by Conrad Mason
Contents
Half Title
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Prologue
PART ONE: Contraband
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Interlude
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
PART TWO: Fayters
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Interlude
PART THREE: Tormenta
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Interlude
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Interlude
PART FOUR: The Pageant of the Sea
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
Extract from the Authoritative Compendium of Demonspawn
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
The old woman smiles into the darkness.
Her cloak is already drenched, but still the rain beats at her back, drips from her hood, and streams over her hands, which cling to the cold tiles of the rooftop.
Port Fayt. At last.
She closes her eyes and breathes in deep, savoring the familiar tang of salt, sweat, and rotten fish that haunts every twisting, cobbled street.
Ten years. Can it really have been so long?
Port Fayt.
A flash of lightning reveals the town to her. The bobbing mass of masts in the bay, where galleons rock beside wavecutters, hobgoblin junks, and dhows, half-scaled for crews of imps. The clutter of buildings sprawling out from the harbor, clinging to the headlands on either side; their skyline a jumble of red-tiled roofs, chimneys, and wooden cranes. In the midst of it all, the gray dome and spire of the town hall in Thalin Square, and high up on the cliff top, the lighthouse, striped red and white like a child’s lollipop.
The wind howls, and the rain batters the tiles. And still, the old woman smiles.
Port Fayt.
The jewel of the Middle Islands, they call it. A safe haven in the vastness of the Ebony Ocean. Each day, more creatures dare the long voyage here from the Old World, and every one of them can be sure of a welcome. Human or troll. Imp or elf. Here they are all just Fayters. Here they are all equal—or as equal as their wits can make them.
Port Fayt.
Crouched on the rooftop, the old woman drinks it in, recalling every detail. She remembers the chatter of the fairy market in the Marlinspike Quarter, the bragging of the merchants in the town hall and the bustle of Mer Way, Port Fayt’s main artery, snaking more than a mile from the docks to Thalin Square. She licks a drop of rainwater from her lips, and still, she smiles.
How she hates it.
Port Fayt.
She has come for it, at last.
Balancing a clattering pile of dirty dishes in one hand and a tray of empty tankards in the other, Joseph Grubb tried to navigate through the midday tide of drunken sailors. He dodged a staggering dwarf, ducked as a plate went flying over his head, and stooped to pick up a fallen tankard, nodding at a one-legged man who, judging by the skull embroidered on his eye patch, probably wasn’t an honest fisherman.
It was business as usual in the Legless Mermaid, refuge of the lowliest crooks, scoundrels, and rogues in Port Fayt. Not that Grubb was complaining. As his uncle, Mr. Lightly the landlord, liked to remind him, he was no better than the customers.
Joseph Grubb was a half-and-half. Not quite goblin and not quite human. It meant he was small and quick enough to weave through the Mermaid at its busiest. But it also meant having mottled gray-pink skin and pointed ears, and Fayters yelling “mongrel” at him every day.
Then again, according to Mr. Lightly, Grubb was lucky to get any work at all—especially in an establishment as fine as the Legless Mermaid.
Someone grabbed hold of Grubb’s apron and nearly dragged him off his feet.
“More grog here, matey,” slurred the customer. He was a plump man sitting on his own at a corner table, with long, greasy hair, a gold earring, and a lazy eye—although that might have had something to do with the grog he’d been drinking. There wasn’t an inch of his table that didn’t have a drained tankard on it.
Grubb wrinkled his nose, trying not to breathe in.
“Yes, sir. More grog, on its way.”
“And a nice big plate o’ steamed eels.”
“Got it.”
Grubb sighed and pushed his way back into the crowd. It was at times like these that he wondered about slipping out one night and never coming back. But, as his uncle would have told him, he was just being stupid. Where could he go? He was a mongrel, with no parents and no friends. He didn’t like to admit it, but Mr. Lightly was right. He was lucky to work here.
“Tankard of grog, Uncle,” he said, reaching up to set his load on the bar. “And a plate of eels for the gentleman in the corner.”
Mr. Lightly was a burly, red-faced human who never, ever called his nephew by his first name. He poured the drink, handed it to Grubb, and hit him hard on the ear.
“How many times do I have to tell you, mongrel? You don’t call me uncle. Especially not in public.”
“Yes, Mr. Lightly. Sorry, sir.”
“Your mother might have been a goblin lover, but I stinking well ain’t. Got it?”
Grubb didn’t trust himself to reply. He nodded, rubbing his head for the fourth or fifth time that day, and zigzagged back through the crowd to deliver the grog.
The man with the lazy eye snatched it and slurped away, dripping most of it onto his filthy coat. Within seconds, the tankard came down with a bang and the man let out a long, gurgling burp.
“Ahhhh, that’s better. Thank yer kindly, matey.”
“You’re welcome,” said Grubb, faintly disgusted. He turned to go, but the man was holding on to his apron again.
“Hold on there, lad. What’s the rush, eh? Sit down.”
“Umm … I’m not …”
“Never mind that. You seem like a decent sort, matey. Won’t yer help out a cove who’s new in town?”
“Well, I …”
“Hear tell there’s to be a party tonight, out on the docks. What’s that in aid of, eh?”
Grubb looked around. No one seemed to need him, and he was desperate to rest his aching feet. Besides, Mr. Lightly was always telling him to keep the customers happy. They loved to talk, once they’d gotten a few of Lightly’s Finest Bowelbusters inside them. The stuff loosened tongues as well as bladders. Loosened just about everything, in fact.
“You mean the Grand Party?” Grubb said.
“That’s the one, matey.”
Grubb sat down and tried to explain.
“The Grand Party is … well, er, it’s just a big party, really. Everyone in Port Fayt is invited, and it’s all paid for by the governor. We have it once a year, to celebrate the first day of the festival, and it’s—”<
br />
“Slow down, lad. Festival? What festival?”
Grubb did his best not to look surprised. The man clearly knew nothing about Port Fayt.
“The Festival of the Sea. It lasts four days, starting today. At the end there’s a huge pageant, and everyone wears costumes and parades through the town. It’s all because of Thalin the Navigator. Sort of to thank him.” Grubb realized that he was enjoying himself. It felt good, being able to help out this stranger. “He was an explorer from the Old World. He discovered the Middle Islands and founded Port Fayt. It was supposed to be a safe place for everyone. You know, humans, trolls, elves, and so on … All living together in peace.”
The man frowned and peered around at the other customers, as if he was only just noticing them. There was a gang of stevedores by the bar—humans, a few dwarves, and a large, green troll, drinking and arm wrestling. The troll won every time, of course, but they were all enjoying themselves too much to mind. At the table next to them, an impish sailor was chattering away to an elf—tall and slender, with ghostly white skin. She was seated and bent low over the table, but the imp still had to stand on tiptoes to talk to her. His nostrils quivered with excitement as he told his story.
“Seems to work, eh, matey?” said the man at last. “Maybe this Thalin o’ yours was onto something, mixing everyone up. Never seen the like, back in the Old World. Folks keep themselves to themselves back there.”
Grubb shrugged. It did work. More or less. Unless you happened to be a mongrel. He looked down at his hands, gray-pink with long, bony fingers, and sighed.
“So, this cove, Thalin the Navigator,” said the man. “What happened to him?”
“They say he was, er … eaten. By a sea demon called the Maw.”
The man thought about that for a few moments, then snorted.
“Sounds like a load of old bilge to me, matey.”
Grubb chuckled. He was starting to like the stranger. He seemed honest and straightforward, which was unheard of in the Mermaid. And besides, being called matey was a lot better than being called mongrel.
“So will you be going to the party?” Grubb asked.
The man gave a sly smile, checked his tankard was empty, and belched.
“Oh, I reckon I’ll be there, lad. Got a spot of business to take care of. Got to keep yer appointments, ain’t yer?”
“I suppose so,” Grubb agreed, though he had no idea what the man was talking about.
“What’s yer name?” asked the man, holding out a hand.
“Grubb,” said Grubb. He shook the hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Aye, and you too, matey. I’m Captain Phineus Clagg.”
Grubb felt his ears twitch.
“Captain?”
“That’s right. Captain of the Sharkbane, fastest ship in the Ebony Ocean. She’s a wavecutter, like o’ which you’ve never seen. Ain’t nothing like standing at her prow, feeling the salt spray on yer cheeks. That’s the life, matey. Tell yer what, you should join us. Always room for a smart lad on board.”
Mr. Lightly appeared with a steaming plate of eels, dumped it on the table, and belted Grubb round the head.
“Enough chitchat, mongrel,” he wheezed, heading back to the bar. “Get to work.”
Clagg pulled a penknife from his pocket and began to eat, slicing off chunks of eel, spearing them with the knife, and stuffing them into his mouth. The conversation was obviously over.
“Oi, mongrel!” yelled someone from the other side of the tavern.
Grubb hurried off, rubbing his head for the fifth or sixth time that day. His heart was racing. It wasn’t every day you met a ship’s captain in the Legless Mermaid. He had to talk to him again. Could there really be room for a mongrel in his crew? Grubb was sick to death of the Mermaid, and he was pretty sure Mr. Lightly wouldn’t be sorry to see him go.
He tried to imagine himself as a seafaring adventurer aboard a wavecutter, just like Thalin the Navigator. It didn’t seem that likely. But then, Phineus Clagg hadn’t seemed like much of a captain himself. Funny, what he’d said about an appointment at the Grand Party. What did he—
CRRRRRASH!
Grubb spun around.
Phineus Clagg’s table was lying on its side, several feet from where it had been before. The captain himself lay dazed beside it, his chair broken beneath him and his eels spilled all over his shirt.
Grubb caught his breath. Standing over the fallen man was a gigantic figure, taller than anyone else in the tavern. Its shaved head brushed the ceiling. Its muscled torso was bare, the dark brown skin covered in intricate, swirling black tattoos. And its massive fist held a massive cutlass.
“Surprise,” said the ogre.
The cutlass blade hovered inches above Clagg’s neck.
The Legless Mermaid had gone very quiet. Ogres weren’t exactly common, even in Port Fayt, and Grubb had never seen one as big as this before.
“Captain Phineus Clagg, if I don’t mistake,” said the ogre. He spoke with a harsh foreign accent that Grubb didn’t recognize. “You coming with me.”
“Well, well,” said Phineus Clagg from the floor. His eyes were searching around the room, looking for any chance of escape. “If it ain’t my, er … my dear old friend Tuck? Now look here, matey, as it happens I’m right in the middle of lunch, so this ain’t what you’d call a convenient moment.”
“You no worry,” said the ogre. “Plenty more eels where you going.”
“Where’s that?” asked Clagg, brightening a little.
“Bottom of sea.”
The ogre chuckled—a guttural, roaring sound that made several customers flinch.
“Now, now, gents,” said Mr. Lightly nervously from behind the bar. “There’s no need for any violence. Er, not in here, at least.”
BANG!
Grubb jumped. The ogre was clutching at his ankle, howling like a harpooned walrus, and Phineus Clagg was on his feet. He dropped a tiny smoking pistol and vaulted the overturned table, coattails flying, his eyes fixed on the door. Too slow. The ogre swung his cutlass sideways, and Clagg tried to dodge; he tripped, staggered, turned it into a roll to one side, and sprang up into a crouch. The ogre was still between him and the door. Clagg licked his lips and tugged a short, curved cutlass from his belt.
There was a scraping of chairs and tables as customers scrambled to get out of the way, clearing a space around the two fighters. Grubb was jostled backward, staring at the pair of them. Drunken brawls broke out every day in the Legless Mermaid, but a real fight, with real weapons … He didn’t exactly want to watch, but he couldn’t help himself.
The ogre lifted his hand from his ankle and shook it, spattering the flagstones with spots of blood, so dark it was almost black.
“You …” he growled. “You make me bleed.”
His face twisted into a scowl and he lunged forward, hacking and slashing, his blade spinning like an iron windmill. Clagg stepped back, parrying desperately. He almost tripped over an empty bottle, then scraped past a table, snatched a stool, and tried to fend off the ogre with it. But the ogre’s cutlass chopped into the legs, tore the stool out of Clagg’s hand, and sent it clattering to the floor.
Grubb was shoved in all directions at once. Some people were laughing and cheering on the fighters. Others were drawing their own weapons and wading in. Several heavily armed, overexcited crooks surged toward him, and he dived under the nearest table. He would be safe there. No one was going to care about the tavern mongrel at a time like this.
The table shattered, and Captain Phineus Clagg came crashing down on top of him.
“Aaauggh!” yelped Grubb.
“Sorry, matey,” croaked Clagg.
“Get out my way, bilge rats,” yelled the ogre. “GET OUT MY WAY!”
But the place was in chaos, and there was no way through. Phineus Clagg leaped to his feet and shoved through the crowd. Grubb sat up just in time to see him dive through a window, taking most of the glass with him. Cursing, the ogre elbowed his way to t
he door and was gone.
It was a long time before Mr. Lightly managed to restore order.
“Settle down, everyone,” he was puffing. “It’s quite safe now. YOU! Put that down.”
A young troll sheepishly lowered the chair he was about to break over his friend’s head.
Mr. Lightly’s eyes fell on Grubb, sitting in a daze amid the wreckage of the table he’d hidden under, rubbing his head for the sixth or seventh time that day.
“Maw’s teeth, mongrel!” he snapped. “Don’t just sit around like some ugly brain-dead sea slug. Sort out this mess.”
Grubb nodded, fetched a broom, and began sweeping up broken shards of table. Like all the furniture at the Legless Mermaid, it had been cobbled together out of driftwood gathered from the beach. No wonder it had fallen apart so easily.
His foot brushed against something on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up.
A thin package, wrapped in fancy black velvet and tied up with a silver cord. It was no wider or longer than his forearm and weighed almost nothing. He tried shaking the package, but it made no sound. Captain Clagg must have dropped it when he fell.
Grubb looked around. His uncle was facing away from him, apologizing to some customers and herding others out of the tavern. He had only a second or two. Quickly, he lifted up his shirt and stuffed the package into his belt, out of sight.
His ears were tingling, and his heart was racing all over again. Whatever it was, it looked like something valuable wrapped up like that.
Maybe Clagg would escape from the ogre and come back for it.
Maybe he’d be delighted that Grubb had found it for him.
Maybe he’d ask how he could ever repay him, and Grubb would ask to join his crew, and he’d set sail aboard the Sharkbane, off into the sunset, in search of adventure …
Probably not.
But maybe.
Captain Newton’s boots thudded on the cobblestones, still wet from last night’s rain.
It was lunchtime, and Fayters thronged the quayside. Stevedores rolled barrels down gangplanks, heaved wooden crates, argued with harassed revenue officials. Traders haggled, shook hands, tried to fleece one another. Food sellers ducked and weaved among the crowds, hawking greasy paper bags of shellfish, slices of fried octopus, and flagons of grog, and yelling curses at the messenger fairies who whirred through the air, running errands for their masters. Out in the bay, sailors clambered over rigging. Sails were unfurled, anchors weighed, orders bellowed.
