Chương 44: Golden Mussel

A hard shove between the shoulder blades ended Arien's sightseeing.

"Go on, kid." Arien caught himself against the railing and turned. His beloved captain stood behind him, already scowling.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Shore. Follow me, and try not to get lost." The man stepped onto the gangplank without waiting.

"You're lucky. One of the ships bound for Wayhold sails tomorrow." Arien hurried after him. The plank bounced beneath his boots, and the moment he reached the quay, he stepped straight into the chaos of the harbor. Dockworkers pushed past with barrels balanced on their shoulders. Porters shouted warnings as carts rattled over the stones. Somewhere nearby, someone was gutting fish, adding blood and rotting scales to the smells of salt, smoke, and tar. The captain never looked back.

Arien tightened both straps of his pack and forced his way through the crowd, afraid that one distracted glance would leave him alone in a city where he knew neither the streets nor a single person. The captain led him along the quay, past stacked crates, fish stalls, and crews unloading cargo from smaller vessels. After several minutes, the crowd thinned enough for Arien to see where they were going. They stopped beside a ship large enough to make the river barge look like a child's toy.

GOLDEN MUSSEL had been painted across its bow in fading yellow letters. Its dark hull rose high above the quay, streaked with patches of fresh tar. Three masts towered overhead, their furled sails bound beneath a web of ropes, ladders, and rigging that shifted and creaked in the sea wind. Sailors moved across the deck and high above it with an ease Arien found difficult to understand. Some inspected the sails, others shouted instructions to dockworkers loading crates through an open cargo hatch.

Near the waterline, two men scraped algae and barnacles from the hull, releasing a sharp stink every time their tools struck wet wood. Arien craned his neck until it hurt. He had known ships were large. He had not expected one to resemble a floating building. The bargeman spoke briefly with a sailor, then stepped onto the wide gangplank, glancing back only once to make sure Arien followed.

They threaded their way through a maze of wooden crates toward the stern until a boy of about fourteen or fifteen stepped into their path near the helm. He wore the same loose trousers and simple shirt as the other sailors, with shoulder-length chestnut hair blowing around his face.

"Who are you? What are you looking for?" the boy asked, trying hard to keep his voice low. The bargeman looked at him for a moment, as if judging whether he was worth talking to.

"To Captain Fenrey. I've got a delivery for him," he said, nodding toward Arien.

"Oh, Father mentioned something. He should be near the mizzenmast." Sanrey pointed across the deck.

"See those two men? One fat, one thin? You want the thin one." The bargeman followed his finger, but his gaze wandered among the sailors, masts, and stacked cargo. For the first time since Arien had met him, he looked uncertain.

"The one beside the barrels?" he asked.

"No. Farther back. Crimson cloak."

"I see him," the man muttered, though he clearly had not a moment earlier. He adjusted his coat and set off with as much confidence as he could recover.

"Keep an eye on the boy," he called over his shoulder, not waiting for an answer. Sanrey watched him weave between the crates before turning back to Arien.

"Hey, I'm Sanrey." He offered his hand.

"That's your relative?"

"Gods forbid." Arien shook it.

"I don't even know his name. He calls me 'the shipment.' He's just been hauling me from Jakar." Sanrey laughed.

"Sounds like a pleasant journey. Are you heading to Wayhold, or farther?"

"Wayhold." It felt good to finally speak with someone who answered in full sentences.

"Are you a sailor?"

"A mariner," Sanrey corrected.

"At least according to the System. My father still calls me a land rat."

"How long have you been sailing?"

"Since I was eight. Apparently that still doesn't count. My mother agrees with him. She hides my boots whenever we're due to leave port." Sanrey glanced down at his boots, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

"Does it work?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" His gaze dropped to Arien's pack.

"What takes you to Wayhold?"

"I'm going to study. A friend and his older brother will meet me when we arrive."

"Your family must be worried, sending you this far alone."

"My sisters are," Arien said, turning his attention toward the sailors working above them.

"But they know who'll be waiting for me." Sanrey gave him an exaggeratedly solemn nod.

"A very brave young man." Before Arien could decide whether he was being mocked, the bargeman strode past them without a word.

"Pleasure meeting you!" Sanrey called after him. The man glanced back, spat over the side, and kept walking. Sanrey watched him go.

"Charming."

"Worse than land rats," a voice said behind them. Sanrey straightened slightly. The approaching man had the same grey eyes and narrow nose, though on him both looked sharper. Wind tugged at his dark crimson cloak and long black hair, revealing a well-cut wool tunic and a heavy belt with a saber on one side and a dagger on the other. He moved across the crowded deck as though every sailor, rope, and crate stood exactly where he expected it to. Arien suspected Sari would have called him unfairly handsome.

"A bargeman," the man said, watching his former captain disappear down the gangplank.

"And they dare call themselves sailors." His attention shifted to Arien.

"You must be Arien. Ever been aboard a ship, boy?"

"Not one like this," Arien replied. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Back on Earth, his parents had once taken him on a short trip along the coast, but he doubted the captain would count that. A pulley squealed overhead. Fenrey glanced up as several sailors hauled on a line, and the deck shifted gently beneath Arien's boots.

"Good. Stay clear of the rigging, and when the sea turns rough, keep one hand on something solid. I've no intention of fishing you out of the water." He nodded toward Sanrey.

"He'll show you your berth, the galley, and where not to stand if you value your fingers. I'm Fenrey. On this ship, you do as I say. Clear?"

"Yes, Captain!" Fenrey studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod.

"Maybe not the worst land rat, then. Welcome aboard the Golden Mussel." The first week aboard the Golden Mussel passed beneath warm spring sun and snapping sails. Arien spent most of it on deck, either leaning over the bow with salt drying on his face or trailing Sanrey through the maze of ropes, hatches, and cargo.

"What's that line for?"

"Holding the yard."

"And that one?" Sanrey followed his finger and sighed.

"Also holding the yard." He complained, but never stopped answering. If anything, the questions made him stand a little straighter whenever another sailor was close enough to hear his explanations. The rest of the crew warmed up to Arien as well. On the second day, when the ship began rolling hard enough to send loose cups sliding across the galley table, he finished his meal without turning pale. The cook slapped him between the shoulders and declared him a good omen.

After that, sailors began greeting him by name, handing him pieces of fruit, and occasionally letting him help with tasks too harmless for him to ruin. Arien accepted their company gratefully. After almost two weeks with the bargemen, he would have been happy to hold a conversation with a monkey. Aside from Sanrey, Arien soon grew fond of Miley, the ship's first mate. With his wild grey hair and gentle eyes, the old sailor looked as though he could have been their grandfather.

Unlike most of the crew, he never seemed to be in a hurry. He often spent the quieter afternoons teaching Sanrey navigation, and Arien was usually allowed to sit in.

"Again," Miley said, tapping a calloused finger against the chart spread across the captain's table.

"Torben to Delna. Spring current, steady western wind." Sanrey leaned over the map, lips moving silently as he followed the coastline. The cabin smelled of lamp oil and old parchment, while the deck creaked beneath their feet.

"Five days," he decided. Miley raised one bushy eyebrow.

"Six," Sanrey corrected quickly.

"And if the wind turns?"

"Seven."

"Pirates reported near the southern shoals?" Sanrey groaned and dropped his forehead against the table.

"Why can't ships just sail in straight lines?" Miley chuckled.

"Because then anyone could be a mariner." Arien understood Sanrey's frustration. Every answer seemed to depend on three more questions: currents, wind, storms, unsafe waters, damaged bridges upriver, or how long some customs officer felt like keeping a ship in port. Miley handled each mistake with the same endless patience, guiding Sanrey back through the calculations until he found it himself. The moment the lesson ended, Sanrey snatched up his jacket.

"Come on. I need air." By air, he meant climbing the rigging. Sanrey raced up the shrouds as easily as another boy might climb a staircase. Arien followed much more slowly, gripping each rope while the mast swayed beneath him and the deck shrank farther away. Without the months spent struggling through Will's obstacle course, he doubted he would have made it past the first platform. By the time he pulled himself into the crow's nest, his arms were shaking.

Sanrey sat on the edge with his legs dangling over open air.

"One day, I'll have my own ship," he said, for perhaps the tenth time.

"I'll sail wherever I want, and no one will make me calculate how long it takes." Arien lowered himself beside him, carefully keeping both hands on the railing.

"You had trouble with the lesson."

"There's too much to remember. Father and Miley make it look easy because they've had their assigned Skills for decades."

"They probably made the same mistakes when they started." Sanrey turned to stare at him.

"Are you doing it again?"

"Doing what?"

"Talking like an old man. Can't you complain about useless adults like a normal child?" Arien looked down at the distant deck.

"My sister always said I was born old." Sanrey laughed.

"That explains a lot." Arien knew he should be more careful. Most eight-year-olds did not talk like tired old men, but around Sanrey he sometimes forgot to watch every word. The boy leaned back against the railing, face turned toward the wind.

"Two days in port and I start wanting to leave again," he said.

"After three, the ground feels wrong beneath my feet." A sailor on the deck below cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Sanrey! Your father says those ropes won't coil themselves!"

"I'm busy!" Sanrey shouted back.

"Of course you are, little captain." Laughter rose from below. Sanrey's expression tightened. At fifteen, he had the Profession, confidence, and ambitions of a grown mariner. Unfortunately, the rest of the crew still treated him like the ship's mascot. Arien changed the subject.

"Tell me about the Republic." Sanrey looked at him.

"I still can't believe how little you know about the world. When I was your age—" He stopped and grimaced. Arien raised an eyebrow.

"Forget I said that. What do you want to know?"

"Is it true that humans make up only a small part of the population there?"

"True. I've only visited two of their ports, but I've never seen so many different races packed into one place. In Azintoth, a dwarf inspected our cargo, an elf collected the harbor fee, and an orc tried to sell Father spices that were mostly colored sawdust." Arien laughed.

"And they didn't kill one another?"

"Not while there was money to be made." Sanrey grinned.

"Dwarves, elves, orcs, beastfolk, humans. They all have representatives on the High Council." He leaned back against the railing.

"Whatever keeps them together, it works. Father filled half our hold there and sold everything in Serya before the dockworkers had finished unloading. They won four leagues in the last Portal Tournament too." Arien frowned. He had heard of the Portal Tournaments, usually from men who could not agree on a single detail. In one version, nations sent their greatest heroes to fight one another. In another, the System trapped entire armies inside Portals until only one returned.

Terry had once claimed the winners received artifacts from the gods.

"What actually happens during them?" he asked. Sanrey stared at him.

"You don't know?"

"I know six different versions. I'm asking which one is true."

"Ah." Sanrey scratched his cheek.

"Probably parts of all six. Every few years, the System creates new Portals alongside the permanent ones. Teams enter according to level. Bronze is for anyone up to level forty, and then there are higher leagues. They compete inside, though the exact trials change each time."

"Against teams from other kingdoms?"

"Against everyone. Every country with access to a Portal sends people. The winners become famous across the continent." Sanrey's mouth twisted.

"Azintoth took four leagues last time. Wyndor has three permanent Portals and hasn't won one in years."

"Does anyone know why the System organizes it?" Sanrey shrugged.

"Ask ten priests and you'll get twelve answers. For me, I think the gods need something to bet on." Arien looked out over the sea. He had always assumed the grander stories about the Tournaments were exaggerations. Now he knew the System itself created new Portals and drew entire nations into competing inside them. The thought bothered him. The System already knew far more about everyone than it had any right to.

Apparently, it could also decide when to open new Portals and give entire kingdoms a reason to enter them. By sunset, Sanrey had been called back to work, and Arien followed the smell of supper below deck. Most evenings, the off-duty watch gathered in the galley after the meal. Damp coats hung from hooks along the walls, cards slapped against the tables, and smoke from several pipes collected beneath the low ceiling. Someone always had a story.

Sailors argued about foreign ports, strange food, Monsters seen beneath tropical waters, and fortunes won or lost in a single night. Arien had quickly learned to arrive early enough to claim a place near the lantern and listen. Some stories taught him useful things about dangerous shallows, dishonest harbors, and creatures best avoided even when dead. The rest was probably nonsense, but he listened anyway. Tonight, however, the usual laughter never properly began.

Dark clouds had gathered throughout the afternoon, and by evening Fenrey had ordered the ship farther from shore until the familiar line of the coast disappeared behind them. Now the hull rolled beneath every heavier wave, cups rattled across the tables, and several sailors kept glancing toward the ceiling whenever the timbers groaned. At the far end of the galley, one of the older sailors sat beside the small window with a long wooden pipe clenched between stained teeth.

He watched the darkness outside for a while, then removed the pipe and exhaled slowly.

"There is one story," Orian said at last, "that I tell only when the shore is out of sight."