Free Dreamlands by Scott Jäeger

attempt to soften my words, I added, “If you’ve so much time
to spend on conspiracies, retirement must not agree with you.”
    He
clenched his fists and paced for a few moments.
    “I’ll
leave you with this:” he said, “if you sail now, you may not like what you find
when you return.”
    I
turned my back as he strode stiffly away, thinking what a relief it would be to
put to sea.
    * * *
    When
I awoke late that night to Solomon’s creased and humourless face, it was much
too soon.
    “We’re
going to see the harbourmaster,” he declared, as if this were a perfectly sensible
reason to rouse a sailor who shipped out with the dawn.  I rolled over and
pulled up the cover, but when I closed my eyes I saw Solomon incarcerated, Isobel
frantic, and me far away on the water.  I relented.
    Harbourmaster
Voxhaus lived in a room above the city customs office next to the docks. 
Though it was midnight, I was thankful to see a candle burning in his window.  Voxhaus
was an intimidating man, difficult to deal with even during the daylight hours,
and so taciturn it was said a witch had cursed him to pay a
copper piece for every word he spoke.
    He
answered our knock wearing his night robe, and produced a bass growl deep in his
chest.
    “I
need you to search a ship,” Solomon said, suddenly deferential.
    The
grooves that made up Voxhaus’s face deepened slightly.
    “Don’t
make me remind you of a certain favour– ” Solomon began.
    “I
won’t.”  Voxhaus went back inside, reappearing a few minutes later in his usual
leather vest and grubby trousers, carrying a lantern.  At his belt hung a heavy-headed
truncheon.  Locking his door, he motioned impatiently at Solomon, and the old
shipwright led us to one of the many black merchant galleys which, as far as I
could see, was identical to the one next to her and to all the others.  They each
of them showed no light and kept no watch, bobbing in their berths as if derelict. 
I noticed an oddly strong spice smell about the crafts, and a nasty, reptilian
scent beneath.
    Solomon’s
lips moved as he scanned the ship’s name, written in the runes of the
merchants’ own queer language, forwards and back.  A harbour official would
copy the characters into his log when they moored, but no one in Zij knew what
they signified.  At last the shipwright confirmed this was the vessel in
question.
    Voxhaus
spat, and asked, “The charge?”
    “Imprisonment,”
Solomon said, crossing his arms to reinforce his own conviction.  “I believe
the crew are being held against their will.”
    “Slavery,”
Voxhaus made a sound like a corpse laughing, “in my port?”
    The
harbourmaster stepped aboard the accursed ship without announcing himself, opened
the main hatch, and descended. 
    The
minutes stretched unpleasantly, with Solomon nervously checking all quarters as
if expecting an ambush and I speculating idly how the northerners kept their
hulls completely free of barnacles, until Voxhaus finally reappeared,
white-faced, and walked off the ship.
    “There
is nothing untoward about the management of this vessel,” he said.
    With
obvious effort, Solomon stopped himself from restraining the harbourmaster as
he passed.
    “We
know there are men on that ship below decks,” he said.  “What of them?”
    “They
are under no duress,” Voxhaus said without breaking stride.
    “Men
from Zij were due to return on that vessel.  Are you telling me they choose not
to disembark in their own port?  I don't believe it.”
    “I
said they are under no duress!”  Voxhaus’s voice caught in his throat
mid-shout, making it a terrified yelp.
    Whatever
he had seen had shaken the harbourmaster to his depths, and had I not moved
aside he would have bowled me into the sea.  Mouth agape, I watched his hasty
retreat to the watch house while Solomon squatted down on his hams, breathing
heavily, empty eyes fixed on the pier.

Ajer Akiti
    Boarding
the Asphodel that morning, my comrades looked as