Chapter 56-
A knock rattled the door of Dana’s apartment, a knock so thorough and official that she didn’t even need to open it to know who was on the other side. She swallowed hard; it was becoming more routine, but every time was as nerve-racking as the last.
The woman, well into her thirties, first put down the plate she was washing and strode over to a door on the opposite end of the room from the entrance.
“One minute!” she called to the front door. “I’m getting him!”
Dana opened the door to her husband’s studio and was struck by the smell of marble dust which had ingrained itself into every square inch. The sound of chiseling and hammering stopped abruptly, and Rodan looked up from his work to see his wife, her expression told him all he needed to know.
Removing his smock, he brushed the excess of dust from his hands, face, and clothes, and gingerly closed the door behind him. Rodan crossed the living room and rested his hand on the handle of the front door. With only a moment’s hesitation, he turned it and wrenched the door open as if in a rush.
A friendly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Calari,” greeted him from the other side of the threshold.
Rodan put on a smile and gestured for the visitors to enter. “Good afternoon, Inquisitor Haunt, Fallbrook, please come in.”
In strode two of the primary officers of the esteemed Inquisition Squad. Jericho Haunt entered first; a tall, slim-shouldered man who obscured his body with a heavy wool fur-trimmed cape, his long red hair kept down by a studded leather cap. His strong cheekbones gave his face an angular, intimidating impression, and he walked with a heavy stride that lifted his legs up high with each step.
Following him was Mara Fallbrook, much daintier in appearance, wearing an ornate black dress tied with all sorts of white lace and bows. At her waist was fastened a parasol from which a curious, small rattling noise could be heard each time her thick, tall laced boots clopped on the creaky wooden floor. She constantly restrained a look of smugness from her face, but it seeped through her cracks and was, in fact, even more extreme by virtue of the fact one could see it was restrained.
Behind the Inquisitors were only a pair of guards, uniformed in the black leather of the New Hopeland military police.
Haunt was the first to speak, positioning himself between Rodan and Dana. “Well, I trust that you two have taken care of yourselves since the last time we met?”
“Of course,” Rodan laughed, a hint of anxiety plaguing his words. “Everything is fine around here, we’ve been disinfecting and following all the procedures to purify our water.”
Jericho grinned, though his eyes did not match the expression of his mouth. “Good to hear, we’d hate for the country’s premiere sculptor to be put out of commission. I’d hate for either… of you to fall ill, fact, I should say.” He looked first to Rodan, and then to Dana, who did not return his eye contact. From the side, Mara watched Jericho with pursed lips, as if they were about to quake and her jaw to tremble.
“What brings you to our home so soon again? After the last, I mean…?” Dana broke her silence in an awkward way that relieved Rodan’s attention from the Inquisitor. This time, Mara answered her, stepping forward just enough to put herself in-between her and Jericho.
“There’s been a rash of Exitis cases,” she explained, looking Dana straight in the eye. “Haven’t you heard? In this very apartment, on the third and fifth floors.”
Rodan tilted his head forward. “That’s awful, who was it?”
Mara switched her gaze to the sculptor, eyeing him up and down. He was the rare immigrant from the southern continents, with charcoal black skin and wider features than the average thin face of a Hoppite. “I don’t know,” she replied with a veil of politeness over her disregard for his concern.
Jericho brought his gloved hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “This is a standard check-up, everyone on your floor is being inspected as well.” He turned his head to signal that one of the guards step forward and place a briefcase on the nearby coffee table. “If you’ll cooperate with us, for just a moment.”
Within the briefcase was a small, intricate setup of grooves, a syringe, and a vial and dropper filled with some pale green liquid. One by one, Rodan and Dana had their blood sampled in the living room using the syringe to extract exactly fifteen milliliters, then slowly ejected back out into the shallow grooves. There was just enough blood to circulate the entire system, which began as a line that curved into a circle and made a sharp turn inward to make several intricate patterns until leading to a central circular inset which the rest of the blood pooled into. The officer then took out the pale green liquid and extracted it with the dropper. Once three drops had fallen into the center pool, the blood slowly turned a sickening shade of yellow.
“Good,” Jericho noted, peering at the results before the officer cleaned out the system and took Dana’s blood. Once her test was complete with the same off-putting yellow color, the system was cleaned once more and the briefcase closed.
They had all taken a seat on the couch and chairs while Mara and a single guard remained standing tacitly. “Well,” Jericho announced, rising from his chair. “It looks like you two have nothing to worry about for now.” He pulled his arms back and stretched out his spine, thrusting his legs forward. “If this complex continues to show signs of an outbreak, however, we’ll be back for another round. I wouldn’t worry about you two, though, you know how to follow the procedures…”
Rodan only nodded slowly, his muscles suddenly gunked with stiffness.
Jericho took a look around the apartment, his eyes settling on the studio door. “Working on your next masterpiece?” he asked with a somewhat teasing lilt.
“If only,” Rodan let out a single chuckle as he spoke. “I’m… eh… stopped up, artistically…”
“Hm, I’ve heard as much about the condition of the artist,” Jericho turned back to him, who was still seated on the couch with his hands clasped together. “Do you get inspiration from any other artists?”
“Inspiration?” Rodan’s head tilted ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” Jericho took a step closer to the chair he’d been sitting in, laying his hands over it. “You don’t think it would help you to talk to any other sculptors or painters, even poets?”
Rodan's response was oddly silent; he felt threatened, but in a way he couldn’t understand. Dana shifted around in her chair and found herself looking at Mara.
“Why does she look at Inquisitor Haunt like that?” she wondered. “She’s watching his every move, every single detail she seems to be picking apart.”
In the face of the sculptor’s silence, Jericho decided to elaborate.
“You know, even if you couldn’t meet any in the city, you could write to some colleagues.” He looked again to the studio and back to Rodan as he asked, “Don’t you get any letters from other… artists?”
Rodan looked him steadily in the eye and answered politely. “No, we don’t receive many letters here, in fact. My family is all in Coyunda.”
“A shame, Mr. Calari,” Jericho took a few steps toward the studio door with intent, prompting Rodan to get up from his seat.
“Inquisitor,” he had now dropped the notion of politeness in his voice and spoke with force. “That’s my studio, no one will enter without my permission.”
Jericho’s hand hovered over the door knob; with his back turned to the rest of the occupants, none could see his trembling fingers just inches away from the brass, nor the saliva that had begun to trickle down his lips, nor his sunken eyes. He made no sudden movements, but remained as still as one of Rodan’s sculpted figures for a painfully silent ten seconds, then brought his hand back up to his face, coughing as an excuse to wipe his salivation off.
“I’m sorry, that was irrational of me,” he faced them once more and drew a thin smile. Jericho stepped away from the studio and towards the entrance, motioning the guards and Mara to follow. “Well, we’re all looking forward to your next piece.”
The door shut and a burning quiet raged through the room. Dana was still seated when Rodan collapsed back onto the couch. His chest rose and lowered with a heavy breath, his eyes staring out into nothing. When Dana was certain that they were gone, she spoke.
“That’s the third time this month,” she whispered, her brows crossed anxiously.
“I know…” Rodan’s voice betrayed his worn mind. He stretched his hand across his eyes.
“Honey,” Dana laid her hand across his knee affectionately. “Are you getting another headache?”
“No,” he grumbled. “Maybe…”
She stood up and walked to the sink, grabbing a glass from the counter. “Have some water,” she advised, filling it three-quarters. “You need to hydrate more.”
Rodan took the glass from her hands and brought it to his lips; the part of his brain that was subject to placebo told him that it made him feel better immediately. He leaned his head against the wall behind the couch and stared into the ceiling, looking but not seeing anything.
“All I need is to keep going,” he told himself. “Everything will be fine, she will be fine. We’re all going to succeed…”
---
In the evening, as the sun set, the sky was draped in a veil of blood red. A tower, one-hundred-and-twenty feet tall, stabbed into the heavens as if it had caused them to bleed. It loomed above the houses and churches of Galeton, the capital city of New Hopeland. Overlooking the coast, its harbor was home to ship travel of all industries, trade, labor, and tourism.
The tower, dubbed “The Heavensward Gladial” upon its completion, was a marvel of classical Antiquity architecture. The first four floors constituted its base, from which it gradually sloped upward to its apex. A tall, winding staircase led up to the top chamber, a great stone room which had formerly housed a church bell. Twenty five years prior, the bell was moved into a newer church built closer to the center of the city. Subsequently, construction was done to cover up three of the four open sides of the chamber, the stone arches still visible reminders of the building’s history. The western wall, which faced the sea, was left in its original state and a balcony added to overlook the view.
Mara surged to the top of the landing and touched down elegantly, folding her parasol closed with a creak and carrying it under her arm. A few seconds later, Jericho joined her, visibly winded, but with stamina to spare. Mara walked to the precipice and looked around, the wind gently blowing through her twin-tailed hair, black with streaks of maroon running through it.
Jericho stepped forward, looking around the room. “She was supposed to be here already, right? That’s what she said…”
“She’s spacey, you know,” Mara cradled her face in one hand before turning her neck to look at him from the side. “It’s a beautiful evening, don’t you think?” She had placed her hand so that it would guide one’s eye to the black heart-shaped tattoo beneath her right eye. Her chest tightened as she studied Jericho’s face for any reaction.
“I guess…” his arms were crossed beneath the cape that covered most of his body. He was closed off, uninterested, as usual.
“She is already near.”
Mara and Jericho’s hearts nearly burst from their chests when they heard the voice. Immediately, they prostrated themselves in the direction of the shadows from which it had come.
“Milord!” they cried in unison. Jericho bent his head to the ground and spoke for both of them. “Pardon us for not realizing your presence, milord, I was being irra-.”
Again the voice cut through the darkness. “Stand up, that’s no way for ones such as yourselves to behave-- groveling on the ground like sick dogs… You are not the rats who prostrate themselves before their extermination.” It was a deep and gravelly drawl; a voice worn not by time, but by experience. Many hundreds of generations were audible within it, their legacy of suffering weighing each word down as close as possible to the heart, so that a listener with a weak constitution may feel exhausted just by hearing it.
The Inquisitors stood up without fuss, only an affirmative, “Yes, milord.”
It did not take long for the one they expected to arrive. A single bird landed on the balcony, its feathers black as night save for a single gold one that streaked dramatically across its wing. Before long, a swarm of other birds of the same kind flew to the precipice, at least fifteen. They crashed into the first bird, creating a storm of feathers and wings, within which a shape suddenly appeared. The convening of the birds was too swift and violent to keep balance, and within a second of the flock meeting, they converged and disappeared into a vaguely human form which fell forward and onto the cold, hard stone ground.
Mara and Jericho watched with the same curiosity as watching a child fall off a bike as Dazey Clubcroak lifted herself up with a groan, one of her eyes shut closed in pain. She dusted herself off and flashed an awkward smile.
“Whoops,” she giggled, shaking her body as if waking it up. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
Dazey had a general spacey disposition and awkward appearance. She spent considerable amounts of time as many different birds, and never knew how her body would grow when she reformed, so she often wore men’s clothing for its bigger sizes and less strict requirements for proportions. A short black jacket and suspenders over a baggy white dress-shirt. Recently, she’d taken to wearing a similarly loose golden tie that matched symmetrically with the single blonde bang that stretched from the center of her forehead down to her nose. Her hair was otherwise short and black, but the one random shock of yellow was somehow fitting of her personality. Mara observed that Dazey’s eyes had grown wider and more childlike since she could first remember her creation.
The three of them looked into the shadows, where they knew their lord to be, yet there was a peculiar feeling among them which Jericho decided to pull into the light.
“Shade, you can come out, don’t be scared.”
Against the wall was a chair, around which the shadows had swirled too deeply to see their lord, but standing next to it was another young-looking man. It was too dark to make out his features, but his shape was clear if they looked hard enough.
Shade’s remained against the wall, his eyes shifted from the three of them to look off at nothing in particular.
“Nevermind that,” their lord’s voice demanded their attention. “Dazey, what became of Mello Drameda?”
Dazey glanced anxiously around, and with a faltering tone, informed him, “He was shot dead by Gallow after his associate killed President Cartwright…”
“Did you observe anything else?”
Her worry turned to concentrated thought. “Three of Drameda’s associates survived the battle,” she offered.
“No,” her lord corrected her. “Anything else concerning Mello?” He was stern, and the shroud of darkness from which he spoke only intensified the intimidation he gave off.
“Drameda?” she wondered aloud. “There was a short battle between he and Gallow and a swordsman from the army, and they overwhelmed him.”
“You saw nothing else?”
“I was watching from above, that was the entire thing, I mean it, milord!” Dazey recoiled and clasped her hands together, realizing that she’d spoken too strongly. “Apologies, milord, I didn’t mean to-”
“That’s all I need to know,” he cut her off, evidently unoffended.
“Thank you, milord…” the awkward blackbird slunk back nearer to the other two.
“Jericho, Mara,” at his word, they stepped forth. “Have you a progress report?”
Jericho spoke for the two of them, “The Rodan Calari still displays no signs of Exitis.”
“Was anything suspicious found in his home?”
“No, milord,” Jericho omitted that he had failed to enter the artist’s studio.
“So be it; what of the other candidates?”
“None of them have shown signs of the disease either, milord. I still maintain that Calari is the strongest suspect.”
“Did you sense a shift in the concentration of his spirit while you were in his home?”
Jericho shifted in place while trying to keep a respectful stance. “None indicating any evidence of a Vocation.”
Jericho could feel his blood pumping like sand through an hourglass.
“Good, you’re dismissed.”
In unison, the three of them nodded and gave a strong, “Yes, milord,” before Jericho and Mara proceeded to the stairwell. Dazey stood still for a second, then hurried to join them.
When they were a decent ways down, Jericho prompted Dazey, looking straight ahead through the torchlight.
“Dazey?”
She responded with a subverbal “Hm?”
“I’m just surprised you joined us when you could have flown down; it would have been faster.”
“Fly?” Dazey walked with a funny gait, throwing her arms forward a little too far with each step, her hands almost entirely swallowed up her sleeves. “I just figured that Mara could have floated down, but she was walking, so there must have been a reason for that.”
Mara scoffed. “You’re not all wrong; I’m taking the stairs because it won’t draw attention. No one would bat an eye if they saw a bird flying.”
“Oh, okay,” Dazey’s words were light and airy. “Well, I like being all-together, you know?”
“We like having you around too,” Jericho spoke like a parent to a child.
“No, not like that,” she clarified herself. “I like having all my birds together to be me, you know? I like being whole.”
Mara’s eyes widened in condescending intrigue. “Is it that different?”
“Of course!” Dazey giggled. “Have you ever been twenty birds at once? It’s a bit stressful, it feels pretty funny compared to being a single person.”
Jericho spoke up, “How long have you been transformed, do you think, over your whole life?”
“Hummmmm…” Dazey put a finger to her lip. “Collectively? Probably twenty years.”
Mara was taken aback. “Wha- twenty years? No… That’s almost, what, a third of your life?”
“Yep!”
“Have any of your birds ever been shot?” Mara questioned with a more honest curiosity.
“Mmm… Once or twice,” Dazey replied.
“What happens?”
“I usually come back together with an injury; I lost part of my right foot, you know, until Lord B-” she stopped herself. “-Our Lord patched me up.”
They made the rest of the trip down the tower in relative silence. Mara watched Jericho’s thin, bright red hair flow as he walked.
---
“Shade, what do you make of this Gallow person?”
Shade didn’t respond immediately, as the gears turned slowly in his mind. “He’s quite dangerous, if he was able to kill both Roseraid and Drameda, but I doubt his power.”
“Why is that?”
Shade kept his gaze straight ahead out the tower and into the bloody sky, never once even hazarding a look at his lord. “My intuition tells me that his encounters with them were not hateful. If he fought I, for instance, in a pure, hateful battle, I doubt he would win.” He paused and appended, “If he were against you, there would be no question of it.”
Outside, a flock of seagulls flapped past the ocean, bathed in the golden light of the sunset. Galeton was renowned for its gorgeous weather, and the city’s economic opportunity had grown it into one of the four true “centers of the world,” the first in the western hemisphere before Hilltop rose up.
“Milord… Is there something on your mind?” Shade’s voice was pale and sullen, even when asking rather innocuous questions.
“Hm… Shade…” his lord contemplated his next words carefully. “I knew that Mello Drameda was dead even before your fratrex confirmed it just now, because there was a dramatic shift in the world.”
“A… shift, milord?”
“My Shade… I am a very old being, I have been here since the beginning, I am familiar with the natural layer of the world. When he died, I cannot tell if it was before or after, the glass of time was disturbed for the first time by a human being.”
The turn in Shade’s emotion was palpable, even as he was shrouded in a haze of darkness. “The glass? No, surely milord…”
“It was by the grace of human weakness that a cataclysm did not shatter this realm into pieces, most abstract beings are not even capable of affecting the glass on such a scale, but it was exceptionally dangerous.”
“Was it Gallow who did it?”
“No, I’m sure of it, Queen’s calculations did not predict his trajectory to spike in that way.”
Shade found his curiosity piqued, but flavored with disappointment as well. “So, it was Drameda?”
“I seem to have chosen a worthy associate, but not enough, it seems.” Shade’s lord gave a deep chuckle, “So be it, if there is no war between Andeidra and New Hopeland, the plan will adapt.”
“Adapt? How so?”
A moment of silence as his lord thought over what was appropriate to reveal.
“Gallow will come, eventually, and he will understand what he needs to become perfect with us.”
“I look forward to it, milord.”
“Yes-- The Golden Days…”
---
“Eugh!”
Sonsee clutched her stomach, waiting for her queasiness to subside; no one had warned her about sea-sickness, and a week-and-a-half on the oceans had not been kind to her. She had fled from The Prayer’s cabins to the deck in the hopes that the fresh air would quell the tossing and turning in her stomach.
She held tightly to the rail, clamping her eyes tightly shut to block out the pure sunlight, which was onl making her head hurt at this point.
“Eheghh….” she groaned, wondering when it would end. The rest of the crew was inside for lunch, but she was so ill she’d decided to skip out on a meal for fear of losing it. After a few minutes of suffering, Sonsee snapped in a defeated sort of way.
“To hell with this!” she thought, and bared her fierce eyes to the waters. She lifted her hand from the railing and stuck her index finger out, jamming it down her throat. She had to pull it back and go for a second shot, but she finally hit the right depth and quickly leaned over the rail.
Sonsee vomited profusely into the ocean for a solid ten seconds, as it came out in waves. When she had expelled it from her body, she coughed a few times and spit out the slimy bits still left in her mouth for good measure. At last, relief washed over her just as the sunlight did, and she was finally able to look out at the open ocean. She let out a sigh of relief as her shoulders loosened and her facial muscles relaxed.
“Uh…”
Sonsee turned around at the abrupt sound of Gallow’s voice rupturing her privacy. He was approaching from the door to the mess hall, and had a concerned, shocked look about him, frozen in the moment as he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Are you… Okay?”
She laughed nervously, leaning back against the rail. “Did you hear that?”
“I saw it.”
“Mm… Yeah, sorry, had to get over my sea-sickness… Why are you up here anyway? I thought it was lunch.”
“I just came up to check up on how you were doing,” he explained, looking back at the door. “I finished my food, anyway.”
Sonsee laughed, smiling for the first time since they’d begun the voyage. “Thanks…” She turned back around to look at the view. “You know, I’ve never really seen the ocean from out here. I remember what it looked like from the village, on the coast,” she rotated around to gaze in every direction of the seemingly endless blue expanse. “But I couldn’t have imagined what it was like to be surrounded on all sides by it.”
Gallow took a moment to share the view with her and appreciate it for himself. “I’d never seen the ocean until we got out here, actually.”
“Really?” Sonsee quickly remembered his history. “I guess so, but you never saw it when you were in the south west?”
“Nope,” he replied. “I never got that close to it.” He paused for a second, listening to the breeze of the ocean and the rolling waves. “There were a lot of firsts over the last few months for me.”
Sonsee followed his eye back to the horizon. “Me too.”
The next few days passed as they had before onboard, minus Sonsee’s near uselessness on account of constant queasiness. Her sea-sickness had substantially subsided since she’d decided to go for broke, though it would crop up during stretches of rocky water. For the most part, however, she was just happy to feel useful again. She took shifts cleaning, organizing supplies, washing dishes, and taking night watch. She and Gallow both learned to get on with the various members of the crew; while passing through the narrow halls of The Prayer, there would be a friendly exchange of,
“Franz!”
“Sonsee!”
Or,
“Joseph!” with the tip of a nonexistent cap.
“Gallow!”
It took a while for the crew to warm up to them, Gallow’s slimmer physique, while by no means flabby, looked shrimpy next to their thick muscles and jaws square enough to strike a match against. Sonsee, too, was looked down upon for her smaller frame and her stomach’s inability to handle the seas.
The crew respected Captain Thornlove because she commanded it, most of them didn’t even believe she was a woman until they’d heard her speak extensively. Her First Mate, Lyric Highbeau, was also looked down upon at first for his flamboyancy, but the Captain’s unbridled acceptance and odd, distant affection for him kept him off-limits for ridicule. Eventually, his supreme boldness and positive attitude had become infectious, and he served almost as a mascot for them. The precedent set by the two of them altogether made it much easier for Gallow and Sonsee to find their place on the ship. Conditions such as those on a ship, the isolation, slowness, and potential danger, could either make or break relationships between people; either they’re torn apart by the tension and stress of their environment, or their cooperation brought them together. Sonsee needed just a few days of honest labor to erode away any arbitrary differences between them, the combined effort to relieve the burden of work was enough to forge comradery amongst them.
Gallow would be able to look back on the first time he really felt a connection with the crew. While sweeping the floors on deck, he had been paying attention to a nearby game of cards, glancing up every now and again and listening to their conversation. At one point, one of the players had to leave the game to attend to some matter below deck, and they had to put the game on hold.
“Hey, skinny!” one of them called out, spurring him to look up, as he was the only one they were addressing. “You ever played cards before?”
“What game?” he replied, stopping his sweeping for a moment.
The crewmate, a large, burly man with a red beard and a sleeveless shirt that revealed his large, tattooed arms, smirked at him. “Den, MidWest rules.”
“Oh, of course,” Gallow proclaimed, leaning on the broom.
The crewmen looked at each other and chuckled. “You know MidWest rules?”
“Yeah,” Gallow laid the broom against the wall of the turret. “I’m from out there.”
The man who’d called out to him at first slanted his eyebrows in a show of disbelief. “You? Really?”
Gallow took the now empty seat and picked up the hand of cards set down. “Yep, Pettma.”
“Oh!” the crew looked at one another and chortled. “A city-slicker, huh?”
Gallow burst out in laughter. “‘City-slicker’? I’ve never heard that one before…” Upon seeing their faces, surprised at how well he was taking it, he added on, “You’re not wrong, though.”
They laughed some more, and before they knew it, were casually discussing his background (though he omitted his military history). Afterwards, he couldn’t even remember who had won the game, but he knew quite a bit more about who he was traveling with. Harold had grown up in a small fishing town on an island just south of Andeidra, the son of a soldier who’d moved there after his service; Johnathon was a Hilltop native who’d been working in shipping for ten years; Daniel was paying off some debts to a large canning company from whom he’d squandered quite a bit of capital trying to start his own business, and so on and so forth.
One day, about two weeks into the voyage, Captain Thornlove was on deck, surveying the horizon from her spyglass. Lowering it, she heard Lyric’s distinct footsteps approaching from behind. She turned to face him halfways and began to greet him, “Ly-” Seeing the unusual grim concern on his face, she stopped herself.
“Dear?” A term of endearment was uncharacteristic for her, but his worry had spurred it out of her without thinking.
Lyric got close to her and said in a very low voice, “The locks on storage four were jammed again.”
Catherine’s eyes met his, and they shared the same thought.
The next day, Gallow was in the crew quarters, swinging in his hammock on his rare off-time, and trying to work in a nap. The quarters were usually quiet, as the only time of day they were really populated was the nighttime, when any ruckus prompted a punch thrown your way for disturbing the rest. He quite liked the quarters, when they didn’t smell so rancid on the off-chance someone had left open a window, and was just dozing off to sleep when he heard footsteps creaking the wood floor.
“Gallow?”
He recognized the voice. Turning over in his hammock, he caught sight of Lyric, wearing a freshly washed and equally short-cut sailor’s shirt. Before he had a chance to wonder how he was washing his clothes so regularly, he was met with a secondhand order.
“The captain wants to see you in her quarters.”
“What?” Gallow asked, wiping his eyes awake. “The captain?”
“Yes, and I’d advise you make it quick.”
Gallow looked at the ceiling and pressed his palms over his eyes so that his fingers stretched over his forehead and ran through his hair. Taking a preparatory breath, he hopped out of his hammock and hit the floor, slipping his boots back on. Still in his sleeveless white shirt, he followed Lyric out of the quarters and up the stairs to the outside, where a second flight of stairs led to the superstructure, where Captain Thornlove’s quarters loomed.
Lyric looked about before opening the steel door and ushering him in. The room was quite spacious, with a large window that overlooked the rest of the ship, and several smaller, circular ones that peered out the sides. At the center was a wooden, eight-spoked steering wheel, nearby a splendid glossy oak table with several papers and documents scattered about, underneath which was a great chest. A bed for two was built into the back wall.
Sonsee was already in the room, and seeing him enter brought her surprise. As Gallow looked from her to his surroundings, Lyric shut the door gently behind him. Thornlove was standing next to Sonsee, and turned to him with her typical stoicism.
“Captain?” Gallow edged out a question, wanting to know just what was going on.
She looked to the two of them and began walking towards the front window. “You’re wondering why I called the both of you here.” Their silence was affirmative enough. “It’s because we have a traitor onboard.” Thornlove raised her hand and waved across the window, a thin layer of fog smearing up any visibility inward. Lyric had already taken a seat atop the table.
“A- a traitor?” Gallow glanced anxiously from one to the next, Thornlove wasn’t looking at him, Lyric was watching the captain, and Sonsee was just as confused as he was.
“Indeed,” Thornlove turned around to stare into them with her intense, crushing eyes. “The cargo on deck four has a special lock installed just for it. It’s an obscure mechanism that’s only used in a few areas of the world, and even there in limited capacity; no one should be able to know how to pick it.”
Gallow and Sonsee saw the gravity in her eyes. “And…?” he pressed.
The captain closed her eyes with a reserved pride. “They don’t, which is why the attempts so far have been unsuccessful. What they don’t know, besides how to get through the lock, is how not to leave evidence.”
Lyric spoke up. “There are distinct markings from an inelegant tool, probably a standard lock-pick, or maybe even less sophisticated…”
Sonsee had brought her hand to her chin. “So it isn’t a routine check, then?”
Thornlove scrutinized her for a moment. “No, that room is not meant to be opened by anyone but Lyric or I.”
Gallow leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “I’m assuming this is valuable cargo, then?”
“Extremely valuable.”
“So why tell us?”
Thornlove was quiet for a moment, never breaking her stoney expression. “You’re Gideon’s friends, for one. For another, you’re Vocation users bound for the Serpent Isles.”
Sonsee and Gallow took in a sharp breath each. “How did you-?”
“I can smell table salt against sea-salt, you think I can’t smell a Vocation user?”
Gallow’s arms had relaxed in his surprise, and his eyes were much wider. “But that means-”
“You didn’t get it when it fogged the window? God, you’re dense.”
Gallow was taken aback by her blunt insults; Lyric found it attractive. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She scoffed. “If you’re headed there, I can assume that you aren’t trying to do me in.” When she saw his mouth open again, she preempted him, “I’m not explaining anything else, I’m sick of it already, to be frank.” Thornlove strode to the fogged window and looked at the impenetrable shapes that were the only things visible through it. “You two are going to help us find out who this traitor is.”
Sonsee cut in. “Isn’t port coming up in a few days’ time? What happens if we can’t find him by then?”
Thornlove glanced at Lyric knowingly. “Don’t worry about that, this ship isn’t going anywhere.”
“Not going anywhere…?” Gallow whispered.
“Nope,” Lyric smiled at the floor. “Not as long as I have my Gravity Rides Everything…”
Indeed, if they were to look through the eye of a seagull flying above through the ocean air, they would have seen an aura of scratchy black streaks wrapped tightly around the entire vessel, holding them down in the water, as if they were anchored to the spot.