Flotsam or Jetsam: The Port Naain Intelligencer

By Jim Webster

Benor arrives in Port Naain intent on the simple task of producing a handbook for merchants. Then there is a murder, and a vengeful family who will stop at nothing to silence those who found the body. Suddenly Benor’s life is no longer simple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jul 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785382567

Jim Webster

I can cope with being described as fifty-something. During the course of a reasonably quiet life I’ve done a number of things. I’ve farmed cattle all my life, and at the same time have been a consultant and a freelance writer. I also fit in being a husband and father. My life has included some intriguing incidents, at the age of twelve, my headmaster was somewhat put out to discover that not only was I selling ammonium nitrate to other boys to make bangers, it wasn’t actually forbidden by the school rules. I’ve watched Soviet troops unload coffins from a transport plane at Tashkent; been questioned by an Icelandic gunboat captain, not so much at gun point as at 40mm Bofors point, and according to the nice man at Frankfurt airport, I inadvertently invaded Germany. I was perfectly happy to believe him, I am happy to believe anyone who points a Heckler & Koch MP5 at me. Brought up on the classic masters of SF, I bought Jack Vance, ‘The Dragon Masters,’ in the early 1970s and that book taught me that the world or society the characters lived in was every bit as important as the plot. I’ve also written Supplements for Pelgrane Press to go with their ‘Dying Earth’ role-playing game, inadvertently contributed to the design of the FH70 Field Howitzer and living where I do on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness most of my mates have at one time or another built nuclear submarines. Me, I tend to seasickness on a particularly bracing bus trip.

Book preview

1988.

Introduction

Any fool can casually drop a body off a bridge. But let us be frank with each other, only a fool does. Stop and think about it. Unless you’re remarkably lucky, or else tidying up after somebody else long gone, the cadaver is still pumping blood. You pick it up, lifting the wound above your head to get corpse on the parapet, all the while getting drenched with blood. Then when you push it off the parapet, nine times out of ten it hits the surface of the water flat. There’s a noise like a slap, only magnified so that even the deaf or a bribed watchman can hear it. Thus and so everybody runs towards the bridge and there you are, standing covered in blood, seeking to explain yourself.

Yet the cautious man is swift and plans well. If the bridge must be the scene, choose a place where the parapet is low, or a bridge so ruinous there are big holes in the bed. Then approach your target openly from the front. Hail him, bid him welcome as an old and long-lost friend. Slide the knife in swiftly with one hand as the other hand keeps him upright. Leave the knife as a plug; swiftly remove rings or other means of identification should your patron desire this. The pockets will normally be empty; no gentleman would think to distort the line of his coat and britches with a bulging purse. Then walk your victim to the low parapet or even better the hole in the roadway and drop him vertically downwards, at the last moment recovering your knife.

Hence he will enter the water feet first with virtually no splash or noise and will bob to the surface some yards downstream. You on the other hand, quietly make your way off the bridge and imperceptibly disappear.

Taken from the anonymous ‘Letters to my son’. Attributed by some to Gardan Zarradin, by others to Ulwin Jonim

***

Benor looked at his tankard in disbelief. To nobody in particular he said, This beer is disgusting. Various people glanced in his direction and saw a lithe young man in his mid twenties, clean shaven and with a pleasant face. There was something about it which led women’s eyes to linger a little. That was as it should be: Benor was from the city of Toelar where romance is always in the air. A city where ladies leave their bedroom windows ajar so that love and more libidinous pleasures may drift in gently on the evening air.

A man in his late thirties looked up from his plate. You’re in Port Naain. He turned his attention back to the grey stew on his plate.

Benor addressed the man directly. I’m sorry, I’m new here. Is it all this bad?

The other put his spoon down. The beer in this establishment is better than the average. Beer in this city is a thin pale beverage, looking remarkably like the urine of a doubly incontinent horrocks, and for all I know, tasting like it as well.

Benor pondered this information. So what would you recommend I drank?

The stranger raised a hand and ticked off on his fingers. Not water, under any circumstances. One reason the beer is bad is that it is brewed using local water. The wine can be good, but expensive, hence my own choice. Here he ticked off the second finger and nodded towards his own drink, a half empty glass of the same beer that had disgusted Benor. The third option is strong spirits. Their advantage is that you can cut them with water making them almost safe to drink; for a local. The fourth option, here he held his finger poised, is something like milk or similar, but that’s in all probability as dangerous as the water so I wouldn’t recommend it.

Benor drained his glass and pushed his empty plate away. Thank-you for the advice, could I repay it with a glass of wine?

His companion drained his own glass. Not here, there is another place just a few streets away. He looked disconsolately at his plate. I’d better finish this; my lady wife is going to be late home tonight so this is what passes as my evening meal. But when I’ve managed that, we can move on.

Benor held out a hand. I’m Benor. I’m a cartographer, trying to produce a guide to Port Naain for the Guild of Merchants, Peddlers, and Wandering Artisans of Tarsteps.

His companion returned a firm grip; Tallis. Jobbing poet and man of culture. Glad to make your acquaintance.

Ten minutes later the two young men were walking down the street, Tallis trying to give Benor a feel for the city. So, on our left hand is the estuary. Ahead of us, eventually, is the Western Ocean. To our right hand are the great brick towers of the Warrens. We are currently in what some call the Ropewalk. It fades into the Merchant District further west.

So this is the area where most trade is done?

Yes, but it’s an area inhabited more by the agents of merchant houses and insurance underwriters than by merchants. There are some reasonable houses before you get too close to the docks and then you get all the shore-combers and day labourers and that sort of folk.

Tallis led Benor through an open door, raising his hat slightly to two ladies of negotiable affection who were loitering in the doorway. Benor made his way to the bar and looked at the bottles. You’ll have to guide me in this. I don’t know the local wines.

Tallis looked along the lines of bottles. "That one is