Squeezed in between an engineer’s shop and an apparently abandoned warehouse, sat The Wren’s Head, door agape with light and laughter streaming out. A strange little place - only the two storeys, and so unassuming in the daytime as to practically disappear - but it transformed at night.

For The Wren’s Head was famous for its drink. Not a surprise, perhaps, as a house of public merriment, but here things were different. Other establishments prided themselves on their spiced coffee and wine, thanks to the vast swathes of farms and vineyards down below, but The Wren’s Head was special.

Nobody was entirely sure why, but that made the intrigue all the more enticing - and ever since the rumour had been bandied about, those who’d heard it flocked here in droves of an evening, to try and discover for themselves what exactly this fabled drink was.

One such evening, as a few more groups of murmuring people wandered in, the tavern buzzed with life. The regulars lined the bar, giving newcomers a disapproving glance and then turning back to their mugs or glasses, and a lone fiddler was weaving deftly through the lines of a folk song. All in all, a regular evening.

Except it wasn’t. Not quite. There was an almost tangible tension behind the bar; strange, anxious looks passed between the innkeeper and one or two regulars.

As the fiddler finished her song, amongst a smattering of cheers and applause, one of the regulars leaned over towards the innkeeper.

“Still no word?”

The latter gave a quick, furtive glance around the packed room. “Nope.”

“They’re late.” grumbled the regular.

He was cut with a withering stare as the innkeeper sucked his teeth. “No, really? Thanks for that insight, Imar.”

Imar raised his hands defensively and returned to pondering the depths of his mug.

The evening wore on. There was a perceptible tightening of the air around the bar, as the figures sat at it hunched more menacingly over their drinks, almost melting into the bar itself. A slow but steady stream of the hitherto whispering groups of newcomers shuffled out of the door.

The fiddler played on, song after song, her tone filling out and ringing around the room as it emptied. Those patrons who remained - still a sizeable number for a pub this small - seemed to listen in more intently, conversations dropping to whispers.

And then, suddenly, the room relaxed.

A casual observer would have been hard pressed to say what had done it, but as the innkeeper slipped out of the room, there was a faintly perceptible smile that tugged at the lips of the fiddler, as on she played, not breaking a phrase.

Above The Wren’s Head, on the (some would say) unnecessary tower affixed to the roof, a teenage girl lounged with a spyglass at her eye, supported expertly by one of her knees.

A sound below her heralded the arrival of the innkeeper, who crested the top of the stairs with some speed, and had to stop for a moment to catch his breath.

The girl snorted. “You alright there, dad?”

He held a finger up as he bent backwards, wincing, and then exhaled loudly.

“I hate stairs.”

His daughter scoffed again and held out the spyglass. “Can I leave now? Harald’s been waiting for hours downstairs.”

The barkeep affixed the spyglass to his eye and peered into the night. “Why are they so late?” He murmured.

“Dad.” The girl pulled her feet in from the railing and used one to poke her father in his copious stomach.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, sure, go. Thanks.”

“You owe me!” She sang as she grabbed her bag from beside the chair and nimbly tapped downstairs.

“Yes, yes, I do, I know...” Her father mumbled absently after she had gone.

Through the spyglass, the hulking shadow of a ship was approaching through the air, lights shuttered and sails gradually rising. The gentle hum of the engine harmonised neatly with the faint strains of the fiddler still playing in the tavern below. A Cadgwith model, the barkeep noticed with surprise. That was new. In his engineering days, folks would’ve killed to have one of those in their ship. Must mean they were doing well...or that they’d stolen it.

As the ship approached the little dock attached to the tower, a new noise detracted from the harmonious echoes of the night.

“I swear, if we get short-changed for being late, I’m going to throw you overboard.”

“Sure, Jay, of course you will. That threat worked out so well last time.”

A slight scuffle and the sound of something heavy being placed on the deck, along with a third voice. “Stop it and help with these, please - also, who’s on the anchor?”

A curse and more scrambling, then the clunkclunkclunk of the anchor chain being lowered and the tell-tale scraping of metal against metal, as the anchor landed in the dock’s anchor-trough and finally caught on its metal bars.

The third voice chimed in again, nearer than before, with a relieved sigh. “Ah good, it’s caught - Jay, my patch job worked!”

The first voice called from the back of the ship, “Great! Still means we need to get a new anchor though, probably won’t last more than another trip.”

Further sounds of footsteps, heavy as if weighted down with something, approached, as movement seemed to increase between the figures on board, gradually coming into focus. The barkeep lowered the spyglass, closing it with a snap, and positioned himself in the middle of the tower, crossing his arms in what he hoped was a stance of obvious displeasure.

As the ship inched closer, he could make out the figures on board - a familiar monthly sight, and a welcome one. Although, in recent months, their shipment had been slightly less reliable in quantity. He silently hoped that their lateness meant that a bit more care had been taken not to “smash” an entire crate’s worth of bottles this time.

With a final creak and the gentle fading of the engine, the vessel stopped, and two ropes were thrown off the bow. The innkeeper sighed, and went to tie them down. He had wanted to stand firm, but needs must.

As he finished tying the second rope, noticing the new paint on the hull of the ship - a garish purple, far too bright for his taste - he felt the impact of the gangplank being lowered behind him, and turned as one of the men sauntered down.

“Evenin’.” The man tipped an imaginary hat, and flashed what he obviously hoped was a disarming smile.

The innkeeper sighed again. “Why are you so late?”

The other man’s smile faltered ever-so-slightly. “Ah. Well. So you see, there was a bit of a hold up at the drop-off point. Something on their end, something on ours; Melody got scrambled slightly or something, but we’re here now, and that’s all that matters!”

As he spoke, the darker-haired and shorter of the other two men began carrying the crates down the gangplank, giving the innkeeper a respectful nod of greeting as he went.

“Did you at least manage to fulfil the order this time?” The innkeeper asked.

The first man nodded emphatically, his expression just a little too serious to be trustworthy. “Yep. All there.”

“Not to mention the extra banjo...” came the voice of the other man behind him, muttering as he stacked the crates.

The first man’s smile returned and he called back up to the ship, “Jay? You got the manifest there?”

Jay appeared from the upper deck and gave a thumbs up, before grabbing a crate and following his shipmate down the gangplank.

“All here, yep.” He stated as he set down the crate, offering his hand to the innkeeper to shake. “Good to see you again, as always.”

The innkeeper maintained his stony-faced expression but took Jay’s hand. “Likewise.”

“Sorry about the delay...as Rowan said, bit of a hold-up on their end. But here’s the list; all there.” He passed a crumpled sheet of paper to the innkeeper, who gave it a thorough check before handing it back.

“Any particular reason there’s a bit ripped off at the bottom?” He asked, feigning nonchalance.

The dark-haired man finished stacking the last of the crates and turned towards him, giving a strange, slightly mystical look. “You don’t want to know.” He stated in a monotone.

Rowan snapped his head to him. “Mate. Really?” Looking back to the innkeeper, his smile flashed up again. “Ignore Aaron, he’s messing with you - it’s just wear and tear, no idea how it got torn off.”

“Hm. Fine,” the innkeeper relented, “let’s have a look at the goods. There’d better not be any missing or I’ll dock your pay.”

Six crates of smallish bottles sat on the dock, with “Property of-” and then “Llandoger” half-obscured by slapdash paint. The innkeeper had yet to find out what that last word meant, even after all this time. But what was in the crates was worth the mystery.

He took a bottle out and inspected it. It was unlabelled; thick, brown glass with a fluted metal cap. Those metal caps were becoming something of a collector’s item, he mused, as his hand involuntarily went to the one hanging from a thin string around his neck. Funny how things like that started.

After checking everything, he produced a sheaf of notes, counting them out into the keenly waiting hand of Rowan. The innkeeper paused as he handled the last two, enjoying for a moment the slight look of pleading in Rowan’s eyes, before shaking his head regretfully and pocketing the notes once more.

“What? Oh come on, we’ve delivered everything!” Rowan’s voice had a note of real anger to it, and the innkeeper took an instinctive step back.

“You were four hours late. You’ve lost me money because of that. It’s only fair you lose out too.”

Rowan’s jaw worked for a moment but Jay stepped forward. “I guess that’s fair. We’ll be on time next time.”

“I’d appreciate it.” the barkeep returned.

“Now, any chance of a drink?” Jay asked, his voice taking on a lighter tone as the business of the night concluded.

The barkeep’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He didn’t like being hard on the lads. They were a decent sort, really, even if their business was somewhat morally ambiguous and less than legal. He smiled and clapped Jay on the back, leading the three of them downstairs.

“That sodding banjo...” he heard muttered behind him, before the door opened into the cheerful wash of tavern sound.