The Woolen Trip and the Tailor's Shears

The damp chill of the Oakhaven Fish Market Alleys clung to the stones as Jory clutched the heavy ox-hide ledger tightly beneath his waistcoat. Ducking between two stacked drying racks, the aging apprentice sought out old Master Pendaran for safekeeping, his weathered face pinched with anxiety behind his spectacles. Before the document could change hands, heavy boots echoed off the wet cobblestones. A patrol of tax-watch guards swept through the archway, forcing Jory to dive behind a row of empty salt barrels while Captain Vane barked sharp questions at the neighboring stall keepers.

Trapped against the mortar wall with the wardens closing in, Jory panicked and heaved the waterlogged ledger over a low compound wall. The thick book tumbled through the air and landed squarely in the lap of Captain Bramblefoot, who was crouched behind a stack of dry willow crates trying desperately to remain unseen. Startled, the Captain caught the heavy tome just as Tax-Guard Captain Vane rounded the corner of the brick wall.

From his vantage point on an upper ledge, Barnaby spotted the cornered apprentice and acted instantly. He heaved an unwieldy bolt of coarse grey homespun woolen cloth off the wooden staging, sending it unrolling wildly across the slick cobblestone street. The thick fabric whipped around, sweeping the lead guard's legs out from under him in a heap of tangled yarn and swearing men. Taking advantage of the sudden chaos and the cursing wardens, Jory leaped for a rusted drainpipe and hauled himself upward onto the timber eaves.

A short time later, after the patrols had dispersed into the drizzle and the alleys had grown teeth-chatteringly quiet, the focus shifted toward the salt-sprayed boards of the harbor front. Seeking a secluded spot to inspect his newfound municipal treasure away from the prying eyes of the watch, Jory ducked into a cluttered tailor's workshop tucked tightly behind the Oakhaven Docks.

Distracted by a loud, finger-pointing argument over button stock between the shopkeeper and a restless maritime customer, Jory set the heavy ox-hide ledger down directly upon the main cutting table. The shop's tailor, assuming the cumbersome, foul-smelling tome was simply a long-delayed shipment of heavy wool interlining sent down from the upland guild, paid no heed to the royal stamps. Instead, he immediately reached for a pair of long, gleaming shears and began slicing purposefully into the first stitched signatures, unaware that he was unbinding the crew's entire illicit future.