The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

12-1: A Fish Too Big

Merilyce sat on her own at the damp wooden table. It wasn't unusual for her to be alone, at least not in that tavern. In most others, she would be swamped by suitors spewing drunken promises of love, offering a simple trade of a few drinks or coins for a night of passion, or occasionally threatening to take her right there on the table.

Of course, those men usually left very soon after their approach. It was the smell. Only a certain type of man could put up with that smell; the same type of man that put up with the foul odour every day of their lives; the very same select group that crowded The Perfumed Fisherman that evening, as they always did.

Merilyce had never figured out what had drawn her to the profession. It certainly wasn't the unpleasant odours that came guaranteed with a successful expedition. Nor was it the fine class of gentlemen that tended towards the occupation. There was no great financial reward to it, or even a half-decent sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. All she did was row out into the bay, cast some nets, and come back when she'd caught enough fish to eat, and to pay for a few drinks in the tavern.

And yet there she sat, alone, subjected to constant exclusion from society, waiting patiently for Mr Absolutely-anyone-will-do-except-for-anyone-that-happened-to-fish-for-a-living to come along. In a tavern filled with fisherman – who refused to speak to her.

"To hell with you all!" she suddenly yelled as she got up and marched towards the bar.

General laughter broke out, along with a few cheers and impolite words – the typical fare expected in such a tavern. She waved off the patrons with a rude gesture, and promptly indicated to the barman that she wasn't pleased with the state of her mug, given that it was empty.

She glanced around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Two dozen filthy fishermen, twice that in empty mugs and half eaten stews. Nothing out of place. Except, at the far end of the room, a man wearing a dark cloak sat with his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on Merilyce. She presented him with the same gesture she had to the room, and turned her back on him to collect her drink.

"Thanks, Deklow," she said to the barman, giving him a lame wink.

"Last one for tonight, Lyce," he said. "Any more and I'm going to have to carry you home again."

"I'm really not that drunk, see," she protested, and tried unsuccessfully to take a few steps in a straight line to prove her innocence.

Many of the patrons burst out laughing, and even the barman was chuckling. She realised she probably was that drunk. But of course, she wouldn't admit it.

"Put the drink down girl, before you hurt yourself!"

She turned to the crowd of fishermen to try to find the source of the voice, but she couldn't guess who it was.

"I can handle my drink!" she insisted, though she realised she was only encouraging the laughter.

"You're barely five foot tall and half a foot wide. I'm surprised you can even carry the drink!"

"I can carry more than you can!"

"Can you carry a hundred pound browntail?"

She spotted the antagonist then. He'd taken the name Browntail a few years back after catching a spectacular browntail on a hook and line, the biggest fish ever caught in Helen's Bay; it weighed nearly a hundred pounds. Nearly.

"Ninety-nine, Browntail. You claim it was a hundred pounds one more time and I'll put ninety-nine bruises on your face to help you count in the mirror."