Chapter Two: Untidy Tidings of an Untidy Life

“A clear head in any circumstance is the most powerful magic any Thurmaturgist can bring to bear. Whilst your enemy rushes and flails, you look for an opening. Whilst lesser men and women panic at the situation arising, you see the hidden opportunities. A fiery heart and a strong arm can win a fight, certainly, but a clear head and a rational mind can topple empires.”

From Practical Thaumaturgy – The Revised Third Edition, by Torbeon Savonet, 3034 S.F.

36th day of Ascending Rains, 3042 S.F. - Three years since The End of All Things.

Land was sighted in the afternoon of the third day, a dull grey-green splodge barely visible against the backdrop of an overcast Autumn sky. It was a blessed sight, an indication that a rest was imminent, raising morale amongst the crew. The previous two days of sail had been uneventful as far as these things go, but dreary and wet with cold, almost-constant drizzle, the kind that can soak a person right through to the bone a while. Even now the boards beneath their feet were still damp and slick.

A few more hours of sailing and the rocky promontory that protected the bay came into view, craggy and imposing, shielding the town and harbour beyond from view. In response to their approach, a rippling square of yellow shot up into the sky from the craggy head to rest, fluttering in the near-constant oceanic winds. The flag was a signal, a query to the approaching ship.

‘Hoist the pennant,’ Commander Ulstea barked.

Replacing the purple of the Forsaran Navy was a rough, handmade flag bearing a black bird on a blue background, a new flag for the new fiefdom of wood and iron, indicating to those that would recognise it that this was Seacrow. A silent moment as the yellow flag was jerked down, quickly replaced by one of green: “proceed”.

It seemed all was well.

‘Take us in, Mr Maxten,’ the Commander instructed, leaving the quarterdeck.

Watching from the rail, Aina always liked to observe as they came into port, seeing the details of Havnoy come into focus as Seacrow bounded excitedly through the waves. The grey became cliffs and scree slopes with a myriad of shades and hues, white specks appearing to betray the presence of nesting birds still lingering so late into the season, and green a patchwork of heaths and meadows and fields, scattered with the spread blots of sheep and cows. Above all, the stout mountain stood eternal and watchful over the people that sheltered in its shadow, the broken teeth of ancient ruins on its upper slopes.

As they came around the headland, Aina strained her eyes to make out the concealed strongpoint way up on the top of the cliffs. Almost two years past a team of sailors had spent an entire exhausting day dragging five 18lb long-guns up and into a position where they would be able to rain iron shot down on anything that tried to enter the bay without permission. The heavy cannon could inflict serious damage on anything short of a man-o-war, and nothing that large had sailed these waters for years.

They passed into the bay and almost immediately the wind dropped off to a faint breeze, forcing the sailing master to maximise coverage of the sails just to keep the ship moving, and the town was spread out on the far side, a tangle of buildings clustered along the water’s edge, ancient stone cottages mixed in with more modern constructions such as the new – albeit small – dockyard built from scavenged materials.

‘Looks like we aren’t alone.’

Peacock had appeared at her side, his brocade frock coat buttoned shut against the cold and damp, a small frill of lace at his collars and cuffs looking absolutely ridiculous in such rough surroundings. They all had their quirks, the Scavengers, and the mage Alvard Farid had more than earned the name “Peacock”. He was a dandy pretty-boy and knew it all too well, strutting around the place. There probably wasn’t an unmarried woman on that island he hadn’t taken to bed, and likely a few of the married ones too. Everyone hated and loved him in equal measure.

Aina’s feelings about him were… complicated.

She looked across the water to the two-masted ship, very much of a size with Seacrow, roped snugly against the single wooden jetty that thrust into the bay from the town.

‘Seems that Otter is back in from wherever they’ve been.’

The other big-sloop HMS Otter, was the only other ship of the Forsaran Navy to have survived the flight from Fennia during The End of All Things. The great wallowing Grimmholm had ran aground during the first winter storms of that year, taking with her over a thousand crew and refugees. The frigate Warhound had become a plague ship, riven with a flux that had burned through her occupants only two months later, the ship and bodies scuttled from a safe distance by the wary cannons of the refugee fleet. Midnight Sunrise, another frigate, had set off to the south to see what information could be gleaned about the kingdom’s far-flung colonies, with a promise to return. She still had not, just over three years later.

The recent loss of the third-rate man-o-war Cursed be Iron but a year ago, sinking right there in Havnoy’s harbour after her keel had rotten through from so long without maintenance, had been a blow to the little fleet. Most of the crew were rescued but its stores, powder, and many tonnes of cannon – not to mention her captain – had gone down with it. Even the seven magi the survivors could muster between them, four of which were qualified Thaumaturgists, could not summon enough power to drag the wreck towards shore.

So, Seacrow and Otter, two little brig-sloops, were all that remained. They lacked the endurance and range of a frigate or the sheer weight of iron of anything bigger – although the former’s carronades provided firepower disproportionate to its size – but the shallow draft that could be so limiting in other circumstances provided a keen advantage when raiding the ruins of the old world along the coast, often allowing the vessel to be brought right up to the shore or quay rather than be forced to rely on boats to get people on or off land. It was thanks to this feature that Aina and the other Scavengers had survived their latest adventure.

The population of Havnoy had tripled since the refugee ships had arrived, and even with the new buildings there were scant few places to stay. Seventy sailors could fit no problem on a thirty-metre ship but once those sailors stepped ashore each of them needed a room, or at least a bed. To compensate for this, a bunkhouse had been built, fitting forty bodies stacked into one big room with the capacity to feed them all, and the two ships had agreed to split shore leave to half the crew at any one time to relieve some of the pressure on the local populace. For those with the means, however, a private room at Njall’s Head was still an option.