Firebrand

Chapter 472: Taking the Wind out of their Sails

Taking the Wind out of their Sails

Martel spent his Manday morning and afternoon as scheduled, practising his lightning with Master Alastair and helping Mistress Rana experiment with new potions in her laboratory. If his mind had not been preoccupied with tonight's venture, he would have been far more inquisitive about the alchemist's attempts at improving potions or substituting their reagents; on this occasion, he simply followed her instructions and said little else. By the end of the bell, she expressed faint appreciation for his help and quiet attitude.

Once night fell, Martel could finally proceed. He grabbed his cloak and left through the infirmary gate, making his way to the market district.

Once he reached the square with a statue of Saint Alexandra, Martel glanced around while trying to look inconspicuous. The note had not told him anything further than this location, leaving him in the dark about the next step.

"Come along before you draw any more attention," a voice growled next to him. Turning his head swiftly, Martel saw a Khivan, likewise with his hood up. As the latter walked away, Martel followed.

"You're my contact, then."

"Clever fellow. Here's your disguise, as promised." The Khivan handed over a sack once they were inside an alley. "Hurry up and change." He moved to stand in between Martel and the exit onto the bigger street, obscuring the view of anyone walking by.

Martel needed no encouragement in that regard, given how cold it was. He handed over his cloak for the Khivan to hold and began disrobing. "What's the target?"

"Ship carrying stone for the construction. One mast, flying Aquilan colours. Moored on the pier by The Filthy Tankard. You won't have trouble finding it."

"I can't believe anyone wants to drink in a place named like that." Martel pulled on the dirty, almost ragged tunic and trousers that served as the typical clothing of a dock worker. "You sure this is worth it? Harbour is shallow. A good stonemage should be able to raise that cargo straight back up."

The Khivan grinned, showing his white teeth in the dark alley. "Yeah, but it'll cost Vitus a new ship. And any delay to the construction is good in our book."

"Alright. What's the mood like?" Martel took back his cloak while the Khivan stuffed his robe into the sack.

"Already close to a house of cards, honestly. He's only been chief for a year, good Vitus, so his hand on the helm is still a bit shaky. Good move with The Broken Crown, by the way. Made them real nervous."

"Thanks." Martel clasped the cape around him and accepted the sack with his clothes. He had to physically stop himself from shivering; his new clothes were not only cold from exposure, but were also made of thinner fabric than his robe.

"Another push or so, and we should have him where we want him. But we'll let you know when it's time for the final blow." The Khivan bowed his head in an almost strangely formal gesture. "May the Flame illuminate your path."

"I imagine it will."

***

The docks of Morcaster saw traffic at all hours, except perhaps in the winter. Sailors on shore leave, seeking to fulfil all their appetites after many days at sea, roamed the piers to and from their ships; mostly in the latter direction, as many of them did not return for a day or two after disembarking.

This held especially true for vessels that arrived from distant places like Sindhu or the Western Isles; not only was the journey longer, but they were required to remain in quarantine for two fivedays upon arrival. Staying onboard with the city and its delights so tantalising close proved a great temptation to many, and the guards patrolled heavily to dissuade any attempts at going ashore before time.

Martel found himself a seat on the ground, back against a wall. It was cold, but he was near invisible with his dark cloak around him; even if anybody noticed him, they did not dignify him with a second look. The only thing more abundant in the harbour than sailors were dockworkers, and if they hung around the area after nightfall, it usually meant they were inebriated on the cheap ale their wages could afford.

It was one such place serving the aforementioned beverages that Martel used as a backrest, a tavern named The Filthy Tankard. Ahead of him, a ship lay anchored with an Aquilan flag denoting it as a merchant vessel. It carried other colours upon its mast as well that Martel did not know the meaning of. Nor did it matter to him.

The sail was furled together, the ship being moored and all, and it was made from strong canvas soaked by years at sea. It strained Martel considerably to take hold of the fabric with his magic and increase the heat; the distance did not help either. But he succeeded. To the passers-by, it came out of nowhere; suddenly, the sail burst into flames.

Cries went up to alert everyone in the vicinity. Crewmembers asleep below deck came running up to join the sailor on guard; soldiers on patrol came running, as did other bystanders, either to help or to watch the spectacle.

The fire quickly spread, moving along the rigging. The sailors and soldiers began organising chains of water; there was plenty of it at hand, at least.

With a loud creaking sound, the sail became unfastened from the mast and fell to the deck in a crash, spreading sparks everywhere. The sailors jumped for their lives, either onto the pier or directly into the water.

All their efforts proved in vain; the fire spread with almost preternatural haste, engulfing the entire vessel. The crew could do nothing but stare as the ship was devoured. The only good thing was that the water prevented the flames from spreading; luckily, when the mast fell, it did so towards the open harbour rather than adjacent ships or the pier itself.

His work done, Martel got on his feet and pushed his way through the assembled crowd, taking the winding alleys back to the Lyceum.