A spectacle of masts above the rooftops announced the port from blocks away. Some of the masts moved, gliding at a stately pace, pennants fluttering. Higher still, scores of shrieking gulls wheeled and dived.
It was dusk, but the streets still buzzed with sailors, merchant seamen, stevedores lugging sacks and barrels, passengers arriving and departing, handcarts, horses and wagons. A chain of galley slaves shuffling miserably under the lash.
On the docks themselves longshoremen loaded and unloaded all manner of cargo. In slings hanging from hoists, livestock bleated. Fowl beat their wings against the bars of their tiny cages, stacked twenty high. Fishermen gutted their catches, scenting the air with a tang that made Serrah want to retch.
She took care to avoid the customs officials, port guards and occasional paladin scattered among the crowd. Collar up, head down, she walked purposefully along the line of vessels, weighing up their pros and cons.
Hardly a berth was empty, and not all the ships were mercantile or navy. Private yachts and clippers were moored here too, their sails bearing the coats of arms of ruling families or the more powerful guilds. In a show of real wealth, the crests were glamoured. They rippled, shone, slowly changed colour. The lions rampant, the unicorns, eagles and twisting serpents pranced and writhed.
Likewise, many a ship’s figurehead was magically animated. One, a traditional comely maiden, jiggled ample breasts with impossibly red nipples. As Serrah passed, the wooden effigy gave her a salacious wink. She assumed the craft was a Diamond Isle transport. It was certainly vulgar enough.
At length she came to a three-masted merchantman, a ship of appreciable size. Big was good. It meant the vessel would likely be going somewhere far away, and should be spacious enough to hide her. And it was nearly ready to sail. The last few items of payload sat on the dock, waiting to be stowed. A group of crewmen stood by the prow engaged in conversation, their backs to her.
Serrah looked up. Several hands were in the rigging, and one was climbing to the crow’s nest, but she couldn’t see anybody on deck.
She seized her chance. Snatching a box, she lifted it to her shoulder, hiding her face from the chattering crewmen. Bent over, moving quickly, she ascended the gangway. She expected someone to shout a challenge, or the sound of pursuing footsteps. Nothing happened.
On board, she discarded the box and surveyed the scene. In front of her was a cargo hold, its deck cover shut and bolted. She made her way astern, keeping low, staying away from the rail. Amidships there was another hold, and this one was open. Creeping to the edge, she peered into the chasm. The cavernous hull was dark, and she could just make out a small mountain of filled sacks directly below. She couldn’t see or hear any movement down there. Nor could she find a rope or hauling tackle to help her descend.
So she jumped.
The long drop knocked the wind out of her, and she nearly shouted. At least the sacks weren’t full of coal or pig iron. She scurried down them and onto the floor, wincing. Her joints were still sore. Blinking in the gloom, she tried to get her bearings. The only source of light she could see, apart from overhead, was further to the stern; a doorway shape, faintly outlined. Newly acquired dagger in hand, she headed for it.
Darkness and stacks of cargo got in her way. But eventually, shins and elbows grazed, she reached the entrance. It led to a smaller hold. Smaller, yet probably large enough to build a cottage in. Such light as there was came from a half-open hatch cover, identical to the one she had dropped through. At the far end of this hold were three wooden doors. Skirting the feeble shaft of light, she went towards them.
Opening the first one took mettle. But like the second and third, the room contained only clutter. She thought for a moment. Then, reluctantly because she didn’t like the idea of there being only one way out, or the confinement, she slipped into the right-hand room. She left the door ajar so she had weak light to see by.
The chamber was about cabin-sized, but most of it was crammed with chests and bales. She began rearranging them, stopping frequently to listen for anyone approaching. Soon she had a space excavated near the back of the room, just big enough for her to fit into, and a chest ready to plug the entry once she was in. She thought the hiding place would look solid enough to a cursory glance. A proper search was another thing.
A loud crash startled her. The frail light was cut off. They were securing the hatch. She could hear covers along the length of the ship being slammed with an echoing finality.
Serrah groped through the dark and crawled into the cavity. She pulled the trunk into the gap behind her, but left a tiny crack for a spy hole. Not that she could see anything. Settling as best she could on rough hessian sacks, she made sure her sword and knife were close to hand.
The darkness seemed to sharpen her hearing. She was aware of the hull creaking, and the scratching of rats. More distant sounds, of orders shouted and running feet, drifted to her. She fell to turning events over in her mind.
A nagging thought was that her old masters, the CIS, should have been watching the ports. Serrah couldn’t believe they weren’t, it was such a basic precaution. Yet somehow she’d got through unchallenged. She hoped it was plain dumb luck and not some elaborate trick. That was a path to paranoia and she forced herself to ponder other concerns, like where she might be going, and what she could do about food and drink.
She felt the ship weigh anchor, then the bumps as it scraped against the harbour wall. Free of restraint, the vessel bobbed gently from side to side. Small pieces of unsecured cargo slid back and forth on the hold’s floor. In due course the motion calmed and they were properly underway.
As best she could judge, something like an hour had gone by when she heard a new set of noises. She sat up, alert, grasping her blades. Through her peep hole she saw the glow of a subdued light and a pair of crewmen appeared, one carrying a hooded lantern.
Were they searching for her? Would they notice the storeroom’s open door? If the answer was yes, she determined to make a fight of it. Her grip on the blades tightened, though her palms grew sweaty. She remembered her misgivings at entering a place with only one exit, and started to regret the decision.
But the sailors weren’t searching. They didn’t spot the open door, and they made little effort to be quiet. One sat on a crate, the other rolled a barrel over and perched opposite him. They took out cob pipes and stuffed them with rough tobacco. She realised they were off watch, or simply skiving, and allowed herself to relax a fraction.
They passed a hip flask back and forth as they smoked and talked. She strained to hear their conversation, but caught only snatches.
‘…thank the gods it’s east we’re going and not north,’ one of them said.
His companion replied, but she didn’t catch the meaning.
‘Not according to my brother,’ the first man went on. ‘…some kind of… sweeps aside everything in his way.’
Again, she couldn’t quite hear the other man’s response, but its tone was sceptical.
‘…many in the barbarous regions, granted,’ stated the one she could hear more clearly, ‘but none…’ Frustratingly, he must have turned his head. Serrah pressed her ear to the crack. ‘…different, you mark me.’
She couldn’t get the sense of it. Then she heard a stray word.
‘…Zerreiss…’ It was a name she’d heard before, but where or when escaped her.
At least she knew they were travelling east, which was something. The rest of it was too disjointed to mean much, but she carried on listening.
She heard that name again, more than once, as their exchange droned on.
Zerreiss. Where
had
she come across it?
Serrah was trying to remember when exhaustion took her. She fell into a pit of sleep as dark and silent as a tomb.