He walked the uneven cobbles of the wharf’s main way. It bore ruts from centuries of foot and cart traffic. The cortex of many stones had eroded through to the creamy brown flint beneath. Through the evening gloom of clouds, smoke and mist he could just make out the looming shapes of the nearest moored vessels. All thrusting so tall and proud their sculpted galley bow-figures of waves, dolphins, and, of course, the obligatory women.

Well … maybe not quite so proud these days.

Dragging steps behind announced the resentful sailor following. Kyle searched for and found a lad lounging among the piled cargo of boxes and bales. He approached; the lad made a show of ignoring him. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for the Lady’s Luck.’

A lazy sullen gaze scoured Kyle up and down. The gaze slid away. ‘Her mate’s a knife thrust behind you.’

‘Where’s his ship?’

The lad just smiled his contempt and crossed his arms, leaning farther back.

Calm, Kyle, he reminded himself. Calm. It’s worth it to get out from among these ignorant inward-looking people.

He headed on. Movement on his left and the mate appeared. He decided to give the man another chance. ‘This direction, I assume.’

The mate said nothing.

So, am I right or wrong? If they reached the end of the wharf, he decided he’d toss the man off.

After a long silent walk, interminably long it seemed to him, the mate edged his head over and muttered a grudging, ‘The Lady’s Luck.’

The famed galleys of Mare, when not drawn up for repairs, were each housed in their own slip flanked by piers allowing easy access to the long slim vessels. The effect of the league-long line of such berths was of a great set of teeth deployed ready to bite the waters of the bay.

A tiny orange glow at the raised stern deck marked a lit brazier. Kyle stepped down into the longship, edged along the narrow seating of the oarsmen up on to the central raised walkway, and climbed the seven slim steps that led to the open stern deck. The mate followed all the way.

Here Kyle found two men, one old and one young, each wrapped in furs against the chill of the passing winter, roasting titbits of meat on skewers over the brazier.

The older one, a great boar of a man with a thick black head of curly hair and beard to match, eyed him while he licked his fingers clean, one at a time. His dark face carried the scars of decades of fighting and exposure to sun and wind. The younger’s face was smooth and pale; Kyle hazarded a guess that he had been to sea rarely if at all. The lad glanced from his elder, his father perhaps, to the mate, then to Kyle, and back round again.