The ferrymen had all turned in for the day, as their business was dependent on having customers who wanted to get from one place to another. Now that it was night, those customers were all in bed sleeping, and the ferrymen had followed their example. That didn’t mean the boathouse I was tied up at was empty or quiet, though. There were all sorts of tasks necessary to keep an organization this size functioning smoothly, and I could hear the bustle of an army of cleaners and repairmen going about their business, making sure the place was tidied up and that the boats were all in good condition, ready to work tomorrow.

Given my unique ability to repair myself perfectly, it came as something of a surprise when I felt myself being pulled up and out of the water by my tow line.

“Pretty good condition, other than these barnacles here. Haven’t seen a colony with this type of shell before, but they seem to be less trouble than most and I’m not about to waste my evening trying to get them off.” A work crew boss said as he examined me.

“They’re all on the bottom of the hull anyways, so it’s not like anyone will see them, ever.” One of his workers agreed. The boss continued onwards. “We won’t need to patch her up at all, but go ahead and grab those buckets of pain from over there. Getting our colors on her will help make sure everyone knows she’s a Ferrymen boat. Anyone know what the new kid named her?”

A quick chorus of ‘no’s’ was their response. “Leave it blank for the moment, and James can always put it on himself if he wants.

“Aya aye!” Was the agreement, and I heard as the men broke apart to carry out their orders. The boss moved onwards with most of the crew, leaving just two men to take care of painting me. Well, a man and a woman, as I found out once they start talking.

“Old Mark sure keeps everyone busy, doesn’t he? Nothing’s ever good enough or done for that codger, is it.” The man grumbled to his partner.

“Shut up, David!” She hissed back at him. “Painting isn’t my favorite task either, but it sure beats removing barnacles or cleaning out the septics.” She spat on the ground in emphasis, and David copied her gesture.

“Still, I’m getting tired of it, especially when some jobs pay so much more than other.

“You know the rules.” The woman said with a well-practiced air of tolerance. “Put in your time, don’t complain too much, and the ferrymen will make sure you’re rewarded. You’ve been here, what? Three or four months? Give it another three and that should be enough time for them to start trusting you, so long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

“How are you so sure about that? You haven’t been here that much longer than I have. What if they’re just stringing us along?” David continued to press.

“They’re not.”

“How are you so sure about that… unless they’ve given you a job already?”

The woman sighed. “Do you even understand what the words ‘discrete job’ mean? And my actual answer is that I know and trust people who’ve been here longer than I have, and they assure me that things work the way they’re supposed to.”

David didn’t seem to have an answer to her last argument, and grumbled a bit before falling into silence, the pair focused on getting me painted as quickly as possible.

My sense of touch is pretty crappy, but it is present, and getting painted felt strange. The liquid they were using was a thick syrupy substance that sticks like tar, filling in all the cracks and bits of wood grain before it dried to a solid weatherproof and water-resistant finish. One downside of the process that only affected me was that the layer of pain dulled my sense of perception, making it difficult for me to feel when things came in contact with my hull, but as time went on I begin to adjust to the new level of feedback.

The paint job was thorough, yet incomplete. The barnacles on my hull apparently weren’t worth bothering with, as was most of the hull that would be underwater. My outside only ended up painted about halfway down as a result, before the pair focused entirely on the inside, where they made sure to completely cover every bench and corner where the wood joined together. I made a mental note to have Jim tell me what I look like when I see him next, curious as to my new color scheme, but soon my attention was pulled back to the workers as the man started to talk again.

“Just the benches in here.” David observed, his tone leading as if to suggest something.

“And?” The woman’s answer might technically qualify as a question, but her tone implies that there is only one correct answer to it.

“Nothing, nothing!” David backed down quickly, but it left me wondering what he had wanted to talk about. Did the ferrymen cushion their benches or something? I was still puzzling it over when the pair finished up their work and dragged me over to a rack on the wall, where they tipped me sideways and hung me up to dry. It was slightly disorienting at first, but soon I got used to it and let my senses stretch to their maximum.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Once again I was able to take advantage of the magical nature of [Listen]. I wasn’t using it to hear underwater, but hung up on the wall as I was I was able to stretch the spell just enough to let me pick up sound from the other side. Whether by luck or design, the wall I was attached to was the outer wall of their office space, where a few hard workers were taking care of some paperwork before closing up for the night.

They didn’t say much, but the sound of pen on parchment was relaxing enough, and I let my thoughts drift inwards. Despite my willingness to spy like this for Jim, I really didn’t expect to find any obvious evidence of wrongdoing. It seemed pretty clear to me that the ferrymen were just overly protective of their business, and now that Jim had accepted that and had joined up he shouldn’t have any more trouble. Sure, they might trust some members more than others, but by bringing his own boat along Jim could afford to get by with a casual relationship.

I already was making plans for our inevitable departure because I didn’t see this being a long term career for Jim, but hopefully he would manage to learn a lesson or three from it, and not just about being a sailor. The lessons from his beating would stick with him far longer than the already fading bruises would, and that bad experience had primed him to truly explore the world around him. He couldn’t be a village boy any longer, who got along with everyone because there was only a small number of people to get along with. It might be a rough week or two, but I could see this experience doing wonders for Jim’s social skills.

I did have doubts, ones that I wasn’t about to share with Jim. There were certainly times where I felt like I could have and maybe should have tried to exert my influence. Jim was just barely out of childhood, and more often than not he still wore that childlike innocence on his face as he lived his life. All too often I was tempted to just tell him what to do, to pull on my knowledge and history to feed Jim the right answer for the situations he found himself in, but almost always I ended up saying nothing. It wasn’t because I didn't care for Jim, but that I cared too much to trust my own judgement. I was more than aware of my flaws as a person, and I had a good understanding of the source of most of those flaws. While I loved my family, I had to admit that their dictatorial style of parenting sometimes did more harm than good, and I was loath to inflict it on anyone else. I could tell myself a hundred times that I just wanted to protect Jim, or that he’d appreciate my actions with the benefit of hindsight, but those arguments couldn’t overcome the emotional response I had to the idea of manipulating my friend, even for his own benefit.

And so I found myself in the strange situation of playing spy for a friend who was still coming into his own, against an organization that seemed to only be guilty of roughing up outsiders. I could overhear their conversations without the unsuspecting anything, but I don’t think Jim would be interested in my discovering thrilling tales of paint management and changing route hazards. Still, it wasn’t like I had anything better to occupy my time with.

“There’s a new alchemy business setting up in the warehouse over on lamprey canal.”

“The brick one or the stone one?”

“I don’t remember, and they didn’t make a note of it. The important thing is that Jerry said he saw them dumping their waste out in the canal. It’s possible it's all harmless stuff, but these are alchemists we're talking about, so I want you to write up a general notice about it for tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir. Anything else, or will that be all for the night?”

“That’s everything. Oh! You’ll need to leave the side door unlocked once you head out. Some friends need to get in here for some of their business early in the morning.”

“I will make sure to do so.”

There was the sound of footsteps and the opening of a creaky door, before the building fell back into silence. I offered Jim a quick mental apology. While it wasn’t obviously illegal or immoral, asking for the doors to be unlocked for a clandestine meeting was certainly unusual, and didn’t quite fit with the mental image I had been building up of the ferrymen. With this additional piece of context, those mysterious assignments David had talked about suddenly had some concerning implications. Trust might be required for important tasks where experience is preferred, but it’s doubly necessary when those tasks might be seen by some as illegal or criminal. At the moment all I had was my own hunches, but I wasn’t going anywhere, and this early morning meeting would have more answers for me.

Killing time when I had something to look forward to was agonizing. I didn’t know where exactly these people were meeting up, other than inside the building, and so I had to focus on keeping my sense of hearing positioned to hear as much as possible. It meant I couldn’t afford to relax and let time slip by, instead having to force myself to stay focused as each minute seemed to crawl by. In the dead of night, a couple of hours after the last stragglers had left the building, I finally heard the tell-tale creak of the door opening up once more.

It might have technically been early morning, but it was still the time of night only seen by staying up late, not by waking up early. These people were clearly not regular business people looking to start their day nice and early. I strained myself to listen in on their conversation, only to be surprised when I realized that they were speaking a different language. It was more guttural than the tongue most people spoke, but somehow I could still understand what they were saying. I chalked it up as another piece of the Listening enchantment, I put the mystery aside for later.

The person doing the talking had muffled their voice strangely, causing it to lose most of the qualities that made voices so vibrant. The words were still present and understandable, but the terse monotone they were delivered in was unsettling.

“Here. Your item, as promised. You have my payment?”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of clinking coins as they landed on a hard surface. “200 gold pieces, just as promised.”

More noises followed, as the coins were swept along into another container that jingled a bit before it was sealed tight with a solid click. Their business concluded, the men went their own ways, and I was left alone with another piece of the puzzle. Two hundred gold pieces was a large amount of money. Copper and Silver was what most people used for their daily transactions, meaning that whatever object was just purchased was worth years of labor. There were people in this world who could afford those amounts easily, but none of them would have needed to do the deal in the middle of the night.

Something suspicious was afoot here, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.