The Iron Hound

4.1

Rhon leant over the railing, peering into the waters below. The canal's gentle lapping accompanied the buzz of early morning streets. Burnt red brick warehouses towered over the waterway, funnelling a stiff breeze to whip her hair out of her eyes.

Assured footsteps approached, a hard heel battering the limestone.

Not far away, two dockworkers hoisted a laden pallet from an old barge, the rope pulley creaking. No walkways edged that side of the canal, and access to the warehouses was available only through slatted pivot doors, one for each of the five levels.

The rhythmic clatter on stone ceased behind her and Rhon sighed.

"It's impolite to show up late to a meeting you arranged," she said, leaning against the railing, hands gripping the rough casting.

The dockworkers cursed and shouted at one another as the pallet swung against the side of warehouse, oblivious to any onlookers.

A strong waft of peppermint washed over Rhon, cool and fresh. The hairs on the tops of her arms bristled. He was there, standing behind her. Making a point, was he?

More footsteps rumbled over the bridge. This time, a group of three coopers, blue stained aprons about their waists, one hefting an adze over his shoulder, walked by, talking amongst themselves. As they reached the other side of the canal, Rhon's companion finally opted to join her.

The heavy coat did well to add the illusion of girth to Joral Bosketh's lean frame, the high collar hiding all but the tip of a nasty scar that poked past his jawline from his neck. Light, deep-set eyes studied her.

"I expected you to be late. You're always late." The man's voice scratched like wasps in a wall.

Rhon turned to him, arching an eyebrow.

"You speak like we meet often, advocate."

"Your wet timekeeping is well known. Experience only confirms it." Rod-straight hair framed his narrow face, bobbing by his ears as he spoke.

"Don't believe everything you hear. You should know that more than most."

He shrugged, leaning an elbow on the wall.

"I know you were involved. Give me a name," he said, voice low, urgent.

Rhon turned back to the water, peering over the casting. The canal sloshed against its stony pen, spraying a refreshing mist into the air. She leant forwards then, scanning where the waterway exited the bridge.

"Are you listening, girl?" Hardness edged Joral's tone.

Rhon sighed with disappointment, pushing away from the wall.

"I thought it might have been a floater. No luck."

"Seg—!" The man's mouth clamped shut.

Two burly lashers, coils of thick rope wrapped over their arms, circled near the bridge, avoiding a clump of stacked crates. Joral eyeballed them, jaw working.

When he spoke again, the advocate's voice had returned to calmer levels. "You might be content wasting your days corpse-spotting, but I've no such luxury. Give me a name."

"Straight to the point. You must be popular with the ladies." Rhon readjusted her cloak, facing her companion.

Joral's expression darkened. A sore spot, maybe? She allowed a smile to play across her lips.

"Very well, advocate. A name, you say? Of whom precisely?"

"Don't play word games with me, Lanhadron. You know exactly what I ask."