The island is large for being among the Weaning Shores.  Jagged spires of rock rise high above the boiling surf, peaking ultimately in tree-covered summits.  As if in pity for the struggling ship, the endless storm’s winds at last wane, lending them as much control as their rent sails and coughing engine can provide.

Bo’s’n Abandinus curses as he and Mogens wrestle with the wheel, guiding the stricken ship around the island’s rocky lee.  The rest of the crew mills about the deck, alternately watching Guiromélans and the shore, waiting for word from the Raven.

The paqa are said to never hold grudges, and their ports are open to all vessels, including those from Seven Kingdoms navies.  Guiromélans plans on putting this to the test.

Clinging to the mast next to the lookout, he watches the shore closely, hoping for the first glimpse of the auberge, hoping not to see Medianist banners flying from the masts of any ships docked there.  The next few seconds will determine whether tonight the company enjoys warm beds, warm food, and warm women or whether they must continue suffering more of the same lost at sea.

He also knows, stay or leave, the crew will hold him responsible.  Guiromélans sighs and glances down to catch Mogens staring at him.  Since the chaos of the storm-queans, the friction between the two of them has cooled to a dull fire.  He wonders what the Quartermaster is thinking.

Mogens smiles broadly and salutes.

Guiromélans shrugs and attempts to flex his lamed shoulder.  Clinging to these ropes is proving to be murder on his sore joints.  The filthy claws of those damned kveld-ritha left wounds that are taking ages to heal, and the deep gouge in his right shoulder is still bothering him.  This is what happens when a ship doesn’t have a wizard on board.  Guiromélans curses loud enough for the lookout to hear.  The Raven doesn’t meet his eyes and instead stares out at the shore.

He begins to see shacks and other buildings through the trees, their untreated wood faded and worn by the sun and sea air.  He calls out a warning to the crew.  Soon, they will either need to flee or prepare for landing.

Guiromélans’s stomach sinks as three sets of masts materialize through the rocks and trees.  From the tallest, the Broken Sword of the Southern Territories flies prominently from its spars.  Guiromélans groans.  One of the ships is a Söderkarl vessel!  He is about to order the retreat when the outpost finally comes into view.

An idyllic pasture—misty in the morning rain—gently spreads down into the bowl-like bay, terminating finally into a long beach.  Wood and stone buildings—most of them in the paqa’s unique dome-shapes—are scattered throughout, the majority clustered along the water.  Two ships lay at anchor in the bay, a third beached on the sand.

By its sheer size, Guiromélans recognizes one of the ships as k’Lida.  Built for voyages across the Abyss Ocean, the huge galleon’s deep draft requires it to be anchored far from the shore, nearly out of the protection of the bay.  A mixture of cheap Muttese and expensive Palpi cannon gleam from the gun ports on all three of her decks.  k’Lida are rarely welcome guests within these waters, and that such a vessel is moored at this forsaken auberge is indicative of the reception it would receive should it encounter a Seven Kingdoms warship.

The ship beached on the sand flies no flags that Guiromélans can see, but it is smaller than the Knight’s Torment and in all likelihood not a threat.  Countless smaller boats are also pulled further ashore, packed so tightly together that they are nearly stacked, but it is the Söderkarl langskip that concerns Guiromélans.  It is an older ship—by the curling spur on its aft end, a snekkja—with the low profile and shallow draft typical of the days before they inherited steam engines from the EroBernd Empire.  Unlike those ancient galleys, this one bristles with ornate swivel guns and mortars, and an engine house stands beneath the dragon’s tail.  Well-used shields are hung proudly from its rails.

“Are we sä close tä the southern lands?” the lookout whispers as he stares nervously at the snekkja.

Guiromélans glances at the Brackish boy and nods thoughtfully, “I, too, had no idea.”  It’s been weeks since he’s seen an accurate map, but it seems that they are.  “Perhaps, we should have words with dear Radla, before he takes us all the way to the Ice Hell?”

The boy smiles weakly but looks hardly reassured.

Few things frighten the Bracks.  In the north, it is the rraakks.  In the south, it is the Söderkarl.  They would rather charge a line of EroBernac riflemen than face the southern karls.  Guiromélans understands the feeling.  The average Söderkarl being 16 stone and over 6 feet tall, even their women are intimidating.  It took nearly 100 years for the EroBernd Empire to pacify these Southern Territories and bring to them the worship of the Medianist God.

“Sä what do we do, uh?” the sailor asks.

Guiromélans sighs.  Coiling his right arm around some rigging, he carefully pulls a wineskin from his belt and opens the stopper with his teeth.  He ignores the lookout’s worried glances as he drinks deeply of the whiskey.

“There are risks,” he sighs at last, “in nearly anything we do at this point.”  He nods towards the Söderkarl ship.  “The snekkja is a Söderkarl vessel, and thus Seven Kingdoms, but by the banners it flies beneath the Broken Sword, it is not a military vessel, nor does it belong to one of the ruling heraths.  In all likelihood, it is a private merchant, though a wealthy one.”  Guiromélans drinks again.  “Despite the risks,” he grunts as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “I say we can land here.”

The lookout smiles and signals down to the crew, and a ragged cheer is the reply.  “Would never risk drinkin’ while up here,” the boy whispers as he watches Guiromélans finish the skin.  “Couldn’t risk losin’ me hands or the ropes, uh?”

Guiromélans ignores the veiled warning as he tucks the empty skin back into his belt.  The rich alcohol is already warming his limbs and belly, sufficient enough for him to make it through the morning.

Slowly, the Knight’s Torment eases into the bay, its engines billowing gray smoke from the wood fires it burns.  No coal was found on the storm-queans’ island of course.  So, as much as it distressed the Chief Mechanic, they were forced to use wood instead.  Inefficient, cold burning, and dangerous, the wood was able to raise the engines from the dead only a couple times in their voyage here, when the extra power was absolutely necessary.  Reaching this paqa outpost was all-important, and no one opposes burning the wood today.

Once in the shelter of the bay, the skipping engine bites deeper into the calmer waters, and the ship picks up speed.  Guiromélans notes that their unexpected arrival has caused some commotion in the outpost.  He sees frantic activity on board the k’Lida ship as well as ashore.  Gangling paqa bustle up and down the beach and between the huts, pushing past the shorter, stockier human sailors.  The crew of the Söderkarl snekkja merely watches the Knight’s Torment pass, leaning casually against their guns.

“Picking fleas from their beards,” Guiromélans mutters, offended by their lack of concern.  He curses again, this time at himself.  This ship’s whiskey is turning him bitter.  He longs for the smoother, more refined Ehrech or Synesi vintages.

“Sand bar tä larboard!” the lookout next to him shouts to the Bracks on deck.

Mogens is steering the Knight’s Torment close to the shore, cutting the turn short in an effort to reach their destination quicker.  Guiromélans concentrates on the choppy water to his left and finally sees the slightly paler patch as they near it.  Such eyes these lookouts must have!  Guiromélans wonders how the young sailor could have seen the shallow so quickly, but then, it is for such skills that he was put up here in the first place.

The sand bar continues to grow closer.  As it stands, it looks like they will miss the spit, but it will be a close shave.  A fair bit too close for Guiromélans’s comfort.  He glances down to see some confusion below.  Mogens and a few others are actually looking off the wrong side of the ship!  He shouts down to warn them, but they don’t seem to hear him.

Ignoring the lookout’s earnest warnings, Guiromélans lets go with one hand to cup his mouth as he shouts.  Mogens squints up at him and frowns.  Just at that moment, realization must have dawned upon the Quartermaster.  Mogens panics and spins the wheel in the wrong direction!  The sloop lurches left, striking and skipping over the spit.  With the jolt, Guiromélans is thrown from his perch.  As the deck plummets towards him, he instinctively grabs for the rigging.  Immediately, he feels the burn, even through his leather glove, as the rope runs through his fist.  His fall slows, he feels a sickening tear in his injured shoulder, and suddenly, he is swinging out over the water.  The waves rise up to embrace him as he plunges headfirst into the bay.

 

“’Twas a close call, uh?”

Guiromélans suspects Adalgis is trying to be reassuring, but right now, he’s not in the mood.  He glares down at the stained table and drinks the spiced paqa keeq as quickly as he can stand it.  The thick steaming beer sears his mouth and throat as it goes down, but it is what he needs to drive away the numbing cold that still clings in his hands and feet.  The Sea’s waters have turned his fires of shame into a cold, hard glacier, a block of ice that only this boiling drink can seem to thaw.  It also seems to help ease the rocking pain of his shoulder.  As soon as he’s finished with it, the Master Carpenter automatically orders him another.

“Thank you, Adalgis,” he murmurs as a paqa husband leaves a new steaming mug in front of him.

“It was a small matter, Cathubodua.”

“I mean for fishing me out of the water.”

“Yäh.”

Guiromélans rolls the heavy mug between his hands, letting its burning heat seep into his cold-stiffened fingers.  The mug’s shape is trough-like, to accommodate both paqa and human imbibers.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  The Quartermaster left him behind, all too eager to assume he had drowned.  It was Adalgis and Caidryn in the skiff that pulled him from the dark waters, weak, frozen, and nearly drowned.

Of course, Mogens took Guiromélans’s second resurrection with his usual aplomb.

Guiromélans drinks again and gasps at the burn.  Perhaps he should drink a little slower?

Clutching the hot mug close to him, he turns in his seat and looks around.  It is his first visit among free paqa, and he is not impressed.  This domed building is the largest in the auberge and seems to him to serve as tavern, hiring hall, and marketplace.  It is a dirty place.  Shards of onion bottles and the broken stems of clay pipes litter the floor.  No gas to light their lamps, instead they use smoky torches and tapirs.  No running water or proper garderobes.  This is a large island, and perhaps there are other paqa inland, but there are no proper roads or rail connecting them.  All in all, it is a miserable, impoverished, barbaric place, deserving of its reputation.

But there are people everywhere, and all of them have something to hide or to hunt.  Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here.  All who are living on the account eventually find themselves in a paqa auberge.  By the shapes and colors of their faces, there must be sailors from many lands here, though most of them are simple Muttese and Söderkarl from nearby Weaning Shores settlements, farm boys looking for wealth and infamy as pirates.  The streets and doorways are littered with pathetic forms—marooned sailors and forgotten hostages—abandoned by their ships because of injury, crime, or lack of ransom.

The k’Lida are easy to spot with their identical drab garb and foolish hairstyles.  They run about together like flocks of lost ducklings—man, woman, man, woman—carefully observing their insane doctrines of gender interaction.  They speak to no one, they make no eye contact.  They sit amongst themselves, silently disapproving of all that occurs around them.  It is for certain they are here only because they have to be.

What could such an accursed people want in a place like this?

“Who is tä know, uh?” Adalgis mutters.

Guiromélans startles.  He wasn’t aware he had spoken out loud.  “What?”

“Those boduus k’Lida browns,” he grunts.  “Nice trick that they’re stayin’ here.”

“Well, no reputable port would accept them.”

“Yä means na Seven Kingdoms port, yäh?”

“In my eyes,” Guiromélans says solemnly, “it is the same thing.”

Adalgis laughs.

“Do you know what they’re trafficking?” Guiromélans asks once the Brack has calmed down.

“Nage.  Does it matter?”

Guiromélans shrugs, “A ship of that size?  Daring to venture this deep into Medianist waters?  It must be expensive.  It must be important.  And, by the Prophets, it must mean no good for the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Uh,” the Master Carpenter shrugs, “Like we means any good fer the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But we do,” Guiromélans insists with sudden heat.

Adalgis blinks momentarily before nodding, “Oh, yäh.  Yer crusade.  I fergot.”

Guiromélans sighs and sips again at his drink.  “I did hear of where they came from before,” Adalgis offers as if in apology.

Guiromélans raises his eyebrows, “Before arriving here?  Really?”

“Yäh!  They just comes in from Brûler in Ehre.  And after they leaves, they’ll be headin’ all the way over tä Ptakkal!”

This news gives Guiromélans pause.  Ptakkal is a frontier town in Mynydd.  Poor, dirty, hungry, but growing.  It is rumored to have some of the richest nitriaries in the Seven Kingdoms, and if that is true, it will soon become a power to reckon with.  Guiromélans can imagine that the city masters would welcome any wealth that might accelerate their rise, even if it is k’Lida lispund.  Brûler on the other hand is tiny, insignificant, unimportant, except for its proximity to the Raucholle Mountains and their volcanic vents.

Guiromélans chews on this.  He wonders if they have been burning any trees as well?

“How would you know of such things?” he asks.

Adalgis shrugs, “Some Mynyddi told me.  It is important?  Where they’ve been, I means?”

“And how would this Mynyddi know?”

“He said one of the crew told him.”

“A k’Lida told him?” Guiromélans blurts, ready to dismiss everything said thus far as fabrication.

“Nage.  He was a boduus like yä.”

“You suggesting someone from the Seven Kingdoms is serving on the crew of that k’Lida galleon?”

Adalgis shrugs again.  “I knows what I was told.  Nothin’ more.”

A swell of shouting draws their attention to the other side of the room.

The Söderkarl from the snekkja are as easily heard as seen.  They are the most numerous people in this tavern, and they and their kinsmen feel comfortable in their control of the place.  They dominate nearly half the tavern’s area, loudly drinking, singing, boxing, and otherwise wassailing to the extent that almost nothing else can be heard or done by others.  Their contests are simple, brief, and frequently very violent, and they draw huge crowds of participants and spectators.  Guiromélans notes a great deal of Muttese and his own Bracks with them.  Well, more power to them.  In their own, awful way, he supposes his crew has earned this time off.

Nevertheless, Guiromélans is surprised when Caidryn emerges from that crowd, Balen clinging closely to her shirt.  He and Adalgis straighten with concern when they see that her face is swelling with an ugly bruise, blood thickening in her nose and on her lip.  The boy looks only slightly horrified.

“What happened tä yä?” Adalgis laughs, though Guiromélans notes a hint of steel in the question.

Caidryn shrugs as she waves for the attention of a paq-cob.  “Played sticky pegs.”

“And you won?” Guiromélans asks with some shock.  While the Söderkarl are a wild folk, they usually take to losing about as well as they do to winning.

She shakes her head.  “Lost.”

Guiromélans frowns.  He gestures towards his nose.  “Then how…”

She grins.  “I don’t like losin’.”

“Ah,” Guiromélans nods.  “And did you win that?”

She shakes her head again, “Nage, but it was worth a try, uh?”

The Master Carpenter laughs, and Guiromélans returns to concentrating on his drink.  He’s grown used to being cold and wet these past months, but he fears he will never shake the feeling of those waters closing over him.

“Yä still feelin’ sorry fer yerself?” Caidryn asks.

“Feeling… sorry… for… myself?” Guiromélans wonders, measuring the weight of each word.  “No, I suppose not.  Perhaps a bit embarrassed, but then, I never claimed to be a sailor.”

“Uh,” Caidryn snorts, “Excuses.”

Guiromélans shrugs and winces.  He takes several deep, searing swallows and then attempts to rotate his shoulder back and forth.  “I fear, however,” he admits as the grinding pain only increases, “that I may be more hurt than I would care to admit.  And that might present a problem in the future.”

“Yä knows,” Adalgis suggests, “There is a House of Fitta here.”

Guiromélans’s sneer is nothing but naked revulsion.  “Healers and whores,” he spits.  “I’ll have to be in sore worse shape than this before I spend my Medianist coin in such a temple.”

Adalgis laughs.  “It is yer arm, me friend!  Do with it what yä wish.  Just don’t complains tä me about it na more then.”

“Noted,” Guiromélans salutes with his mug.

One of the impossibly tall paqa finally stilts over.  His head bobbing from his shoulders like a lantern, the paq-cob husband peers at each of them before settling on Caidryn.  “Kkhut you kkhant?” he chirps in passable Palpin.  Guiromélans is impressed.  The paqa fancy themselves capable of accommodating anyone’s wishes.  For this one to know to speak Palpin to them—much less know how to speak Palpin—is quite a feat.  Perhaps he has been eavesdropping despite the din the Söderkarl are making?  That would mean equally impressive ears.  Interesting.

“Paq-eyas!” Caidryn orders.  She leers up at it evilly, “and make it pink and leave all the good bits, uh?  I’m starvin’!”

The husband blinks but doesn’t otherwise react to her needling.  Instead, his head swivels around to look at Guiromélans, Adalgis, and Balen.  “Kkhut you kkhaaant?”

The boy silently stares up at the husband with horror as Guiromélans and Adalgis place their orders.  Guiromélans has no stomach for paq-fowl today and instead orders simple bread and beef pottage.  The Master Carpenter, on the other hand, orders nearly a full clutch, with drinks all around.  When it comes to Balen’s turn, the boy hides under the table.

The husband leaves to take other orders, and Caidryn seeks her ward with poorly aimed kicks.  After the second blow against his shins, Guiromélans barks, “Enough!” and extracts the boy himself.

“What’s the matter with yä!” Caidryn snarls as she dabs at her sore nose.  “Don’t yä go embarassin’ me!”

The boy looks amazed and frightened.  “Are these paqa related tä rraakks?” he asks with awe.

“Rraakks?” Adalgis and Guiromélans ask nearly simultaneously.

“They— they gots the beaks, uh?” he stammers.

Guiromélans looks at the nearby paqa as they wade through the crowds of humans.  Arms and legs with one too many joints, asses and bellies misshapen and swollen, necks and fingers stretched and grossly distorted.  The paqa of this place dress in human-like garb—going so far as to even wear clothes with buttons and ties—quite an endeavor considering how uncomfortable it must be for them.  The nearest husband’s feathers ruffle with irritation.  Beaks, yes, they seem to share with the rraakks, but little else.  Where one race inspires raving, mindless terror, the other offers only obsequious deference and servitude.  And, perhaps, a good meal.

“Nage, me mosac,” Adalgis chastises.  “There be na relation ‘tween the paqa and the rraakk.  There be na confusion ‘tween the two.”

“But how can yä tell—”

“Yä’ll not need tä ask when yä meets a rraakk,” Adalgis interrupts.  “Yä’ll know.”

“How?”

“’Cause,” he laughs, “Yä’ll be dead!”

The boy’s eyes widen, and Caidryn rolls hers.

Guiromélans sniffs but remains quiet.  He has never seen a living rraakk, though he has heard the stories and seen drawings—the university in CastitasDecus claims to have a specimen stuffed and on display—and there are some so-called cings in the Ymyl Gwland Baronies and Abaisd Territories who claim to own pieces of rraakk-skin armor.  Nevertheless, he just doesn’t understand the terror associated with their name among these so-called fearsome Brackish tribes, but until he meets one for himself, he shall reserve judgment and hold his tongue.

Sensing an opportunity, Adalgis launches into a vivid retelling of an old Brackish Fée tale.  “Yer ignorance concerns me, mosac!  Blameless are yä, fer we have not taught yä right.  But I knew once of a cing who knew the danger and still he ignored it.  A cing by the name of Drem.  Tragic was his fate, all the more sä ‘cause of the price he paid fer his arrogance…”

Guiromélans is unfamiliar with this story, but as with most tales involving the rraakks, he assumes it will include a horrendously bloody slaughter, one or more redemptions, and then revenge.  If Adalgis is feeling particularly creative, he might even throw in a betrayal.  And like most Brackish storytellers, Adalgis swears he knows a man who knows a man who is related to his story’s sole-survivor.

As Adalgis’s story grows more vivid and blood-soaked, Guiromélans’s eyes wander.  At any one time it seems, two or three fights are being waged in this place, though the wandering paq-cobs make no effort to break them up.  Probably a wise choice.  A paqa interjecting itself in the middle of a brawl might just be construed as an invitation for a barbeque, and there are far too few paqa left to take such risks.

Guiromélans wonders how he would behave if the flesh of his race was considered as delectable?

Wars were waged over the ownership of that flesh, and rarely were the paqa the winners.  Perhaps their greatest mistake was their alliance with the ahrounoi during the Wars of Empty Horror, and for that one sin alone, many believe they have deserved all the hardships since heaped upon their race.  Perhaps.  Guiromélans suspects, however, that it is just an excuse to continue hunting them down with clear consciences.

Guiromélans’s eyes pass from paqa to paqa.  Around 16 husbands are working in this place, serving drinks, making deals, and managing cargo.  Another eight or so appear to be visiting paqa sailors.  Guiromélans is surprised to count three paq-pens as well.  Even in a building of this size, he wonders how they manage to keep from killing each other.  Each matriarch appears to be in charge of a different function of this place, and each pointedly ignores the other two.  One is supervising the cargo being brought in and collecting tariffs.  One arranges rooms for travelers and assists those in search of jobs or transportation.  The third supervises the tavern and the food and drink being served by her husbands.

He wonders how many other pens reside in this outpost.

As Guiromélans watches, the husband who waited on them delivers their orders to his pen.  She listens carefully and then cranes her neck around to examine the egg clusters behind her legs.  She plucks five of the smallest for Adalgis and one of the largest—one perhaps very close to hatching—for Caidryn.  Guiromélans’s stomach twists as the eggs are handed over to the cooks.  The smaller eggs are broken into a deep pot and mixed with other ingredients.  The leathery skin of the more mature egg is slit open by the paq-pen and the wailing infant is extracted.  Guiromélans looks away before the knife falls.

“…The softest flesh was the demand, me mosac,” Adalgis drones on, “but Drem did not understand, refused tä understand the price bein’ asked of him.  He gave them over, oh yäh, but he thought he’d play a trick on those rraakks.  How smart could they be, uh?”

Guiromélans’s not sure why it bothers him so much.  Men eat young cattle and fowl all the time.  The only difference being the feast isn’t slaughtered and served by its own parents.  What would it be like to carry the curse of the paqa, Guiromélans wonders, walking that razor’s edge, sacrificing your soul one child at a time?  Always fearing that one day, the eggs and young won’t be enough, and your neighbors will turn their eyes to you and your mates.  The paqa have obviously made their choice.  What would Guiromélans’s be?

“Sä he makes himself a pact with Narr the Fool, tä take back what he offered up.  But Narr’s barbs can stab both ways!  Sä when he calls back that which he offered, yä knows he didn’t get back what he wanted.”  Adalgis leans close to the boy, a slim smile on his face.  “Yä knows what he got instead?”

“Nage,” the boy almost whispers.

“Softest flesh was what he offered, the softest flesh was what he called back, but he was too late.  The softest flesh was gone, and all he got was what remained…”  He pauses for effect, savoring the boy’s suspense, “The arms, the legs, and parts too horrible tä tell, all that remained of his softest flesh.”

Adalgis leans back in his chair and breaks the spell.  “Drem waged war, of course!  A war of vengeance.  A terrible war that stole the lives of all the cings in his dunum, but it made na matter.  His children, all the children were gone, and there was na replacin’ them.”  He leers at Caidryn, “’Cept of course fer the usual way!”

She sneers and threatens to hit him, but the Master Carpenter leans back out of range.  “Though the outcome would have been the same, perhaps it was the war he should have fought in the first place.”  He looks at Guiromélans, “Rather than try tä deal with devils.”

Balen looks at Guiromélans too.  “Have yä ever fought the rraakks, Cathubodua Guiromélans?  What would yä have done if yä were Drem?”

The Raven sniffs and finishes his drink.  “It doesn’t matter, boy,” he snorts, “It’s a Fée tale.  The good Master Carpenter is having some fun with you.  Those sorts of things don’t really happen.  There are no monsters looking to take human children.  People don’t make those kinds of pacts.”  Not unless you’re a paqa, he adds silently.

“Yäh,” the Brackish sailor slurs slowly, his glare at Guiromélans suddenly dark and angry, “Don’t yä be listenin’ tä me, mosac.  What does I knows, uh?”

Guiromélans frowns slightly.  Somehow, he suspects he’s offended the man, though he’s not clear how.

“I begkk your pkkardon,” a song-like voice interrupts.

Guiromélans turns to see a paqa husband looming over their table.  His garments are well tailored, and an intricate badge hangs from its neck.  “Are you witkk the Brrakk shipkk,” he checks his tablet briefly, “Arr-taaa-thh-too-Cing?”

“The Knight’s Torment, yes,” Guiromélans answers.

The paq-cob blinks and checks his tablet again.  “Arr-taaa-thh-too… Cing?”

“Yes,” Guiromélans answers again, this time in Ehrech, “That is our vessel.”  Ehrech tones are easier to make with the paqa throat.  Lips are not as necessary, so it is a tongue easier spoken by these birds.

The paqa bobs his head appreciatively and replies in Ehrech, “I am from the Harbor Master.  I seek a man among your crew called Mogens?”

Guiromélans purses his lips with irritation.  “I am not he, but I am Captain of the Knight’s Torment.  You may speak with me on any matter.”

The husband ruffles his rainbowed feathers apologetically.  “Your men have already begun extensive lines of credit with the inn, dock master, and House of Fitta…  I have requisitions and bills for numerous repairs…  But no dock fees have been paid, and we know not yet what cargoes you plan on trading.  This we need to know for tariff purposes.”

Two more paqa arrive at their table, and Guiromélans’s stomach knots when he sees the steaming plates of food and drink they carry.  The paq-eyas on Caidryn’s plate is served whole and rare, just as she ordered.  As she digs into its chest, the head rocks to one side.  It’s empty, scorched eyes stare into Guiromélans’s.

He practically leaps from the table, his own steaming bowl of beef gruel forgotten.  “Yes, of course!” he answers the paqa clerk.  “Let us resolve this immediately!”

Grabbing Balen, he follows the paqa quickly through the crowded room.  All around him, there are similar scenes.  Sailors sucking on bones, drinking from pierced eggs, using knives to pry meat from the shell.  What is troubling him so much?  He’s dined on paqa of all ages before!  In the courts of CastitasDecus, Aquilaleon, even Orqueneles, they keep whole stables of them.  Of course, they are raised from infants and not taught to speak or wear clothes—tricks to make you think they are animals—but they are still paqa!  Why does it trouble him now?

They don’t even worship God!

Ignoring the boy’s complaints, he keeps his head down and follows the clerk as quickly as he can.

* * *

Guiromélans struggles to pierce the worn canvas with his needle.  They were able to buy or barter for most of what they need, but this stormy weather has been hard on every ship, and fresh sails are scarce.  To make due, they have had to sew up pieces of smaller sails to make one good one.  They sew day and night under the unwavering glare of Sail Master Bellatumarus.  With his constant guidance and criticism, they do their best to fashion sails that are strong yet can spill the wind quickly.  It is tedious, demeaning work, but as the worst sailor in the crew, it is the job Guiromélans is best suited for, and he learns quickly.

He pauses in his stitching to flex his shoulder.

“How goes the arm, uh?”

Guiromélans looks up to see his sewing partner staring at him.  He merely shakes his head and goes back to work on the sail before them.  Caidryn points her hooked needle at him.  “What yä needs,” she instructs, “Is a good fuckin’.  Don’t think yä’ve had one since yä came aboard.”

“Thank you for the thought,” he hisses.

“I still says yä should goes tä the House of Fitta…”

“What I need,” he answers, “Is a real Medianist church, some prayer, and a proper Medianist healer.  I need not a Thunderer-worshipping whore!”

“Fitta isn’t the Thunderer, Cathubodua,” Balen calls over to them helpfully.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Guiromélans sighs, “and thank you.  However, Fitta is nearly as bad.”

Balen laughs and goes back to his play in the tidal pools.  Caidryn snorts and returns to her work on the sail, only to stop shortly thereafter and stare at the boy.  Guiromélans tries to watch her without appearing to do so.  It is difficult, and his divided attention results in a stabbed finger.  Cursing quietly, he sucks the injured digit and abandons any pretense at subtly.  There is a quality to her eyes when she looks at the boy.  Everything about her softens.  Her eyes, her scar, even her tongue.  She dares not hope for herself, but she does hope for him.

Her eyes meet his, and she frowns.  “What’re yä lookin’ at?”

“You’re not working.”

“Neither are yä!”

He waves the hand with the bleeding finger.  “I’ve a hurt hand and a hurt shoulder.”

“If yä just stops jerkin’ off and fucks the whores, yä wouldn’t have that problem.”  She angrily goes back to her work, only to be distracted by Balen’s antics again.

This time, she doesn’t object to Guiromélans watching too.  Can such a creature as Caidryn truly know what love is?

“I had me a mosac once,” she says suddenly, almost as an answer to his thoughts.

“Truly?”  Guiromélans’s voice reflects his surprise despite himself.

Caidryn’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes the outburst for any sign of insult.  Failing to find any, she looks back down at her work.  “Yäh,” she grunts, “Yä gets fucked enough… it’s bound tä happen, I suppose, uh?”

Guiromélans considers the near-daily ministrations she used to perform on the rest of the crew.  “This happened recently then?”

“Nage.”  Her voice has become lower, quieter, her down-turned face hidden in a black cascade of hair.  Guiromélans can’t determine what she’s thinking or feeling.  “Was a long time ago.  Nearly 10 years.  Right after I began me first bleed.  It was a hard thing fer an oainjyr as young as I was.”

Guiromélans watches as she tries to focus on her work, trying to deny whatever feelings these memories are conjuring.  Her hands become flighty, careless.  In frustration, she throws the long needle aside and shakes her head violently.  Her fists clench on her knees as though to seize the past and choke it to death.

“Took care of the mosac as best I could,” she mumbles as she looks out to the dreary ocean.  She sighs and looks back down at her hands, “Then I fell in with the Lady… and things changed.”

“How was that?”

She looks up at him, her eyes dark and cold.  “It never happened again, uh?”

Guiromélans is silent as he absorbs this.  In Medianist lands, it is not unknown for noble ladies of Caidryn’s age to already have children of nearly marrying age themselves, though such occurrences are rare and usually only within the wealthiest of houses.  For a street urchin like Caidryn, who couldn’t afford the prayers and medicines necessary to make such young pregnancies safe, the experience must have been shattering.

“Who was this Lady?  What did she—”

“That’s none of yer concern, boduus.”

“Caidryn,” Guiromélans says carefully, “What happened to your son?”

“MIND YER OWN FUCKIN’ BUSINESS!” she shrieks.  Guiromélans is taken aback by the murderous fury in her eyes.  Leaping to her feet, she points an accusing finger down at the surprised Raven.  “Yä thinks I don’t knows what yer tryin’ tä do, uh?  Yä with yer high and holy airs!  Tryin’ tä trick me intä sharin’ me sins, yäh?  Lookin’ tä judge me crimes against yer God too?  Lookin’ tä send me tä Cassibodua like yer other anghredadun?”

“Caidryn,” Guiromélans says calmly as he rises slowly, his hands raised.  Too late, he realizes this was a mistake, and she misinterprets his intent.  Her eyes widen in panic, and she strikes without warning, shoving him squarely against each shoulder and sending him sprawling backwards onto the rocks.  The pain of his injured shoulder momentarily paralyzes him.  When his vision clears, she has her broad bladed gully drawn.

“Yä stays away from me, yä boduus blood-sucker,” she snarls, viciously pointing the blade down at him.  “I can’t takes yä face-tä-face—na, not yet— sä yä better sleeps lightly, lest sometime me knife visits yä in the night!”

Cutting the air threateningly with her blade, she wheels around and runs away, leaving Guiromélans strewn amongst the rocks and tattered sails.

“Yä must have made her real mad fer her tä do that,” Balen whispers nearby in a frightened voice.

Guiromélans painfully picks himself up and checks for new injuries.  “Let this be a lesson for you.  The goat scratches until it cannot lay comfortably, Balen,” he sighs.  “When talking to her, you just cannot ask too many questions, I suppose.”  He shakes his head as he watches her flee towards the outpost.  No, he decides, if she was really angry, she would have attacked him.  There just must be things simply too painful for her to talk or even think about, yet somehow, she has the need to share them with him.

It seems she was faced with the paqa curse as well.