Eberg’s castle stood on a hilltop overlooking the kingdom’s sole remaining port. Every window and casement on this side of the massive stone building afforded a magnificent view of the calm blue waters, the crush of visiting ships with their garishly painted sails and their heathenish carved figureheads, the official harbour skiffs darting like pondskaters about the king’s business: checking for overladen vessels, embargoed captains, crews or cargoes, sniffing out any sign of trick or trouble. Even though each visiting ship and boat was inspected before entering the harbour, the royal skiffs were ever-vigilant. Of late even more so, since the deaths of the princes Ranald and Simon, may God rest their careless souls. Not that he believed in God, of course. But it was the proper sentiment … and he was nothing if not a proper man. For every vessel the tugs guided from their moorings, helping them reach the open ocean beyond the walled harbour’s heavily guarded mouth, three more waited to take its place.
