Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘You’re dead,’ Kellin clarified.

Gilmour laughed. ‘True, but the Malakasian Army is known for its strict adherence to policy. Even dead, I’ll draw all manner of disagreeable attention if I stay in this uniform. We’ll find me some clothes, meet Steven and contact Stalwick.’

‘Good,’ Brand said, relief evident in his voice. He mentally tallied the days left for Gita and the Resistance forces to escape Traver’s Notch.

‘What about the spell table?’ Garec asked.

‘It left Wellham Ridge this morning, on a barge bound for Orindale.’

‘Why? Where’s he taking it?’

‘From what I can gather, Mark is bound for Pellia; there’s a northern Twinmoon coming, and the tides should be high enough for him to run up the Ravenian Sea and through the archipelago.’

‘Why Pellia?’ Kellin asked.

‘He’s heading for Welstar Palace,’ Garec said.

Gilmour nodded.

‘I’m not talking about new tits, you great blazing idiot, I’m talking about different tits, temporary tits.’ Marrin Stonnel was drunk – and why not? There was nothing to do, nothing critical, anyway, other than some cleaning and a patch-up job or two, but the others could take care of that. He was better with tar and lumber than the rest of them, even though he was the youngest, next to Pel Wandrell. No one knew what they’d hit on the run up from Strandson, but whatever it was, Marrin planned to have the leaks patched and tarred inside two days.

‘Do we have to call them tits?’ Sera Moslip asked, puffing on her hand-carved wooden pipe. It had taken several Twinmoons to fashion, but it drew almost perfectly. ‘I mean, I’m no fancy woman from the big city or nothing, but even so…’ She grimaced, displaying tobacco-stained, crooked teeth.

Marrin gulped his beer, wiped the foam from his upper lip and explained, ‘We have to call ‘em tits, and I’ll tell you why: because we’re not talking about breasts, or bosoms, or glandular organs. We’re talking about tits: grip ‘em, hold ‘em, suck ‘em tits, playthings designed by the gods to reduce men to babbling prehistoric critters at the mere mention, and worse – gods willing – when we catch sight of one… and it don’t even need to be a pair to get us going; it’s the promise of both of ‘em out in the open air that drives us so rutting mad.’ He took another drink and pointed out, ‘But you’re changing the subject. I was talking to the captain.’

‘Right, sorry,’ Sera said through a mouthful of billowy smoke, her sarcasm as thick in the air. ‘Please, do go on.’

‘Now, Captain,’ Marrin began.

‘Wait,’ Doren Ford interrupted, ‘are we really having this conversation?’

‘Of course. Why?’ Marrin looked surprised.

‘I am not going to have sex with another woman while we’re in Orindale and my wife is in Southport, Marrin; it’s just not going to happen.’

‘But you see, Captain, you’re coming at it from the wrong tack.’

‘Am I?’ The current conversation notwithstanding, Captain Ford liked these two; they were the closest thing he had to a first and second mate on the Morning Star, his weatherbeaten and currently a little leaky old brig-sloop. With nothing to haul back home to South-port, he’d ordered them to oversee the repairs while he met with business contacts in Orindale to find a westbound cargo to see them all through the Twinmoon: firewood, textiles, winter vegetables – anything to bring in a few copper Mareks. They were moored on the mudflats north of Orindale, just south of the salt marsh. It was too expensive to pay for mooring off the southern wharf, even during the winter Twinmoon, especially as he wasn’t unloading anything lucrative. And this far north, the inns were cheaper and less crowded; he preferred it that way.

‘Take your wife,’ Marrin insisted, pressing on with his argument.

‘I don’t like where this is going,’ the captain said warningly. He crossed his arms, trying not to look unsettled when they came to rest on top of his paunch. I need to cut back on the pastries, he thought in passing.

‘Hear me out, hear me out,’ the young sailor protested, motioning for another beer. ‘Your wife is near-on perfect, wouldn’t you say?’

Captain Ford nodded.

‘I mean, her tits have got to have been formed by a randy god, and that backside – rutting whores, but that backside was carved from marble by a Pragan master. She may be the most beautiful woman in the Westlands, sincerely.’

‘And?’ Captain Ford twirled a finger as if to say, So get to the part where I smack the shit out of you.

And… and I would never suggest that you do anything to violate the holy bond that you and your wife consummated when you stood the tides together, but don’t you ever want just a different look, a different taste? I’m not saying you’d have better; you probably wouldn’t – again, that being my own, personal and entirely qualitative opinion – but don’t you ever want a different shape or flavour, just for an aven or two?’

‘No,’ Ford said dismissively.

‘Good for you, Captain!’ Sera frowned at Marrin, one yellowed, chipped tooth peeking out beside the curved stem of her pipe.

‘Well, then you’re a madman, Captain, a gods-rutting madman. I love you, I do, I’ll not deny it, and may I grow old and never serve on a different ship than our own little stewpot out there, but you are a madman, and I just hope you find a healer somewhere to help you overcome this tragic affliction.’

‘Who are you?’ Sera said, taking a swing at Marrin’s head.

‘I’m a man,’ Marrin replied, ‘an honest man who understands what men need.’

‘And get it from you, will they?’

‘No,’ he grinned, ‘that’s not what I meant, you seagoing whore. What I meant was- Well…’ He looked around the room. The captain had taken rooms for himself, Sera and Marrin here, rather than them sleeping aboard the Morning Star. The rest of the crew had politely turned down the captain’s offer and found their own lodgings near the northern wharf, where Tubbs and Kanthil knew a generous barman. Marrin figured young Pel for a goner but wished him good luck as he tagged along with the more experienced sailors.

‘Over there, her,’ Marrin pointed towards the bar, ‘just take a look at her.’

‘Great gods, Marrin, she’s got to be four hundred Twinmoons old!’ Sera was appalled.

‘No, not her, you drunken wench, the other one; look, her!’

Brexan Carderic emerged from the kitchen balancing trenchers of fresh jemma fillets, potatoes, several loaves of bread and a small bowl of gravy.

‘Her?’ the captain asked.

‘Right, her,’ Marrin said. ‘Now, she’s not your wife by a healthy margin, but look at her. Look at that taut body. Look at the way her hair falls about her face when she walks; can’t you just imagine that hair all spread out over the pillows while you looked down at those pert little twins from above?’

The captain sighed. ‘What you don’t understand, Marrin, is that when my wife and I stood the tides together, we agreed not to look at other people in that way, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re not ready to get married.’

‘Thank the gods of the Northern Forest for that,’ Marrin said with a heartfelt sigh. Sera shook her head and shrugged.

Captain Ford watched Brexan move through the tables, almost dancing as she sidestepped, spun and slipped around and between the other patrons. She looked up and caught him watching her. Seemingly amused, she smiled; Ford couldn’t help but grin back. He reached for his beer, meaning to finish it off, but feeling the swell of his stomach beneath his shirt, decided on a sip instead.