Martin got little sleep that night. Boudica was in bed when he arrived home. Her breath fell softly. He wondered for a moment if she was faking it, but ultimately decided it didn’t matter. He silently changed and got in alongside her. The two lay facing opposite sides for a few hours before the first light of the sunrise slithered in between the curtains. Martin rose quickly and prepared for work. Boudica rose shortly after him, prepared his lunch, and wordlessly left for her washing job.

  The morning passed uneventfully. Martin and his team helped unload a cargo of pigs from the North. Half were being sold in Alderbridge and needed to be herded to the pens for keeping for the evening. The other half needed to be herded on to a larger ship that would carry them along the coast. Martin and company hated this particular task as animals couldn’t be counted on to move the way goods could. Martin was particularly nervous as his lessons at the Faceless Chapel had only touched on dealing with animals. However, the pigs were on their best behavior that day and they changed over without incident.

  After finishing, they had a short breather as the ships left the dock. Their next scheduled vessel hadn’t arrived yet. If it didn’t turn up soon, it would lose its place to the next vessel in line. Martin sat on a crate, absentmindedly fiddling with a rope. Monika was telling Dillion some anecdote about her younger brother, who had apparently mistranslated something at a bar to a girl from the continent and got himself in a bit of trouble. Sly was lying back with his head cradled in his hands, dozing. He had invited Martin to go drinking tonight, and pleasantly surprised by Martin’s acceptance, seemed content to hold off on further conversation until it was greased with alcohol. As the group sat there, Martin noticed Victor Harrow, the chief enforcer, walking quickly toward his office.

  Martin put the rope down and leapt off the crate. Monika paused in her story to look his way.

  “Toilet,” was all Martin said as he started walking away.

  “Ah,” Monika said, turning back to Dillion. “So when he thought he had asked to buy her a pint, he actually said something about buying her a pair of knickers. Can you believe it?”

  Martin was away before he could hear Dillion’s reaction, but he doubted he could believe it either. After walking close enough to the toilet to seem believable, he quickly glanced back at the three to make sure no one was watching him before hooking around to head towards Harrow’s office.

  Unlike Crane’s office on the top floor of the building, situated to oversee everything and deliberately difficult to get to, Harrow’s office was a small building right on dock level. Anyone could come to him at any time. However, they were never guaranteed they wouldn’t get chewed out for wasting his time. It was a physical testament to Harrow’s management style. The door was open when Martin arrived. The secretary was out at the moment, so there was just Harrow at his desk, flipping through some letters.

  Martin knocked on the door frame. “You got a minute?”

  Harrow looked up from his letters. “Martin? What did you do this time?”

  “Nothing. I just had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh? Well, come in then. I’m waiting for someone, so I just have a moment.”

  Martin entered the small office. There was a front desk where the secretary usually sat, with Harrow sitting at a larger desk in the back. A few heavy wooden file cabinets were placed against the wall, some of them securely padlocked. The rest of the walls were covered with maps and charts that showed detailed shipping routes across the empire and the rest of the world. The one thing that could be considered decoration and not an office tool was a small framed painting of a light ship. Its lantern was lit, bravely tossing its light into the darkness as the ship was rolled by the waves. A couple of chairs sat in front of Harrow’s desk, but Martin didn’t sit down.

  “I’ll make it quick then. I’d like to move into a position as an enforcer.”

  Harrow looked at him blankly for a moment before he burst into a heavy laugh.

  “An enforcer? Have you been drinking this morning?”

  “No, sir.”

  After a moment Harrow calmed down. “Sir? You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Damn.” Harrow put down his letters and looked at Martin more seriously. “What brought this on?”

  “As you know, I was pretty sick last week. It was the kind of sickness that makes a man think he’s meeting his end. It’s not the first time I’ve looked death in the face, but this time…this time I had a chance to look back at my own face, and I didn’t like what I saw. I don’t want to end my life like that.”

  Harrow thought silently for a moment. “You have potential, Martin. You’re good on the docks, and when you’re in the midst of things, you have a cool head on your shoulders, but honestly, you’re a drunk, and you’ve got a temper that, while worse with alcohol, isn’t in the realm of comfortably tolerable while sober. Isn’t that right?”

  Harrow was looking for a negative reaction, but Martin wasn’t going to give him one.

  “I’ve been working on it.”

  “Hmmp. Workin’ on it, eh?” Harrow stood up suddenly. “My guest is here.”

  Martin glanced back to see the secretary returning with a young man. He was wearing a robe of simple cloth, yet embroidered expertly with symbols of the church. He had a serious look on his face, far removed from the welcoming smile of the priest Martin had seen on his walk the other day.

  “Martin,” Harrow said, bringing his attention back to him. “I’ll remember this request. If you can show me you’ve actually been working on it, we can revisit it then.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Understood. Thank you.”

  Harrow made a grunt of acknowledgement, and Martin turned to leave. The secretary gave him a worried look as Martin’s reputation at the dockyard was well known, but the man in the church robes didn’t even spare him a glance. Judging from the markings on the robe, he was simply a servant rather than a priest or deacon, but he carried himself with an arrogance belying his lowly rank in the church hierarchy. As Martin passed him, he felt a vague sense of unease. Why would a church servant be coming to see the manager of a shipping firm? The door closed behind him. Martin quickly abandoned the idea of trying to eavesdrop in the middle of a busy dockyard. Besides, the next ship would arrive any moment. Accusations of skipping work were the last thing he needed when gunning for a promotion.

  That evening, Martin found himself at one of the pubs often frequented by dock workers. His image as a drunk weighed heavily on his mind, so he made a conscious effort to pace himself, especially since he wasn’t sure he had inherited Martin’s tolerance for booze.

  “Did you hear about the murder last night?” Monika asked the group.

  “Cruel work, that. Seems even killers have gotten worse. Used to just leave you dead in an alley and take your purse, now…”

  “What happened?” Martin asked.

  “Someone killed an orphan last night,” Monika said.

  “Not just killed,” Sly added, “they cut the poor bastard’s face off.” He made eye contact with the bartender and saw that their next round was ready.

  “Ah, Creator,” Martin let out. An image of the boy he had given a coin to the other day flashed through his head. He hoped he was okay. “Where was this?”

  “Over near the Northeast docks,” Monika replied.

  Martin paused, his glass halfway to his lips. The Northeast docks was where he ended up wandering last night. Could it have been that man?

  “Isn’t that where you and your mom live, Dillion?” Sly asked, returning with four pint glasses balanced in his experienced hands.

  “Mm, not too far from there. I don’t think either of us knew the poor boy, though. There’s unfortunately a fair number of orphans around that part of the city.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do such a cruel thing. What could they possibly do with a face?” Boudica said.

  “Isn’t that how you got your face, Dillion?” Sly joked, softening the barb by handing Dillion a fresh pint. As usual when those kinds of jokes came up, Dillion simply laughed along and made no effort to deny it.

  Martin and Monika quickly downed the last of their pints before accepting the next. The group knocked glasses to Sly’s cheer of “to still having our faces.”

  Conversation drifted to possible suspects and motives. Martin thought of mentioning the man he encountered last night, but quickly decided against it. Conversation soon dried up with the knowledge that, regardless of the cruelty of the crime, the death of one orphan in a city as large as Alderbridge would do little to motivate the overworked police department to track down the killer.

  “Come, Martin. Let's speak of happier things. You’ve been staying away for the week. What good news do you have?” Sly asked.

  Martin took another sip of his ale. “None good, I’m afraid. A letter came in from Boudica’s brother in Brannloch. He wrote of a meteor falling from the sky into a neighbor’s field.”

  “That’s quite a windfall,” Monika cut in, “space rocks sell for quite a penny to university scientists.”

  “That’s what the neighbors were thinking, but when they climbed into the crater to collect their fortune, they found the rock had mysteriously vanished.”

  “I hope the neighbors got out quick,” Sly said. “Something like that can only bring evil.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for it,” Monika said. “I’ll write my brother. He’s probably heard of similar cases from his professors.”

  “I don’t know about space rocks,” Dillion began, “but even if there’s no true evil behind it, things like that draw the wrong sorts of attention.”

  “What do you mean?” Monika asked.

  “I heard a story from one of my mom’s friends once. She was born in Saltwick but moved to Alderbridge. One day, a couple of boys from a neighboring village were out playing near the shore and discovered a hidden cave. People came from all around to explore what they claimed were the remains of an ancient civilization.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not sure. The creatures the woman described were beyond imagination. Just the secondhand descriptions she told me gave me nightmares as a child. But then, whatever it was they did find in there, left with them. People went mad, turned into beasts, and then turned on themselves. The Church Inquisitors were brought in. The entire town was burned to the ground and a whole mountain was collapsed, sealing in whatever was down there for good.”

  “No way.”

  “I’ve not heard that story before,” Sly said, “but I imagine, like all good stories, there’s a tint of truth. I’d be wary about who you go writing things like that to, you never know who might be reading.”

  “Yeah…” Monika seemed deflated by the thought of potentially getting her little brother into danger. “Did you encounter anything like that, Martin, you know, in the colonies?”

  Other than Monika, few dared broach the topic of the colonies with Martin. For some reason, she had always been the only one who hadn’t been on the receiving end of his temper.

  “Not that I want to talk about while sober,” he said flatly.

  “Well, the night is young and there’s time enough to fix that. Drink up.” Sly clinked glasses with Martin noisily, spilling ale over the counter.

  “I can’t get tales from the colonies drunk tonight, Sly. I promised Boudica,” Martin responded. “Speaking of the church, though. I saw someone in the robes of a church servant at the docks today. He had a meeting with Harrow from the looks of it.”

  “Eh? Our washed-up sailor is quitting the drink and now looking to find religion?” Sly teased.

  “Good for you, Martin.” Monika cut in sincerely.

  “Thanks, but I’m not looking to earn favor with the Creator at the moment,” Martin said, dismissing Monika’s good wishes. “Just thought it odd a church servant would be at the docks.”

  “Not so odd,” Sly said. “Crane is old friends with the local Vicar. Some say they were old smuggling buddies before the Vicar found the True Creator. Some say he never really gave up smuggling and is still making a tidy profit outside his church seat.”

  “That so? Rumors of more church corruption could get me out of Boudica’s sight when she gets riled up. Who’s the Vicar?”

  “Shows your devotion. Corvus is his name. He’s based in the church over near the Queen’s market.”

  “That’s my diocese, isn’t it?”

  Sly raised his glass at Martin in confirmation.

  “Speaking of smuggling,” Dillion cut in, “Harrow was on my ass the other day about some missing iodine. You know anything about that, Sly?”

  Sly put up a passionate claim of his innocence while Monika and Dillion put him through a mock interrogation. Martin barely listened. Vicar Corvus. He had his first potential lead. He wondered if it was the priest with the welcoming smile he had walked past the other day, but he dismissed the idea. That man was far too young to be a Vicar, let alone to have smuggled with Crane back in the day. Despite his previous protests about not being interested in seeing the light of the True Creator, he felt it might be time to attend a service once again.