Mackerel Falling Like Rain

The call of the canal gate horn was still vibrating against the sodden floor timbers of the alcove when a wooden tier outside gave up the ghost. An exhausted carter, backing his dray clear of the alleyway entrance, caught the iron rim of his wheel squarely against the bottom corner of a six-high pyramid of salt-crusted herring casks. The stack groaned with the long, screeching complaint of wet oak before buckling entirely. Dozens of split staves and grey brine-soaked fish poured across the flags in an explosive, rumbling slide, sending up a stinging grey cloud of dried salt that caught three approaching municipal guards directly in their squinting eyes.

Captain Bramblefoot did not pause to admire the wreckage. Leaping clear of the rumpled heaps of court silk inside the tailor's shop, he hooked his fingers into the collar of Pip's coat and shoved the waterlogged quartermaster through the rear shutter. Behind them, Jory squeezed his aching knees through the opening, the thick ox-hide ledger wedged tightly under his ribs. His spectacles bounced crooked on the bridge of his nose, smeared with lint and chalk, but he kept his head down as they scrambled into the narrow service lane between the rear wall and the salthouse.

They had barely covered ten yards when the roar of the tumbling casks triggered a panic further down the cobbles. A mounted courier in municipal blue swung his nervous bay around the salthouse buttress at an unchecked gallop, iron-shod hooves skittering sideways on the slime-slick stone. Sparks snapped off the granite flags inches from Bramblefoot’s boots. The captain threw his weight sideways, hauling Pip down into the muck by his wool scarf, while Jory flung himself headlong between the slatted timber hurdles of an empty sheep-pen. The horse plunged past with a spray of greasy ditch-water and canal silt, the courier swearing violently into his collar as he wrestled the bay’s head toward the lower gate.

Inside the sheep-pen, huddled amongst wet straw and forgotten wool clippings, Pip was already wheezing behind his scarf. His hands, still chalky with dried flour from their run through the underground mill, shook as he unbuckled the sling beneath his waders. Carefully, he hauled out the heavy green-glass jar. Inside, the crystal root thrummed with a low, faint verdant pulse, warm enough to bead condensation against the interior curve of the glass.

"Take it, Jory," Pip hissed, shoving the jar toward the apprentice's chest before Bramblefoot could protest. "My palms are sweating through the wool, and if that seal drinks the salt fog, the root will turn to mush before we clear the basin. You've got the hide wrap; hold the glass against the leather."

Jory’s spectacles slipped another fraction as he clutched the heavy jar against the forged tax exemptions. The glass was startlingly warm against his chilled knuckles. "I am an apprentice stitcher," Jory wheezed, adjusting his grip so the corners of the ledger cushioned the jar's base. "I am supposed to be cutting basting thread for linen hose, not transporting smuggled horticulture through livestock pens."