Caleb smiled as he listened to the question: Back at the harbor, you passed up two ships. What made you pass them up for this one?

“When we arrived at the docks, it was clear that the squadron of the Sea Vipers were in for replenishment and getting their hulls careened,” he explained. “The first sloop we looked at hadn’t had its hull caulked against leaks or careened clean yet. After spending months in tropical waters, a ship’s hull gets fouled with the growth of seaweed, shipworms, and the like. That kind of infestation can cut a ship’s speed and maneuverability by a third.”

Tavia chewed that one over. “And what of the other?”

“It rode two feet lower in the water than the other ships. Perhaps it hadn’t had its cargo taken off yet. Or it had taken on water in the bilges. Either way, you end up with slower-than-average ship.”

“Once again, I think we made the right choice for a captain,” Sienna said. “Those were difficult choices made under pressure.”

“Let’s hope I keep making the right ones,” Caleb demurred. “So it sounds like we’re short of canvas, lines, gunpowder for the firearms, and hand-held weapons in general. Is that right?”

“Truth be told, it would be easier to run through the things we’re not short of.” She consulted her paper as she read off the list. “That would be heavy rope, cannon shot, rough-grain black powder for said cannon, loose timber, wood oil, spare bandages, and salt.”

“Thank goodness we have salt, at least,” Caleb said wryly. “It’s not like we have enough dissolved in the water out here.”

“Aye, true enough. Come on, let’s head below decks.”

“Decks?” Tavia raised an eyebrow. “How many are there on this ship?”

“Unless I miss my guess, there should be two,” Caleb said, as he and Shaw moved aside to let Sienna lead back out onto the open expanse of the main deck area.

Sienna nodded. “That’s correct, Captain. You must know how sloops are built.”

“Well, that was part of it. The Spitfire also doesn’t have gun ports. Instead of housing the cannons below, the guns and their carriages are out in the open on the main deck.”

“‘Tis passing strange to me,” Shaw remarked. “Humans do not like leaving things outside in case of rain. Yet thy guns are out in all weather.”

“It can be a problem,” Caleb acknowledged. “A gun crew’s got to keep ahead of all sorts of problems caused by rain and moisture. It’s also why the powder is stored far below.”

“How far below might that be?”

“We should have a berthing deck, and below that an orlop deck to store cargo. The crawl spaces at the very bottom of the ship are the bilges, which should’ve been pumped out before the careening and caulking process.”

“Thankfully, that was already done,” Sienna said, as she led them forward.

Ten feet before they reached the capstan, a timber-framed opening in the deck led to a set of stairs leading down. Tavia ducked her horn and Shaw folded his wings to squeeze on through the passageway. Once they reached the bottom, the space opened up to a long double-line of hammocks, each suspended above a wooden footlocker.

Light filtered in through the matching forward passageway and a few metal-rimmed portholes. The gentle creak of the ship’s wooden structure was complemented down here by the dull thumps of people moving around above deck. Instead of coconut oil or tobacco, the nose-tickling scent of fresh sawdust hung in the air.

“To the rear are the rest of the ship’s stores,” Sienna said, gesturing towards the stern. She knelt and opened a hatch set behind the stairs, exposing an even dimmer stairway below. “Here’s the main opening to the hold, what you called an ‘orlop’ deck. Not much to see for now except for the powder magazine.”

Caleb got down and took a look. A slightly musty odor wafted up as he did so. The hold itself was dry and empty, save for a reinforced box fixed to the floor. The structure was two feet high, six feet long, and topped by a set of panels labeled GUNPOWDER SACKS.

“Whoever’s assigned to bring up powder’s will require a special outfit. No buckles on shoes or belts, soft fabrics only.”

“A special outfit?” Shaw said, his gruff voice noticeably louder in the confined space. “Why might that be?”

“Any piece of metal you wear could strike and give off a spark,” Caleb explained. “A spark’s just as good as a flame when setting off gunpowder. So whoever gets to be the powder monkeys will have to stick to drawstring belts and bare feet.”

Sienna nodded ruefully as she lay the hatch back down. “Aye, that won’t be hard. Most of us are still wearing the rags left to us by our captors.”

Another item I’m going to have to fix, he thought to himself. If we run into a spell of bad weather, it’s going to be extra miserable for those who don’t even have Guardsmen outfits.

“You’ll need to tell me who’s aboard that can do some tailoring and refitting,” he said aloud. “There’s a wardrobe full of clothes in the captain’s quarters. Once I pick out an outfit, I’d rather give the rest to whoever needs a set of britches most. Naked people aren’t as efficient at doing things like re-positioning cannon and hauling sails.”

“Grimshaw and I go about our business well enough, and we do not require clothing,” Tavia pointed out. “Why would humans be any different?”

“Two words,” Caleb said. “Rope. Burns.”

“Aye, the truth has been spoken,” Sienna smiled. “Let’s continue on.”

The group moved forward in her wake. They walked down a center aisle of space created between the two rows of hammocks. Shaw in particular had to squeeze past the circular mass of the mainmast as it passed between decks down to the keel of the ship.

Next came a half-open compartment that smelled faintly of antiseptics. A set of shelving held metal tools, jars of light blue liquid, and coils of bandages. Light came from a block of glass set into the ceiling, directed down towards a man-sized wooden table. The table itself bore disturbing-looking cut marks and dull red stains.

That’s the surgical table, Caleb thought grimly. This must be the infirmary.

Several bunks had been set into the far side of the compartment. They were empty, save for a man who was having his arm bandaged by a buxom woman with tightly bound red hair. She stood up she finished her task, then spotted the new arrivals.

“Captain Ledger,” she said, as she made the two-fingered salute and quick bow. “I’m Harper O’Breen. Your ship’s surgeon, if you please.”

Something about the woman’s name sounded familiar to Caleb.

“Good to meet you,” he said. “Any chance you’re related to Evie, our ship’s cook?”

She grinned. “That would be my mother, sir. She taught me everything I know. Only she knows more about flavorings. I know more how to clean and stitch.”

“So you were the town sawbones, then?”

Her grin transformed into a puzzled look. “A what, Captain?”

“Sorry, that’s a slang term where I’m from. I meant, were you the town doctor?”

“Alas, no. He was soul-drained shortly after we were thrown into the cells on Irongrasp. I’m a midwife by training. But I also know how to set bones, calm fevers, and clean both my instruments and the wounds I use them on.”

That’s something, Caleb thought, as he looked up at the jars of blue liquid. Jaladri may still be a pre-industrial society. But judging by Harper’s comments and the scents in here, they understand something about antiseptics.

Just then, Tavia spoke up. “May I see the man you just treated?”

“Of course,” Harper led them over to where the man reclined in one of the bunks. “Unfortunately I expect to see at least one of the Murray brothers here on a regular basis. You have visitors, Ronan.”

“The Murray triplets are my pistoleer squad,” Sienna put in. “Rory, Ronan, and Regan. They’re crack shots with rifles too. Or they would be, if all of them had fully functioning arms.”

At that, the young man sat up in the bunk and swung his legs over the side. As with all the Arrenmar, he had pale skin and was underweight from his time in the dungeons, but the eyes under his unruly thatch-colored hair remained animated.

“To hear Doc Harper tell it, I’ll only be down for a couple of days!” Ronan protested, as he raised the cloth sling that bound his arm. “I’ll be good as new in no time, Captain!”

“Just get yourself healed up,” Caleb said encouragingly.

Harper wagged a finger at her charge. “You’re lucky no bones were broken. And I didn’t say you’d be as good as new. Minimum of two days before you can do light chores. A nice chunk of meat got taken out of your arm, you thickwitted ludder.”

Before Ronan could object, Tavia leaned in towards him. He kept quiet as the unicorn gave his bandaged arm a sniff. She tossed her mane back before speaking once more.

“I sense a small amount of corruption within your wound,” she stated. “It may cause your wound to fester. I would like to banish it.”

Caleb’s mind went back to the mare’s listed abilities.

Unicorn-Specific Specialties: Light Spells, Purification Spells, Enchant Object, Horn-to-Hoof Combat… Paladin Sub-Specialties: Dark Magic Resistance, Deep Healing, Armor Enhancement

Now that’s interesting, he mused. That’s both deep healing and purification magic. Tavia’s powers help prevent infection as well. It does make sense.

Ronan held up his arm. “Do what you will, Miss Morningstar. I trust you.”

Tavia’s horn glowed gold for a moment. Ronan’s arm twitched as if a jolt of static electricity had run down its length. He looked up at her gratefully.

“It feels better now. Between you and Doc Harper, I think you’ll be able to cure anything!”

“I wish that were the case.” Tavia turned towards the rest of the group. “My magic can speed healing, remove corruption, and fight disease, but I cannot stitch wounds, staunch blood, or set bones. Purification and healing magic is by far the most draining type I use, so it must be done sparingly.”

“‘Tis useful information,” Shaw rumbled. “Such is the magic thou art using to turn our water from salt to sweet.”

“How many barrels of water can you enchant, then?” Caleb asked. “That is, while keeping at least some of your magic in reserve?”

The mare looked a bit ashamed. “In truth, only one. This healing and the barrel I purified above decks took up two-thirds of what Kirren gifted to me this morning.”

Caleb did the math in his head. “That’s enough to keep us alive, at least. But it does prove that we need to restock our onboard water supply.”

“Just make sure we have enough for cooking,” Harper said. “Otherwise, you’ll hear no end of it from my mother. Seawater’s no good for most dishes, and it’ll just make everyone thirstier.”

“On that note, let’s head up to the mess,” Sienna announced.

After bidding farewell to both doctor and patient, she continued leading them forward, pointing out several assigned-use compartments along the way. They passed the carpentry area, which was lined with tools held fast against the swaying of the ship with hooked fasteners. The sailmaker’s section had a small group of older women working on flattening out a curled-up piece of sailcloth. Finally, they came to the base of a second stairway leading back up.

“This takes us up to the main deck and the forecastle,” she said, pronouncing it foksul. “You can get to the bowsprit and forward deck. Also, that’s where we have food and water storage, the rum and lime juice supply, and of course, the mess itself.”

Rum and lime juice? Caleb noted. That’s good. This world understands how to keep scurvy at bay. And how to get sailors to drink their Vitamin C.

Tavia cocked her head at that. “A little inconveniently placed so far forward, isn’t it?”

“It makes sense on a sailing ship,” Caleb pointed out. “You need to control access to the alcohol supply or things get slipshod on deck. Plus, you want anything with a strong scent as far downwind as possible.”

Sienna cleared her throat and pointed out a pair of doors set on either side of the passage.

“Speaking of strong scents, here’s where you’ll find the head. Two of them, actually, so you have a choice. There’s plenty of shakings and tow to wipe up afterwards if you need. But watch for splinters or we’ll be back at the infirmary.”

At the mere mention of the word ‘head’, Caleb felt a rumble in his bowels that he’d suppressed since last night.

“Yeah, let’s pause the tour for a moment. I could use the facilities.”

“I could use them as well,” Tavia announced. “They look just big enough to accommodate a small equine like myself.”

“Can you work the doors?” Caleb asked. “They’re handles not knobs, so...”

“I have teeth and cloven hooves,” she pointed out primly. “Not to mention magic. I can take care of this myself.”

Shaw let out a series of low-pitched caws that Caleb realized was laughter.

“Thou art using a human-designed 'head'?” the griffin chuckled. “‘Tis a ridiculous task, or so it seems to me!”

Tavia’s cheeks colored slightly again.

“I shall not do my business out in the open like an animal,” she flared. “I suppose that you do?”

She got a shrug in return. “When diving deep, the pressure below doth squeeze enough so that most of the work is already done for thee.”

“I see. That's uncivilized. And rather unsanitary.”

With that, the unicorn turned away and made her way towards the farther head.

“Mayhap I do not understand,” Shaw said to Caleb, as he scratched his head with a leonine paw. “The practice is hardly unclean. ‘Tis a very big ocean down there.”