Anryn Stormcrow shielded her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun on the water of the Bladed Bay. She breathed deep the salt air that was heavy with the stink of fish and kelp. It was a good smell, though she was sure she felt alone in that. It reminded her of brighter times. Her father and mother. Her childhood. If she had to have an office, Ryn supposed this wasn't a bad spot to have it. At least she was by the ocean and could hear the crash of the surf against the docks, hear the call of the gulls and the fishmongers peddling their wares. It was the only place in Belshalara she could stand. The rest of the place was a bloated, perfumed corpse. One good poke and it would explode and spread its ichor.

Carefully, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, Ryn brushed the lurid red paint on the mottled glass door of her office. “Anryn M. F. Stormcrow, Cannery Number Seven Overseer”. It was in big, obnoxious loopy letters. Like some young girl signing a love letter. Ridiculous.

“What's the M. F. stand for?” asked Lisolette, Ryn's friend, as she read over her shoulder.

“Well,” Ryn said, as she dipped the brush in the little pot of paint. The paint was greasy and strong smelling and she was glad she only had to do these little letters or she might get lightheaded. She brushed auburn hair that was streaked silver at the temples behind a notched, long ear. Her ear bobs jangled as she leaned forward, concentrating again. “There ain't no 'F' technically.” The periods between the M and F were tiny hearts. She grinned crooked with a flash of her gold front tooth. “And technically the 'M' stands for Matilda.”

Lisolette held out a hand to hold the pot of paint for Ryn. She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her one eye at the glass door. “S'awful,” she said with a smirk. “But what's the damn 'F' stand for?”

“Anryn Mother Fuckin' Stormcrow, clearly,” she deadpanned, serious. Shit, she thought as she smeared some of the paint. Oh well. Another heart. A lopsided heart. She wasn't a damned artist.

Lisolette snatched the brush away from her and nudged her out of the way. Ryn hmph'd and let her friend fix her sign on the door. The old Cannery Row prostitute had one eye and gnarled fingers made stiff by arthritis. She had a mane of wild, wiry curling silver hair. She wore a pistol on her garter and was a dead fucking shot. She'd taught Ryn a thing or two. Lisolette painted a mermaid with big, globular tits and a grinning red mouth. The older woman laughed. “Aaaw shit, honey. I hope Lady Fancybritches comes down here and sees this. She'll have kittens.”

Ryn approved and took up the brush and was tempted to draw a big phallus on it, but as much as she joked, she didn't want to tempt Lillandyr Shadowglade with foolishness. Why, if it weren't for the Lady Shadowglade, Ryn would be swinging from the hanging posts on the northern shore. As many romantic stories as there were about them – books with fancy covers of men with long flowing hair and bare chests – pirates weren't appreciated.

Lady Shadowglade, for reasons Ryn didn't know and didn't press her luck asking about, bought her bond and saved her from the hangman's noose. She'd been given a pardon and now oversaw a Cannery House and shipped things to the city across the sea for the Lady. Easy work. And Ryn knew she was getting on in years. She felt achy sometimes. Her eyesight wasn't as good as it used to be. There weren't any old pirates. She told herself that when she missed the open water.

Just thinking about her good fortune, Ryn brought the hare pendant of Ysimul to her lips and kissed it. She let it fall where it clinked against pendants for all the other gods, too. Good luck charms. She figured worshiping all the gods was her best bet. She didn't want to piss any of them off if they got jealous, so they all found recognition and representation above her heart.

While Lisolette screwed around with painting that obscene mermaid on her door, Rynny rolled up her sleeves. Her arms were browned and freckled from the sun and littered with sailor's tattoos. An anchor, a gull. She had a pair of snake eye dice and an Ace of Spades. The name Sindalore was in dark ink over her breasts and heart. Husband number four. He'd been her favorite and got the choice spot on her skin. Her breasts were large, a bit too big for her skinny frame, but even well into her middle age, they remained her best physical feature, if you asked her. Despite her age, she had a bright youthfulness. Her eyes were big and blue, the color of sun-brightened tropical waters, and crinkled at the corners with laugh lines. Freckles peppered her cheeks and her features were impish. No one could ever accuse Rynny Stormcrow of great beauty, but she had her charm and her bed was never empty.

She hefted a box full of personal things and stepped around Lisolette into the office. It already had a desk she'd stolen from another office a few doors down. The big wooden monstrosity nearly took up the entire little room, but Ryn didn't care. She'd wanted a desk as it made things more “official.” She plunked the big box down and sat in the big leather chair. With a grin, she propped her dirty, patched leather boots up on the desk and stuffed a cigar between her lips. She looked a bit childish (she was short on top of everything else), sitting in that great big chair. Like someone play-acting at being important. She'd have agreed. But it was fun.

“Hey! Lisolette!” Ryn called, still lounging like a lazy cat in her chair. The woman peeked her wrinkled face around the door. “Wanna be my secretary?” She had spare coin and she knew her friend was scraping the bottom of the barrel for clients. The day would come, sooner rather than later, that she'd never see the old whore again. Some awful man would strangle her or disease would claim her. It was all too sad for Ryn. She'd pay the woman out of her own wages, which were nothing at all to sneeze at. She didn't need all that money anyway. Her wants in life were simple. A decent meal, a good cigar, and some cheap, oily whiskey. Maybe a nice looking young man to warm her sheets.

The old prostitute nodded, going back to painting the nipples on that ugly mermaid. “Yeah, sure, Rynny. I'll take notes and fetch your damn coffee.” Lisolette paused, her lips pulling taut in a grin that showed more gum than teeth. “Boss.”

Ryn laughed. She had a bright, sweet laugh. Her voice was whiskey dark, smoky. It was warm like summer but gritty with age and bad habits. “Boss, I like that. Not quite as good as Captain, but it'll do, I wager.”

She remembered when she was a girl how her daddy said that if you were close, you could hear the hiss of the sun as she fell into the sea and drowned. All her life, she'd sailed far and wide and had never heard it. But she liked to still believe it was true, even if she knew it wasn't.

While she felt fortunate to escape the noose, she missed her crew and was lonely. She didn't really even know what a Cannery Overseer did but it sounded like hard, grim work. She wondered if she should go over there and oversee things but she ultimately decided against it. If something needed some “official” something, she was sure they'd come to her. Right? Right.

And as if summoned by those thoughts, there was movement at the door, a shadowy outline. Ryn frowned and stood, dusting off her hands on her skintight, black leather pants. She dressed ten years too young.

There was a whisper of movement and then silence. She opened the door fully, letting orange sunset colors into her office. But no one was there. Rynny shrugged and turned around...

…and nearly ran into the chest of a man with leather on his body and lace at his throat. He wore a mask that was shaped like a fox's head with almond eyes. His own eyes glittered like gems and he was wearing a wide, bright grin. “Stormcrow!” he said theatrically.

“Guh!” She placed a hand, her crippled hand, the one missing two fingers, over her heart and glowered at the man in the mask. “Watch it. I'm an old lady and the ticker ain't what it used to be. Who the fuck're you and whaddaya want?”

The man drew a frown over his smiling lips. It unnerved her and she immediately wanted to put a bullet between his eyes. However, she decided it was prudent to at least hear him out.

“We are Vassiago, Miss Stormcrow. We are here on behalf of the magnanimous Lady Shadowglade. Just with a small message. Nothing to fret over.” He removed a folded card from the fluffy lace at his sleeve. “Do you need us to read it?”

Her lips thinned. She snatched the card. “I ain't illiterate!” She grumbled and squinted down at the note. Why did everyone have to write in such tight, tiny cursive? Her tongue was poking out again as she made out the letters. “Expect company. Kia Sin'del needs to have a few words with you.” That was all it said. Ryn frowned and turned it over. “Who the fuck is Kia Sin'del? And why do I have to give a shit?” She was cross. She didn't like little mystery games and she didn't like this twatty ponce.

Vassiago shrugged and stepped around her, light on his slippered feet. “We wouldn't know, Miss Stormcrow.” His grin was infuriating and she wanted to punch it off his face. She felt a headache creep in around her temples, making her eyes feel tight, and the “office” was really too small for her anger and the Lady's messenger.

The office door opened again and it was Lisolette. She was smoking her sweet smelling black cigarillos again and had a bottle of whiskey under one thick, dimpled arm. She grunted at Vassiago and looked him over. “You order up a whore, Rynny?”

Vassiago's grin disappeared then and Ryn guffawed. “Get the fuck out. I'll see this Sin'del bastard when he shows up.” She gave the messenger a swift, sharp swat on the ass. He jumped, glowered, and stormed away. He was chased into the street by their sharp, gritty laughter.

Shrugging at Lisolette, Ryn took the bottle from her and went back to her desk. After some chit-chat, Lisolette brought in some empty crates to sit on. They played cards, pick up and go fish. By the time the moon was rising over the water, silver and lovely, the two women were both red cheeked and drunk, laughing about old times, too busy hooting and hollering to notice the shadow darken the painted glass.