Flotsam or Jetsam

Jim Webster

Description

Benor arrives in Port Naain intent on the simple task of producing a handbook for merchants. Then there is a murder, and a vengeful family who will stop at nothing to silence those who found the body. Suddenly Benor's life is no longer simple.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 14 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785382567
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page
FLOTSAM OR JETSAM
The Port Naain Intelligencer
Jim Webster



Publisher Information
Flotsam or Jetsam
Published in 2015 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Jim Webster
The right of Jim Webster to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Introduction
Any fool can casually drop a body off a bridge. But let us be frank with each other, only a fool does. Stop and think about it. Unless you’re remarkably lucky, or else tidying up after somebody else long gone, the cadaver is still pumping blood. You pick it up, lifting the wound above your head to get corpse on the parapet, all the while getting drenched with blood. Then when you push it off the parapet, nine times out of ten it hits the surface of the water flat. There’s a noise like a slap, only magnified so that even the deaf or a bribed watchman can hear it. Thus and so everybody runs towards the bridge and there you are, standing covered in blood, seeking to explain yourself.
Yet the cautious man is swift and plans well. If the bridge must be the scene, choose a place where the parapet is low, or a bridge so ruinous there are big holes in the bed. Then approach your target openly from the front. Hail him, bid him welcome as an old and long-lost friend. Slide the knife in swiftly with one hand as the other hand keeps him upright. Leave the knife as a plug; swiftly remove rings or other means of identification should your patron desire this . The pockets will normally be empty; no gentleman would think to distort the line of his coat and britches with a bulging purse. Then walk your victim to the low parapet or even better the hole in the roadway and drop him vertically downwards, at the last moment recovering your knife.
Hence he will enter the water feet first with virtually no splash or noise and will bob to the surface some yards downstream. You on the other hand, quietly make your way off the bridge and imperceptibly disappear.
Taken from the anonymous ‘Letters to my son’. Attributed by some to Gardan Zarradin, by others to Ulwin Jonim
***
Benor looked at his tankard in disbelief. To nobody in particular he said, “This beer is disgusting.” Various people glanced in his direction and saw a lithe young man in his mid twenties, clean shaven and with a pleasant face. There was something about it which led women’s eyes to linger a little. That was as it should be: Benor was from the city of Toelar where romance is always in the air. A city where ladies leave their bedroom windows ajar so that love and more libidinous pleasures may drift in gently on the evening air.
A man in his late thirties looked up from his plate. “You’re in Port Naain.” He turned his attention back to the grey stew on his plate.
Benor addressed the man directly. “I’m sorry, I’m new here. Is it all this bad?”
The other put his spoon down. “The beer in this establishment is better than the average. Beer in this city is a thin pale beverage, looking remarkably like the urine of a doubly incontinent horrocks, and for all I know, tasting like it as well.”
Benor pondered this information. “So what would you recommend I drank?”
The stranger raised a hand and ticked off on his fingers. “Not water, under any circumstances. One reason the beer is bad is that it is brewed using local water. The wine can be good, but expensive, hence my own choice.” Here he ticked off the second finger and nodded towards his own drink, a half empty glass of the same beer that had disgusted Benor. “The third option is strong spirits. Their advantage is that you can cut them with water making them almost safe to drink; for a local. The fourth option,” here he held his finger poised, “is something like milk or similar, but that’s in all probability as dangerous as the water so I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Benor drained his glass and pushed his empty plate away. “Thank-you for the advice, could I repay it with a glass of wine?”
His companion drained his own glass. “Not here, there is another place just a few streets away.” He looked disconsolately at his plate. “I’d better finish this; my lady wife is going to be late home tonight so this is what passes as my evening meal. But when I’ve managed that, we can move on.”
Benor held out a hand. “I’m Benor. I’m a cartographer, trying to produce a guide to Port Naain for the Guild of Merchants, Peddlers, and Wandering Artisans of Tarsteps.”
His companion returned a firm grip; “Tallis. Jobbing poet and man of culture. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
Ten minutes later the two young men were walking down the street, Tallis trying to give Benor a feel for the city. “So, on our left hand is the estuary. Ahead of us, eventually, is the Western Ocean. To our right hand are the great brick towers of the Warrens. We are currently in what some call the Ropewalk. It fades into the Merchant District further west.”
“So this is the area where most trade is done?”
“Yes, but it’s an area inhabited more by the agents of merchant houses and insurance underwriters than by merchants. There are some reasonable houses before you get too close to the docks and then you get all the shore-combers and day labourers and that sort of folk.”
Tallis led Benor through an open door, raising his hat slightly to two ladies of negotiable affection who were loitering in the doorway. Benor made his way to the bar and looked at the bottles. “You’ll have to guide me in this. I don’t know the local wines.”
Tallis looked along the lines of bottles. “That one is good if you want something light and white. It comes from Partann, it’s nice enough but the bubbles can get up your nose. Most of the wines grown locally are perhaps described as rich, red and heavy.” He contemplated the selection thoughtfully. “Seeing as how you’re new here, I think you’d be best with a reasonable ‘Charmer's Enclosure’.”
An attendant had been listening to the conversation and brought over a bottle. Tallis nodded and Benor felt in his purse before dropping coins on the counter. Armed with the now open bottle and two glasses, the men found a seat by a window. Benor filled both glasses and sipped. “It’s perfectly drinkable, perhaps a touch vegetal, but certainly brooding if not actually nervy.”
Tallis sipped a little wine from his glass. “Oh there are some excellent wines round here. This one has a good skeleton, not as much tongue spanking as some of the previous vintages. That being said you’ll find that the best wines tend to remain within the cellars the families who produce them. They’ll sell a little but noble families will prefer to drink their own wines.”
Tallis leaned back in his seat. “So where are you staying?”
“I’m not staying anywhere yet; I’ve got to find somewhere. I was told you can get cheap accommodation over in the Warrens.”
“If they don’t kill you and eat you, you can, yes.” Tallis held his glass up to the light and examined the wine. “Tell you what; I live out on a boat in the estuary with my wife, Shena. It’s tied up at Fellmonger’s Wharf at the moment. We haven’t exactly got a spare cabin, but we’ve got space you could unroll your bedroll and sleep out of the rain and wind. Price is very reasonable, you’ll eat with us, and it’ll give you somewhere until you find your feet in the city.”
Benor sipped his wine. “I gratefully accept your offer. I wasn’t really intending to be in Port Naain for more than a couple of weeks anyway.” He took another mouthful of wine. “You know, for its price, this wine is rather good.”
It was about midnight when, leaning on each other for support, they made their way down to Fellmonger’s Wharf.



Chapter 1
Shena looked out of the round porthole. Behind her, her husband Tallis stirred in bed.
“It looks like it’ll probably stay dry.”
The grunt from the bed was enough to convince her that he was awake.
“What you doing today?”
He opened his eyes warily. “I have to see old Mistress Bellin Hanchkillian. She might be lured into paying for an ode if I’m lucky.” He paused and stared at the ceiling. “Damned lucky to be honest, I’ve sweated blood trying to break into her salon and I still wouldn’t say I’m properly established.” He suddenly grinned. “Mind you, even if she cannot be tempted into commissioning a piece of great art, I can flirt with the cook, who will probably slip me something to eat.” He rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow, watching her dress. “Then I thought I’d go on to Misanthropes Hall and listen to the publishers’ gossip; there are rumours that Tamas Berfett is putting together an anthology.”
Shena thought briefly. “I know that name.”
“Yes, a fine man and an excellent judge of literature. Big enough to realise that his own very minor talent should not blind him to works of true genius.”
“I remember now... He put up the money to pay for your collection, ‘Lambent dreams’.”
“Indeed. Excellent judge of literature.”
Shena fastened the heavy leather belt that held her skirt. “If you’re flirting with the cook take your long coat, it’s got deep pockets.”
“Is it presentable?”
She smiled at him. “Of course, I’ve put new leather patches on the elbows.”
“Too much lounging at card tables, I know. But the a