And that was the whole point. If stopped and questioned Massoum could easily pass himself off as a merchant here to broker trade. The city guard or inquisition would be hard pressed to prove him complicit in any crime, for should they suspect his intentions only one crime would fit the bill – treason. The last thing he wanted was his head spiked atop Steelhaven’s front gate, ready to greet Amon Tugha’s army as it arrived to raze the city to ash.

‘Almost there, my eastern friend.’

It was a deep voice that nudged him from his thoughts, the words spoken in a rare northern dialect of Teutonian, but Massoum recognised the language and inflection as though it were his own. His mastery of the many western tongues was second to none. That was, after all, one of the reasons he had been chosen for this task.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, turning with a smile to face the first mate, whose bald head gleamed in the afternoon sun. ‘As pleasant as this journey has been, it must unfortunately come to an end all too soon.’

The first mate gave him a knowing wink – it was clear to all the crew that Massoum had loathed the voyage from start to finish.

‘You have business in Steelhaven, easterner?’

Massoum felt the skin prickle at the nape of his neck, though he kept his warm smile firmly affixed to his face. Though most likely an innocent question, simple small talk, it would be foolish to take risks and reveal the truth, especially when he was so close to shore where he could become lost in the labyrinthine streets and leave anyone taking too much of an interest far behind.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I am a merchant brokering trade. A seller of spices. I understand Steelhaven is a great market and its traders are willing to pay a fair price.’

This brought a wide grin to the first mate’s lips. ‘Fair price, eh? Well, just be careful where you tread, traveller. You might find yourself with something you didn’t bargain for. Steelhaven takes no prisoners, especially not the foreign sort. Watch your back and your purse at all times, y’hear?’

Massoum merely bowed his thanks for the needless advice, touching a finger to his brow then his lips in the traditional manner of the Dravhistan nomad. The first mate nodded before making himself busy elsewhere on deck.

Turning back towards the prow, Massoum watched the city looming ever larger. The ship became a hive of activity as burly seamen cut the sails, barking at one another above the cry of seagulls. Steelhaven, which before had appeared from the distant sea as a massive stone monolith, slowly revealed itself in all its glory. Towers rose from beyond the vast battlements of the curtain wall – not the domed spires he was so used to in his homeland, but square, robust affairs, looming and oppressive. If such was the architectural preference of the city’s tallest and most opulent minarets he could only imagine what kind of squat monstrosities had been built within their shadow. Above them all rose two great statues depicting warriors, a man and a woman; he carrying a vast hammer, she a spear and shield. Arlor and Vorena, the ancient heroes revered as gods by the Teutonians. Seeing these monoliths for the first time, peering across the city with ancient stone eyes, Massoum couldn’t help but be impressed.

The ship cruised in towards port, and Massoum took yet more solace from the huge harbour, constructed in a crescent shape and forming a bay filled with an array of different boats flying sails of every colour. The Reigning Sceptre wove expertly between them, heading for an empty mooring that sat in the apex of the bay, directly below the shadow of Steelhaven’s vast harbour gate.

Ropes flung ashore were deftly caught by diligent dockworkers and hastily secured to mooring plinths. Before the Reigning Sceptre had even come to rest against a wooden pier, a gangplank was thrust out from the bow and a dozen sailors began to loose ropes and nets constraining several piles of cargo secured on deck.

Massoum moved forward, not waiting to be told to disembark. He had paid his passage in full, and was not about to ask permission to rid himself of the ship that had been so troublesome to his faculties.

The gangplank wobbled beneath his feet as he carefully traversed it, causing his heart to thunder in his chest for a second before the stark sweat of relief washed over him as he set foot on the wooden pier. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the stench of stale fish, but he cared little; it was the first breath he had taken on dry land for days.

Massoum began the long walk uphill towards the harbour gate, but immediately tottered as though the very ground beneath his feet were moving. He had heard the seamen of the Reigning Sceptre talk about ‘sea legs’ but he thought it was only a malady that would afflict experienced sailor-types. Clearly he was wrong, as a wave of nausea joined in the dizziness and he had to clench his teeth lest he retch all over the harbour.

Suddenly all Massoum wanted was a glass of anise tea, to feel its warmth soothe his stomach and the sweetness of the cinnamon and honey take away the stinging bile that threatened to rise from his gullet. Reluctantly he reached into his shoulder bag, that precious bag, and fished within, rifling through the random contents until his hand closed around a small pewter flask.