Chapter 15: Urchin

The nightmare shifted. The sea and sky vanished. He was indoors. The innards of the Audacity again, this time in a private room seated behind the quarterdeck, a platform beneath the main mast where ceremonies and speeches to the crew were held. It was the sort of room only the most important man on a ship would call their own, lined wall-to-wall with frivolities ordinary crewmen had long learned to forget–fine wines, rare liquors with unpronounceable names, as well as portraits of women splayed naked across furs. There were a few they had likely never known in the first place: old books of history and medicine with weathered labels, a variety of what looked like instruments from far-off lands, and a metal spyglass that was so heavy and large it had been built with legs just to keep it upright. He stood poised almost exactly as he had been when the last vision ended, arm stretched as high as stretching would allow, but the Red Serpent’s tattoo was missing from his scrawny rail of an arm, while the scars on his hand were too faint and few to resemble Magnus’.

This arm belonged to neither. It was the arm of a young thief. A ragged, red-haired orphan with no people, place, or name of his own. Most days, he settled for calling himself Urchin, as that was what the men and women of the wharf screamed after him when he ran away with their food or coin. Once, at a point so long past he could barely remember, he was sure he had been given a real name, but he had forgotten it, and could not recall it now no matter how hard he tried.

Urchin’s aim here was simple: he was hungry and the smell of food had lured him. Crawling through the ship’s open window had proved surprisingly easy. Everything past that had proved surprisingly hard. He reached again. He was grasping toward a plate of steaming fried cod, pickled vegetables, fresh grapes, and a brimming glass of red wine atop a high table. It was right there for the taking. Just within his grasp. Only…he wasn’t quite tall enough.

“A little…further…”

Damn it all. He hated being small. If he wasn’t so small and weak, he wouldn’t have to steal food in the first place. He strained, standing on the tips of his toes. The edge of the plate grazed his fingertips. He was close. Painfully close. Another moment, one more push, and he’d have what he needed and be out without a soul being the wiser.

“You aim high, don’t you, boy?” a hard voice said from just behind him.

Urchin didn’t think. He had never been good at thinking, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have bothered. Thinking only made you slow. Instead, he jumped just high enough to snag the bottle of wine and whipped around blindly, swinging with all he had. There would be no time to aim, but that didn’t matter. A good hit anywhere would be enough to give him the precious seconds he needed to climb back through the window and make his escape.

The voice’s owner didn’t dodge. He didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, Urchin’s swing was caught at the wrist, then countered with a quick chop to the side of his neck that sent him reeling. His vision blackened. The floor came rising toward him.

What…just…

It had come so fast, he hardly saw it. His face would have slammed against the wooden planks had a sure hand not caught him by the throat and lifted. A second hand casually snatched the wine bottle Urchin had dropped before it could shatter, flipped it upright, then gently set it on the table without a drop sullying the clean cloth.

“You have fire,” the voice said approvingly.

Urchin’s reply was a groan. At best, he was half-conscious. Through the stars, whoever was holding him gradually began to take shape. It was under these conditions that he got his first foggy look at a man he would learn to loathe like a demon. The most striking thing that came into view was the tattoo, a serpent of silver and icy blues wrapped around a bare arm ripe with muscle. The second was the clothes. Though more lavish than any he had ever seen, if he were to somehow steal them and bring them to a merchant, he would get almost nothing for his trouble. One of the sleeves—the one that should have covered the serpent—had been torn clean off so the ink could breathe freely. The blurry figure had many names. Though Urchin had no way of knowing it at the time, the fearful and the sycophantic flattered him as Lang the Cultured. To the rest, he was Captain Lang the Leviathan. The Ivory Serpent.

“Skipped the cargo hold and went straight for the captain’s lunch. Daring. And stupid.” Lang didn’t seem angry like the other adults that had caught Urchin stealing. He was smiling. In a way, that was somehow worse. There was a disturbing shade to it, like a well-baited trap. And those eyes…they were like no others. Were they even a human’s eyes? A cruel, curved sword flashed from Lang’s hip, steel hovering inches from Urchin’s neck. “Where did you learn your manners, boy? Don’t you know you should only steal from men you’ve beaten in battle?” The smile never faded, even as he said, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cut your throat and let the sea have what’s left of you.”

Urchin managed to choke out an answer. “Thi-...this lunch is shit.” The sword pressed against his neck. “W-What I mean is…I can do better than this. I can cook fine food for you. Gourmet food. I-I know how.”

That finally erased Lang’s grin. “You? Cook gourmet food? Don’t take me for a fool. If you had that sort of talent, you would be apprenticing as an eleve, not stealing your meals.”

“I…I was an eleve,” Urchin croaked. He was trying to speak quickly, but his vision was going dark again. Each word came weaker than the last. “The master’s son…poured a drink on my head while I was serving him…so I cracked the mug on his. They threw me out into the muck. Told me never to come back.”

Lang seemed to consider this a moment. Then the blade was sheathed. He dropped Urchin and dragged him by the collar to the far corner of his quarters, up to a great gray slab built into the interior of the ship’s walling. Urchin gasped, and not just because he could finally breathe normally again. An iron hearth. Not a cheap one either, though none of them were truly cheap. Owning one on land was luxury enough, but on a ship? To have it to himself like this, this man must have been as rich as a royal. Maybe richer.

“Some men consider cooking a lesser art,” Lang said evenly, slamming a cast-iron wok before laying a light drizzling of oil. “Some men are uncultured pigs. I, on the other hand, see its true value. You could say I’ve taken quite the interest. One can only learn so many instruments or paint so many women before the tedium sets in. I seek new inspiration. To that end, I will be…acquiring an uminara to tutor me at the next port. But when his work is done, I will need someone suitable to replace him and remain at my side. Someone to prepare my meals and on occasion the mens’, when they’ve done well. I would have you learn alongside me. The average student might struggle on a ship like mine, but with your temperament…” Lang knelt, inspecting the young thief like a filet of halibut. A silver-scaled hand ran through his red hair. Urchin glared daggers. “Yes…you should fit right in. I am not without generosity. Serve well, and I’ll grant you anything you desire. Wealth. Women. The admiration of the common flock. Or their fear, if you prefer. No one would dare slight you as your master’s son did.”

Suddenly, the hand became jaws poised for the throat. That gaze pierced Urchin, and the ominous feeling from before came back ten-fold. “But hear this. When you say you can cook, you had best be willing to stake your life on it. Failure and mediocrity have no place at my side.”

Urchin held his glare. He was afraid, but he refused to look away. If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was being underestimated. He would show this pompous bastard what he was made of. The dish he would prepare was already fully formed in his mind. He nodded.

“We’ll know the truth soon enough,” Lang said. “Let’s see what you can do, boy.”

The scents and smoke of cooking soon filled the air. The walls of the Audacity melted away into nothingness.

The final stage of the nightmare took shape. It didn’t always come, and if it did, it stayed only briefly. Sometimes it was just feelings. Sometimes only sounds or a passing vision. He felt the warmth of a cooking fire beside a sandy shore, and saw a woman with striking red hair stirring a dazzling dish of golden rice. She never said a word. Neither did he. She just smiled, gently guiding his hands, showing him how to clean the shellfish, to carefully craft the stock, to make the slice that would open a closed mussel, and how to handle the wok above a flame without getting burned. He did not know her name. Only that it was from her that he had learned his love for food and cooking.

The dreams were kind…for a moment. If they lingered here, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. But they never did. Day plunged into night. Screams echoed. Fires raged. Their hut was burning. The palm trees were burning. The island was burning, pillars of reds and oranges flaring against the dark.

The flame-haired woman hurried him along. All around, people were running. When he couldn’t run fast enough, she picked him up and carried him. Over her shoulder, he could just barely make out a man of the island raising a harpoon and confronting an advancing wall of shadows. Moments later, he lay still on the ground. After that, he kept his eyes closed until they reached the shore. Lining the beach, there were vessels. Fishing boats ready to take them out to sea and away from the flames. Nearly all had already fled, melding into the horizon. One remained, loaded to the brim with trembling bodies. The woman placed him carefully inside, next to a trio of other children he did not know, but when she tried to climb in as well, the hull lurched, leaning far to one side. The sea threatened to come crashing in, and the screams aboard the boat rang sharply.

The woman looked at him in a way he would never truly forget. Then she stepped out of the boat, those gentle hands setting a silver locket of the shape of a shell around his neck. More people were coming. The wall of shadows and fire not far behind. The woman set herself against the side of the hull and pushed with her all. She cried out to the captain, and the sails came unfurled. In seconds, she and the fires of the island began to shrink. He reached for her, but his arms were too small. She was too far away.

She called out one last time, speaking his true name.

Magnus threw off his covers. His breath was short. Sweat dotted his brow. Instinctively, he grasped at the empty space around his neck, only to remember there was nothing there. Not anymore.

It was gone. The last piece he had left was gone.

“Son of a whore,” he growled, drying his face with the blanket. It was cold and rough against his skin. Again with this? Was it ever going to end? And why did it have to be the same thing every night? This sort of thing never used to happen. Not to the Red Serpent. That man had lived solely for the present. The past and future were worthless to him, and his dreams–what few there were–did not linger this way. So why were they haunting him now? He’d tried everything. Changing how he slept. Changing what he ate. Not eating anything at all before a rest. Even the bottle of sedatives he’d borrowed from an old friend in the capital had no effect. His friend called it a concoction of salts and fluids. Magnus called it bloody fucking magic. It put him out and kept him there, but it couldn’t do any more. At one point, he’d gotten so fed up with the whole thing he just decided not to rest at all. Maybe all he really needed was a distraction, he’d thought. A break in the cycle to put an end to this nonsense. He had stayed awake three days, keeping himself occupied with Galley-work until his hands shook and he struggled to remember tasks he had been busy with just a few minutes earlier, but on the fourth day, when his will finally crumbled, the dark dreams were right there, waiting.

He sighed deep. Oh well. No point in putting it off now. Once he was up, there was no going back to sleep. Not without another breath of the magic bottle. Might as well get an early start and get ahead and whatever today decided to throw at him.

He braced himself. It was time for the first riveting challenge of the day: getting on his feet. Come on, old man. Morning gave him the usual greeting, a symphony of aches and pains. He strained. He’d have an easier time finding a spot that didn’t protest as he pulled himself up. He had the brawls, battling, and everything else aboard the Audacity to thank for that. It had been good fun in the moment, of course, but as he aged, each year taught him more and more the true price of a moment’s fun. There were times, in the quiet of the evening or working above the flames of the stove, when he mulled each of his pains and what he had traded for them. When he struggled to dance with Talia, those thrills felt stale, the fun flavorless.

He removed a golden band from his finger and stowed it beneath his pillow, the closest thing to a private hiding place the black tents allowed. There was no wearing the ring while he cooked. Too risky and (more importantly) too messy. Instead, he would put it on after each shift, just before he lay down. Wearing it while asleep seemed like the next best thing. It made him feel closer to home, if only a little.

When he noticed the edge of an object jutting free under his pillow, Magnus nudged it until it was hidden again. Hm. Must have come loose with all the tossing and turning, he thought with a yawn, absently scratching his chin. He trimmed his beard by lantern-light with the help of a tiny hand glass. He’d gotten pretty good at it recently, only nicking himself every now and then.

His thoughts drifted to the ring and Talia, to their plans to take the Seaflower out to sea for good, adventuring and serving diners the world over like they had always talked about. These days, he wished more than anything he could skip to that part in his journey.

And also…

They are not even born yet, and already I worry for our children.

He hadn’t expected to hear that. At least not yet “Our children,” he said to no one. It sounded so strange to his ears. And terrifying. In a way, it scared him more so than everything he had faced up to this point. He had changed a lot since Talia, but still…

Me…a father?

He peered outside. No light just yet, but the signs of night’s end were there. He had woken with good timing, or near enough. He shivered. Damn cold. He would never understand it. These in-landers were crazy, every one of them. To build homes and raise families in a place like this? The rainy part of Dreya had been miserable enough, let alone up here in this hell they called the Highlands, where the land was about as inviting as a bed of shattered bottles.

When he found the pair of black tents empty, he grinned despite himself. Well, well. Up before me, for once? Not too shabby, boys. Good on them. Lucky for him. It was a rare gift, having staff that took the initiative before their chef gave the order. Today might not be complete shit, after all. He was right in the middle of thinking he might have to offer a bit of praise for their efforts when he froze in place and went no further.

Magnus stood a dozen paces from the entrance to the Galley. He didn’t need to be closer to tell. Something was wrong. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. It was in the air, swirling in the morning mists…or rather, it wasn’t.

He breathed in. No smell of breakfast. He closed his eyes and listened, but the sizzle of the stove and the din of herbs chopped against the board weren’t there either. It was all but silent. Eerily still. A chill ran through him that reminded him of the worst mornings he’d ever faced in the eastern waters. The sea was a cruel teacher, and if it had taught him anything, it was the dangers lurking beneath unnatural calm.

Magnus’ reasoning. The Red Serpent’s cunning and experience. Urchin the Thief’s raw instincts. For once, all three stood in firm agreement. He doubled back to the black tents, only returning to the Galley once the object he’d been stowing in the crevice beneath his cot—a cruel, curved saber bearing the name Rigormortis—was unsheathed and firmly in his grip. It had been gifted to him by Lang long ago. The only gift that came without a price. He’d almost thrown it away countless times. For years, he had told himself it was no more than a relic of the past, but he kept the blade close and ready now. There was no telling what lay in wait.

He steeled himself and entered.

Of all the things he might have expected, none quite measured up to the sheer strangeness of what he faced. Chopping tables overturned. Fine steel knocked from hooks. Some of his best (and most expensive) equipment ass-up in the dirt, with his favorite santoku knife, a gift from Talia, buried in the muck, tossed aside like garbage. Half the Galley was thrashed to hell and back. The other half lay surreally untouched. Someone—or several someones, from the look of it—had strolled in, had their way with the place, then gone about their evening without a care in the world.

Magnus bit his cheek. Hard. If he hadn’t, he may have woken the entire camp and shattered their eardrums for good measure. For now, he settled for curses only he could hear. “Fucking bastards pricks,” he seethed through gritted teeth, fighting to keep his cool. It was still dark. Exploding here and now would only make his situation worse, he knew. He thought of Talia again and slowed his breathing. Long and deep. That was the way. He kept at it for a time, and eventually it seemed to help. Maybe. A bit.

Damn reds. It was clear enough what must have happened. He could practically see the whole thing unfold. A little talk around the fire, nothing out of the ordinary. Not at first, anyways. Then one of them starts running his mouth, venting frustrations. Magnus’ name is spoken. More mouth-running. Big, vacant mugs start nodding in agreement, each egging the others on, pushing it further and further. ‘How dare that dashing rogue get the better of us, the Dirks of Dickery!?’ Something like that. Bolder and bolder words get thrown around, seasoned with promises of vengeance and settling scores. Magnus rolled his eyes. He had heard that sort of tripe a thousand times in his younger years, and though it made him wince a little now, it had usually been coming from him.

That was simple enough, wasn’t it? A few Spears decide to unwind a bit and send a message, make him clean up their mess for a bit of twisted fun? Obvious culprit. Obvious motive. Most importantly, he reminded himself, no real harm done. It was beyond infuriating, but he could still pick up the pieces of this shit morning and move on.

So why did that creeping cold from before refuse to leave him?

Something about it didn’t fit right. He inspected the scene with a calmer head, but it did little to make sense of things. The more he saw, the less he understood. If the reds wanted to wreck the place, they had gone about it in a strange way. His spice rack still stood upright. It wasn’t sturdy; it would have taken half a second to tip over. Meanwhile, some of his heaviest gear was strewn from one corner of the tent to another.

It looked…almost random. As if the kitchen was not the aim, the Serpent whispered in his ear. Magnus pushed the voice away, but it whispered again. As if…

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

You already know. You’ve seen enough carnage to recognize the signs. Against men like that, it wouldn’t have lasted long…

Magnus had heard enough. He told the Serpent exactly where it could shove those words, and this time it went silent.

“Where are the boys?” he whispered.

It was cramped. He managed two steps, but felt his toes bump something on the third. A dull light flickered near his boot. He groaned.

“Son of a-.” He picked up his sunroot, or what was left of the miserable thing. It was drooping badly, its glow barely there at all. He groaned. Today’s looking brighter all the time. He could try visiting a botanist once he returned to the empire, but there was probably no saving it at this point. It was too bad. They weren’t exactly the cheapest expense.

When he held the root aloft for a better look, ice ran through his whole body. He hadn’t been able to see it in the poor lighting, but now it showed as plain as the steel in his hand.

The soil of the Galley floor was bathed in blood.