“Tide and wind and a woman’s mind, Juluk,” the captain said, scratching at his hairy chest where the open shirt showed a mat of grizzled hair; he was a very tall man, enormously tall for an Islander, and his nose was a beak that made even the customs officer’s look moderate.
“Where from, this trip, and what cargo?”
“Chalice. Ornamental stone, fig brandy, dried tentacle fish and hot peppers, indigo in cakes, conqueror root, and coffee,” he replied calmly.
“Ah. Any sign the King in the Isles is getting stroppy?”
“Not that I saw—but I keep my head out of such things.”
“Well, good for you,” the customs man said. “Keep it under seal until tomorrow, eh?”
“You eat shit too, Juluk—am I going to start breaking bulk in the middle of the night?”
“I could come aboard and inspect now, Sharlz.”
Captain Thicelt unhooked a purse from his belt and tossed it across the gap that the customs boat’s crew kept open with fending oars. “The usual sweetener—and you don’t need to share it with your boss, out here.”
“Not all of it,” Juluk said, weighing it. “Sail on.”
They came to the entrance of the narrow canal that split Preble from north to south—a natural channel between two skerries, when this had been a dwelling place of fliers and seabeasts, rather than men. A semicircle marked the harbor, wharves and jetties three-deep with ships, some as large as theirs, others of all sizes down to fishing smacks. Their masts made a lifeless, leafless tracery against the sky, an angular forest that creaked and rustled and swayed. Light died as ships and buildings dimmed moons and stars, and the clean smell of the sea gave way to the ever-present stink of a major port. Plops and rustlings came from the water, and once a pair of huge silvery eyes glinted—the scavengers that feasted on the filth, and inconvenient bodies, and drunks who fell off gangways at night.
“Strike sail,” the captain of the Briny Kettle said, and turned to Esmond. The Emerald could see the sheen of sweat on his face by the dim reflected lights of lanterns and sky, and smell it. “Out sweeps to the canal entrance . . . All yours from here on, excellent sir General.”
Esmond clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work,” he said. “You’ve earned what the King pays you—and more besides. Don’t forget to come and see me about it after the city’s ours.”
A grin split the tall Islander’s face. “That I’m not shy about, you’ll find, excellent sir.”
Even this late at night dock-wallopers were ready with a team of heavy greatbeasts. They caught the cable the sailors threw, hitched their team, and began hauling the ship through the sea gates and into the town.
Paved roadways lined both sides of the canal, from one half-moon harbor to the other; behind them warehouses loomed, linked until they formed seawalls of their own, preventing any enemy from storming into the city from this open water. Heavy iron grills closed the occasional roadway that led deeper into the town; iron chains could close the canal at need, as well.
Men were waiting halfway down the length of the canal, men with shuttered lanterns that they blinked briefly. They surrounded the laborers, and Esmond caught a gleam in their hands—probably long knives in one, and gold in the other. He knew which he’d have taken if he was a sleepy municipal slave on night watch at the harbor. They backed away, followed by their bewildered greatbeasts, and more lines flew to the roadway. Willing hands grasped them, drew them tight. Timber crunched against stone.
“For the King and the gods,” a voice called softly.
“For Prince Tenny and liberty,” Esmond replied.
He vaulted easily from the rail to the pavement four feet below. “General Esmond Gellert, with the Prince’s troops. You’re ready?”
“Enry Sharbonow, Suffete of Preble. Ready and more than ready. This way.”
Esmond turned. “Disembark according to plan,” he called. “No shouting, and I’ll geld the first man that breaks ranks!”
Except him, of course, he thought sourly, as Prince Tenny jumped ashore in a swirl of purple cloak and clash of silvered armor—plumed spired helmet, back-and-breast, engraved armguards . . . The half-dozen friends-cum-hangers-on he had with him were just as gorgeous, or had been before some of them got seasick. Tenny, to give him credit, didn’t look nervous as some of them did, either. Brave, or too stupid to understand the risks, or both, Esmond thought.