Bells ring three times across Kintargo, heralding six o’clock and the end of the curfew. The city awakes sharply, as it has every morning in the two months since the House of Thrune put Kintargo under martial law. The streets, deserted by all but the Dottari patrols a few minutes before, are choked with merchants bound for the markets and sailors stumbling for the docks. Everywhere there is a sullen resentment of the hour of daylight that was wasted while the curfew was still in force, though none dare give word to their anger. A smoky haze envelops the towers of the city as a thousand tea kettles are put on the fire to boil, and a particularly sulfurous miasma rolls out of the Tiefling slums of the Redroof district.
By six-ten, as the sun hovers between the spires of the Temple of Asmodeus, the city is fully awake and open for business. The Bleakbridge market is packed to the eaves with merchants and their stalls. The harbor swarms with activity as ships bearing salt and silver set sail for foreign ports, and other ships return with the riches of the world beyond. Commerce is welcome in the Queen’s northernmost city, but like every other part of Chelish life, much is forbidden and the law is enforced with an iron hand. Inspectors patrol the docks with Dottari squads and shield guardians at their call, while warships circle in the mouth of the Yolublis river.
And, docked in a quay a stone’s throw from the harbormaster’s office, a fast ship bearing the scars of a dozen pirate attacks is docked in the harbor with an empty hold. She has lain that way for a month.
By the time the hour is half-past, the sun has disappeared into the leaden sky. The only sign of the sun is a band of yellow light bound between dark clouds and the cliffs of Argo Bay. The hustle and bustle of the city has had time to die down, and hundreds of housewives have had time to return from the markets with fresh food for a proper breakfast.
Down the road from the docks, in a tavern that lies in the shadows of the walls that gird the noble district, a dozen people sit around a long table eating a hot meal. A young woman of foreign origin sits across from a war-scarred veteran, who sits a bit down from a Dwarf in fine clothes and a particularly inscrutable lizard.
The cook carries a tray piled with fish and eggs fresh from her skillet and places it at the center of the table for everyone to serve themselves. A young boy follows her with a basket of bread rolls and a pitcher of cold water.
“Yell if you want anything else,” she says on the way back to the kitchen. She seems to be speaking mostly to the inhuman inquisitor, as if she doesn’t see his kind often and isn’t sure what exactly he eats. “We got butter and fruit, but they cost a little extra.”
The server boy hangs nearby, ready to take an order.