Rogues

II. The Rusty Sail

Summer twilight shimmered beyond the hulking gate standing between the Braun Sea and Nordturm's docks. Ships bobbed under a stone-carved roof as sailors shifted crates and barrels along gangplanks, their captains barking orders in languages Fedor did not recognise.

He wended between lobster pots and fishing nets and gazed up at a half-gutted narwhal hanging from a hook.

Lev sauntered ahead and slowed his pace to match Fedor's. "I've got a little game for you. You see those two walking ahead?" He gestured to a pair of men wearing tailcoats and top hats. "What do you reckon?"

"About what?"

"Do you reckon they're sailors?"

"They look like merchants."

Lev nodded. "You get merchants on land and you get them at sea. Which ones are they?"

"I don't know. Land, I guess."

"That's right. But, how can you tell?"

Fedor halted and studied the pair. "I just guessed."

"Look at the way they walk and then look at the way the sailors walk with a rolling gait. You see it?"

Fedor watched a sailor for several seconds and nodded. "I see it."

Lev carried on walking. "You can tell a lot when you watch people. Different professions have different walks, different body shapes, even."

"That can't be true."

"You think a priest has the same posture as someone who works in the foundries?"

"Well, no. But—"

"Exactly, mate." He swaggered through the commercial district. Jewellers stood next to shoe shops, apothecaries, and wool merchants, mismatched buildings seemingly slapped together from wood and gaudy paint, their signs illuminated by alchemical lanterns hanging from the cavern roof. Aromas drifted from the smokery, combining with the smells of leather and fried onions.

Fedor stopped in front of a store selling animal pelts and gaped at the maw of a towering polar bear.

"You know the Rusty Sail?"

Fedor drew his attention from the bear and shook his head. "Which rusty sail?"

"Not a rusty sail, the Rusty Sail. It's only the best pub this side of Hafendorf."

"No."

Lev sighed and gestured to the sprawling city. "You've got a lot to learn, kid."

"I suppose I do."

"You ever get to the upper city much?"

"Not really. The priests sometimes send us out on the beach if there's been a wreck, but apart from that..."

"No wonder you look so pale." He led Fedor through a series of alleyways into an area of Nordturm where, if he stood on tiptoes, he could touch the cavern roof with his fingertips. "Anyone ever say you've got a bit of a Sieshin look about you?"

"The priests said I've got Sieshin blood. Maybe a bit of Ostreich too."

"What was it? Mum a whore? Dad a sailor? Some noble's bastard?"

Fedor ignored the glares of a pair of constables striding past in matching black uniforms.

"How did you end up with the priests?"

"I don't know. I've been there as long as I can remember."

"Well, you won't get any bother from me. I don't care where anyone's from. As far as I can tell, everywhere has more than its fair share of dickheads." He gestured to a ramshackle, two-storey building. The faded image of a rusted sail hung above its door. "Here we are."