Old Dog, New Tricks (The bit after the last bit - kinda sorta Chapter 3)

Tom allowed himself to be dragged along by Bert’s men, doing his best to keep his bearings. With their easy use of local dialect it was easy to imagine these men to be little more than fishermen or crabbers who had shown a taste for violence, but the more Tom observed of them the less that seemed to be the case. Despite their shabby appearance and rough manner, Tom could sense the dim glow of a professionally trained soldier beneath the grime. He could not afford to underestimate them.

Source

They moved easily through the empty streets. The years had not been kind to Devilsbluff. For all its struggling, it was still the frontier, with all the filth, the eager grasping for coin, and the pathetic and mostly failed attempts by its denizens to recreate elements of the capital. He recognized Dell’s architecture in the crenellated roadside walls, and the arched gables of the houses. It was a caricature, built of wood instead of ancient stone, with peaked roofs to dump snow instead of the stately curve of Dell’s domes and towers; a poor imitation, in both its use of materials and in the quality of the construction. For all its airs, Devilsbluff was little more than seabird scat on a rock. So what was he to make of the men who held him captive, who made it their business to inhabit Devilsbluff’s rotten underbelly? They certainly scored few points on his respectability scale.

Source

If he were whole he could have--in all probability would have--killed them by now, or at least given them something to think about. But he wasn’t, and hadn’t been since Basra Lifcursk had hacked his arm off at the elbow. He had to face the fact that he was not the man he had once been. And that meant patience, gathering information the way a stalking cat watched its prey. There could be a silver lining here. he Men such as these knew things, had connections. And if Werner-lord-high-and-mighty-Stephron wouldn’t deign to help him, he would take what assistance fate sent his way.

Of the group that had taken him into their custody, only Bert, their leader, seemed to have his wits about him. The rest were reasonably well trained, but sloppier than Tom expected. Their vice was overconfidence, something a good commander should have knocked out of them. In his experience men were the reflection of their commander. For all Bert’s unwillingness to answer his demands for answers, the young brigand was giving away more than he knew.

Tom wrenched himself away from the men holding him and moved up beside Bert. “I think you’re slavers,” he said, hoping to gauge Bert’s reaction. Devilsbluff was infamous for its smugglers, and the slavers who raided coastal settlements, stealing away children and young men for labor and worse. Tom held up his stump. “In case you hadn’t noticed, they’ll have little use for me at sea.”

Bert's face revealed nothing. Instead he waved Tom away. To his men he said, “Keep hold of him.”

The men clamped their ape-like hands on Tom’s shoulders once more. “Walk,” said one in his ear.

Tom bit back a retort, and resigned himself to the forced march. They entered a series of narrow alleyways between two and three-story warehouses. Wind shrieked through the gaps between the buildings. Tom grimaced at the reek of bilge water, rotting seaweed, and left-over barnacle and limpet scrapings from the dry docks. Taut lines and planks crossed the space between buildings, throwing shadows across open drains. He did his best not to breathe deeply, but it was hard to ignore the stench.

Eventually they reached a warehouse, and led him down into a passage lit at intervals by torches. There were barrels stacked along one wall. Some were broken, others clearly rotting in the damp. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming muddy puddles. Voices echoed from somewhere off in the distance. In the darkness beyond the pools of light, tiny feet scratched at the stone and earth, and shuffled among the barrels and stacks of moldy short-cut lumber.

The passage evened out, opening into a cave. There was little light here, but Tom could hear the sound of lapping water, and the creak of vessels pulling against their lines as the tide moved them about.

He was shoved towards another tunnel, where two men stood watch to either side of the doorway. Bert stopped to talk to one of the men before motioning for his men to follow. The passage sloped upwards, ending in another flight of stairs.

Source

The walls were dry here. There was no sign of rot, no smell of decay. Fresh air flowed down from above. Tom could feel it against his face. It smelled of oiled timber and the smoke from burning tobacco.

When his eyes adjusted, he recognized the place as an old storeroom. Wine racks filled with dust-encrusted glass bottles and wrapped with cobwebs abutted its far end. The guards pushed Tom towards a wooden table and chairs.

Tom ignored them and directed his gaze in Bert’s direction. He gestured at the empty chairs. “Who are we waiting for?”

“That depends on you,” Bert replied, taking the seat opposite. The guards remained standing. Tom saw that two were blocking the doorway. Even if he could handle all the men in this room there were more outside.

A place like this was no slaver den. It was too large and smelled too pleasant. More likely it was part of a major smuggling operation, and that meant they had backing. Tom’s interest was piqued, but so was the niggling spot at the base of his neck that always warned him of trouble.

“Depends on me?” Tom said. “How so?”

Bert shrugged. “It's depends on how cooperative you are. And how honest.”

Tom gave him a grim smile. “You take a man at knife point from the inn where he paid good money for a room and you want to talk about honesty?” Tom’s capacity for patience weighed against his desire for information. The scales teetered, but he gritted his teeth and told himself to endure. After all, he’d wanted information. If he played this right he would have more than enough chance to know what was going on around Devilsbluff, and what Werner Stephron had been up to.

“We’ll start with your name.”

“You have my name.”

“Tom, yes.” Bert said. “But to be honest I have a lot more than that.” Bert leaned back, like he’d just won a pissing match and couldn’t contain his pride. “What remains to be seen is why a man many thought long dead, and who before that was one of the most influential members of Severnhelm’s court—the leader of its armed forces—would suddenly appear in our midst smelling like--” Bert looked around as if trying to locate the right word. “Like them.” He gestured to the guards near the door. “You must agree it is more than a little curious?”

Tom stiffened. He studied Bert’s face, but saw nothing beyond a smug smile and onyx-hard eyes. Suddenly he felt less the wily hunter and more like a snared snow hare cornered by a trapper.

Bert must have caught his uncertainty because his smile broadened. “Did you expect to bribe your way aboard a vessel flying under the colors of Devilsbluff and not come under suspicion? Perhaps the stories about you truly are exaggerated. I’ve always maintained as much, though my father disagreed, at least so far as your military knowledge is concerned. ’Never seen a better commander,’ he always said. Of course, he also said you were a scoundrel. ’Without honor, and of dubious allegiance,’ were, I believe, his exact words.”

The walls of the storeroom seemed to lean inward. Tom felt the pulse in his neck throb. Surely it couldn’t be…? He looked hard at Bert, tracing his features with his eyes. For the first time he noticed the resemblance. The thick hair, the noble, aquiline nose. The almond-shaped eyes, skin the shade of polished ebony. “Stephron,” Tom said, though the sound came out little more than an exhalation. Time had yet to harden his youthful features to the extent Tom remembered of his father, but then, the man couldn’t be more than twenty years of age.

Bert applauded. “Johan Stephron, at your service. So to speak..”

The son. “Is this how your father conducts his affairs now? Skulking in the dark? Smuggling?”

“This is how I conduct my affairs. My father relies on me to protect his interests. I've learned over time how best to do that.”

Tom strove to create a calm center amidst a confusion of swirling thoughts. Werner Stephron was the most morally upright man he knew, refusing to bend the rules, almost to the point of fault. It had been that very factor that led to Stephron’s falling out with King Severnhelm despite the two being fast boyhood friends. While strategically controlling a portion of the underworld in this fashion made a certain kind of sense, Tom couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to make Stephron remove the coal poker from his rectum. As long as Tom had known the man, he’d always seemed to have something rigid shoved up there.

Johan interrupted his thoughts. “I know well who you are, but not who you represent. I also find the timing of your arrival curious given the circumstances. What is your business in Devilsbluff? Answer well for your future hangs on the response.”

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Thanks for reading. Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me to write on. I really appreciate it! All comments and suggestions welcome. If you'd like to read more of this, please do let me know and I will forge onwards with the next bit.

Here is what passes for Chapter 1.
This is Chapter 2.

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(edited: Changed "peaked" to "piqued" - oops? )