By day, the docks are all salt and tar, gulls and shouted prices; by night, lantern light spills across the planks as crews sort cargo and argue rates in half a dozen tongues. It’s Brennin’s noisy front porch, where ships nose in from every compass point and where a good harbourmaster keeps the tide of trade from snarling.

Follow the boards toward the water’s end and you find the Vein’s entrance, guarded, busy, and very much the hinge on which the port swings. A few steps inland sits a sailors-only haven that every weary deckhand knows to find, even if it’s easy to miss from the main walk.