Skidding Past the Salthouse

Yards of heavy court crimson heaved and twisted across the cutting floor, muffling Tax-Guard Captain Vane's muffled curses as the inspector fought his way out from beneath the fallen frame. A halberd point tore through the scarlet weave with a dry rip, followed by the clatter of loose pewter buttons skittering across the pine boards. Bramblefoot had the wooden loading shutter halfway up, morning fog blowing over his whiskers, but Jory remained pinned on hands and knees behind the canvas rack.

The apprentice's spectacles hung crookedly from one ear. Thirty winters of squinting over hems had ruined his knees, but his fingers worked with desperate speed, scooping up damp parchment leaves and severed scraps of ox-hide binding. Royal purple ink, fresh and oily, smeared dark across his calloused thumbs. Two official signatures still drifted near the edge of Master Orwin’s low worktable, fluttering in the draft from the alley. Jory lunged, pinned the papers beneath his palm, and pulled them into his chest—only for his elbow to clip the brass measuring rod resting against the wall.

The heavy rod struck the floorboards with a hollow gong. It didn't bounce; it rolled, turning lazily along the tilt of the old floor toward the thrashing red silk pile, clicking against every raised plank with agonizing regularity. Under the fabric, Vane went still for half a second. A leather-gauntleted hand shot out from beneath the dyed folds, grabbing the brass cylinder just as Jory scrambled backward on elbows and boot-heels.

"Jory!" Bramblefoot barked through the gap in the shutter. The captain seized the collar of Jory's frayed apprentice smock, hauling the older man upright by brute leverage. "Stop collecting souvenirs and shift your boots!"

They tumbled headlong through the low opening into the raw morning chill of the Fish Market Alleys, landing in greasy mud that smelled violently of salt herring and rotting kelp. Behind them, the shutter slammed back down on its hinges with a dull thud, followed almost instantly by the heavy shoulder of an armed tax-guard crashing against the timber planks inside.

Bramblefoot took the lead, splashing through puddles of grey dishwater and gutter grease. Jory jogged right at his shoulder, hugging the damp ox-hide bundle tightly to his ribs like a stolen loaf. Frayed linen ties whipped against his wrists, and every jolting stride threatened to shake loose another scrap of purple-dusted imperial vouchsafes. Early mongers were only just unloading wicker crates from handcarts; one fishmonger cursed loudly as Bramblefoot hurdled a basket of salted eels, nearly upending an oil lantern that sputtered yellow soot against a lime-washed wall.

"Hold the left lane!" Bramblefoot panted, ducking under an awning strung with gutted cod. "Watch the ruts, Jory, you drop those pages and I'm using your spectacles for fishhooks!"

"The ink is still tacky, Captain!" Jory wheezed, his spectacles sliding clear down his nose. "If the wax seal rubs away, the whole municipal exemption is just expensive tinder!"