There was plenty ill to say of ol’ Limpy, but Connal’s books were fresh and his locks were old, so Logan couldn’t complain. Not being a seafaring man, himself, it had taken him a while to sort out what the damned books even meant. Once he’d figured out the departures, arrivals, cargo weights, and the rest, he’d eventually been able to pinpoint just one ship that stuck out. Every other name in the books went out in the morning and came back before the end of the day. All but the Marsh Company Ship, ‘Her Frigid Peaks’.
That lone boat was due to return only each fortnight and always after dark. Which was why he was currently crammed into the claustrophobic crevasse between two massive wooden crates. It was his third night spent in this uncomfortable post, and he was starting to wonder if perhaps the god of the seas had decided to take offense at the captain's little joke of a name.
“Gods below…” he grumbled quietly, trying to shift his weight enough to get feeling back in his arm. The bags beneath his eyes could probably hold more than his bloody haversack at this point. Just trying to keep himself awake was proving a challenge after three sleepless nights and caring for Marla during the day.
So it was honestly a mercy when his half-dosing mind was roused by the sound of boots on wood, followed by the clatter of a bell. Adrenaline raced through his leaden limbs, and Logan wriggled forward from his prone hiding spot to peek around the edge of the crate. Connal stood on the end of the dock, a bell in one hand and a lantern in the other.
“Limpy’s takin’ the night watch himself, eh?” Logan muttered under his breath. The soft-bellied Halfling turned, squinting into the darkness. Stifling a curse, Logan ducked out of sight. He was too damned tired for this. He doubted he’d actually been overheard, but it was a stupid mistake nonetheless.
When he eventually slithered forward enough to peer around the edge of his hiding place once more, he cast his gaze into the night beyond the balding Connal. Nowhere in the ledgers had the type of boat belonging to each name been mentioned, with only the shipment weight giving any hint as to size. ‘Her Frigid Peaks’ always seemed to bring in a modest tonnage that lined up with the other ships in the company’s employ. So it was somewhat of a shock when the ship that glided into the starlit port was no mere trawler.
Logan mouthed a silent expletive as he gawked. ‘Her Frigid Peaks’ was a bloody Herring Buss?! The two-masted monster could easily carry a crew of thirty, maybe more. Good gods, he’d known the old miser was well off, but he’d had no idea old Halvard Marsh was THAT rich. With a sinking feeling, Logan realized that the size of the boat may be the answer to why I was out to sea longer than any of the other boats. Was he wasting his time? The sound of horses and wheels clattering on the dock shook him from his pessimism.
No. No this had to be something. Why else dock at night? Why didn’t it bring in far more fish than the others? This was definitely off! Glancing around the corner again, the reformed thief saw that the crew had begun offloading oblong boxes while he’d been busy arguing with himself. He watched as burly sailors hauled nearly two dozen boxes onto a pair of carts pulled by draft horses. It was over and done in less than a quarter hour, the sailors retreating to the ship whilst Connal and a man Logan presumed to be the captain stood down the dock a ways and conducted the business.
This was it. He wouldn’t get a better chance. Slipping from his shadowed crag, the Halfling slid silently down from the crate and wove between the storage containers toward the wagons. He was all too aware of how alone he was out here. He had to be careful. If he was caught… Well, Marla needed him.
Slithering through the darkened gaps, and dodging the flickers of lantern light as if they were a headsman's ax, he eventually reached a precarious ledge of light. He could go no further towards the wagons without being seen. This would have to do. Logan pulled a spyglass from his satchel, keeping it wrapped in a dark kerchief to prevent the shining metal surface from reflecting some errant particle of firelight. Putting it to his eye, he scanned the visible faces of the oblong crates for some hint of their contents.
The burned label of the nearest visible box claimed it was 30 stone of… Mangos? The port listed on the box was Grœnnsi. Logan’s face twisted into a deeper state of befuddlement. They had sailed all the way to the Southern Isles for FRUIT?! Since when did Marsh trade in exotic fruits? And 30 stone?! Good gods, what were those Mangos made off, pig-iron? None of this made any sense.
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Logan kept his smirk tight-lipped to hide his teeth, as he silently slid back into deeper shadows. He had no idea just what he’d found, but it was clear he’d found something. Weaving between barrels and cargo winches, Logan moved off the dock as swiftly as he could, making his way into a dark space between two marketplace shops. Those carts would be off before long and he had to have a vantage point on them.
The slow groan and wooden clatter of heavy wagons starting to turn put the spurs to him. With a deep breath, Logan spread his arms and legs wide and planted his hands and feet against the opposing walls of the narrow space. Sweating with the effort, he shimmied upward until his right hand caught the ledge of the building, allowing him to grasp the roof and heave himself up onto it. He was gasping for air, but already the clopping of the draft horses was echoing on the cobblestone of Market Street.
“No rest for the wicked, Lightfoot…” he panted. With a quick touch to his trusty boots, he uttered the keyword. “Alley Cat.” The moment he felt the enchanted tingle against his ankles, he grit his teeth and set off at a sprint. The magic took some of the weight of his tired bones off his hands, allowing him to sail across alleyways and bystreets. He didn’t need to stay directly atop the carts, he only needed to glimpse their direction of travel and keep them in earshot.
Bounding from roof to roof, he lived up to his given name. He took no pride in his past thievery, but he couldn’t argue that his father’s training served him well even now. As the sky brightened with the coming dawn just over the horizon, the smell of baking bread wafted up from the bakery he landed upon before his pursuit came to an abrupt end. The two carts pulled past the last structure before the city wall and Njörvenn’s western gate.
“Bullocks!” Logan hissed in a whisper. The sun was about to come up, and the land around town was kept clear and open specifically to maintain visibility in case of an attack. He’d have nowhere to hide if he chose to carry on after them. Not wanting the rising sun to draw any eyes toward his silhouette, he laid himself flat on the eastern slope of the bakery roof and pulled out his spyglass.
He settled in to watch them for as long as he could, wanting a clear picture of their heading at least, but was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t have long to wait. The carts only went a little ways out of town before turning northward, down a narrow path that would lead them to the hilled expanse of the Njörvenn Barrows. Logan frowned, stifling a yawn. There was nothing for it. That road only led to one place, and there was no way he’d be able to investigate it now. With a groan of frustration, he slid backward and then down off the roof.
“Time to play the waiting game…”
—
An empty pond stood utterly still, decorated only by a lonely stone idol and the whorls of yellow-green pond scum. Only buzzing swarms of mosquitoes gave the islet any motion or life.
—
The western islet copse was silent. Small hutches and half-finished towers made out of living saplings and woven grasses lay abandoned and unmanned. Even the favored sunning spots of the resident foliage were empty.
—
The shaded grove echoed with laughter that bordered on maniacal. The mangrove roots were crammed with tiny, wooden figures as the dozens of shrubs crowded in to see what had the core in such an uproar. Even Giermund stood in the distance, leaning to and fro to try and see between the dense forest of his fellow mangroves. At the center of the dark clearing, the crimson specter stood amidst a circle of mushrooms.
Liv crouched, admiring her fungal fairy ring. Her plants were looking at her like she was insane, but they would understand in time. Beneath the surface, invisible threads linked each mushroom in a sequential loop. What her companions couldn’t see was the rhythmic pulse that ran along the circumference, echoing from cap to cap. Her various tests told her that this should work, but this was the moment of truth.
She bit her lip, stilling hands that wanted to tremble in excitement, and painted a simple glowing circle in the air above a lone mushroom that stood outside her circle. With a centering breath the ethereal woman didn’t actually need, she carefully painted a thread from the lone mushroom to the image she’d made. She gave a tiny gasp as she felt the thread connect, latching itself to her simplistic floating image. The sound of her soft exclamation echoed outward, rippling through the shifting leaves of the assembled shrubs.
Liv’s smile widened into a broad, toothy grin. A final stroke of her fingers drew a shimmering wire of magic from the mushroom in the ring that was nearest her little outlier. The grove burst into a flurry of motion as the assembled plants reacted to the visible manifestation of the formerly unseen machinations. The looping signal of the ring split at that one point along its edge, sending a pulse through the lone fungus to the simple image, which began to flash on and off in regular intervals.
The newly reinvigorated dungeon core jumped to her feet, mirth bubbling over into an almost mad cackling. The metallic studs on the shoulders of her coat clicked and jiggled as she thrust both hands into the air and spun about in victorious celebration, crackling with laughter at her success.
“How about that?!” Liv roared upward into the canopy, holding her middle fingers skyward. She doubted the ravens were watching, but it made her feel better anyway. When her arms lowered, she dropped one and swung the other in a broad arc westward.
“Look out, Fantasy Land!” she cackled, then clenched her outstretched hand into a fist. “Mama just invented the clock!!”