The Merchant of Vengeance

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The Dag and Dirk was tucked away within a row of buildings on a narrow, cobbled street down by the docks, its entrance a heavy, scarred, and weathered wooden door beneath a painted hanging sign depicting a flintlock pistol and a dagger. Although it had not rained that day, the paving stones were slick and wet, partly from the river mist and partly from the waste and offal thrown out into the street. The acrid odour of the refuse mingled thickly with the briny breeze coming in off the Thames, evoking the noisome stench of rotting fish. And once inside the tavern, the smell was not much better.

“Methinks that this was ill considered, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, as he looked around apprehensively at their surroundings. “Half the men in here look as if they would gladly cut our throats for the contents of our purses, whilst the other half look as if they would simply do it for a lark.”

“‘Tis just a tavern, Will, much like any other,” Smythe replied, though he did not feel quite as certain as he sounded as he glanced around at all the patrons, most of whom were certainly a surly-looking lot. Many of the men sitting at the well-stained wooden tables over pots of ale were wherry-men, brawny and weather-beaten, grizzled men with skin like old leather. They made their living rowing small boats on the Thames, ferrying the residents of London up and down the river. With the streets often congested by all the carriages and carts and coaches, to say nothing of pedestrians and riders on horseback all vying for the right of way, travelling by river was often the fastest way to get around the city. Most likely the safest, as well, thought Smythe, given the steady increase in crime.

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