The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

But then, they’d also denied being slavers: their story was that they carried indentured servants on their way to Souther employers.
    When I was sure I had extracted all the information I could from Tunn, I gave him the coppers and sent him back to the inn.
    I took another look at that pet of his before I put the animal back behind the boxes. He had rounded ears that seemed far too small for such a sizable beast, and oddly slitted nostrils. His red coat, at least in the areas where there was no mange, was short and thick. There was a look in his eyes that belied his appearance: a shrewd calculation that had nothing to do with being a mongrel born on the docks. I’d seen that look before in lurgers, the hunting water-canines of Fen Island, but they were never red-haired and had much shorter legs. Following a hunch, I picked up one of Seeker’s oversized front paws and spread out the toes. They were webbed. I almost laughed at the irony—he was part dog, part lurger; a Fen Island halfbreed, just as I was.
    Aware that he had my attention, he thumped his heavy tail with more enthusiasm than good sense, whacking it against the fish boxes like a cudgel. He whined, grovelled and then slurped at my face. Fortunately I was quick enough to dodge this time, but saliva went flying in all directions. I ordered him back behind the boxes and he went meekly enough. In spite of his size, he was hardly more than a puppy.
    I went on my way into the heart of Gorthan Docks with a certain reluctance.
    The more I found out, the more convinced I was that I had stepped into something that was way beyond what I could cope with: there were countless plots inside every intrigue in Gorthan Spit, numerous eddies within every wave, and in my search for a Cirkasian slave, I felt I was somehow placing myself right in the middle of waters that I knew nothing about—and there was a good chance I’d be drowned.
     
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    Early afternoons on Gorthan Spit were usually hot and still. The glare from the white sands dazzled unbearably; even the harsh glitter of the sea was hard on the eyes. It was at this time of the day that the smells of the Docks were at their worst too, saturating the air, making every breath an unpleasant effort. All those who could afford to do so went indoors, closed their shutters, and slept as I had done. Even the stray dogs dozed, sprawling in the shade, with their heads and tails wilting.
    By the time I left Tunn’s pet, late in the afternoon, things were beginning to come alive again. It was then the phenomenon that resident Docksiders called ‘the Doctor’ came to revive the port with its ministrations. The Doctor was a breeze that swept in from the ocean, bringing cooling moisture with it to banish the heat and alleviate the stench. It was then that the night fishing boats put out to sea, tacking their way out of the harbour against the wind, and it was then that the town itself shook off its lethargy. Shopkeepers threw open their wooden shutters, hawkers cajoled passers-by, beggars dragged their diseased bodies on to the busiest corners, dogs loped along on the lookout for whatever they could steal. The contrast to the torpidity of the earlier part of the afternoon was startling, but it never lasted, I knew; as soon as night fell, the atmosphere would change again as the shops closed and the bars and brothels opened. The bustle and legitimacy of the afternoon trading soon degenerated into the quieter and more menacing stealth of the business of the night; a stealth punctuated by the rowdiness of drunken violence, or worse, by the kind of noises that were best not investigated: it was a rare night without a murder or two.
    With my sword within easy reach in its back sheath and keeping one hand clamped to the purse on my money belt (the Docks’ pickpockets were notoriously skilled and I could ill afford to lose what little money I had), I went to find an acquaintance who had been helpful on my last visit to the town.
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