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Shallow Pockets, Deep Waters – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Shallow Pockets, Deep Waters

R S Moule

Beneath Misthåvn’s inky sky and the wan light of Shadrac’s Gleam, a bleak mist hung over the city of ships, clinging to their bare masts as barnacles clung to their hulls beneath the water. Dark waves lapped grey surf against their keels, while a gloomy wind from the Penumbral Sea rattled the deserted rigging and set ancient timbers creaking. Along fog-swaddled waterways, cowled men of the Seapath Guild steered their small craft, their lights casting swirling shadows and reflecting in the black depths.

At the edge of the city, deep in the cavernous bowels of the Grey Whisper, Endrac leaned against the bulkhead, eyeing the hatch for any late arrivals, listening to the waves and watching the backs of the several dozen assembled patrons standing against the balcony rail overlooking what had once been the ship’s hold. His arms were folded across his chest, hiding his gloved hands from any who might notice the anxious tremor to his fingers. He itched to touch the knife hidden in his cloak, but to those who knew where he kept his blade that would only betray his nerves.

Under his feet, a growl from the hold rumbled through the planks. A man at the rail started at the noise, casting a worried glance to the floorboards, and Endrac allowed himself a small smile. The knots in his bunched shoulders loosened slightly – his doubts were natural, but unwarranted. Tonight, he would give the denizens of Misthåvn something they had never seen before, a spectacle that would spread along the decks and through the armadas like arcane fire. There were fewer perhaps than he might have hoped for, but Horgath the Shank had promised him two nights in which to prove his idea. By tomorrow evening, the only thing stopping the Murkers from raking coin in every night would be the supply of defaulters willing to risk their lives for the sake of clearing their debts to the gang.

‘You look a little too pleased with yourself,’ came a soft voice at Endrac’s right.

In the dim light of the overhead lamps, Endrac had not sensed their approach, but he knew the voice well enough. ‘Cyntia,’ he replied, not even turning to look at her. ‘You’re a long way from port.’ Cyntia ran the Murkers’ operation in Barak-Mhornar, checking the purity of freshly delivered contraband before it was loaded onto airships to be spread to every corner of Ulgu. There were few who Horgath the Shank was prepared to place such faith in, but Endrac had little doubt he would soon be adding himself to the list.

‘I could hardly miss this.’ Cyntia gestured with an arm to the assembled spectators, and beneath her cloak Endrac caught a flash of steel at her belt. Another measure of the Shank’s faith in her, that she was allowed to bear a naked blade in the presence of their notoriously mistrustful boss. Her mocking smile stretched the bone-white scar that ran from her eye to her jawline. ‘We had more patience in my day – the Shank must be going soft to entertain this idiocy.’ Another growl rumbled from below, but Cyntia was unmoved by it. ‘Still, I’m looking forward to discovering what fierce creature you’ve brought for us this time. A leopard eel to poison us all? Or perhaps a rhinox, with horns capable of breaching the hull and drowning the whole ship?’

‘Only one of those happened,’ said Endrac icily. ‘And it wasn’t me who was transporting the eel – that was Darshan.’

‘And look what the Shank did to him.’ Cyntia’s smile was sharp as a knife. ‘At least you seem to be more competent than he was. Word of advice, Endrac, from somebody who’s climbed the pole. Stop giving the boss reasons to notice you. The more he sees of someone, the less he likes them.’

Cyntia flashed Endrac a wink, and before he had the chance to reply she sauntered away and was lost among the crowd.

Endrac bit down on his irritation, and resumed his lean against the bulkhead, affecting nonchalance for anyone who happened to be watching. Cyntia always seemed able to find the right words to rile him. It was fine for her, with her cushy position in Barak-Mhornar. Endrac, though, was tired of travelling, the endless realmgates and the constant struggle to stay ahead of the Great Cities’ constabularies and any rival gangs who happened to take an interest in his activities. For two years now, he had been in the business of smuggling exotic beasts for the Murkers, and Endrac was under no illusion that eventually his good luck would run out and he would be caught with the wrong creature by the wrong person. It was time for him to put down roots, and for all its grim mists, black waters, and the lack of solid ground beneath a man’s feet, Misthåvn was as good a place as any. He could serve Horgath and the gang just as well here; then maybe in a few years he would have enough money to disappear.

That was the trouble with the Murkers. Once you were in, the only honest escape was death.

The sound of clapping shook Endrac from his reverie. A murmur rippled through the crowd, and one by one they fell silent. Endrac craned his neck over the throng towards the disturbance.

Horgath the Shank had arrived. The shaven-headed leader of the Murkers towered over everyone, his neck and shoulders thick as prime joints of meat, yet though he was built like a back-alley brawler he was dressed as richly as a merchant-prince. He gave a warm wave to the assembly, but the smile never reached his eyes, which remained as cold as a sawfang’s.

‘Friends, acquaintances, clients,’ Horgath began. ‘Welcome.’ His voice was as soft and dangerous as the drawing of a blade, yet the crowd heard every word. ‘I, and all of you, have been bestowed with the rare courage to survive the terrors of the Penumbral Sea. But you will know as well as I that Misthåvn does not stoop to cater to those not born with such good fortune. To the unprepared, our fair City of Scoundrels is as dangerous as any Dawnbringer Crusade.’

Endrac caught the warning beneath Horgath’s words: cross the Murkers, and you would be next.

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