Serpacinno rolled over in her hammock, annoyed with the answer she’d received last night. Deciding she’d have no more sleep, she rose to the deck, where she found her partner sitting down at some device.
“Coffee?” He asked, preparing a mug from a piece of cloth.
“What is that you’re making it in?”
“I call it a percolator.” He replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m something of an inventor, you see.”
“Do you invent things more useful than a replacement for a pot?” She asked, still taking the cup.
“Taste a sip and tell me it isn’t leagues better.” He offered.
“It is better.” She was evidently understating her enjoyment, as she sipped the coffee with vigor, “Can I ask what a sailor and inventor wants with Kósmeidí?”
“I’ve heard rumors about it.” He poured himself another cup, “They say it’s power is enough to ‘reshape the world in your image’, although I think it’s an exaggeration.”
“Then why?”
“I have grand ambitions. Grand ambitions, you see, that require a large number of people follow me.” He paused, thought perhaps he’d said too much then decided to continue regardless, “And what better to get people to follow you than inspire them with a great tale of heroism?”
“I don’t believe you.” She near slammed her coffee cup on the deck. The spray filled it with saltwater before she had the sense to place it in a less precarious position, “Not about the heroism or whatever, but about what you’d said last night.”
“What did I say?”
“You said you weren’t that good in a fight. I don’t believe that.” As if to emphasize the point, she pointed at the percolator, “You’ve got the mind for it, I won’t pry and ask what kind of gift you’ve got, but you’ve got the gift for it.” She pointed to the sails that were lowered somewhat since last night, “You got the strength for it.”
“Let’s work on the assumption you’re correct. How do I make myself relatable, and not intimidating to others?”
“You’re a good liar,” Serpacinno dropped her head to look at the floor before looking back up, “But you’re very bad at faking a smile. And, word to the wise, it’s better to be feared than liked.” She got up, seemingly determined to find some food below deck.
For once, he found himself speechless. Not because he was forced to agree, but rather that he wasn’t sure why he disagreed. Regardless, there was work to be done, including the repairing of the anchor. He’d underestimated the amount of weight he’d need to replace the remainder of the rode and the anchor itself. Then there was the mainmast to consider, it had been struck by Rita (the first mate, as he’d learned by the captain’s log) and while it most likely wouldn’t fall, he was worried about the possibility of a storm. The makeshift mercury pressure gauge he’d made told him it was consistently dropping.
Paracelsus walked down the stairs, making note of the large number of guns, before shouting down “Serpacinno, would you be so kind as to find a chest of…” He racked his mind for a heavy, ubiquitous material, “Sixteen pound shot?”
He then fully descended, and saw that she had indeed found such a barrel, which he carried to the top with great difficulty. He used all of the shot and the chest to finish the rode; now came the hard part. He surmised he’d need at least twenty-five hundred pounds, although thirty-one would be ideal. He walked back to his quarters and read the manifest. Before landing they had food for a week for fifty-two men. About eleven hundred pounds, minus one hundred for eleven day’s worth for him and Serpacinno. Per crate of sixteen pound shot, there was roughly two hundred and twenty pounds, times the four he reckon he could lose left him short at least seven hundred pounds. Raiding the armory, whatever lockers they had, and stripping it to the bare furniture would most likely yield an additional three hundred.
“You look troubled.” Serpacinno approached him, provisions of fish to be cooked and water to be drunk in hand.
“Excluding the food, shot, guns and furniture, I need to find three hundred pounds of weight.”
“The sails? We aren’t using most of them anyway, leaving ‘em bunched up.”
“That’s not a bad idea at all.” He decided on it, and after cooking and eating, the two of them set about to gather the necessary materials.
The materials gathered, Paracelsus used his gift to repair the anchor, and with a small amount of spare weight, he managed to fix the mast as well.
Stolen novel; please report.
The whole process had taken a few hours, and the fatigue was getting to the captain, who’d sat down in his chair, writing in the log as though he owned it. We’re lower on stores than I thought; methinks the previous owner of this journal was less accurate than he should be. Regardless, we now have a little under eight days of food and ten of water. There’s also the matter that the anchor is at its very minimum of weight; hopefully, we are able to find sufficient material as to complete repair. Similarly, I should hope we make landfall within our allotted time. A storm is coming, mark my words, and if the aftwinds prove too strong, we may be stranded for some time.
While this was happening, Serpacinno sat down opposite her partner, reading from a chart and consulting a compass to determine their position and course. Although the mechanics of sailing were alien to her, the theory wasn’t.
“I bear good news, we’re sailing behind an island with large peaks. The wind should break for the next six or so miles.” It was good news, they’d get there faster, but it would also get them towards the storm quicker.
“What comes next will be our final test on this sea,” Paracelsus said, nose in the journal for any potentially useful information, “If we get ahead of it, it may waste a day, but we could avoid it. That runs the risk of wasting a day and still encountering it. That said, the other options are to sail through it and risk serious, irrevocable damage to the ship, or to anchor and hope we hold out.”
“None of those sounds particularly attractive. Is it not possible to change our tacking and choose a different port?”
“Going near Port Laroi is obviously out of the question. Going further north than Yuriol runs the risk of us staying at sea too long and being without the means to defend against bondsmen.”
“Fine then, let’s cut through the storm.” She looked determined, as though this was a matter of pride, “It might sound stupid, but I can’t stomach the thought of enduring the sea. I want to beat it.”
Paracelsus leaned back in the chair and exhaled forcefully, “Sure.”
“It’s goddamn beautiful, at least.” Paracelsus said, leaning against the railing.
Serpacinno, with her relatively weak sea legs, stumbled for dear life up the stairs to witness this event. It was two days since they’d resolved to take the storm on directly, and now was the moment. It was do or die, very literally so, as the slightest mistake meant death either by the immediate sinking of The Unbroken Gale, or by a loss to a critical faculty by which it operated.
“Are you scared?” Paracelsus turned to look at her.
“To be frank, I am.”
A silence had fallen over them, one a chatterbox such as Paracelsus abhorred for reasons that should be self-evident. He then decided to alter this situation, offering “To hell with it. If we’re to be partners, it ought not be a secret. I’m Paracelsus von Hoenheim. I’m a human, obviously, and I’m from Etzeltown in Orealia. I’m twenty one years old, and my sole gift is that of alchemy; that is to say, I can alter the physical and chemical makeup of anything I touch, provided I leave its weight unchanged.”
Luckily for him, before he had to ask, Serpacinno spoke of her own volition, “I’m Serpacinno, two and twenty. I’m from - I guess Osteria, but it wasn’t called anything when I lived there; I can breathe fire, and I can sorta… reach into some infinite space within a bag, a space I use to store my things. I’m also a…” She took a great pause, carefully deliberating whether she truly wished to divulge such information, “I’m the last snakewoman.”
He gave a soft smile at that, “Let’s tie up the sails completely. After that, I’m going to keep the wheel as straight as I can. I’ll need you on the compass. It’ll be less accurate because of the storm, but not significantly so.”
She’d expected him to make a big fuss of it, as most would when she told them of her race. She thought it was the tone she’d took that told him the subject was sensitive that clued him in. In any case, she surmised, this may yet prove a reliable companion. As such, she dutifully grabbed the ropes and brought up the sails before joining him at her post to help navigate.
“It seems we were lucky,” Paracelsus shouted, barely heard over the crashing waves, “We’re on the edge of the storm, if we had decided to evade it on the path I suggested, we’d see the worst of it instead. This way…” A particularly large wave crashed over the two, and Serpacinno wondered at that moment why he had on a wool coat at this time. “We’ll pass through the storm, hopefully in only a few hours.”
And so it had gone, until around an hour in, a bolt had struck the port side of the ship, and the captain delegated his role to Serpacinno while he went to make necessary repairs. He returned several times in a panic, bailing as much water as he could grab, taking several implements back from the deck to gain the necessary mass to enact the repairs. In the meantime, Serpacinno was not faring much better. She’d managed to secure the compass to the wheel with some rope, but the sheer force of the wheel turning with the whims of the sea was getting too much. Just when it seemed her fatigue and inexperience would cause her to fail at this most important assignment, her partner had unceremoniously nudged her aside and regrabbed the wheel.
“Thank you, friend. I apologize for leaving you that long. The hole was larger than I anticipated.”
“I guess I’m a natural.” She gave a slight smile, which brought one to Paracelsus’ face.
Somewhere around three hours passed, with Serpacinno only dipping below deck to occasionally bail out rainwater. She was prescient enough to stay above to witness them breach the other side.
It was glorious. She wasn’t sure if it was the pride of having made it through or the sheer beauty of it, but it didn’t matter. It enraptured her for quite some time. But eventually, the storm turned to rain, then to drizzle, until the sun had just set, and it was clear. At this time, she finally ended her vigil and smelled fish in the galley below.
“You enjoyed the view?” Paracelsus was holding onto a bar above his head to maintain stability, in the other hand was an autobiography by someone she’d never heard of. He occasionally looked at the pan on the stove before he’d apparently decided it was finished.
“All these years, for some reason I’ve never really spent time on top of the deck of a ship.” She gratefully took a plate of fish and some biscuits, “And yes, it was nice.”
“Cheers.” The two of them said over their water.
“Well, I think it’s time to retire.” By this time, the cleaning was done and Paracelsus had reached an acceptable stopping point in his reading, “Should only be two more days to Yuriol, if we’re on the proper course.”