Port Talon didn't embrace; it swallowed. The noise was a physical assault after the groaning isolation of the Cormorant – shouts in guttural dialects, the shriek of gulls fighting over fish guts, the rhythmic thud of cargo being unloaded, the clang of hammers in shipyards. The air was thick with brine, rotting seaweed, woodsmoke, exotic spices that stung the nostrils, and the pervasive reek of humanity pressed too close.
Ash and Preston – Salt and Smoke, even in their own minds now – moved through the chaotic dockside market like hunted animals navigating a predator's den. The relief of escaping the ship was instantly replaced by the raw vulnerability of being land-bound, exposed, with Lars's venomous glare still burning their backs and only a handful of Borin's pilfered rosemary and coarse salt in their meager pack.
Their plan, "Salt's Savories," felt ludicrously fragile against the sprawling, noisy reality. They needed a spot. Fast. Somewhere visible, defensible, and cheap. Preferably free.
They found it wedged between a reeking tannery venting acrid fumes and a chandler's stall overflowing with tarred rope and rusty hooks. It was a patch of cracked, greasy cobbles beneath the sagging eaves of a disused net-mending shed. A sluggish, algae-choked gutter ran past it, adding its own pungent note. A faded, peeling advertisement for "Mama Gresh's Eel Pies" was half-scraped off the shed wall. It was perfect.
"Smells like desperation," Preston muttered, Perry's voice thick with grim acceptance as she scanned the flow of dockworkers, sailors, and hard-faced traders passing by. "Perfect camouflage."
They worked with silent, frantic efficiency born of terror and dwindling time. Ash scavenged three large, flat stones from a nearby demolition pile, building a crude hearth. Preston bartered half their precious salt for a dented, soot-blackened iron pot from a disinterested scrap vendor. They found discarded driftwood, bone-dry and plentiful near the high-tide line. Water cost a copper penny a bucket from a sullen water-seller.
Their opening gambit was pure survival alchemy: Fish Head Broth. Ash used his pilfered knife to butcher the bony, cheap heads and frames Preston haggled for with Perry's relentless wheedling at the fishmonger's discard pile. He rendered the scavenged pork fat in the pot, the sizzle and smoke drawing curious, skeptical glances. Chopped scavenged onions and garlic followed, then the fish heads, covered with water. The rosemary went in last – a fragrant gamble in this olfactory battlefield.
The smell was… different. Not pleasant, not yet, but substantial. Savory, fishy, carrying a surprising herbal note that cut through the surrounding miasma. It drew the first customers: two net-menders, faces lined with salt and sun, drawn by the novelty and the promise of warmth.
"Two coppers," Ash stated flatly, holding out two battered tin cups Borin had "accidentally" included in their gear. Preston ladled the steaming, murky broth, careful to include chunks of fish clinging to the heads.
The net-menders slurped cautiously. One grunted. "Hot. Got fish in it." The other nodded. "Better'n cold biscuit." They paid. Four coppers clinked into their makeshift till – a hollowed-out coconut shell Preston had found. It was a start.
Word spread slowly among the dock's underclass. Salt's Savories became known not for gourmet fare, but for hot, salty sustenance cheaper than the dubious meat pies sold further inland. Ash worked the pot with grim focus, his movements economical, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Preston played Perry to the hilt – quick, efficient, eyes downcast, voice a gruff monotone, herding customers, refilling water, always positioning herself with a clear view of approaching threats.
The first real test came at dusk. A trio of burly stevedores, smelling of cheap rum and sweat, swaggered up. "Gimme three," the leader demanded, jabbing a thick finger at the pot. Preston ladled, her hand steady. He took a slurp, made a face. "Tastes like bilgewater! You tryin' to poison us, boy?" He shoved Preston roughly. She stumbled but kept her grip on the ladle, Perry's mask slipping to reveal Preston's furious glare.
Ash moved instantly. Not aggressively, but presence. He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Preston and the stevedore, his taller frame imposing despite his leanness. He said nothing. Just held the man's gaze, his ash-silver eyes flat and cold in the flickering firelight, his hand resting near the knife at his belt. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken threat.
The stevedore blinked first, unnerved by the quiet intensity. "Bah! Overpriced swill!" he spat, throwing his cup into the gutter. His companions shuffled uneasily. They moved off, muttering curses, but they didn't push further. Ash didn't relax. He knew it was only a reprieve.
The next challenge was more insidious: rats. Bold, dock-hardened rodents, drawn by the food smells. They emerged from the tannery shadows and the gutter's edge at night, fearless. Preston spotted one gnawing on a discarded fish spine near their hearth. Another night, they found small, sharp teeth marks on a sack of salvaged root vegetables.
"We lose the food, we starve," Preston whispered, genuine fear cutting through Perry's persona as they huddled by the dying fire after closing. The meager coins in the coconut felt like cold pebbles against the enormity of their need.
Ash stared into the embers. He thought of Mr. Blair's kitchen, spotless and orderly. He thought of the relentless efficiency required aboard the Cormorant. "Traps," he said. "Simple ones." He spent the next day scavenging while Preston minded the dwindling broth. He found discarded wire, strong twine, and carved clever triggers from driftwood. He baited them with precious crumbs of fish skin. The first snap in the night was a viciously satisfying sound. Ash disposed of the carcass swiftly, silently.
The second solution was Smoke's. She noticed a stall selling pungent, dried herbs further down the docks, including bundles of something called "Devil's Claw" – a root known, the vendor claimed, to repel vermin. It cost two precious coppers. She hung the gnarled roots around their meager stall like fetishes. The pungent, bitter smell seemed to work. The rat incursions lessened.
Slowly, painfully, Salt's Savories carved out a precarious niche. They expanded their menu: adding chopped wild greens Preston foraged from the edges of the bustling market, introducing "Fish Scrap Fry" – small pieces dredged in coarse flour and sizzled in fat, a luxury at three coppers. They learned the rhythms: the morning rush of workers, the lull at midday, the evening stragglers seeking warmth before night watch. They learned faces: the regular net-menders, a taciturn ship's carpenter who appreciated the broth's heat, even a harried clerk from a spice warehouse who occasionally splurged on the fry.
One afternoon, a week into their tenuous existence, a man unlike their usual clientele stopped. He was tall, draped in lightweight, intricately woven robes the colour of sun-bleached sand, his skin a deep bronze, his eyes sharp and intelligent. He carried himself with an air of calm authority that parted the dock's chaos around him. He observed their stall, the crude hearth, the simmering pot, Preston's efficient service, Ash's watchful stillness. He sniffed the air, a slight frown on his face.
"Broth," he stated, his Common precise but accented, musical. He held out a silver penny – worth ten coppers.
Preston, startled, ladled a careful portion into their least battered cup. The man took it, sipped thoughtfully. He didn't grimace at the murkiness. His gaze lingered on the sprig of rosemary floating on top. "Interesting," he murmured. "The rosemary. Unusual here. You cultivate it?"
"Scavenged," Ash replied, his voice guarded.
The man nodded, unsurprised. He took another sip. "The base is… functional. But the herb… it shows potential. A spark." His sharp eyes flicked to Ash's ash-silver hair, then to Preston's watchful gaze, missing nothing despite the grime and Perry's cap. "You are not from here. Further north, yes? Proudmorth waters?"
The question hung in the air, dangerous. Ash tensed. Preston subtly shifted her stance, ready to bolt. The man smiled faintly, reading their alarm. "Peace. I trade in spices, not politics. My name is Kaelen. I represent a consortium based further south." He gestured vaguely towards the harbour mouth. "We seek reliable suppliers of… unique flavours. Local herbs, well-prepared." He finished the broth, placing the cup down. The silver penny remained on the counter. "Your stall has… resilience. And that hint of something unexpected." He looked directly at Ash. "If you find something more… refined than fish heads, bring a sample to the Golden Nutmeg warehouse. Ask for Kaelen." He turned and melted back into the crowd.
Preston stared at the silver penny, then at Ash. "Refined?" she breathed.
"A buyer," Ash said, the word tasting foreign. Hope, fragile and terrifying, flickered. It was a thread, thin but strong, leading potentially towards Nayir. "He smelled the rosemary. He saw… something."
That night, counting their coins – including the silver penny – huddled near their tiny fire, the stench of tannery and gutter a familiar blanket, they allowed themselves a sliver of cautious optimism. They had survived the docks, the stevedores, the rats, and attracted the attention of a spice merchant. They had earned enough for another sack of lentils, more fish scraps, and a small bag of coarse flour.
The fragile peace shattered like glass. Lars found them.
He stumbled out of a nearby tavern, reeking of cheap rum, his face flushed and vicious. He spotted them instantly. "THERE!" he roared, pointing a shaking finger. "The thieving rats! The cause of all my trouble!" He lurched towards their stall, knocking over a stack of empty crates. Dockworkers scattered, sensing violence.
Preston froze, Perry's mask dissolving into raw panic. Ash moved instantly, stepping forward, placing the hearth and the heavy pot between them and Lars. He held the long iron stirring paddle like a quarterstaff, his stance wide and ready.
"You!" Lars spat, stopping a few feet away, swaying. "Think you can hide? Think you can cheat me?" He drew a heavy, rusted marlin spike from his belt. "That silver penny! I saw that fancy man! You owe me! For the trouble on the ship! For everything!"
He lunged, clumsy but fueled by rage and alcohol. Ash sidestepped, deflecting the clumsy thrust of the spike with the paddle. The impact jarred his arms. Lars stumbled, roaring in frustration. He swung wildly again. Ash parried, using Lars's momentum to shove him back towards the gutter.
Lars slipped on the greasy cobbles, landing hard on his backside in the slimy water. He howled, more in humiliation than pain. "I'LL KILL YOU BOTH!" he screamed, scrambling to his feet, dripping filth.
Before he could charge again, a piercing whistle cut through the noise. Two of Port Talon's Harbour Watch – not the efficient officers who boarded ships, but burly enforcers in stained leathers – appeared at the alley mouth. "Break it up!" one barked, truncheon drawn. "Take yer brawlin' elsewhere!"
Lars glared, dripping and furious, at Ash and Preston, then at the Watch. He spat a glob of phlegm and gutter water onto the cobbles near their hearth. "This ain't over," he snarled, his voice thick with venom. "I'll find you. I'll make you pay." He shoved past the Watch and stumbled away into the darkness.
The Watch eyed Ash, still holding the paddle, and Preston, pale and shaking behind the stall. "You two. Trouble magnets?" one asked, not unkindly, but with weary suspicion.
"Drunk," Ash stated flatly, lowering the paddle. "Didn't want him near the fire."
The Watchman grunted, eyeing the simmering pot, the meager setup. "Keep yer head down. Don't cause more fuss." They moved on, leaving the stench of the gutter and Lars's threat hanging heavy in the air.
Preston sank onto an upturned crate, trembling. Ash secured the paddle, his knuckles white. The silver penny felt cold and heavy in their small hoard. They had survived. Again. They had attracted opportunity and deadly attention. Port Talon was no refuge; it was a gauntlet. The promise of the Golden Nutmeg felt like a distant star, obscured by the immediate, gutter-stinking reality. They banked the fire low, the shadows deepening around their tiny island of hard-won, precarious survival. The coins in the coconut shell were a lifeline, but the path to Nayir felt longer and more dangerous than ever. Salt and Smoke had weathered the storm at sea, only to find themselves battling the treacherous tides of the dock.