The Harbormaster's Secret

A week passed. A week of silence that was louder than any shout in the market. The city’s rhythm went on—the clatter of carts, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the cry of gulls over the river—but for Thomas and Mira, the quiet from the Spymaster was a taut string pulled between them. Every shadow seemed to hold a message, every unfamiliar face a potential contact. None came.

Life, stubborn and demanding, continued. They fell back into the old patterns, but with a new, sharp edge of anticipation. Days were spent on the rooftops, mending their worn gear, practicing the silent language of hand signals across the chimney pots. They scavenged, but with less desperation, the promise of the Spymaster’s coin a ghost of a meal in their bellies. The Swallow’s Nest, their high, drafty sanctuary, felt less like a hideout and more like a cage, a place of waiting.

One evening, as the sky bled from bruised purple to deep indigo, Mira stood at the crumbling edge of the spire, whipping a stone from her sling with a vicious crack. It sailed out over the rooftops, a dark speck against the fading light, before disappearing into the labyrinth of the city. She was a coiled spring, vibrating with unused energy. Thomas sat nearby, methodically drawing a whetstone along the edge of his knife, the rhythmic scrape a counterpoint to his sister’s restless energy.

"What if he forgot us?” Mira asked, her voice tight. She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the sprawling city below.

"He won’t,” Thomas replied without looking up from his blade. The steel whispered against the stone. "People like that don’t forget who owes them.”

"We don’t owe him anything,” she retorted, turning to face him. "We agreed to a deal. He’s the one who’s late.”

"He’s testing us,” Thomas said, his voice low and certain. "Seeing if we’re patient. Seeing if we draw attention.” He finally looked up, his gaze meeting hers. "Like you’re doing now.”

Mira scowled, but the fight went out of her. She slumped down, her back against the cold stone of the parapet. "I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of this.” She gestured vaguely at their meager supplies, at the patched canvas that served as a wall. "I want it to start.”

"It already has,” Thomas said softly, turning his attention back to his knife. The waiting was the start. He knew it in his bones.

The next day, the market swallowed them whole. It was a riot of sound and smell, a living, breathing beast of commerce. Merchants hawked their wares, fishwives gossiped over barrels of glistening scales, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting nuts, damp wool, and unwashed bodies. In the midst of it all, a guard, his face florid and his belly straining the leather of his jerkin, was making a show of his authority. His victim was a baker’s daughter, no older than Mira, who had dropped a loaf of bread in the mud. The girl stood trembling, tears welling in her eyes as the guard loomed over her, his voice a bullying drone.

"A fine, girl. For littering the King’s road. And for... insolence.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed. "Stay here,” she hissed at Thomas, and before he could argue, she was gone, melting into the crowd.

She emerged near the guard, a picture of innocence, holding a small, wriggling piglet she’d lifted from a nearby crate. "Sir!” she cried, her voice high and clear. "You dropped this!”

The guard turned, his face a mask of confusion. As he did, Mira let the piglet go. It shot between his legs with a terrified squeal. The guard yelped, stumbling backward, his arms flailing for balance. He landed with a heavy thud in a trough of discarded cabbage leaves, his helmet askew. The crowd erupted in laughter. The baker’s daughter, seeing her chance, vanished.

Thomas was already moving, grabbing Mira’s arm. "Time to go.”

But the guard was scrambling to his feet, his face purple with rage. "You! Seize them!”

Their escape was a frantic, desperate scramble. They ducked under carts, vaulted over stalls, but the market was too crowded, their usual paths blocked. Two more guards joined the chase, their heavy boots pounding on the cobblestones. They were herded, channeled, until they found themselves trapped in a dead-end alley, the smell of stale beer and despair thick in the air. The three guards blocked the only exit, their truncheons drawn. For the first time since the Tanners’ Yard, real fear, cold and sharp, pricked at Thomas. They were caught.

"Nowhere left to run, little rats,” the lead guard sneered, advancing slowly.

Then, a new figure appeared, stepping into the alley mouth behind the guards. It was the messenger girl. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression one of utter boredom.

"Lord Silas' business is not to be disturbed by the braying of city watchmen,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying an authority that made the guards pause. She held up a small, leather-bound book. "Shall I add your names to his list of… inconveniences?”

The lead guard’s face paled. The name Silas, the Spymaster’s rumored true name, was a key that locked and unlocked doors in Stitchwall. He looked from the girl to the twins, then back again. With a muttered curse, he jerked his head at his men. "Leave them. It’s not worth the paperwork.” They turned and left without another word.

The messenger girl watched them go, her expression unchanging. Then she turned her gaze on the twins, and the boredom was replaced by a cold fire.

"That was pathetic,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "The Spymaster wants assets, not liabilities. You think this is a game? You almost got yourselves taken off the board before you even played a move. You’re loud, you’re reckless, and you’re stupid.”

The words stung, more than any truncheon blow. Mira, for once, had no retort. She stared at the ground, her face flushed with shame. Thomas felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The girl was right. They had been fools.

The messenger let the silence hang for a long moment, her rebuke settling over them like a shroud. Then, her tone shifted, becoming crisp and business-like. "He’s ready for you. Your first test.”

She stepped closer, her eyes flicking between them, assessing. "The harbormaster, a man named Jorund, has been skimming from the city tariffs. The Spymaster knows this. What he doesn’t know is how. Jorund’s private shipments arrive on the tide every third night. His ledger is kept in his office at the end of the west pier.”

She handed Thomas a small, folded piece of parchment. "He wants to know what the harbormaster is smuggling. He wants to know how he hides it from the guild inspectors. He wants the page from that ledger that details his next shipment.” Her eyes were hard as flint. "Don’t get caught. Don’t be seen. Just watch, learn, and report. You have until the next full moon.”

She turned to leave, then paused. "And Crowleys,” she said, looking back at them. "Try not to be idiots. You only get one first chance.”

She disappeared as silently as she had arrived, leaving them alone in the quiet alley. Thomas looked at the parchment in his hand, then at Mira. The excitement she had craved was gone from her eyes, replaced by a grim, sober understanding. The weight of their new reality settled upon them. They had their chance, but it was sharper, colder, and far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.

The Swallow's Nest was a sanctuary again, but this time it felt heavier, as if the air itself carried the weight of the Spymaster’s expectations. The twins returned in silence, their steps measured, their thoughts louder than the wind that tugged at the patched canvas curtain. Mira dropped onto the stone floor, her back against the wall, while Thomas moved to the brazier, coaxing the embers back to life with practiced care.

The parchment the messenger had handed them sat between them, untouched, as if opening it would make the task real in a way words could not. Finally, Mira broke the silence. "Well? Are we going to stare at it all night?"

Thomas exhaled, the sound more a sigh than a breath, and reached for the folded paper. The seal was plain, unmarked, but the weight of it felt like iron in his hand. He broke it with a deliberate motion, the crackle of wax loud in the quiet room.

The script inside was precise, the letters sharp and angular, as if carved rather than written:

Crowley Twins,

The harbormaster, Jorund, has been skimming from the city tariffs. The Spymaster knows this. What he doesn’t know is how. Jorund’s private shipments arrive on the tide every third night. His ledger is kept in his office at the end of the west pier.

Your task is simple: discover what Jorund is smuggling, how he hides it from the guild inspectors, and retrieve the page from his ledger that details his next shipment.

Do not get caught. Do not be seen. Report back by the next full moon.

Thomas folded the parchment, the crisp paper a stark, official weight in the familiar squalor of their nest. He placed it by the brazier, its edges glowing in the low light. The words needed no repeating; they were already etched into the air between them.

Mira broke the silence, her voice quiet but stripped of its earlier shame, honed back to a familiar, defiant edge. "The west pier." She didn't state it as a problem, but as a landmark on a map they now had to cross. "Jorund's office at the end of it. That's a long walk with no cover."

"It's not the walk," Thomas countered, his gaze distant, already seeing the layout in his mind. "It's the water. The whole pier is built to be watched from the harbormaster's tower and the guild patrol boats. There are no shadows on the water."

A flicker of the old mischief returned to Mira's eyes, sharp and calculating. "Then we don't use the shadows." She pushed herself to her feet, a new energy thrumming through her. "We use the noise. The chaos. A shipment night is the perfect time to be invisible."

He watched her, seeing the shift from chastened apprentice to sharp-witted thief. The messenger girl's rebuke had stung, but it had also sharpened them. This wasn't a game of taunting guards in the market; it was a precise and deadly puzzle.

"We scout it tomorrow," Thomas said, the decision settling like a stone. "From the water, and from the roofs opposite. We learn its rhythm." He looked from the glowing parchment to his sister. "The test isn't the ledger. It's seeing if we're smart enough not to be idiots again."

Mira’s grin was thin, but it was real. "Good. I was getting tired of being patient."