There is, perhaps, no creature better suited to adapting to social situations than man. The independence of the mink married with the empathy of the canids, except without the latter’s need for attachment, and without being assholes like the former. Hm? Am I wrong to call the mink…
– Umaiar the Quarreler, on the question of human integration
+++
Isaac never thought he’d get to see the captain’s quarters aboard a galleon from the inside, but here he was, wishing that the circumstances that had brought him here were better.
The captain looked… angry was too strong a word, because it implied that his scrunched face and eternal frown was somehow not his resting state. His eyepatch made him look like a pirate, and all he was missing was a hook hand and peg leg to complete the image. He was big, gruff, and his mustache walrus-like.
“So. You were scrabbling along my lady’s hull,” he said in clipped Wetlang, “scratching the paint off, dangling from that wee bit of rope so you could dislodge the dastardly dagger deposited by that dunce of your brother so disruptively into her sweet derriere?”
Isaac processed that with a slow blink. Sophia was looking equal parts downcast and embarrassed. Guess I can do the talking for now.
“Sorry about the paint. Should we have left the dagger sticking inside, sir?”
The captain took his measure with his single eye. “You should have left it to my crew. It is dangerous for pipsquirts like you. You could have fallen, could have keelhauled yourself in the aft netting. The net is for merfolk, not landfolk, do you capiche?”
That’s not how you use that… The captain kept staring at him with that one eye. “I do capiche, yessir, I am all capiche.”
He tried not to meet his gaze and after a while, the captain relented. “The name is Vincent Bronn, and you can take or leave the sir.”
Vincent Bronn. Why did that name sound so familiar?
“Do you know someone named Victor Bronn?” Isaac asked.
“I know as many Victors as there are birds in the sky. My brother is a Victor too.”
“Does he own a construction company?”
Vincent’s eyebrow rose. “And you know that how?”
“He built our home. We’re from the orphanage on Seagull Island.”
That brought a smile to the captain’s face. “We don’t talk much about our vocations, but he has bragged at length to me about that place of yours. A modular building, easily expandable, a large home at day, and a fortress during the tide. And good for that last bit, now more than ever, eh? She’s coming soon.”
“Yeah.” Three weeks from now, that was the latest the weather report had pinned the start of the next tide.
The adventuring vessel Numa 2 was always in the vicinity of Wett for the tide that came once every seven years. It was a bit inconvenient to take the adventurer exam before it, butut since it only ran a week tops, they could squeeze it in. He had reserved a portion of his worrying for how Seagull Island would weather the next tide. Miss Barnabie was leaving on the weekend, and so it would only be his siblings, Hammond, and Claire.
They’ll be alright. Focus on the here and now.
He tuned in to Sophia asking timidly about what kind of research the crew of the Foggy Dreamboat engaged in.
“It’s just a bit of measuring, sampling, patrolling, the sorts. Wett is such a sleepy planet, we’ve got oodles and caboodles of resettled animals and magical beasts poachers would love to get their hands on. The ocean’s a big place, and it’s easy as fishcakes to dump any form of trash all over her bosom too, especially in the deeper parts. Littering is a serious crime when people live under water, and though it’s hard to catch minor misdeeds, anything larger you can measure for quite some time thereafter.”
“What happens then?” Sophia asked.
“Then people get fined. And oh, are those fine fines.” Something about his expression gave Isaac the feeling he’d harpoon someone for littering, if he had a harpoon. “And that’s why you’re not gonna commit crimes of nautical nature under my watch. You got any snacks?” Both nodded. “Then I better see the wrappers scrunched up in your backpack when you leave. You can take your leave now. Make yourself comfortable, we’ve got many days of travel ahead.”
He saw them out of his cabin and returned to whatever captains did when the wind was right and no storm was in sight. Probably drink, by the smell of it. Maybe catch some mainland dramas if they were close enough to a receiver tower.
“We’re not that far to Pirth.” Sophia had that scrunched-up look like when they first read the letter’s riddle. “Hours yes, but even with a triple-master it wouldn’t take days.”
“We’re probably not the only island he’s visiting,” Isaac said. Though now, he wasn’t so sure himself either. The process of weeding the cream from the crop had already started, so perhaps it would be best to keep an eye out while they were aboard this ship.
He looked over the railing, where Seagull island had long since disappeared behind the horizon. Then he looked down and spotted an oddly fat red fish.
“Oh no.” Isaac backed off away from the railing. Why was he here? And that was Piglo, then that meant—
"Land-lordling!" The jolly-sardonic voice of Ortho’Wuur cut through the crisp sea air like a hammer. "Have you missed me?"
“Like a tick carrying lyme disease,” he growled, but Ortho’Wuur just ignored his displeasure, sidling up next to him as if they were old friends. Isaac watched him as he inhaled the breeze with that shark-toothed smile of his and sighed. This was just a conversation he would have to suffer through. “Your Standard is awfully fluent, Ortho’Wuur.”
"I bought a language packet, uploaded to my implants." He pressed a finger to his temple, then his throat, where thin lines hinted at a not-yet healed scar from some sort of implant-operation. If Isaac concentrated just a bit, then it was obvious how the lip flaps didn’t quite line up with the words he said. "Instant translation of subvocalization - wow, what words! And please, call me Ortho."
The voice was slightly tinny. It reminded Isaac of a cheap party trick, with two cans connected by string.
“Hm, let me think about it. No.” He crossed his arms. Sophia followed after, though with a bit of hesitation. He hadn’t told anyone that it was Ortho’wuur who guided him to the rift. “You do know Claire is absolutely pissed with you? She said that if he ever showed your face within six kilometers of the island, she’d turn him and your fish into legendary goulash.”
He didn’t seem to take it seriously, if Isaac was reading him correctly.
"Terrifying. – – – –, but Claire is Claire, and you are you. Half land, half sea you may be, but can you truly claim to not have benefited at all, land-lordling?"
“What do you want? And why do you keep calling me that?”
“Simple: Your mother is a queen.” He grinned his shark-like grin again. “You did not know this? A surprise. Tell me, what do you know of how we Merfolk live on Wett?”
That was easy. Claire had taught him that much.
“They’re matriarchal,” Isaac said. “And each pod is raised to do some job or other. They took the empire’s caste system and made it work.”
“And then they didn’t stop it when everyone else did,” Sophia muttered. “What caste was Claire again?”
“One of the higher ones?” Isaac asked. “The third maybe?”
"The second." The tier of administrators and generals, just one below the highest class of rulers. That was pretty high. Maybe that explained why she was so good at organizing the little ones. "Me, I have been a minister all my life, a dignitary and envoy who could never outgrow his pod. But for her, there was a – – – – for goodly-ascension up the ranks. As it so happens, all her contemporaries have either passed away, or risen to a higher status."
Isaac squinted. “Claire would have told us if she were royalty. She would have spent at least some of that fuck-you-levels of money on the orphanage.”
"Ah, but to tell, she must know she is royalty first. And certain people benefit from crowning her in absence, and delaying telling her indefinitely. She has… not believed me that a former subordinate has grown comfortable on her throne like a fish rotting on its own terms, nor has she requited any of my advances. It’s not as if we must procreate as she has technically fulfilled her duty of being a mother, though some might call for performative action."
Performative… Oh.
A shared look with Sophia told him everything he needed to know how to answer to that.
“Thanks for telling us, but we’re not going to let you bang our sharkmom for political clout.”
"Bang? Like an explosion? No, that is not the right translation."He frowned, but just as quickly his face was all smiles again. "Which is where you come in, princess Sophia."
Everyone was silent as they turned to Sophia. “Wuh— Me?”
"Beauty unmatched, with voice like sing-song, and a body of a future queen to match. Human you may be, and quite short, but in Beds-beneath-the-Hollow, we will crown you princess, and when the time comes, queen."
On one knee, he clasped her hand and pulled it close to his heart.
"You will have riches, and a harem of the best and most beautiful stock. The power of our people at your command — and all it takes is fulfilling my one request. Sophia, princess-above-sand, would you grace us with your presence most benerific? I know of a prince who is just the right age and size, and who won’t mind your humanly complexion—"
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Isaac would have listened to the rest of it, then politely told him to go shaft himself if he’d been in a better mood. Sophia looked more uncomfortable than shocked as Ortho’Wuur made his proposition, which flipped right around as Isaac socked him in the face.
He looked like he’d never been punched before as he stumbled against the railing. It felt good to watch him reel for once, to be off-balance if for but a moment. He was a higher Tier by at least one, and one thing kids on Canker Island had learned was to never start fights with someone bigger and stronger than them.
“Get off my sister.”
For a moment, he regretted punching him. But instead of malice, or anger, there was only confusion on Ortho’Wuur’s face hidden behind a mask of controlled neutrality.
"I was going to offer you a gift too, Isaac,” he said with a clipped, clicking voice. “I have much to give. This selection process for lonesome adventurers? You have not a lick of chance at victory without allies."
“Thanks, but go suck a sea-cucumber.”
The merfolk stared at Isaac for a long while. "We have been a colony under our homeworld’s thumb for far too long. We will have our queen one day, land-lordling, through one stroke or the other."
Then he walked off the ship, hitting the water with a distant sploosh.
“That’s one way to end a conversation,” Sophia noted dryly as she wiped her hand on her pants. “Thanks, by the way.”
“I was very tempted to boot him off with my skill. He feels slimy.” Both physically and otherwise.
“He feels like a scam artist,” Sophia muttered. “I feel a bit bad for all the other merfolk. I didn’t know they weren’t allowed to self-govern.”
“It’s… not our concern.” Isaac rubbed his fist where he’d connected with his iron jawbone. “Ow. I hope I don’t get in trouble for punching a merfolk dignitary.”
“Hey, worst case Claire bails you out with her queenly powers. But then everything would change.” She sighed and looked out to a coral reef they were passing by. “He’s right, y'know. Without Zach, it feels like something is missing. We need allies.”
“I can manage that.”
“We’ll both manage that,” she said, poking his chest. “We’re in this together, alright?”
+++
On the next island, a whole group of people boarded the Dreamboat, and even a few merfolk from a local community he’d heard were supposed to be around here. There were more amenities on the island for sure, at least three-dozen houses Isaac could see, as well as a convenience store and a small tinker’s hut. Richards Rigorous Repairs & Requisitions.
Would’ve been handy to know a smith, if I wanted to get some armor.
From what he’d read on blogs, armor was generally a good investment for the adventurer exam. It was also expensive, and so instead Isaac had taken his pok-ball gear with him. It was only made of baseline shock-absorbing foam and hard-plastics, but it included a helmet, bracers for forearms and shins, elbow and knee guards, as well as a padded chestpiece which he was lugging around in an extra pack.
In case any part of the exam involved full-contact sports, or beating each other half to death.
Can’t even make a full pok-ball team with just the two of us.
He sighed. Being poor was one of the things he couldn’t change. But making friends and allies? That was entirely within the scope of his abilities
With his mind made up, he approached one of the newcomers, a rather lanky boy.
“Heyo, my name’s Isaac, are youuu…”
The boy turned towards him, and Isaac’s brain stalled as he saw the massive array of scars that ran across his face. One of his eyes was milky, as if he’d gone blind.
“What?” he asked, and just hearing his voice conjured up the image of an array of ghoulish torture implements.
What would Claire do?
Isaac smiled, and gave a friendly wave. “Hey, me and my sister are looking for someone to team up and—”
“No.”
“Right.” He breathed in through his nose and approached the next one, a girl that looked like she grew up in a fighting ring. Half-floppy ears implied… a weak canid bloodline? “Hey, interested in a team up?”
“Depends. What’s your rank?” she asked bluntly. “Boon-wise?”
What the heck is the right answer here? Do I lie? No, that’d just come to bite me in the ass.
“I mean, I’m a D+, but I’ve worked around it.”
The girl’s face contorted into a grin. “Worked around. A D+?”
“I have a skill…”
“A whole skill?” She laughed, and howled, and laughed, and howled some more.
O-kayy, not the best reception. He shook off a growing sense of unease. One more try.
He let his eyes wander and they stuck to the back of one heck of a brick shithouse. He had squinty eyes, more sleepy bear than ferocious tiger. He was also the only one sitting alone.
Maybe people are afraid to approach him because he’s so big. He’s probably just shy.
“Hey man, quick question: How old are you?”
The giant opened his eyes and with the graveliest voice Isaac had ever heard on anyone said: “Sixteen?”
Six—holy shit!
“Wow,” Isaac chuckled nervously. “Must’ve used a lot of mortar when they bricked you up like that.”
“No.”
Isaac swallowed. “Ha-hah, everyone’s feeling monosyllabic today, eh? Must be the nerves. I can relate—”
“Piss off.”
“I mean, I could relate, but I’m chill as a pickle. Between you and me, mano e mano, two pickles are better than one if you catch my drift?”
The guy stood up, and Isaac had to reevaluate his earlier assessment. The dude was built like a brick skyscraper. A frankly disgusting amount of muscle bulged and distended as the guy rolled his shoulder.
“You tryna fuck with me?”
“Nooo?” A hand like a meaty vice closed around his shoulder.
“You gonna keep yabbering,” he said, squeezing until pain lanced up Isaac’s arm, “or you gonna leave?”
Pride or clavicle? Not even a choice.
The guy pushed him back, and Isaac staggered backwards, turned around, and scrambled off.
“Run, pickle boy!” someone called at his back.
The girl was still laughing as he disappeared into the bowls of the ship. Down too-small stairs he went, hitting his head and only coming to a stop when the sounds of ridicule were no longer audible.
This is insane. How the hell am I supposed to compete against freaks like that?
That was probably the worst first impression he had given, maybe ever. He’d loved to have had the big guy on his team, because even though Isaac wasn’t small himself, there was something to be said about strength in numbers.
What do they feed guys like him, puppies and dolphins?
It was seemingly not meant to be. And more than that, the way he looked at the dark corner of the ship had changed. It wasn’t just an old ship meant to ferry him to the exam, it was a cauldron for opposition, a cage. Suddenly, it didn’t feel safe to walk around the ship alone.
I gotta find Sophia.
What was bad for Isaac was worse for Sophia. Isaac hurried along, his steps sending creaks and echoes much too far through the ship’s living quarters.
“Sophia?” he called. After a few seconds, something like an answer echoed from across a bundle of stacked crates that smelled like jerky and pickled vegetables.
Ducking under a strut, he turned a corner and almost tripped over his sister.
“Why are you just sitting there—”
She pulled him down by his collar. “Shhh!”
Everyone’s interrupting me today.
“What?” he hissed.
“Look over there.” They peeked over a barrel of likely-not-apple-juice. “It’s a catboy.”
Isaac peeked over a nearby crate and up at a thick strut that ran under the ceiling from the front of the ship all the way to the back. A black tail with a white tip swished lazily, and there in the shadows Isaac noticed the feline figure Sophia had mentioned. His eyes were yellow and slitted, hidden with tousled curly hair. Where the rest of his body practically melded with the darkness, Isaac only noticed that detail because the mink was looking straight at him. Six or seven ring-shaped weapons glinted at his hips, and he wore a matching scouter, which he wore with its heads-up display over one eye like a monocle.
Mink, or as they were commonly referred to, cat people, weren’t too uncommon on the mainland of Wett. Wherever there were humans, there were canids and mink, and wherever there were mink, there were canids and humans. He looked about their age, with short-hair fuzz black as the bottom peeking out of his loose clothes, which implied a rather strong bloodline.
Probably good for heat retention. I wonder if that means he overheats more easily?
He’d have to ask, for Sophia’s sake at least. The ups and downs of a bloodline were more pronounced for species that had recently been uplifted from their home rifts. He’d heard that for older races like the mink, strong genetic expressions popped up rarely, while the human bloodline was so old and muddied that people had forgotten entirely what form that took.
There were no mink on Seagull island, much to the chagrin of certain enthusiasts.
Sophia looked like a rat that had just found the national cheese storage. She was sending glances over the top and fidgeting. Sophia never fidgeted.
“So what’s the issue, Cat got your tongue?”
“Oh screw off, that’s low even for you.” She chewed her thoroughly gnawed-on nails some more. “He has a tame bird. That’s so cool!”
“And you want to ask if you can see the bird?”
Sophia nodded. “Among other things.”
“So you’re shy?”
“Talking to people isn’t as easy as you make it look, Isaac. I don’t even know how to start a conversation.”
Isaac risked another look. The bird in question warbled once and screamed loudly, while the mink just flattened his ears and batted it away. “Doesn’t look like a very tame bird to me. He seems rather annoyed by it. I could just walk up and ask for you?”
“Oh yeah, because that sounds like such a great idea. ‘Hey, I’m Isaac, I’m an orphan, and this is my sister, also an orphan. She likes pok-ball and collecting pufferfish. Cool bird — can she pretty-please touch your ears? It’s for science, I promise.’ I’m not that pathetic, I can introduce myself.”
“I don’t think you’re on ear-touching base quite yet,” Isaac whispered. The cat-boy yawned. His ears did a flick and Sophia practically melted. “You should probably just go up and ask him for his number.”
“Absolutely not. No. Nuh-uh. What kind of person does that? Picking up people during the adventurer exam — nope, not me.” She stole another glance around the barrel. “I’d need to know his name first.”
“Oh. Ok.” Isaac got up. “Hey you! What’s your name?”
The catboy gave no indication of surprise as Isaac climbed around a crate towards him.
He must’ve been listening to us.
He’d barely taken two steps when his brick received a message. It was a friend request from an anonymous number. No name, no profile picture, just a string of numbers.
Mysterious.
The moment he accepted it, he got a message.
<
Well, it’s not a great start, but at least that wasn’t Ortho’Wuur’s number.
And if he wanted to communicate entirely by text, that was his right. Maybe he had a speech impediment. Maybe his bane made him mute.
“Sorry if I’m being a bother, but me and my sister would really like to know your name. I’ll trade you a fishcake for it.”
His yellow eye bored into Isaac before it flicked back and forth.
So that’s how he does it — eye-to-text with his scouter.
<
A mysterious mink, who won’t talk and can’t eat fish. I have to know the story behind that.
“Erm, we also have sandwiches, a pack of nuts. Would your bird like some nuts?”
“He would quite prefer the fishcake.”
Isaac turned around. Who said that? And why was the voice so deep and sultry?
He heard the flap of wings as a quite heavy bird landed on his head. He looked up, straight at the majestic long-beaked form of a bird with a big head and glistening feathers.
“What,” the bird said in a voice like chocolate melting over a wood fire in an old, cozy log cabin, “never seen a Kookaburra before?”