Current Quests
Justice For Courbefy: Find justice for the victims of the corrupt mayor of Courbefy. Use…
Chosen Of Knowledge: Escort Hugh on his journey to becoming a fully awakened iron…
Chosen Of Hero: In lieu of divine will, Johan can be entered in the Avril Reyer Birthday…
Still Don’t Kill Anybody: Death doesn’t want you to kill anybody today or tomorrow…
Making A Magnate: Dominion wants you to hire at least two employees to expand your…
Lucky Date: Spend a night with a member of Fertility’s clergy.
Healer’s Materials: Gain Healer’s favour by donating alchemy ingredients to the church…
Liberate Captive Beast: Free an oppressed animal in the name of Liberty.
Abel’s Mace: Return Brother Abel’s missing mace to the church of Soldier. He was last…
New In Town, Oullins: Journey wants you to see three notable locations in Oullins.
Bargain Hunter: Merchant wants you to shop and purchase something in three Oullins…
Rescue Lucas’s Daughter: Retrieve Charlotte Lucas, the warehouse owner’s kidnapped…
Lost Treasure Map: Find and return an old treasure map stolen from, Marielle Lecuyer…
Wolf Menace: Hunt down a pack of mischievous foxes terrorising the livestock of Villars.
Haunted Mill: Investigate the abandoned mill outside Limony that's said to be haunted…
Embarrassing Request: Gather rare herbs from the dangerous swamp for Duerne's…
Merchant Escort: Safely escort a merchant caravan through bard-infested woods to…
Mine Monsters: Clear out the rat monsters that have infested The Old Mine, a popular…
Ancient Ruins Exploration: Explore and map out the ancient ruins that have recently…
Missing Scout: Locate and rescue a missing scout who was last seen investigating…
Bridge Repair: Collect and deliver materials needed to repair a bridge that connects two…
Johan was as close to angry as Dave had ever seen him, still sputtering with outrage over the prices of food. Dave had distracted him somewhat on the way back to Healer’s cathedral by stopping to pick up quests along the way. He’d picked up quite a few as well as some extra that he’d been certain hadn’t been there yesterday. Dave was pretty sure that it was Johan that’d opened access to these quests which meant that his access to quests was charisma based. He internally rolled his eyes at himself for being a person who maxed out intelligence. Good for books, not good for quests.
“Have you ever numbered the people between your parent’s farm and the fields that the hay you farm ends up in?” said Dave in a lull of Johan’s pronouncements upon food economics.
“No,” said Johan falteringly. He was beginning to learn that Dave would say things like this that seemed strange but were actually important or interesting. “But I know your habits. What have I overlooked in the wider world, my good scholar?”
“Impressive,” murmured Dave. “Rural folk are usually boneheaded and stubborn about changing their minds. Well, changing anything really.”
“Cor, it’s like my dad says, different seeds for different fields.” Johan lifted his chin defiantly. “And, I can’t say that Miss Greenwood didn’t warn me that the world was bigger than I imagined! Tell on, Dave.”
“Okay, I don’t know the number. I haven’t looked it up but let us speculate together. How about you think of a single coin’s worth of hay? Think of that much.”
“I say, that would be a wagon-and-a-bit’s worth,” said Johan.
It was a dull winter’s day but Dave could have sworn Johan’s perfect hair sparkled as they walked down the cobbled street, Johan smiling and nodding at everyone who looked at him.
“A wagon-and-a-bit, sure. Now, your dad would sell to some buyer who comes through town regularly, yeah?”
“Yes, he does. Mister Winters comes every spring with a caravan. Dad always makes the same joke. ‘You’re late Winters!’” Johan chuckled at the thought of his dad’s joke.
“Right, well,” said Dave. “Winters transports it to a warehouse where he sells it. Probably in Auvernier or Sauvabelin?”
Johans open look on his face said he’d never thought about it.
“Then the warehouse owners,” continued Dave, “will sell it on to local distributors who might then sell it to a farmer in one of those cities. Probably not though because there’s plenty of land around there for their own unranked hay, the same way your dad sells to shepherds in Forel. So, the warehouse distributor will sell most of it to a merchant who’s taking it closer to a higher ranked zone. The first step is a transport hub. For Forel, that’s Oullins, right?”
“Right,” said Johan, his eyes crossed.
“So, that coin’s worth of hay crosses the distance to arrive here in Oullins. Where it’s sold to another wholesaler, who will then sell it on to other distributors who will sell it on to the farmers. If you’re lucky. There might be an extra layer of distributors as the hay gets further and further away from the big city where it was all collected.”
Dave was holding up a finger for each person mentioned from Noah Schmidt to the last farmer who finally bought the hay.
“Your one wagon-and-a-bit worth of hay goes through at least eight people who need to sell it for enough profit to buy things to stay alive, maybe even enough profit to do well for themselves. How much should each of them sell it for?”
“I don’t know!” said Johan. He cast around for ideas. “It takes less time to sell a bushel than it does to grow it, so maybe only a little bit more? And they can buy from a lot of people!”
“The answer doesn’t matter,” said Dave. “The point is that it can be expensive to bring ordinary goods to a city.” Dave shrugged. “Although I’m sure some greedy bastard is jacking up the prices somewhere along the way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sorry, I mean, I’m sure that there’s an unpleasant greedy person raising the prices somewhere in that process.”
Johan nodded. They were soon navigating Healer’s cathedral and then a short way into the complex to a kitchen they knew they could use where Dave unloaded their shopping from his inventory. Johan volunteered to go and get Miss Lane.
Hugh practically bounded into the room, which Dave thought was odd but a nice change. It seemed that he’d started the spiritual healing he’d been needing from his time spent in Knowledge’s cathedral.
Lianne Lane entered from the direction of the garden area and looked around uncertainly.
“Miss Lane,” said Dave, walking up to her and extending his hand. “Dave Booker.”
Lane put her hand in his and curtseyed.
“Lianne Lane, but you already know that, don’t you?” Lane laughed nervously.
Dave smiled wryly.
“I apologise for the discomfort of being investigated,” said Dave, gesturing to Lane that she should come further into the room and take a seat at the table which Johan had pulled out of a dimensional bag. “I can only hope that by lunchtime I am forgiven.”
“We should say blessings,” said Johan.
Dave paused. He still wasn’t used to gods being real and often didn’t give them much thought. He noticed Sam pausing too and used his abilities to look up ‘blessings, meal’. There was precious little on it but he gathered it was similar to saying grace.
“I’m not familiar with the culture,” said Dave. “Who should lead?”
“Oh, Hugh should. Sorry, I forgot,” said Johan gesturing at Hugh.
“No, no,” said Hugh, waving his hands bashfully. “Please, we have a guest amongst us. Would you please do the honours, Miss Lane?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Lane in the manner of someone turning down a task they were well prepared to do.
“Miss Lane,” said Dave, manifesting Tome. “In the name of getting to eat a good breakfast, perhaps you could make an exception for us, just this once? Tome, display the prayer of the blessing of meals.”
“Oh, well,” flustered Lane before standing straighter and beginning the prayer. “Bless us, our gods and these gifts from your bounty which we are about to receive into our bodies. Your blessings, our thanks.”
During the prayer, Sam stood with her eyes closed, hands pressed together in front of her head, Johan with hands together under his chin and eyes upwards and Hugh with his hands clasped hanging in front of himself and his head bowed. Dave opted to echo Hugh’s mannerism.
“So,” said Dave as everyone sat down and reached for serving spoons. “Miss Lane, perhaps you could tell me what you understand of the job I am offering and I can fill in the missing details?”
“Uhh, you want me to be your secretary?” said Lane with a little hesitation as she gestured to Sam that she had enough scrambled eggs on her plate now. “Except you won’t be here for me to… be your secretary?”
Lane looked in confusion at Johan who was beginning to understand who to pass these kinds of confusing problems onto and looked at Dave.
“Kind of, yes,” said Dave. “I’m about to come into quite a bit of leftover money and I don’t want it sitting around. I want it invested in making more money. Unfortunately, I can’t do that remotely. That’s where you come in. You will effectively be acting on my behalf with regards to my money. A secretary, yes but also very much a manager, or financial representative. I’ll allow you to choose the title.”
“Financial representative?” said Lane, fork hovering over her plate.
“Cor, but I like the sound of that, Miss Lane!” said Johan and washed a mouthful of eggs and toast down with a quaff of warm milk. “Better start eating though or Sam will get cross with you.”
Sam curled up on herself a bit in guilt while her smile split her face. Lane smiled nervously and picked at her eggs until Johan’s aura washed over her and washed away her nerves, replacing them with confidence. Seeing this, Dave decided it was a good moment to build her up a bit.
“I’m not hiring you out of guilt, Miss Lane,” said Dave, carefully carving his way through an omelette. “You are a professional administrator with almost ten years of experience working at the Adventure Society. I need someone like you to run my financial ventures. That someone must also know to avoid all overtures from the Gellers and, it is because of the Gellers that you need a job befitting your abilities. Fate was cruel in how you and I came to know each other but I believe we can make it work to our benefit.”
“Actually, I have a question,” piped Sam’s little voice from the side. She smiled radiantly at Lane and then seriously at Dave. “How can she know you will treat her good? She has lost her job and she is feeling vulnerable. How can she know this is a good job when she has not much choice?”
Lane visibly slumped with thanks in Sam’s direction and Dave marvelled at Sam’s ability to recognise the problem. He thanked Knowledge for putting her in his life.
“Of course!” said Dave, as serious as he’d ever been. “Miss Lane and I will both sign a contract of employment that will lay out each of our responsibilities as employer and employee. We’ll have to discuss things like whether you’re on a strict schedule or working flexible hours. If so, what rates would be fair, what overtime will be paid? Whether you want me to rent an office or if you’re happy working from home? Any thoughts, Miss Lane?”
“What’s… overtime?” asked Lane.
“It’s when an employee is paid extra for staying more than their scheduled hours,” said Hugh. “From what I’ve read it’s practised in places with higher ranked craftsmen who have the power to demand such high fees for their inconvenience. It’s not practised so much here, Dave.”
“Well, I’m not from here and Miss Lane is free to practice that if she wishes,” said Dave, finishing off his omelette.
At Sam’s silent urging Lane had piled up bacon on her fork and started eating. At the first taste, she realised how hungry she was, relaxed into Johan’s aura and started eating in earnest.
“I won’t need overtime,” said Lane around a mouthful of bacon and grilled tomato. “But I am going to need somewhere to stay. I’ve never been to Oullins, I don’t know anybody here!”
“Oh! She’s also going to need to be in the Merchant's Guild,” said Hugh. “Yes, my Lady says that’ll provide her some protection against rank bullying.”
“I’m used to it,” said Lane. “It happens all the time at the Adventure Society.”
“You don’t work at the Adventure Society anymore,” said Dave and clenched his jaw while looking at the ceiling.
“Well said, Dave!” said Johan. “Team Executive Services will tolerate no such foulness.”
“Dave,” smiled Sam. “Maybe you could write that into the contract? Miss Lane can leave if there is rank bullying?”
“Leave my employment or leave a client?” said Dave. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. Both have the same answer. Yes, what do you think, Miss Lane?”
Lane looked at Dave with wide eyes and a hovering fork holding an apple slice.
“You would do that?” said Lane.
“Obviously,” said Dave, nonplussed.
“Ah, Dave,” said Hugh. He was holding half of a savoury muffin. “Perhaps you should simply state all the things that you would expect to find in a normal contract of employment? To give Miss Lane here an idea of where she’s starting from?”
Dave blinked in surprise and then continued.
“Okay, sure,” said Dave. “Miss Lane I expect you will work a full time job for me, that’s 40 hours per week at work including break times. Your pay will be deposited into your account on a regular basis. As Johan initially offered, the pay will be far lesser than the Adventure Society’s rates but this job comes with housing and office expenses included so the company will be taking care of paying your rent and whatever you need for your office, just get a receipt and I’ll see you are reimbursed. We’ll have to discuss bonuses, that’s bonus pay for you if profits exceed certain amounts, and of course, your leave entitlements.”
“My… what? Entitlements?” asked Lane.
Everyone else was also looking at Dave, but less intensely than Lane, and waiting for the coming explanation.
“Leave? Oh, it means planned days away from work. You know?” said Dave without achieving the desired understanding. “Sick leave for when you need to take a day off because you need to recover? Annual leave for… whatever reason. Most use it for a holiday?”
“Dave’s people are very luxurious!” announced Sam to Dave with her customary smile. She was cutting a berry muffin in half and putting slices of banana in the middle. Her favourite.
“My… people believe that employees work harder if they’re happy,” said Dave, deflecting. “Bubble cities are a different place. Nevermind that, four weeks annual leave a year and two weeks sick leave per year. What do you say, Lane?”
In the end, Lianne Lane managed to argue Dave down to three weeks of annual leave and ten days of sick leave in exchange for proportional bonuses based on profits she could prove directly related to her decisions.
----------------------------------------
Dave had spent the rest of the day finding accommodation for Lane and getting her set up before following up on the best, and yet still the worst lead that he had for an airship crew. Serge Dimont, famous for being a wind racer when he was in his youth. He famously made it out of a nasty, wild magic storm by turning off all the magical items on his ship and riding it out using nothing but sails. Apparently he’d saved the son of someone important and symbolically been given a wind essence.
Unfortunately, Dimont wasn’t that man anymore. His fame had earned him rich patrons who showered him with money to have him wind-race for them which he did. A dangerous sport. Until the drunkenness caught up with him and he crashed a skimmer, losing his left leg below the knee in the process.
He’d fallen further into the drink after that. First his patrons left, meaning he couldn’t afford the silver rank healing to get his leg back. After that, his wife walked out, taking the kids with her. She remarried one of the rich patrons. Dimont crawled into a bottle and hadn’t left for the last two decades. He’d lived his life since by making budget cargo runs up and down rivers or across the Byzas Strait.
Team Executive Services searched for the man now, walking through the ill-kept streets close to the most seedy docks where rumour had it Dimont was staying. It was definitely cheap to stay here. To say it didn’t smell nice in this part of Oullins was an understatement.
“You’re standing out,” said Dave to Johan again, rolling his eyes at Johan reacting to everything around him.
“I cannot countenance this place,” said Johan, recoiling from the denizens around him. “How can anybody stand to live like this?”
Both Sam and Johan were being catcalled by drunks and streetwalkers. Well off young people in outrageous clothes, or lack thereof, staggered by, out of their minds on booze and other drugs. It reminded Dave of certain parts of Amsterdam. The trick to avoiding the attention of the seedier locals was to act like you lived there. Hugh managed it somewhat, looking like a pastor out to forgive everyone for their nightly sins. Dave just walked like he was bored. The country kids, Sam and Johan, just couldn’t. The sights, the sounds, the profanity and depravity not only on display but advertised, was too much. They gawked at everything.
“I’m just going to walk fast,” said Dave. “Sam try not to smile, Johan try to look like you’re late for a sword lesson.”
Sam smiled up at Dave and Johan set his jaw. They continued walking, Dave brushed past the boa of a buxom elf and doubled back for a second to disentangle Johan from the boa. They were walking towards The Filthy Angel which was a drinking house Dave and Hugh had on their maps. Dave was constantly using Grand Mage’s Gravitas to clean and dry off the team who were occasionally getting their trousers spattered with mud by passing carriages or splashed with drink from shitfaced, overly enthusiastic revellers.
“Tonight seems excessive,” muttered Dave. “Must be a bunch of ships arrived in town. Ah! Here we go!”
The team trudged into The Filthy Angel. It was the definition of a dive bar. A labyrinth of mismatched, heavily repaired tables before the bar itself which was a long slab wood, probably meant for other purposes before being relegated to this dump and being stained with decades of spilt drink. Behind the bar, dusty bottles lined the sagging shelves filled with questionable spirits. The clientele was a collection of townsfolk, sailors and business folk looking to get sloppy drunk.
“You lost?” quipped a burly runic with an unkept beard and bloodshot eyes. He made a kissing face at Sam who smiled ‘I will punch you’ right back at him.
“We are not lost, my good - my runic!” said Johan.
“Your runic?” said a muscle-elf. A draconic woman and a thick, rough-looking man raised off their seats to square up with Johan. Dave fruitlessly looked around for security and then remembered which reality he was in.
While he was distracted, the half-drunk toughs had exchanged some other words with Johan who, oblivious to Sam tugging on his arm, apparently hadn’t apologised or shown any kind of fear. The rought-looking man king-hit Johan in the face.
“Well!” said Johan, who hadn’t even flinched. “Well, I never! I can’t believe your rudeness!
The four toughs were taken aback at being abruptly told off by someone with the vocabulary of Johan and hesitated. The draconic shoved Johan hard but only succeeded in launching themselves to the floor. As though this was a trigger, the others attacked Johan. The whole bar watched the free entertainment and those who still had their wits were grinning. It was obvious to them that Johan had a strength ability and they felt they knew how this would end.
One of the drunks stumbled away from Johan, who was trying to sit them down on the floor as best he could like they were tantruming toddlers, but was stymied by the fact that his opponents were functional enough to stand back up. The muscle elf swung a drunken haymaker at Dave who dropped into a double leg takedown, slamming the elf on his back.
“Fight him, ya idiot!” said Dave, slapping the elf’s cheek and pointing at Johan. The drunk elf, amazingly, did as he was told.
“Stay back, my friends!” said Johan, lifting the runic off the ground with one arm as he raised his other hand in warning. “I will subdue them peacefully. No cause for alarm. No cause at all, my good barkeep.”
The barkeep, who hadn’t looked remotely alarmed, gestured to Johan that he was welcome to do as he wished and kept watching with folded arms along with the rest of the patrons. Executive Services hovered nearby in states of smiling anxiety, hearty chortle and mild bemusement. A few seconds later, Johan got the idea of actually throwing them outside and the scuffle was over as he rolled them out the door like bales of hay.
“Next time,” said Dave who’d already started Grand Mage’s Gravitas, “apologise for interrupting the evening, look at the ground and walk away
“It was a bloody good showing, though,” said Hugh conspiratorially as he channelled a Prayer of Healing into Johan to top his health off.
The room was returning to its pre-fight status with the entertainment clearly over and money was exchanging between a few hands. Apparently, there’d been some bets quickly called.
“I shan’t tolerate much much more of this kind of thing,” said Johan quietly, as the bard, if she could be called such a thing, began playing her flute again. “Let’s just get this man of yours, Dave, and return back to where good folk before the gods live.”
Dave smirked at Johan and approached the barkeeper who gave him a neutral glare and grunted.
“I’m looking for Serge Dimont,” said Dave, who was also tired of the dockside slums. He flashed some coins. “My friends and I might buy a lot of drinks if you can get us in front of him.”
“Don’t do it, Baxter,” said a nosey drunk at the bar. “Don’t sell out old Serge like that.”
“No, no, no,” said Hugh. “It’s not like that at all. We actually want to hire him for a job.”
The man at the bar started laughing.
“Well, now I know you’re lying,” said the barkeep with a missing-toothed grin.
“You dare question our honesty, sir?” shouted Johan.
The bar went quiet.
“I need someone to pilot a dangerous, experimental ship that doesn’t use magic,” hissed Dave to the barkeep. “Does that sound like something that should be offered to Dimont? Yes, it does. So, we’re here. Now, you can either help us out and take some coin while getting the old drunk some much needed work or I’m going to tell Johan here to take on all challengers and trash the place. Your call.”
The bartender Baxter glared, growled and jerked his head, indicating that Executive Services should follow. He led them to a lavatory room where a fat, bearded man with a peg leg lay propped up against the wall with his eyes closed, snoring. His dishevelled clothes and the scent of alcohol and urine clung to him.
“There he is,” said Baxter, hand out.
Dave handed over ten lesser spirit coins and simultaneously began Grand Mage’s Gravitas on the unconscious Dimont.
“Perhaps Slimy would be faster?” suggested Sam.
Dave couldn’t tell if she was joking, which said a lot about Dimont’s state. The all-eating slime would take the man’s skin off in about a minute which would, Dave had to admit, technically speaking, clean him.
“Let’s just,” said Hugh, gesturing with false cheer, “be grateful for Dave’s cleaning ability. See? There, he’s clean from head to chest now. Johan, why don’t you pick him up by the arms, there?”
Still looking upset, Johan took Dimont by the upper arm and lifted him. Hugh took to earth from and grasped the other arm. Dave led the way out of the bar. A couple of the patrons looked like they might want to stop them but the size of Johan, the earth form of Hugh and the lack of concern from the barkeeper put them back in their seats.
“Oy!” came a cry as Dave made it outside and the gruff runic, muscle elf, draconian and bearded man from earlier advanced, holding weapons.
“Give ‘em a dead leg,” said Dave to Johan, taking Dimont’s arm from Johan and tapping the side of his leg at Johan to demonstrate the point.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Johan nodded and advanced towards the thugs with a poise that comic book artists dream of drawing. He raised his arms, sword and shield flashing into his hands. The thugs, at this point, began to rethink their lives but Johan was already upon them. The first, the bearded man, got shield-slammed off his feet, the draconian got the flat of Johan’s sword to the thigh and crumpled to the ground. While Johan was slamming the flat of his sword into that bearded man’s thigh, the last two thugs ran.
“Wretches!” spat Johan after them. “Let’s get Dimont back to the cathedral.”
“No,” said Dave with a cunning look. “We’ll take him to the shipyard.”
Dimont woke up feeling surprisingly clean and comfortable which he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t even shivering. He luxuriated in the feeling until he realised he was sober. That needed to be fixed. He groaned and went to stand up out of the cot he’d found himself on and stopped. His foot was bound to the cot. Not uncomfortably but still bound. He tried to sit up and found his hands were tied together with something that went underneath the cot.
=Welcome back!= blared a voice that made him jump. It sounded like a tree saw had a baby with a haunted well. Dimont’s eyes flew around and rested on an astral lantern that was hovering in the room like the red eye of a demon. =We missed you while you were gone.=
Dimont stared at the lantern in utter shock and confusion and he just lay there, letting it happen as he heard feet approaching from above deck. It was about then that it filtered into his forebrain that he was on a ship. The gentle rocking, swaying motion was a dead give away that his body accepted as so normal he hadn’t noticed it until now.
The young man climbing down the companionway was unknown to Dimont. Well, unknown to him sober. Dimont knew everybody when he was drunk. That was part of what made drinking so good. The young man was slim, fit and athletic. Maybe an essence user. He was dressed strangely. Leggings, pantaloons, shirt and waistcoat like a noble but practically cut and worn in unassuming grey and blue. The man wore, not buckled shoes but boots that went above the ankles, adventurer style. Definitely an essence user. His face was lean, angular and his brown eyes were sharp. The man walked briskly to Dimont.
“Good morning, Dimont,” said the man with a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. “I trust you slept well?”
“Err…” said Dimont.
“Allow me to help you with your restraints,” said the man, stepping forward to undo the simple overhand knots that’d ever so gently restrained him. “Dave Booker,” said the man, offering his hand.
“Serge Dimont,” said Dimont, taking the hand. Booker’s handshake was a light squeeze that seemed to settle and pass like a bird on a windowsill.
“To forestall any of the obvious questions,” said Booker airily, “you were blackout drunk in The Filthy Angel, my team picked you up and brought you here to my ship where you slept the night and most of the morning away. I have a cleaning spell which I used on you and your clothes. Once you were asleep my friend Hugh, who has a cleansing spell, cured you of your alcohol-related effects. We decided to restrain you so that you wouldn’t wake up and accidentally fall overboard for any reason and then went to sleep ourselves. After waking up, I left my familiar, Tzu here, to watch over you and call when you woke. I’m sure you have questions but I want you to take your time, go over it in your head and get back to me. Here is a nice glass of water and a pastry for you to enjoy while you think about it.”
Booker handed over a raisin scroll and a cool glass of water out of a personal inventory which Dimont took silently, With glass in hand, he suddenly realised that he was thirsty and drained half the glass. Booker had turned away, taking a cup of tea out of his inventory and was reading from an enormous, leather-bound book that hadn’t been there a moment ago which was now bobbing up and down in front of Booker’s face, unsupported. Dimont took a bite out of the raisin scroll on pure muscle memory and suddenly realised he was hungry too. He finished off the pastry and the water barely thinking about what Booker had said and now, allowed it to roll over in his mind. He needed a drink. A real drink. To get him started.
“Do you have anything harder to drink for a real man’s thirst?” said Dimont.
“That is a question best answered later,” said Booker. “I need you sober for now because I need you to sail the ship we’re on.”
“Agh,” said Dimont, souring. “I don’t need to be sober for that, you land-rat.”
Booker smirked at him in an unsettling way.
“Feeling oriented enough for casual insults? Good, good,” said Booker with the air of someone leading Dimont on. “Are you one of those sailors who can feel the temper of the ocean through his feet?”
Dimont opened his mouth to tell the cocky, little bilge sucker to jump overboard when he realised that yes, he could do that and actually, the ocean did feel wrong. It was more like a river? Or a fast tide? It sure was windy.
“I think that perhaps you’re supposed to be one of those sailors but you’ve lost touch over the years,” said Booker with a sigh.
“Get sunk, you blaggard,” said Dimont, feeling his pride rise.
“Yes,” said Booker, ignoring him. “You’re not up to sailing this ship, are you?”
“Bah!” spat Dimont. “I can make anything that floats sail, no matter how old or drunk I am.”
“You promise?” said Booker, with an impertinent eyebrow. “Bet with me that you can sail this ship. If you can, sail this ship to the closest place to dock and I’ll buy you drinks all evening but if you can’t, you have to get a tattoo of my choice.”
“Ha!” crowed Dimont. “Done! I swear to you, lad, that I’ll sail this ship to the booze.”
Booker extended his hand and Dimont shook it roughly.
“Best you look outside the porthole now,” said Booker. “Before you go above.”
Dimont humoured the boy and looked out the porthole.
“What the…?”
He spun back and looked into the ship. He did a double take and looked out the porthole again. There was no ocean. He smooshed his face up against the porthole to check he wasn’t just in a tall boat. He wasn’t. He was in a very high boat, though.
“Blistering barnacles!” shouted Dimont, turning on Booker. “We’re in the sky!”
“Yes, I know that,” said Booker with that annoying smile. “It’s my ship. I had it put here.”
“But it’s -” Dimont cast around wildly. “It’s made of wood!” he said stupidly.
“Nothing wrong with wood,” said Booker defensively. “Most ships are made of wood.”
“This is an airship, you great landlubber!” roared Dimont. “They don’t sail!”
“This one does,” replied Booker with perfect smugness.
Dimont growled and looked back out the porthole. The feeling of the deck beneath his feet made sense now. Booker was giving him a grin that he wanted to punch.
“Show me the helm, you worthless street-merchant,” growled Dimont, not waiting for permission and shouldering past Booker to haul himself up the companionway one stair at a time.
He made it up the last stair with more effort than he’d used in years and leaned against the railings. Dimont closed his eyes as he felt his unkempt hair and beard blowing in the wind. It was refreshing. It did remind him of the old days when he - he needed a drink. He desperately looked around as though he might find one. The first thing he noticed was the enormous bladder the ship was tied to. Good Gods, he thought, half the cursed rigging is tied to it. He twisted, trying to get a good look at what was going on and slipped.
“Woah!” said Booker, catching his arm. “Put your leg on, mate.” Booker was profering Dimont his peg leg. “It was at the foot of your bed. I guess you didn’t see it.”
Dimont glared at Booker, took the leg and strapped it on. Then he glared at the airship for good measure.
“Why are we tied to that ugly thing?” asked Dimont, gesturing upwards.
“It’s keeping us in the air,” said Booker over the wind, leaning casually against the rails.
Dimont’s eyes went wide and he grasped some rigging.
“What?”
“Yes, it’s new,” said Booker with far more calm than the situation warranted. “A flying machine with no magic. That envelope up there, that’s what it’s called, is filled with a gas that’s lighter than all of this other gas around us. It’s holding us up just fine, but surely you can guess what my problem is?”
“Something in your brain, I’ll bet!”
“Captain, this ship has been aloft for fourteen hours and carried a lot more than the two of us on the maximum weight test ereyesterday so pull your head in and display some of the mettle of the man who sailed a storm.”
The implication stung and Dimont lashed out.
“Don’t you dare question me, you snivelling galley rat!” growled Dimont. “I’d sailed through a watery hell by the time I was your age and smiled while doing it! What’ve you done? Standing there all pompous and calm but when the winds start howling you’ll be huddled below, crying to the gods like the rest of ‘em! But there’ll only be me.”
“Yes, that’s the idea,” said Booker.
“Stop fuckin’ around, lad,” said Dimont dangerously.
“Or what? What’re you going to do?” said Booker, dismissively glancing at Dimont’s peg leg. “Outrun me?”
With a roar of anger, Dimont launched himself bodily at Booker, tackling him to the ground. To Dimont’s astonishment, the dandy reacted with a practised ease, capturing Dimont’s arms, and using his legs to tip Dimont sideways in a controlled manner despite Dimont’s attempt to thrash about. Booker now sat over Dimont’s chest with his crossed hands holding Dimont’s coat lapels. Booker pulled his arms sideways, cutting off Dimont’s air and silencing him.
“Apparently, you are going to catch me,” said Booker with an amused grin. “And, yes. As you suggested, when the winds start howling, I don’t want to be crying to the gods, I’d want you actually captaining the bloody thing, making sure we don’t crash.”
Booker released the lapels slightly allowing Dimont to breathe again, but kept enough pressure to let him know that taking his breath away again would be a simple act. Not a dandy, thought Dimont with grudging respect. The bastard could fight. Dimont listened as Booker continued.
“You are the only man people speak of when it comes to non-magical sailing and here, I have the world's first non-magical airship and you’re going to fly it.”
Booker was clearly crazy if he thought Dimont was going to fly this barge! Well, more of a large, two masted schooner, really, he caught himself thinking before he could stop himself. He quenched the thought. No. Not going to happen. The brainless adventurer smiled down at him in a way that made Dimont uneasy.
“Also, I have a recording crystal of you agreeing to sail the ship just now or you’ll be getting a tattoo of my choice,” said Booker, releasing Dimont and standing up. He pulled Dimont up too and pointed past the stern. “Over there is a landing pad. There isn’t a single drop of booze on this whole ship. In fact, there isn’t anything on here at all. Maybe some tools the workmen left behind? Anyway, you pilot the ship down there before the coming sunrise and you’ll find enough ale to make a heidel sick just waiting for you. If you don’t, I’m going to tattoo you. You got that?”
Dimont just stared at the impossible man in front of him but felt himself nodding along at the mention of ale. Yes, he could sail anything for a cool glass of good ale. Enough to get a heidel sick, eh? Alright. He nodded determinedly at Booker. Glaring the whole while.
“Good,” said Booker, slapping Dimont on the shoulder. “See you later.”
Booker vaulted over the railings. Dimont’s heart skipped a beat and he clutched at the railings himself, watching the descending figure in disbelief only to see him activate weight reduction magic. Dimont mentally shook himself. He didn’t see it often but it was a pretty common magic. As common as the floatation magic landlubbers equipped themselves with while on the great blue sea. He should have expected it, really.
He turned his back on the railings, cast a practised eye over the ship and nodded to himself. A lot of it was familiar. Some wasn’t. He’d figure it out. Now, about getting that ale.
Dave landed, switched off his belt and walked over to the landing pad. His objectives had been achieved; interest Dimont in the airship and give him sufficient motivation to try and use it.
“Ho, Dave!” cried Johan as Dave, waving back, closed in on the observation party that’d come out to watch. It was something of a celebration for the construction team. Tonight was the stress test. They’ve proven all day that the thing could fly under ideal conditions and now, at Dave’s urging, they were testing it under stressed conditions. With a raging alcoholic at the wheel who had more talent for sailing in his little finger than anybody else had in their entire life. A drunkard who had no instructions, no crew and the jitters of withdrawal setting in. It’d be a real test.
The observation party was a celebration for the airship construction team but also part of the testing. There was bread, booze and a pig on a spit. Everyone was having a good time by several fires of scrap wood in the winter’s day watching the airship rock ever so gently at the end of its ground anchor. It was safer than it looked from up above. Two magical tugboats that were normally used to position the larger, metal airships were on standby to activate their kinetic formations and save the experimental airship should it be necessary. They had smaller projections too that could slow a person if they fell. Which Dimont might.
The previous night, Hugh and Johan had gone out to ask around the docks for people who knew Sege Dimont from the old days and come up with a surprising number of the old boys club. Most of which had come in from Camargue, the city on the southern coast where Dimont had originally earned his fame. Apparently, they’d called in some favours and just invited themselves into the cargo space of a fast moving freight ship already heading towards Oullins. Apparently, people with about fifty years of favours in the shipping industry can get where they want to be pretty quickly.
Dave was more of a people watcher at parties and sat back with a beer in hand, tending to the fires while the party happened around him. He mostly sat with Sam and exchanged quiet humour with her at the goings on of the attendees. The old boys from Dimont’s youth were chatting it up with the airship construction crew and engineers. Hugh was constantly engaged in deep conversation with someone-or-other on the fine points of their craft and Johan was the perfect conversationalist in terms of personally engaging people in a way that made them feel seen. Dave never had the knack but Johan, as expected, just seemed to know what to say. The only person missing was Brisset who Dave had invited but she’d politely declined.
“You think he can do it?” asked Sam, pointing up.
The airship was tacking to port. It was only thirty minutes and Dimont had obviously figured out some of the rigging and how to make it take the ship in that direction without a crew.
“Nah,” said Dave. “None of the controls are labelled and I didn’t tell him how to go down.”
Sam covered her scandalised smile with her hand.
Serge raged against the world. His arms already burned from climbing the rigging but he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. That smarmy, little, smug-faced rat had left him up here with nothing. Nothing! Not a drop to drink. Not even a piss-weak galley ale.
“Come on. Come onnnnn, you great bitch!” he berated the sky. He was waiting for a sudden drop in wind speed that would bounce the ship which would allow him to momentarily tighten this rope and slightly change the angle of the foresail.
He’d figured out how the sails and the rigging came together pretty quickly. That damnable, floating balloon got in the way of a real mast so whoever built this suicide machine had attached the sails to horizontal, outrigger masts that projected out the side like wings, with the top of the sails attached to the balloon itself. It was a bit like sailing a double masted catamaran. The roll of the ship started from above, not below but he was getting used to it. Despite himself, Serge grinned wildly. He was sailing an airship that was being held up by a balloon. He was doing it.
The wind dropped and he quickly undid his rope, hauled on it as hard as he could and tied it up again before the wind fully caught the sail again. He was gaining control of the ship. He could feel it in his bones.
“I wonder how he did that?” remarked one of the old sailors.
It was nearing the fourth hour of Dimont’s ordeal and it looked like the ship was turning from where it’d been resting adrift at the end of its anchor rope.
“By Fortune’s tits, he’s doing it,” said another, getting a look of disapproval from Johan.
Nobody had a sight ability so Dave got Johan’s attention and gave him an up-nod. In reply, Johan used Adventurer’s Tools and pulled a massive mirror out of nothing. Dave cast The Stationary Scry Of Farseeing on the mirror which lit up with a view from off the bow of the ship that showed the whole deck.
There was an appreciative chatter from the party crowd and everyone crowded the mirror.
“Down in front, down in front,” said Hugh.
“Hey, turn it this way,” called a voice.
“He can’t, you’ll see nothing but the ground.”
“The mirror’s like a portal, Camille. You move it, you move what we see.”
Johan wiggled the portal as a demonstration to those following the conversation. There was some more gabbling negotiation and Johan was sent off to get some crates for people to sit on while two sailors held the big mirror. A couple of more experienced hands and engineers were at the front doing analysis.
“He’s furled all the sails,” one said. “Why’s he done that?”
“No, no, no,” said another. “He’s got those two jibs going.”
“Oh, I see,” said one of the engineers. “He’s using the pull of the jibs to drag the prow away from the anchor, see?”
“Yes, and he’s done something at the stern.”
“He’s got the spanker boom loose! That’ll take someone’s head off!”
“Who? He’s the only one there.”
This speculation continued for a couple of minutes with the consensus becoming that Dimont had set up the prow to start the turn and the stern to complete it but nobody could figure out what for.
The party gained a new life as engineers and sailors alike speculated on his reasons for turning the ship. Speculations that continued as they saw him clomping about on deck, with a vigour that defied his age. He was clearly shouting and swearing the whole time which caused raucous laughter amongst those who’d known him well.
Sam and Dave watched from the comfort of their foldable chairs as the party continued around them into the mid afternoon when the winter light began to fade. The party watched as Dimont set up a couple of sails and there was a cheer as he started sailing one way at the end of the anchor rope. Another cheer erupted as he turned, using his jib-and-stern setup. The boom of the sails he was using for propulsion swung violently but the sails filled with wind and back he went the other way still at the end of the anchored rope.
This happened four more times. Dave had recast the scrying spell and explained that The Stationary Scry Of Farseeing meant ‘stationary relative to whatever you anchor the casting to’. Dave had now cast the magical sensor to stay between the mainsail and the prow on a smaller mirror this time and only a core group of invested sailors and senior engineers were still watching, turning the mirror as they went to keep track of Dimont.
“But that’ll pull the prow down,” said one of the engineers in response to what an old sailor was telling him Dimont had done.
“Well, it looks like he’s on a mission to do that!” laughed the half drunk sailor.
They narrated to a rapt crowd what Dimont was doing with everyone holding their breath as Dimont started to turn as usual but then deployed his prow-dipping halfway through. Everyone watched as Dimont dipped the prow and, aided by the roll of the ship, dipped the bowsprit underneath the anchor rope, which had been attached to the rear of the keel for some reason, and wrapped the anchor line around the bow. It held fast, caught on some irons on the bowsprit that would have held the foremost flying jib, had Dimont not furled them.
“By Knowledge herself!” exclaimed Hugh as cheers erupted. “He’s used the keel anchor to grasp the prow and point right at us! But what for?”
Serge’s hands were bleeding from hauling on ropes, his knee ached, his stump throbbed, the wind lashed his face with cold but sweat still soaked his clothes and his voice was hoarse from cursing every god he could remember. It felt good.
“Arr, you great blistering, sphincters!” he hollered madly at the clouds. “You thought you could hold me? Hahaa! But now I’ve got ya. I’ve got ya.”
Serge grit his teeth as he hauled the mainsail across the deck. His whole body complained but he was beyond caring. It was a madness. A need. He had to get down there. What he needed was down there. Cool against his parched throat, it would be. Down there. And, now he had the ship pointing the right direction. He started attaching the mainsail to the yard of the foresail. Next he would attach the foresail to the jibs. Yes, he needed the wind to get up and under the sails. He laughed again as his bloody hands tied the knots. He’d never had to make a ship go up before.
It took him another hour but in the fading light of the afternoon, he finally had all the sails in position. All of them that he could figure a way to do so were angling forward. Now, he just needed some momentum. Ignoring the twinge in his knee and the sticky, burning sensation from his stump, he climbed the rigging to the underside of the balloon, wrapped his arm around the rope, took out a small pocket knife and stabbed a small hole into the thick fabric. Serge shuffled his body a bit to avoid casting a shadow over the hole from the lanterns he’d lit earlier and put his eye close to the incision.
“Hahaa! Yes!” he crowed into the heavens. “Argh, I thought I recognised a self repairing in the weave. Ooh, you’ll have to wake up earlier than that to pull one over Serge Dimont, you little, weed-man!”
Still chuckling in triumph, he slashed a large hole in the balloon.
“Alight, Serge,” he muttered to himself. “You’re having fun but careful now. The sly weed said this is what’s holding up the ship.”
He hung on to the rigging there for a few minutes, reopening the hole periodically until he felt the telltale feel of extra weight in the hold. Except this, he reasoned as he squinted suspiciously at the great, blistering bladder that kept repairing itself, was more like a loss of floatation. Or, taking on water. From above. He growled at the impossibility of his situation and cussed the sky again for good measure. Time to go down.
“Wait, hang on,” said Dave, rising from his comfortable chair and looking at the diagrams that the engineers were drawing and passing around, complete with additions, sketches and notes by fellow engineers and sailors. “He’s rigged himself up some bloody wings!”
In the darkness of the late afternoon, the party had started relying on signal lamps with the tugboats, who had better visual equipment, to communicate what was going on. They’d sent some very long, technical messages that the engineering team had to map out and draw which was now being handed to Dave to copy and pass around so that everyone could get a look.
“This will lift the ship!” exclaimed Dave, waving the piece of paper in his hands while making copies.
“Ooh, aye,” said Clement, a wrinkled old sea dog. “That would explain why he faced her into the wind. That’d get the wind up under those sails if that’s how he’s rigged them.”
“That’ll get him bobbing nicely against the wind. How’s that going to get him closer or down?” said Dave, not really expecting an answer.
“Ohh, I have a feeling Serge is going to surprise ya, Mister Booker!” said Clement with a wink.
Dave opened his mouth to dryly agree but was interrupted by the woman on signals.
“Good Gods, he’s cutting the envelope!” she cried.
While half the party cried in alarm and the other half assured them that the envelope was self repairing, Dave’s face froze in an expression of puzzlement. What was Dimont doing? Then the ground anchor hummed as the enormous rope, as thick as Dave’s waist, was pulled taut.
“Oh,” said Dave. Both Hugh and Johan recognised the tone and waved at those around them to hush. The party looked expectantly at Dave who pointed at the anchor rope, which was neatly coiled and passing through a magical, iron loop. “The ground anchor has an enchantment that coils it automatically to prevent it dragging around on the ground, which means it’s under tension, right?” The crowd nodded and murmured in agreement. Dave pointed to the landing pad. “And the landing pad is right next to the anchor.” A few of the eyes in the crowd got a shrewd look about them. “So, if the wings he’s just improvised artificially lighten the entire ship during a gust of wind -”
“Ocean’s piss, he’s using the anchor as guidance,” said one of the crusty sailors. “Like how we get out on the pier and haul on the ropes when we’re mooring,” he added for the engineers.
The sailors and engineers turned on each other excitedly. The whole idea was incredibly simple and a good bit clever. The shipyard had their own tension anchor system to make sure the rope or chain stayed in the air. It allowed the ships to undergo levitation or, in this case, buoyancy testing without the rope dragging around and possibly getting caught on buildings. It did, however, supply a bit of a pull on the ship.
Dimont had set up the sails to act like wings and lift the ship, especially under the force of a gust but coming out of it, the ship would glide for a few moments which would allow the tension of the anchor to pull the airship closer. That combined with a slight loss of lift with some escaped hydrogen the ship would inevitably come closer towards the source of the tension, which was right next to the landing pad. The landing pad was basically a massive patch of enchanted sand that would feel soft at first but then quickly creep up to cradle and hold fast anything about the size of a cart and above.
Dave returned to his seat shaking his head in disbelief. Sam smiled up at him in amusement. She held her plate out and smiled wider. Dave sighed and took the plate, filled it up with cuts of the spit-roasted pork, picked up a couple of toasted bits of bread that were near the fire pit and wandered back to Sam, handing her the loaded plate.
“He found a way down!” teased Sam.
“Yeah, I should have told him about valves and the pumps,” said Dave sheepishly.
Sam continued smiling broadly at Dave.
“Yeah, he might win,” said Dave.
Sam covered her mouth.
“Yeah, he’s probably going to win,” admitted Dave.
It was a matter of careful judgement now and Serge knew it. The ship was swaying back and forth at the end of its anchor rope and he intended to use that. After all, the landing pad wasn’t smack-bang under the anchor ring itself. It was off to the side a bit. Twenty yards or so. He’d have to use the rhythm of the sway to time the landing so that at the end of the sway he’d put her down in the sand. He patted the ship as he timed his next adjustment of the two spanker sails at the back of the ship that he was using to keep the swaying under control. He reckoned he’d timed the descent pretty well, that anchor would reel him in just fine. It’d be just like mooring a barge in one of those ports more open to the ocean. Sometimes you just had to lean on the ropes and wait for a big enough wave to wash the ship in. Except, of course, there was also a fierce wind to contend with but threading this needle was a joy in itself. He was here. He was doing it! And soon the booze would flow.
“Up yours, ya dirty land urchin!” roared Serge at the fires he could see on the ground and thumbed his nose at the party taking place.
A fucking party, they were having. Come out to see him fail, like as not. Serge felt another gust of wind grab the sails and lift the ship and he laughed as the gliding descent brought him closer to the landing.
“I hope that fire is hot and the ale is cold, you useless weed-man! I’m coming!” Serge shouted at the ground.
Dave watched, shaking his head in utter, amused astonishment the whole while as the ship slowly swayed back and forth in the last fifty metres of descent. It’d only started about two or three hundred metres up and about five hundred metres out but Dimont had leveraged a gentle southerly wind with the occasional gust and the tools he had at hand into a strategy for limping a vessel into port even though he was intentionally set up to fail.
On every pass Dimont made closest to the party, there was a cheer of encouragement by the thoroughly sloshed observers. Dimont could be vaguely heard hurling triumphant insults down in return. Dave quietly took the elbow of the head engineer and spoke in his ear.
“We should assist the landing with the tugs,” said Dave.
“No, noooo,” slurred the engineer. “I’uhlll be fin’.”
“Until the ship stops. Very Suddenly. And, Dimont… keeps going?” said Dave, speaking very clearly and miming with his hands for the drunk.
“Ohwa, alrigh’ bu’ you gotta give up firs’,” said the engineer.
“Artistry’s phantoms, canvas this,” incanted Dave and enormous, two metre tall letters appears in the air above the reveller’s heads.
YOU WIN.
The entire crowd cheered, screaming into the setting sun. In the excitement, the lead engineer happily forgot about Dave so Dave signalled the tugs himself. The professional crews had been standing by the whole time and moved in immediately, arresting the wind driven swaying of the ship and ensuring a gentle, controlled landing the whole way.
“Hahaa! Ya scurvy dogs! That’s it. Put me down. Put me down nice and gentle and make sure yer scrub my feet while ya there, ya right jellyfish!” shouted the hoarse voice of Captain Dimont with glee. “That’s right, Captain Serge Dimont has won and he’s coming in to wet his lips and then some!”
Smiling ruefully, Dave filled an empty pitcher with good ale and followed the crowd that was moving over to the landing pad. The grasping sand was holding the airship securely and Captain Dimont was already halfway down the Jacob’s ladder when Dave arrived at the back of the group.
“WHERE’S MY ALE?” called the aged captain. “Where is it? Where’s my grog?”
Dave carried the pitcher forward through the throng to the whooping Dimont who stood, grinning self assuredly at Dave.
“The first of the promised drink, Captain,” said Dave with a bow, ruefully handing over the pitcher of beer to the alcoholic.
Captain Dimont grinned greedily and came forward to take the pitcher. He raised it to his lips with an ungraceful swiftness and it spilled down his shirt as he skulled the entire contents to the cheers of the crowd. Dave noted that some of the cheers were strained.
“MORE!” shouted Captain Dimont, raising his pitcher to the sky to the sound of further jubilation.
Hugh healed the captain and gave him a stamina potion to wash away the sores of his flight while Captain Dimont shook hands with old friends. Dave used Grand Mage’s Gravitas to clean him of the sweat and blood of the ordeal while he piled his plate with roast pork and quaffed drink. A lot of drink. Where others took sips, Dimont drank half the glass. It was noticeable even to those who’d never met him before.
Over the next few hours, Captain Dimont became Dimont the Wretch once more. Many at the party were sloshed but Dimont was on the drunkard’s mission to forget his life and piss himself. An old crewmate or two suggested Dimont take it easy, but Dimont laughed it off with a baying laugh and continued unabashed. Uneasy glances were shared with resigned glances and, as predicted, before midnight he’d tried to use the toilet, pissed on himself and then fallen asleep on the table. Dave idly cleaned him up with magic, shaking his head the whole while.
“Mighty good of you, young man. Mighty good,” said one of the old sailors. She offered a calloused hand. “Lucille LeBlanc.”
“Dave Booker,” said Dave, shaking.
“Well, it sure was nice to see him again,” said LeBlanc. “The real him, I mean, not this.” She slapped the sleeping man’s back to no avail. “This is just the shell that remains when he drives his mind out.”
“He needs rehab,” said Dave with a shrug and added in response to LeBlanc’s confused expression. “It’s a place where the alcoholic is kept that has no alcohol until they’re better.”
“Oh, he’s had that,” said LeBlanc, sitting down next to Dave. “Sometimes the ships are becalmed or there’s an obstruction in the river and he runs out of drink. He becomes himself again,” LeBlanc nodded to herself, staring into the middle distance. “But, he doesn’t like that. He can remember when he’s himself.”
“The accident?” guessed Dave.
“Yep,” said LeBlanc. “The accident, all the things he’s lost and, perhaps just as bad, the disappointment he’s been since.”
“I set him up to fail,” confessed Dave, nodding his head towards the sky where Dimont had started. He took the recording crystal out of his pocket and showed LeBlanc. “On this crystal is him taking a bet and if he loses, he has to get the tattoo of my choice.”
“Should have got him drunk first,” said LeBlanc wryly, roughly prodding Dimont’s body. She turned to Dave with curiosity on her face. “What kind of tattoo?”
“One of those expensive magic ones,” said Dave. “I had it all planned out. I was going to get him the Royal Taster’s tattoo, you know? The one that makes poisons -”
LeBlanc barked in raucous laughter, slapping her knee.
“Oh, my boy,” she said through tears of laughter. “He’d kill you.”
“I was hoping I could avoid that by offering him a job that paid in essences,” said Dave with a sad smile. “Once he’s fully iron rank, his body purges and the tattoo goes away.”
“Oh, is that how it works, does it?” asked LeBlanc.
“Yep,” said Dave. “That was my plan for a Dimont who’s motivated to stay on board. Tell the drunk that if he ever wants to drink again, he needs essences and I’m the only chance he has at essences.” Dave nodded to himself and chewed on his lip. “It might have worked too.”
“Naaaah,” laughed the old sea dog next to him. “I don’t think he knows about the tattoo going away.”
She shrugged in response to Dave’s look.
“It’s not something folk like us need to know about.”
“I could have told him,” Dave mumbled.
“Ahh,” said LeBlanc, winking at Dave. “The creator of his torment has a convenient story that he’s also the cure!”
“Oh, yeah. Alright,” said Dave.
LeBlanc chuckled and nudged Dave who grinned back.
“Too clever for your own good, Mister Booker!” said LeBlanc.
“It would seem so, Missus LeBlanc,” said Dave.
“If you could exclude the bit where he hates your guts,” said LeBlanc. “It’d have been a good plan.”
Dave said nothing but pulled a face of resignation and nodded. After a few moments of silence, LeBlanc sighed heavily.
“Which tattooist?” said LeBlanc.
“Needled Vexillography,” said Dave. “Wait, what? Why?”
“I’m thinking me and the fellas are going to take him,” said LeBlanc, poking him again distastefully and glaring at Dimont’s sleeping form. “Instead of you.”
“Are you sure?” asked Dave, thoroughly thrown by this turn.
“Never been so sure of anything about Serge since I stopped working with him,” said LeBlanc. She gave Dave a determined look. “So you sit down in that chair next to that nice young runic woman who keeps trying to make everyone eat more and you stay out of this. I want your nose clean, you understand? I want you to be able to look him in the eye and say you had nothing to do with the tattoo, alright?”
LeBlanc started Dave down and we did as he was told. He’d wanted to offer money, after all such magical tattoos were expensive for normal folk but the look LeBlanc was giving him said that she needed him gone so, he merely nodded. He wandered over to his seat next to Sam who smiled sleepily up at him through a pleasant haze of beer.
“Dave, I want to bed,” said Sam.
“Come forth, traveller’s rest,” said Dave, summoning a cabin behind her mortared with the same grit as the airfield.
He helped Sam inside and pulled a cot out of her floral-embroided dimensional bag for her to sleep on. She lay down on it and immediately started dozing. He pulled out his own cot, placed it down next to her and lay down himself.
“I think, Sam,” murmured Dave. “Tonight might have worked out after all.”
Sam hummed sleepily in reply.