tankard of ale. One-Thumb stoically refused to give either discounts or credit,
wishing secretly that he had the courage to raise the prices instead. It took
men to man ships, and men drank, especially when they landed in a new town. He
could be rich by tomorrow, rich enough to leave this town for good, if …
If these low lifes didn’t drain his cellars completely before the fleet arrived.
With an angry bellow he answered the next request for credit by smashing the
asker in the face with a tankard.
* * *
The docks were deserted now. The fisherfolk had fled inland, leaving the area
free for the garrison troops. The city’s soldiers had not yet arrived and there
was some doubt that they ever would. Most felt the Prince would keep them at the
palace rather than run the risk of having them desert before they reached the
enemy.
Only one person kept the seabirds company as they watched the fleet move closer.
Hakiem, the storyteller, sat crosslegged on a crate in the shade of a ragged
canvas awning that flapped noisily in the stillness of the empty wharf. He had
purloined two bottles of good wine from an abandoned tavern and he sipped at
them alternately as he squinted at the distant sails.
He had not been idle since his conversation with Omat and he knew now the
approaching ships matched the descriptions of those used by the Fish-Eyed-Folk
of old legends…and that a similar ship had captured the Old Man and his son
months before.
Whether friendly or hostile, the fleets’ arrival promised to be the most
noteworthy event in this generation’s history-and,Hakiem intended to witness it