When the signal comes forth for our ship to drop anchor

And we see before us is the port of Sheyflie

Let go the halyard, let go the topping rig,

Haul up your lifts, tacks and sheets high!

Now let us empty our pockets for a good time til morning,

And let every man drink off his full glass;

We'll dance and be merry and drown melancholy,

And here's to every true-hearted lass.

- Found half-written on tavern walls, completed by the Great Geoffry Ginte

He ignored GIersa's gibe. But he had to draw a line somewhere. There had been many words said about Plucky. Jori could tolerate old, beaten, or perhaps ugly, for Plucky wasn't decked out like those fancy merchant ships, all gleaming timber and flying banners. But no one had ever questioned her name!

"One with a sense of humor obviously," said Jori, scowling. "What problem do you have with her? And who sent you?" He glanced around suspiciously, because while he had so far kept his mission a secret from almost everyone, you only needed one drunken mouth and it goes up in flames.

"Nothing, nothing! It's a nice name, and Captain Amard does have a sense of humor! I wasn't sent by anyone, I'm Alez, I just want to go—" the dufois gestured at the maps on the desk and Jori's eyes landed on the journals next to them, not in their rightful places.

"What were you doing?" Jori said furiously, striding over and adjusting the journals to their rightful place. "This is private! Private!" He blinked furiously, spinning to point an accusatory hand at Alice or whatever fancy name rich parents bestowed upon their children these days. If it had too many flourishes of the pen and honorifics doomed a child to life of perpetual intolerance and disdain of those beneath them.

He scowled even harder as Alice flinched away, and Giersa sighed deeply, "Leave him to it."

"I didn't mean to!" said Alice blurted, and by now she'd clambered out from under the bed. "I just. I just thought the Captain would come in at any minute and—"

It was the most ludicrous idea he'd ever heard anyone entertain. What did Alice think you could just negotiate your way onto a ship by talking nicely? "Well I am the Captain and—"

"Let's go," said Giersa, taking Alice's hand firmly in hers, "Let's go and leave him to be storming, he'll be fine. Everyone has their flights of fancy and this is just his—"

"It's not a flight of fancy!" Jori shouted, and Alice cowered.

Giersa scowled, he returned it, and when they left he took great pleasure in slamming the door in behind their backs. He turned back to the table, and the notes that were clearly looked through. They were not in their right places, he thought furiously, putting them to right and meticulously dusting the quill and ink that his father kept at the desk. No one touched his father's notes. No one except Jori, and maybe Ralphye or Giersa on a good day, when he wanted to ask them for their opinion. And the stowaway, Alice or Alek or Alem or whatever it was, who gave them the freedom to just look through someone else's things! There was a reason why they were as precisely and organized just so, his father had a reason for it and if they were off course because of meddling hands! He took in several deep breaths and looked over the notes again. No, they were as they were, he had them all memorized and committed to heart by now, his father's ambiguous coordinates, the scribbles that could be clues but could be flights of fancy.

Satisfied that they were now as Amard had left them, he went through every nook and cranny in the quarters, making certain nothing was out of place before sitting on the ground with a heavy sigh. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be, Amard had to see that Jori kept the place as he left it. Amard had to see that Jori had done his best. Then a nagging thought came to him, as it did whenever he dwelled upon his father's disappearance. What if Amard was truly lost? No one knew what happened at sea, and certainly... from all the information Jori had gathered, his father had kept company with all manners of people. Dabbled with the Sea Goddess, one sea captain had told him. You don't come back after such a thing. Jori had handed the man a purse of coins and left it at that.

When he finally left the quarters it was late, and someone had already taken up cooking for the evening below deck. Whatever it was it was an affront to the Gods both dead and living and Jori shook his head, when Ralphye offered him a bowl. How the man managed to ruin perfectly good beef and vegetables Jori had no idea, it was not that difficult to make a good stew. As it were, the other sailors decided to drown the taste with beer. He could hear the soft clinks of bottles being passed around, the sea was calm, and no doubt someone would start a song soon.

"I heard about the ah…" Ralphye glanced around and lowered his voice, "guest. What do you want to do about it?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Ralphye was the only man on the ship that Goatsby would willingly spend her time with. She tolerated Jori well enough, and accepted treats from his hands, but Ralphye was the one who brushed her coat to a shine, and for some reason her presence next to Ralphye felt like a threat. He doubted Goatsby would gore him, she had never attacked someone besides a nip here or there, but there was a look in her black eyes that she mirrored whatever emotion Ralphye was expressing and to the best of Jori's knowledge, it was unease.

"Giersa—" Jori began, irritated.

"I told Giersa it's above my station," Ralphye said brightly, and stroke Goatsby's flank. She calmed down, and bleated.

A stroke of brilliance, Jori thought sourly, and looked around for where on earth one would find Giersa and their unwanted stowaway. But Giersa was nowhere to be found. Which was unusual, because Giersa, to the best of Jori's knowledge, liked the evenings when they could just sit and talk and often, break into song. Granted, the songs were usually started by Giersa, and it was often the case when Giersa came to visit their house. His father would pull his mother into a dance and she would laugh girlishly when he purposefully dipped her too far. So he decided to ask around if anyone had seen his first mate.

The designated doctor of the ship shrugged, "How should I know what ails Giersa?" said Perre irritably, nursing a swollen ankle courtesy of Goatsby. He'd carefully trimmed his beard, Jori noted, and hoped that he did not use the surgical scissors.

"Drinking rum and not sharing," Ralphye piped up cheerfully. "Don't worry, Captain, we didn't pay for it." He tipped his bottle in the general direction of Port Regate.

"Damn right," Jori muttered, much to the amusement of the sailors around him. "I'll go look for Giersa," he said to Ralphye. "You make sure this doesn't get…rowdier."

His first mate was nowhere on the deck, but Jori waited patiently, filtering in the sounds of the waves until he could hear what clearly was Giersa thinking things over. This involved drinking and sometimes humming, and tonight that particular sound came up the crow's nest. He glanced up, calculating if he should risk a climb. It was too dark and too high to make out a figure, particularly if Giersa was sitting, so he decided to make his way up, just to be certain. He grinned, triumphant, when he did see Giersa slumped against the wood.

"A rather dangerous place to be drinking," Jori remarked. Not to mention how many bottles Giersa actually had around their person. Usually a man would carry one or two bottles up, Giersa had a bag, and knowing Giersa, a bag could fit four or five bottles comfortably.

"I don't like not knowing what to make of things," said Giersa through a mouthful of rum.

"What do you mean?" Jori sat down, it was quite cramped, with the two of them, but at least they had the sky above them and not wood or stone. He smiled at the memory of a chase through the streets, a metallic slamming of jail doors, and the escape aided by an irate Ralphye.

"You know I never liked mirrors. Or portraits—" Giersa scowled when Jori opened his mouth to question whether or not a portrait was ever even made of Giersa. The first time he'd met Giersa, they were dressed in sailor clothes and sailors were not known for money for artistic commissions. The only thing expensive about Giersa's person was a glint of a golden necklace. "Let me finish! I hate portraits. Especially younger portraits of myself," Giersa shuddered. "I was so stupid. So naive."

"And you're on a boat, perfectly capable of staring at your sweet naivete in the sea, at any time," Jori responded, crossing his arms. He'd raise an eyebrow but it was too dark for it to make an impression.

"You're just being stubborn on purpose," said Giersa with a sniff, taking another swig of rum. "Alez looks at me like a lost puppy. Like I can just—" Giersa clapped, and nearly sloshed the rum all over the two of them, "like that, and solved every problem. Because we're supposedly the same."

"You're not?" Jori prompted, looking wistfully at the rum and wondering if drinking it would help him follow Giersa's flight of thought.

"No! Well, I am like him, I am, as your mother puts it ambaŭ, but—" Giersa threw up both hands, "that doesn't make me understand him! I am not a man!"

It has been awhile since he heard that tongue, and Jori felt a stab of what clearly was wistfulness. But he swallowed it down, in favour of staring at Giersa with confusion. What on earth was his first mate going on about? Giersa was Giersa, and he scoured his brain for anything to say to that exclamation, "You're—" Jori stopped himself, frowning. "Right, I have seen you wear a dress, but I thought that was to get free drinks off the sailors who'll buy it for you!"

Giersa stared at him, opened mouth, then started laughing hard, doubling over. If the crow's nest wasn't secure, it would have been rocking.

"I'll have you know I've only ever thought of you as Giersa!" Jori sniffed, face red, "My mother said it was noble to do so."

"Noble!" wheezed Giersa. "Noble little Jori, running a ship but no idea who is actually on it!"

"Well, don't you want me to call you Giersa? I don't understand."

"Look, Jori," Giersa said, patting him on the back. "In a perfect world, I'm sure I would gallivant around and sweep many a lucky lady off her feet. But we're not in that world and the minute a person slips on a petticoat, they're suddenly a lower being, in some certain gentlemen's eyes. Gentlewomen as well, let's be fair here. I've lived long enough to learn how to swing the game in my favor. If dressing like a man grants me some benefits or another, I'll take it."

Sometimes Giersa did not make sense, and Jori suspected it was purposeful. But it was fair, because how many times had he subjected Giersa to the same, "And what's your spat with Alice then?"

"Alez," Giersa corrected, carefully placing the bottle into the bag and pulling out another one. "Like I said, I made my peace with myself years ago, and I don't particularly feel inclined or wise to guide someone to their own quest. I'm not a scent-hound or a parrot. Besides, Alez didn't very much appreciate my congratulations."

Jori took in a long breath and reached for the bottle of rum. He took a swig, and Giersa nodded in approval, "What congratulations?" When Giersa did not answer he pressed on, "I dread to ask, what did you say?"

"There is a cure for every man, and for some that is a bullet," Giersa chuckled, one hand toying with the golden necklace that Jori had seen so many years ago. "Or final hard knock to the head."

The rum that came out of his nose stung and he wiped at it, much to Giersa's amusement.

"Excuse me?" He stood up and looked around wildly, half-expecting to be in pursuit any moment. "A murderer?"

"Oh calm yourself, Alez told me it was a very clean death. No one's sailing after him. Yet."

"I'm dropping him off at the next port." He did not have the time to give merry chase, he was on a hunt of his own.

"Sure. You said that about Goatsby as well, but look where we are now."