Chapter Seventeen

Subtle Manipulation

It was once remarked by his old friend, Noah, that Bertrand Fairweather was surprisingly unintimidating for a young man of his size and stature. A more insecure teenager might have mined only offense from this comment, but as the years matured him, Bertrand learned at a relatively early age that intimidation was a poor currency indeed. Battles in Sailor’s Rise were won not through brute force—but through invitation.

As a man-sized teenager, Bertrand had negotiated contracts and even found new work for The Fairweather Company, his father having recognized his son’s proclivity for business development and marketing—if not everything else required of a sailor. Irvin Fairweather was one of the Rise’s finest ship captains, but the veteran sailor treated business negotiations in the manner of his peers: like duels to be won with carefully targeted shots and quick, opportunistic strikes. Bertrand, on the other hand, discovered the terms were often better when you simply disarmed a fellow.

Briley recently described his skill set as subtle manipulation, and Bertrand had to remind himself once more not to be offended. They all had their words for it, though he preferred the classic one: charm.

And it was this very charm that his friends and future business partners relied upon now. Bertrand’s charm would get them into the Graystone Junkyard and out of it with a new airship, assuming Elias hadn’t missed or misconstrued some important detail, assuming this plan of his was only half as ludicrous as it sounded.

They would find out soon enough.

The junkyard in question, the only one in Sailor’s Rise, was situated along the edge of Hightown in a rather bland district of blocky warehouses. The Fairweather Company was not large enough to require its own warehouse, though business had brought Bertrand here on a few occasions. He knew where to find the Graystone Junkyard, in any event, not that it would have been easy to miss. Its snow-covered brick walls made the facility stand out like a fortress, as if a junkyard was the castle to which this boring neighborhood paid fealty. Bertrand supposed it was, in the end.

He approached the facility, brushing snow from his damp hair, which appeared more brown than blonde in the current weather. The junkyard’s oversized wooden entrance was closed and locked, guarded by a bag-eyed attendant who scrutinized Bertrand from behind a window of metal bars. While the poor bloke resembled a prisoner, Bertrand knew it was the opposite, that he would need to make a compelling case for why this weathered-looking man ought to let him inside, junk-free as he was.

“Excuse me, sir,” Bertrand said, approaching the bars.

The man nodded for him to go on.

“I was hoping to inspect your facility,” the teenager explained. “I work for The Brookfield Company. Lester Brookfield.” Bertrand reached a red-knuckled hand through the bars between them and waited for the man to awkwardly shake his fingertips. “We have an old airship that, well, I’ll tell it to you plainly, sir. Our men struck a damn cliff on a recent trip back from the Southlands. The vessel was nearing the end of its life, so we’re not entirely heartbroken, but the damage does make disposing it a tad more complicated.”

“Fly it around back,” the attendant said.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to ensure there will be enough space.”

“We’ll make room,” the man insisted.

“As I mentioned, the ship has seen better days.” Bertrand sighed a dramatic sigh. “Truth be told, I’m worried the bloody thing is one hard turn away from falling apart. If I could quickly confirm that the space you have is adequate—the vessel is rather sizable—it would put my troubled mind at ease.”

The attendant hemmed and hawed before finally waving Bertrand—or Lester Brookfield, as far as he knew—through the large wooden doors he unlocked and pulled open.

“Thank you, sir,” Bertrand said, and it really sounded like he meant it.

Inside, the junkyard was a veritable mountain range of garbage, housing everything from broken carriages to shattered pots to literal mounds of dirt. If one looked closely at any particular pile—the tarnished silverware, the ripped canvas of an unloved painting—one might write a small story about where this or that had originated, why it had been discarded, by whom, for what reason. Every graveyard had a hundred life stories, but this junkyard contained countless intimate ones, tiny tragic tales of things tossed aside, abandoned to be forgotten.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Bertrand could indulge his imagination later.

“This way.” The attendant beckoned him through a snaking path between piles. “Where was it you said you worked again?”

“The Brookfield Company. Have you not heard of us?” Bertrand feigned surprise.

The man cleared his throat. “Of course. Of course I have,” he said. “Just so many companies to keep track of these days.”

“The Trader’s Guild is certainly turning a tidy profit,” Bertrand replied.

The attendant chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Question for you,” Bertrand said, partway to their destination. “You wouldn’t happen to have a lavatory I could use? It was a rather long walk over here.”

“It’s a junkyard,” the man said. “Piss where you like.”

Bertrand crossed both hands over his bladder. “I would, truly, but, well, it is quite cold, and I much prefer privacy.”

His guide examined him up and down, wondering once again if he should let this harmless-looking young man wander through yet another door not intended for outsiders. “I’m a shy pisser myself,” he conceded. He pointed to a brick building built into the junkyard wall. “Head to the office, take a right. There’s a privy.”

“You’re an understanding man.” Bertrand bowed an inch. “I’ll be hasty.”

And hasty he was, skipping toward the lavatory and briefly out of sight. Beside the brick building and behind the wooden privy, Bertrand found what he was actually searching for: a side door exiting the junkyard. Briley had scouted the locked door from the other side two days earlier, determining that it was the least conspicuous entrance into the facility. As for whether Bertrand would be able to unlock it from inside—well, this was hardly the only uncertain part of today’s plan.

He whirled around, ensuring the attendant hadn’t followed him, before unbarring the wooden door quickly and quietly. Both friends were waiting with crossed arms, shivering in the biting shadow of a snowy day. Bertrand waved them in, closing the door behind them.

“Go that way,” he instructed them. “Not that way.”

Briley nodded as Elias stared stoically onward.

“I actually do kind of need to piss,” Bertrand whispered.

“Piss later,” Briley whispered back.

“If we’re caught, I suppose I’ll just piss myself,” Bertrand acquiesced. “Good luck.”

And with that, they were off, crawling over a low pile of junk to stay out of sight before disappearing behind another. Bertrand considered slipping into the privy for a swift pee, despite Briley, but he knew he would never hear the end of it if somehow his bathroom break was the thing that spoiled their plan.

And so he returned to the attendant, acting relieved. “Much better. Shall we?”

The man continued their tour, adding, “Nothing like a hot piss on a cold day.”

“Nothing, indeed,” Bertrand said. “Nothing, indeed.”

At last, they arrived at the edge of the junkyard. It was the only edge without a two-story brick wall, as the sheer mountain cliff evidently provided a sufficient barrier against the city’s plundering poor. The open edge was both economical and practical. The junkyard had its own dock, extending into the open air, so clearly not everything was delivered and unloaded through the front gate. That made sense, Bertrand thought. The dock was currently unoccupied.

And yet he could see an airship, this one grounded inside the facility. He couldn’t get a complete view of it from their present vantage point, but the vessel barely looked a decade old—it certainly did not look like junk. Indeed, there was no doubt about it: this was their future airship, assuming all went to plan.

“As you can see, we have room for ships of all shapes and sizes,” the attendant commented.

And just as the grizzled man turned back toward Bertrand, our story’s subtle manipulator spotted his friends sprinting out from their hiding spot, scrambling up the ship’s slender hull.

“Looks like you have some room over there.” Bertrand pointed in the direction opposite of the attempted hijacking, Elias’s voice playing in his mind: “It’s not stealing.” He wandered his way toward a large clearing, trying to kill time. “Are you a family man?” he inquired.

“Not really,” the man said.

Bertrand needed another distraction. He walked to one edge of the clearing and eyed the other, then slowly, step by step, pressing the heel of one boot against the other’s toe, he began counting steps. “Just want to make sure it’s large enough,” he said, “while we’re here.”

The attendant shrugged. Like he had nothing better to do than standing out here in the uncomfortable cold, watching this tall stranger move glacially, cumbersomely, as if balancing himself on a tightrope.

“Shit. Lost count.” Bertrand slapped his forehead and started again. “Apologies.”

Alas, he could only lose count so many times. He was afraid that if they turned around, the attendant would find Elias and Briley tinkering away at the helm of the abandoned vessel. Bertrand couldn’t make out what exactly his friends were attempting from afar, nor did he want to give them away with an obvious stare. He focused on his steps.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Bertrand’s performative distraction soon became moot. The sun had snuck through an open patch in the sky’s quilt of clouds, and now there was no distracting anyone from the airship ascending out of the Graystone Junkyard, casting its shifting shadow over them as the attendant whirled around, hand over brow.

It was a fine ship indeed, Bertrand observed from below, only a little smaller than The Sleeping Sparrow. Noah had told it true: no one would abandon such a vessel as junk.

The man turned back toward him, looking less surprised than Bertrand anticipated. “Thought they were moving her tomorrow,” he said, shrugging again. “They never tell me anything.”

Bertrand stopped counting steps and smiled. “I suppose there’s certainly room now.”