In the end, Paracelsus managed to calm himself; it was doing no good for anyone for him to be getting hot headed. He rubbed his face completely, no doubt looking like a fool, but it was nonetheless effective. “Whether or not I’ve killed anyone is irrelevant; you’ve still only provided the thinnest outline of a plan.”
“What about you?” Tariq asked in turn, “You were able to figure out my plan and shoot me while I was jumping.”
“You’re clearly very observant,” The captain huffed, “Come on, anything you think might be helpful?”
“One of the Medines - Sarahne, I think. She’s butted heads with him, publicly even.” He offered.
“Okay. We have a potential in. Now remind me again what exactly your objective is?” Paracelsus poured more coffee, and finally undid Tariq’s restraints, “It can’t just be killing Medine.”
The Iralion took the coffee, tilting it up to show his appreciation, “The Shah’s shield. Killing Medine - that’s secondary.” He took a long, exaggerated sip from the coffee, possibly trying to observe the other man’s reaction, but he gave no such information. “Your friend out there must know about it.”
The other man only gave a response by way of shrugging, “Maybe, maybe not. Why do you want it?”
“Why should I tell you?” Tariq squinted, even if such a thing were hard to see behind his veil.
“You’re sitting on my ship, asking for my help.” Paracelsus leaned in closer to drive home his point, “My friend out there got what she was looking for, as far as I see, we have no reason to help you.”
“I can offer you money.” Tariq leaned closer to contest the machismo over the table, “All of it. You can take anything else from them, I just want his shield.”
“Why do you want the shield?” The tone the alchemist used was getting on his potential ally’s nerves; it was explicitly neutral, as though he was sparing him from some rage or condescension. Then, the tone morphed into recognition, “Wait, I get it.”
In an instant, he tore the veil off of Tariq and got the confirmation he was looking for. This man, or boy - he couldn’t have been more than sixteen - was the spitting image of the Shah. Well, spitting image was a bit of a strong nomenclature, the Shah was very ethereal and thus hard to get an image of. But this young man, similarly handsome and lanky and with the same curly mop of hair, which could not have been comfortable to wear beneath a helmet, was the closest thing they had to seeing what Bahmen actually looked like.
“This shield is some type of birthright, I assume?” He continued his questioning, especially now that the young man had backed down, turned away and flush in embarrassment.
“It’s important. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my country.” He started, “But there is a story - Bahmen, my ancestor, supposedly used his sword to cut down an entire invading army. The real story is that he used that shield to defend the gates to the capital.”
“That’s very noble.” Paracelsus blew his lips, “Let’s see what the others think, hm?” He cocked his head toward the door, and the two departed for the deck.
—
“Mr. Peytan,” The same pirate captain who had at one point attempted to board the Gale, sounded out, “I should quite like to know if we’re still on course.”
“Yes, for God’s sake,” He looked at the captain, and before he could fully return his face to where it was pointed before, he turned back, a pointed glare painting his face, “And please, stop holding your waistcloth.”
The captain threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh, he had to admit it was a bad habit he had, and if you believed the shanties, bad luck, to walk with your hand holding onto your breeches. Aside from that bad habit though, the captain was a good-looking man, grizzled and on the older side, with a long black beard, braided at the ends, and thick salty hair which now showed the first signs of graying.
“Row-ho, Row-ho, row with all your might!” Speaking of shanties, his crew was in good spirits. The mast was repaired faster than they anticipated, and they were now in pursuit of their mark. The boy must’ve had something he wanted to hide, something that made standing up to pirates worth the risk. He was in similarly good spirits, the boy was lying - that much was obvious, and he thought that keelhauling a rat like him would make good entertainment for his men.
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It was only a matter of time until they caught up, if Peytan was right, and Captain McGraw was all too happy at the thought. This boy had become something of a fixation in his mind, he must’ve been ignorant, seeing as he was one of the first men to ever attempt to escape once he saw their colors, and certainly the first to do so with a skeleton crew. Still, despite his impertinence, the boy had taught him a valuable lesson about the sea, and he’d taken great care to careen the ship and apply some lacquer to hopefully keep it from getting too nasty.
It would make the keelhauling less eventful without the requisite barnacles, but everything had its price. That thought led him to his next, specifically, the price of captaincy. Price was the wrong word (burden would be more accurate), but it made a convenient segue to what he was doing now.
“Carlow,” Was kneeling, his hands bound behind his back and his mouth gagged, so was his companion, “Perain,” whom the captain addressed in the same tone before McGraw himself squatted down, running his pistol, adorned in shiny brass and fine oak, over their faces, “Which of you is lying?”
There was a dispute earlier, Carlow and Perain were seen brawling in the quarters, which woke up a few of the third watch. When they were pulled off of each other, each claimed the other was taking more than their share of loot. Such a crime was, of course, punishable by death.
“Captain,” The financier, a meek bookish woman whose thick wool covered her eyes, “I believe it was Carlow.”
“Hear that, mates?” The captain stood back up far faster than his knees would like and leaned back to spread his arms far to project his confidence around, “It was Carlow!”
The shanties only grew in volume, and the newly branded traitor started convulsing, shouting through his gag; even if his words were unintelligible, everyone knew he was likely pleading his innocence. Still, it didn’t truly matter, the captain had enough authority to execute the man in lieu of actual evidence and did so summarily, the shot ringing out for miles on the sea.
“Normally, we’d give him a sea burial.” The captain said, watching some of the stronger men toss his corpse overboard, “But this one deserves no such thing.”
He helped Perain to his feet, and the man bowed his head and clasped his hands together to thank the man who had saved him from damnation. This was who McGraw was, a savior to some and the executioner of others. He summoned the treasurer, Ms. Silver to his quarters, and the whooping and laughing from his crew made it evident what they thought was happening.
“Ms. Silver,” McGraw said after the door was closed, but before he laid his pistol on his table, “I know it weren’t Carlow; I don’t particularly care which of those anchors died, God know Perain ain’t taking any more chances, but I have to question your agenda in all this.”
Silver swallowed heavily, her mind involuntarily focusing on the lookout shouting that he spotted a storm on the horizon, incapable of addressing the real and present danger she found herself in. She figured honesty was the route most likely to lead to survival, “Carlow made unwanted advances to me. I saw my opportunity to eliminate him and I took it.”
In response, the captain smirked and slid the pistol toward her, “That is how you eliminate someone. For all you knew, I would’ve called you deception out in front of the crew - Hell, I almost did, before I came to my senses.”
“I appreciate your discretion on this matter, Captain. If that will be all.” She stood up and made for the door.
“One last thing,” He held up his finger, and she stopped, hand not three inches from the doorknob, “You dole out your own justice again, I’m afraid I might not be able to come to my senses.”
“If that will be all.” She repeated, leaving the quarters and white-knuckling a small pistol she concealed in her jacket.
—
Tariq looked, hesitantly and expectantly toward the crew of the Gale; he had delivered his reasoning and suggestion, and all he could now was watch their huddled backs discuss it. They stood, quietly whispering and subtly gesticulating, hiding their motives.
“Tell us everything you know about this daughter.” Paracelsus commanded, astern almost five minutes of deliberation.
“I…” He started, running his tongue along his mouth and avoiding their gaze, “Don’t know much. Medine is a staunch conservative, I know she’s hosting an auction.”
“What’s the auction for?” Gareland asked, suddenly more invested in the success of this crew.
Tariq rolled his hand awkwardly, as though it was connected to a mill in his brain that would churn his thoughts, “I think it was about a new housing project.”
“You think?” Parace sighed; he’d vouched for Tariq, something about the young man had appealed to his emotions, but this was looking grim. He sighed again - it was his mistake, after all, to trust who was practically a boy to know the internal politics of the merchant class family. “Do you at least know when it is? I really can’t spare more than a week here.”
“Yes!” He looked around frantically, searching for the date on the deck, “Three days from now.”
At the captain’s gesture, the proper crew turned ‘round once more, and huddled their shoulders, and Tariq couldn’t hear their next conversation.
“Are you satisfied that it’s not a ruse?” The captain asked. Authority to make decisions in spite of your crew’s wishes was not something easily afforded, and especially not by a captain of three, so Paracelsus sought to gain their permission.
“I think you’re sleazy enough to know when someone’s trying to pull one over on you,” Gareland waited a few moments, “No offense.”
“I never asked you to mince words.” He chuckled and turned to his partner, “Well, Serpacinno?”
“Truth be told, I’m not convinced.” She shot a pointed look at him, “Maybe it’s easier for you, with not a scratch on you, to trust him,” She cocked her head toward the fairy, “But I agree with her; if anyone’s qualified to tell if we’re being lied to, it’s you.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” He saw in Serpacinno’s eyes a certain expression, the most dangerous of all expressions and the worst killer of a ship - mistrust. Perhaps it had not yet fully bloomed in her mind, but no doubt the seeds of doubt were sowed; by what, he wasn’t sure, but he called off the huddle for now, thinking about the comment about his being unharmed.
“Listen up, mates -” He called, getting all three of his shipmates’ ears, “We’re docking here for tonight. With favorable winds, we’ll make landfall halfway through this channel in two days’ time, at which point we will consider the viability of Tariq’s suggestion. Serpacinno, whenever you’re satisfied with your training, please have the Shah on lookout.” He pointed a finger at the crow’s nest, “There’s a bell he can ring if he sees anything. I’d like to see you in my quarters, if that’s alright.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and for a second he feared that she was onto him. But - she nodded, and rang the bell to commence her learning.