Cowards And The Brave

97 years (and three months) after you save the world, you land on the tyrant’s dock and yell all aboard!

You haven’t been counting, but it’s definitely your millionth time making the Eldeny stop, so you’ve got it down to routine. Tsunis drops anchor, sets her crew to haul it in as soon as you need to leave, and lowers the gangway so you and your quartermaster can shepherd passengers aboard. Easy peasy.

Your quartermaster does most of the work, really. Kalyre’s big and scary and purple, and does not have a warrant out for his arrest, so he can put himself between the dockworkers and your soon-to-be guests. You, however, are slinking through the crowd looking for stragglers, because you are five-foot-four and roguish and Rafina-fucking-Ebbenglave: wanted dead or alive for high treason, knighthood reward, by order of His Majesty the King.

The warrant’s been through two kings now. You’re excited to hit a third.

“Captain!” Tsunis calls, straining to be heard above the pelting rain.

You look up at her from the dock and meet her eyes. Boatswain.

“Finish up. Kalyre’s done and we’re near capacity.”

Kay. Tsunis hates when you talk in her head, but you’d prefer not to blow your shaky cover by yelling.

You scan the dwindling crowds: plenty of dockworkers, none of whom seem to care much for your lot. Plenty of guards, otherwise occupied, save for the group of nine coalescing several yards behind you. Nothing to worry about, so long as you get out of dodge, so you start strolling back to the ship. The eye that is solely yours lands on a soaked and lost-looking teenager, waist-long hair plastered to her cheeks, glancing without certainty between several piers.

You don’t know precisely why you reach out—not that you’d ever think to do otherwise.

Kid. Blondie.

She startles, looking for you in all the wrong directions.

You need out?

A tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Board the Brinksur.

There we go. Her gaze skirts past you and lands instead on your vessel, and she runs up the gangplank without hesitation. You catch a whiff of day-old brine as she passes you, and then she disappears into the hull; once you take in the gangway and weigh anchor, though, she’s out of sight and mind, and all you can think of is how the fuck you’re getting to Maex in this weather.

✧✧✧

A week and a half passes before you ever learn a thing about the kid. As a rule, you get to know everybody on your ships—hell knows they need the kindness—but you only ever see her at mealtimes, collecting her share and immediately retreating to the forecastle to stare miserably along the bowsprit as she eats. Otherwise, she has a habit of vanishing so often that you’re genuinely scared she’s fallen overboard.

Still, you gotta drop her off somewhere, so you make it your mission to catch her alone and—politely, mind you—interrogate her.

When you dock at Maex, Tsunis drops anchor, and you scurry up to the quarterdeck; Kalyre stands stolid by your side to lend you legitimacy, which is nice of him. “Everyone off!” you call. “Stretch your legs. If you’re staying in Maex, let Biz know”—you gesture down to your first mate, ze raises a hand—“so we don’t worry when you don’t come back. Otherwise, next stop is Selchar, leaving at midday tomorrow,” you announce, flashing a toothy grin to your crowd as they disperse.

Behind you, Kalyre sets his metal hand on your shoulder. “Teeth, Captain.”

“You can’t see ‘em that far back, it’s fine.” You turn to face your quartermaster. “Get the crew off ship, too. You included.”

He nods, smiling curiously. “You never empty the ship.”

“Not empty. I’m staying aboard.”

“What are you up to, Captain?”

“I’m trying to sniff out a mouse.”

Kalyre says nothing, just leaves you to usher his fellow sailors off the ship. He’s got a delightful sense of when to stop asking questions; you’ve always liked that in a quartermaster.

From here, you can see the whole deck and gangway, and all but one door below deck. You call up your familiar, who materialises grumpily onto your shoulder—“Sorry to wake you, Rev”—and you send him across to the stern to cover your blind spot. As he wings over the dwindling crowd, you watch for the kid, but see nothing.

Below deck, or drowned. It’s a gamble, but you like your odds.

You watch Kalyre make his rounds, and your crew reluctantly abandon their posts. One of Tsunis’ boys, a tryhard drow only slightly older than you, runs over to you and insists he can guard the ship, all on his own, but your boatswain is quick to put him in his place—“She has eyes everywhere, Callyn”—so he, too, goes for the gangway.

You are left, for the first time in eighty years, with an empty deck.

You wait. Revan makes a noise at you.

You wait. You look through his weird bird eyes to entertain yourself.

You wait. A door creaks—you jerk yourself out of your familiar’s head just in time to see your elusive passenger come up onto the deck. Disregarding the stairs entirely, you jump down her level, and you smile—without teeth.

“I’ve been wondering when I’d see you around.”

It takes her a while to speak, paralysed half-behind the half-open door. “Have I done something?”

If she hadn’t been the focus of your week-and-a-half-long hypervigilance, you wouldn’t have recognised her. She’s much drier, for a start, and she’s cut her hair to her chin, but the main thing that stands out is the scarf. Deep maroon, too flimsy to provide any real warmth, and pulled up so far you can barely see her eyes.

“Just wanted to check on you," you explain. “Check if you’re hurt, where you’re headed—who you are, if you’re okay saying.”

She thinks for a moment. “I’m, um… Elka?”

“That works,” you say, and she relaxes. “You can come up on deck, Elka, if you want. I managed to get everyone off the ship.”

Shit, that scares her again. “To talk to me?”

“You seemed shy.”

Elka stares at you, incredulously skeptical, for a long moment before she sighs, steps into the sun and lets the door thud shut behind her. “I’m not certain there’s much to talk about,” she says, “but I expect that doesn’t matter to you.”

“Spot on, kid.” You take a seat on the forecastle stairs. Elka follows, but waits to sit until you pat the spot beside you. “Everyone’s got a story.”

“I… Suppose so.” She shrugs. “But it’s all much the same, isn’t it?”

“The misery is, I’ll give you that,” you admit, rolling your ring of plot contrivances over your knuckles, “but nothing else is. People have friends, families, hobbies, lovers… Lot more than just pain. Stories. So—how about I get yours?”

She looks warily at you, then at the gangway. “How long until they all get back?”

“Oh, ages. And not many of ‘em—we usually lose about half in Maex. I’d wager this place is like, thirty percent Elden refugees at this point.”

“I see…” There’s a long pause before she speaks again. “You have my name—may I have yours?”

“Of course!” You tip your hat to her in a mock bow; Revan decides your head is an excellent place to sit. “Rafina Ebbenglave, at your service.”

Elka gives you a look that is either starstruck or petrified. “Oh,” she breathes, then blurts out: “Father says you’re a war criminal.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Does he now?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—ha!—don’t sweat it,” you snicker, shooing Revan off your head to replace your hat. He squawks at you petulantly, then settles down next to Elka. “Sorry about Revan—your dad’s a loyalist, yeah?”

Elka nods stiffly, face reddening. “You could—yes, he is.”

“Doesn’t know you’re gone?”

“Oh, he’ll know by now.” She laughs half-heartedly. “Certainly would not have endorsed it. My… My sister helped me leave,” she explains, fidgeting with a loose end on her sleeve.

“Twelve,” she says, then—you must look horrified—quickly clarifies, “My sister’s twelve. I’m sixteen.”

“Oh my god, you’re a baby.”

“I’m an adult.”

“Give it two years, I might believe you,” you say. “Shit,” you add, when you realise you’ve been clawing splinters out of the deck again. Tsunis’ll be pissed. “Don’t s’pose you’re one of them magicians, Elka?” you ask, only half-seriously.

“Hm? Oh,” she says, following your gaze. “Yes, but I’d need a wand for that, which I don’t have. Lodestones would also work, I suppose, but—”

“You also don’t have those?” you ask. She nods. “It’s whatever. We can live with it,” you say, flicking the woodchips somewhere vaguely overboard. “You like magic, kid?”

“Yes,” she says, autistically quick. “I’ve loved it for as long as I can remember. I had to leave my wand back home, and my book, because it would have looked—” She cuts herself off, staring absently at Revan. “What is he?” she asks.

Bit off topic, but okay. “Dunno,” you say, shrugging. “First time I saw him, he was a crow, but he’s changed a bit.”

“A familiar?”

“Yup. Not sure if he’s even a real bird—I could’ve just made something up.”

Elka shakes her head. “That’s not how that works.”

“Oh?”

“Familiar forms are generally referent to your experiences,” she explains, “especially if they deviate from standard forms—owls, cats, octopodes, that sort of thing. He’s likely of a kind similar to his origin…” She stares inquisitively at Revan, who turns to the side and extends a wing for examination. Show-off. “Maybe a jay?”

“Maybe.” Who the fuck says octopodes? Nerd behaviour. Speaking of which… You hate doing this. “Your magic stuff?” you prompt.

Her face falls. “…I had to leave them,” she states, clipped and careful. “I want new ones, but they’re expensive, and I didn’t think to bring money.” God, it’s fucking testimony. She glances over to you for… Approval? Permission? Can I be done now?

You ponder this for a moment. “You have no idea where you’re going,” you conclude; Elka, helpfully, looks sheepish enough to confirm your assumptions. “So, I’ll give you somewhere to go: I think Seven Spires would love you.” You grin, mindful of your teeth, though she doesn’t seem to care. “And I think you’d love them back. Win-win, as far as I’m concerned. You get to go to nerd school, nerd school gets a fresh nerd.”

She blinks at you. “Nerd… School?” Glances momentarily at Revan, as if he’s going to clarify—you’re so glad you taught him to shrug. “An academy…” she murmurs to herself. “I don’t know where I would get materials—or a place to live, frankly, although…” She’s been scratching minutely at the back of her hand since you mentioned the school, but now you’re paying attention you can tell she’s writing

You say “fuck it”—spiritually, not out loud—and reach back for the knot of twine at the back of your neck.

“Don’t sweat the money,” you interrupt. “Anyone who knows anything will know these are mine. Tell ‘em Rafina sent you—they’ll have you covered.” You gesture for her hand, which she nervously offers, and press your keys into her palm. “Your dad might think I’m a war criminal, but everyone else thinks I’m a war hero. He’s outvoted.”

Elka is silent for a long while; she’s doing that painful-looking thing with her face that people do when you’ve said something completely insane but it’s on them to continue the conversation. “…Do you want these back?”

You snort. “Nah. Those suckers gave me all the luck I could ever need. Seems like you could use a bit of it.”

She stares at the keys. “Why me?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Surely there have been other wizards on this ship,” she says, “with worse circumstances and more promise than I.”

“Maybe, but they all knew where they were going,” you say. “Also, none of them have reminded me of James as much—Doctor Haverwitch, I mean. Maybe with tighter morals… But like, who needs morals anyway?” you add, on the off-chance that you have just bequeathed your keys to a sociopath. You make awesome decisions. “And I don’t wanna miss out on another one of history’s preeminent magicians by denying her an education.”

Slowly, her fingers curl around the bundle. You give her knuckles an approving double-tap before releasing her hand. “How far off is Seven Spires?” she asks, gaze still fixed on her closed fist.

It takes you a long time to do the math. You give up and retrieve your schedule from your coat, which you should have done in the first place. “About a month and a half. Maro’s closer if you’re too seasick,” you tease, “or if you wanna go a bit lower profile.”

“There, then,” she says, “assuming that they also honour the… Scholarship?”

“If they don’t, come get me and I’ll tell them myself.” You drop your voice to a whisper, even though there’s nobody around to hear, and it isn’t a secret: “I technically work for the Convocation, and Maro gets a bit of fundin’ from us, so I get to boss them around.”

“Fascinating.” Cautiously, and like they might explode at any moment, Elka loops your keys around her neck. When they don’t explode, she looks at you. “Is… Is that all?” she asks.

You shrug. “Prolly. I don’t do this much.” Magic stuff, magic stuff… You fish around in your coat and slap ten platinum onto the stair between you. Ting! “Wait to get a wand at school, I think. But go find some books ashore.” Between your millionarity and the deflation thing, you have to remind yourself that it’s actually an insane amount of money, but Elka doesn’t comment; she probably expects it to cover the rest of her life. She picks them up and examines them—maybe checking if they’re real, maybe she’s just a coin nerd—but quickly shoves them into her pocket and stands.

“I’ll see what I can find.” She talks like you’ve given her a mission; you half-expect her to salute.

You shoo her away. “Go,” you say. “Be free. Run around in a field, or whatever you kids are doing these days.” Elka makes a vaguely offended noise; you shoo her again, and she disembarks with the most insincere huff you’ve ever heard.

“Be back before noon!” you call.

“I know!”

Kids.

You send Revan out to hunt down your quartermaster while you start tidying the deck; he returns instead with Biz and two of Tsunis’ crew, Callyn and Seaf. (Where Tsunis keeps finding century-old kids, you’ll never know.)

Not who I asked for, bird-brain.

Caw!

You throw a mop in their general direction, and Seaf snatches it one-handed, which is pretty sick. “You know the drill. We treat this place like a hotel—”

“—and not a smuggling operation!” she chirps.

“Bingo!” You leave Revan to supervise while you check on the sails.

“Where’s my mop?”

“Start with picking up garbage, Cal.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, only Tsunis and Captain can.”

“Actually, First Mate outranks Boatswain,” you chime in from the foremast. “Biz can totally tell you what to do.”

“Ha!”

“I outrank you, too, Seaf. Get to work!”

“Aye-aye!”

✧✧✧

Selchar, Skiens, Maro. You manage one stop a week, generally; you could always be more efficient (And less obvious, says the Kial in your head), but your ship is typically filled with weak stomachs and land legs, and you aim for hotel-not-smuggling-operation, and you don’t feel like changing your schedule after fifty-odd years of this. One stop a week, tops.

By the time you get to Maro, in late July, you’ve lost all but five of your guests. You’re dropping four of them off here, and ferrying the fifth all the way over to Durum. You know the routine: Tsunis drops anchor, Biz lowers the gangway, and your passengers disembark—in this case, mostly for the last time.

You always see them off personally, if you can, and you most definitely can now. Elka, particularly—she’s got a talent for disappearing in a crowd, but with no crowd to speak of you can easily take her aside and wish her luck. “It’s probably all you’re ever gonna need.” You ruffle her hair; she bears it without complaint.

“Thank you for everything.” You know how to read a mask—she’s smiling.

You pat her on the shoulder. “Make me proud, kid.”

“Thank you,” she says again; clutching her journal to her chest, she steps off the gangway and vanishes into the people of Maro.

“Nice kid,” you say when you notice Kalyre behind you. “Smart. I hope I never see her again.”

“Explain.”

“If I see her again, it probably means she’s in trouble.”

“You don’t know that. She may become a famous scholar.”

You turn around to give him your most skeptical expression head-on. “Until someone invents audio-books, I’m not reading enough to find out. I hope I never see her again.”

“You wish her an uneventful life.”

“I always do.” He nods; you swat him on the shoulder when he makes a move for the gangway. “Leave it. Mx Durum’s out exploring and I don’t want ‘em to come back to a closed door.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Why’re you closing up shop anyway? It’s like, midday.”

It’s always bad news for your ego when Kalyre smiles. “It’s almost five, actually,” he says—jeez, you’ve gotten slow. “You’re on dinner roster, by the way. I’d suggest checking in with Rildrun before she hunts you down herself.”

“Ughhhhh.”

He pats your shoulder like a condescending dick. “I’ll see you this evening, Captain.”

You want to throw something at him as he leaves, but anything you have on you might actually hurt the poor bastard, so instead you yell, “I hope you get your horns caught in the rigging!” It’s not as cathartic as you’d like, so you run downstairs to the kitchen and hope you get to butcher something.

Tonight’s dinner crew is yourself (Great Hero, 86-year Captain of the Brinksur), Ferdinanda (8-year carpenter, position inherited when the last guy got arrested), and a tiny golden dragonborn whose name you don’t actually know (3-month cabin boy, absolutely petrified); directed, of course, by Rildrun, goblin gourmet, came to you straight from one of Searscar’s premier restaurants.

It’s almost like you’re not a smuggling operation!

“Alright, you three”—Rildrun talks too much like a drill sergeant for your liking—“I’m doing a carbonara tonight, but I won’t need all of you for that.” She punctuates her sentence by dropping a small mile of paper onto the countertop. “Since we’re on the mainland, I’m taking the opportunity to restock. I’m sending two of you out do it—feel free to fight amongst yourselves for the privilege.”

Cabin boy glances at you furtively; “Captain’s on roster?” he whispers, you think it’s just to himself—poor kid doesn’t realise you can hear Everything yet.

“Everyone’s crew. Including me,” you say, pretending to read the shopping list. “Hmm… In-crew-ding?”

Ferdinanda snorts. “That’s nothing. Nembek, Rafina’s on dinner duty so she gets emotionally invested in real food.”

Cabin boy—Nembek—looks even more worried. “‘Real food’?”

“As opposed,” Rildrun chimes in, “to eating live fish.”

“Is… Is that bad?”

“No.” Ferdi swipes the list from your fingers. “But it’s fucking creepy. Atrocious for morale.”

You grin.

“I’m taking Rafina out for ingredients,” she says, “as she can probably lift all of it. Be nice to Rildrun, Nembek.”

“Aye aye, Cap— uhh, Mx Zhou!” He flicks a salute in your general direction as the two of you climb to the main deck.

“When did you adopt a child?”

Ferdinanda laughs. “He’s a nice kid. I thought he could shadow me for a while.”

“Thinkin’ of retiring already?”

“Thinking I’ll get shot one of these days.”

Fair enough. “I think we can afford to let him apprentice,” you decide. “Route to Durum’s not gonna be all that exciting. Good stretch for training.”

She nods. “Thank you. Now—let’s get to market before everything shuts, and Rildrun shouts at us.”

“Race you,” you challenge, and dash off before she has a chance to say anything else.

Ferdi’s as roguish as you are, so she’s not far behind when you make it to the market, despite dragging a wheelbarrow behind her. “Did you have fun, Captain?” she asks, unceremoniously shoving it in your direction.

It clatters to a stop in front of you; you tip it upright with your peg leg. “Yes.”

“…Me too,” she decides, fishing Rildrun’s list out from her bag and unfurling it. “Alright… I hope you’re interested in beef and potatoes. Let’s move.”

The market is still bustling, despite the sunset, so you can fairly easily find what you need (at the cost of almost hitting several small children with the wheelbarrow). You get at least one of every vegetable you can find—because you can—and you do not get a live turkey because something tells you it would stop being funny after about twenty minutes. The people of Maro—or her market, at least—are generally nice enough; they offer you discounts you don’t need and you overpay to make up for it, and several of them offer you trinkets to appease your alleged hoarding behaviour. You aren’t sure why the people of Maro think you’re a dragon, or where they get so many buttons and beads and weird little coins, but your belongings are about 40% trinkets-by-volume by the time you finish your trip.

On your way back to the pier, someone dashes out from behind a stall as you pass. “Captain Glave!”

Sigh. “It’s Ebbenglave;” you set down the wheelbarrow and go in for the offered hug anyway. Whoever published your maiden name should be shot. Or whoever wrote a whole book about Captain Glave with nary a footnote for your marriage.

The tiefling pulls back, eyes glowing with hero worship, must be about twelve. “Ma had me run shop today, ‘cos she was sick,” they explain, hands a-blur, “and I was real worried, but I guess it’s okay ‘cos I got to see you!” They take a breath, then continue before you can get a word in: “She’s okay, it’s just a cold. Oh!”—they drop their bag on the ground and crouch down to riffle through it—“Gimme a sec!”

“Uh… No sweat, kid.” You glance back at Ferdi apologetically; this just happens sometimes. “What’s your name?”

“Ari! Aaaand… Found it!” They stand and give you a crumpled sheet of paper. “I’m not very good yet, but I hope you like it!”

You know instantly which portrait they referenced—you only ever had the patience to sit for two, Annette had to bribe you for both—and it’s the better of them. Ari’s rendition, though not exactly photographic, really captures your sea-monster vibes, and does you the favour of switching your neutral boredom for a wonky grin.

“Ari, you’re a visionary. I’m obsessed with this.” You don’t want to damage it further by subjecting it to your pockets, so you instead hand it off to Ferdinanda. “Can you put that up on my door?” you ask. “I want to cherish it forever.”

“It looks just like you, Captain,” she says, “though I fear we may have to appreciate it over dinner, rather than here.”

“Gotcha… Nice to meet’cha, Ari”—you ruffle their hair and become the only thing they will ever talk about for the next year—“Dunno exactly when we’ll be swinging back around here, but I hope I see you again.”

“Go take care of your store,” Ferdi adds.

Ari nods, picking up their bag. “Uh-huh! Uh… Thank you!” they chirp, and tear off back to where they came from.

You hoist the wheelbarrow back up and resume your journey home. “I’m serious about the drawing, Ferdi,” you warn, “Guard it with your life until we get back. Then nail it to my wall, or something.”

“That I can do.”

Dinner’s well-prepared and half your crew fed when you arrive, so it’s quick work for them to haul your spoils in for storage while your carpenter runs off to do your interior decorating. Your errand robs you of the chance for a proper full-crew family dinner, but you still bring out the booze and propose a toast for whoever’s still in the vicinity.

“To yet another successful Eldeny heist!” you crow, plate of pasta expertly balanced on your knee.

You draw some criticism. “It’s not a heist, they’re people—” “We’re not done ’til we hit Durum, really.” “—you can’t just call things heists—”

“It’s a nicer word than smuggling.” Biz, god bless hir, always down to defend you on the petty things.

Tsunis rolls her eyes. Pours herself a glass of brandy. “To a successful smuggling operation.” Drinks. “May there be many more.”

✧

You aren’t sure, really, why you wake up that night. You assume you hear something, or something bumps against the ship—hell, maybe the booze doesn’t sit well with you, though you feel okay.

We both know why you really wake.

In the end, you’ll just call it luck.

Something’s changed, hasn’t it?

Hush, you.

Regardless, you find your room birdless—you should’ve never taught that fucker to open windows. When you borrow his perspective, Revan-and-you are staring vigilant out at the mainland, seeing nothing in particular. You pull your coat on and climb to the deck, leaving doors open behind you so I don’t nothing can borrow them. Revan’s perched on the railing by the gangway, still as a gargoyle and half as creepy. “What’s up, Rev?”

“Caw!”

“Thought so.” You hold up an arm for him, but he instead takes off gliding down to the pier. “Oh, you bastard.” You drag yourself over to the gangway and start turning the crank, grumbling under your breath; “Stupid bird… Never treated Kial like this…”

The gangway settles into place with a clunk; you get about halfway down before you see her. Revan is perched on one of her now-gloved hands, staring intently; her other hand clutches the strap of a leather bag, and something you think is a wand. Even a couple meters off and through a scarf, you can hear her panting. Whether she sprinted here or is just scared is a toss-up: you wager both.

Elka’s eyes flick up to you. “I’ve changed my mind,” she says. “I want to sail, Captain.”