For the seventeenth day in a row, Arlo awakened to the sound of sandstone scrubbers on the wooden deck above him. Eighteen days prior, he had been awakened only by forcible lifting from the deck so it could be scrubbed beneath him. Arlo had slept like a stone that night, and none of the Havenites had disturbed him. The working of their old wooden ship around him had carried on through the night until they were safe away from the burning sea fort, and the number of sailors on deck dwindled. Even as in the last hours of the Blood Watch, as the red glow in the sky subsided for pink morning lights the young governor had slept soundly on his side in a heap on the deck.
After that, they’d set up a hammock for him in the forepeak of the ship. The rest of the crew slung their hammocks closer to the masts, so this arrangement afforded Arlo something resembling privacy. Though in truth the forepeak was mainly used as a sand locker and sailcloth storage area, the men had taken to calling it ‘His Excellency’s Quarters’ or ‘The Governor’s Suite’ when sending fetchers down to get things from it. Arlo bore this not only because of his absolute reliance on these strangers to take him from the smoldering ruins of his personal failure, but also because they were gentle with him. Aside from two tanned and leathery little genderless children who couldn’t have been older than ten that seemed to leap about and caper through the ship as freely as monkeys in a tree, Arlo figured himself to be the youngest person on the vessel. He wasn’t sure if this was typical for a Sea Haven, as he’d only ever even considered the ships remotely, a thing that affected the price of goods or the morale of the garrison rather than an actual living conglomerate of individuals. And yet, these nomads seemed entirely to be hard, wizened folk. Greying hair, long plaited pigtails, wrinkled faces dark from a life in the sun; Arlo imagined that the Ten Thousand Seas were salty just because these people occasionally swam in it.
Some of his hastily gathered money had fallen from the pockets of his waistcoat while he’d slept on the first night, and instead of taking it the men and women who crewed the ship had summoned their captain to have the man carefully lift it with tongs and set it into a bag for Arlo to take with him when he left the ship. They also wrinkled their noses whenever they saw his spadroon and revolver, so much so that he’d bundled the items up along with his money in his frock coat and even this was not enough to keep the sailmaker from sewing him a long shoulder bag of waxed cream-colored canvas to keep everything inside of so that even the scabbard could not be seen. The Havenites were an odd folk to be sure, but they were gentler for it.
The sound of the sandstones above grew as the line of crewmen neared the bow of the ship and Arlo sat up in his hammock, carefully sliding his rump back so he wouldn’t tip while also hunching instinctively so he wouldn’t ram his head into the crossbeam above him. His hair was a wild mess that fell around him, black vines that couldn’t decide whether to be curls or waves, but a few idle strokes with his mother’s old tortoiseshell comb brought it into enough harmony to be bound in a strip of cloth. He’d used a silk ribbon before, but was lucky for a scrap of sailcloth now. Considering the black hedgerow that had taken up the bottom of his face after only a couple of weeks without a razor, Arlo figured he should at least slightly tame the stuff on his head into some semblance of order, lest he catch the wind and be pulled off the deck of the brig. The carpenter’s mate, considered the best braider on the ship, had offered to plait it up for him so he could move around easier, but Arlo had stopped the man as soon as those massive calloused hands had started the work because his scalp felt like it would be torn from his skull.
Once the black forest had been somewhat tamed, Arlo turned in his hammock and let his bare feet dangle over wooden planks below him. He hadn’t worn his boots much at all once he spent a few days aboard. None of the Havenites even seemed to own shoes, though Arlo had certainly spotted a row of tall shearling moccasins hanging upside-down beneath the hatches on one side of the ship. None of them seemed to wear much in the way of clothes at all, not even the women. Arlo had more than once found himself on the quarterdeck, the forecastle, or the poop of the ship frozen in place while he watched a bare-chested woman heave herself up into the rigging to reef sails. She being a healthy woman of her trade, he found himself as much fascinated by her anatomy as he was the men’s apparent indifference to it. Milly, the quartermaster and sailmaker for the ship, was a bustier woman and for practicality’s sake she wore strips of linen wrapped around her abdomen to keep herself from bouncing around when she worked– much to Arlo’s relief when he was put under her charge, since just about the only thing he was good for on the ship was knotting and splicing rope. Only, Arlo found himself stuck between letting his eyes boggle or trying to avert them when she would happily cast off her wrap on occasion to soak it in a bit of seawater before reapplying it so she could cool off.
So, for as much comfort as conformity Arlo had taken to wandering the decks of the wooden ship in the same clothes he slept in: his short boot-cut trousers, linen shirt, and brocaded waistcoat. It still looked downright ostentatious compared to the ragged cotton pantaloons the Havenites wore, but with his sleeves rolled up and the sea wind flicking the loose strands of his hair and his ponytail alike Arlo at least felt like he belonged on a ship. This was why he was somewhat disappointed when he climbed the stairs from the waist onto the quarterdeck and saw land looming on the horizon. It wasn’t as though he wanted to spend the rest of his days on the Havenite ship even though he would’ve been welcome to if he threw his money and weapons overboard; but the voyage had been a deferment period of sorts. On a Haven, all of the events before could just sort of be placed on hold. They and their consequences were distant, remote things from another world– much the way the Havenites had been to Arlo when he was governor of Lost Pip. Now, though, a harsh reminder that he had the real world to contend with loomed abroad. Two green lumps rose and alighted upon the horizon, tiny white shapes of sails and black wisps of exhaust swarming around them. A beehive of activity apparent even from this distance had done more to bring reality crashing back down than the calls from the crow’s nest as the spotter identified and named various ships to the captain, who was seated in his usual place on the poop in a wicker chair waiting for Arlo.
Captain Holomar was a quiet creature, or as quiet as one could be while leading a ship full of free-spirited nomads. He spent little time chatting, mostly gormlessly reposed or reading when not at work. In looks he was like a pair of pale blue eyes peering out from a mass of either wild grey hair or scar tissue entirely, and he always seemed on the border of irate. But he had a special place in his heart for Arlo. Many of the Havenites doted on the young man they’d come to call ‘The Little Governor’ even though he was taller than most of them, but Holomar in particular loved Arlo because he alone was the only person on the ship who would play Trinket. An old board game played with little painted iron boat-shaped ingots on a magnetic board, it was once a favorite of sailors and naval tacticians– or so Arlo’s mother had told him when he was a boy learning the game from her. Two, three, or four players would take turns rolling a die to move their ‘ships’ around the board to chase a brass-coated ‘treasure ship’ which itself would move according to an array of bizarre and mystical rules. Versions of the game even incorporated the passage of time and the addition of more iron pieces to act as unique obstacles and modifiers; often sold with pamphlets explaining how they would function on the game board. Holomar was a collector of these little expansions and their multitude seemed to be the extent of his possessions aside from the motley collection of linen rags that passed for his clothing.
“His Little Excellency!” greeted Holomar with a broad grin that showed off his many varied teeth, instantly nudging the stack of wicker chairs bound to the deck next to the steps so Arlo would know to grab another.
“Good morning, Captain.” came the somewhat short reply. Arlo kept his eyes on this approaching island while he secured his seat. Most of the other sailors simply sat on the deck or when below on hammocks slung intentionally low, but for some reason Holomar insisted on having these wicker chairs for guests. Arlo carefully tied one leg of his chair to the mizzen mast and arranged it so that a small platform jutting out of it at waist height would be between himself and Holomar while both men faced towards the bow of the brig.
Arlo produced his pocket watch, somewhat plain of dial compared to the other finery in his possession and so loud that its ticking could faintly be made out above the sound of the wind in the rigging, the sweet babbling noise of the sea, and the eternal settling of the ship’s timbers.
“Eye on the land, is it, Lord Governor?” asked the captain next. “I invite you again to just toss your weapons into the sea, sell your clothes in town, and buy some proper seafaring kit to join us. Landsman though you are, we could make a fine salt of you before long.”
Arlo didn’t reply at first. For benefit other than his own, he had a better view of the island than Holomar with the bowsprit pointed right at the left-most of the mountains on the horizon. Arlo considered the tiny shapes of shipping around the speckling of city buildings only now starting to become visible before finally explaining, with his eyes still on the horizon, “I am not without alternative yet, Holomar, though I thank you for the offer. I hope the local governor here will see me and let me make what leg I can. Perhaps between some Imperial intervention and my family ties I could convince someone to mount an effort to retake Lost Pip.”
The Captain took from a satchel around the chair his sturdy board, thin stained wood built-up, joined, and glued around a magnetic plate so the pieces stuck to it. He laid it out on the platform between them, but continued the conversation.
“Not too much for them to retake, I would say. Not only that, but it sounds as though you don’t plan to lead the expedition yourself.” observed Holomar in a demeanor of false diffidence, “I am no Imperial Corovokian; though I suppose I worship Her Divine Majesty about as much as I worship the sea…”
Arlo nodded, instinctively mouthing the phrase ‘She watches.’
“And far be it from I,” continued the older man, “But it seems to me that you servants of the Empire are usually rewarded for action, not requests.”
“I am no fighter.” was all Arlo would say at first, and his face became somewhat petulant as well before softening when he saw Holomar deploying his little red and white iron ship on the Trinket board. Arlo picked out his own and set it in his customary starting position while he added, “The only thing like training I have is fencing classes at university. I have no notion of tactics or gunnery on sea or land. Even a Havenite like you might know more than me.”
Holomar’s smile darkened as he placed the treasure ship in the center of the board.
“Aye, boy,” he agreed. “Your Excellency should know that nearly none of us have always been Havenites.”
They sent him off heavier than he’d come aboard. Every care in the world was set aside for him. A full Havenite breakfast of mushy peas and sweet tea biscuits along with powdered cream dissolved in hot tea charged Arlo for a day about town. Not only this, but a clean set of linen trousers and a simulacrum of his fine brocaded waistcoat in thick brown canvas were provided in case he should decide to sell his clothes and rejoin them. These were wrapped around well wishes in the form of ship’s biscuit, dried fish, and packets of tea leaves before being stuffed into the tube-shaped satchel with Arlo’s sword.
Dutifully, Arlo waited until he was lowered into their little gig before donning his garrison belt and revolver once more. There was nowhere within miles of the port to moor the Haven brig, and it was explained to him that they typically did not do so. Bumboats would come to them to trade goods for deep sea fish or the expertise of the tradesmen and artisans aboard. It was only in that moment that Arlo realized modern alloy-hulled ships did not have carpenters or sailmakers; that it wasn’t typical for every seaman to know how to sew, how to make tattoos, how to join wood, and how to identify insects, birds, or fish. It made him wonder how many aboard a Sea Haven had ever held a ratcheting bolt driver or greased a bearing. As the burly Havenite pulled oars and drove Arlo through the maze of towering other ships in the port, men aboard them would often call down from above.
“The gig, ahoy! What Haven?” asked one. Arlo was too embarrassed to admit he had no notion of the vessel’s name even though it had carried him to safety, but the oarsman answered for them anyway.
“Foamer!” he called back with his eyes still downwards and his arms still shoving back and forth, “We’ve been greenbound this six years hence.”
“You lot turn around early.” shot back the first man before asking, “Any pretty girls aboard?”
The oarsman peered up to the one who’d called down and appraised the man leaning over the taffrail above them before finally answering, “None that would ‘ave you, shipmate.”
There was laughter from above and they passed on. Later, a wolf-snouted beastman who was sat on a scaffold repainting the word ‘Lamprey’ in white block letters on the side of a tugboat took note of them and asked Arlo, “What’s the problem, princeling, couldn’t afford the ladies on shore?”
At this, Arlo looked up and decided to try some wit of his own, “They said I just wouldn’t have any fun after you spent all your gold wearing them out last night!”
The wolf man howled back at him, and Arlo figured this was some kind of approval, but still he looked back at the oarsman (noting his soft smirk) and asked, “Why do they all seem to think the Havenites are whores?”
“Some are.” replied the sailor, shrugging with his tone as his arms were full with the oars. “Our crew is a bit older than others on average, but even still I wouldn’t be surprised if some of our younger shipmates might lie with these outsiders.”
“So the bumboats looking for fish and joinery skills…?” Arlo lead.
The oarsman nodded, “May also be looking for companionship, aye.”
The young governor found himself blushing at the thought he could’ve negotiated a night in bed (or hammock, perhaps) with Millie if he’d had something other than abhorrent splicing to offer her. “And the women, they’re okay with this?”
The oarsman’s smile grew. “The men do it, too. Anyhow, it’s not all of us. Don’t trouble yourself tryin’ to understand Haven ways, lad. Nobody does anything they don’t want to do. A whole ship might be chaste as eunuchs and they’d still find a way to get what they needed without weapons or money.”
Arlo shifted nervously on the bench and wished he could hide his shame, but elected instead to just sit in it and feel the emotion out. Imperial culture had no condemnation for prostitution, per se, but the duty-first mentality he was raised with told him that sexuality was supposed to be something that happened behind closed doors. Eventually, he managed in a nervous voice, “Well, so long as you’re all happy, I suppose I must be happy for you, then.”
“It will only serve to make your life easier if you do so, Your Little Excellency.” returned the Havenite. They went on in silence until finally they reached a stretch of dock that was not only low enough for Arlo to disembark but also free of boats. Arlo stood slowly and carefully, and stepped onto the damp wood before turning back and squatting next to the boat.
“Is this farewell, my friend?” he asked.
The oarsman nodded. “Oh, I have no use for the town. Millie and Cap’n Holomar sent me by way of showing their love.”
“They did?” Arlo asked, somewhat surprised. “I thought I was dead weight only carried for the goods given in trade.”
The oarsman shook his head, then dug his hand into a pocket. It came back with a little iron ark toy that had flaking green and yellow paint in a diamond pattern around its little hull. He handed it up to Arlo and said, “Cap’n wanted you to have this. Said he couldn’t stand anybody else using it.”
Arlo held the little toy boat in both hands and turned it a few times before sliding it into one pocket of his waistcoat with a somewhat heartfelt, “Jade Queen watch over you, sir. May she watch over you all.”
The oarsman said nothing at first, kicking the dock to get the gig started turning around. Once he was settled at his oars again, he raised a hand to Arlo in farewell and replied more casually but just as sincerely, “Sea preserve you, Arlo Haradin-Harkon. May life’s wind always fill your heart’s sails.”
Arlo watched him go back into the mire of ships crowding the bay for some time before ascending the stairs onto the streets.
Viola was not only a bustling trade port, but it was also the seat of Imperial power in the region. Beneath the watchful eye of two great batteries in magnificent amber bubble-turrets embedded on the sides of the two mountains flanking the bay, long brick warehouses acted as a sort of barrier between the chaotic woodwork of docks with lapping waves and the beautiful Imperial architecture of the city proper. Local lumber and clay were joined with cement to make facades covered with swooping arches and covered balconies which gave the buildings an appearance of leaning in. Wrought-iron gaslamps lined cobblestone streets that had long since been worn smooth with the constant pounding of foot traffic, carriages, horses, and sputtering methrollers. One of the rumbling machines even sounded its horn at Arlo as he emerged from the docks with his watch in hand. Its driver leered down at him irately from the high windscreen of the green-painted cab as it bore down at him, airbrakes hissing and squealing while a column of tinny black smoke belched from the two stacks between it and the train of wobbling carts and trailers being pulled along behind it. Arlo lurched backwards and stood amazed as the snake of huge tin boxes on rubber wheels passed him by rattling and full of freight, coughing from the tinny, acrid odor of the methsel smoke that stained the air. The little fort he had ruled over at Lost Pip had been too small for any sort of vehicles to be landed, and he’d been so long out of a city that he’d forgotten how aggressive traffic could be. Arlo looked back down at his watch and tapped the face of it as though it might reverse the flow of time or cause the sweep hand to move faster. The hour hand was smack at the bottom of the dial, obscuring a segment of the four. Nearly halfway through the Day Watch meant that the local governor was almost certainly at lunch. If Arlo’s time in the same position had taught him anything, it was that governors rarely did anything after lunch and sometimes were not even to be found at home during such hours.
But he had to at least try. What paltry handfuls of Moons he’d stuffed into his pockets during his escape had done nothing to really set him up for anything more than a week in a decent hotel, maybe a month if he could condescend to a boarding house. As Arlo paced down the main street, however, he began to fear that neither the hotels nor the boarding houses would have any rooms to let. Even though they were near to the shore, the hawkers and whores he was accustomed to in a naval town were well out of sight. Looking through the windows of the shops he passed by revealed crowds inside most of them, and the dining halls were packed with rumbling masses. The only sparsely populated shops Arlo noted were dealers of luxuries and pawnbrokers– places he wouldn’t expect to see very full outside of paydays and holidays.
The nearer Arlo got to the governor’s mansion, the more he began to worry that he would end up sleeping in an alleyway somewhere. The main street lead straight to the compound from the docks, but beyond it Arlo could only see residences. He steeled himself by forming the shape of a crescent moon over his gut and murmuring a short prayer before actually approaching the tall white gates. They were of sturdy whalebone bound in iron and brass bands, inset with pearls and gold scrollwork at eye level. Arlo admired the workmanship that had gone into them and laid a hand on one of the massive ribs to brush his hand across the ivory surface and pet the pearl with his thumb.
“Oi!” came a shout from his right that set Arlo’s hair on end. The young man whipped around to see the furrowed brow of a man in a green Imperial marine uniform with a decorative brass cuirass that bore the seal of the local governor. He was manning a little box of a house next to the gate, one that was meant to be driven up to in a methsel carriage. Arlo yanked his hand from the gate and approached the box.
“G-good day, and so on,” he said while making a passable leg for the guard, “I’m calling on Governor Tricomb. I’m the Governor of Lost Pip, such that it is– such that it was, that is.”
The guardsman looked Arlo up and down doubtfully. A lad with a scruffy beard ten years too young to govern much of anything and presenting no papers or seals of office seemed hardly to fill the part he was attempting to play. Sure, his clothes were fine enough, but they were wrinkled beyond reckoning where they weren’t crusted with salt. Arlo stared stupidly and expectantly back at the man before recognizing the skepticism for what it was and unslinging his tubular satchel. He rolled it down somewhat to show the hilt of his ornate sword and explained, “I was given this blade when I first received the posting, as a badge of office.”
The guard appraised the hilt as well before admitting, “Aye, the master here has one just like it. And you did get his name right. I’ll send word that you’ve come calling, Your Excellency.”
The guard then disappeared into a little door in the gatehouse and was replaced with another man who had nothing to say. The new guard contented himself with producing a fat leaf of dried tobacco and rolling it into a series of cigarillos. Arlo awkwardly averted his eyes, not sure if he should make conversation with the man or not. When the fellow finished his work and struck a match to light the first one, one of the others was offered down to Arlo and he took it with a gentle murmured thanks. He merely held it pinched between thumb and forefinger for a time, examining the seal and the work that had gone into it until he heard the sound of a rumbling engine and the gate began to slide open.
A narrow and low methroller had pulled up from deep inside the compound. It was a thing of beauty with fat white tires that had golden spokes, a rounded carapace in satiny green with brass trim, and a lovely arched soft top in red-brown leather with crimson velvet lining. Beyond this majestic machine, Arlo could see that the buildings in the compound were stark white, a forest of fluted marble columns bordered with green and red hedges that sort of helped bridge the contrast between the white walls and the grey flagstones.
The man in the smart yellow suit who emerged from the car was not Governor Tricomb. At least, if he was then some sort of metabolic miracle had occurred since they’d last met about a year ago. Tricomb had always been a very fat man with tight greasy black curls and here now was perhaps the weediest and most willowy person Arlo had ever seen. He was almost too narrow for the gold-rimmed spectacles which sat upon his enormous nose.
“Former Governor Haradin-Harkon, I presume?” asked the man, beady eyes seeming to coldly penetrate to depths Arlo didn’t know he had.
“Yes, sir.” replied Arlo meekly. “I had hoped to meet with Governor Tricomb.”
The other man’s smile was a derisive sneer at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. “He will not see you.”
Arlo studiously did not show how indignant he was feeling and instead chose to investigate the toes of his boots while his cheeks flushed scarlet. He wasn’t able to meet the newcomer’s eye when he returned, “Would you condescend to tell me why?”
The sneer grew wider, but the man’s eyes were grim. “You really have no concept of it, do you, boy? The mayor will not see you because he ordered me to arrest you.”
Now, Arlo couldn’t hide his indignation any longer. He even stamped a foot out of frustration. “For the high crime of being attacked, watching my colleagues die, and being run off my post by vile ruffians?”
The weasel held up a hand so he could tap a finger for each item he listed, even the ones that were most certainly speculation:
“First, gross incompetence of the highest degree leading to the loss of life of loyal subjects. Second, the wanton squandry of Holy resources in the form of boats, bricks, guns, and aforementioned loyal subjects. Third, failure of a governmental actuary to report danger to the Empire. Fourth, and certainly not least, the possession of unreported wealth or assets.”
Arlo shrunk away from each accusation, wincing as though they were blows. This didn’t stop the actuary from explaining, “It did not help that a visiting Tribune was standing directly behind the Lord Governor when you arrived, grilling him on why he did not send a task group to help you defend your island. It also did not help that the staff officers of the sea fort, with merely the one exception of their commander, spent your entire eight month stint in office lodging complaints with the Imperial Navy, The Royal Marines, The Home Office, and any other box they could stuff red paper into about your absolute flippant disregard for your station and your inability to carry out your duties.”
When it seemed like Arlo couldn’t get any more shrunken inwards, the attacker finally leaned back and crossed his hands behind himself. By now, Arlo was gritting his teeth to try and banish the insolent, petulant, childish little tears hammering their way out of his eyelids. He was almost done swearing to himself not to cry in front of this man when the first one crested his cheek and rolled down.
“You really did not think an outpost on the frontier was a dangerous place, did you?” asked the man. “You thought this was an easy job you got because you have family connections, yes?”
Arlo gently shivered a simple nod. He yelped as a wad of spit smacked the top of his boot.
“When Her Divine Majesty gives you a duty, sir,” the well-dressed stranger said, entirely drained of respect for Arlo. “It is a serious job of work she places before you. There are no easy jobs in government, sir. We are at war with half the bloody Guild and the Cult of Khaldon on top of goddess-only-knows how many pirates pretending to be privateers and far worse threats than you from within. Next time you serve the Empire, remember that some kind stranger once told you this.”
Arlo opened his red-ringed eyes and tried to focus on the other man through the blur of tears while he stammered, “Am I not to be arrested and shot?”
The man in the yellow suit wrinkled his nose, and beckoned the smoking guard with a sigh. “No, boy, you are to be ‘unable to be captured’ and perhaps also ‘quite slippery’. The Lord Governor may have ordered your arrest, but I somehow suspect that House Haradin wouldn’t let him get away with killing you even if you are a jumped-up fop.”
Next, he reached into Arlo’s satchel and grasped the hilt of the sword inside. He drew it and passed it to the guard with the order: “Try and break this, Hollis. And never smoke in the gatehouse again, Blood Moon take you, man.”
“Sorry, sir,” rejoined the guard, though it was said with such blandness and indirectness that it was impossible to say whether he was apologizing to Arlo for what he was about to do or apologizing to his ruler for the cigarillo that he did not even put out. Holding the hilt in one tight fist, the guard put its tip to the flagstones and gave it a good stomp with his heel. It was a thin blade, and though Arlo expected it to merely bend, a few more good blows made it eventually fracture. It didn’t shatter like glass, but merely sheared into two pieces with black, jagged little ends. The guard picked up the tip and examined it with disapproval, clearly feeling like it ought to have been a bit better made.
Then, unceremoniously, he slipped it into the scabbard in Arlo’s bag and put the hilt end behind it so that at least the pieces would be contained in one place. Looking absolutely crushed, Arlo reslung the bag over one shoulder and wiped his face. He must’ve looked extremely pitiful, for the guard patted him twice on the back before returning to the gatehouse.
Now the man in the yellow suit walked back towards the methroller and opened the door with much less pity. Before he stepped in, he left Arlo with a final piece of advice:
“Best you find a way off this island, or at least stop telling everyone who you are.”
And so, Arlo returned to the docks to do just that. His first stop was the radiography office, which was little more than a tin cube at the edge of town. It had been set up at the base of a winding mountain path that snaked around and away to be used for the sake of delivering supplies, relief crews, and parcels to the ponderous yellow-orange globe of the sea battery above that even in that moment had the gargantuan telescope of its barrel panning slowly over some spot on the skyline where Arlo imagined some distant ship was being identified. A separate snakeway of cable left the tin shack and wound around the other way to an even higher summit out of sight, the only evidence of its existence from this vantage the tiny jet black needle of tall antenna reaching up so far into the cloudless sky that it hurt Arlo’s neck to try and follow it to the gentle breathing yellow light at its very tip. Arlo considered the mountain itself for some time, though in truth he was merely reconsidering the failures and humiliations that had led him to this moment.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have a solid plan, it was just that every solid plan for a while had blown up in his face and it was getting harder and harder to keep trying. Considering that the alternative was to stare up at a mountain while the sea breeze dried him out, the young man eventually elected to sigh about it and plow ahead.
The thin wooden door had not even fully opened when Arlo made out the shape of a raised finger warding him to keep quiet and wait. The room itself was fairly dim, this hand and finger on the end of a hunched figure in a headset beneath the single source of powerful light inside. As Arlo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, shapes that were once sunspots began to resolve themselves into objects. Every wall of the windowless room except the one that housed the door had a long countertop running along it, and above this countertop were multitudes of shelves. The shelves were nowhere near empty, filled up and overflowing with binders and notebooks. Some had long, unending single pages that had been folded up like an accordion only to spill back out at some later point like so much spilled milk against the backdrop of piles and piles of files and files. The radio operator occupied one of the only two breaks in the shelves, a section of wall occupied not with papers but with a bank of controls that to Arlo were esoteric and mystical. Knobs, sliders, dials, little brass switches shaped like inverted teardrops, green lights, blue lights, one red one that just seemed to flash whenever it felt like it, and no end of sockets with wires crossing in seemingly random directions made up the nation of alien objects which had no meaning to the boy that had wasted his college days studying art and poetry.
The operator himself was at least a more straightforward man, a balding fellow with a fuming corncob pipe and a rumpled green waistcoat with the seal of the Royal Signal Brigade on one breast. He seemed to spend all of his time permanently hunched with one hand cupped against the earcup of a headset stretched over his sweat-spotted head. He puffed contemplatively while continuing to hold that single finger up to Arlo for a full moment before finally saying conversationally into the microphone boom on his headset, “Right. I was expecting the private signal first. We received your noonday observations nonetheless, lieutenant. Just tell that midshipman when he rings an official report in to make the private signal first and there will be no confusion. It’s for security.”
There was a pause while the man listened to something on the other end, and whatever it was caused him to snap up a notepad and pencil while using his shoulder to press the ear cup against his ear as though it weren’t being held onto his head with a wire frame. He quickly jotted something down and then said, “Yes, yes, sir, that’s just so. I’ll put it on the repeater. From here it will go all the way out to the mainland. Thank you.”
Then, without waiting for a reply the operator was sat up straight again and tearing for the plugs on the front of his unit. Arlo took in a breath thinking this meant he was allowed to talk again, but a quick glare from the operator explained that this would not be welcome.
“Viola Station.” greeted the operator as soon as he finished flicking a few knobs and then cupping his hand against his head once more. “What ship? You-eff-tee Ralafeo? Crown seven, centerline side; grid zone ay-seven of grid zone kay-seven, confirm? Thank you.”
Here, finally the operator tore the headset off and kicked himself away from the bank of radio equipment. Casters growled and rattled as his stool glided along the floor to bring him to the other break in the shelves on the opposite wall, an enormous map shaped like an oval with pointed ends. The entire Eastern third of the map was filled in with incredible detail, while the middle third was little more than outlines and transparencies of islands tacked to spots where they were known to be but where official surveys had not yet been completed. The pipe smoker didn’t even look at this huge map, however, but instead busied himself transferring information from his notepad to a ledger while he told Arlo, “Mate, you would not believe the day I’ve been having.”
Arlo looked around the cluttered mess of the room and nodded, though some of the more advanced clutter suggested this was commonplace for the office. Still, it never hurt to commiserate.
“I can imagine. Should I come back later?”
“Nah, mate,” the operator shot back with a wave of his hand, “Just let me finish these… and, there.”
Now the operator rolled back into the center of the room and turned in his stool to face Arlo with his hands slapping both of his thighs and his sweaty face looking both eager and attentive. “What can I help you with, hey?”
Arlo smiled at the man in earnest, just happy to be starting an interaction off in kindness for once. He shifted his tubular satchel off and leaned it against his knees while explaining, “I was hoping you could give me the last known location and heading of Cee-hache-ess Dawnstorm and perhaps also if you could send her a message.”
“That’s House Haradin’s homeship ain’t it?” rejoined the radioman, though he was already rolling on his stool to one corner of the room. He had to reach high to get the notebook he was seeking, so he stood. It was at this moment Arlo realized the man was sporting a wooden foot on his left leg. The man didn’t grumble or curse, however, just bent his left knee and kept the stool under it while he levered himself high. Then, with one fat notebook under his arm he scooted himself still on a knee across to another shelf to grab another book. He talked while he worked about what he was doing. “I got another ship to notate location on anyhow. May as well get that one started. But I’ll do you first, mate, no worries. Dawnstorm, Dawnstorm.”
Arlo smiled again watching the man work. He wasn’t sure if it was because the man was being nice to him or if it was just genuine hope that something could go right at last. “Thank you so much, sir. This means much to me, House Haradin is my last chance to stay on my feet.”
“Well, I must admit I’m sorry to hear that,” chuckled the operator amidst the sound of rapidly buzzing pages. He opened a notebook and splayed it flat, then unfolded the open page down into his lap while tracing his finger down a column of a magnificent-looking spreadsheet. “I’m afraid to say their Clannarch has gone mad from what I’ve heard.”
Arlo hadn’t seen his uncle Treistan or the homeship Dawnstorm for nearly twenty years. The idea of the man as being mad was hard to gauge for accuracy when he had little more than remote memories of his hair being tousled too much by a tall man with a loud voice to use for comparison. The only thing he even remembered his Uncle ever saying about him all those years ago was that he ‘looked like Elvira’ and Arlo didn’t even know who that was. Still, the news worried him and he felt compelled to ask, “What’s befallen him? It’s still Treistan Haradin, right?”
“The one-and-only.” replied the radio operator, who had since noted some figure down from the box in one spreadsheet onto his notepad so he could fold it back up and seek another in a second notebook. “Always stays out West. Don’t tend to business, don’t grow the clan, just stays out West fighting cultists while the money drains out the coffers. So it’s said, anyway. The man’s obsessed. I’ve even heard from the signal midshipman of the Ravenheart that they are carrying out a Tribune all the way from the mainland to audit the House.”
Arlo was beginning to wonder if every single conversation he had was actually just a funnel for his few remaining good spirits to be poured out into. He sighed and rubbed at his temples, which prompted the radioman to look up with concern before adding, reassuringly, “But they’re still no doubt as rich as any hundred Limiters, I’m sure. Anything they owe you, or business you might have arranged will surely be concluded honorably.”
“Of course.” Arlo agreed, still mostly deflated.
The two men continued in awkward silence from this point forward until the radiographer finally found what he was looking for. He wrote some strange combination of symbols, letters, and numbers on his notepad next. He was in the process of using that code to plot a place on the map when his radio set behind him buzzed and shon a bright yellow light. Instantly, the operator wheeled himself back to it and snatched up the headset to greet, “Viola Station. What ship?”
He listened intently to the voice on the other line for a moment before his brow furrowed and he snarled, “Isabelle Waney, I plowed your mother in the arsehole last night, and I will put what came out in your bloody coffee if you don’t stop buzzing my station. You are a slab-sided bitch on a fishing boat, I know your bloody location, it’s the bay!”
With his eyes rolling at the laughter on the other end, he tore the headset off again and rolled back to the map. With some kind of tool he applied a little red pip to its surface before reporting to Arlo as though that shocking vociferous display had never transpired, “Dawnstorm is at anchor at an outpost island called Peppernuts nearly a thousand leagues west of here, but she promises to be there for quite some time. Rendezvous scheduled with Holy Imperial Task Group Silver which won’t be for another few months and even then it says they will be at the mercy of a Royal Decree which I cannot share or–” He chuckled and finished, “Or rightly even know, except to say to other Navy ships that it’s happening if they ask.”
Arlo nodded and felt himself perking up at the information. He had imagined himself spending the better part of the next year slowly catching up to Dawnstorm if they wouldn’t send a Wallrunner or a packet to fetch him. He imagined going to their last port of call and getting updated to their newest one. Homeships were slow, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t chase them down, but it could have easily turned into three or four hops if he missed the mark more than once. Now, he could probably just make the trip himself and go right to them.
“Thank you, that’s wonderful news!” he cheered, childishly clapping his hands rapidly under his chin, “Are there any Wallrunners headed that way?”
The man on the stool whirled around and cracked open the smallest book in the room, then frowned. “No. Every Wallrunner in town is greenbound right now.” Sensing that Arlo would deflate again, he added, “There’s a Guild squadron on the south-and-western frontier wreaking every manner of havoc, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t I know it.” muttered Arlo as he thumbed the grip of his revolver stormily.
“Well, it’s just… Southbound ships looking for the ice wall have to risk getting snapped up by them so everybody is either going north or far enough east before turning south so they feel a bit safer.”
“Are there any redbound ships at all willing to risk heading that way?” Arlo asked next. “I have very little money and own only what I’m carrying. Without help from the clan, I’m dead broke.”
The operator was already wheeling himself back to the radio as it buzzed again with his customary finger up in the air to ask Arlo to hold. “Viola Station. What ship?”
Whatever the report was, the man made no reply, but simply took the headset off once more and without hesitating went back to the ledger of ships in port. When he found the column for ships headed West and traced his hand down the paper, he frowned again and more deeply this time. With nervous disappointment in his eyes he cast a glance over his shoulder and said, “Mate, I gotta tell you, you will not like it, but there is one ship headed West.”
