Extract from the Prawns of Lebowa. Book Three of the Collector of Tales Series.

The senior investigator hated seagulls. It wasn’t the fact that they were nothing more than aerial vermin nor the fact that they made such a mess. It wasn’t even the occasional attacks that they subjected the people of Lebowa to from time to time. What really got to him was that stupid noise that some of them made after the usual and publicised cries. That low four- syllable grunt that they repeated a couple of times. It sounded like they were muttering under their breath.

It reminded him of people. Those people that he interrogated: criminals often but they were not necessarily so. Some were just ordinary people, going about their own business and doing their own thing in that short space allocated to them between the cradle and the grave. It was the ordinary people, they were the ones that the gulls reminded him of. They were fearful and complaining, noisy or sometimes petulant. That ridiculous four- syllable muttering.

There were a lot of gulls that morning, just like any other morning really. The sun had just risen and was at that point just before the cool of the night was chased away and the heat of the day came washing in. The small flotilla of fishing boats were mostly up alongside and were bobbing about as they unloaded their catch into baskets on the quayside. As each basket was filled a man would carry it at speed across to the market sheds, braving the gulls that swooped and dived for the chance of another tasty morsel. In the sheds the shouting would begin and each basket would eventually make its way to an owner and then eventually, after being packed in ice in the special covered wagons, would head off for remoter parts of Xandria.

There were still one or two vessels that were waiting off for space to tie up and these rode the lazy water out in the estuary. They would be at a disadvantage when they finally came alongside as most of the catch would have been sold and the best prices would be gone, regardless of quality. The catch was prawns: destined for the local restaurants, the markets and the street food stalls. Here they would be transformed from living twitching flesh into that favoured of Xandrian dishes, Lebowan prawns.

From the small window of his office, Rollo could see two herring gulls fighting over a large prawn as they perched in the rigging of one of the larger boats. It was the Eye of Horos, so named because of the fearsome image sating fiercely out from its bow. The senior investigator couldn’t see the image from where he stood, even though his eyesight was good, but he knew that it was there. It was a bit like this investigation. He knew what was going on with these damned pardoners but he couldn’t quite collect the necessary evidence to bring this baby home.

He stepped away from the window and returned to sit at his desk. In doing so he failed to see two things. Firstly, he missed the smaller herring gull rip the prawn from the beak of the other and then fly off with his trophy. He also missed a small man dressed in the style of a marechati as he climbed off one of the fishing boats and make his way hastily and uncertainly towards the offices.

He was not surprised however when a few moments later, there was a timid knock at his door. He checked the clock placed carefully on the shelf beside him. It was an ancient timepiece that he had lovingly restored from a battered ruin that he had found in a filthy northern marketplace. He had enjoyed the haggling and was delighted when he managed to steal the thing away from the troll of a trader for less than he would expect to pay for a bowl of street food. He permitted himself a smile as he recalled the protruding lower lip and the brown cow like expression of the creature as he looked quizzically at the small coin squatting in his huge outstretched paw. It was all a matter of pronunciation, he reminded himself. It was a sweet success.

There was only one thing wrong with the old clock sitting in Rollo’s office. It would tell the time beautifully until half past the hour but beyond that its movement was erratic and imprecise until it passed the zenith and started once more its descent of the clock face.
It was just passed the hour.

“Come!” he called imperiously.