The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

19-2: Don't Mind Me [continued]

"Another drink?"

"Certainly."

Deklow poured one of his overly generous quarter-pint-in-a-half-pint-mugs of ale, and handed it over with a familiar worried expression on his face.

"What's this?"

"What's what?"

"I understand that you like to take advantage of your customers," he said, holding out his drink, "but aren't we friends?"

"What are you on about?" demanded the innkeeper in a tired voice. "That is the perfect half pint."

"A half pint of foam, perhaps."

"Three-quarters of an inch of foam. Nothing more, nothing less. The perfect pour. Not one of my customers has ever complained."

"Not one of them has ever measured your three-quarter inch."

"Godsdammit, just drink the thing. It's not as if you're paying for it."

He smiled at Deklow, taking ample enjoyment in ragging him. The simple pleasures of mortality were almost completely lost on many of the gods. He changed the subject, returning to their more pressing business.

"Is everything prepared for the city watchmen?" he asked.

"More or less," said the innkeeper. "I will be opening the doors to The Sharpened Bluntooth in two days, as requested."

"And you have enough room, food, and ale for two-score, heavily deprived sailors?"

"Enough to last them two dozen nights without sleep."

"And when Pektyne shows you the compass?"

"I will send him to Arynlock, just as you asked," he said. "Is that all you need? The compass?"

"I need many things, Deklow. This plan won't fall into place without my perfect calculations, the countless variables resolving exactly to the desired result."

"Yes, I know. I just mean... a whole ship? Never mind. I will do as you say, and trust that you know what you are doing."

"Excellent. I will find Constable Pektyne and Tyke shortly, and send them north in search of the impending shipwreck. While Pektyne is mostly a simple man, there are particular complexities in correctly manoeuvring him. I have had to set a number of traps to lure him into the suspicion that something is not quite right. Just enough to convince him to follow the signs. Don't let him know anything more... all you know is that Arynlock might be interested. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. Anything else I need to do?"

"Make sure the torch is lit. It's very important."

The god of time had a tendency to review the calculations of his predictions frequently to ensure that everything would continue to work out as planned. The torch was important. Without the torch... things wouldn't go exactly as he'd planned.

"Another drink?"

"Of course. Make that two."

He eyed his next meeting at the far end of the tavern. Collecting the two drinks, he crossed the dining hall to a small table in the corner of the room. A man was sitting there alone with a parchment laid before him on the table, scribbling away, using an expensive feather pen. The god of time sat down without invitation, the ale a gift to open the conversation.

"You looked thirsty," he said casually.

"I am always thirsty," the man replied with a curious expression, glancing at his papers. "Can I help you with something?"