Old Rose Harbor- The Leviathan Public House
The 30th of Yaris, 2719
The 30th of Yaris, 2719
T
here comes a time is every man’s life when he asks himself ‘how the fuck did I get into this situation?’. For me, that occured while head down in a barrel full of brine and live eels. I used to like eels. This had not been on my agenda for today. Not in the slightest. I prefer my eels grilled for one thing. I had planned to package a fine set of silver plate for shipment to a select customer in Hesse, take delivery of yet another consignment of pickled onions, shore up the dodgy figures in my fraudulent books, and then have pleasant evening pouring drinks and winkling profitable gossip from half-drunk sailors. It would have been a rich, full day, and one I could consider well done. The day had other ideas. Days always do. One of the eels wriggled up out of the depths and tried to get friendly with my mouth. Magnificent. Eels were never high on my list of kissing partners at the best of times, but in my current state, romance was about the furthest thing from my mind. Trying not to drown was my current occupation, and it held my rapt attention.
The hand that was holding me down took a fistful of my hair and yanked me upward. Water roared in my ears and pain shot through my head. As soon as I felt the air about my mouth and nose and expelled every bit of stale air in my lungs, coughing and wheezing. I was lucky I did not wretch. Brine poured down my face, stagnant, salty, and slimy with the secretions of frightened eels. It was not just water. I could taste iron in the brine. I was fairly sure I was still bleeding from the head wound and it was more than likely that my nose had joined in out of misguided solidarity.
I felt breath by my left ear, hot as an oven and fragrant as a summer’s fishmarket. “Where is it Dicey?!” The voice was like gravel being crushed under an anvil. I wonder it was cultivated. The man was on his was to serious throat nodes. Again, he bellowed his foul breath in my ear. “I said, where is it Dicey!” Now, my name is Ulysses Allardyce, so I could see where this sweet-smelling cove had come up with the ill-considered term of endearment. He was not the first and he’d not be the last. I hate being called ‘Dicey’. It always sounds like a girl’s name to me. No, scratch that. Had I been a girl I’d have hated just as much, maybe more. Again, the voice roared in my ear. “Where is it Dicey?!”. Now, I abhor ambiguity when I am being half-drowned and shouted at. I’d like to think most men are.
“Where’s what?” Not my most eloquent of replies, but about all I could muster. Frankly, I had no idea what this brute wanted from me. Oh, I owed plenty of people plenty of goods and plenty of money, but without a clear idea of which creditor this was, or more likely who this cove was working for, I couldn’t really answer his question. I tried to take in something of the man, but all I could make out with any certainty was a pair of shoes. Nice ones. They were too far away to belong to my industrious bath attendant. Nice shoes. Did I know anyone with shoes that nice? Shit. I did. That did not make things better. I don’t know why, but I started laughing. That got me a blow to gut.
Sensing that we were at an impasse, he shoved my head back under the water. Fantastic. Not only was I going to drown in a butt of brine, I would probably have my face eaten off and I’d never know why. I think that was the part that really got to me. The not knowing. A man likes to know who it is that’s killing him.
Again my head was dragged upward, and again I sputtered and gasped. I tried to clear the blood and brine from my eyes, but my hands were pinned behind my back and no one had thought to provide me with a towel. “Look, you idiot, if you drown me now you’ll never know where it is.” I was hoping he’d tell me, so I could at least try and worm my way out of this. I’d done it before, and right then I was desperate for even the slightest clue. All I got was a rather nasty punch to the jaw. At least it was different. “Tell me what you want and maybe I can sort it out. We can discuss this like . . .” My head plunged back under the water. That ruled out civilized conversation. A minute passed, and then another. I was running out of air. It had never been anything but black in the barrel of brine, but the blackness now creeping across my eyes was of an entirely different sort.
Another upward drag, and I felt my head collide with the side of the barrel. Bright nothings bloomed in the blackness, and, finally, I was above the surface again. I gasped. I choked. And this time I did wretch. I hope it ruined those fancy shoes.
Another voice. The one that belonged to the shoes. This one was cultivated. Badly “Don’t play coy with me Dicey. You promised you’d get my specific by the 30th. It’s the 53rd now, and I’m still waiting.” Gervaise. Just what my day needed. He fancied himself a wide boy, trying to prove to the Brothers we was the right man for the opium trade. He wasn’t. He had no sense of commerce, no nose for business. Gervaise wouldn’t know how to turn a profit if I’d handed him all the poppies in Mugroba. He’d piss it away on what he thought was fancy wine and fancier women. Both would probably make him sick.
I spat out whatever it was that remained in my mouth. It didn’t feel like teeth. A small blessing. “Hello Gervaise. How’s the family?” I had no idea if the idiot even had a family. If he did, I hoped it was filled with horrible aunts and nagging wives that made his every hour a misery. “I’m still on the job, I swear, but there’s been a delay. Nothing to do with me. It’s a bad harvest this year. I cannot conjure opium out of thin air. It’ll take some doing, but I can scrounge up at least most of it by the end of the month.” That got me another blow to the gut from the goon. There was more pain than there should have been. Something deeper, something meatier. I really hoped that had not ruptured my spleen. That would have been the crowning glory of the day.
Gervaise’s bullyboy threw me to the ground and gave me a kick to the ribs for good measure. I did not hear a crack. That was some good news at any rate. I could a bit. Though the brine, the blood, and the pain, I could make out both men. One tall, well-built, dressed like a wharf-rat’s idea of a dandy. It was tawdry, ill-done, flash, and obscene. The other, wet to the shoulder, hard as nails, and built like a stevedore’s dream. A perfect specimen of the dedicated enforcer.
Could I get the opium by the end of the month? It was possible, but moving that amount of product in so short a time was going to be about as easy as pulling kenser’s teeth. And twice as unpleasant. I’d need to buy some more time. They say time is money, but I was fresh out of that too. All tied up in inventory. I didn’t think I could convince Gervaise to lay off me for a pallet of pickled onions or two dozen bolts of finest undyed cotton. “I’ve got a small personal stash. One crate, maybe two. My strategic reserve.” The bullyboy kicked me again. “Careful there my lad. I’m using those ribs. Keep that up and I’ll need half my store just to make to Dentis.”
“You ain’t got no stash Dicey,” Gervaise drawled trying out his latest poor attempt at an elite accent. He sounded like he’d just been to the dentist. “He already tore the place apart looking for it.”
I smiled at him. It was probably hideous. “You think I’d store it here? You’re a bigger fool that I thought Gervvy.” It was weak, but then so was I. Gods I needed a drink. A drink, and about a week convalescing. The first I could probably get. The latter was hopeless. “You’ll have it by morning. I swear on my sainted mother.” Ma usually did the trick. I never liked to disappoint her memory, and Gervaise had dealt with me enough to know that meant I was serious. I never broke a promise to Ma.
This time he gave me the kick, the stupid pointy shoes bending away rather than inflicting much real damage. “Tomorrow Dicey, or you’ll regret it.” I already was. “And the rest by the end of the month, or you and all of yours will regret it even more.” Brilliant, threaten me, my bar, my brother, and all the rest. As though that would make the poppies grow better. One man’s misery as fertilizer.
They gave me a few more bruises to remember me by, and then left me in the ransacked remains of my warehouse. It damage looked worse than it was, and I’d only lost a shipment of beets, some of my onions, and the silver for my Hessean buyer. She would not be happy, but I could probably sweeten her mood with a nice antique or three. Maybe the Bastians would have something I could requisition.
A little later I cleaned myself up as best I could. Bandaged by ribs, and paid the Sawbones to stitch me up. He accepted payment in drinks for him and the Carpenter. A month’s libations, no charge. They’d not abuse my generosity. They were good customers. Only a fool treats good customers like common cheats. I fancy myself to not be a complete fool. A few beers a night was all it would cost me. I could float that.
My brother and Sally, the little barmaid, made me sleep for a couple of hours. I complained of course, but only out of habit. They insisted. I gave in. Six hours later I oozed downstairs, took a nip of the walnut liqueur the Bastians sent me as a thanks for something or other. I can’t recall just what. It was sweet and bitter and spicy. A complex flavor to occupy the senses. Distraction in a glass.
The evening rush came in. Sailors and laborers, the few ragged clerks trying to better themselves, shopkeepers and watermen. The Sawbones and the Carpenter came in a little later, claimed their beer, and spent the next few hours playing darts. The Carpenter left a couple of coins on the bar. They really were good customers.
Behind the bar I polished glasses, pulled pints, mixed drinks, and listened to the ramblings of sad men, happy men, bored men. One of the barflies had an expression I couldn't quite name, but it looked dark and complex and uncomfortable. I pulled out two glasses, poured some of my better rum into both, and slid one across to the unfathomable expression. “Here, on the house. You look like you’ve had a hard day.”
The hand that was holding me down took a fistful of my hair and yanked me upward. Water roared in my ears and pain shot through my head. As soon as I felt the air about my mouth and nose and expelled every bit of stale air in my lungs, coughing and wheezing. I was lucky I did not wretch. Brine poured down my face, stagnant, salty, and slimy with the secretions of frightened eels. It was not just water. I could taste iron in the brine. I was fairly sure I was still bleeding from the head wound and it was more than likely that my nose had joined in out of misguided solidarity.
I felt breath by my left ear, hot as an oven and fragrant as a summer’s fishmarket. “Where is it Dicey?!” The voice was like gravel being crushed under an anvil. I wonder it was cultivated. The man was on his was to serious throat nodes. Again, he bellowed his foul breath in my ear. “I said, where is it Dicey!” Now, my name is Ulysses Allardyce, so I could see where this sweet-smelling cove had come up with the ill-considered term of endearment. He was not the first and he’d not be the last. I hate being called ‘Dicey’. It always sounds like a girl’s name to me. No, scratch that. Had I been a girl I’d have hated just as much, maybe more. Again, the voice roared in my ear. “Where is it Dicey?!”. Now, I abhor ambiguity when I am being half-drowned and shouted at. I’d like to think most men are.
“Where’s what?” Not my most eloquent of replies, but about all I could muster. Frankly, I had no idea what this brute wanted from me. Oh, I owed plenty of people plenty of goods and plenty of money, but without a clear idea of which creditor this was, or more likely who this cove was working for, I couldn’t really answer his question. I tried to take in something of the man, but all I could make out with any certainty was a pair of shoes. Nice ones. They were too far away to belong to my industrious bath attendant. Nice shoes. Did I know anyone with shoes that nice? Shit. I did. That did not make things better. I don’t know why, but I started laughing. That got me a blow to gut.
Sensing that we were at an impasse, he shoved my head back under the water. Fantastic. Not only was I going to drown in a butt of brine, I would probably have my face eaten off and I’d never know why. I think that was the part that really got to me. The not knowing. A man likes to know who it is that’s killing him.
Again my head was dragged upward, and again I sputtered and gasped. I tried to clear the blood and brine from my eyes, but my hands were pinned behind my back and no one had thought to provide me with a towel. “Look, you idiot, if you drown me now you’ll never know where it is.” I was hoping he’d tell me, so I could at least try and worm my way out of this. I’d done it before, and right then I was desperate for even the slightest clue. All I got was a rather nasty punch to the jaw. At least it was different. “Tell me what you want and maybe I can sort it out. We can discuss this like . . .” My head plunged back under the water. That ruled out civilized conversation. A minute passed, and then another. I was running out of air. It had never been anything but black in the barrel of brine, but the blackness now creeping across my eyes was of an entirely different sort.
Another upward drag, and I felt my head collide with the side of the barrel. Bright nothings bloomed in the blackness, and, finally, I was above the surface again. I gasped. I choked. And this time I did wretch. I hope it ruined those fancy shoes.
Another voice. The one that belonged to the shoes. This one was cultivated. Badly “Don’t play coy with me Dicey. You promised you’d get my specific by the 30th. It’s the 53rd now, and I’m still waiting.” Gervaise. Just what my day needed. He fancied himself a wide boy, trying to prove to the Brothers we was the right man for the opium trade. He wasn’t. He had no sense of commerce, no nose for business. Gervaise wouldn’t know how to turn a profit if I’d handed him all the poppies in Mugroba. He’d piss it away on what he thought was fancy wine and fancier women. Both would probably make him sick.
I spat out whatever it was that remained in my mouth. It didn’t feel like teeth. A small blessing. “Hello Gervaise. How’s the family?” I had no idea if the idiot even had a family. If he did, I hoped it was filled with horrible aunts and nagging wives that made his every hour a misery. “I’m still on the job, I swear, but there’s been a delay. Nothing to do with me. It’s a bad harvest this year. I cannot conjure opium out of thin air. It’ll take some doing, but I can scrounge up at least most of it by the end of the month.” That got me another blow to the gut from the goon. There was more pain than there should have been. Something deeper, something meatier. I really hoped that had not ruptured my spleen. That would have been the crowning glory of the day.
Gervaise’s bullyboy threw me to the ground and gave me a kick to the ribs for good measure. I did not hear a crack. That was some good news at any rate. I could a bit. Though the brine, the blood, and the pain, I could make out both men. One tall, well-built, dressed like a wharf-rat’s idea of a dandy. It was tawdry, ill-done, flash, and obscene. The other, wet to the shoulder, hard as nails, and built like a stevedore’s dream. A perfect specimen of the dedicated enforcer.
Could I get the opium by the end of the month? It was possible, but moving that amount of product in so short a time was going to be about as easy as pulling kenser’s teeth. And twice as unpleasant. I’d need to buy some more time. They say time is money, but I was fresh out of that too. All tied up in inventory. I didn’t think I could convince Gervaise to lay off me for a pallet of pickled onions or two dozen bolts of finest undyed cotton. “I’ve got a small personal stash. One crate, maybe two. My strategic reserve.” The bullyboy kicked me again. “Careful there my lad. I’m using those ribs. Keep that up and I’ll need half my store just to make to Dentis.”
“You ain’t got no stash Dicey,” Gervaise drawled trying out his latest poor attempt at an elite accent. He sounded like he’d just been to the dentist. “He already tore the place apart looking for it.”
I smiled at him. It was probably hideous. “You think I’d store it here? You’re a bigger fool that I thought Gervvy.” It was weak, but then so was I. Gods I needed a drink. A drink, and about a week convalescing. The first I could probably get. The latter was hopeless. “You’ll have it by morning. I swear on my sainted mother.” Ma usually did the trick. I never liked to disappoint her memory, and Gervaise had dealt with me enough to know that meant I was serious. I never broke a promise to Ma.
This time he gave me the kick, the stupid pointy shoes bending away rather than inflicting much real damage. “Tomorrow Dicey, or you’ll regret it.” I already was. “And the rest by the end of the month, or you and all of yours will regret it even more.” Brilliant, threaten me, my bar, my brother, and all the rest. As though that would make the poppies grow better. One man’s misery as fertilizer.
They gave me a few more bruises to remember me by, and then left me in the ransacked remains of my warehouse. It damage looked worse than it was, and I’d only lost a shipment of beets, some of my onions, and the silver for my Hessean buyer. She would not be happy, but I could probably sweeten her mood with a nice antique or three. Maybe the Bastians would have something I could requisition.
A little later I cleaned myself up as best I could. Bandaged by ribs, and paid the Sawbones to stitch me up. He accepted payment in drinks for him and the Carpenter. A month’s libations, no charge. They’d not abuse my generosity. They were good customers. Only a fool treats good customers like common cheats. I fancy myself to not be a complete fool. A few beers a night was all it would cost me. I could float that.
My brother and Sally, the little barmaid, made me sleep for a couple of hours. I complained of course, but only out of habit. They insisted. I gave in. Six hours later I oozed downstairs, took a nip of the walnut liqueur the Bastians sent me as a thanks for something or other. I can’t recall just what. It was sweet and bitter and spicy. A complex flavor to occupy the senses. Distraction in a glass.
The evening rush came in. Sailors and laborers, the few ragged clerks trying to better themselves, shopkeepers and watermen. The Sawbones and the Carpenter came in a little later, claimed their beer, and spent the next few hours playing darts. The Carpenter left a couple of coins on the bar. They really were good customers.
Behind the bar I polished glasses, pulled pints, mixed drinks, and listened to the ramblings of sad men, happy men, bored men. One of the barflies had an expression I couldn't quite name, but it looked dark and complex and uncomfortable. I pulled out two glasses, poured some of my better rum into both, and slid one across to the unfathomable expression. “Here, on the house. You look like you’ve had a hard day.”
