"Pull in that boom line, sailors!" Captain MacCayden yelled, the frustration for his crew’s lack of enthusiasm plain in his voice.
Tirlag had been working non-stop for days. This’s for the dogs, she guffed under her breath, tugging at the lines with what appeared to Captain Mac Cayden to be spirited fervor, but was really disdain.
"Don't worry..." Kirkwell assured her, seeing the exasperated face. "It's almost over."
"Can't wait..." she huffed, knotting the Cormorant's huge sail arm to the main mast and wiping the sweat from her brow. It was more an affirmation of finality, she knew; a reminder that her days as a shiphand would be finished soon altogether.
With a jarring slam the ship's anchor snagged taught. "Here we are boys! Thane!" The Captain sounded, in a tone that sounded like even he too was relieved. "Prepare to disembark!" he shouted. "Drop the plank, Arden!" He ordered the first mate, her tall lanky bean-pole of a brother, who merely passed the captain's orders to the rest of the crew while never doing any real work himself.
Arden always took great joy in spouting orders to others, especially Tirlag, which is why Captain Mac Cayden chose him as second in command, she figured, even if his sadistic love to watch people squirm beneath him was mistaken for the inborn qualities of a leader.
"Bring up the cargo!" he yelled to the loose hands on deck, which meant Kirkwell and Tirlag and a small handful of other crew members.
"Start with the passenger goods." ordered Quartermaster Walker galloping down the stairs to the lower deck, swinging open the doors. Silently he motioned to Tirlag and Krikwell to follow him.
Tirlag shook her head. It wasn't over yet.
Kirkwell swung wide the doors which comprised the passenger's quarters. It was really the garrison, which had really just been a pantry, but the captain had ensured that the Baron had been given every accommodation. It didn’t bother Tirlag any; she didn’t sleep in the space as the men anyway, but it had well gotten under the skin of the others.
Tirlag and Kirkwell clopped into the room, cringing at the feeling of the stagnant water that stood in it.
"Silver Hand!" Walker cursed. Tirlag jumped at the fuming deckhand's sudden outburst. "What in All Creation happened here!?"
Then the putrid smell wafted under her nostrils, and he didn't have to ask what he was talking about. It made her lip curl and his already nauseatingly hungry stomach even sicker. Walker held his dew rags over his face.
"What is that rank--!" Kirkwell started, wandering into him, but was stifled with shock.
"Tirlag, it’s a wonder we didn't sink! Or at least run aground!" the Quartermaster leered at them, who all gave him guilty faces, "When was the last time this bilge was flushed?" he griped. Tirlag grumbled, yet another of a long list of chores. "You'd best thank Aaran’s Graces that it’s Thane and not Madreg." Everyone looked puzzled, save Tirlag. Madreg was in the shallows. "Bennon, run the screw pump!" he ordered finally. "Aroun, Glib, try to start wheeling out those barrels." he groaned. "Karris, clear the halls. Tirlag, Kirkwell, come with me..." he moaned, putting the colorful rags back on his head before walking back outside. "I want all the cargo brought to the main deck by the time we set anchor."
They had come down here for the barrels. Some were rum and grog, some fine wine from the Dechamp to be sold while in port, and still others belonged to their guests.
He turned to Tirlag and Kirkwell with a sly look and a mischievous nod as she came back, who shook his head when he'd seen that he'd lifted one of the expensive bottles of brandy in one of the cases and deftly stuffed it in his pants “He won’t miss it.”
Tirlag and her father and her brothers had met Torrin Von Krasad in Torant, yet another country that was forged in the fires of the war. He’d come from an island off the western coast. This island, he had told them, was a prison colony, a place to exile political conspirators and rabble rousers who at the time threatened to subvert the throne of Kessellon. Torrin’s twice great uncle was descended from one such noble family, locked away there for many years for suspicions of one such conspiracy, only to be celebrated as heroes and freed back to the mainland some generations later. Tirlag didn’t really understand all of it.
"...There's plenty to do down here." frowned Kirkwell, handing Tirlag a lantern from one of the hooks on the wall.
The lower deck was cramped but Tirlag was well used to cramped living most of her life in a fishing boat with twenty other men.
"Blimey! I can't fare much more of this..." Walker protested, standing on one of the Baron’s kegs they were supposed to be hauling up above. "Just think though." He pulled a stick of pan from his pocket. He squished it up, grinding it between his teeth. Tirlag had always found it a bit disgusting. "But just think." Walker started again pushing the gob to the side of his cheek. "Pretty soon, the only thing that will be fuller than our coffers is our bellies!" he gave a wild eyed grin.
It was a nasty habit, chewing pan; he’d gotten it in the Gulf of Three Cities in the north, he’d said. It one of the Veiled Lander pastimes, how he kept getting it was a mystery, but a lot of ports in the Princely Provinces, as well as Madreg catered to such novel vices nowadays.
Walker was an experienced salt--a rare trait aboard this ship. He had been given authority due to this experience. That, and he was a man, Tirlag would be quick to point out. He said he even used to have his own ship until it was captured by pirates, but Walker said lots of things, like promising Kirkwell (and anyone else who would listen) much better prospects when they reached port. It was what he was referring to, of course.
"I'd have to say this was the most uncomfortable trip I've ever been on." Kirkwell complained.
"Tirlag, he always bellyache like this? My condolences to you, my lady." Walker joked. "Where do the Fates take you after this?" He then asked the girl.
"Inland." She tersely replied.
"...’Tis a shame you'll be leaving us. Would've just started to be fun!" he said, obviously trying to hide behind the remark that he was going to miss him using the insincere-sounding comment. There was a quiet pause, then he leaped from his perch and dusted off his hands.
“So you say this Kazren fellow,” Kirkwell thought he’d ask since they were on the subject, it had been digging at him for a long time. “Does he owe you a favor or…?”
“I know something he don’t know I know. He’ll listen to us.” Was all he said. She knew why he was skeptical. He was always being vague. "What's say we finish this, handsomely!" he said, taking off his shirt and picking up one of the kegs, a sudden renewed (and transparent) resolve.
Bennon was the other experienced salt. He was there to meet them on the stairs and unload. Bennon was in his forties at least, she'd wager but he could still press a hogshead over his own and think nothing of it. He had also sailed the waters of He had an ink tapping, it began at his leathery neck and its tail ran to the base of his skull, hugging his right shoulder blade and spiralling all the way down to rest its head in his hand. Its forked tongue licked his palm. The serpent's back was covered in writings in a language that none of them could identify. He said he’d gotten it too in the Veiled Lands. Kirkwell told her the meaning of the markings he had seen in his life, and none of them were pleasant. He called it an Ink Tapping, and it was mainly used in the foreign lands to brand criminals. There, a serpent branded one as a murderer, but he was quick to point out that this particular one didn’t mean that. ‘Of course.’
They couldn’t say much of it, it was his connections with Kyogode that gave them their pay day.
They’d met him in Madreg, through her uncle who’d worked in the military. He was a smuggler, and her uncle the young officer whose captain took bribes to ensure the safe passage of the goods. Any real money to be made was taken by the middlemen, shrewd Jin and their southside cartels, but this year’s haul of untaxed tea and Nic was a much needed boost to their coin purses that none would protest.
Trade with the Jin themselves was a commodity--the entire reason Menkara dared build a city in the Drowned Lands, the foul moors to the east beset by dark Fae Magic.
“Did his answer allay your fears, my dear brother?” Tirlag snorted, once he was far enough away.
“Any man would keep his secrets among thieves and smugglers. Can’t say I blame him.” he parried.
Tirlag, like he, had thought it was a mad fever dream of his, or maybe another one of his stories. He was a colorful fellow, and could spin quite a tale. She’d found early on that old wive's tales were more for old salts around a pint than old wives around a knitting circle. True or not and nevertheless these stories granted him a measure of repute, and an air of charisma and mystique that caught the ear of many of Mac Cayden’s crew, much to his consternation.
It was a dire and dangerous undertaking which Tirlag and they discussed. Walker had gone on for several moons about a job that would pay so well that he’d need a crew for his new ship. He pitched it to people he took a shine to, including Tirlag. She wouldn’t hear of it, Kirkwell on the other hand...
She picked one of the barrels and started back up, and Kirkwell followed “I’d be surprised if anything came of it. All bluster, that one. I suppose he’ll have you hunting for that floating palace he’s always talking about after this, or that lost city he found that one time and could never find again because of the moon not being right or some such. You can follow him to the ends of the World for all I care.”
“And of you and this spear business? What better job prospects, following rumors of whispers! At least Walker has the foggiest idea of where what he’s looking for is.”
“Yes he does. Right under the Steward Prince’s noses, Kirkwell! That’s what worries me. And when I say swiping something is risky--especially when it’s from rich folks--you should take my word for it.”
Rounding the stairs they then realized they had company. “...Then, sister, think nothing will come of it.” he shrugged, just having to get the last word in. She just rolled her eyes.
The baron’s bodyguard simply nodded as she passed him midship, careful to avoid direct eye contact. He was always bashful around her. ‘I bet he fancies me.’
Alara brushed past her. “Good morning.” She smiled. The only nice one of the bunch. And a former navy officer from Torant to boot. Useful and mannerly, and she has a ton of stories, that is, if you can get her to talk.
Then there was the Baron. His forehead was wrinkled and beaten red, the look upon his face defeated, his originally auburn facial hair (which Tirlag was surprised to find he even had) now bleached with splotchy white bright with sun spots and made him look aged far beyond his years. She could tell that this had been the longest trip Baron Torrin von Krasad had ever ensured.
“Good day, madam.” he said briskly as he took the bags from her. It was all she even got from him anymore. She giggled in spite of herself.
She had tried to even fathom what all the fuss was about; she’d never even heard the man’s surname before, though she’d never really had ears for history, but she’d heard he was a swath gentleman, some lord from Coeur la Terre, one of the wealthier provinces in Torant. Trying to sell her off was always his first go-to order of business whenever her father saw coin, and this had been no exception. ‘The catch of a lifetime’, he had called him. Tirlag scoffed at the notion everytime, and this one too was no exception. It was always a contest of wills; her father never had the gall to force her to marry even though he knew she would if he willed it, and she knew this well, and always made it well known her disinterest in a suitor, especially in front of such discerning parties.
She’d almost convinced herself that it was a good idea; he wasn’t completely uncomely though he was a bit older, and not by any means poor, the two qualities her father had most touted about, but these were not why she refused--several moons aboard a wave-tossed ship and none could tell poor from rich, handsome from homely. No, the dubious-seeming company he kept and the whispered secrets of which he kept even more, and the shaky status of his lordship...these were the reasons she told him that she was not interested. After several weeks aboard the ship her father had noticed it too. He’d caught wind of something, something that had made the entire forty-two day journey to Thane a silent affair. He hadn’t spoken of marriage again. Unbeknownst to him it was the same wind that had been put in the sails of the girl to do some dubious things of her own.
And then there was the spectacled man. He said nothing as he passed her, as he nearly always did, but shot her a rather pleasant smile today on passing, something she’d most definitely not been used to. He must be all bright-eyed for finally getting off this ship. she rationalized. Or...I bet he fancies me too. She beamed bashfully at the thought in spite of herself, glancing down at herself to see if maybe she’d done anything different today. He’d had an awkward conversation with her father as well about Tirlag’s interest in marriage, and how hard times were as her father always expressed, but then she swept it aside when the thought came Or maybe he knows... she inadvertently leered back at him at the thought, making the man drop his warm demeanor awkwardly when saw it.
The larder was located in the cargo hold, of all places, and there was a small portal for a dumbwaiter which used to lead to the tiny galley on deck. When the ship had been ‘repurposed’ for its business needs, it called for the use of this storage room as a new cramped sleeping quarters for the crew. The dumbwaiter had been cleared from it but it was never really secured or boarded up; it was no wider than a man, but Tirlag was no man. She’d spent her whole life slinking between it, hiding in it, playing in it and sneaking food to others on occasion, usually her brothers.
She had taken extra precautions to ensure her discretion: tucked her breeches into her soft boots and removed jewelry and the like. She’d wrapped her chest tight with bandages and had even made sure not to eat and to sweat well with chores during the day as to make sure she could still fit.
It was the perfect night, a hot summer rain pounded on the planks, a storm not so hard that it tossed the ship, but just hard enough to pad her feet. Still, every uncontrolled breath, every slight creak, every wispy flutter of the candle she held set her on end--even the rubbing of her clothes around the edges of the portal sounded grating as she slowly lowered the first leg almost in a handstand. Her second leg perched on the inside of the chamber about halfway up she used for leverage, slowly rolled on the palms of her hands to work her way in backwards until the first foot touched bottom. Using the leg to pivot, she held her body until she was completely turned around backwards, as to be facing the tiny exit to the lift on the bottom. She then placed the second foot down and bending at the knee and undulating like an eel arched her back acutely. A few deep sawing breaths then one final exhale she closed her eyes and shut the intrusive thoughts from her mind.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
It had been a few years, but she knew the movement from memory, it had gotten a bit more complex and what others might call difficult, but the gentle slope of making such incremental adjustments made this contortionist maneuver a mundanity to her. But this time it was different: This was at the risk of far more than the half-amused tongue lashing.
The suspense made her struggle to not draw breath, as slowly she went through the motions, as if she could. That had been the easy part. Trickier was getting out on the other side without being seen. It was a lengthy process, that required her to, after clearing the door panel, ensuring that it didn’t creak, she feed one foot out and with one leg knock-kneed, with ankle and foot flat on the floor, and the other bent in a crouch she would clear her head and torso before finally standing up. She’d carried stuff down here before but never a live flame. She was glad she also tied her hair back or else her head may have been on fire. The worst part is that it left her completely vulnerable, her face staring flat at the floor and unable to see whatever or whomever might be waiting on the other side.
She opened her eyes. There they were, laying in the men’s cots. She took a slow breath through her nostrils and fought what was now a giddiness. She looked down at all the prospects. The bag of coins and cards with which the lord gambled Shadows with the men, a small pouch containing strange crystals that belonged to the spectacled man, his strange looking ring that he sometimes wore. Better not. Steady now. She had to tell herself.
She knew every joist on the keel and just where to step to not squeak. Two long strides and she stood before the Seer’s chest. She bent down like a cat ready to pounce. A hairpin for the teeth and a lithy stiletto for the torsion and the padlock sprung free. Then she remembered there was one thing that had slipped her mind. ‘It’s a new chest. it shouldn’t squeak.’ Still she was hesitant, knowing the damage salty air can reap. Just then there was a rumble of thunder. She tossed it open. It had. She gritted her teeth, and quietly removed the things, taking special care to take note of where they went and in which order until she had found it: the old leather-bound black book. She sat it aside.
He had always been jotting down something, whether it be notes, stray thoughts, correspondence or actual record-keeping, but it was one particular conversation they’d had, in hushed whispers as not he, but Torrin showed the Seer this book of bound loose pages.
She grinned triumphantly.
The climb back up was a breeze, as after dousing the candle she could slide up and grab the loop of dangling rope that still hung in the shaft and pull herself back up to spring in a backward somersault back into her room. There she sat and read the document.
She blew raspberries at it as she sat it back in the chest when loading their stuff while they were busy she shoved the book back in. ‘To write so much he sure says much of nothing.’
She wagered that it was some sort of cypher or script of some kind, as she’d seen a few in her time, but all the notes the man had scribbled in the margins of the letters were incomprehensible. She kicked herself for not expecting it. Still she gleaned what little she begged to know from them. Enough to know what they were searching for, and that they were more than competent at finding it. Gae Bolg.
Karris frantically lept atop the bowsprit to catch the first glimpse of land he'd seen in nearly a moon, laying down flat on his belly as he slowly watched the final approach of the vessel. Tirlag had to admit, though the city wasn't much to look at, it was a sight for sore eyes, and even he put down his load to stare at the picturesque city glimmering in the rays of the morning. He caressed the face of the decorative marble statue below.
"It's been a long time coming," he said, and at first everyone thought he was talking about the landing. "But, it’s time that we part...You've just grown too cold and hardened is all." he said looking down to the lady statue with her hand stretched skyward. Bennon and Aron burst into laughter. "I know...I know...it’s okay. Shh..." he hushed it with his finger. Even Arden cracked a grin. Many bowsprits had such carvings of these winged divinities said to ward off evil spirits and usher a safe journey. Most of them were depictions of men, but this was one of the very few feminine figures amongst them. ‘Maybe this is why there isn’t.’ Karris, as well as many other homesick seadogs, oggled it ceaselessly in the absence of the real thing. And her as well she’d come to realize in the last year.
"Ahh, yes! Land!" Karris rejoiced when the anchor fell and the plank went down. He was the first one off. "Thank you, thank you!" he mumbled, revelling praises of relief as he opened-armed collapsed onto the warf.
Kirkwell feverishly pushed to be the next one off, when "Where do you think you're going? You're not done yet!" Arden pertly remarked to them, looking down at the large bags and crates that had just finished being loaded up from the hold expectantly. "You are to help Baron Krasad."
"Come on." Kirkwell encouraged, "We'll share the load. You won't have to make two trips."
The unloading of all the Baron’s goods then the polite request of her father to help them to an inn. Tirlag, Bennon, Rigel, Kirkwell, and Karris carried their myriad supplies, strangely very little of which seemed to be mercantile goods.
It was an across town trek to the outskirts; the environs where horses and carriages could be bought in which to place their wares. The journey took several hours. Finally they joined the others.
Tirlag stumbled and strained to keep from tumbling over by the time they had finished making the long arduous trek. "Come on." Blake patted him on the back. "Just imagine that first bite of lamb and that first sip of draft." said Karris.
"Spirits are for the heathens. Good luck finding a bar here." Bennon frowned. "You'll not find ale for a hundred miles." The look of panic that came across his stubbled face was priceless. He had just been teasing.
"Coffee?" said the spectacled man, picking up his chest and setting it in the wagon.
"You mean this whole town's dry?" The look on the sailor’s face was priceless. Bennon couldn’t take it any longer. “Hahaha!” Karris was still a greenhorn, and Bennon always went out of the way to give him a hard time of it.
Everyone had ignored the Seer’s comment except Tirlag, who when not help but to glance sideways at the man caught him still smiling at her before he marched off out the door. ‘Creepy.’
"Don't worry." Kirkwell chuckled. "We’ll get you soused and slurring soon enough." and with that he spun. "Milord, any more requests before we--?"
"You may leave. Good day, sirs, and many happy returns." the man uttered earnestly and without hesitance.
Tirlag dug her heels into the road to keep up, but fell behind nonetheless, after all, she had been up all night. Then she saw the spectacled man. ‘Where’s he going?’
She really didn’t know why she’d decided to stalk him, Thane was a confusing place and easy to get lost in because everything looked the same, ad a few times herself she’d thought she’d lost him in the dusk-lit busy streets. Still she couldn’t help but notice the man’s stride; a determined gait, the rushed ambulations of a person late for something. She peeked at the sign from around the corner when she’d heard him go in. ‘The Rose in the Rushes.’ she slowly peeked around the corner to the glass windows of the establishment. ‘A coffee house.’ She peered inside a little further, looking for him. ‘Drat’. She would have to get closer to the door to get a vantage. She crouched low near the door and watched as he spoke to a maid who sat him down at a table with two chairs. After a collected moment he pulled the book from his pocket. He took it and a small rolled up scroll and sat it on the table. ‘I knew it!’ This is the break she was looking for, she thought.
Walker had taught her many useful skills. How to sneak, how to fight, even how to pick locks, but not how to read lips. ‘I just need to get in somehow.’ Then he got up. ‘Where’s he going?’
The shock of it sent her off kilter and she fumbled at what to do, but before she could the door opened and his soft voice came. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
Tirlag was shocked that not only had she been caught red-handed, but now she sat before her accuser in bantering discourse.
“You know,” he said, politely pulling out her chair for her. “I knew you’d peeked at the book before I even opened the chest.” he sat down himself. “It’s a special gift I have.”
“You didn’t invite me here to tell me that.” she hide her shock and shame behind indignancy. “And of course you do.” She sprung. “You invited me to make a deal right? You want to pay me a little quiet money, right? Because the Lords of Ormond or the King of Kessellon finds out about what you’re doing you and the Baron might as well crawl in your graves.”
He grinned. There was an awkward silence when the maid came back with cups and a pot, and slowly poured their drink. She thought she had asked at one point if she liked cream, to which Tirlag blinked three times.
He continued after she’d left. “My apologizes, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself properly.” He jerked into a stand, bumping the table and causing the chair to screeching. “Alfred Juminion III, at your service.” He bowed and put out a hand. They did a strange ballet of one trying to greet with a courtly kiss and the other giving a hearty shake, climaxing in knocking over a decanter of cream. “A pleasure. And you are?”
“Tirlag Mac Cayden.”
“Good.” He quickly unrolled the scroll and took out his quill. “Now how do you spell that?”
“What is that?”
“Your agreement.” he explained.
“You inlanders and your laws, you think a piece of paper’s going to scare me?”
“Entice.” was all he retorted with. He handed her the paper.
Tirlag stared at it blankly. “I’m not a lawyer, I don’t speak High Daldistan.”
Alfred turned the paper around. “Apologies. Allow me to translate. Ahem.
I hereby defer and relinquish all due earnings, monetary or otherwise, gained by myself on behalf of Eastward Endeavor Company Ltd., to Tirlag Mac Cayden henceforth, in accordance with and as addendum to article 38 of the charter agreement signed the 13th of Satiom, year 1702 A.E. by Baron Torrin Von Krasad De Greseus Le Mer and Company, for such a time up to and including the finding, procuration, arbitration and dispersal of the spear ’Gae Bolg’ herein invoked as referring to quatraine 23 of the Kainden Codex, and all other articles of historical or cultural significance or otherwise requisitioned during the venture outlined in said charter in exchange for the services and conditions warranted herein: All room and board shall be paid out of pocket. Attendance is required for the duration of the work. Call to aid in defense from threats (brigands, Faekind, Shadespawn, or otherwise) when requested, and full discretion and secrecy as to the scope and nature of the work defined in article 38 mentioned above; full and due effort and companionship in accordance to the scope of the work aforementioned shall hence be provided.
“Wait...companionship?”
He handed the paper back to her. “Just sign and acknowledge.” he said, putting the cap back on the pen.
“Like...a mistress?” she gulped.
The man’s face turned beet red, “No. No…” he stammered. “In accordance to the scope of the work. Companion during the adventure.” he chuckled nervously. “I’m sorry.” He nervously tugged at his spotless white gloves.
Then the gravity of it settled on her, then so did the disbelief. “Why me?” she finally said. “And why would you give everything away? Is this some kind of con?”
“What I seek I cannot take and no amount of jade can buy or sell.” He enigmatically explained. “I shan’t be needing it. And your family does, as I understand it.”
Tirlag’s shaking hand splattered coffee as she struggled to bring it to her lips. She set down the cup soberly. She remembered she didn’t like coffee.
* * * * *
Tirlag once again dug her heels into the pavement to try and gain some traction. Her legs still felt like jelly, and being exhausted didn’t help. She had forgotten about the ballast. Her worst fears were realized as she approached the dock where the Cormorant made berth, and saw the lonely figure resting beside the plank.
“Knackered, are we?” spake her father, leaning on the bulwark enjoying a pipe as he watched her drag herself up. She said nothing. She saw the handle of the mop leaning against the banister and the bucket between the slats.
The evening sun threw deep shadows in the creases of his face. If anyone was tired it was he. He wasn’t as old as his face shown, but he was haggard, his wrinkles not from age, but from a lifetime of sun upon it, evinced by folds around his eyes as if he were permanently squinting at it. It made her wonder if one day she might look that way as well.
His shining eyes fell upon her from beneath the shade of his tricorne hat. “Must be all those late nights you’ve been up studying.” Suddenly she went stiff as a board. “You could’ve simply asked me you know.” he finally added, after being sure to watch her squirm a bit.
“They’re looking for Gae Bolg.” She said, it came out like they were white knights and she was some starry eyed maiden in distress.
“You know, maybe you shouldn’t marry him after all.”
“Oh, but father, he’s ever so dashing.” she glibly retorted.
His face grew grim like an approaching storm in a clear blue sky, when her smile didn’t fade. “You’ll not be going with him.” He was the only one who always saw right through her.
“Are you going to have the same talk with Kirkwell when we get back home? He’s got a wild hare up his arse as well.” She misdirected, a cunning feint.
“I’ll deal with him when it’s time.” he dismissed it, his sun-bleached mustache bristling like some crawling caterpillar as he puffed on his nic, eyeing her with a stern seriousness. He kicked the bucket toward her. “We set sail tomorrow. Need to make good time before The Moon of Seasons heads above that horizon, else we’ll never make it through Rouge Reef. Remember last year, we don’t want a repeat.” he leaned against the banister again. He smiled. “I’d rather face a down a white squall in a paddleboat than deal with your mother this time.”
She hid her smile with a gaze upon the immense azure moon cresting in the distance. He was right, more than likely, but she’d die before letting on.
“We could’ve made it last year.” she said. “That’s the problem, you never take any risks, you always play it safe.” A feeling glissade to draw her opponent out.
“Aye, perhaps. If it were my hide alone, it may be a different story. But it’s not, is it?” He set his tricorne hat on her head with a warm smile. “Besides. Got you and the boys to worrying about. And my crew. Each of them have family as well. When you’re the captain, Tirlag, it’s not just about you.” he disengaged.
“Everything worth doing warrants risk. Why-we sail in the Named Treadless Sea for our meager take.” she left the ‘for Thrice’s sake’ part out, as Kirkwell always did when around him. ”You saw it fit to jump from fishing to smuggling right under the noses of the Emerald Contingent! Of what manner of safety do you speak, dear father, when your men now risk Cairnfang for want of extra coin?” Her lunge came a bit more feeble, as she knew she hadn’t the proper footing, she had after all just called it meager, and though it wasn’t honest work, everyone knew that but it beat eeking out a living as a fisherman, having to compete in the few calm coastal waters and crowded bays or tread already unsafe seas during storm season. But she pressed on “Walker’s idea I might add. But now that he wants to steal your boy away for an even bigger catch! He’s a man of ill advice and discretion.” she redoubled.
“You remember how hard it was before? You think I want to put them in danger any more than they already are?” he sidestepped. “Your dad’s not got many more good ship-standing years in him. I gave these men and your old man the opportunity to feed their families and retire early.” he countered.
“That’s exactly my point. An early retirement. You don’t think the reward of finding Kainspear is worth the risk of not having me aboard?” she said, dodging in quartata.
“They’re chasing a bedtime story!” he reposted.
“I beg to differ.” She crossed her arms. “I saw the letters. That Low-loyl…” She tripped.
“Lowyllyn of Dougall.” he mockingly disarmed her.
“-That general fellow had it.” She tried to get up.
“I’ve heard that before too, in all my years.” He said. “It was a rallying cry to bolster the people to fight! ‘Behold the one true king, Lord Saint Lowyllyn, come to lead you from tyranny, Bane of the Eye in his hand, Claimh Solias ‘cross his back, waters of Slaine in his belly, the white stag betwixt his legs and the Goddess’s Heart nestled in his arse cheeks!’ Stories say he slew a dragon before that! Oh, that and--oh yes, that he was immortal, so there’s that...Tirlag, I need you here. Playing it safe with me.” He’d run her through.
“...Dad.” She smiled.