The Lost: Part II

Dawn found Ian nearly at the end of his patience.

By this time he had worked his way back from the very tip of The Hook towards the middle part of the harbor. Behind him stretched a trail of several broken arms, some broken ribs, a broken nose, and two establishments in various states of disarray. The second had been little more than a shed with the euphemistic title of tavern, where dark bread and even darker beer was served up by a man whose patrons had the misfortune of oftimes turning up dead. The smoke from the fire that had started during Ian's visit still was being pushed further inland by the breeze off the harbor.

The area Ian now approached was the border between the respectability of the middle port and the seediness of the Hook. So naturally, it was a blend of the two. Well kept inns sat across the muddy street from less than reputable ones, and the bustling merchants were tempting targets for rogues and cutpurses. Ian was badly in need of some breakfast, so he headed for one of the better establishments.

Amazing Grace's signboard showed an angel in a most unangelic pose as it swung over the big main door. The place had been built by an ambitious merchant who abandoned it as soon as he could afford a move further up the harbor. One story claimed the hostess had won the building from him in a roll of the dice after a night of rolling in the sheets. But however she had acquired the place, Grace had proven to be an astute business woman. It was known for being a clean house with just enough of a risky edge to attract a better class of customer seeking a bit of adventure, as well as young noblemen intent on courting the legendary owner's favors.

Whatever the truth, Ian was hungry. He crossed the road to the front door, a trip made more difficult by the ankle deep mud that would have sucked his boots off his feet had they been on loose enough. A sign over a stiff wire brush at the door read "Clean Your Boots" and Ian gladly obliged. No sense in starting the rest of the day on the wrong foot, as it were. When he was done, he returned the brush to its place, straightened his tunic, and stepped inside. A quick hush fell over the common room as eyes turned to see who entered now, but after a few seconds, heads turned away and Ian walked over to sit himself at an empty table. He ordered an ale and bread and cheese, then sat back to consider what he had learned.

It wasn't much.

Most of what he'd heard all night he could have guessed. There was an undercurrent of resentment against the king, having to do with his Majesty ordering Blackhawke to sail from Dover. Many mariners felt, despite the fact the crossing would have been rougher from here, that this was an insult to Camelot. From a disgruntled shipwright, Ian heard that the Raven had been refitted elsewhere too, with special changes, changes for a longer voyage than simply across the channel. Ian washed some bread and cheese down with a swig of ale. He thought he had an answer: a change of course. And if that were so, any further inquiries might alert the enemy. Best to let it be, he decided. And he'd have to come up with a story to divert attention. Portugal! Yes, Portugal.

He drank more ale, then chewed slowly as he relaxed and looked room over. Bits of conversation swirled and eddied about him, and his half-elven hearing let him sort through it all.

"....so the healer says to the farmer's wife..."
"....three days to get the damned cargo offloaded"
"...the prettiest little girl you ever would want to..."
"that's him I tell ya. And his daughters, I saw them on Isle, the whole place knows about Blackthorn's daughters....."

Ian stopped in mid-bite. He turned his head, looked about, and in a far corner a redheaded man quickly looked away. Blackthorn lifted his beer tankard and drained it, eyes still on the speaker, then set it down and rose. He walked towards the other and the three men seated with him, and immediately, the room once more was still.