A Crab's Claim on the Crown

The outer pier offered no lasting refuge once Cole's lantern began to flicker against the gathering fog, and Bramblefoot knew better than to debate the terms of harbor charity when municipal whistles were shrilling half a mile up the quay. Skirting the rotting pilings where the timber quays sloped down into open silt, the captain steered his small company directly into the Oakhaven Lower Tide Flats. The brine immediately reached their shins, cold and thick with estuary rot, but it was several leagues quieter than the paved docks above.

Beside a green-crusted piling that groaned under the weight of the incoming tide, Bramblefoot raised a dripping palm to halt the march. Behind him, Jory was wheezing into his collar, spectacles sliding down his crooked nose until they threatened to plunge into the muck. With one trembling forearm, the former apprentice held the heavy green-glass jar against his ribs, its submerged crystal root giving off a pale, swampy radiance that barely reached the surface of the black water.

"Hold up," Bramblefoot hissed, his voice raspy with river damp. "Before we drag this carcass another yard toward the marsh ditch, I need to know the Crown's mark didn't run like lamp oil the moment we took that sluice."

He worked his fingers under the sodden oilskin wrapper tucked beneath his belt. The heavy ox-hide ledger came free with a wet sucking sound. Bramblefoot prized back the calfskin flap, only to freeze mid-breath. Three fat, mud-brown river crabs had burrowed into the hollow of the spine, their claws buried deep in the softened animal-glue and gelatinous fish paste that held the imperial accounts together. They were chewing industriously, their stalk eyes swiveling up toward the captain with belligerent indifference.

"Look at them," Jory choked, trying to push his spectacles back up with a wrist without losing the glass jar. "They're eating the third-quarter wool tariffs, Captain. That was our leverage!"

"They're vermin with shells, that's all they are," Bramblefoot muttered. He fumbled in his waistcoat and produced a notched, tarnished butter knife, wedging the dull blade beneath the largest crab's carapace. "Pry them loose, Pip, get around the flank—"

Instead of yielding, the crustacean lunged. With an audible snap like dry kindling breaking underfoot, its serrated pincer clamped tight across Bramblefoot's left knuckle. The captain let out a yelp that startled a brace of roosting plovers from the reeds. Thrashing sideways to shake the creature free, his heel found nothing but greasy silt. Bramblefoot tipped sideways with an ungainly splash, the ledger slipping from his wet grip and plunging squarely into the foaming eddy at his knees.

"The registry!" Jory croaked, lunging forward on his ruined knees and nearly drowning the crystal root in his desperation. "Bramblefoot, grab the leaves!"

"I am trying to disarm the damn thing!" the captain barked, thrashing his hand beneath the surface as the crab refused to release its prize.