Tempest by Cari Z. Page A

warehouse, and Colm followed him, completely bemused.
    Men and women were at work inside the space, an airy, blocky building with very high ceilings that were stacked almost to the top with crates. People sorted and organized the nearest pile, mostly casks and lumber, and beyond them all was a short, bald man with half-moon spectacles who took the tags his people brought him, tags that had been affixed to every piece of new inventory, and then made a mark on a stiff piece of parchment in his hands. “Nichol Searunner,” he said without looking up as they drew close. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”
    Did anyone in this place actually like Nichol? At least Nichol didn’t seem perturbed by the fact. “Master Grainger, good morning,” Nichol said pleasantly. “My gran sends you her compliments.”
    â€œDoes she, indeed?” The quartermaster gazed over the line of his spectacles at Nichol and Colm. “Hardly a common occurrence. That surely means that you want something, Nichol. What is it this time? And if it’s flares, don’t bother. I am never letting you or any of the rest of Jaime’s crew within a hundred feet of ’em again, not after the last debacle.”
    â€œIt’s nothing like that,” Nichol assured him. Colm wondered who Jaime was. “We need to borrow a boat. Just a small one, just for tonight. It’s for a burial, a family matter. Gran thought it better not to get the priests involved, and the wharf rats charge so dearly for the use of their little wave skippers,” Nichol wheedled. “Just this once.”
    â€œThere’s never any ‘just this once’ with you and the rest of the Sea Guard,” Master Grainger grumbled, but he seemed to be softening to the idea. “I suppose this young man is the newest recruit to buy into your games?”
    â€œNot at all! This is my cousin down from the White Spires, Colm Weathercliff, an entirely respectable young fisherman who only wants to see his dad buried properly,” Nichol said instantly. The description made Colm feel positively dull, but perhaps dull was what was called for here.
    â€œWeathercliff, is it?” Master Grainger squinted at Colm. “Any relation to the Caresfall Weathercliffs?”
    â€œI’m not sure, sir,” Colm replied truthfully. “My father never spoke about his past.”
    â€œWell, I can certainly appreciate leaving such things where they belong. A boat, then?” Master Grainger leveled a firm look at Nichol. “Just for tonight, and to be returned first thing in the morning in perfect condition, d’you hear?”
    â€œYour word is like the sacred gospel of the Four to me,” Nichol said solemnly.
    â€œAnd your grand proclamations are like buzzing flies to me: irritating and ultimately forgettable,” Master Grainger scoffed as he scratched a few quick words onto one of the abandoned tags, then thrust it at Nichol. “Berth number forty, and if I don’t get those oars back, I will make new ones out of your shoulder blades.”
    â€œMy day wouldn’t be complete without your friendly threats of mutilation,” Nichol said, bowing extravagantly. “We must be off, Colm, and not keep the quartermaster from his sacred duties any longer!” He turned and left the warehouse with a skip in his step. After a moment of awkward silence between him and Master Grainger, Colm followed.
    â€œWell, that was fun,” Nichol said with a grin as they headed back out onto the streets. “What shall we do next? Gran’s errands, or would you like to see the view from the lighthouse? I’m sure Reckat’s forgotten all about what happened the last time he let me and my mates up there.”
    â€œYou seem to have a reputation,” Colm commented, not judging but not really understanding it either. “Wouldn’t it be better to just be polite to people?”
    â€œDo you