The captain has Bink lead me to the galley. A few of the crew members watch me with interest as we pass, and one Vardran, who has a lopsided face and eyes that roll in different directions, laughs excitedly upon spotting me. I grimace as his tongue flops from his mouth and saliva streams down his uniform.
"You'll want to avoid Krub," Bink says, "he's the reason we don't usually employ female crew anymore."
I shudder at the meaning behind his words. I had forgotten that not all warships had standards like the Zarla. The commander must have either forgotten to warn me about the treatment that the Vardrans will subject me to, or he simply just doesn't care.
The layout of this ship turns outs to be different than what I'm used to back on the Zarla; the doors under the forecastle deck lead straight to the mess hall and the galley. Bink tells me that the crew's quarters are below, accessed by a rope ladder under a hatch. When he pushes open the doors to the galley, the smell that hits me is so foul that I reach my hand up to cover my nose and mouth, struggling hard to suppress my gag reflex.
Dusty would be heartbroken at the sight of this kitchen. A thick layer of grease and mould coats the floorboards and part of the walls, and the mound of precariously stacked dishes in the corner look as though they have never been washed. The large square table in the center of the room has a chunk missing out one of the corners as though someone had taken an axe to it, and … are those bloodstains on the floor?
Some kind of spindly creature is hunched over on his knees. He has an unnaturally long, crooked nose and leathery skin that stretches tight over his bones. A mop of unkempt blonde hair falls over his eyes, and his body appears to be covered in sparse, curly wisps of hair, or perhaps fur.
"Felis, this is our new skivvy; she'll be assisting you," Bink says.
Felis hurries to stand and turns to address us. His eyes are wide and alert.
My eyes drop to the large bucket next to his feet. It is filled with various kinds of meat that are covered with a thick slime. Some of them have started to turn green, and I spot at least two maggots crawling around.
"You can help me prepare this meat for dinner," Felis says.
My nose curls in disgust as I look at him in shock. "You can't surely be eating this?" I say outraged. "It's rotten!"
Felis glances down at the bucket. "It's still good to eat. The crew never complains," he grumbles.
"It's no wonder your village is starving if your people are this fussy with food," Bink sneers.
My jaw tightens. I hope I haven't given anything away. Would a Vardran be complaining about rotten food?
The captain shouts Bink's name and the small goblin jolts before scurrying back through the doors.
I look to Felis for direction on what to do.
He appraises me doubtfully with his hands on his hips. "Perhaps you would be better preparing the dishes," he says finally.
I follow his gaze to the stack in the corner. "Can I clean them first?" I ask, trying to keep my expression neutral and free from judgement.
"If you must," Felis tuts as he busies himself with the revolting meat once more, picking some out and throwing it into a boiling pot on the stove.
The sight makes my stomach churn, so I distract myself by filling up a pail of water and getting to work on scrubbing the layers of grime caked onto the dishes. The exertion from the labour and the heat from the oven combined causes a sheen of sweat to coat my skin, and for once, I'm grateful for the Vardran woman's thin clothes.
As I pick up another bowl from the stack, a strange-looking beetle leaps out at me, sending me flailing backward with a yelp. It runs in circles on the floor, and I hurry to my feet, instinctively lifting a leg to stomp on the offensive creature.
"No! Don't kill it!" Felis yells.
I wobble, averting my foot just in time before it strikes the beetle with a fatal blow.
Felis launches himself at it, scoops it gently in his hands, and carries it over to a large glass jar on a shelf, dropping it inside and placing the cloth cover back on.
I edge closer to get a better look. The jar is nearly filled to the brim with the insects. Their squirming makes me shudder. "What are they?" I ask him curiously.
"Weevils," he grunts.
"Oh, so that's what they look like," I mutter. "Why are you keeping them?" Cail had made them sound like revolting vermin, and I can't comprehend why the crew wouldn't want them exterminated.
"I use them in a dish for Ekon. It's his favourite," Felis says.
"He eats these things?" I try to hide my disgust by disguising my question as mild interest.
"He likes many insects; they are a big part of gnorn troll delicacies," he replies.
So Ekon is a gnorn troll, I ponder to myself. I have never heard of them before, but then I haven't heard of most races that I've come across so far. I realise that this creature must have a vast knowledge of all the goings-on of the ship, if I'm going to be stuck in the kitchen for a while, I should be trying to gain his trust enough to get information out of him.
"It seems like you have a full jar there. Would you like me to help you prepare the dish while they're still alive and fresh?" I ask as kindly as possible.
Felis narrows his eyes suspiciously at my suggestion.
"I noticed that Ekon looked rather stressed before. I figured that if we sweetened him up a bit, he's less likely to take it out on us." I try to plaster a fearful look on my face. It must work because Felis's expression mirrors my own.
"You are wise not to provoke him," he mumbles.
I frown. Clearly, abuse is normal on this ship.
"Here, you can crush these up in that large mortar over there. I will prepare the rest while this meat boils," Felis resigns as he hands me the jar of squirming weevils.
I feel smug as I carry the jar over to the table, but my spirits drop when I remember that I have to touch these vile things. Wincing, I reach in and grab one between my fingertips, fighting the urge to drop it as its legs flail around. I drop the weevil into the mortar and bring the pestle down swiftly before it can run out. Yellowish-green gunk explodes from its body, and an acrid smell drifts up to my nose.
Before I can overthink what I'm doing, I toss in another and repeat.
Felis cooks in silence beside me, and I remember that I'm supposed to be prying him for information. I decide to play it safe by striking up a conversation and asking him about where he's from.
He is reluctant to talk at first, but eventually, I learn that he is a brownie, and he tells me that he is from the immense grasslands of a continent called Acloria in the south. He explains that brownies originally made their homes near streams, lakes, and mountains, but in recent years, more and more are turning to civilised settlements and offering their domestic services in exchange for modern living.
Felis explains how he once served the Nash family at their large manor until the eldest son, Dered Nash, became the captain of his own vessel and insisted on taking the brownie with him. The sadness and regret are evident in his voice as he reminisces how he was forced to leave behind his female companion, Merin.
Before I can ask more questions, Felis takes the mortar filled with the ground bugs and adds a handful of herbs and spices, pours in some water, and mixes it all together until it forms a brown, wet lump that resembles clay. Then, he takes a large, thick leaf and adds it to the boiling water for about thirty seconds before placing it on the plate. He tips the ball of weevil clay onto the centre of the leaf and adds a sprinkling of salt.
"It is done," he says.
As though he was lured by the delicacy, Ekon lumbers into the galley. His eyes glance over me suspiciously for a moment before he directs his attention to Felis. I take the opportunity to look over him, and I notice that a new bruise is forming on his cheek. Was it the captain again, or did he have an altercation with another member of the crew?
"When's dinner ready? The crew are getting rowdy." He demands.
"I-I'm just about to start serving it up." Felis stammers.
"So you shou—." Ekon falls silent as his eyes land on the prepared dish. "Is that my weevil pudding?" he asks, barely containing his excitement.
I hide my disgust as I wonder how that ball of yuck could be called pudding.
"Y-yes, w-w-we made it especially for you tonight …"
I doubt that Ekon is even listening to the brownie as he strides over to the dish and picks up the ball in a swift motion. My stomach churns as he takes a bite out of it, a satisfactory expression sweeping across his face. He is about to take a second bite when he suddenly freezes and turns to scowl at me.
"She made this?" he says accusingly.
I frown. So what if I did?
Felis blanches. "No, not at all. S-she merely caught the weevils. I prepared the dish."
Ekon doesn't look convinced. "It doesn't matter what the captain said, I don't trust her. She could poison the lot of us," he snarls.
Anxiety builds inside me. I'm supposed to be blending in with the crew. Having Ekon going around telling everyone that I'm untrustworthy won't do me any favours.
"We're all on the same side here. How would I benefit from poisoning you? I just want to fight in the war against Linaria like everyone else on the ship," I say as calmly as possible.
Feis places his weevil ball back on the leaf and strolls over to stand before me. His eyes search over my face, and his brow is taut as though he's trying to figure something out.
"No … I know that I know you from somewhere. I recognise your face. And once I figure it out and find out that you're not who you say you are, I'll gut you with this." He pulls out a jagged blade, which looks to be crafted from some kind of tough bone or tooth, and holds it up to my face.
My heart pounds. How could he possibly recognise me? The commander had assured me that the Vardrans I confronted in the aerial battle had already left for the border. Perhaps my face had been more exposed than I realised when Dusty and I had been chased through the city. Or maybe he had seen me before then, back when we were scouring the streets for information. Regardless, I need to act nonchalantly and dispute any of his claims.
"Perhaps we encountered each other in Rozogh Del, although I'm sure I would have remembered you," I offer.
"I haven't been to Rozogh Del in years. I know I've seen you more recently than that," he growls.
"I can't see how that is possible. I travelled directly here without delay. Our paths would not have had the opportunity to cross. Perhaps you're mistaking me for someone else," I say adamantly.
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The troll's eyes narrow. "Perhaps so, but I still don't trust you." He returns to pick up his weevil dish and exits the galley.
I sigh, relieved that I'm no longer in his presence, but anxiety still swirls in the pit of my stomach. Even though Ekon hasn't yet remembered how he recognises me, there's a chance that someone else on the crew saw me too, and they might have a keener memory than the troll.
"Would you please lay out the dishes so I can serve the food?" Felis says, startling me from my troubling thoughts. I had forgotten where I was and what I was doing.
"Of course," I reply with a beaming smile. I don't want him to see how shaken up I am after Ekon's interrogation. I want to question him about the troll's background and establish where he's been, but I fear that it would draw attention to me and make me look all the more suspicious, so instead, I just busy myself with the plates and try to push my doubts from my mind.
----------------------------------------
Once I finish serving up the food with Felis, I take a seat in the mess hall. Despite having no intention of eating the disgusting rotting meat, I hope to take the opportunity to mingle with the crew in the hope that I might gain the trust of at least one of them. At worst, I might be able to pick up some useful information from the dinner table conversation.
Unlike the crew on my first night on the Zarla, these are more than happy to acknowledge my presence—but not in the way I had hoped. Some ogle me impudently while others taunt me with sexist and vulgar remarks. Directly ahead of me, Krub stares at me with one eye while the other spins in its socket. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he flashes me a malicious grin.
I shudder, feeling more uncomfortable than I ever had before in my life. I have to fight the urge to draw my weapons and leap onto the table, sink my blades into each and every one of them. It's no more than the evil creatures deserve.
Any attempt to communicate with these Vardrans would either result in being fruitless or end in a bloodbath, so without being dismissed, I rise from my seat and leave the hall. I hear the crew call and jaunt from behind me as my heart pounds and my stomach twists. I'm glad I didn't eat anything, or I might have vomited.
I grasp onto the railing of the ship and lean my body over. There's finally a break in the rain, but a damp, cold mist blankets the makeshift shipyard. I am grateful for the cool layer of droplets that form on my face. I am wondering, not for the first time today, whether I had made a mistake in taking up the commander's mission. I have to remind myself why I'm here—to protect the neighbouring country from the slaughter and destruction that I have witnessed firsthand.
"Get your ships ready and stock them up to the brim! We all set sail in three days!" the captain roars from the quarterdeck down to other crews in the yard.
My ears prick up, and my anxiety rises again. Three days? That doesn't give me nearly enough time to gather any information from this uncooperative crew, and I still have no idea how I will be able to pass on messages back to the commander and his team. The captain said the ships need to be stocked to the brim; perhaps I can convince Felis to allow me to accompany him to the market one day.
As my mind is whirling, trying to figure out the obstacles of my mission, I don't notice that Captain Nash has approached me.
"What are you doing loitering around, skivvy?" He bellows.
I jump back away from the railing, feeling as though I have been exposed without committing any wrongdoing.
"Sorry, Captain," I blurt, 'I had finished in the mess hall and was returning to the crew's quarters."
His brows pull together, forming a large crevice between his eyes. "What makes you think that you can resign to your quarters already?" he demands.
I stutter for a moment. "I don't think Felis needs help in the galley anymore," I manage to say.
The captain bends so that his face is almost touching mine, and his foul, warm breath clings to my skin. "You can go clean the slurry room," he growls.
"Yes, Captain," I accept without complaining, although, on the inside, I am filled with dismay. These duties weren't what I had in mind.
No one had told me where the slurry room was located on this ship, but I assume that it is deep in the hold, as it is on the Zarla. Fortunately—or perhaps, unfortunately—all I have to do is follow the stench. While it's bad enough in the cargo hold, the odour that hits me when I open the door has me doubled over and heaving.
Due to not having eaten or drank anything yet, I haven't needed to use the slurry room since joining the crew. Now, as I look around, I am perturbed at the thought of having to do my business in here. Whereas the slurry room in the Zarla contained many cubicles for privacy and was cleaned daily for hygiene purposes, this room is just an open space. The floor is coated in urine-soaked straw, and piles of faeces are scattered around. Some are smeared on one of the walls in rough lettering that reads "Krub."
Surely they must have had another crew member clean this room before I arrived, right? I doubt they hired mercenaries just to carry out the dirty tasks. Frowning and annoyed, I pick up the cleaning bucket and trudge back out to find a water source. Just like everything else on the ship, the cargo hold is neglected, and everything has just been dumped haphazardly. Eventually, I find a water barrel and some dusty cleaning supplies that I can use. I also come across an old sheet that I use as a makeshift apron that also serves as a face covering to muffle the smell. Without much thought or hesitation, I get to work cleaning the filthy room.
The task is grueling, and occasionally the crew members come in to use the slurry room. They show no embarrassment in defecating and urinating in front of me—some even seem to find enjoyment in it—leaving me with even more cleaning. I remove all the soiled straw and place it in the waste barrels before scattering fresh straw that I found stored in the hold. Eventually, Bink enters to inspect my work, evidently ordered by the captain. He scours the slurry room before giving me a nod of approval.
"You can go and empty those down the sewer drain in the yard." He gestures to the multiple buckets near the door that I filled with slurry.
"Okay," I say with an exhausted sigh.
I carry two buckets at a time and haul them all the way back up the deck, careful not to spill any of the contents. Outside is pitch black and there are no crew members in sight; I suppose they're all back in their cabins sleeping while I'm out here slaving away. The lack of a torch makes it difficult for me to navigate my way down the gangplank, and I nearly lose my footing a few times. Then, once in the yard, I spend another ten minutes or so trying to find the sewer. I let out a breath of relief as soon as the buckets are empty once more and the weight is reduced—until I remember that I still have to do the trip a couple more times.
Once my task is done, I trudge my weary, aching body over to the crew's cabins. I enter the corridor and halt. No one had told me which room I would be sleeping in. I hear snoring sounds coming from a few of them, so I assume they're occupied. At a loss, I turn to leave when one of the doors opens a crack. In the dim candlelight, I make out Bink's small face.
"What are you doing?" he whispers.
"I'm not sure where I'm supposed to be sleeping," I whisper back.
"In there." He points to the door behind me.
I glance around at it and frown. The snores in there are particularly prominent. Surely there must be some mistake. I turn back to say as much, but Bink has already gone. With nothing left to do, I open to door to the cabin as quietly as possible.
The only source of light is a small candle in the corner of the room, but it's enough to make out a number of hammocks attached to beams that reach from floor to ceiling. They are all filled with some of the Vardrans that I recognise from dinner and the rest of them are curled up on sparse beds of straw on the floor beneath the hammocks.
My stomach sinks in dismay. I should have seen this coming. Trevor did warn me on my first day on the Zarla that it was uncommon for the crew members of warships to each have their own cabin.
Carefully closing the door behind me, I sneak down the centre of the room, squinting through the darkness on each side to try and find an empty spot on the floor. My strained eyes land on an empty space underneath a goblin who appears to be in a deep slumber. As I crawl under and tuck my legs up in a foetal position, I can see why the others avoided sleeping here. The thin layer of straw barely offers any protection from the rough, hard floorboards, and what few stalks are there press into my skin, making it itch uncontrollably.
Frustrated, I try to shuffle around to find a comfortable position without waking any of my sleeping companions. Exhaustion takes over my discomfort, and I begin to be pulled into the blissful retreat of sleep—until a scratching sound makes me jerk awake. My eyes shoot open, and without moving my head, I glance around the room. I can't see any moving shadows or hear any footsteps. All I hear is the thumping sound of my heartbeat in my ears.
I start to relax when the scratching sounds again, from behind me this time. I flinch back, expecting to find a weevil or something equally vile, but all I find is straw. The scratching becomes more urgent, and it appears to be further up the wall. My eyes lock onto the latched shutters of a window.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and after glancing around to make sure that everyone is still asleep, I slowly reach up and lift the latch. One of the shutters swings inward and I leap back as something soft- and heavy-sounding drops to the floor. I scramble back, suppressing a scream when a familiar whining noise reaches my ears. Bay.
I pick up the otter quickly, holding him close against my body and shushing his happy chirping noises. How in the world did he manage to find me? And how am I going to get him back to the Zarla? More worrying, what will happen if the crew here sees him?
I sit with my back against the wall as I run my hand down the otter's spine. As much as his presence gives me anxiety, I'm happy to see him. I've missed his company.
My fingertips catch on something rough under the fur of Bay's neck. Irked by the lack of light, I tilt my head closer and pinch at it. It's a thin piece of twine, the same type that Dusty uses to bind up the herbs for drying. It has been tied around his neck like a collar, and something small and cylindrical is attached to it under his neck.
The knot is easy to undo and, once free, Bay curls up snugly in my lap while I inspect the object. The outer edges are metal, but the main body is a thick parchment. My nails find a clasp and flick it open; a small scroll unrolls itself, and a minuscule pencil falls out. Tucking the pencil into my pocket before it can get lost in the darkness, I squint at the paper. I can't make out a blasted thing in this lighting.
Bay slightly protests as I pluck him from my lap and rest him on the straw but, fortunately, he doesn't cause a scene. I carefully lower myself onto my stomach and use my elbows and knees to crawl along the floor. As I get closer to the candle in the corner, my eyes start to adjust enough to see the dark letters on the parchment.
I took a great risk in choosing to send a message to you this way, but the faun was adamant that your otter is smart enough to get it to you safely and that you will be able to encourage him to send a message back.
Have you discovered anything of interest yet?
Stay safe,
—C
The C could have easily stood for Captain or Commander, but from my time spent in the navigation room, I can easily tell that this is Cail's handwriting.
Without dwelling over the message for long, I retrieve the pencil from my pocket and scrawl a reply on the other side of the parchment.
Your faith in my ability to control the otter is better than mine, so I don't know if this message will find you.
The conversation here is dull, and we leave after two more nights. I will try to do better.
S
I worry that my message will be too obvious if it falls into the wrong hands, but my mind is far too tired and pressed for time to think up better words. It's also not my biggest worry. What I told Cail was true; it's easy to get Bay to find and follow me, but getting him to go somewhere is a completely different matter. Couldn't they have found a messenger bird to send?
I shuffle back to where Bay is lying, attach the small scroll back onto the twine, and tie it around his neck. He whines contentedly as I pull him into my lap, and I quietly shush him. Here goes nothing, I guess.
"Bay, listen to me," I tell him under my breath. "You have to go back to Cail now. Please, just go back to the Zarla, and I'll see you soon."
To my surprise, as I lift him back up to the open window, he scrambles straight through it and disappears into the night. I struggle to fight back the tears. After the horrible day, seeing Bay was exactly what I needed, but now I'm sad to be without him once more.
As I close the shutters, they snap together loudly, and I freeze. Did anyone hear that? The sound of shuffling comes from the far end of the room, and I swiftly lay down, curling my legs tightly to my chest in an attempt to look as small as possible.
I hear the sound of footsteps approaching and snap my eyes shut, keeping my breathing slow and even. Suddenly, when it feels like they're only a mere foot away, they stop. My heart rate quickens, and I worry that they can hear it pound in my chest. What are they doing? Sleepwalking, perhaps?
Impatience gets the better of me; I crack open one eye slightly and let out a scream. Krub's face is so close to mine that I wonder how I had never felt his breath or heard the flopping of his tongue.
He laughs excitedly at my fear and throws his body on top of mine, pinning down my arms with one hand while he tries to tear off my clothes with the other. I struggle to fight him off, but his gaunt body is far stronger and heavy than I would have imagined. The confined space doesn't help, as my movements are already restricted.
Squirming as his clammy hand travels under the fabric of my shirt and paws at my chest, I manage to swing my foot up in an attempt to make contact with his abdomen, but he dodges his body out of the way with ease and pins my leg down with his. Fortunately, the maneuver causes him to lose grip of my left wrist, and my hand darts to the blade sheathed at my waist. I am about to sink it into his side when he is abruptly torn from me.
Some crew members, awoken by the commotion, begin to light up lanterns, casting the room in a comforting glow. A large Vardran with a bald, tattooed scalp and teeth that curl over his lip holds Krub by the neck. Another Vardran fetches a rope, and they both tie him up to the nearest beam. He lets out a high-pitched wail and thrashes his arms, all the time staring at me with his one stationary eye while the other spins.
"Snuff out the lanterns and get back to sleep," the large Vardran orders, returning to his hammock. The crew hastily obey, but none of them address me or ask whether I'm okay.
Tucking myself even closer to the wall, I try to hold my tattered clothes together. The buttons at the top of my shirt have been torn off, exposing my chest. I wish I had my cloak, but I had removed it earlier when I was cleaning the slurry room and left it in the hold.
Shaking uncontrollably, and not just from the cold, I wish for sleep to take me, but Krub continues to wail long through the night, piercing my mind and soul.