Chapter 1: The Tavern and the Unspoken Hunger
The door to the tavern groaned on its hinges, letting in a whip of cold, salt-tinged air before thudding shut behind him. The warmth hit Tiam Macrae like a wet blanket, thick with peat smoke and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies and ale. The low ceiling seemed to press down on the din—a roaring mass of voices, laughter, and the relentless clatter of tankards. His eyes, green as the moss on the north side of a stone, adjusted slowly to the gloom, flitting over fishermen in stained wool and merchants with careful eyes.
He was looking for the landlord, for anyone who might have work for a man who could read and figure. His stomach hollowed out a little more at the thought.
Then he saw him.
In a corner, slightly removed from the worst of the chaos, a man in a red coat sat alone. The uniform was weathered but impeccable, the brass buttons dull in the firelight. He had a strong face, all hard lines and angles, and dark hair tied back. He was studying a map, a frown etching his brow, but as if feeling the weight of a new stare, he looked up.
His eyes were the colour of a winter sky over the firth. Grey and steely. They locked with Tiam’s from across the room.
For a stretched second, the clamour of the tavern seemed to recede, muffled by the sudden, deafening rush of blood in Tiam’s ears. The captain’s stern expression didn’t change, not exactly, but something in it shifted. The frown softened at the edges. Then, one corner of his mouth lifted in a slow, private grin that didn’t seem to belong on a soldier’s face at all. It was a roguish, knowing thing, and it sent a completely unexpected heat flashing up Tiam’s neck.
Tiam swallowed, his throat dry. He had come in here for work, not for… this. Whatever this was.
Gathering what little courage he had left, he wove through the crowded tables, the laughter and jostling feeling distant. He stopped before the rough-hewn table, the map between them. Up close, the captain was older, maybe twenty-eight, and the weight of command sat on his broad shoulders like a physical thing.
“Sir,” Tiam said, finding his voice. It sounded steadier than he felt. “I was told you might be in need of a clerk. Or a translator.”
The captain leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. His assessing gaze traveled over Tiam, from his windswept black curls to his worn but sturdy boots. “Who told you that?”
“The stablemaster at the inn. He said an army captain was asking after someone who could write a clean hand and keep his tongue.”
“Did he.” The captain’s voice was a low baritone, easy but edged with authority. “And can you? Keep your tongue, among other things.”
“I can, sir. I’m fluent in Latin and French. And Gaelic, of course.”
“A polyglot Highlander.” The captain tilted his head, that faint grin returning. “You’ve a gentle way of putting it, too. ‘Fluent,’ you say. Not ‘I speak them.’ Almost poetic.”
Tiam felt a flutter in his chest, part alarm, part something else. He glanced down at the small leather pouch at his belt where his quill and a few precious scraps of parchment were kept. “I… was something like that. Back home.”
“A poet.”
“A recorder. Of things.” Tiam met his gaze again, refusing to look ashamed. “Hills. Weather. The way the light breaks on the water in September. It’s just words.”
“Just words,” the captain echoed, his tone unreadable. He was silent for a long moment, the noise of the tavern swelling around them. Then he leaned forward abruptly, flattening his palms on the map. The distance between them shrunk to nothing. Tiam could smell him— leather, steel, and the sharp, clean scent of shaving soap. “I am Captain Daniel Harlowe. I need a man to help with dispatches, letters, and the occasional interrogation of a reluctant local. The pay is regular. The work is dull. But the requirement for loyalty is absolute.”
His grey eyes were flinty now, all trace of the earlier grin vanished. “This is a military operation. If you have any other allegiances, familial or… romantic, you declare them now. I will not harbour a traitor, poetic or otherwise. But if you are loyal,” he said, and his voice dropped, becoming almost intimate, “you will be paid handsomely. And treated fairly.”
He extended his hand across the table. It was broad, marked with old scars and callouses.
Tiam looked at it, his mind racing. Familial or romantic. The words hung in the smoky air between them. He had no family left to claim him. The rest… He thought of the playful, secretive grin this man had given him from across the room. A different kind of danger, there.
He took Captain Harlowe’s hand. The grip was firm, warm, solid. “You have my loyalty, Captain. I am Tiam Macrae. And I am no traitor.”
“Good.” Harlowe held the shake a heartbeat longer than necessary, then released him. The intensity in his eyes softened back into that easier, charming curiosity. “Then sit, Tiam Macrae. A man should not conduct business standing up like a supplicant. You’ll take a drink?”
It wasn’t really a question. He signaled to a barmaid without looking away from Tiam. “Two of the usual. And a bowl of that stew, if it’s hot.”
Tiam sank into the chair opposite, its legs wobbling on the uneven floor. The formal petition for work was over. He was in. The relief was so acute it felt like a new kind of vulnerability.
The captain rolled up his map, tying it with a cord. “So. A recorder of hills and weather. You’ll find the hills here are dreary and the weather is a misery. But the light on the water…” He glanced toward the shuttered window, as if he could see the harbour beyond. “I’ve seen it, some mornings. It can steal a man’s breath. Even a soldier’s.”
The drinks came, dark ale in carved wooden tankards. Harlowe pushed one toward Tiam and lifted his own.
“To new appointments,” the captain said, his gaze direct, holding Tiam’s over the rim of his cup.
“To new appointments,” Tiam repeated. They drank. The ale was bitter and deep. He watched as Harlowe’s throat moved as he swallowed, watched him set the tankard down with a soft thud on the wood.
The captain’s boot brushed against his under the table. It could have been an accident in the cramped space. It wasn’t.
Harlowe didn’t move his foot away. He just smiled again, that roguish, disarming smile, and asked, “Now, tell me about September light in the Highlands. Use your words.”