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Cathair?”
    â€œIn part they are mine, in part Lord Dehelt’s, I understand,” Cathair answered. “There was an accident at the port this morning. See what happens, Lord Goodman, when I leave this city for but a moment?” He shook his head. “I understand that there have been losses, and damages.”
    It was the former word that caught Eamon’s heart.
    â€œAre you riding there?” he asked. Cathair nodded. “Then I will ride with you.”
    â€œAs I am sure you know, the port’s state is not a pressing matter, my lord,” Cathair told him. “The Serpent may have allies, but they are Easters; such men will not come from over the sea.”
    â€œNo,” Eamon conceded, “but food for our garrisons will and that may yet be hindered by what you describe.” If such were the case then he would have to rearrange all the logistics for feeding the city. It was not a thought that he relished.
    He rode reluctantly with Cathair up the Coll to the port. The Sea Gate was busy, and even before they came close to it, Eamon saw dust in the air. A number of Gauntlet surgeons moved through it. As Eamon and Cathair approached, a cart passed into the city from the gate. A dusty, bloodstained doctor perched inside the cart with injured men – all of them militia – gathered about him like fledglings in a nest.
    They rode closer. A merchant ship docked in the nearest berth bobbed rhythmically against the quay – or what remained of it. The winches and pulleys next to the boat were severed and tattered. Only half the gangplank remained; it ended abruptly in a mess of splintered wood. Gaps in the stonework revealed where massive boulders had fallen loose from the shattered quay. A group of men gathered at the water’s edge, but dared not venture too close.
    Nearby, the merchant captain was engaged in animated conversation with a man Eamon recognized to be Captain Longroadof the North Quarter. As Eamon arrived, both men stopped and greeted him.
    â€œLord Goodman, Lord Cathair,” Longroad said. The merchant bowed in silence.
    â€œI see we have been the victim of quite some misfortune this morning,” Cathair mused.
    â€œI fear so,” the captain replied. “I am very sorry for you, Lord Cathair.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Eamon asked.
    â€œThe cargo ropes snapped,” the captain explained, pointing up to the frayed and broken ropes swaying freely in the wind. “They were loaded with cases of arms.”
    â€œI had hoped to catch the fair tide.” The merchant shook his head sullenly, raised his fist to the sky, and uttered a curse in his curious tongue.
    Captain Longroad continued, “And now your haste has cost you both wine and arms, and you will of course be expected to pay restitution to Dunthruik for the lives of the Gauntlet lost to your recklessness.”
    Eamon looked up sharply. “Gauntlet? What were Gauntlet doing on this vessel?”
    â€œWith the increase in Etraian trade, and the reduction of portmen from the exodus, some Gauntlet have been assigned to loading and unloading the ships,” Captain Longroad answered.
    â€œHow many men were lost?” Eamon asked, choking back a sudden fear that grew in his heart.
    â€œHalf a dozen,” Longroad said, “perhaps more; the surgeons are still at work. Quite a few were on the gang when the casks fell; the ones that were hit by the falling cases were, I suspect, killed instantly. Others were drowned, at least one man in trying to pull others from the wreckage. There were injuries when the quay gave way.”
    â€œDo we know the names of the victims?” Eamon asked.
    â€œThe men lost were ensigns and militia from the West Quarter. The surgeons have made a list of the dead ensigns, my lord,”Longroad answered. He offered a crumpled scrap of parchment to Eamon. “We’re still working on the names of the militia.”
    Drawing a deep