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All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.
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The mild weather snuck away in the night, setting the stage for their departure, to be a much more bitterly cold and uncomfortable affair. After sundown the temperature dropped until snow fell in a scintillating curtain of white, crystal-soft flakes. They danced along the wind, dazzling and fleeting in the moonlight as they did summersaults and dizzying spiral dives before collecting in a graceless mass grave all along the docks, their frantic, joyful celebration of cold and movement and life meeting the inevitable earthbound end that all snowflakes meet, except perhaps the extra special ones.
Rael's breath curled up in puffing tendrils of fog, barely visible in the dim light cast by the half-moon and the lanterns spaced intermittently along the piers. He and Silmaria were both bundled up thickly, their old shambles of worn and ragged clothes discarded in favor of new garbs well suited to the harsh North climate. He had a new heavy cloak, thick and insulated with soft wolf fur. The black cloak he'd stolen from the assassin, just a few short nights ago but already feeling like a lifetime gone by, was snugged away in one of several packs he had slung across his broad shoulders, along with a sturdy ash longbow, a quiver full of arrows, and a steel greatsword he'd taken from Galin's personal armory. Between the supplies Galin had given him and those they'd bought on their own, they were well provisioned for the days ahead.
The Knight glanced back at Silmaria. Even bundled thickly in winter wear, a heavy cloak, and weighed down with a few packs of her own, the girl looked small as she huddled in on herself. She stood close behind him to let his larger form block most of the bitterly cold wind as it whipped the snow about. She'd abandoned her dresses in favor of the practicality of thick, loose cotton breeches and a warm long sleeved tunic, both in shades of simple browns and dark greens, with a small hole cut in the back to let her tail through to move freely instead of keeping it uncomfortably trapped. Despite the masculine cut of her clothing, the mere shape of the Gnari girl's body left no mistake of her gender. She glanced up at him, and nodded, but remained silent.
They stepped slowly away from The Siren of The Lake and walked slowly along the largely empty docks. The fishermen and traders and sailors would be mulling around the docks early, even in the worsening weather, but dawn was still hours away yet. The only people about were the beggars and paupers who preferred the waterfront district to the crowded press of the more tightly clustered poor quarters, and the drunkards who had been tossed out of the bars and taverns along the docks to sleep off their stupor in the cold. Of the few guards who should have been patrolling the piers and waterfront buildings in a resigned, lackluster fashion, there was no sign.
Rael was on edge, and no mistake; Galin told him the guard would be taken care of and their departure would go smoothly, but Galin said a lot of things, and no less than half of it tended to be bluster and false bravado. He trusted the old warrior, but he couldn't help but feel anxious and on guard. He did his best not to let it show, for Silmaria's sake; the last thing he needed was to make her any more edgy and tense than she already was. But his hand rested on the curved short sword strapped to his hip. He would have preferred his greatsword, but it was bundled with the rest of their packs and wrapped up tight. The Nobleman didn't want to be any more inconspicuous than necessary, and there wouldn't be much way to subtly wear the greatsword with its distinctive hilt sticking up from his back.
The harbor was clogged with boats; nearly all the lake's fishing vessels were docked and secured for the night. They cast eerie shadows along the piers as they bobbed gently along Lake Glasswater's smooth, calm surface. Even in the middle of the night, the distinctive smells of the docks surrounded them, comprised mostly of fresh water, falling snow, and many, many fish.
Despite Rael's misgivings, the pair reached their destination without happenstance. The Cutter was a weathered old single mast boat, built for mobility and speed. She was a practical sort of boat with no flash or pretense, but the lines were clean and the sail was of good, thick canvas. When they reached her, the Cutter had clearly been prepped, and her Captain was impatiently tapping his boot on the gangplank.
Captain Emil Jemmings was Captain of no one but his fine little vessel, being that she was a one-man craft and he had nothing resembling a crew or underling of any kind. He was the Northern, freshwater version of a salty old seadog, which made him a lakedog, he often joked. He swaggered with an exaggerated sway in his stride, as if he'd been on the rocking and turbulently rolling deck of a proper seafaring vessel instead of the relaxed bobbing of his faithful fishing boat on Glasswater's tranquil waters. He had the swarthiest, darkest tan of anyone working the port, remnants of days gone by sailing the Jade Sea during his younger years, back when he'd been a true sailor and not a mockery of one like the rest of the poor sods at the docks, or so Captain Jemmings insisted.
He did have a brown chin-beard that he oiled to a point, and a certain ruddiness to his cheeks. He also, impressively, only had one gap in his smile, and that won in a memorable brawl in a less memorable whore house in Stillwater Bay. He'd lost the first knuckles worth of his middle finger on his right hand, and the pinky finger on the same hand was gone entirely. The middle finger was the victim of an unfortunate sailing accident that was brought on by a younger, stupider Emil Jemmings' carelessness and an alarmingly large jug of spiced rum. The pinky was taken as punishment for being caught at smuggling in his home port of Cordain's Rock. Not quite satisfied with his pinky, the port authorities exiled him on top of it.
Which was, of course, why Rael and Silmaria were involved with Captain Jemmings in the first place; though he plied his trade on a smaller scale, he was a smuggler still. Galin had vouched for the man's trustworthiness and insisted Jemmings was capable. With the security at the gates increasing by the day, slipping out via the lake had been the least risky option available. Galin paid the smuggler well and put enough coin into enough guard's pockets to convince the men not to pay too much attention tonight. How the surly old Knight had managed this without even leaving his home, Rael didn't know, but Galin was nothing if not resourceful, and he'd done enough dabbling in the wrong places to make the right friends.
Captain Jemmings stood a bit straighter when they approached. He looked over Rael first, then Silmaria, his eyes lingering much longer on the Gnari girl in a way that immediately grated on Rael's nerves. The smuggler spat, fished a smoking pipe out of his pocket and clenched it in his teeth. He struck a match, the flame a blossom of brilliance before he put the small fire to his pipe.
When he regarded them again, he flashed a haughty grin and said, "Either someone forgot how to count, or I drank more tonight than I realized. Coulda sworn I agreed to one package, not two."
"Plans changed," Rael explained simply. He tossed the man a pouch jangling with coin.
Jemmings caught the purse, weighed it in his hand, and grinned again. "Seems a touch light to me."
"It's the same fee you were already paid. Double the fee for double the cargo," Rael reasoned.
"Ah, that's true. But see, you've not taken into the extra fees and charges for inconvenience, increased risk, space and storage...not to mention how terribly unlucky it is to let a woman on your ship..."
Rael set his jaw hard and fished out a few extra silver, and tossed them to Jemmings, who caught it with a nod.
"Ass," Silmaria said clearly, with no attempt to keep her words from the smugglers ears.
Captain Jemmings stared at her for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter.
"I think we'll get on just fine," Jemmings said. He blew a few puffing smoke rings into the dark, snowy sky overhead, then stepped aside from the gangplank, dipping into an exaggerated bow as he motioned toward his ship with his glowing pipe. "Welcome aboard the Cutter."
