The Shovan Chronicles — Part 1
Quench, Wendy, a Pigeon and a Tiger
Quench pushed through the crowd, the docile pigeon cradled in his cupped hands.
“Fresh, fresh,” called the traders. “Herring, cod, live crabs. Mind your backs, mind your backs.” The barrow boys ran back and forth pushing trolleys full of the wet fish.
Quench loved the port on market day, the salty air and the smell of the sea, the tall masts of the fishing boats bobbing on the water, the shoppers haggling for the best prices.
A clipper had docked that morning. He stopped for a few moments to watch the stevedores unload the crates of tea and rolls of silk, then hurried on his way; he had an errand to run, and the thirsty sailors would soon be making their way to the inn. Woe betide the serving lad who was tardy in supplying the source of the seafarers’ intoxication, and the source of the Master’s profits. He left the quay, crossed the main road, dodging the horses and carriages, and made his way down a side street with its tall terraced-houses. He found the house he was looking for. Its bright…
