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East dock, gone are the restaurants, playhouses and food stands. In their place warehouses, fisheries and longshoremen with dirty looks. He supposed that if he were them and spotted a shirtless young dandy with bleached hair and thin, curled mustachios casually strolling by in the dead of night as if on a sunday picnic, he’d be glowering too.

Garvin’s pace was slow and leisurely as he listened to the creaking hulls of the docked ships, noting the differences in the sounds each ship produces. This galley bellowing like a tuba that frigate sounding more like an off key violin. Big, girthy and gaudily painted, The Regal Lady dominated this end of the harbor. The old wood of the ship groaned loudly enough to sound like a ghostly wail.

A man the size of a bull stood guard over the gangplank, as Garvin approached the man’s head snapped in his direction and he could feel steel in the penetrating stare. Before he could set foot on the ramp the giant stood brandishing a vicious looking club and barring his way.

“You’re in the wrong place, boy.”

Garvin hurriedly gathered his ticket from his pocket, handing it to the hairy giant. The burly man only took one glance at the ticket before shoving it back at Garvin.

“You can’t come on this ship with no shirt.”

Garvin was considering making a quick trip to the night market turning that way when he heard a commotion. Stumbling on an upturned plank, he backtracked to the ship.

“Old boy works quick,” he muttered to no one in particular. The shouts in the distance grew louder along with the distinct sound of property destruction. The image of Lord Torrid’s thugs busting down doors and tearing apart people’s homes and shops put a knot in Garvin’s stomach. The idea of responsibility crept into his brain like a spider even as his feet motioned him back to the gangplank. Nonsense, he thought, shaking the notion from his mind as a man shakes dust from his boots. Each man is responsible only for his own actions. If those thugs choose to make Garvin Santiago the excuse for their bad behavior it had nothing to do with me.

Does a magistrate declare the wife’s nagging at fault when the husband stabs her or does the husband hang? This line of thought greatly comforted garvin as the sound of smashing wood, breaking glass and cursed shouts grew louder in the distance. Standing up straight he looked the giant, burly oaf in the eyes and summoned the essence of every highborn snob he’d ever met to project a sense of command and privilege.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, my name is Lord Garvin Santiago. ” He put as much emphasis on the word “lord” as humanly possible, knowing well the importance such low bullies put on rank. “You’ll find me listed on the passenger rolls as the special guest of Lady Torrid, her majesty the queen’s handmaid and niece.” Great niece by marriage, he noted with small satisfaction as he moved to push his way past the sailor. He saw the twinkling stars in the sky before he felt the pain of impact on his back and rear.

“Don't care iffen your a prince,” the sailor growled. “The Regal Lady aint no fishing boat, she’s a classy wench. Nobody boards her lessen they be dressed proper like a real gentleman. ”

Blinking his eyes, Garvin was amazed to encounter such a snobbish sailor. A man with hair from head to toe who reaked of onions was telling him he wasn’t a gentleman.

“Garvin Santiago, you’ll hang!”

A chill ran up Garvin’s spine as he jumped to his feet. Torrid’s men were getting close.

“This isn’t funny, man!” He shouted. “I need to be on that ship.”

The sailor grinned glancing in the direction the shouts were coming from.

“In a spot of trouble ‘lord’ Santiago?”

Garvin took a step toward the sailor. “My passage is paid for, let me on!”

The sailor tapped the gangplank with his foot. “Iffen I were you I’d be trying to find some suitable clothes afore the bell rings in ten minutes an we pull up this plank and set sail.”

“Shit!”

Garvin bolted with the speed of a hounded rabbit, eyes locking on the first man he could spot walking the streets alone and matching pace with him.

“Three coppers for your shirt.”

“Taint for sale,” the reeking drunk grumbled.

“Two silvers for the shirt and the cloak,” Garvin countered.

“Fuck off!” The drunk growled, shambling away into an alley.

“You can’t hide forever, Santiago! We’ll cut off your raping cock and feed it to you.”

The voice echoing in the darkness spurred Garvin’s hand to his sword and brought it up. The drunk’s eyes grew wide as Garvin’s lips curled.

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“I really must insist. The shirt and the cloak, now please.”

The old wino’s flabby body shivered in the sea breeze. Garvin snatched up the bundle and waived the sword. “Close your eyes, on your knees and face the wall.” He ordered, knowing the potential danger of taking his eyes from the terrified man for even a moment.

As the drunk knelt in the mud Garvin buttoned the oversized leather jerkin, swinging a well worn wool cloak over his shoulders. The coins rang out like bells on the stone pavement.

Shaking with fear, cold and drink the half naked man still managed to snatch them up with superhuman speed.

“Two silvers as promised,” Garvin laughed. “Not a bad deal, leave with your life and money in your pocket.” He slid his sword back into its scabbard, turning to begin his brisk walk to the ship.

Glancing at Garvin with suspicion, the drunkard rose slowly on shaking legs and then bolted.

“Help, thief! I’ve been robbed!” Garvin’s feet were moving and his sword out before he could think.

“Shut up, you ungrateful cur!” He shouted, chasing behind the fat man.

But he wasn’t fast enough, the drunk stumbled into a lively street shouting bloody murder as Garvin charged from behind brandishing his sword like a madman. It took a moment to notice the street was well lit and crowded with late night drinkers and gamblers. It took another moment to spot the two guards advancing with drawn scimitars. Sliding mid stride to a halt in the thick gravel, Garvin kicked up dust as he pivoted back into the alley.

“After him!” The guard shouted.

He charged from the alley at headlong speed, bowling over an overdressed youth sporting a green and red cape.

“Watch it, you oaf!” The young man barked, brushing dust from his cape and freezing as garvin stepped into the moonlight. “Santiago!”

Deadly steel hummed toward Garvin’s face and he felt the reverberation in his arm as he knocked the blade aside with his own. An older man, perhaps the lads brother as there was a brutish resemblance, stepped forward swinging out with a mace and Garvin dived into a roll.

“He’s over here lads!” The older one shouted as the younger advanced with sharp steel, glinting slightly in the pale of the moon. Garvin’s roll became a spring, slashing out and cutting the lad in the leg. Garvin counted his steps as he made for the gangplank with Torrid’s men scarcely an arms breadth behind and the guards not far behind them.

The trick to fighting multiple opponents, as all the books say is to break them up and fight individually. Yet, as Garvin well knew while a fine strategy for the page it’s hell on the human body, sapping stamina with each engagement. The choice, however between being overwhelmed and being run ragged is no choice at all. Running at full speed, dodging whistling death and catching an arm with his own spinning blade he kicked his enemy in the stomach and bolted again as the footsteps closed in.

Strong thoughts flew through his mind. He wondered if the man he slashed might be badly hurt. He hoped Lady Torrid wouldn’t spend her life pining for him. He considered the difference between running on solid ground and the creaking wood planks beneath his feet. Oddly springy, it was hard to place the sort of wood used.

Something moving in the moonlight, he stopped, parried the sword and tossed a dagger at the shadow. He heard a groan and the crumpling of a body on hardwood but didn’t look back. He regretted only the loss of the dagger, a gift from a former lover. It was left at his grave when he faked his own death and he was touched enough by the gesture to reveal himself and get the knife planted squarely in his thigh. His attention was brought to the present as he heard a shouted command from the deck of The Regal Lady.

“Heave, ho! Heave, ho! Get that gangway uphere.”

The gangplank was already five feet off the ground. Running and fighting is hell on the body, Garvin was getting light headed and his pace was slowing even as he felt the wind from swinging blades at his back. He knew that ahead of him was an impossible leap but behind him was the one lady he’d never like to bed, death. He threw every ounce of strength into the leap.

He hung from the gangplank like a prize turkey in a shop window, struggling to keep hold as it jerked up another foot. Garvin spasmed in pain as a blade licked his shin.

“You’ve had it, Santiago!” The noble shouted with glee at the sight of blood.

Garvin’s sword arm sprung out like a viper catching the man across the eyes.

The caped popinjay screeched like a dying pig, stumbling blindly to the ground. Another of Torrid’s goons accompanied by two guards with deadly scimitars stepped forward as the gangplank elevated by another foot. He swung his feet from the path of the scimitar’s sweep, kicking out at it’s wielder as he slashed with his own saber, catching the other guard’s with the ring of a gong. His arm numbed from the shock of metal on metal, Garvin only narrowly avoided the noble’s thrust, batting aside the rapier as he swung his feet up like a pendulum.

The wind knocked from his stomach as he scrambled half up the side of the rampart. With a clank and clatter his sword rolled on the raising gangplank. Garvin gritted his teeth as he pulled himself the rest of the way up the ramp. Garvin just wanted to lay there a moment and catch his breath as the gangplank retracted.

“Damn that Santiago, you fools are letting him escape!” Lord Torrid’s unmistakable baritone boomed. A low hum caught Garvin’s attention and he peeked out to see Torrid holding some wildly sparking orb which could only be a wizardly talisman.

He jumped up in alarm as Lord Torrid tossed the wickedly strobing, sparking thing.

“This’ll settle your hash,” Torrid boomed.

By reflex Garvin kicked his sword up with a boot, snatching the hilt just as the thing came at him. Having never been good at baseball, Garvin hoped his batting average had improved since childhood as he swung away at the magic orb.

A loud crack like a breaking bone and the orb went flying. In the brief moment of it’s receding flight it flashed a blinding red. The air shook with ear splitting thunder as fire rained harmlessly into the harbor.

Garvin brandished his sword at the men below him, laughing.

“Nice try, Torrid but it takes more than that to destroy Garvin Santiago!”

“I’ll have your head yet,” torrid sputtered.

Garvin laughed, leaning out over the gangplank to taunt them.

“Better men than you have tried. You played the game and lost, sir but there’s no shame in losing to the best.” He bowed with a flourish, hopping back a step and pivoting on his heel.

One of my better escapes, Garvin thought as the men at his rear shouted the most unflattering things about his mother. The man who met him on the deck was not the familiar giant but rather a stocky man with a wide brimmed hat. Garvin would have observed more but he was distracted by the loud cracking sound as a club intersected his skull.

“Fucking stowaways,” the stocky man grumbled as Garvin tried to comprehend the nature of the huge wooden surface smashing into his body.

Everything went dark.