Swimmer woke when he heard the bell. He was in the little room above the Mermaid he had rented for himself and now shared with Iskander. He hadn’t exactly invited Iskander in, they had just passed out together the first night and he’d never thrown the black man out. There was no mistaking that it was the bell for fire. As he pulled on his pants he nudged Iskander with his foot and said, “get up.”
Iskander mumbled something in a language Swimmer didn’t recognize, presumably his own. Swimmer nudged him harder and said, louder, “Get up. Fire.” Swimmer pulled on his shoes, shook his head at his roommate and headed out of the room and down the stairs.
People were buzzing around in the taproom, but Swimmer didn’t see anybody who looked like he had a clue, so he walked out into the night. He could see the fire from where he was standing. It was right on the waterfront, throwing flames and a tower of smoke into the air. Ducking back into the Mermaid, he grabbed a bucket and ran toward the fire. A bucket brigade was already starting to form leading from one of the stairs that led into the water to the fire burning a block away. He could see now what was on fire: one of the galleys that had been dragged onto a slipway for repairs and also the sailmaker’s building across the street. Running forward, he joined the line near the business end, passing buckets to a shirtless little guy who was throwing water in the general direction of the burning galley. This will never do, Swimmer thought, so he went around to the other side of the shirtless guy and took three steps toward the fire. Here he could feel the intense heat and smoke choked him, but he was close enough to direct water onto burning boards.
More and more people were crowding onto the quay and another bucket line had formed next to Swimmer, doubling the amount of water they were throwing. But the fire still grew. This ship is finished, Swimmer thought; looking over his shoulder, he saw that the galley in the next slip was not burning yet. He stepped away from the bucket line, hoping that the shirtless guy had learned something about where to throw the water, and went to look at the galley. It was held in place on the sloping slip by two huge, thick ropes, one on each side. He looked around but didn’t see any tools, so he drew his own small knife and began sawing at the rope. God of the Sea, he thought, this will never work; it’s taking too long. He stopped, took a deep breath and looked around again. He saw that burning embers were raining down all across the quay. He picked up a piece of wood and ran around on the paving stones, pushing burning coals onto the wood with his knife. He was nearby trampled by people running like fools around him. People were shouting at each other, giving contradictory orders, making fools of themselves. Shut up and carry water, he thought. When he thought he had enough coals he went back to the ropes and tried to arrange the coals to burn through them. One of the ropes was wet and wouldn’t take, but the other started to burn slowly. He moved back and forth between the ropes, sawing at one with his knife and encouraging the fire on the other. His eyes were burning, his lungs were burning, the whole city seemed to be burning.
Then there was a new note in the shouting. Some guards had arrived with somebody who thought he was the boss, and he ordered everybody to fall back from the burning galley. Probably the right idea, Swimmer thought, it's a goner. Then somebody seemed to be yelling at him.
“Captain says fall back, it’s not safe here.”
“Of course it’s not safe here, mouse brain, the city’s on fire. Help me get this ship out into the harbor before it burns, too.”
“My orders –”
“Fuck your orders,” Swimmer shouted, “we can save this ship. Either give me your sword or cut this rope yourself.”
The guard was still dithering, so Swimmer walked right up to him and hit him in the nose. When he raised his hands to his face, Swimmer grabbed his sword out of its scabbard and turned back to the ropes. He cut through the first one but when he turned to the second two guards ran up and tried to grab him. He shouted, “Back off frog fuckers!” waved the sword at them before he turned to finish with the rope. He never found out what they might have done to him because at that moment there was a loud crashing sound and a fountain of burning wood landed all around them. Pieces landed on Swimmer’s back and arms but he ignored them and cut through the rope.
The ship didn’t move.
“Shit,” he said. He brushed to coals out of his singed hair, then he turned and started yelling to the guards and anyone else who would listen, “Help me push this ship into the water!” To demonstrate what he meant, he threw his back against the ship’s prow and began pushing. Others started to join him. Then one of the soldiers threw a punch at some random guy who had just come to help push the ship, and a brawl started, soldiers against a bunch of sailors, and somebody yelled, “Screw the fire, let’s kick some ass,” and a woman ran in and threw a bucket of water into a soldier’s face, and meanwhile burning embers were still raining down on them, and some of them were falling on the ship, and Swimmer could see smoke rising from it.
Then there was a clatter of hooves and a mounted man rode up in a nightshirt and expensive boots and jumped off the horse and started yelling at everybody to cut the crap and get pushing on the ship, and Swimmer thought, God of the Sea that’s the Viscount with no pants on. Soon enough the pants-less bastard got the fight sorted out and got everybody pushing, but they still couldn’t budge it, but then somebody else ran up, and it was Iskander towering over the crowd, and he screamed something in his unknown language and threw himself at the ship, and everybody else pushed and it started to move down the slip, and people cheered and pushed again and it really started moving, and by the time it hit the water it was going too fast for anyone to jump on, so Swimmer grabbed the end of the rope he had cut and let it pull him into the water. Once he had stopped bouncing he pulled himself up the rope into the ship and started throwing water on all the little fires that were smoldering wherever burning wood had fallen.
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Mercutio heard the bell in his sleep and woke up thinking the city was under attack. Who was it? The monks? The Red Admiral? The Tuchuks? But as he listened he realized it was not the slow tolling of the call to arms but the rapid clanging of the fire bell. He stood up and began to look for clothes but could find none. His valet must have taken yesterday’s pants for laundering but not brought him anything for tomorrow yet. Damn this business, why can’t a man’s pants stay where he drops them? He began yelling for his valet, then for anybody, but got no answer except from the guard who stood at the end of the hall. Seeing that his boots at least were standing outside his room he sat down and put them on. The only cloak he could see was on his guard’s back, so he said, “Soldier, I need your cloak.” The man whipped it off and handed it over, his haste perhaps indicating horror that his Viscount might run out into the city in his nightshirt. Mercutio threw the cloak over his soldiers and ran for the stable.
There was always a horse saddled and ready to carry urgent messages, no matter the time. Mercutio ran right up to it and began checking its gear. A young groom came running at him saying, “What are you doing? You can’t just –”
Mercutio gave him a hard look and said, “I’m going to ride my own horse. Open the door.”
The startled boy turned to run for the door, tripped, fell on this face, jumped up, stumbled again, and kept running until he had pushed open the stable door. Mercutio led the horse out and jumped into the saddle, saying to the boy, “If anyone asks, the Viscount went to fight the fire.”
Then he urged the horse to a canter and they started off down the street. Mercutio patted the horse’s neck and said, “I hope you’re not afraid of fire.”
He could see the fire burning as soon as he turned down a street leading to the harbor. A ship was ablaze, and across the stones of the quay two buildings were burning. A crowd of people was already gathering and bucket lines were forming. Scanning the scene, he saw that there were two galleys pulled up into slips for repair, and one was burning but the other was not. Saving that ship, he thought, was the first thing. He guided his horse through the crowd and up to it.
There he found a mob scene, soldiers fighting with sailors, some people trying to put out the fire, others standing around looking confused, dense smoke in the air, burning embers raining down, a hundred people shouting at once and a few screaming or sobbing. He idly wondered if the smoke or the swearing was thicker. Right about now, he thought, it would help to be in full dress uniform, flanked by a couple of impressive guardsmen. With halberds. Why did he have that when he was marching in parades, but not when he needed it? There were some things about the traditions of leadership that needed work.
Nothing to be done at this point. So he pretended he was not in his nightshirt, vaulted impressively from his horse – at least, he hoped he did – and waded into the crowd, shouting, “Stop this nonsense and get to work!” Some of the soldiers must have recognized his voice because they turned to stare at him, and within a minute all the punching and swearing had stopped. He said, “Everyone push this ship, and put your backs into it,” and everyone did, but it did not want to move, and Mercutio was just about to give up and send for a team of draft horses when more people joined in, including a tall black man shouting what sounded like fearful curses in some southern language, and they pushed again and the ship moved and they kept it moving until slid into the water, away from the fire, and they all stopped, excepted for one poor guy who must have gotten tangled in a rope or something because he followed the galley into the water.
Step one complete, Mercutio thought.
He turned to survey the scene. The two burning buildings were beyond saving. All the buildings here were stone, so the walls between them would be good firebreaks if they could keep the beams in the tile roofs from catching. Grabbing some soldiers he ran into the next building over from the burning sailmaking works and climbed the stairs into the attic. There they knocked a hole in the roof to get a look at the inferno next door. The roof had mostly collapsed but what remained was still burning and the fire was, as he feared, spreading along the beams that connected the two roofs. They had to cut away what remained of the burning roof of the sailmaking works before the fire spread. Mercutio shouted, “Ax!” The soldiers looked like they wanted to argue but eventually one handed him an ax. They would have been quicker to obey, he thought, if I had pants on. Asking the men to get a bucket line up through this building to the attic, Mercutio climbed onto the roof and looked for a good spot to begin hacking. He found one about halfway up the slanting roof, where he could see a charring beam. He began chopping at it.
Two other men also climbed onto the roof of the sailmaking shop and began trying to cut the beams and send the fire back down toward the floor. Mercutio had just about cut through his beam when he heard horrible screaming coming from the street below. Even amidst the roar of the fire and the shouting of men and the whole maddening din the screams cut through. It sounded like an old woman but her voice was astonishingly loud. He could not make out all her words but he distinctly heard “Rotten, rotten, the whole world is” – something. Rotten? Rotting? And then, “Worms in the rotted meat, we are all worms in the rotted meat.”
As he chopped, he idly wondered if there was a law against screaming obscure, frightening words in the middle of a fire. Would it count as disturbing the peace? Blasphemy? Interfering with officers carrying out their lawful duties? Lack of civic spirit? No, wait, he was pretty sure that last was not actually a crime, although it could get you beaten up and thrown in the harbor.
Then Mercutio had to leap back as the rest of the sailmaking shop’s roof collapsed toward the floor. The first buckets were arriving, and men were pouring them over the beams and rafters in this attic, cooling them and keeping fire from catching on them. He saw then that there was a new danger, because the fire had spread to two small sheds in the yard behind the sailmaking shop and looked set to jump the alley to the buildings beyond. Leaving two men to continue wetting this building, he took the rest and made his way toward the alley to see what might be done there.
