by J. P. Ashman
Friend? Spyde wanted to melt back into the shifting crowd.
Mannino’s nostrils flared, but he offered a tight smile. Hitchmogh’s snarl turned to a barely contained smirk.
‘I won’t go into the details of how I gained such a lofty title, Captain,’ Charlzberg went on, ‘but suffice to say, I now command my own fleet.’
Mannino bowed. ‘My congratulations to you, Admiral Charlzberg. I trust you did not kill anyone we know to gain said fleet?’ There was a sparkle in Mannino’s eye, to which Charlzberg released an incredibly loud laugh. He looked to Spyde, frowned, and Spyde followed suit. Mannino’s mirth was short lived as the two goblins before him continued on with their attention drawing laughter.
Once the awkwardness had passed and the stares had found new curiosities, Charlzberg asked of Mannino a question Spyde thought even his dim-witted commander wouldn’t have the nerve to ask.
Mannino rocked back. Hitchmogh’s slack jaw was less subtle.
‘You want me to join your fleet, Admiral?’ Mannino asked incredulously.
Spyde swallowed hard, eyes locked on Master Hitchmogh, who was now fingering his cutlass’ hilt.
Charlzberg nodded eagerly, leaning forward in anticipation.
‘I see,’ Mannino said, looking to Hitchmogh for support. Hitchmogh caught Mannino’s pleading look, turned and disappeared into the crowd. It was Mannino’s turn to drop his shoulders.
‘Alas, Admiral Charlzberg,’ Mannino said, back straightening with conviction, ‘it is with incredible regret that I must decline… for now!’ he added, as Charlzberg’s smile fell into a frown, and on into a scowl.
‘Perhaps it’s time to look for that bow decoration, Admiral?’ Spyde offered, hoping to draw Charlzberg away from a situation that his temper would turn sour, deadly even. Spyde knew Captain Mannino’s reputation. He was a fair man, but a brutal one should you cross or make a move on him or his crew. “Brisance is a safer place without Mannino as a pirate” was a common saying.
‘I shall hope to continue this conversation another time, Admiral,’ Mannino said, bowing low. ‘I wish not to keep such a busy commander as you any longer. I am, indeed, humbled you sought me out.’
Teeth grinding yet again, Charlzberg did nothing but stare at Mannino, who looked to Spyde, nodded, accepted Spyde’s apologetic nod in return and departed into the crowd.
‘Spyde.’
‘Admiral?’
‘A real woman.’
A group of filthy children pushed past Charlzberg, practically knocking him to the floor.
Real woman? Spyde thought, sidestepping the children’s mad dash away from the shrieking goblin, who drew a knife and waved it at the backs of the disappearing youngsters. Noticing Spyde’s lack of support, Charlzberg drew a second blade, incredibly slowly.
Spyde caught on in time, managing to move himself so his throat was in a good position for the closing weapon. Once the dull iron pressed against the sickly green skin of Spyde’s throat, he feigned fear.
‘No, Admiral, please! I didn’t see the ruffians coming—’
‘Silence! I could gut you here and now, Spyde.’
Not unless you moved your blade to my stomach you couldn’t, or raised the one in your other hand, you shitting fool. ‘Of course, Admiral. That’s why my pantaloons are close to dampening.’
Charlzberg smiled at that and nodded, before pulling away. ‘And don’t forget it. You’re here as a bodyguard, Spyde, but I won’t hesitate to gut you should you allow me to be killed or taken.’
Any more of this and I might gut myself. ‘Of course, Admiral. Can I ask—?’
Charlzberg jerked forward, both blades jabbing towards Spyde in a mock attack. Spyde offered his best attempt at a fearful cower, before continuing. ‘Can I ask, why you didn’t have Bosun or any of the other crew along as escort?’
Charlzberg replaced his blades and made off into the crowd once more, Spyde hot on Charlzberg’s high heels.
‘They’re hunting food, which we talked about. You’re no good for that, but I trust you in the guarding of my body.’
Spyde groaned. Charlzberg spun on him.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my body is there? Or the food my hunters provide?’
‘No, Admiral, to both, but we did well with our last haul of loot. Why not… buy some food?’ Spyde immediately regretting informing Charlzberg of their good haul. He’d have had no idea, as usual, but now… well now he might spend it on rot they didn’t need. Like a prow decoration. ‘Some lovely ham or chicken?’
Charlzberg barked his laugh before turning and continuing onward, his voice hard to hear over the harbour din.
‘I know gulls, rats and cats are fine, Admiral, but the hobyahs need a good feed to keep up the pace Bosun asks of them. And Bosun himself?’
‘What of it?’ Charlzberg said, over his shoulder.
‘He’s… well… he’s human, not goblinkin. He needs other foods.’
‘Bosun joined my fleet knowing he was alone in his race, Spyde. If he wants to eat dandelion roots and nettle soup he should have joined a merchant cog, not a glorious galley.’
A small lapdog ran past, yapping. Spyde was sure Charlzberg squeaked, and he certainly attempted a leap into Spyde’s arms before composing himself and striding on.
Spyde decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Where’re we heading, may I ask?’
‘To spend, Spyde. We’re off to spend all the money you tell me I’ve earned. All the lovely money I have in my pouch.’
‘Lords below, keep your voice down,’ Spyde said, directly into Charlzberg’s torn, scabby ear. It was a wonder Charlzberg didn’t turn on Spyde for that. Perhaps sense prevailed for once, Spyde mused, then it dawned on him that Charlzberg already knew of the money, to have such a pouch on him.
‘Hush,’ Charlzberg hissed, long after Spyde had last spoken. He held up a hand and stopped abruptly, causing two women walking behind to curse through their evasion of the halting goblins.
‘Admiral?’
‘We’re here, Spyde.’
They looked up, following the white walls of the tall building before them. Up to the blue tiles of the pitched roof above. And below that again, to a sign.
Squall take me now, Spyde thought, before Charlzberg dragged him through the doors.
***
Despite the high sun, the alley was dark. And despite the noise of the street, be it people chatting and shouting, dogs barking or gulls sounding their incessant calls, the alley seemed quiet, tranquil even. No wind blew between the dirt encrusted white buildings either side. No wind to remove the wretched stench.
‘Do you see it?’ the Ptarmigan twins asked as one. Bosun hushed them as he crawled deeper into a nook in the alleyway. The twins offered rude gestures to the back of their human shipmate, but said no more. They looked back down the alley, to the cloud breaking scales rising from the bay beyond the bustling quayside, the twin land masses either side of the structure currently equibalanced.
A hiss within the nook was followed by a screech and a tirade of curses and grunts.
‘Got it,’ Bosun said. He shuffled backwards, out into the open where the siblings readied their heavy sack. Appearing fully, Bosun revealed the tabby cat he’d grabbed, fought and strangled. His thick arms were a mess of raised scratches and small puncture wounds. He spat as he threw the dead cat into the sack.
‘Next,’ Sister said, much to Bosun’s obvious dismay. She and her brother marched off up the alley, whistling and clicking tongues to attract their prey.
‘’Morl’s reeking corpse,’ Bosun muttered, following the twins. ‘If I have to eat another shitting cat…’
The twins jumped with glee. A cat strode out and purred. Bosun sighed, pounced. The next battle ensued.
After claw, tooth and hands were used to the best of both fighters’ abilities, the ginger tom lay dead in Bosun’s bleeding arms. He threw it into the offered sack. The twins frowned as they watched it flop atop the others.
&
nbsp; ‘That was a big bastard,’ Bosun said, scowling. ‘A big, hard bastard. I liked him. Shame he had to die.’
‘Shame he were ginger,’ Brother said. His sister nodded.
‘Fuck!’ Bosun stomped up the alley, twins in tow. ‘I forgot the pissin’ admiral don’t like gingers on ship. What a waste.’
‘A waste?’ the twins asked as one, close on Bosun’s heels.
‘Aye. Of time, effort and of the cat’s bloody life.’ He stopped short as he pushed out into the crowd and looked up and out to the scales.
‘You’ve never seen them before, have you?’ Sister asked. The twins knew Bosun didn’t know which twin had asked the question, since they sounded so similar; Bosun merely shrugged and shook his head.
‘Where’d you join us again?’ they asked together.
‘Wesson,’ Bosun said, eyes flicking between the land masses suspended above the waves.
The twins looked to one another, then to Bosun. ‘Wesson?’
Bosun nodded, but his eyes remained on the amphitheatre-towns.
Brother scratched his arse as he said, ‘Oh, I thought you joined us on the Chriselle Coast?’
‘Eh?’ Bosun looked round and down to the twins, who were straining to hold the sack of cats between them. ‘Put that down, you fools.’ They did as they were told. ‘I’m Altolnan by birth, from Wesson. But aye, you’re right, I joined you on that coast, after a stint on another vessel out of Royce.’
Sister pursed her lips as her brother shrugged and replied. ‘Fair one, although we would’ve thought you’d been here before, if you’d sailed out of Royce and about the Chriselle Coast?’
‘Well, obviously not,’ Bosun said, eye twitching. He paused a long while, eyes on the people moving to and fro. Without turning, he asked, ‘You two ever heard of a ship called Sessio?’
Both twins laughed.
Bosun glared at them and they stopped.
‘Everyone who sails has heard of her,’ Brother said, his sister nodding. Bosun nodded too, as if he’d remembered the fact.
‘Why?’
Bosun shrugged, eyes scanning the colourful crowd. ‘No reason. Now come on, we need to get the food back to the ship. You two can’t carry anymore.’
Nope, Sister thought, and you ain’t offering to carry it for us neither. Her brother looked at her knowingly.
Bosun hesitated before setting off. ‘Might as well dump that ginger tom before we go.’
Both twins shook their heads. Bosun’s lined brow creased all the more.
‘We’s know how to fix it so it’ll seem like Charlzberg’s favourite dish,’ they said together.
‘He favours black cats though,’ Bosun said, ‘and they’re rare.’
The twins grinned before Sister spoke. ‘He does, yes. Now let’s head back, like you say, Bosun. You’ll see how we’ll fix it up and you’ll have to stifle a laugh when Charlzberg mmms and awws whilst eating it. Ha!’ She winked at Bosun and set off, sack forgotten. Brother cursed as he realised what she’d done and Bosun cursed all the more as he scooped both goblin and sack up to catch the swiftly departing twin.
Rested on the gunwale, Bosun looked across the bay to the immense scales.
‘I saw it move!’ he said, turning to the Ptarmigan twins, who were sorting through their recent catch.
‘Well of course ye did,’ Sister said. She held up a tortoiseshell cat, wincing at the hint of ginger in its fur. Bosun looked back to the scales as Sister continued. ‘It’s often moving. One town rising, the other falling towards the waves. One becomes Upper Slaughter, the other Lower Slaughter.’
Brother nodded as he smeared black tar over the tortoiseshell handed to him. Ginger fur covered, he smiled and threw it on the pile.
‘I know how it works,’ Bosun said, ‘just never thought you’d be able to see it; thought it’d be gradual, like the moving of the sun or moon.’
‘That it is,’ Sister agreed, ‘but once in a while ye see a sudden drop and rise.’
‘Be glad ye’re not on either of ’em, Bosun.’
‘Oh, I am, Brother, I am…’ After a brief pause punctuated by the shouts of sailors and traders, Bosun asked another question. ‘So, what if one of the towns drops suddenly? What if Lower Slaughter plunges into the bay?’ He leaned forward, squinting, hoping to see it move again.
Sister passed her brother another cat from the sack before answering. ‘Well, that’s what they battle to avoid, isn’t it? If one of those towns hit, they’ll all drown; sacrifices and murderers be damned.’
‘Yet they always seem fairly equal,’ Brother said, before sniffing at a large tabby. His sister nodded at that.
‘It’s ironic,’ Bosun said, rubbing the back of his head.
‘How’s that?’ Sister asked, rummaging in the sack without looking.
Bosun weighed his large hands like the scales before them, dropping one and lifting the other.
‘Should one drop,’ he explained, ‘the resulting wave would wipe out this port. The whole bloody island, perhaps.’
The twins nodded. ‘And the other two islands with it, I’d expect,’ Sister agreed.
‘What’s your point, Bosun?’ Brother licked the tabby cat and grinned. ‘I like tabbies.’
‘My point, my shitty little friends, is that The Three created those scales, those suspended amphitheatre-towns, yet should one of them fall, should the residents fail to fight or sacrifice or do whatever sick things they need do to keep their heads and homes above water, that lump of rock will plummet into the sea. The wave following that…’ Bosun filled his cheeks, held the breath and released it as he looked down to the clear waters lapping at the galley. ‘Well,’ he said, as a strong smell of fish struck him, ‘The Three’s seat of power would be no better off than the town that fell.’
The twins stopped handling dead cats long enough to look at Bosun, sniggering all the while.
Bosun turned to face them. ‘What?’
Brother shook his head and took the next cat from his sister.
‘That’s not irony, Bosun,’ Sister said, looking at the big man, ‘that’s the bloody point!’
Bosun screwed up his flat nose. ‘What’s the point?’
‘It’s why The Three created it. Do you not see?’ Sister went on.
‘Obviously not.’
Sister hurried since Bosun’s words were followed by the bunching of his jaw.
‘They’re eternally bored,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Immensely and completely bored—’
‘Of what?’
‘Life, Bosun. Life! They’ve been bored for centuries. They created the scales for their own entertainment. It’s a game. To them, anyway.’
Bosun shook his head and looked back out to the scales. Sister continued.
‘They love the fear of it. The fact that should they get it wrong, their whole empire will flood as they look on from their lofty towers.’
Bosun turned and looked upon the dark, cliff-top tower looming over the white port. He looked back to the twins. ‘It’s not up to them though, is it?’ Bosun looked back to the scales. ‘It’s up to the poor folk who live, or are sent to, the Slaughters.’
‘Nope.’
Bosun glanced to the stern. ‘Who asked you, Tull?’
‘No one, but doesn’t mean I don’t know the truth of it, Bosun. The Three move their pieces. They choose who they send and they influence what happens. One acts as advocate while two play it off against each other. Blood God’s bell-end, Bosun, I thought this shit was common knowledge, amongst sea goers at least.’
A grunt was the only reply from the big man.
‘Anyhow,’ Brother said, bringing the conversation to an end. ‘We best crack on with these cats before Charlzberg returns. He’ll go spare if he sees the ginger tom you ended.’
‘Speak of the shitter.’ Sister pulled the cat from the sack. ‘How’d they shift so much in there? T’was last in, near on last out? Anyhow, we need to prepare it for Cooker.’
Bosun barked a laugh. ‘Co
oker?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Cooker boils shit to rubber and that’s about it. He doesn’t do much at all as far as I see it, lazy twat.’
‘Cooker’s a good goblin. Don’t you talk bad of him, Bosun,’ Tull said, rotating on his rope.
‘Whatever you say, now let’s see how you prepare a ginger cat so as not to look ginger. Skin it?’ Bosun turned and crouched by the twins, both of whom grinned. He’d been too enthralled by the sky-scraping scales to truly take in their fixing of the tortoiseshell moggy, despite seeing them at it.
‘Tar it,’ they said as one.
‘Eh?’
‘Tar is black,’ Sister said. ‘Tar the cat and Charlzberg thinks it’s his favourite.’
‘Black cat,’ Bosun whispered, face screwed up. He looked to the tar beside the twins.
‘Aye,’ Brother said. ‘Black cat.’
‘How’d he… stomach it?’ Bosun felt physically sick. ‘How’d he survive it?’
Brother laughed. ‘Ever heard the saying—’
‘Constitution of a goblin,’ Bosun finished. The twins smiled and nodded.
Bosun turned as Cooker waddled up the galley, laughing at the conversation. ‘Bosun,’ he greeted. ‘Wanna know a secret?’
Sighing, Bosun nodded. ‘Go on, Cooker, you fat bastard.’
‘Charlzberg’s never seen a black cat!’ The paunch-proud goblin crouched down with the others and prodded at the pile of cats. Brother begun painting the ginger tom black with thick tar.
‘How’s it his favourite then?’
Cooker laughed again, followed by the twins and Tull.
‘He seems to like tar,’ Cooker admitted, chuckling at the slack jawed Bosun, before taking an armful of limp cats, standing with a pained grunt and moving back down the galley, several hobyahs hungrily tracking his slow progress.
Dropping back against the side of the ship, Bosun rubbed hard at his face. ‘I need to get off this damned galley before my mind is addled like the rest of you lot.’
The twins grinned as they continued to prepare their future meals, the groan of Bosun and the distant whistling of Cooker accompanying their work.
