“Hey, hey, easy with that!” Gerud Luhn snapped at a pair of burly, sweat-drenched crewmen. It was taking both of them to carry the large wooden crate labeled “fragile”, with its weight making their knees wobble. They glared at Luhn. In answer, he pushed back his coat, revealing the long, curved dagger holstered to his left hip. The men continued to glare at him a moment longer before then rolling their eyes and trudging forward across the ship, their hold on the crate the tiniest bit more secure.
Luhn rolled his own eyes and folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t extraordinarily well-dressed, but compared to the company he was currently keeping he might as well have been a vacationing prince. He was a handsome, if sour-faced man, with a particularly impressive mustache. He wore no jewelry except for a bronze ring on his left hand. Instead of being decorated with an actual gemstone, the ring’s face was marked with the symbol of diamond.
His expression was particularly sour this early afternoon. The crew of the Pearl Heart were busy lugging his cargo aboard, but he’d yet to meet their captain, Blueford. He’d begun to pace back and forth impatiently when the first mate, Callaway, jogged up the ramp onto the ship, followed by scruffy cat boy and tiny girl in a bright yellow coat and hat. Luhn immediately made his way over to them.
“You said you were going off to get the captain,” he snapped at Callaway. “An hour ago.”
“Said I’d talk with ‘im,” Callaway replied, picking at his ear with his pinky. “And I did. And he said to get us some extra hands for the rowin’.”
Luhn shot the girl and the cat a skeptical look. “And so you picked a toddler and a tramp?”
The cat boy turned on Callaway. “Yo, I didn’t sign up for no rowing.”
“Mr. Fievel,” the girl said warningly, only to shrink in behind him as giant sailor walked on past.
“Hey, I’ve got an eye for people,” Callaway told Luhn, pointedly ignoring Fievel. He then looked past the man, glanced upwards. “Ain’t that right, Captain?”
“Ah! Finally back, Callaway!” laughed a booming voice. Luhn, Fievel, and the girl all turned to see the captain of the ship descending down a long ramp towards them. Half of him was a grizzled, leather-skinned man with a silver beard and twinkling sea-green eyes. The other half was that of a jet black stallion. He wore a sun-bleached jacket over his broad, hairy chest, with a scabbard hanging from a belt wrapped around the section where his human and hoarse halves met. His hooves made heavy, metallic thumps as he traversed across his ship. “Good,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “After last time…Well, we need all the hands we can get.”
“Wait,” Fievel called out. He pointed at Callaway. “He didn’t say nothing about working…How much it pay?”
Blueford raised a pale eyebrow. “You expect to ride for free?”
“The more important question,” Luhn cut in, stepping towards the captain, “is what happened last time?”
Blueford sighed nostalgically. “What didn’t happen last time? Ah, the Serpent’s Spine. They don’t make sailors like they used to.”
Luhn tensed. “My cargo,” he said. “Can you promise its security, Captain?”
“Your cargo? Yes. Your stomach? That I won’t promise.”
“My own fate doesn’t matter. Just my cargo.”
“Then no need to worry then, Mister Luhn.”
“Now back to MY question,” Fievel said fiercely, stepping in between them. “How much does this gig pay?”
“Enough to cover the voyage,” Blueford told the cat boy. “So get to work.” He leaned in and grinned right in Fievel’s face. The boy had no choice but to step back. “That or we strap you to the mast, have you look out for …anomalies.”
“No happening,” Fievel said, unable to keep his voice from cracking. “But, uh, I don’t know how to sail, so…?’
“Oh you’ll learn.”
“Yeah, get your ass to work you fucking waste of space!” the girl suddenly declared. Fievel turned to look at her, looking hurt. She looked down at her feet, blushing furiously. Blueford and Callaway laughed. The latter gestured for her to follow after him.
“Come on, Miss Abalone,” he told her. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
“Come, Mister Luhn,” Blueford said. “To my quarters. We have much to discuss.”
“Finally,” Luhn grunted. He followed after the centaur, leaving the cat boy to stare after them, looking as lost and confused as a cat can look.
#
The captain’s quarters were mighty spacious, which Luhn guessed was likely necassery considering Blueford’s size. There was a noticeable lack of furniture. Maps and various types of documents were nailed to the surrounding walls. There were many, many dents in the shape of hoof prints in the wooden floor. The combined odors of horse, wet wooden, and liquor filled the captain’s quarters, nearly making Luhn gag. He touched his ring, drawing strength from it, and forced his stomach to settle back down.
Blueford trotted across the room, hands held behind his back. Luhn followed as close as he dared without fear of being struck in the face by the centaur’s tail. “I’d like to set sail as soon as possible,” he informed him. “
“Leaving late or early don’t make much difference,” Blueford grunted, not bothering to look back at him. He stopped in front of one of the larger maps. “The witching hour occurs every day. If we miss it by a few hours, we’ll simply try the next day. It does you no good to stress about it, Mister Luhn.”
Luhn didn’t feel too reassured. “The Amber Wash Trading Company hired you to get my cargo-”
“-to the agreed upon destination in one piece.” Blueford placed a calloused hand upon the map. It showed the basic shapes of two rock formations huddled close together, with a thin strip of blue running in between them. He traced a finger along the strip. “Not many dare use the Serpent’s Spine. And fewer dare it more than once. You need to wait for the right time-during the witching hour-so that the tide will carry you through. Otherwise the storm-and there’s always a storm-will destroy us.” The captain frowned, as if searching for a simpler way to explain it all to Luhn. Finally, “We need to thread the needle.”
Luhn stared at the map with narrowed eyes.
“I suppose arguing won’t change your mind?” he finally asked.
“Not a bit,” Blueford chuckled.
Luhn’s frown deepened. “Very well. You do your job, I’ll do mine, Captain.”
“Good. As it should be.”
“Now, tell me, what happened last time?”
The captain touched at his beard. “Very well. I hope you do not mind sitting on the floor, Mister Luhn.”
#
Fievel hunkered down next to the crate and pressed his ear up against it. It was silent now, but he would have sworn he heard something moving inside. And this wasn’t the first time. After near nonstop trips, lugging up crates and barrels over into the ship’s storage room, an intense suspicion had begun to fester in him towards the Luhn-guy. Was he importing illegal goods? Or maybe something more…alive-?
“Yo, kitty-cat, what you think you’re doin’?” huffed a passing sailor suspiciously.
Fievel stood up and thumped the top of the crate. “Just checking for leakage.”
The sailor sniffed, clearly unconvinced. “Don’t matter what we hauling. Ain’t our job to know. If anything, it’s better we don’t know. That we, if things go south and we get questioned, ain’t nothing for us to give ‘em but an honest ‘I don’t know’, y’know?”
Fievel frowned thoughtfully.
Guess that makes sense, he thought. “Thanks-”
“Now get back to work!” the sailor grunted, walked past him. Fievel glared at the back of his head. Once the large man was gone, Fievel sighed and resumed half-lifting, half-dragging the crate through the ship. Things were so different here from back home. For one, he realized he grown so used to be top dog after Pony’s death. He gave an order and, usually, the others followed without protest. They trusted him to keep them alive. But here? Fievel was hired help at best, and completely ignored at worst. An unimportant shadow. Hell, the only reason he’d gotten on at all was because he’d tagged along with Abalone.
He hadn’t seen her since Callaway had shown her quarters. Fievel found himself hoping she was okay. Not because he liked her or anything.
Definitely not.
#
After what felt like an eternity, the Pearl Heart finally set sail. Instead of putting him at ease, Luhn’s conversation with Blueford had served to only aggravate him further. The captain had explained how “time” was the most critical factor in this expedition. That it was all too possible, and dangerous, to arrive too early. “We must wait for the right time,” Blueford had explained while munching on an apple, his words slurred slightly. “So the tides will be just right, and the rocks will let you through. Otherwise the storms will destroy you. You need to thread the needle.”
“Thread the needle,” Luhn repeated incredulously, glancing over at the map on the wall.
“It’ll make more sense once we’ve arrived,” Blueford promised, wiping apple juices off his hairy chin.
Luhn regarded a moment longer before exhaling deeply and rising to his feet. With seemingly no other choice, he said, “Your terms are acceptable, Captain. Frustrating, but acceptable.” He began to turn away. “You do your job, I’ll do mine.”
Blueford nodded. “Good,” he said. “As it should be.”
Luhn stopped by the door and turned back. “I just don’t want to be late,” he called back. “You understand why I don’t want to be late, don’t you?”
“Because you have time-sensitive cargo,” Blueford answered.
“Yes. Because we have time-sensitive cargo. And those on the other side, expecting said cargo, are nowhere near as easygoing as I am.” Luhn paused noticeably before then adding, “Captain.”
Now, hours later, he did what a man of his meticulous nature did best and checked inventory. Some of the items had been bruised, but that was to be expected when working with brutish sailors such as these. Yet none of the damage had pierced through, and everything was accounted for. Or at least, it seemed that way after the third inventory check. And then the forth.
Luhn was snoring against a barrel halfway through the fifth, the ships rocking him to sleep as if he were a tired, mustachioed baby.
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