Abhorrent Practices - Book 1

Chapter 3.3 - The Witch (Scene 3: The Docks)

The ships moored in Tremayne's docks were silent at this time of night. Anchored within the harbour walls or moored up against the dockside, they rose and fell with the peaceful cadence of a deep sleep, soothed by the gentle lullaby of waves nuzzling against hulls and jetties. The loading and unloading of cargoes ceased at sunset, and most of the married longshoremen had long since made their way home to their families in the Shanties.

The dockside itself, however, was teeming with activity of a different kind. As the day's commerce came to a close, the bewildering variety of bars and other, seedier establishments which lined the quayside threw open their doors and were already overflowing with dockworkers and seamen intent on making the most of their few days of precious shore leave.

As Alyss followed Naylor and Sandrine out of the Shanties, she took in the activity on the docks and her heart sank. This was where they planned to hide her? Her hopes of a mansion hideaway in the Hillside District dashed, she found herself questioning Sandrine's motives again. She and this man Naylor could have any number of accomplices here. Somehow, she had to lose these people.

"Guards?" asked Sandrine. In the three years since she'd first chartered the Jennie Seaholme, she'd come to rely on Naylor's keen eyesight. He took a second or two to scan the full length of the wharf stretching out ahead of them.

"Only two," he informed her. At the far end of the quay, the two members of the City Guard he'd spotted were pushing through the crowds, giving an occasional warning nod here, a cautionary wag of the finger there. "Doesn't look as if they're after this one. Probably just a routine patrol."

Alyss moved to Naylor's side, peering into the distance. She had excellent eyesight, especially in the dark, but she didn't have the far-sightedness of a Turlander and could see no trace of the Guards he claimed were there.

Naylor turned and took hold of Alyss's shoulders. Holding her at arm's length, he ran a critical eye over her clothes. She had shoes now, taken from the last of the thugs who'd tried to attack them in the alley. With holes in the toes and several sizes too large, they wobbled comically around her feet as she walked, and she seemed in permanent danger of tripping. At Sandrine's insistence, she'd also put on the thug's jacket and trousers. She'd used his own knife to cut the sleeves and trouser legs to roughly the right length, but his clothes still hung loose over her slight frame.

"I smell like a brewery!" she complained, screwing up her face against the stench. Naylor laughed.

"More like a privy," he teased her, with a mischievous wink. "But that's good! Far more authentic!" He released his grip on her shoulders and took a step back. "We still need to hide your face, though."

Alyss felt her head jerked sharply backwards as Sandrine seized a handful of her wild, night-black hair. It was thick and several unruly strands wriggled free, coiling between her clenched fingers.

"And this," agreed Sandrine.

"You are not cutting my hair!" hissed Alyss, pulling free and whirling around to face Sandrine, her eyes glaring in defiance, the tiny stars in her eyes glinting, like blood-red sparks from a flint.

Naylor laughed, stepping between the two women.

"Nothing so drastic!" he reassured Alyss, ruffling her hair. Irritated, she slapped his hand away, but Naylor was undeterred. "Come on," he coaxed, throwing his arm around her shoulder. "The longer we stand here, the more suspicious we look."

Together, the three of them began to stroll along the docks, rolling and lurching unsteadily as if drunk. They passed a run-down timbered building which, from the dock workers rolling dice against the wall outside, Alyss assumed to be some kind of gambling den. Again, she found herself wondering about her own gamble. She knew nothing about these people.