You threaten an old contact or two, but no-one's forthcoming until the Ironclad Docksman gets wind of what you're after. He takes you aside conspiratorially, taps the side of his nose at your question, then punches you, hard, right in the gut. […]
[…] The lids have been prised off, and each holds damp woodshavings. […]But there's a brand burned into the planks; the screaming face of Polythreme. And there's a scrawl of chalk on one of them: 'Attn: Mr C'. […]
