Tarak Whiskeyjack looked every year of his age. At 56 the old city watchman should have retired or promoted years ago but he never quiet got around to it. His left wrist ached as he pushed open the heavy door to the changing room of the City Watch. The familiar smell of polished leather and old sweat greated him. Looking around the cluttered changing room he saw two of the younger watchmen. They glanced up briefly as the door opened but gave him no heed and went back to changing for their shift. Most of the other watchmen tended to steer clear of Whiskeyjack, supersticious as they were.
Whiskeyjack made his way to his locker in the back left corner. He’d been using this locker for over 30 years now, each item inside in its rightful place. Folded, stacked or tucked away in perfect handmade, well-worn compartments of his own design. He was always proud of his locker. He reached for his Sgt’s badge, he never could be bothered to try for the captain’s exams – too much hassle about legislation and not enough about the subtilties of the job. Besides, it took you off the street too much anyway. Molly had given up trying to press him years ago, the money was hardly worth the extra headaches and besdides the boys were grown and married themselves so it was just those two in their small half-acre plot by the river.
Whiskeyjack stood before the large noticeboard looking at the details of the shift. As always he was on his own for this rota – he preferred it that way and the watch captains knew better than to mess with 30 years of tried and tested. Partners tended to get in the way anyway, more of a burder than a boon. They say the wrong thign or they didn’t know the right people or too keen for advancement. There was a breed of new watchmen that wanted to take shortcuts and seemed to think they were better than the people they interacted with. Whiskeyjack ran his finger over the parchment nailed to the board to check the routes of the others this evening – his was blank as always, he crafted his own way through the city and tended to know where the trouble would be before it happened. He did this to make sure none of the younger ones would fail to do their proper round and instead languish in the nicer parts of town. Whiskeyjack grinned as his finger found the name he was looking for, Beryll’s young lad was on the Widdershin’s beat today. Not the roughest onee but definitley would need your wits about you. Whiskeyjack nodded to himself, he had promised Beryll he’d look out for the boy. He always had a habit of collecting strays and waistrals but given enough time he could set him up right. Most of the watch had been under his wing at one stage or another.
Whiskeyjack put on his cap and walked out of the guardroom. The chill night air whistled soflty through his armour. ‘Another night on the toon’ he thought. He always pulld the odd hours, the holidays. ‘Spending your retirement in the cold!’ was Molly’s oft recited refrain, he always corrected her ‘semi-retirement’. A bit less time on the beat but still active. Her business was booming these days, everyone needs a lawyer for something but he could never get his head around the intricacies of the law and, more importantly, the politics surroundind it all. He preferred the odd hours, the holidays – give the lads a bit of time with their young famalies, plus, it was the odd hours that people most had need of someone. Mostly just to listen, sometimes to help a wayward drunk home, now and then a purse to recover or a fight to break up.
Whiskeyjack tested his joints with a half squat, only moderate creaking. Warm up completed he hit the road through the old lanes and alleys making his way down from the watch keep into the heart of the city. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to navigate he knew them so well. Every stone, cobble and brick but more importantly the people between them. The joke was the streets here were paved in Whiskeyjack’s booth leather as hrough his wanderings of the city managed tto know all the twists and turns of the streets and the people in them. They joked that the streets here were paved with old whiskeyjack’s boot leather.
At the bottom of Widdershins street Whiskeyjack propped himself up against the wall of the Salt and Steele. Most of the punters would be in their beds by now but there’d be a few stragglers left behind, either drooling into their cups or fixing to cause trouble of some sort. If Beryll’s boy had left on time he’d be swinging by here in the next 30-45 minutes or so. Might as well nip inside and give a nod to Lottie and check up on her and her bairns, the blighting cough had taken them down hard and besides, on a cold night like this maybe a dram would help stave off the chills – up until now it was looking like a fairly slow night anyway.