Riven Isles

10 | A Beautiful Day for Secrecy

It is a day beyond beautiful, a day like a painting. The sky is bright, without a single cloud to be seen, and the water is aglow with the light dashed off the backs of small, unintimidating white caps. In the shallows, even from the tall dock, I can see the sandy bottom, and following the uneven slope, the color of the sea deepens in a smooth and imperfect gradient.

Sailors of all shapes and sizes lumber past, laden with barrels and kegs and ropes and canvases. A few might be ours, but most part down separate docks or pile their wares into skiffs and dinghies.

A fair amount of sailors are primly dressed in navy uniform, heading for a pristine galleon in a deep berth at the furthest dock. The ship, the H.M.S Cardinal, named for His Majesty King Cardinal Cadencia himself, is a gold-trimmed, blue-painted vessel that is, doubtless, the finest ship in the entire port. I'd like to say our own Orpheus was a close second, but I'd be lying. Third or fourth, perhaps. There are at least a hundred ships docked, and another fifty or so at anchor or on moorings.

"That's us, there," Dr. Oswald says, pointing to the Orpheus at her berth. Simon, the fish people, and I had seen the ship before. Lydia and the five weapon-laden men had not.

"She's a beauty," praises Pete. Mike whistles as if hailing a lady's attention.

"Have you been aboard, yet?" Lydia asks.

"No, not yet," the doctor answers. "I'm excited to."

The Orpheus is magnificent piece of work, light for her size. She has two tall masts decked with square sails. She is double-decked with forty guns and a polished bowsprit of a beautiful syren with her arms spread, clothed in seaweed.

There is a long, notched boarding ramp leading up from the dock. A man awaits at the top, smiling, hands clasped neatly behind his back. I don't recognize him.

Then, upon closer inspection, I do.

His blue and gold coattails flutter in the breeze.

We start up the ramp, following a pair of men with sacks thrown over their shoulders. The captain greets each of them by name.

"West," he nods. "Barker. That'd be the last of the load, yes?"

"Just one more barrel," says Mr. West. "Walsh's got it."

"Excellent." The captain shifts his attention to us, chipper, bright, and sharp-eyed. "How's that, doctor? Right on time."

Upon reaching the deck, the doctor pauses to take in the reborn captain before him. His hair is combed and neatly held away from his face by the ribbon at his nape, and his whiskers are trimmed and even. He looks and smells as clean as the rest of us do, and he is, undoubtedly, sober. Rootwig whirs her approval. Thenshie chatters her teeth.

"My, my, Captain," breathes the doctor, "I'm very impressed."

"Surprised? This is why I prefer to find the clients rather than have the clients find me. Gives the wrong idea." He extends a hand. "As I said, doctor, I am very serious about my work."

They shake hands once, and the captain directs us to his cabin at the stern. I lag behind a little, as the captain does. The doctor, Lydia, and Simon all move forward without question, looking about the ship. The Aquians slip-slop across the deck with their weird webbed feet and peer over the opposite handrail.

Simon has a load of thick books slung over his shoulder, held by a leather strap.

I catch Captain Clarke's look of displeasure at the doctor's five crewmen. His smile leaves and he greets them with a sort of a sneer.