The boy that sat perched upon a cask of fish, one of several recently placed there by the women working on the fresh catch. Unloaded from a nearby ship tied up to the harbour, his sketchbook propped upon a tun. Tim was quite unaware of the Citadels origins, as were its inhabitants.
He was careful to be as unobtrusive as possible whilst giving the impression, if noticed, of having the perfect right to be wherever he happened to be. His leather satchel filled with his art materials and his voluminous sketchbook were his passport.
He had survived on the streets thus far, by virtue of the fact that most ordinary passers-by took the possession of paper to mean that he represented officialdom, in some form or other. Most of those liable to be a threat to him were even more anxious to avoid officialdom of any kind, be they tax collector, revenue officer or anyone else that kept records.
Tim's other defense was that he took great care to be as clean and neatly dressed as possible under the circumstances. In this he was aided by the washerwomen and launderers that he flattered with sketches of themselves, tactfully represented. For this they paid by giving him scraps of misplaced clothing which had gone astray, shrunk or were otherwise overlooked by their wealthier patrons.
Various other industries in the Citadel had come to be kindly inclined toward the polite youngster that asked their permission to make drawings of their premises and customers, some of whom paid him for his pictures. Tim, the word had got around, was a helpful boy to have around and before long one or two printers began to make use of his skill at fast, accurate illustrations for their engravers to work from.
This general approval stood him in good stead for the word got around that he wasn't to be considered by the snatchers, that made their living by waylaying orphaned youngsters for a fate worse than death, in many instances.
However the Harbour was a new territory for Tim to enter. It was almost like an independent territory despite being part of the Citadel. Heavily fortified, with river gates at each end and high walls to protect its warehouse contents from thieves, it had it's own Guard to patrol it. The snatchers were no threat in comparison to those short handed ships willing to take any able bodied male within easy reach if they needed to.
Tim's safety lay within the purview of the fishwives, often sisters to the laundresses, if not the same hard working women that managed both jobs in order to feed their families. Even the most hard bitten sailors treated these women with the respect their flashing knives demanded. It was hard labour gutting, skinning and filleting the catch as quickly as possible before packing it in casks of brine.
That was why Tim had taken up his sketching position seated on the packed casks that the fishwives kept a sharp eye upon. Whilst they worked, Tim was as safe as could be, when their shift was over he'd best be leaving along with them. Mad Ellie the shift leader had her eye on the man who had stacked a tun of wine next to her casks, she'd lost a cask before due to manouvres like that and had observed the sailors on the nearby ship looking at the boy and talking quietly whilst giving him meaningful glances.
With a silver flash of light a razor sharp knife flew through the air and stuck quivering in the bulkhead between the two men. Mad Ellie wasn't even paying them any attention or so it seemed, but all the other fishwives turned as one and gave them a look to make their blood run cold. Quite unmoved by this moment of mute drama, Tim continued to quietly draw, as another man made an elaborate pantomime of unloading the next tun and placing it a good ten yards away from the first one. Then he ambled over to where the boy sat drawing.
"Excuse me young master" he said to Tim "If you'm done using that there, mind if I moves 'un over there with the rest?"
"Oh no, thank you" replied Tim politely "I'm finished drawing now and must go and show Miss Ellie what I've drawn for her."
"You take this 'ere back to her for I, will you? There's a good boy." He carefully handed Tim the knife, handle first, that had been pulled from the bulkhead. "Allus passes a knife on to another like this, lad. Else someone might get cut." He glanced over to where Ellie stood watching him suspiciously.
"Miss Ellie showed me how sir, she knows more about knives than anyone I know."
"That she do, young 'un. You give her my compliments and you best stay close to her when there's ships in harbour."
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