Beidrick - I had just finished repairing the wood around the oarlocks when I looked up to see the guard marching down the docks in my direction. My first inclination was to push off from the dock and make a run for it. I couldn’t imagine what they thought my crime was, but I wanted no part of it. My boat was still lashed to the dock. The usual process of untying the boat would take more time than I had before the men would be on me. My heart pounded against my ribs as if telling me it wanted out too.
I had spent my evenings training with a longsword these last weeks and it was now my constant companion. I cringed inside as I drew the blade from the safety of its sheath. I chanced a glance up to see how close the guard were. The man in the lead held aloft a slip of paper as he bounded down the rough boards of the dock. Surely he held the writ justifying my arrest. I chased the bats from my belfry searching my memories for a hint as to what crime they might now be levying against me.
I brought the sword down on the rope in the manner I had been taught. The technique for impairing an opponents wrist was the same for cutting a rope. Though my muscles were motivated by fear, my technique was still in need of grooming. The blade cut most of the way through the braided hemp, but I was not yet free of the dock. I heard my name being shouted. I was not deluded in thinking they were after me. I shoved a boot into the dock hoping the stress on the rope might snap the remaining fibers. The rope jerked tight and sent me reeling backwards onto the floor of the boat. I tried to catch myself, but the blade in my hand passed perilously close to my head. Reflexively, I loosed my grip and the blade passed by me harmlessly landing on the floor of the boat.
Sprawled out on the floor with cold fish-soaked water seeping into my clothes I gave up on my attempt to escape whatever justice was coming my way.
From my back I could see the guard looking down on me. He must have sensed I was not going to offerer resistance because his sword was still in its scabbard. His companions filled in behind him on the dock. He opened his mouth, his brow furrowed in a look of concern.
“Everything all right?” he said with uncharacteristic empathy.
“Whats this about?” I asked, waiting to unravel the mystery of my impending incarceration. The man extended his arm with the offending citation, holding it over me.
“Your friend Sig sent you a note. I told him I would deliver it to you. Tell him thanks for the coins and I’ll be looking for that drink next time he is in town.”
The words were swirling in the air over my head like sea birds over a spilled basket of fish.
What did he say? A note!
He let the paper float down onto me as I lay in the briny pool. I unfolded the paper and assembled the words in my head. I could hear the departing footfalls of the guards. Happy to still have my freedom, I reread the note.
It appears I was going to appear before a minster, but as a businessman not a condemned man. I finished my day at the docks and hurried to the offices of the Minister of Mining Rights. I had just made it to the offices after dashing home to get out of my fishy gear. Thirty gold later I was presented with a bundle of sticks with stamped flags attached to them. I need to change my line of work if one can sell kindling at such a price.
A boat ride up the coast for a reunion with old friends was a small measure of my friendship.
