Grand Conspiracy: Second Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ that high vantage, each day, sharp-eyed tally boys stood counting ships. They matched their numbers against each entry in the register, and made accurate lists for the constables. Those captains who tied to a mooring without paying were systematically accosted and fined.

      The shoreside watch was in fighting trim, with the taverns and brothels packed night and day, and the wharf quarter tuned to the hysterical pitch of a carnival. Street stalls under their sun-faded awnings shook and bulged to capacity crowds. Each morning, men were knifed in hot-tempered arguments. Fights and trade conflicts heated to boiling in minutes, as vendors and landlords elbowed to rake in the easy flow of winter silver.

      ‘What’s the price of your extortion, then?’ Parrien grumbled, not beaten, but shrewd enough to know when intimidation became wasted enterprise.

      The secretary’s clerk peered up from his rodent’s perch over the cash box. ‘Cost for a mooring’s six coin weight the night.’

      Parrien howled.

      The harbormaster shrugged. ‘No pay, then no anchorage.’

      His bland-faced indifference would not yield to s’Brydion wrath at this season. The slow months would return all too soon. Today’s raucous press of patrons would dry up after equinox, until only the high-class establishments could stay open. No responsible captain allowed crewmen on shore leave in summer, when spoiled stores and green flies, and the humid, sick airs hazed the sea quarter, and the brothels, with their louvered galleries, languished in the dense south coast heat.

      ‘Six silvers for mooring? That’s robbery.’ Parrien leaned forward; paperwork crackled and ivory marquetry groaned to the press of his weight. ‘Find me a berth. I’ll pay eight, and my mercenaries will toss no one’s taproom.’

      ‘The galley from Jaelot has priority. They carry a half company of new sunwheel soldiers as well.’ A last shrug from the harbormaster ended debate. ‘Those brutes were recruited from Alland’s league of headhunters. Since they’re just as likely to hammer my lightermen, your threat of bashed noses is moot.’

      Parrien flashed teeth in a barracuda grin. ‘Very well, man. Don’t say you weren’t warned. I don’t give any six of your town watchmen a chance against just one of mine when he’s pissed.’ The duke’s brother slapped down the coin for his mooring, then clomped to and fro to vent ripping impatience while the clerk marked the register and the tally boy recited the colored markings on the buoy assigned to his galley.

      ‘Make sure you tie up at the designated mooring,’ fussed the hovering clerk. ‘Claim another, and you forfeit your legitimate fee and subject yourself to a squatter’s fine.’

      ‘Do I look blind or stupid?’ Parrien glared. ‘I sure as blazes see well enough not to splash my own shoe, which does me credit, looking at you.’

      He turned on his heel and shouldered his way out, laughing gales at the whey-faced official, who had swallowed the jibe and now bent like a stork in a worried inspection of his slippers.

      Outside in the streets, under sun like fine wine, the reek of human sweat wove through the stench of the midden carts, stale horse urine, and the bouquet of patchouli and lavender worn by the half-silver whores. Parrien collected his captain of mercenaries, a hatchet-faced man with scars on his arms who had no smile to spare for the doxies. Like black steel struck through cloth, the cohesive armed party sauntered off down the docks toward the sailors’ quarter.

      ‘Boys,’ Parrien flipped back to the swordsmen, who padded like wolves at his heels, ‘you’ve got my leave to tear up this town for the threefold hell handed down by its windbag officials.’

      His pantherish stride clove through the press, the otter sleek knot of his clan braid cruising level with the froth of feathers that spilled from the trade factors’ hat brims. On either side, between loiterers begging handouts and the clouds of grease smoke from the sausage vendors, his eye caught the gleam of fresh paint.

      Parrien’s mouth twitched. ‘Will you look at that?’

      His captain also noted the sunwheel emblems newly blazoned on the doorposts of the houses. His sole comment became the gob of spit he ejected into the gutter.

      The frown set in place at the harbormaster’s furrowed the ridge of Parrien’s nose. ‘You saw the sunwheel flying alongside the banners over the guildhalls.’

      ‘I did.’ The captain’s grin came and went like the cold gleam of quartz in a streambed. ‘This town’s fawning terrified of piracy, looks to me.’

      Parrien curled his lip. ‘It’s their purses they’re protecting, sure enough.’ His laughter slapped echoes off the shaded arches of the shop fronts, and turned the heads of three girls buying ribbons.

      The raids had become the scourge of seagoing trade. Afloat in armed strength in their contraband ships, Tysan’s clans came down like plague on those galleys bearing slave convicts. Despite his family’s lip service loyalty to Prince Lysaer, the spreading fashion of Alliance support galled s’Brydion independent sensibilities.

      ‘Best walk softly on our business indeed,’ Parrien said in low warning to his captain.

      The mercenary gave back a wary, clipped nod. Southshire had declared for the Light with a fervency they had seen repeated with unsettling frequency in their port-hopping voyage down the coast. Just like the guard garrisons at Elssine and Telzen, the uniformed watch here had sewn sunwheel patches beneath the city blazon on their sleeves. At the Fat Pigeon Inn, the recent trend proved entrenched. When Parrien arrived to complete his small errand, the louvered dimness of the taproom was crammed with a large party wearing the white tunics denoting a vow of life service.

      ‘What’s this, the new kennel?’ Parrien grumbled, but softly. Only his captain overheard.

      What seemed a whole troop of Alliance men-at-arms sprawled at ease, dicing and wenching and swilling down beer. Others arm wrestled for coin, companionably mingled with burly deckhands on leave wearing Jaelot’s rampant lion livery. Officers in gold braid commandeered all the corner nooks. Their immense, florid captain lounged with his boots propped on the best table, his beefy hands laced over his belly as he hobnobbed with a trio of pouting merchants. Behind their pastel velvets and lace, a ferret-nosed official in a spotless white tabard lounged against the frame of the window sash. He appeared to listen in, but did not participate. His searching glance raked the taproom’s noisy patrons with a focused reserve that lifted Parrien’s hackles.

      ‘Slinking headhunters,’ he mouthed under his breath. ‘Never mind those milk-sucking dockside clerks, I’d buy any man a night’s pleasure to cripple a few of these ham-brained murderers, and give a life pension for the head of that weasel-faced sunwheel informer.’

      A seasoned veteran of Alestron’s service, the captain rubbed his old scars. ‘Won’t stay the night to catch lice for that lot.’ He passed a surreptitious signal and closed his men into a wedge, prepared when the familiar wry twist curved the duke’s brother’s lips.

      ‘Well, you’re right on that score.’ Parrien laughed. ‘Bloodying faces is a sight cleaner fun than the whores would provide at this season.’

      Together, he and his companion plowed through the flattering hands of those wenches not engaged by drunken sailhands.

      The landlord of the Fat Pigeon held nothing in common with the comfortable name of his establishment. Slender as worn string, he limped on arthritic СКАЧАТЬ