Markon - Scene One: Wolfport
Markon strolled out of the fish shop , two fresh herrings wrapped in an old songsheet from the neighbouring theatre. Wolfport could be a grim place , but in the warm glow of the early summer sun it had its attractions. He made his way slowly along the quayside , looking out into the bay at the war-rams and galleys from several different clans as they rode on the gentle swell of the water. Even at this distance he could make out the banner of the Grey Wolf fluttering proudly at the stern of one of the great clan's newest vessels - either the Sharpened Sabre or the Ruby Rose ; the third of the big new ships , the Clown Warrior was away raiding on the great lake - rumour had it that its brash young captain , Narkelt , a relative of the clan's leader , was intending to take her in close to Redport , to take advantage of the chaos reigning in that most anarchic of the Free Cities to prey upon her merchant shipping. Bets had been placed in the taverns of Wolfport as to how many prizes he would catch ; the average gamble seemed to be placed at eight or nine.
For his part , Markon had bucked the trend and laid two pieces on Narkelt coming back alone , his fingers burned in the haste of youth. He had got good odds ; nobody else seemed to be expecting such a result. Old hand that he was , Markon thought there was a good chance he would show them that he still had it in him , even though for these last few years he had lived a veritable exile in his own homeland , not cast out of the Grey Wolves but having left of his own accord , becoming something of a curio in his own way downstream in the shipping town of Wolfport. Few people left clan service without immediately hiring on with another ; it was not safe , wise or prudent. But Markon had had no wish to submit himself to another ; in many ways that was what his original falling out had been all about. He had gone from teacher to servant and had not liked the transition ; for a while he had hung on as the captain of a laid up majestic old warship tied upriver in the main city , but that had paled and he had struck out for his freedom - such as it was .
He turned away from the dockside , and headed up a narrow street , running at an angle into the gently sloping hillsides that formed the natural borders of the bay. Soon enough he was back in the area of the town that he called home , striding the uneven cobbled roadway with his practised gait , and passing the familiar landmarks of his life - the herbalist , still closed despite the Midday hour , the water fountain that provided run-off that was fine for animals but which bore a brass notice that it was unwise for children to drink from the source , The Pickled Fisherman tavern , open but deserted , its owner , Long Harry sweeping out the straw from the previous night , and then finally the small square with a tidily-kept garden in its centre upon which his house abutted. The iron bench in the centre of the garden , painted green in the colours of the Jade Tiger clan , was empty yet and for a moment Markon considered heading there to sit and while away some time , then the bulk of the fish in his hands reminded him he had a more important duty. He turned right to one of the corner houses , a slim two storey affair that was nevertheless sturdy on the outside whilst being light and airy on the inside. The keys were on his belt and after a moment's juggling with the fish he had the heavy iron-backed door open , passed through into the hall , and closed it quietly behind him . . .
