Mharra

The captain of the Rainbow Burst had never been a towering man, but he'd shared enough happy moments with tall, lanky sorts that, when he had to ask for something from the top shelf because he couldn't find a stepstool or jump high enough, he no longer simmered with envy.

As much.

Three used to joke that all his height had gone into bulk, among other features he liked, which explained why he was almost as wide as he was tall, not to mention robust.

That still didn't take the sting out of a boychild almost meeting his eyes without even needing to stand on his tiptoes.

Still, Mharra mused, almost stroking his beard out of habit, it was interesting to see such a strapping lad, especially for his age (the captain doubted a wisp of a beard had ever touched his face), when surely the boy mostly sat around and played.

Could it be that so much of Midworld was wrong when it came to childrearing? That growing up in the harshest of places and struggling did not actually make one stronger? Some of the scrappiest fighters Mharra had met had grown up deprived of much - Ryzhan was a prime example, even if he'd had it better than most, parents aside -, but grit and guile were not the same as health and strength. Tide Elders knew he'd had that lesson smacked into his head in enough bar brawls.

Mharra shook his head rapidly, as if to clear his ears of water, and would've slapped his cheeks, had his audience asked for a lighter performance - but such things could come across as a lack of interest, when preparing for a sad show.

The lad, Tekhar, had the fair skin and rosy cheeks of folks who spent most of their time in their ships' cabins. Mharra, so used to those tanned by sun and wind, almost thought he might've been one of those paler people, but his complexion was not like milk or marble: merely like Ryzhan's had been before he'd spent some more time at sea.

Mharra found himself studying the boy. He couldn't have been too far from the beginnings of manhood, smooth as his features were...surely his parents had taken him out to walk the deck once or twice, or to play on some vessel's rigging? He was more than old enough, not to mention muscled. All from playing inside? More oddness.

Tekhar is bearing some sort of strange purse, with the handles going over his shoulders, like those of the bags some peddlers use, but its make is too fine as that of any satchel. Soft, black material and a line of silver teeth Tekhar calls a zipper, which can be closed or opened more easily than knots.

The zipper is half-open at the moment, with the boy's beloved critter peeking out. Mharra had never heard of keeping slimes as pets, with most of them being far too busy eating and dissolving whatever they can engulf to be tamed, if they can even understand people. Verdant, as he calls it, is, however, attentive and curious: Mharra can feel its eyes boring into him, even if they are only thin black lines, seeming closed. The captain is unsure it even has eyeballs.

As Mharra explained the role of Three, the slime's body changed from the emerald green he guessed was its default look, given the name. More than a few times, it became as white as freshly-fallen snow, or as dark as tar, round form shifting slightly to track the pacing Mharra. Between that and the gurgling, almost inaudible sound it emitted, he was reminded of a cat.

One of those fat ones folks of means used to carry around on their shoulders and pull into their laps when they sat down, he thought, remembering his people. If the slime sprouted ears, too, he'd be tempted to throw it a fish, just to see the results.

Curiosity. Was that it? Mharra has never seen a coloured slime turn black or white, orange for gluttony and red for agitation being the most usual shifts, and he wondered what it meant. Cats often had coats of white or black, or combinations, especially spotted ones, and they were curious.

White was also what many learned folks said light was before it was split, and Mharra's tricks with prisms backed up the idea, at least when magic and other uncanny powers were not to close by to warp the laws of nature. Black and white, when counted as colours, were often considered the basis of the others, not just of grey. They were beginnings.

Could slimes, and their changing bodies, reflect that? Was it intentional - did Verdant understand what it was doing, if it was aware of it? What thoughts such creatures he'd dismissed as simple could inspire...

'All right, my boy,' Mharra said, 'you don't have to put on the makeup, but, if you want to look like your character?' The captain gestured for him to come closer, then turn his head. 'Just the cheeks, maybe. Not much flour or powder needed. You're already close to Three's looks.'

'I understand, sailor,' Tekhar replied, before a nervous look entered his eyes. Black as night, they were darker than most Mharra had seen, but almost seemed to shine when the light caught them just so, somehow. 'Ah...I understand he meant much to you, but will we have to reenact...everything?'

Storm and tide, what? 'Of course not!' Mharra said, waving his hands briskly. 'I wouldn't ask this of an assistant, never have.' Partly because Three would've been jealous, even if Mharra had got over his mortification at the idea. A stranger, and a child at that? Elders... 'You don't even have to hold my hand if you don't want to, Tekh. I was taunting you folks earlier,' he winked, 'but my ship can make props, even a costume for you. Or switch you with a mannequin so fast no one watching would notice.'

Not that he was planning on reenacting any intimate moments - whatever the perception of actors as showboating deviants, Mharra was ambivalent at best about mentioning lovemaking, much less anything more overt -, but...no.

It wasn't just having to go over what he'd shared with Three while his ghost was still missing. It was that, out of Elders knew however many thousands were watching, they'd sent a child to be his partner.

Mharra was no stranger to cultures in which people preferred to pick their lovers nice and young. Why, his own parents had entertained the idea of finding him a girl as soon as the physicians had determined his seed could take root in one's womb and give them a grandchild. Had he been a woman, they'd surely have sought a boy as soon as the bleeding heralded by the moon's cycles started. But none of that made it him feel any less like a snake next to a mouse.

Tekhar himself was apprehensive, which just made him feel more guilty. He shouldn't have accepted this. But there might just have been a solution.

'Say, lad,' Mharra spoke quietly, unsure whether everyone around them had humanlike hearing. 'Verdant, your slimy friend there in your satchel. How well can it shift shape?'

Tekhar's eyes moved to the slime, which turned black again, the lines that were its eyes becoming white. It reminded Mharra of some pirates who kept parrots on their shoulders and were surprised by the birds' ramblings from time to time. He confessed he didn't quite see the appeal.

The fact most parrots he knew had such plumage as might distract people from his outfits and tricks was not a factor at all. Not that an entertainer of his calibre could be outshone by a bird.

As if it reassure himself, Mharra adjusted his lapels and pulled his collar higher.

'It can,' Tekhar said of the slime, reaching up to pat what passed for its forehead. In response, the critter released a sound like a cat purring, as if heard through water. Smiling absently at it for a heartbeat, he faced Mharra once more. 'Why do you ask? I thought you only needed a person for the role of this Three ghost? Is your ship no longer willing to bend light into props to stand in for the other characters?'

He was just curious, like any child his age (not that Mharra was sure what that was, besides too young for anything he and Three had done), but the captain still did not want to admit anything about his vessel. True, the pleasure fleet had welcomed him and regaled him with stories of their happy dwelling in this doldrum, but they were an open, honest culture of the sort that died or otherwise faded quickly in the wider Midworld. Not to mention, their ships seemed inanimate wood and stone, not living, cantankerous beings like his Burst.

'Do not worry about the props,' he told Tekhar, eyes darting to see if their observers were getting bored or annoyed. Those who still stood on decks or leaned against masts or over railings were distracting themselves with a variety of diversions, from cards and dice and knucklebones to pantomime. Some were preparing instruments (for their own pleasure?) and Mharra entertained the thought of asking them to provide some of their own music for the show, help them feel like they were contributing.

Aye, that might've driven them to ask him to perform longer in exchange, but that was why he lived. And Ib had not said anything about a limit on the time spent on this journey, so surely there was no harm in dawdling a bit.

'What is the matter, then?'

At the slight agitation in the boy's voice, Mharra put on his reassuring smile, hoping it didn't make him look like he'd just finished scamming someone, as Ryzhan said it did. 'Don't worry, Tek. Just lost in my own thoughts. So, can Verdant shift?'

Tekhar nodded. 'It can, yes, but if you were hoping to make it turn into Three's two other selves while I play one...' he trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. 'There is this string of protoplasm joining its selves when it splits itself into two or more bodies.'

'An eyesore, is it?'

'Visible if you squint.'

'No matter, then. Who would pay attention to wirework when I'm on the scene?' Mharra asked with playful arrogance, wiggling his eyebrows. Tekhar gave a small, nervous chuckle, but that was fine. Stage fright, which hobbled even people who made their living like this. He wasn't forcing himself to laugh at Mharra's antics, which the captain found even more frustrating than silence.

When the boy stopped, he turned his head, looking for something across the ships' decks. His parents?

'No,' Tekhar said when Mharra asked as much. 'I don't have-I've never wanted to find out.' He shrugged quickly, in that way that made it plain he was not actually disinterested, and launched into an explanation.

Communal childrearing was not uncommon in Midworld, especially in cases where the parents had important functions to perform on their ship or in their fleet; it also doubled as a way to have the sprogs quickly brush up on their future duties, by having them tag along crewmembers. Of course, in other cases, even those who had time to raise others' children didn't have the mood for the little ones getting underfoot.

The pleasure fleet's creches were a fairly unusual adaptation of such an idea, however. Children being raised in the lap of luxury, not knowing if they shared blood with their caretakers unless they liked them enough to ask who they were? Most cultures did not have the patience for such things, even when they had the time and resources.

Mharra just saw it as a pointless game - why shouldn't a child know where they came from? -, but then, dealing with his parents had soured him when it came to rituals. It didn't matter, anyway.

His assistant did. 'Say, Tekh.' He clapped the lad on the shoulder. 'How come that, out of all these lovers of art and beauty, you were the one that came to my stage.' He pulled his hand back, smiling to take any bite out of the question. 'I don't doubt you enjoy those things as well, but how come everyone agreed on you assisting me so quickly?'

Tekhar's eyes shifted from side to side, but this time, Mharra could tell he wasn't looking to see whoever he'd been looking for was there. More to make sure no one was too close. 'Can your ship make...shelter? Barriers? A tent, maybe?'

Mharra cocked a brow, but gestured subtly, in case the steamer was feeling too surly too take suggestions from strangers. Its moods were mercurial enough he wouldn't have been surprised to discover quicksilver at its heart. With a grunt that could be interpreted as everything except enthusiastic, the ship acceded to Tekhar's request, and a sphere of its metal rose to surround its captain and his assistant.

Wondering what hidden mechanisms let air in, for there were no windows or other openings, Mharra said, 'I think this takes care of eavesdroppers, no?'

Another grunt from beneath, followed by a series of sounds Mharra felt more than heard. Each felt subtly different, and...yes, together, they spelled out (was that the right term?) words, each letter ringing against a different bone.

'You think these garlanded milksops can get through my defences? Just because I'm being made to bob in place like a bath toy, it doesn't mean I'm useless.'

Mharra had not intended to imply anything of the sort, as he subvocalised to the irate steamer.

'I am offended you needed to ask.' For something that surrounded them, the ship definitely gave the impression of someone who'd left in a huff.

Well, if I never find Three and speak those vows we've dreamed of, at least I'll have this grump around to make me feel married, Mharra thought wryly. But he had other things to keep in mind besides a hypothetical wedding with his ship.

Like why Tekhar was getting cold feet. Unlike several of Mharra's former temporary assistants, the boy's nervousness didn't take the form of shaking, sweating, cold palms or the like. Merely hesitation.

'Speak, then,' Mharra prompted, leaning against one of the construct's walls with his arms crossed. This drew a pleased sigh from the steamer, like the sound an immense, contented dog might make.

Perhaps because it made him feel more at ease, Tekhar mirrored Mharra's pose. The sigh the Burst released at this had nothing to do with contentedness.

Placing a calming hand on his vessel's skin, Mharra held Tekhar's eyes. 'Don't worry about that. Old ship, old sounds. You know how it is.'

Tekhar nodded, unsure. 'As you say, captain.' His voice cracked at the last word, making him roll his eyes before he cleared his throat. That age, Mharra thought, remembering how annoyed he'd got during the midst of his life's second decade. 'Ahem...you could say, captain Mharra, that I am here to prove my people wrong.'

Mharra (to his credit, he thought) did not run away at this suggestion of fleet politics, unlike his younger self might have. His life had been as peaceful as one could expect in Midworld because he stayed away from other people's problems. 'Unless they're convinced you're an awful actor or public speaker, I can't help much with that, laddie.'

Tekhar smirked thinly, nervously. 'Something like that.' He licked his lips, which Mharra not noticed he must've bit often, and looked aisde, at Verdant. The slime made a sound that must've been encouragement or reassurance, because Tekhar nodded briskly, before his gaze moved to his boots. 'You have not been with us long, sir, but I'd wager you might've noticed some of the, ah, open air revelries?'

What people did on their own decks was their business, even if one could've wished they were subtler. To be honest, Mharra had listened little, not wanting to be reminded of what he'd lost, and had eventually asked the Rainbow Burst to soundproof itself. Not completely - he still wanted to be able to hear in case someone of the pleasure fleet called on him, for whatever reason - but enough not to be disturbed.

On his walks. Three, or whatever that apparition, or hallucination, had been hadn't returned. Hunting for daydreams was the business of people who usually got locked up in attics, but a captain with no crew had little else to do, especially when Mharra was not looking to recruit. It'd taken pressganging here, and to be honest, he wanted new crewmembers even less than his living vessel needed them. There was no point in growing attached to someone just to lose them, and he didn't want to become the sort of man who saw sailors as numbers in a ledger.

'I've heard enough,' Mharra hedged.

'I gather you rather did!' Tekhar gave a short laugh, which did little for his confidence. 'We don't see them often or for long, but we receive guests from the World of Woe sometimes.' The pleasure fleet's name for the greater part of Midworld was not inappropriate, Mharra thought. 'They are, ah, often put off by how we take our pleasures.'

Loudly and constantly? 'I can see why people more concerned with survival would be offended.' On top of feeling jealous.

Tekhar pointed a finger at him, letting his other finger fall by his side. 'You are not wrong. Our thinkers say life without joy is just living death. I happen to agree, though not as, uh, enthusiastically as most folk of our fleet would.'

Mharra treaded a few fingers through the bottom of his beard. 'So you jumped into something new, to prove you're not a coward.'

'Not a coward, and not a prude, either.' Tekhar's dark look and tone pointed to old arguments. 'Truly, just because I don't sow my seed in every girl who can bleed...' he shook his head. 'Forget it. Not something you'd care about, sir.'

'I might,' Mharra countered. 'I've known cultures to bar some folks from their joys, unless they contribute in some way.' Mharra felt awkward needling a youth who might share his inclination about this, but, if he could help... 'None of what we say will leave these walls,' he promised. 'My ship keeps secrets well, and I am no gossipmonger like some sailors.' At Tekhar's lost expression, he elaborated. 'Are your people forcing these girls on you? Would you rather be with a boy, or-'

'No, no!' Tekhar cut him off, waving his hands with a blush. 'That is not the issue, sir. I love women' He coughed. 'It's the pushiness. I'd rather choose for myself, when my fancy strikes. I don't need bloody suitors.'

'I see.' Mharra went for a warm smile, to get rid of any lingering mortification. 'Your fleet does not push people to love a certain way, then? I am glad. The more enlightened folks I've come across share this trait.'

Tekhar, absently patting his slime as it crawled into his pack, looked aside. 'Well. It's just rumours, you understand, but I've heard of this plot to make sure those who don't love all manners of people to be bred out of the population by those who do. I've certainly heard table talk that those who only prefer men or womenfolk are relics of the past and should be done away with, but that was just rambling from the debauched.'

'Indeed?' That sounded...sinister. Aye, Mharra might've wished his parents hadn't been such vicious fools, but removing people because their passions were "limited" struck him as ridiculous.

'Nothing will come of it.' Tekhar waved dismissively. 'We don't bestir ourself in great numbers for...anything. Survival aside, of course.'

'About that - surely your prosperity has drawn pirates, or conquerors, or simply beasts of the tides? This is a rich stretch of sea, in people and fish both.' Surely Tekhar's folk were not as soft as they seemed? Simply finding this place must've been the result of outrageous luck; if it had never been attacked, he'd call their bluff.

Just to be sure. He'd seen stranger things than an utterly peaceful place. Perhaps he'd only managed to make his way here thanks to Ib picking it as his destination? And the Burst, too; it could find its way on the sea better than most folk of flesh and blood. He supposed it came with being a ship.

'Oh, yes,' Tekhar replied. 'Outsiders might come, once a generation and less often in some ages. Pirates, traders who think themselves sly, seeking to swindle us.'

Mharra stared intently, silently urging him to go on. Tekhar slouched slightly looking uncomfortable. 'They are turned away, as quickly as we can dissuade them.'

'Are they, now? What of the more stubborn ones?'

Mharra did not like the silence that followed. Eventually, he cleared his throat. 'That is all very well, but you can't talk a Seaworm or a Bloodtrail into going away.' The vitae-dripping snails had teeth larger than most mountains, though they appeared as needles by comparison to their slimy maws. Their tempers were one of the few things fouler than their odor: Mharra had never heard of people scaring one away rather than killing it, and if they could be tamed or trained, he didn't know it.

Worse, while such creatures were drawn to rich feeding places, like any animal, they did not seem to strictly need sustenance, though they desired it almost as badly as violence.

Tekhar's shrug was a match for his expression, which said he'd seen things he'd rather forget, if he could. 'You'd be surprised what things people wwill make pets of when they're bored enough, sir.'

Mharra almost boggled at that. Did they have mages that could bend space? Because he was fairly sure none of their vessels was bigger than a Bloodtrail, much less large enough to fit one. And if one of those snails had been hiding underwater, he'd have picked up on its stench, or the steamer would've said something.

Talking about space... 'I have been wondering,' he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets (Tekhar, he noticed, was still - unconsciously? - trying to mimic him, though with no pockets, his hands went to his hips), 'with how freely you lot take your pleasures, are there never, ah, too many of you? For your fleet, I mean, and this place?' Were those who crowded the place exiled? Mharra would've liked to say that seemed unlikely, but the pleasure fleet was sounding increasingly dubious.

'We look after our own, captain,' Tekhar answered. 'I can assure, our home is large enough to accommodate all our kin, no matter how many share that kinship. We have our arts.'

Not magic? There were abilities that could accomplish what it did without needing mana; or maybe what Mharra knew as magic was not known as such, here. He'd seen weirder, like those people who called doorknobs frogs, even though none Mharra had been able to see resembled one.

'Tekhar,' Mharra started, half-serious, 'would you lambast me for my lack of faith in my fellow man if I implied that, perhaps, the things you folks do to those who attack you are not something you talk about in front of strangers?'

'Cynicism is not unhealthy, captain.'

That sounded about as far as he'd get with this line of discussion. Oh, well. Not like he was losing anything but the chance to satisfy his curiosity. 'Indeed. Now, since you've indulged me, I'm even more willing to listen to your plight than I was at the beginning.'

There was some rustling from the boy's pack at that, which somewhat reminded Mharra of those people whose stomachs rumbled when they were nervous. Refusing to snigger, he waited for Tekhar to finish adjusting it. Perhaps the slime was responding to its friend's mood.

'Among my people,' the lad began, zipping the pack closed after a quick peek inside, likely to see how Verdant was doing. 'I am considered somewhat prudish.'

Mharra could imagine the irritation. Some youths had a certain unaware cruelty at that age between childhood and adulthood, which could stay in a boy's mind as easily as any adult's lectures. Perhaps more easily, if Tekhar was the rebellious sort more likely to listen to his friends than his caretakers, whoever those were.

Hmm. Did growing up parentless make one more easily to be mulish?

'I once walked in on a group of, um, close friends, several of whom I I knew.' Tekhar frowned, then went on. 'I reacted quite unexpectedly - didn't join in - and have been the recipient of several tasteless jokes since, not to mention a few pranks. Even got a poem once,' he muttered. 'Some people think they're way smarter than they are...'

'That, in my experience, holds true for the majority of living beings,' Mharra said with a sympathetic smile. 'So you're being, what, shamed? Shunned?'

Tekhar wiggled a hand. 'It's nothing ritualic, sir. Just childish idiots with too much time on their hands.'

'A species as persistent as it is widespread.'

Tekhar chuckled. 'Aye. But I try to brush them off.' He looked Mharra in the eye, and said earnestly, 'Now you know why I'm chomping at the bit. So can we get on with it, sir?'

Shelving away that saying (they had horses here? Ryzhan might be interested to learn, and if Mharra could help his studious friend, he might as well), the captain replied, 'You know what? I think I've found something for both you and your shapeshifting friend to do.' Turning, he took a step, and the steamer removed the silent room, drawing it back into its greater mass. 'About time,' he said, to both the ship and Tekhar. 'A minute longer, your folk might've started making up fantasies about whatever nefarious thing you and I were getting up to.'

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Tekhar scoffed. 'Might just help me save face, captain. Mind if I make a story of it?'

'Storms - you can do it during the show. Let me suggest a few moments...'

* * *

Mharra couldn't recall if Ib had left anything of itself, a piece of its body or some marvellous creation, behind, not with this hangover. He stumbled down the hall to his cabin, with the Burst adjusting itself so its captain wouldn't end up eating floor, before finally coming to a stop against the door. His head pounded as if it was being struck with hammers from the inside, and his legs felt like both lead and water.

Grumbling something he didn't understand himself, he placed one hand on the wheel that served as a doorhandle; one of Three's affectations, which had first appeared on the engine room's door before he and his ghost replicated it across the ship. The ship took the hint, not that Mharra was sure what hint he'd given, and opened the door, before bearing him to his bed.

Once bolted so it wouldn't sway with the tides or the steamer's moods, back when it hadn't really been in control of its wits, it was now fused with the floor at the legs. Mharra thought that had something with how the bed could warm up or cool down depending on how he was feeling, a mechanism he hoped was automatic. He didn't much care for being watched in his sleep by anyone other than Three.

Mharra lay on his back, gingerly pressing his hands to his temples - despite the temptation to throw an arm over his eyes and get rid of the little light in the room, he knew, from experience, that doing so would only worsen his headache.

'Burst,' he began, holding back a yawn. Those tended to be tricky after drinks; far too likely to result in retching, and the steamer would kvetch if it had to clean up after him. It already grumbled about having to take care of waste, and had (jokingly?) suggested that maybe Mharra could do with some mechanical modifications so that he'd no longer have to worry about that.

Which sounded an awful lot like dismembering yourself so so your limbs wouldn't ache anymore, and Mharra wasn't hungover enough to go for that kind of back alley doctor offer. He needed something to cleanse his body, not get rid of it. Or parts of it.

Mharra suspected that, like many regenerators he'd met, his ship didn't truly grasp the consequences of losing parts of oneself. Permanently, that was.

'Burst,' Mharra said again, surprised he wasn't slurring. 'What the...what in the tides did those people give me?' He ran a hand through his long, dark hair, pressing fingertips against his throbbing skull. 'How am I talking like this? I feel drunk. Almost so.'

The steamer sniffed. 'Do you wish to speak to me as I am, or should I make a puppet you can stare at while I talk?'

Mharra stared at the ceiling, confused at the hostility in his ship's tone. Was it so offended by him refusing mechanisation? 'Do as you wish...did I do something I shouldn't have?' He only remembered snatches of the show, then a revelry that had lasted all night and and the next day, before he'd somehow made it back onto his ship.

The Burst responded by moulding a roughly humanoid shape out of the floor. Tall, broad and featureless, it reminded Mharra of a smaller, dark brown Ib, though it only had two arms and legs. The creature perched on the edge of the bed, sitting as it ready to stand up and run at any time. Suddenly, Mharra wished he wasn't so dizzy, and not just because it made him feel stupid.

'You refused,' it began, holding up a fingerless hand when Mharra tried to say he just wasn't interested in trading flesh for clockwork, 'all of my offers to ram their pleasure boats and sink them.'

Mharra sighed, closing his eyes. Perversely, his hearing sharpened as if to compensate: the tides lapping against the sides of the steamer sounded like someone was ringing a giant bell with a sledgehammer. 'Why would you want to do that?'

Mharra didn't know if he'd briefly lost consciousness or if the ship's avatar was just that fast, but it was suddenly standing at his bedside, its gaze burning into him as it loomed, for all it was eyeless. 'Why do you think, sir?' it asked in a voice softer than any Mharra had ever heard from it. For a moment, he thought it was doing so for his comfort, and almost burst out laughing.

The construct crouched down, enough that it would've been face to face with Mharra if he'd been standing. 'Why wouldn't it? I'm not a cargo ship, nor a warship. I'm not meant to haul things or sink other vessels, though I'll take to both with aplomb, if need be.' It took a knee, arms crossed over it. 'I'm a passenger vessel. I take people wherever we agree to go. And then they go and addle my captain? The only companion I've left, until whenever the others return?'

Though it had nothing to hide, the ship's avatar looked aside, broad shoulders slumping. 'You think it was entertaining hearing you babble and stumble all the way here? Unable to think straight or speak to me?' It shook its great head, somehow, though it neck didn't seem to move. 'I've never felt so empty with someone aboard me.'

Mharra winced, not entirely due to his headache. 'I...I am sorry, Burst. As soon as I clear my head, we'll talk about ev-'

'Never mind that.' It straightened up. 'Sir. You've pulled me out of the scrapheap I was sure was going to become my grave.' Its laugh, though self-deprecating, was nasty, menacing. 'Not that I was sure of much back then, object that I was. You lot dragged me into personhood, for better or worse.'

'The island-'

'Hush, captain,' it hissed, then started. Still mindful of his hearing? 'Hush. Grown folk ought not not brood over their cradles, even if they were almost smothered in them, hm?'

'As you say,' Mharra gravelled. He was too close to remembering his family, and that would certainly turn his stomach. 'So. You say you almost killed on my behalf?' He flashed his best smirk. 'I didn't know you care so much.'

The steamer snorted. 'Don't be stupid. You fleshlings will drink anything that's not poisoned, and even then...I'd have never put addling coals in me, back when I ran on coal, but what do I know? I'm just a means to travel.' It looked at the wall as if it could see through it - which it very well might've been able to, Mharra thought. It was part of it, and the Burst could turn anything of its substance into shield or weapon or sensory device, or whatever else it fancied.

When it spoke again, Mharra felt its eyes on him, though it had none and was facing away from him besides. The part of him that loved absurdity imagined metallic eyes literally on him, following his movements, and he giggled (nervously?). The steamer did not comment.

'I have begun to realise, captain, that I'm like one of those story boats, sailing ceaselessly, taking its crew to their destination regardless of the state of its fuel or components - or a lack thereof.' A certain wryness entered its tone then, alongside - were his ears deceiving him? - trepidation. 'Good thing I've discovered how to move myself, or you'd have been out of luck quite a while ago, sir. Though I cannot help but wonder where I'm going to end up taking you.'

Mharra did not deign respond to the last part; his gut, though currently churning, told him that would cheer up neither of them. Instead, he said, 'You mean I'd have been unable to sail, were you a mundane vessel.'

The steamer's puppet nodded. 'Were I a lifeless boat, you'd never have got anywhere with a crew this small.' It grinned then, a jagged thing, like someone had taken a heavy, blunt blade to its head. 'Well. Not without the mage enchanting me to go on, or the giant pushing me, or the ghost possessing me...were he still around.'

Mharra gestured rudely, to go with his mumbling, which made the ship roar with laughter. At least his hearing had recovered enough he only wanted it to shut up out of annoyance. 'Lucky us that you are not, then.'

'Lucky you,' the ship agreed, mockingly, though it was not long until it became sober once more. 'Mharra. I know your body calls for you to sleep - a fitting punishment for spurning my gifts of fortitude -, but, if you can endure a few moments more, I would tell you of what you've forgotten.'

'Been made to forget?' Mharra suggested instead, expecting the growl that answered him.

'I could still turn around and sink them while you rest.'

'Would they made a battle of it?'

'Almost certainly.'

Mharra turned on his side. 'Then no. There are good ways to die in your sleep, but I'm too lonely for any.'

He belatedly realised how he sounded, but if the ship was offended he'd spoken of it as if it wasn't there, it said nothing. If anything, it seemed just as sad as him, seated as it was on the edge of the bed: chin resting on a fist, like the statue of a man in mournful repose.

'I miss him too, sir,' the Rainbow Burst said, knowing it needed not elaborate. 'But wailing and the gnashing of teeth will bring nothing. Cutting a path across the seas just might...' For an instant, Mharra glimpsed things inside the construct, caged fires and shackled lightning, as if it were made of clear glass. The powers the ship fed on in microcosm? 'And that is my purpose.'

Mharra wished he did not sound resentful when he replied. He'd rarely had his wishes fulfilled. 'It's good to have a purpose you can achieve, my friend.'

A large, rough hand landed on his knee, cold through his trousers, though Mharra would've sworn he truly had seen fires inside this thing. 'Are you jealous of me, captain?' It was, Mharra thought, trying to sound amused as it continued, 'I'd make a jape about wanting people inside you, but I doubt you're in the mood.'

Air hissed through Mharra's clenched teeth as he tried to sat up; one hand had brushed a leg, leaving him feeling like the limb had been bludgeoned. What was with this sensitivity? The pleasure fleet must've had strange tastes in liquors: most were supposed to numb your senses, not sharpen them.

Liquor. Or poison? But what, besides his ravishing good looks, could trigger a murder attempt? 'Get on with it, then,' he told the ship. 'Before I bump against the headboard and faint.'

'I think not, captain.'

'Oh? You have great faith in my endurance...'

'None at all, meatbag.' The construct's voice was just as falsely cheerful as Mharra's. 'That isn't what I was speaking of. You don't get to sidestep this?'

'This?'

'The lack of purpose,' the ship clarified. 'You're all abut whining about it.'

'What would that achieve?' Mharra shrugged, uncomfortable, and only in part due to his aching body. 'I give orders...well, they're more like suggestions, nowadays. Not like I could force anyone in this crew to do something. I don't steer you, for you need no helmsman. I'm becoming a figurehead, Burst, and fast.' He cracked a lopsided smirk. 'You might as well put me on your-'

'Pah,' the steamer spat, before proceeding to literally do so. Something dark and steaming began eating into the floor by the bed. Mharra wanted to know how the (once again) mouthless thing had done that even less than he wanted to learn what the tarlike stuff was. 'Do you know how many captains wish they could live like you? Hm? Many of them, with crews larger than some islands' populations, can still only delegate so much, for there are things that cannot be done while resting on one's laurels.'

Mharra's smile was more genuine now. 'So, in other words...'

'In other words, I'm telling you to stop whining.'

'Good thing I haven't started.'

'Pah!' No spitting accompanied the exclamation this time, and the result of the first expectoration seemed to have vanished. Certainly there was no more smoke, nor was the air oily any more. Mharra's idle curiosity faded, however, when the embodiment of the ship returned his grin, features shifting once more. 'But let us not trouble ourselves with that. Sir, you cut the show short - I'd judge - halfway through, when the jeering got on your nerves enough you started talking back. Not for long, though; you had to stop Tekhar from taking a swim and getting to the people booing him, and then cooler heads decided to invite you to a banquet to let tempers cool. Or so it seemed.'

Mharra licked his lips, but, if any of the poison (?) the pleasure fleet had slipped into his drink remained, it was as tasteless as the attempt it had been involved in. Really, were they so touchy they'd erase the memory of him talking back to them? 'I had to stop it in the middle, eh?'

'Of course you didn't have to,' the ship snapped. 'You could've kept going, and I'd have sunk the hecklers, if they tried to get rowdy.' It held up a bladed finger, which felt more like having a knife waved in front of his face than a finger wagged at him, to Mharra. 'But you kept indulging the milksops. Damn it, man, you know I can make anything you could want to gorge yourself on.'

'It was a matter of decorum, I'm sure.' Mharra rolled a shoulder that felt almost loose, but oddly slow to move even so. 'Besides, you hate anything not do to with travelling.'

'I hate them more!'

Mharra held up his hands. 'As you say. But you don't like playing cook - why would you, when you could just persuade me to shed this flesh? Storms, you barely like playing warship, for all this bloodthirsty bluster.'

The avatar stood up straighter, posture defensive. 'Bloodbaths make for gentle tides, but I can float and fight at the same time. And if it were up to me, I'd pick the first. Unless violence was the only way to preserve my passengers, of course.'

'Obviously. Was that first part a quote?'

'Remember I coined it, if you use it.' The thing rested its elbows (or the spots where they would've been on a human, for it had no joints Mharra could see) on its knees, one hand raised, palm upwards. 'Can you blame me, sir? For the outrage you call bloodthirst. If you were lost, I'm sure that giant of yours would say something awfully profound and mournful about the unity of the crew, then leave, and I doubt the mage would stick around, either. It would take me long to find a new proper crew, and I've even grown fond of you lot.'

At least it was honest. 'My heart is pattering, Burst. But you still haven't told me what happened.'

It did, then. Mharra did his best to filter out the curses - once the ship started repeating itself in that regard - and the dubious mechanical noises that emanated from the creature. It said something about how dog-tired he was, he thought, that even this almost felt like a lullaby.

Hours after the construct finished its story and left, though, Mharra was still awake, staring at a ceiling he could only dimly glimpse. When sleep did come to him, it was dreamless - as it had been on most of his worst nights.

'Are you sure, captain? We could go back,' the steamer said at the end, after several variations of this request scattered amidst the story, 'and wipe them off Midworld's face.' Its shoulders bulged, not with tension, but actually seeming to grow in size. 'They poisoned you, sir! Or as good as! You're willing to let them get away with this? If I hadn't turned my attention solely to making sure you were well, I would have-'

'If I can't see a trap this obvious,' Mharra cut it off, 'and I can't act well enough to win hearts, and I can barely do something resembling a real captain's duty...' Something between a sob and a hiccup escaped his lips, 'what good am I? What good am I, Burst?'

Mharra heard the steamer's retorts, but as if from a great distance, and barely listened. Minutes after the ship's mouthpiece had fallen silent, Mharra managed to sit up, using his shaky elbows, and said, 'Damn this all. I'm not going to send you after all of them, to send the children and the unknowing to a watery grave alongside the snakes who orchestrated this. However,' he added, sharply, when the construct looked ready to protest, 'I want you to keep an eye out for trackers, if they've sent any. Should any vessel of the pleasure fleet approach us without responding to our hails, you have permission to make Seaworm food of them.'

The avatar all but leap with joy, with how quickly it got back to its feet, rushing to shake Mharra's hand and assure him it would look into more thorough cures if he didn't manage to sleep the remaining effects off. 'Enough, now,' Mharra said tiredly, pulling his hand back. 'I must be doing something right if you and the other to are willing to listen to me...or indulge me, whichever.'

'You're just that endearing, sir,' the steamer replied coyly.

Mharra almost laughed, then, and told it goodnight, and waved it away, before he remained alone with his thoughts.

But that was then, after the ship's story. The story that Mharra held in his mind until he fell asleep, too exhausted to sulk anymore, the story that came to the forefront of his thoughts when he awoke.

When it did, more clearly than when he'd first heard it, the captain could not help but smile. He had done one good thing, if nothing else.

* * *

Verdant's shapeshifting had produced a fascinating effect as it imitated Three. Upon reaching the reenactment of Mharra's first meeting with his ghost - back when Three had been willing to possess people so they could have an excuse for their debauchery -, things had become a little tricky to stage. Obviously, the way he'd trapped the ghost in his body, through an application of his talents he still wasn't sure he could replicate, was not something that could be translated to a show.

So, Mharra had improvised, bending the truth as the best artists did. Verdant-as-Three had been trapped in a circle of salt, its "selves" moving back together to create something that looked like a man trapped inside a glass mannequin, itself trapped in a larger one. The three-layered thing, pale and appearing to float on colourless, nigh-invisible "stilts" of the protoplasm that made up the slime, glared heatedly at Mharra, one hand clutching its abdomen, the other clawing at air at the circle's edge.

There was some merit to the legend, Mharra knew: the cleansing properties of salt lent it a certain metaphysical weight that made it useful in thaumaturgy. However, unless enforced by someone with unnatural powers, a salt circle could only hold the weakest ghosts and similar species. Mharra hadn't deigned to use his powers for this, though, for there was nothing dangerous to trap, and thus no reason. Besides, for all he knew, slimes might be susceptible to salt if they counted as "unclean" enough, and he didn't want to accidentally seal Tekhar's pet.

The boy, who had taken to his role as narrator and commentator with only a little hesitation - less shyness, Mharra thought, and more the unpleasant state of mind being watched by those he disliked - paused as the public began commenting in his stead, arm frozen halfway to his chest in a sweeping gesture. Lamely, he let it fall, blushing slightly.

Mharra knew from experience that, at this age, crying and reddened faces could mean anger as easily as anything else. Not for the first time, he was glad for the water between the audience and the stage his ship had become.

Not that a need to swim deterred truly determined people - but Mharra felt better with this gap.

'Once again, virtue triumphs over vice!' a voice came from the crowd, one of the self-appointed commentators, and the ice broke.

'Therein can be seen the hidebound nature of outsiders.' There was more pity in the voice than sneering arrogance, but the it made scarce difference. 'If they offered more, people would not be desperate enough to go for such...alternatives-'

'Ah, but you forget!' a third person interjected, with all the confidence of a town square intellectual. 'Many outsiders lack the resources to indulge their desires, time being one such resource...'

'And will, too?' the second retorted. 'Maybe if they spent less time squabbling with each other over scraps, they could bend their forces to bringing prosperity.'

Mharra absently placed a hand on Tekhar's chest, to prevent an outburst, and decided that while he wouldn't take the time to single out these philosophical spectators, he wasn't going to have his show turned into some public discussion. That was for afterwards, and he was not inclined to stay much. Clearing his throat, he signalled for the ship to amplify his voice. 'That is all well and good, my friends, but perhaps we might-'

'You should've ended the ghost there! That enabler of monsters!' A new voice, that, and the tone put Mharra in mind of wagging fingers. 'Or perhaps you were already taken with lust for him?'

'Woe!' another cried out. 'For the passions of the flesh to overcome the clarity of the mind, and push one's hand to-'

He was beginning to understand why Tekhar mostly stayed away from these people. Tuning them out, he told himself that these people were too spoiled, too isolated - to the point of ignorance, and willing naivety - to understand that Midworld was not a kind place. Mharra had let cultures die when he had seen they were too stubborn to save themselves, or unwilling to, and he judged this a similar case.

Even if he got into an argument, he doubted he would change the pleasure fleet's mindset overnight, not that he was sure he even wanted to. Ib had wanted him here so he would learn something, he knew, but what? The giant was, Mharra suspected, incapable of not being secretive, and probably though the best way to teach swimming was to chain people to a lake's bottom so they'd be driven to succeed.

His friend's cryptic nonsense aside, Mharra was disappointed. He knew he should've outgrown such things, but meeting a culture that did not instantly react with suspicion, and truly did not appear to want to cheat or exploit him, had almost driven him to hope that...

It did not matter, anymore. He'd seen the face of the pleasure fleet, beneath their smiling mask. A part of him argued that many Midworlders, more jaded than these folk, would've thought the same of Three, and that he was being irrational because his ghost was involved. He could not deny it, but he could not let these fops judge as they wished. Everything the boy had implied...

There were some chuckles, some approving murmurs, when he got to the meeting with Ryzhan, and the bonds that grew between the mage and the rest of the crew. But soon enough, he reached the retelling of their encounter with the Free Fleet, and that damned experiment, and...

"Good riddance", and things close to it, had been uttered by some. Others had said, shrilly, that Three being "spread over" everything meant there was no one and nothing Mharra couldn't take without being close to his lover. If not for their hungry expressions, he'd have thought it a crass joke. Others still hung their heads or placed them in their hands, fat tears running down their cheeks, their wails filling the air as if Three had been as close to them as he was to Mharra. In other circumstances, the captain might've thought the ragged moans theatrical, but these people often wore their heart on their sleeve.

'You be quiet!' Tekhar, who'd got free of Mharra's hold at some point, shouted. His face was flushed, and not with embarrassment, for once, in the face of all his people, or as good as. 'You all be quiet! What do you know of love!'

At the edge of the stage, where Verdant had moved after mimicking Three's disappearance - Mharra hadn't known slimes could control where their fragments flew when they blew apart, but he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him: they could burst at will, and their bodies did not get ripped apart as much as spread out, while effectively remaining whole -, the Slime, still in the shape of Mharra's ghost, crouched in the shadows, warily watching its friend. It had the sort of look dogs sported when their owners were sad beyond their ability to fix, which was uncanny on its currently humanlike face.

'I've heard half you lot say romance is a distraction from joy - what, because growing close to one person might leave you less inclined to sleep around? And yet you're talking like you knew anythi-'

That was when the show degenerated into one big shouting match. The part of Mharra that always looked for silver linings argued this was a blessing in disguise: he'd been unsure whether he wanted to speak about what had happened after Three's disappearance, even if it would've compounded the charm they'd sought in the story.

Many of the pleasure fleet's folk denied Tekhar's words, loudly, while among the rest, responses varied from "And why are you lumping in us with the rest of them!?" to coarse laughter, unheeding of the others' opinions. When those from the second category began picking up things to throw, Mharra stepped in front of Tekhar, gently but firmly pushing the boy behind him. A twitch of a finger, in the direction of the crowd's rowdy part, was all it took for the steamer to understand. The back of the stage shifted, curtains becoming the rear of a wall, thick but perfectly transparent, that rose to surround Mharra and his assistants.

'Mayhap we ought to take a break and let tempers cool, everyone,' Mharra suggested with forced cheer, voice enhanced once more

* * *

The feast where he'd been addled was still a blur of jumbled images and sensations, wich he could only remember in order thanks to the steamer's help. But he did recall being invited to sit at the head of a table, and walking there on a ramp spun from his steamer's metal. Initially, the pleasure fleet had wanted him to make his way over on the bodies of many of the shows' spectators. Following a wagger whose details Mharra was frankly uninterested in, if this was the result, he'd refused to set foot on the floating pile of people, even as they entreated with him and promised him there was no issue in using them as stepping stones.

If this was the games the pleasure fleet played with its own people, he did not want to know what they did to their enemies. Tekhar's claims, which hadn't sounded too farfetched, now seemed downright likely.

Which was why Mharra felt no small amount of joy, then relief, when, shortly after the end of the feast, Tekhar approached him, Verdant enclosing his body protectively, like a living, clear cloak, and told him he was leaving.

'You inspired me, sir,' the lad confessed. 'Emboldened me. Until you came, I will admit I did not know how much there was beyond our realm. I'd seen a few outsiders, from a distance, when I was little, but all too many of them were easily driven off, if hostile, or browbeaten into joining our fleet.' There was distaste in Tekhar's eyes, but also a certain wariness, as if anyone might be listening in on them. Mharra, despite being fairly unsteady on his feet, was convinced that was impossible: he'd used his gifts to create a small zone of silence, a skill he usually tapped into before miming something in a show. The ability only needed to be turned on, and so required no concentration, which the captain had little of to spare.

'But you did neither,' Tekhar continued, before leaning closer and whispering, 'Though they got to you, captain.'

Mharra, irritated by the implication, but truly as uncomprehending of the boy's words as he was of his ship's growls, ground out, 'Captain? Ye'd best not be hopin' to 'itch...hitch a ride on my-' he hiccupped, then slapped his chest several times, as if to scare it out.

'Don't worry about that, Mharra,' Tekhar replied smoothly. Then, in that low voice again, 'I am afraid do not have a cure for your, um, affliction, sir, not that I could give it to you without someone seeing...so take care from now on, will you? Not every friendly face smiles out of kindness.'

Mharra rolled his eyes at that, which set his head spinning. By the time he made it to his hands and knees, still dizzy, Tekhar had departed, almost out of sight, his slime having assumed the shape and function of a boat.

It was a long journey back to his steamer, in duration if not distance. The nagging didn't help.

'I've never seen you this sloppy, captain! I was giving you hints for the whole damned meal, where was your head?'

'If you sayin' there's a problem, why didn't ya take care of it right then, eh? Eh?' he challenged.

The steamer huffed. 'Do you even know how many weapons those flowery bastards have got hidden in their toy boats? And how many baffles, to prevent one from checking on them? By the time I ascertained I could beat them without my form or surroundings being destroyed, you were already drunk! Or...no. Worse, aren't you?' Its voice became pensive, though anger did not leave it. 'I've never seen such a drug, but I should be able to create a cure, after enough observation. I-'

'Can do it while I get some shuteye, can't ya? I think if I go to sleep now, I'm not wakin' up.' The end of the sentence was almost sobbed, and Mharra stumbled, not dazed, but surprised at himself.

'Sir...' the steamer sounded unpleasantly surprised. 'Don't tell me you've let your guard down because...Mharra, you can't listen to such impulses just because you feel bad for yourself! You might've died!'

Mharra sniggered darkly. 'I can't? Can't even listen to impulses now? That useless, am I? H-Ha...'

After that, the Rainbow Burst told him, he'd become partly catatonic, in the sense that he still moved, but barely reacted to outside stimuli, be they his surroundings or his ship's words. It took a while before his awareness returned, and he began responding to the steamer once more.

* * *

Mharra leaned his elbows on the railing, hair in the wind, as he watched a dot on the horizon that might've been Tekhar. The lad likely knew little of Midworld, and his slime, for all its endurance and instincts, hadn't faced the sorts of dangers that lurked in and above the endless sea. Aye, he had a strong will, and a skepticism that would keep him from getting too close to dangerous sorts, literally or figuratively, but he was green.

The captain had never fancied himself a hero, and of the people he'd met, he'd have said only a handful were. But, while he didn;t have it in him to mother the boy, and hold him back, and tell him the risks and dangers were too great - for Tekhar had said he didn't want to sail with Mharra, and the captain himself had sailed out, alone, into a world no less dangerous, -, that didn't mean he couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything to help.

So it was that Mharra compiled a list of the threats most likely to surface, literally in some cases, in this area of Midworld. Once folded and placed in an envelope, Mharra placed it inside a sort of covered boat, a creation and part of the steamer, which, the ship assured him, could track down the boy and deliver the letter.

The response arrived when it was still dark, but well after Mharra had awoken, though no serious duty called him. Captains who slept in rarely lived long, and those who did were often unpopular with their crews. In Mharra's case, his fleshly failings were likely to get him an earful from his living vessel.

The boat returned tugging a pale sphere about the height of a man. Covered in bruises and rents that leaked nothing, for it had been dried inside and out at the same time it had been crushed into this shape, one broken fang, long but only a fraction of the Seaworm's tooth it had been part of shone in the light of dawn. Hanging from it was Mharra's letter, the back showing rough but readable words. Whether the pleasure fleet was not so isolated that its script was unlike that Mharra used, or Tekhar had picked this one up so fast, it gave him some peace of mind. The boy would manage. Indeed, in reference to the threats Mharra had listed, his reply read:

'Thank you, Mharra.

But they should beware of us.'

Next to Tekhar's signature was a slimy stain that matched the looks of the creature that had left it, down to Verdant's eyes; next to it, a circle made from the extracted fluids of the butchered Seaworm. Looking down at the letter, remembering the reckless bravery of his own boyhood, Mharra met the sun with a smile.

* * *

'Do you understand it, now?' The moral of this captain's tale?'

Aina gave Mendax an ugly look, though her disgust was not directed at him. 'That the nicer they seem, the more likely it is that people are bastards?'

'Now, why would I try to hint something so obvious?' The eldritch being laughed, light bending around him as he did so. He became somber once more in short order, however. 'Aina...you're the last person I need to tell that you can do everything right, and act kindly towards everyone, and still fail. That's just life, for most of us.' He held out a hand. 'But for those who try to reach above their fellows, to reverse what looks like the course of fate...well.' He shook his head. 'You can pour your heart and soul into such an endeavour, and still not achieve your goal. Or you might, and find it less worthy than you wished, stained by your actions. Trust me - as certain and implacable something might look, it can come to naught in a heartbeat.'

Aina ran fingers down her neck to her chest, where slime and chest had begun to manifest. Her monster appeared like rashes did on people, sometimes. 'And should he fail in his quest? Will he find a purpose for himself, then? Find joy again?'

'If there is any to be found, by anyone,' Mendax replied, 'it is all too often hard to find, and tinged with pain besides. More bitter than sweet.' Unexpectedly, a smile twisted the Meddler's features. 'But the sweetness is there, Aina. Flaws do not hide beauty, save from those who blind themselves - and to those who know where to look, they only brighten it.'