free from it's snare, but it was stuck fast. He pulled again, this time harder, and it popped free. He stepped backwards as the sword was released and then remembered where he was. He looked down. His foot teetered on the edge of the walkway, and a step of just a fraction of an inch further would have seen him falling backwards into the water. He sighed, and glanced at the heavens, his heart beating as he tried to compose himself before carrying on.
Up ahead, a brown and white terrier on the deck of a barge saw him approaching and barked a warning for him to keep away, but he ignored the animal and carried on walking. The dog jumped onto dry land and ran headlong towards him, baring its teeth and increasing the ferocity and volume of its yapping. Cromwell stepped back towards the wall, holding out his hand in an attempt to calm the dog and tell it to stop.
'Good dog,' he said, backing away. 'Stay!'
The sailor on deck looked up from his work. 'Jester!' the man shouted, 'Leave!'
The terrier stopped, turned its head towards it master and sniffed the air. It looked back towards Cromwell and paused for a moment, its nose twitching in the breeze, before turning away and skipping back to its master, its tail high.
'Good boy,' the sailor said, as the dog returned, acknowledging the indiscretion with a wave of his hand in Cromwell's direction. The man went back to his appointed task of coiling the ropes that lay on the deck.
Cromwell crept past the ship, trying his best not to attract the attentions of the dog again. Jester looked over at him and wagged its tail, everything now forgotten, before trotting across the deck to lay in its basket.
Cromwell pressed on, reaching the worn stone steps that led up to the higher level of the promenade. Three gulls perched on the wall abutting the steps, preening themselves and watching him closely as he drew nearer. He reached the bottom and looked up at the birds, large specimens and males he thought. They screeched, daring him to continue forward or face the consequences, but as he walked on their bravery deserted them and they spread their wings, giving one last call at him before flying off.
oOo
Winterburne counted Cromwell's steps as his boots stomped up the wooden construction and onto the boards of the platform, continuing to look out over the water as the boots came to a stop beside him.
'Good Morning, Captain,' Cromwell said. His words trembled a little as he spoke.
Winterburne knew that even after this all this time the Lieutenant still felt nervous around him. He wasn't sure why - he didn't think that he had ever terrorised him - but no matter, as far as he was concerned a little bit of fear and respect couldn't hurt their relationship at all. It was all good for building his character and he felt sure that in the long run would help serve to make the man stronger.
Winterburne drew in a breath of salty sea air. 'I love this place,' he said, clasping his hands behind his back, continuing to look out over the bay.
'I know, Sir,' Cromwell replied.
Winterburne turned to look at his Lieutenant. The young man had an expectant look on his face.
'Did you have specific orders for me, this morning?' Cromwell asked.
The Lieutenant was an inch or so shorter than Winterburne and that made things a little easier for him, only adding to the sense of authority that he had over the man. Cromwell had shaved and Winterburne thought that perhaps he should have done that too. He wondered whether today, after the start to the day that the young man had already had, might be as good a day as any to play a game with him. First the net, and then the terrier. Well they say that things always happen in threes. Perhaps another test might be in order.
'What day is it today?' he asked.
Cromwell looked thoughtful for a brief moment. 'Tuesday, Captain.'
'And what is it about Tuesdays, do you think, that I find most irritating?'
Cromwell frowned. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose it might be because Tuesday is the Watch House cook's day off, Captain.'
Winterburne laughed. He liked the Lieutenant very much. His simplistic approach to life and work was refreshing and there was a good head on his shoulders. One day, he might make a fine Captain if he continued to work hard, but he still displayed a naivety that made working with the man somewhat challenging on occasions. For a start, he was too trusting, and Winterburne knew that he had beaten Cromwell again in a game that the man did not even realise he was playing.
'A good guess,' Winterburne said, 'but wrong.'Cromwell's answer was quite perceptive though, on the whole, and certainly the idea of suffering a meal in the Watch Headquarters, prepared by one of his men rather than the cook, did not fill him with enthusiasm. 'No,' he added, 'it is because this afternoon I have to meet with that pain-in-the-ass, Martell.' The thought definitely did not fill him with excitement, but it was a task that he had been ordered to endure by the Emperor, and therefore unmoveable. 'So,' he said,
'Tuesdays are usually, when all is considered, not good days.'
Winterburne turned and paced across the wooden planks, towards the top of the steps and Cromwell waited before he fell in behind. As his right foot fell on the top step, he stopped and turned to face his Lieutenant. 'And, by the way,' he said, pointing a finger at Cromwell, 'remind me later that we should eat lunch at the tavern.'
The two men marched down the stairs and as Winterburne reached the bottom he stepped out onto the cobbles of the dockside, looking left and right as he tried to decide which route to take. Opposite the steps, and set back a little, were the rows of assorted shops and crowded dwellings that lined the busy port. The back streets and alleyways running away from him formed a web of connections in certain parts of the city and an experienced Watchman could navigate across large parts of it without even setting foot on a main road.
The buildings themselves were built mainly from timber frames and between the beams the walls has been plastered and painted in a plain ochre colour, as dictated by Imperial law. On most, the paint peeled and many of the buildings had developed an exaggerated lean that made them look as if they were trying to run down the gentle hill to join the ships that floated on the water. The roofs of the buildings varied in angle of pitch, none of them meeting their neighbours in an orderly fashion and their colour varied too, some also had missing tiles that would surely have caused the occupants problems in the periods of bad weather that were a hazard of living by the sea.
Although it was still early in the day, many of the townsfolk who lived in these houses were already up and about their business and several of them raised their hands in recognition as the watchmen passed. Even though Winterburne never knew their names he recognised many of the faces and he also knew that the inhabitants of this part of Highport were, though relatively poor, generally good people who worked hard to keep their families safe and secure.
One of the city's main tree-lined cobbled streets stretched away on either side of him. This particular street ran from the fortified North Gate towards the south, skirting around the harbour and continuing on eventually reaching its counterpart, the equally secure South Gate. A half-way around the harbour another main street began, although this one pointed to the east, climbing the gentle hill away from the sea towards the Cathedral and Palace just over a mile away. At the other end of the road stood the formidable main entrance to Highport, the near impregnable East Gate.
The roads had quickly filled with people, most of whom seemed to walked with a purpose, joining the carts whose horses clopped their way around the city. On mornings like this, Winterburne never had a well planned route back to the Watch Headquarters. Usually, he tried to tap into the sense of intuition that he felt he had developed after years of pounding the beat and enforcing the law. He would let his gut tell him the best way to go.
'Who is working the South Quarter today?' Winterburne asked. A look of horror crossed Cromwell's face for a moment, and he wondered if it was because the the man had realised that he had checked the duty roster before leaving Headquarters.
'Sergeant Moore and Watchman Roland, Sir.'
Winterburne nodded. It was quite correct, of course, but he expected nothing other than fair play from Cromwell. Being a dirty lying cheat was not something at which he had ever displayed any capability, although his voice definitely lacked enthusiasm, giving away his feelings somewhat. Winterburne guessed that from his Lieutenant's perspective this would have been the worst choice he could possibly have made.
'They'll most likely
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