Chapter 7 – MFG G31

Fredrik felt entirely out of place in the formal regalia. His white shirt puffed up in a way that made him feel ridiculous. Over the shirt he wore a dark green, bordering on black, coat that was short at the front, cut higher than his waistline, but had tails down to his knees. With its large golden buttons and golden rope belt, which ended with a tassel, he felt it was ridiculous. He could only take comfort that the pure white pants and shiny black boots were at least sturdy and easy to wear. As Lav instructed, he had the pistol loaded behind his back, with a small crystal already loaded into it. He felt like that was a risk, like it could slip at any time and shoot him in the back.

He stood behind Lav, who was seated at a wide table made of dark oak and looked about the lavishly decorated room. It was in sharp contrast with the rest of the Furnace, with engraved surfaces, gold trimming, fine fabrics, and clean burning candles as far as the eye could see. Even the windows were fitted with stain-glass murals that depicted the Saint and the Goddess. It was the only room he had seen that had spent any effort on appearance and may have been just as expensive as the machinery rooms. He could only interpret it as the sponsor valuing the trades that took place in this room as much as the products they produced.

Lav was dressed in a very modest formal dress, with a green muslin dress that was belted above her hips with a matching-coloured leather belt with a golden buckle. The dress shirt was tighter to her form than he had seen other ladies wear, but on Lav’s tone body it seemed fitting. She didn’t wear any jewels, but the lacework on the shirt distinguished it as an expensive item, which may have been outshone even by much cheaper accessories. While the dress was well worn by her, he knew that it was more than vanity. The gown would present no hindrance if she found herself needing to fight.

The sponsor’s own clothes were something of a surprise. He wore a full three-layer suit, with the shirt, vest, jacket, and pants all in white. Contrasting with that, his shoes were a rich brown that bordered on a vibrant red, a colour matched by a decorative cloth which was like a lace clerical collar, that was fully visible with the shirt’s collar popped. He sat at the head of the table with one leg crossed over the other, speaking verbosely with his hands moving like a conductor of an orchestra.

The finery of the room made the appearance of the F24’s captain all the more jarring. The man was short, fat, and greasy. His uniform was only half tucked in and in a desperate need of an iron. His cream-coloured shit was stained at the cuffs, and even while standing he wore his jacket unbuttoned. When he entered the room, he let the door swing shut behind him and sat down at the table with his feet up on it. Fredrik found himself disliking the man even before he started speaking.

“Oi Laverne, get that junk ship of yours off the dock. I want one of mine in that slot.”

From where he stood, he could see her neck tense up with anger, though he was sure she had hidden even the slightest reaction in her face.

“Oh, is that you Delford? I didn’t see you down there. I see you didn’t invest in those platform shoes I told you about. I’m sure even your fleet can afford them.”

Hearing her words caused the short man, Delford, to redden with anger as he kicked himself away from the table and came to his feet with a motion that was clearly well practised. His boots scuffed the wood in the process, and the sponsor’s face darkened on seeing that.

“You bitch!” the man yelled; his voice dulled by the room’s plush carpets.

“Ah yes, stand up. Bring attention to your height, like that. When you stay seated you can at least hide it from the near-sited, but when you stand, you’ll only fool the dull-witted blind.”

With each cutting word she spoke, he could see Delford get more and more irate. Fredrik watched as the man reached into his coat for a wooden grip, and immediately pulled his new pistol out and readied. The shorter man had only just cleared his pistol from the jacket when he saw the weapon pointed at him.

“Drop it!” Fredrik yelled, with the sternest voice he could muster, the one he had used to order around the young recruits. Delford simply froze.

“Now, now,” the calming voice of the sponsor started, “that’s enough out of all of you. I’ll have none of that on my ship. Really now, Delford, I expect much better from you. You know that I’ll have no choice but to increase your supply fees. Your margins being what they are, you can hardly afford that.”

His face grew white as the realising of the situation hit him.

“I… I’ll sell the G31. That will get me enough to cover the rest, right?”

The man seemed to have little in the way of guile or business acumen, and immediately caved at the first bit of pressure. He reminded Fredrik of someone filling in for a superior following a death. When the smaller man started to sweat, the man in the white suit seemed to think about it.

“While it’s true that it would cover the costs… I’m not sure you could get a buyer on the Furnace. The only person currently here with enough credit, who isn’t bound by contract to stay here, is Laverne. If you could weight around for a week, then there might be a buyer when we get close to the South Ernbale Islands, but I don’t think many of your ships would survive that long.”

“Even if they could, we’re headed north, bound for home. The extra distance would burn through any supplies we added by that point.” He clearly struggled with himself, thinking through his options, then struggled to let his voice out. “Laverne… could you…”

“Sure,” She responded before he could even ask. “But I’m only paying it’s value less repair costs. I’m in for business, not charity. Also, I get priority in negotiating for your fleet’s service. If you can’t accept those terms, then no deal.”

He looked pained to even think about that, as if calculating future losses, but then resigned himself and whispered a soft “Deal.”

As they set to work writing out a contract, their meal was brought out and set on the table. They were far from land, so there wasn’t much that could be done about fresh ingredients, but the mess staff had shown their skill through the presentation. The mean was a thick stew made from dried meat, which had been revived by soaking in wine, and cooked along with potatoes, carrots and lentils. The rich smell of the wine filled the air, along with the smell of strong spices. Lav directed for him to take the first sip from her bowl while she continued to work, and the flavour filled his mouth like few things had prior. Wholegrain bread rolls were served alongside the stew with a sauce made from fruits that had been dried. He sampled those also, but otherwise didn’t eat for the rest of the meal.

Once the contract was done and the meal over, Delford left immediately to organise removing the crew from the G31. The sponsor waved for Lav to stay, whispering conspiratorially.

“Stay a little longer, I’ve got something special.”

A mess hand brought in a tray of teacups and poured both the sponsor and Lav a cup. The sponsor then pulled out a jar of what seemed like creamy white jam. With a small spoon, he scooped some of the milky jam into the tea and stirred it through.

“It’s the latest treat out of Aulin. They’re calling it condensed milk. Can you believe it? We’re days away from the nearest dairy, but here I am drinking sweet milk tea. This truly is the greatest time to be alive.”

Lav followed suit and tried the strange viscus milk, drinking it with a pleased expression, but clearly waiting for him to get to his real topic. The man ignored any expectations and enjoyed the drink, snacking on a spiced biscuit without the slightest urgency.

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“Involving that ship you just got me to buy, no doubt?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s a fast bomber that’s small enough to hide in the Flask’s wake. Our trade partners in Hilion have had some problems with one of their colonies in the Ernbales. The locals have bought up some Aulin fortifications and ships. They’re claiming independence and taking the expensive machinery that our partners built there. Worse still, they’re planning on selling our own supplies to the Aulins. Naturally we can’t let them undercut us with our own products, so we have a fleet approaching from the north, while we approach from the south.”

Lav seemed to contemplate the situation while sipping at another cup of sweetened tea.

“What’s the pay?”

“We’ll cover the 31’s repairs and supplies and give you a twice contribution share in the operation’s profits.”

While Fredrik didn’t know much about business terms, he did understand that one. He had heard about it from those sailors who were looking to go private or pirate after their term was up. As he understood it, each ship in the operation was given an equal share of the total prize. Twice contributions meant that each ship counted as two when working out the shares. He didn’t really have a mind for such things, preferring to know how much he would earn before starting, but he could tell that Lav was interested by it.

“Send me a write up of the whole mission; I’ll look through it before making any commitments. Also, if I accept, I want the 31 repainted and renamed. The red is ugly, and I don’t want people thinking I’m a part of Delford’s fleet.”

The sponsor gave a small chuckle before responding.

“We can certainly try to, but it will be a bit of a rush to get it done in time. The repairs will take up most of the trip.”

“Then we’ll be headed home. Have someone send the document over tomorrow.”

As they walked across the catwalk, making their way back, Fredrik looked up at the stars above. He had spent most of his life at sea, and the stars were like an ocean he could never visit, no matter how high he sailed. Those bright skies had filled the night, reflecting on the black ocean on a still night. But the sky was not what he was used to. The Furnace’s ironworks were run through the night, and the bright light of glowing hot metal and firestones filled the skies and drowned out the stars. It felt somewhat ominous, like the recent developments in his life were taking something from him. As he thought that, Lav came into his field of view.

“You always look up, you know that?” Her voice was softer than he was used to, almost contemplative. “If you don’t have people there watching your feet, you’ll trip over one day.”

“Just watching the weather,” he replied with a shrug, “if you don’t look out for nature, it’ll get you when you’re least prepared.”

After a few moments of quiet, with just the wind and the muffled thudding of the metalworks, they continued down the path and returned to the Flask.

The next morning, a young sailor delivered a sealed folder, and Lav locked herself in her office, only leaving to fetch reference documents for storage or to get him to fetch her food. He had nothing much to do as her guard, so he practised loading his weapons, using the thuds of the closest boiler as an improvised timer to mark his improvements. By around midday, he had changing cylinders on the pistol down to a reliable ten seconds. It was around that time that Lav finally left, headed for the sponsor’s office. Naturally, he followed behind her, though they were stopped before they got there.

The soot-stained blacksmith lady blocked their path. She had deep black rings under her eyes and was grinning mischievously. She spoke something in Mastwithian and grabbed his arm to drag him away. Lav didn’t pause a beat as she kept walking without him, just yelling at him while she left.

“Just listen to what she says, and I’ll pick you up when I’m done.”

The blacksmith continued to talk to him as they walked, and he continued to not understand a thing she said. He could tell that some words in Mastwithian had similar root-words as Hilionish, but that seemed to be of little help to him. When they arrived at her forge, she spoke in heavily accented Hilionish, using simple one-word sentences and exaggerated gestures, which made him feel like a particularly slow child.

“You. Stand. Arms,” she said as she gestured where he should stand, and that he should put his arms out into a t-pose. She then pulled pieces of curved polished iron from out of a chest and started fitting it to him. It was at that point that he understood that Lav had ordered him a suit of marine plate, and the lady had rushed it, thinking they would be leaving soon.

The armour was different from other suits he had seen. It wasn’t just a plate and helm, but also had gauntlets and greaves. The entire set was polished and slightly blued and reminded him more of something a knight would wear than a sailor would. The helmet was shaped like an old armet, with an extended visor and decorative swept back wings. When the full suit was equipped, and the stones activated, he found the sensation of the armour to be extremely confusing. It was obvious that the armour had weight, but it was somehow almost weightless. The weight of the armour pulled down, but the lift of the stones pulled up, balancing oddly across his body.

“Lift,” the blacksmith said, pointing at a box of tools. He went to take his armour off first, not wanting to scratch it before it was even used, but she stopped him, saying, “Training.”

For a few hours after, he spent time lifting and carrying boxes of tools and supplies, getting used to wearing the armour and how it felt. Whenever the heat of the armour started to get too much, he found that a bucket of water was soon dumped on him. He respected the woman for her ability to know when he needed it, even without him saying so, but he also wished she had a better way to cool him off. She was clearly a skilled smith, as the gauntlets were made to still give him the dexterity needed to change out the pistol’s cylinder, and the leather lining helped with dealing with the heat that his weapons built up. By the time Lav returned, she found him helping with forging shot. While the ship wasn’t tall enough to have a shot tower built it, it instead had a ‘shot net’. A fine net was cast behind the forge, trailing like a parachute, as the drops of liquid lead were dropped, forming into spheres as they fell and being caught by the net. The net required careful positioning and timing, so they preferred to just use shot towers when they flew near one, but they still trained with the net as a drill, so that they could still make shot when they needed it.

The blacksmith took one of the shots he forged and tied it off in a net-like knot, and strung it like a necklace, handing it to him.

“Come back sometime.”