Behind the wharf, piled up like vagrants huddled together for warmth, the Rose was alive and breathing and full of lights. The bay was full of those lights: wavering, blurry reflections of lamps and lit-up windows, torches and strings of lanterns, merry little eyes in the dark.
Past the great, bulky whale-shapes of the freighters, the forests of masts and rigging, a little catamaran slept tucked away by an empty pier. At the mouth of this pier, among stacked boxes and coils of rigging, stood two men. One was a big human, dark-haired and dark-eyed, one hand in the pocket of his coat; bundled under his other arm was a briefcase. The other, much smaller, was a galdor, shivering underneath his coat and scarf and expensive leather gloves. He was blotchy-faced and red-nosed and sniffling with the cold, frost dusted in his greying red hair.
The galdor had lit a cigarette a few minutes ago, the smoke billowing white in the dark air. He was glancing around pensively, teeth grit and jaw working as if he were trying to brace himself for something. A skinny, threadbare tabby went loping out of the shadows behind a cluttered stack of boxes nearby; it stopped in its tracks when it saw the galdor, eyes wide and mirror-silver. It bared its teeth, hissing, then scuttled away.
“Fuck you, too,” he snarled under his breath, taking a drag. With another glance toward the catamaran, he put out his cigarette, tossed it, and motioned to the human. “It’s time, Kalt. Come on.”
“Aye, sir.”
Shoving his gloved hands in his pockets and drawing up his shoulders, the galdor started down the pier, watching his footing carefully. At his back, the human followed suit, switching the briefcase to his other arm so that he could put his hand in his pocket.
Legally, physically, this ship and Tom were strangers, though he knew every creaking contour, every salty, sea-warmed board; just seeing it had made his heart quicken, put an agitated spring in his step. Legally, of course, he wasn’t really Tom Cooke anymore: he’d no right to anything of the old Cooke’s, no connection to his property (what little there was), his family, all the things that had made up the world he’d lived in when his flesh and blood had been his own. What had the law to say about a ghost? What legal precedent could there possibly be for one man’s soul in another man’s body?
Rationally, he knew all this. He also knew he was walking into a hell of a dangerous situation. Being honest, he wasn’t sure why he was doing this, not rationally, but then again, this had nothing to do with rationality. This had to do with pettiness, unchecked anger, and far too much Gioran whisky.
It might’ve also had something to do with the desire to see a familiar face, but if anybody could see the sense in doing it this way, it wasn’t Tom. Then again, maybe it made sense because Tom was Tom, and Murko was Murko, and they’d had the kind of – dare one say it? – friendship that they’d had. Cooke had never been too good at all that shit in life. It was easier to be angry, at the end of the day, than sad.
Well, he was angry. He was madder than a fucking wildfire, and this gods-damned boat had been aching at the base of his skull for days. His head was hurting even now; he’d drunk more – he’d had a few shots before he’d left, just for the sake of inertia – but the headache wouldn’t go away. All the way down to the docks, he’d been a whirlwind, a raw nerve, all movement and no thought. Now—
When he saw Murko, when Murko saw him, what was he planning on doing? The idea had started as a mung flight of fancy. Stupid, drunken shit, like always. He hadn’t expected himself to follow through on it, to send for the forger and now actually to go down to the wharf and see this through. Standing out there in the wet snow-flurries, with the beautiful old girl finally in sight, he’d thought to himself for the first time, What in the hell are you doing this for?
At best, it’d dredge up old memories and make an old friend into a new enemy. At worst, he’d get himself killed.
But Tom Cooke finishes what he starts.
As he drew level with the ship, he couldn’t help but reach out a gloved hand, running it along the old wood. His lip twitched in a faint smile, but then twisted in an angry frown. Balling a fist, he banged on the bulwark with an arm: the thump, thump, thump! reverberated through the creaking ship, split the quiet night. A gull called.
“Murko Muelton, I know you’re in there!” Tom called. “Now – you can come out and we can have a polite little chat, or I can board and have my man break the hatch down! Either way, I won’t be denied!”