For a day we headed west, following Haarland’s gurgling coast towards the safer waters of the south. Had we a larger, sturdier craft we might have taken the eastern route towards the hilly sheepherding settlement of Sallawick, rounding the mountains of Lythen’s far north until finding a suitable port to come ashore. The waters there would be quieter and the land less populated, allowing us unimpeded passage home without too many raised eyebrows. To head east would be to sail along the edges of the Eastern Ending, however, and in our tiny dinghy doing so would be a surer way of signing our own death warrants than taking a morning stroll through a pitched battle wearing nothing but one’s own stupidity.

The vast and seemingly endless expanse of ocean known as the Eastern Ending had a disquieting reputation. A swathe of sea spanning the eastern boundaries of the Known World from as far north as Kraklaw’s northernmost tip to the unnatural deserts of Nagalon in the south, it was so infinitely wide that no glory-seeking adventurer had ever returned with news of new land, if indeed they returned at all. Those who did so spoke of sea monsters and wrathful squalls sent not by the Gods but by things much fouler, and even at its most westerly edges the Ending’s waters were choppy and unpredictable, buffeted by winds blustering over the huge oceanic wastes. Should we have set out upon it, even sticking close to shore, it was liable to have tossed our rickety sailboat against the rocks before we made it as far as our first port of call.

No, to go west was safer and therefore much more to my taste, for although it would mean doubling back along the coast of Harrowshiels where we risked being spotted and harpooned like seals in our pitiable excuse for a boat, the seas to the west were much tamer and, although busier, there would be a greater array of ports into which we could call for supplies. If I had it my way, though, I would be hauling Larsen’s arse back home to Delrow as soon as possible, forcing him to confess to his crimes and clear my name and so allowing all to be as it should: that treacherous bastard behind bars and I in a tavern somewhere, drinking, gambling, and enjoying the good life.

Should those attempts fail, however, I had decided early on that I would be ditching my companions at the first stop, winging it the rest of the way to the Tradesman’s Port, then hopefully bribing my way to somewhere warmer and more hospitable to people of my predicament… preferably somewhere without a death sentence… or criminal punishment.

It was almost midday when we arrived at the small fishing town of Hemp. A pathetic little place, really, like most remote fishing villages usually are, with little to mark it out from the dreary coast on which it huddled except a for few sturdy huts and some docked fishing boats encrusted with kelp and barnacles creaking in the bay. Situated on the most westerly tip of Haarland’s coast, it was also uncannily the coldest.

As a rule of thumb, it can be judged that the further north-west one travelled, the more likely one was to become a giant human icicle. The closest people to reach that state were probably the unfortunate residents of Skalghura, a deplorable state of affairs otherwise known as the White North, though even thick-skinned madmen like those who chose to willingly live there were largely restricted to the most south-easterly fingers called the Grievenhens. Such lands were far across Dweller’s Deep, however, and were barely worth thinking about, for few were mad enough to consider visiting. Especially since arriving there in one piece was a feat in itself.

Not only had a sailor to contend with the jagged shards of rock and shipwrecks ringing the Hens like deadly jaws, but that came after the task of actually crossing the ocean to reach them in the first place. The Eastern Ending might harbour enough hellish tales to frighten any sane sailor into submission but, as it turns out, there are very few swathes of sea surrounding the Known World which are not claimed to be either cursed or terrifying in some other respect. Which is probably the reason why, up until now, I had steered well clear of anything resembling open ocean and the big pieces of hand-crafted driftwood which carried people on it.

“Scared of getting a little wet?” Larsen had teased as we had rounded the headland coming into Hemp, catching the distrustful glances I had been aiming at the choppier waters hounding us from the north on the belly of a bitter wind. He had called on all hands to help bring the boat to bay, but knowing little difference between the functions of a sail and a paddle I had done my best to look busy as I tried to avoid being battered into the sea by something which I had been earlier told was the boom- an apt name, and one whose inventor I was sure to be cursing before long as I experienced the irony of its title.

“No,” I had replied, almost toppling over the opposite edge as I danced away from a salt spray which buffeted the boat from one side. Larsen could see the way in which I stared fretfully out across the open waters to the north, however, as our current location brushed the perpetually foggy waters of Dweller’s Deep, and he flashed a snide smile.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, heheeha! The Dwellers are just a horror story told by paranoid fools with drinking problems and overactive imaginations,” He reached across a lanky arm to rap his bony finger painfully upon my head, an action which was far more painful than it rightly should have been and infinitely more annoying, “In any case, they would never stray this close to shore. Unless we get swept out to sea, you have nothing to worry about, hahahee!”

I have never found the man to be very encouraging, and that had been no exception.

We didn’t stay long in Hemp, and although I had planned on taking to my heels at the first stop I was glad to be back on the water and heading to the safer south after Finnr’s brief stock-up of supplies. I had been glad to stretch my legs on land, for sure, and it had given me ample opportunity to put some space between my companions and I as I refuelled at the village’s single tavern- or should I say ‘decrepit shack with a bar stool and a few bottles of booze’. To remain in hemp, however, was not going to solve any of my problems.

For one, I drank through their meagre supply of ale in the three hours or so that I was there, and I wasn’t prepared to wait another week or two for another shipment to come in while contemplating life as a fishmonger. Secondly, I still hadn’t managed to persuade Larsen to abandon the other orphan and help me instead, so staying would mean leaving without him which would most likely result in nothing good. Third, it was bloody freezing in that place and I was scared that staying any longer than necessary would scupper my ability to make children.

I really didn't see any other option in the matter. Peasantry just doesn't suit me.