On the third day, Myrrir was worried he’d never find any work.
No work meant no repairs for the Hyovao. They’d be trapped on this backwater hellhole until he could muscle his way around and steal what he needed.
By then, it might be too late. What if the Mediator made it to Captain or Commodore? Catching her would be off the table. He wouldn’t even make it in time to register for the Skyclash tournament.
“Have you ever worked a storefront before?” the man asked, leaning forwards on the counter. He was a human with ochre skin, just like Tye (except younger), and he wore nothing but trousers and a cumberbund. His head was completely shaven.
“I haven’t,” Myrrir answered plainly.
“Well, scram,” the man said. “I’ve got others lining up for the same position, and they do have experience.”
Myrrir pressed his hands tighter against the countertop. It was made of a pale wood, like everything else on this planet was, and he had to hold himself back from putting a dent in it. He looked up and around at the hardware within the store: saws, chisels, mallets, and more, all lit by a swinging paper lantern.
It was dingy, dusty, and cold, that’s what it was. He turned away, flicking his waist cape out behind him as he marched away. “I didn’t want to work here, anyways.”
Tye stood out in the middle of the gravel street, leaning against a wooden post. “We’ll find—”
Myrrir scoffed, cutting Tye off. “I’m really starting to doubt that.” They’d tried everything, even selling his own clothes. Turns out, no one wanted to buy a charred and ripped robe or a dented and half-cut brass cuirass for anything more than pocket change, and pocket change wouldn’t fix their ship.
“I wasn’t finished,” Tye said. “There is a man who wants to speak with you.”
“A man?”
“A bluecoat. He doesn’t know who we are, and he hasn’t recognized you.”
“He was watching me?”
“Apparently, he has been watching since we arrived.”
Tye led them along the edge of the port city’s main street. The village was called Garommo, and it reeked. There was no wind, and the air fermented in the streets. Today was only slightly better; it was overcast and a mist of rain fell, pattering off the black shingles of the buildings. Most were two or three storeys, with offset eaves and crumbling awnings. New wood was layered onto old. New offshoots had been built into the crevices between old buildings or on top of them.
Wagons and carts trundled down the city’s main street, splashing mud onto the passersby, and their horses whinnied. Every single one of them seemed to trot in the opposite direction of Myrrir and Tye.
Eventually, Tye turned left and marched into the first floor of a stone building—probably the only stone building in the village. A discoloured Elderworld flag hung above the entrance. It was the main colonial office.
Myrrir sighed, then stepped inside after Tye. They were both dripping wet, but it didn’t matter. The hardwood floors were stained, and there weren’t enough candles lit to see anything properly, anyway.
A bluecoat officer with a large feather-plume in his tricorn met them inside, then motioned up the stairs. Myrrir tried to read his face, but he wore the standard mask. Completely unreadable.
The bluecoat led them up a set of stairs and past a row of bureaucratic offices. At the end of the hallway, they arrived at a room overlooking the main street. It was the only room with proper windows—not just bars—and enough light seeped in to illuminate the corners.
“Commander Neule awaits you,” the bluecoat said, standing at the edge of the doorway and bowing.
Myrrir walked proudly through the doorway, holding his head as high as he could, considering the circumstances. His crystal Stellacovan hair hadn’t even been wet in the first place, but the rest of his clothes felt like they were dragging him down.
Tye led the way into the room. “Commander,” he said. “I have come, and I have my mercenary friend with me.”
“Yes, mercenary,” Myrrir said, picking up on the ploy. “I hear you have work for us.”
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Commander Neule stood behind a desk, initially facing away from them. He wore a brown military coat with gold trim, a powdered wig, and a bicorne hat. He wasn’t a bluecoat; the Commanders never were. “Welcome.” Slowly, he turned around. “Your friend tells me a great deal about you, and with that sword of yours…” The Commander’s eyes drifted to Myrrir’s blade. “...I figure you’ll be a wonderful asset.”
Bluecoats—or the Elderworld military dynasties—never worked with local forces. Myrrir narrowed his eyes and scanned the man’s spirit. He should have been as mortal as they came; Myrrir wouldn’t feel a thing.
And indeed, Myrrir felt nothing. The Commander was a mortal.
“What is the job you have for us, again?” Tye asked, as if prompting the conversation along.
Commander Neule motioned with his hand, beckoning them towards the windows—and the balcony. He pushed the door open and stepped outside, and Myrrir and Tye followed. There was an overhang above their heads, stopping the rain from pattering down onto them.
Myrrir walked all the way to the carved stone railing and looked down onto the street. The local civilians still walked past, though everyone averted their gazes when Myrrir looked directly at them. Anyone who had a place to be ran past the front of the colonial office faster than normal.
Less time in the presence of a bluecoat was probably safer for everyone.
When a wagon splashed past quickly, splattering one of the bluecoats standing guard, they marched over to the front of the wagon and pulled the coachman off his seat, then…as best as Myrrir could tell with his diminished senses, exacted a fine from the begging man before pushing him down to the mud.
Well, if that wasn’t lovely. But the rain didn’t help anyone’s temper, and Myrrir didn’t intervene.
“I need someone who can help us quell the rebellion in the east,” Neule said. “Seeing as you have a Jai, I figure you at least know the Moro-Ka.”
“It’s a Moro-Ka rebellion,” said Tye, explaining for Myrrir’s sake. “Or, at least, one of them is leading it. Seems a few of them have banded together.”
“They used to rule this world, see?” Neule continued. He waved his hand out to the east, where the hills beyond the city sloped up and blocked the horizon. The tips of mountains peered over them. “They were the warrior-lords of these lands, and not many of them are pleased with their new standing. It’s nothing but jealousy and rage, and they’ve been terrorizing our peaceful wagon trains out east. My bluecoats are good, but against the Moro-Ka, we need someone used to fighting them. Like I told your friend, we’re hoping your presence scares them off.”
Myrrir scoffed. Terrorizing wagon convoys, huh? He said, “You don’t have to convince me I’m doing it in kindness. What’s the pay?”
“Six-hundred Elderworld Quivres. Three hundred before—enough to fix your ship—and three-hundred after you help my boys clean up the rebellion.”
“I’ll do it,” Myrrir said.
“Very good!” Commander Neule pressed a hand to his chest and dipped his head. “Between you and me, I do sincerely hope you get a chance to annihilate a Moro-Ka or two. It’ll make our eventual forest campaigns much easier.” He turned around and walked back inside. “Your friend tells me you are quite skilled with a sword.”
“I will do exactly what is needed of me.”
“As expected.” When he reached the desk, he opened a small wooden chest that waited atop it. Stacks upon stacks of golden coins rested inside. “Your first payment.”
Tye dipped his head pleasantly. “You are most generous, Commander.” He picked up the chest for Myrrir. “I will bring this back to the ship and get the repairs started, and I will be back by the end of the day.”
“Oh, yes, about that…Tye, is it?”
“Correct, Commander.”
“Please, upon your return, meet us at the field camp just east of the city. Myrrir and I will travel there immediately, if it pleases the mercenary.”
Myrrir smiled. Anything to get out of the city. “Of course.”
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As the sun set, the local army—something around three thousand bluecoats, give or take—began to practice cannon drills. They fired a row of field cannons off into the woods. Apparently, it was for gunnery practice, but also to scare off anyone who was thinking of staging an attack on the encampment.
Myrrir walked with Commander Neule along the back of the row of cannons. The Commander was inspecting the gunners’ reloading speed while rambling to Myrrir about the Moro-Ka. “...something about honour gets them excited. They’re an odd people, with seemingly no ambitions, except to sit around and be as lazy as possible—almost like that useless Velaydian king. You hear, this isn’t a slight against Karmion, no, I’d not want anything to be misconstrued, however, if I had my way, we’d have crushed that pathetic star-nation with hordes of God-heirs by now.”
Myrrir remembered why he had been tuning out the Commander.
As they walked, Myrrir held his hand over his powder flask, expending touches of mana to practice moving it inside the flask. He formed it into little shapes just to assure himself that he still had what it took to use his techniques.
Gunpowder Bracing: the Blackvein. His Reach attacks, where he mixed Arcara with gunpowder to lash out over long distances: the Powderlance. His Ward technique: the Gray Serpent’s Wall. Lastly, his Moulding technique: Parley.
Parley? Because anything Moulding something out of gunpowder-Arcara would need to buy plenty of time to do it.
When Myrrir and Commander Neule reached the end of the row of cannons, a wagon train awaited them.
“You will begin late at night,” said Neule. “The hope is that the Moro-Ka have gone home, or at the very least, given up on the roads.”
Tye waited out in front of the wagons, his arms empty. He’d returned from the Hyovao, having given the crew the gold and instructions on how to begin the repairs. “Ready, Myrrir? Nothing fancy, just sitting on a wagon and scaring off some warriors.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Myrrir said, running his hand down the pommel of his sword. He was still a Captain, and he’d show them what that meant.