Dreamlands by Scott Jäeger

wait for the poison to run its course.
    After
a few hours of sporadic sleep, I left the black man and returned to Iron Street,
bounding up the steps like a boy when Isobel’s raven head bobbed into view
above.  When I kissed her, I saw by the rings under her eyes she hadn’t slept any
better than I.  Without any greeting, she drew me inside.  The curtains were again
drawn tight against the world, and a wool blanket added besides.  The gloom made
the apartment small and mean.
    “It’s
my father,” she said hesitantly.  “He hasn’t been well.”
    “I
called on him yesterday,” I said, sitting in my accustomed chair.  “I could see
something wasn’t right.”
    Isobel
pressed her lips tight.
    “Well?”
I said, irritated.  I had been expecting to boast of my heroic deed in the
warehouse district, but her cold welcome had put me off.
    “He
stopped working,” she said, pacing as much as one could in the little space.  “He
doesn’t visit his cronies in the shipyard anymore, and he won’t tell me why. 
He broods about the house, and when he speaks at all it is to grouse about
those cursed sea traders from the north.”
    “The
merchants again,” I said.  “Has he been talking to Gorice?”
    “He
and Gorice had words, I don’t know what about.  After that, Father wouldn’t let
him in.”  She sighed.  “None of it makes any sense.  Tell me truthfully, does my
father have enemies?”
    “Ha! 
Everyone calls him Grandfather .  Who could be his enemy?”  Who indeed? 
Partly to hide my own conjecture on the subject, I turned to practical
matters.  “Will you be able to make rent if Solomon’s not working?  Your job in
the bazaar can't bring much in.”
    “Father
has a majority share in a trade ship, the Peregrine.  She’s out with a crew
most of the year.  Even now that he’s stopped working at the yard–”
    “Hold
that tongue!” Solomon said.  He was standing in the alcove where he made his
bed, the bead curtain draped about his shoulders.  “Wag it too much and
someone’s liable to give it a yank.”
    “Solomon.” 
I stood up, suddenly uncomfortable.  Having never known him to sleep later than
dawn, I had assumed he was out.  “I hear you and Gorice had a falling out.”
    Inexplicably,
I imagined he was about to attack me, and had to resist the instinct to touch
the hilt of my knife.  Instead he shifted deliberately from alcove to table to
chair as if wanting a stick.  Just as before, a full bottle and empty cup
waited on him.  He sat, hoisted the wine to check its contents, and replaced it
without pouring.  Then, like a weary sentry returning to his post, he settled
into his chair.
    “Got
into a bit of a scrape last night,” I said, trying a more neutral topic, “not
far from here, four criminals ambushing a lone man, a fighter.  I took an arm
from the leader and drove the rest off.  The fighter survived, but I fear he
may be poisoned.”
    “A
fighter or a beggar?”  Solomon’s gaze was unfocused and cloudy, the usual spark
of mischievous humour doused.  “Never aid a beggar, Isaac.  Let them get close
to you and they will suck you dry.”
    I
glanced at Isobel where she stood behind him, one hand worrying the other, but she
said nothing.
    “Isobel
tells me you’ve retired from the shipyard for good this time,” I said.  “Ever
think of taking a turn as captain of that trade ship of yours?”
    “Who
are you to insert yourself in my affairs?” Solomon snarled, suddenly animated. 
I took a step back as he lunged to his feet.  “The Peregrine is my business,
mine!” 
    “I
ask after your welfare,” I answered him coldly, “mostly out of concern for
Isobel.”
    “Look
to your own welfare.  If it weren’t for me, you’d still be breaking your back
moving boxes on the wharf.”  He put a hand to his forehead and gasped for
breath.  “You think I don’t know what you want, you, a common seaman, snooping
around my daughter?  You're little