Wetherington, Leeward Islands, Fleet Territory

  Mid-Dry Season, Year 17

  The ride took a few hours to get to our destination. Wetherington wasn’t a big island so that basically meant we went all the way to the other side, riding the piece of shit cobblestone road along the coast, past the place’s only (legal) port until the road ended.

  Then we had to get off on foot and walk. Fun times.

  If I'd ever given the tax man a single coin, I'd honestly be pretty pissed off about the state of this place.

  The walk wasn't long, at least. A quick trek up a grassy hill where I seriously had to consider if I was about to take one to the back of the head and rolled out to sea, but then we got to the top and our destination came into view. It was a stretch of land that I was pretty sure was empty the week before, dotted with a handful of canvas tents and a squat wooden building. Fleet officers in their dark uniforms roamed between them, an ants nest of who knows what going on.

  “All this for me?” I asked, and got a persuasive push forward in response. “Touchy, damn.” I kept walking, descending into the camp, but aside from a few mildly curious glances…nobody paid any attention to us.

  At least, nobody paid attention to me. There were quite a few responses to the two leading me through the place, and specifically the guy in the hat who had taken two long steps in front of me and got us moving in a line. Most people stopped what they were doing to make a fist and tap their heart twice, getting a nod in response before they went back to their business.

  We stopped in front of the building and the man knocked twice, a stupidly loud sound that I had to keep myself from flinching at. There were door knockers less loud than him.

  There was a response I couldn’t make out from inside and he pushed the door open, the three of us filing in. We entered into a small building about the size of a hole-in-the-wall - the bar kind, not the glory kind - dotted with clear round windows on wooden walls, with a desk big enough to dump three guys on as the only piece of furniture.

  A man stood on the other side of the desk, probably the Lieutenant they'd mentioned, and the guy I somehow needed to convince I was completely innocent. He was a square-jawed man with a head of neatly combed seaweed and a face like a marble statue - white, serious, with the noble air of someone who’s clearly never smelled their own farts - and dressed in mostly the same uniform as the other two.

  His jacket was red.

  Shit, was that real glass in these windows? This guy must be loaded.

  “Talk to me, Hollander,” he said, without looking up. He hadn't even glanced up when we were coming in. The man was half-bent over the desk with a spread of papers across them, covered in scribbles I couldn’t make heads or tails of.

  I mean, I normally couldn’t do that but these ones were wiggling and shit like he’d put ink worms into the sheets. He moved them around every few seconds to look at one underneath so that was just a me problem, I guess.

  “Sir,” the hatted guy Hollander said, thumping his chest twice in that gesture again-. Oh. It's a greeting. Must be a Fleet thing. What, they were too good for the Gruff Nod? “Mission completed.”

  “Completed?” The man sounded curious in a particular way. There was an implied give me more details in his tone, the kind of tone the boss uses for clarification after some goon said something particularly stupid and-or suicidal. This guy was definitely In Charge. And at a guess, there was a big gap between how important he was and how important the two who'd hauled my ass in were.

  “Yes. All objectives met. This is the quaternary objective, the one the Steward had speculated about,” Hollander said, pressing firmly against my back. I stood my ground until he pushed me off balance, taking a single step forward. “From what we could gather, the reports all seem to be accurate. Theft, stalking, burglary-”

  “Not me, too big to fit through a window,” I said, trying to recover naturally, smile charmingly - lots of teeth (not the bottom ones), talk through my head, gotta crinkle those goddamn eyes - and wave my hands peacefully. The rope bindings weren’t helping.

  Hollander continued after a beat. “...counterfeiting, smuggling-”

  “I don't own a ship.”

  “-illegal alcohol production, racketeering-”

  “Sure, had a still by the pisspot- did you say racketeering?” I turned to look back at Hollander and then the woman, who had a face that was carefully neutral like she was holding in a smile. “Did Lucky Shingles put you up to this? That guy's the racket runner, that's why he lives in a giant mansion beside the governor's house and I share a pillow with two four year olds! You should be hauling his ass in!” Which even happened to be true.

  I'd done a bunch of jobs for Pops Shingles, mostly in the protection game, so I guess they weren't wrong - but that probably wasn’t enough to spin a rich man with no scruples into bringing me in as an ef effective racket manager, so I sure as seas wasn't taking the fall for it now.

  There was a quiet sound of air from the Lieutenant, either a sigh or him shuffling papers. I looked back at him as he casually tossed out a question. “Who is this child?”

  “An orphan from Wetherington. Seems to be early Seaman-rank in ability. No visitors reported by the matron.”

  “None?” The lieutenant asked, that tell me more tone of curiousity. “You're certain? How trustworthy is this woman?”

  “One hundred percent, sir,” Hollander replied. “And she’s highly reputable. She's worked with the Fleet before on minor matters, and I'm familiar with her personally.” That raised my eyebrows. I mean, she was pretty old but I guess that didn't stop you from wanting to uh…get ‘familiar’. Shit, give me another seventy years, I’d probably do worse. “I can-”

  “That's more than good enough. So, no evidence of instruction or inheritance. I suppose he's just an…uncommon genius.” He said that with the same energy as a nanny seeing a baby piss itself for the third time since lunch, and I felt insulted enough to say something.

  “Hey, can I just make a point? Seems like you guys have a mistaken idea about me and what I do around here.” I put my hands to my chest. “You can ask the other kids, I'm just a guy trying to get by and take it day by day. See, I was born under a blood moon during a storm, and abandoned on a deserted island full of cannibals-”

  “I don’t care about your story,” the Lieutenant said, but he made it sound like this conversation is over. “Frankly, I’m offended by your presence, your actions, and your very clear lack of remorse over the whole ordeal.”

  “What else can I say? I’m innocent. But if I wasn’t, I’d try to die without regrets.”

  “You-”

  “And a lot of debt.”

  There was half a chuckle that was quickly strangled by a cough from behind me, my two escorts quickly going quiet again as their boss stared down at his papers.

  “I mean, still saying I’m innocent, but if I wasn’t, no reason to die debt-free, right? I wouldn’t have to worry about it.” I shrugged again. “Just seems-”

  “Enough,” the Lieutenant said, placing his hands down firmly on the desk and looking up at me for the first time. There was a pressure rolling off him, a force that made the words die in my throat along with my breath, the sound just a croak that was quickly strangled into silence.

  I swallowed, the sound feeling painfully loud in the sudden quiet, and nodded that I got the message.

  “Hollander, Reyes, you’re dismissed,” he said, standing straight. There was a pair of ‘yessir’ from behind me and footsteps fading, the click of the door opening and closing leaving me alone with Lieutenant.

  Who I suddenly realized was a whole head shorter than me, but was giving me a very strong feeling that he could kill me in a fight without really trying or worrying about it afterwards.

  “Johannes, was it?” he asked, getting the sound right. I nodded. “I’ll be direct. No, I’ll be worse than that: I’ll be rude. This isn't a trial, with us trying to find out how you did it. It's a sentencing. The laws you’ve violated are clear and unwavering. You harnessed worldly energy, you extorted mortals, you got fat off your ill-gotten gains and to an extent where you don’t have enough years of life to serve the sentence, or the hands to chop off in punishment.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Damn, was he pissed. His arms were perfectly straight against the desk, locked in place as he put his emotions into maintaining the pose instead of, y’know, beating my ass without any witnesses around.

  “How many…?” I trailed off, raising my still-bound hands. The Lieutenant gestured for me to go on. “How many hands would that be? I knew a guy who got by with a pair of wooden-”

  “Twenty six,” he said flatly, and I shut up. “And that’s just the reports that have been confirmed from the last six months. I suspect the number will end up substantially higher if we follow through investigating earlier years.”

  Ten fingers, ten toes, start over on the hands-.

  “Ah,” I said, throat a little dry. “That’s uh…that’s more than I can get hold of on short notice.”

  “To say the least,” the Lieutenant said. “But circumstances have conspired to give you an opportunity. A choice.”

  “I'm…listening,” I said slowly. I had an unwelcome feeling that I recognized the shape of this game and I really hoped it wasn't going where I thought.

  “Option one: take the sentence. I sign this report, submit it, and have one of my squads deliver you to the nearest tribunal town to await punishment and assignation.” He gestured towards my tied arms.

  My fingers curled up, not wanting to abandon me that easily.

  “Or.” He let his hand drop.

  “Or?” I asked, hating this stupid back and forth and myself for buying into it. I’d seen it before but, fortunately for me, never from this side. He shows me the knife, tells me the risk if his hand were to slip, then draws out the offer so I get nervous and hopeful - enough to do something stupid.

  Depths, and they said I was running a racket. These bastards could hold classes.

  “Or you join the Fleet.”

  I blinked, leaning forward. “And?”

  “And nothing. You join the Fleet, serve for a few years, then you're free to do whatever you want.”

  “I don't trust it,” I said, shaking my head.

  He looked at me, face twisting into a frown. “I don't trust you. And I wouldn't be letting you go without the King's Signature on you.”

  “I don't know what that is.”

  “It’s- a seal. Let's just say it'll keep you honest until you're no longer a problem I need to worry about.”

  I didn't like the sound of that at all. “I don't like the sound of that at all. “So…it does make me feel a little better about this. Can't trust too good of a deal, y’know?”

  The Lieutenant chuckled darkly. “I do not. Nor would I take the plainly negative option over just a suspicious one, but that is your prerogative. But if you’re going to waste time deliberating-”

  “Wait,” I said, thinking quickly. I couldn't…I couldn't see a way out of this. Maybe if I didn't get snatched off the street, maybe if I'd known what I’d been getting myself into, maybe maybe maybe. And while there were times for deep thought… “I'll do it. I'll join the Fleet.”

  “Good,” the Lieutenant said, lifting a sheet of paper from the desk and tossing it to the ground behind him. “Now, take off your shirt.”

  I froze, realizing I was goddamn right the first time about what kind of deal this was and wondering if I could fend him off with my hands tied. “Hang on, can I still think about it?”

  The Lieutenant sighed loudly at that and- disappeared? Where the hell did-?

  A hand clamped on my shoulder from behind, and I looked to my right to find the Lieutenant giving me a flat look. “I’m not litigating this any further. I'll try not to draw this out, but I've never had to do this before.” He hesitated for a moment. “Try not to lock your legs. You might pass out.”

  “What the hell does-?” My sentence was swallowed by somebody screaming in my face as a wave of pain, never-ending burning pain washed over me. The world dissolved into a wash of colours, his face dripping into the void until only a mess of light and shadow was left. The pain didn’t stop. But at some point, it faded into a fuzzy mess that blanketed me from the world.

  Things came in flashes. Half-stumbling, half-dragged down a rocky shore. A pearly knife being handed to a fox-eyed man. Patches of wooden planks. Skies: light, dark, light. Clear and cloudy. Grinning men in sturdy canvas sailing clothes. Waves surfing into the air. Those same grinning men. The grinning men again, but closer.

  Was that…was that a bucket-?

  “Son of a bitch,” I spit, sitting up and wiping freezing cold water off my face as half a dozen crew men laughed their heads off around me. I was sitting against the wall of a ship's deck, the midday sun hidden behind a cloud and doing nothing to help with the chill wind coming over the railing and through my wet clothes.

  The water was slightly slimy and thick and soaked into everything, like it didn't want to let me go, with a strong salty smell like-

  “You motherfuckers. This is seawater.”

  “We're not gonna waste fresh water on your sleepy ass, are we?” one of them shot back.

  There was another round of laughter at that. I shot to my feet, grabbing the man by the collar and dragging him close. “And what exactly,” I muttered, “Are you going to do if you give me a Scab?”

  “Piss over a railing,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling it. He was weak, too weak to budge me, but I relaxed my grip and let him move it instead of giving that away. “That’d be your problem, swashie. Unless you want to make something of it.”

  “Do you have a problem with my men, Mr. Johannes?” I looked behind me to the rear of the ship, where two tiers of deck stood. A narrow-eyed man stood in front of an open door on the middle level, the fox-eyed man I'd half-dreamed, dressed in a slightly ragged woolen coat and canvas pants with an unhappy expression.

  “Seems more like they've got a problem with me,” I said, wiping dripping water from my face and giving the group a sour look. There was a small shuffle as they all barely edged away from me, before I looked back up at the captain. “How long was I out for?”

  “Three days, at least,” the captain said. “That's how long I've had you abord. Can't speak to anything before that.”

  Seas, three days? What the hell did that guy do to me? It was a miracle my stomach wasn’t eating itself. And- three days at sea? I’d never even left Wetherington before - no way I could leave my stashes unguarded. I’d come back poorer than I’d left. Now, I was further away from that shitty island and its rundown orphanage than I’d ever been before.

  I shook my head. “Right. And where are we headed?”

  “Port Pelagie. Or close enough to make no difference.”

  Well, I'd never heard of that but I couldn’t imagine going where they wanted me to would end well. I shrugged, looking at him to judge his interest. “Can't imagine I could talk you into a small detour, could I?”

  He laughed so sharply it seemed to take him by surprise, then leaned over on the railing with a grin. “Not unless you've got a few million knives in those pockets over yours.”

  Knives? Why the hell would he want to be paid in knives instead of silver trites? Still, based on his tone, it didn’t sound like I had a chance of affording that. “How much is a million?”

  “More than you can imagine. Less than you’d hope,” he said, standing straight. “We should be arriving in another two weeks or so. I can already see the outer bands of the Gale. I trust we won’t have any other issues before then.”

  I frowned, touching my stomach as my hunger started to make itself known. Looks like I was right about it eating itself, just a little early. “When’s food?”

  “If the Fleet wasn’t giving me a good rate to ferry your soggy bottom, there wouldn’t be any.” He pulled out a watch on a chain and checked it, before tucking it back into his pocket. “Should be within the hour, on the good cook's time. Was there anything else I could do for you today, Mr. Johannes or will that be at all?”

  He put on a fake sweet tone, like he was talking to a child and I grunted. “Yeah. Two things. For one, it's Jo. Han. Us. Two-”

  I spun around and punched the sailor in the jaw, knocking his head into the man beside him and crunching that guy’s nose out of alignment. They fell to the deck, groaning and clutching their heads.

  “Don’t fucking call me a swashie, you scum-sucking piece of shit.”

  “Steady!” the captain snapped, the rest of the sailors starting to step forward before the cry made them freeze.

  I tried not to flinch as a burning star of pain lit up on my shoulder, giving them a grin instead. Lines of blazing fire felt like they had shot across my back and down my arm. My heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to break out of my chest. What the-

  The Lieutenant. He said…something about…keeping me honest. What did he call it? The King's something. Right on my shoulder where he’d grabbed me, that was where the pain was coming from. So then - were these sailors not Seamen? Was that it? I screw up, hit the wrong person, and get a slight case of torture?

  “Well, Mr. Joe-hannus,” the captain said, sounding distinctly upset. “That Fleet rate is also keeping me from sending you into the depths. For all our sakes, let's not test how deep that purse is. Is that alright?”

  “I can manage that,” I said, giving the sailors a final look. They bristled but backed down, which was good because depths, I didn't know if I could manage a whole fight if my swashsucking arm was gonna light up like that the whole time.

  They mostly left me alone after that, and I spent a lot of my time staring out over the deck and trying to find land on the horizon. Or anything to break up the waves, really. Just the sight of the sea made me feel slightly uneasy. A pitching, rolling kind of sickness, a dread in the pit of my stomach like the time Auntie- Helena had dragged me with her to pick up the young kids’ clothes from the seamstress and the local horse race fixer had sauntered through the door and seen me standing in their way with an armful of girls’ underwear and dresses.

  A trip into the sea would have been shit, but relatively quick. Drown or swim out, it's over in a few minutes. A trip across the sea? That was a solid few weeks of unpleasant hell. Still, it’s not like I had a choice in the matter so I did what I could: shut up and make the best of it.