The moon was rising and its brightness cast a shadow over the streets, kept away from them by the tall buildings. These rose up a hundred feet or more, covered in thick vines and a beautifully grained wood. The lower portions of the houses were made of brick, with square windows covering most of the first floor. The tall portions sat several feet from the street, while the windowed porch or sitting room extended to its edge. The people of Eden were friendly and if one saw an acquaintance sitting in the front room while they passed, he would stop for a moment. Indeed, the forward rooms were open to the public at all hours and the richer citizens left meals out for the poor to eat during the night. Atiltians were known for their vigorous pursuit of whatever struck their fancy. They worked obsessively at things that they loved and were up before dawn without turning in until midnight or later. Yet when they did turn to sleep, they proceeded with the same vigor that characterized their waking hours.
As the ale wagon drew nearer to the Floatings, the guards became more numerous and more vigilant. Just as they came into the Floatings, in the final circle before it began, they were stopped by a company of six soldiers. The circle was lit by several lamp posts, with a fountain in its center and a garden around its edge. The captain of the guard had just returned from foreign duty, as evidenced by his plumed helm and the deep tan on his face – both testifying to a man of French persuasions; though his accent pointed to Hibernia.
“Stop there, man,” commanded the captain as the brewer entered the circle. The wagon came to halt beside the fountain.
“What is your business at this hour?” the captain asked.
“A delivery, sir,” was the answer. “A broken valve delayed the brewing, but the delivery cannot wait until morning.”
The captain was satisfied with his answer, but thought such an easy passing to be lax. “What is your cargo? There is no need to deliver it at night.”
“I have Atiltian Scotch,” the brewer paused, “And it is precisely for the darkness that I hurry, for sailors can only be kept from carousing about the shore if the shore is brought to
“Very well,” it was the captain’s turn to pause while he sought something to say. “I am just from Hibernia and already I miss their ale. Beside it, Atiltian Scotch is but Atiltian barrel scum. But as we are not in Hibernia, and as my men are thirsty, it will have to do.”
The brewer grew flustered by the captain’s insult and only barely kept his temper – a fact those within the barrel could surmise by the wavering tone of his voice. “Go on, then, but not so much; for I have a wife to support.”
“Then you will need extra for yourself?”
The soldiers enjoyed their captain’s answer, laughing as they congregated around the tap. Having heard the conversation, those inside were prepared, and when the soldiers cupped their hands beneath the spigot, Atiltian Scotch poured out readily. Yet the soldiers were wastrels and much of it overflowed onto the ground. At last, they were finished, and there could not have been much left within the massive keg.Yet the captain had not tasted it. He walked briskly to the tap with that in mind.
“My men enjoyed your Atiltian Scotch,” he said, “But my tongue is sharper than theirs, having tasted the Hibernian best. We will see how it fits my taste.”
“It is cold going down and warm once within,” the brewer boasted. But to himself he worried, “There can be nothing left for them to pour!”
The captain cupped his hands beneath the tap as one of his soldiers pulled back on it. A trickle of liquid came out, slower than before and a different shade in the moonlight.
“Indeed, you have just brewed this,” the captain said as he prepared to drink, “For it is yet warm.” The brewer sat up straight.
“I must confess,” he continued, “That its smell is not altogether pleasurable; for it is sharply tinged and stabs itself into my nostrils.”
After letting it flow over his hands and onto his boots for a moment, the captain raised his hands to his lips and drunk deeply of the warm Atiltian Scotch. His face collapsed as he swallowed and his eyes snapped shut in revulsion.
“Blasphemy!” he cried, “That this sour scum is named Scotch. In Hibernia this would be considered nothing more than vile excrement!” His face shook and he spit repeatedly. “Go on, brewer,” he commanded, “Go on, and take your putrid concoctions with you. I will never drink again!”
The brewer bowed, then quickly spurred his horses forward. “What the devil?” he said to himself as he drove off, “Can it have been so bad? And so warm?” He shook his head. “Whatever became of it, that old boozer got what he deserved. And many times over at that!”
Chapter 60
The Floatings was still in the moonlight. No torches were allowed – on account of the densely packed ships – and the harbor was left without any light but the moon’s. Nothing could be heard but the breathing of the tide and the snoring of the groaning ships. The brewer drove his wagon down the first pier that reached into the harbor, at whose end a small cutter was waiting. A ramp connected its deck to the pier, where a shrouded man was waiting.
“Ambiance!” the man called out.
“Forever, and justice!” the brewer returned.
“For all,” the man finished. Then, stepping forward, he said, “Your delivery is late, but it will do. Help me roll the cargo aboard, for I will pay only once it is in my possession.”
“Very well.”
The two unhooked the barrel from the wagon, and rolled it up the ramp. Inside, the four men were jostled around, but still made no noise. The Fardy brothers were indeed patient, when it came to matters of business. Once on deck, it was placed in a cargo room off the stern, prepared in advance. The cloaked man paid the brewer and the latter returned to his wagon and thence to his home. Before the other man had returned to the cargo room, the Fardys and Clifford had come out the trap door beneath and sat on the floor, slightly disorientated.
“We are clear, then?” the black Fardy asked as the man returned.
“Yes,” and the man pulled the cloak from his body, revealing himself. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
“As always, my dear clerk,” and the two men grasped hands. “You have done well in this, and the king was satisfied with your service, as well. But, for now, are the men prepared?”
“Yes, and growing impatient. The crews of the Timbers have the cables set, and the harbor authorities are expecting them to be leaving at dawn,” their faithful clerk answered.
“So all that remains is to,” the black Fardy raised his left eyebrow rather than finishing the sentence. The others knew his meaning.
“Yes,” the clerk said, “That is all. The Marins are ready to be sunk. All that remains now is to take command. Mutiny.”
“Then we go, though I would not call it mutiny. For the Marins are our own by right!” the black Fardy rose and strode quickly out of the room, the others following.
Above deck, the cutter was creaking through the harbor. Its sides were strewn with the nets of fishermen, and if any doubted their cover the smell of fish was embedded onto the planks. Several sailors made the crew, steering skillfully through the sea of wood and rope that was the Floatings. At times, it was so dense one could walk across as if on dry ground. Yet none of it was anchored: it was a dynamic city. There were no maps or charts, for every moment everything was entirely rearranged. Rather, it was a special skill the navigators of the Floatings had, which would guide them safely along. They were both quick and keen.
The man presently at the rudder was one of these navigators. He was tall, with a strong build but a wiry frame. He was neither bearded nor clean-shaven, but rather had always the rubble of several days which he assiduously cultivated. His hair was dark by nature, but lightened by constant exposure to the sun, and of late had turned a light red. His eyes were too close together on the inside, but they were also large and were perfectly aligned with the outside of his face. Between them, his nose hung down, though it was neither blunt not fat; rather, it came down close to his face before suddenly veering outward to a sharp, medium point. He wore a hooded jacket over his shirt, though it was not stormy in the bay. Yet while the hood cast a shadow over his face, it did not dampen his eyes, which could not be overlooked. His left was the color of silvery moonlight, but his right as yellow as the sun.
