The deck above the rowers is where most people on this cog to Cortigo are stuck. It makes sleep difficult, having the creaky oars rowing all day and night. The livestock brought back and forth never stop bleating, never stop smelling. Cyrus is stuck with this, lying on a hammock that failed to support his weight. He waits for his rescuers to come back and assist him. As physicians, they are some of the busiest people on the boat. Tiffany and Wade, as Cyrus recently learned they were called, left him with a cast crafted from wood and linen. Their child is dozing off and would be unable to help anyhow. Cyrus uses this time to familiarize himself with his quarters. A row of hammocks just like his line up the wall in front and behind him. Down a short ladder is a pile of straw for people to relieve themselves. It will be another week before someone comes to change that out. He swears there must be at least a score of insect species slipping in and out the floorboard, looking to take a bite out of any leftover food or. A few periodically fly by his face and require a solid swat.

Between the boredom and the frustration, an otherwise patient man decides he has had enough. He shrimps off of the collapsed hammock with help from one good leg. He approaches the sleeping child, hoping she would at least get her parents. Cyrus reconsiders that neither Wade nor Tiffany would want their daughter roaming around the ship for any reason. He changes course towards the door with the goal of finding them himself. The air quality gets much worse when the manure, having been piling up with nowhere to plan it gets closer. He is not aware of the mold that has been building up, but he can sure feel the effects on his sinuses. It is a great deal of torture, all for nothing. Tiffany approaches their room from the opposite direction. She is holding blankets, which she tosses aside to help Cyrus from the floor.

“You’re really not that smart, are you?” she jokes. Tiffany’s blue gown swivels with each step towards Cyrus. Her sandals, fashioned from a dried grass, make soft crunches. She stops and looks down at the prince. Tiffany tries not to show any frustration with him. Once she tries picking him up, though, her face wrinkles. She grits her teeth. Lifting people without help is just not within, nor does she have to, she feels. Cyrus gets the message and tries scooting himself back. “No no no no!” she shouts. Tiffany drags him by the foot. Cyrus holds his head to prevent hitting his head. Once they get back, Cyrus is laid down on another hammock.

“I wish we had more time for you,” laments Tiffany. “I heard your story. You’re very important.”

He is ready to smile. His job has been thankless for quite some time. Cyrus himself forgets to celebrate his own accomplishments, with the next job always coming right up and demanding attention. Then again, he makes a simple observation. “Not quite. That was why I could leave.”

“We had to leave home for a while too, Cyrus. That doesn’t mean we didn’t matter. My husband and I started as field surgeons. Most of our battles were outside of Cortigo. Ronald was obsessed with making an empire. Anyway, we met each other in fights with neighbours that went more or less nowhere. We married and went back home as soon as we could. People in our villages got very sick smelting iron. Then we eventually we started getting noticed by merchant and royal vessels, so we started practicing medicine all over the place. I forgot where exactly I was going with this. But just know we found our purpose no matter where we went, and we did come back to Cortigo. You can too.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

That meant a lot more to him than it should have. Cyrus is supposed to be the one who has a way with words. Something inside him is missing that prevented inspiration. Perhaps he was unable to think about his own life too much, since it was always other people he talked through trouble. He sits up and coughs a little bit from the mold but still gets out a “thank you.” Cyrus gets back in a resting position and throws a wet rag over his head. He holds out a hand before remembering that Tiffany is married and he is getting sick. She notices the gesture and hands him some quail eggs from a crate next to her hammock.

“Yes. I’m sure you need some food to get back into shape. These are pretty good.” She winks at him. Tiffany is accustomed to patients getting extra friendly. She knows to limit the reciprocation. Lucille peers in through the threshold of their quarters. She is no longer looking for trouble. After receiving a mild reprimand from one of Ronald’s viceroys, she is looking to make amends with the prince. Face paint forms small, rudimentary pictures of animals over bruises on her cheekbone and jaw from her recent bout. An orange silk scarf with black arrows pointing in fits around her like a bib. Lucille’s face lolls as she takes a nervous breath.

“I came here to apologize. Could I come in?”

Tiffany leaves Cyrus to answer that one. He is afraid he could make things worse no matter what he says. This could be the most irritable person he has ever talked to. He never did find out what she pushed him for. Cyrus realizes this could still be a matter of diplomacy. He assumes Lucille is important since the dockworker knew her by name, recognizing her by sight in the dimly lit night. He groans as the pressure to make a choice builds up and beckons the fighter inside. She staggers her way inside and sits at their feet.

“What made you so angry?” asks Cyrus.

“I hate the cold. And I wasn’t expecting it.”

“That is bizarre. And you rampaged through the whole line over it?”

“They don’t care. Or the viceroy doesn’t.”

As Cyrus expected, Lucille is here for damage control. No one else is receiving an apology, he notes. Since he is going there to see Ronald and his wife off schedule and unannounced, anything to make them available is paramount. That includes guilt and the fear of retaliation. “Well, I am willing to overlook this blunder in exchange for one simple task. Help me see the King and Queen.”

The request does not register with Lucille at first. “That’s easy. I get to meet important people all around the world.” She grabs some quail eggs for herself. It is pretty normal for people to help themselves to their hosts’ food in Cortigo. “If you want to see them,” she begins while chowing down on eggs, “uh…” Lucille struggles to find the right time and place for that. She did not hear the story Cyrus told the dockworker, which could expedite the process. She chews on an egg. A plume of yolk and saliva gathers at the corner of her mouth. “You could stay with me while I figure it out,” she offers.

Cyrus feels slighted by her apparent lack of manners. His nose twitches. Tiffany is not so perturbed. He turns his head to keep the results of Lucille’s messy eating out of his line of sight. The prince’s appetite endures the gross feelings. He wants some of the eggs too once he gets this conversation over with. Cyrus gestures in approval to Tiffany and with her help gets seated to Lucille’s level. Water under the bridge, it is time to prepare the rest of his accommodations.