Even though I had seen some of the other ships in the harbour up close, there's something striking about the Zarla that makes my breath falter as I step onto the wooden deck. Everything looks so well-maintained. The large deck is clean and clear from hazards, and any loose rigging is neatly rolled and hung onto hooks on the masts. I was forever tripping on the ropes on board the skipper's trawler. The railings of the ship appear to be made from steel, and it has been so thoroughly polished that I would probably be able to see my reflection.
The ship has three large masts, with the central one being the tallest and widest and housing a seizable crow's nest on top. The sails are lowered, but they appear to be a silvery pale grey; they'll blend in easily with the clouds.
I glance around for any other crew members, but the deck is deserted. Rat has skulked below deck somewhere, and there's no sign of the captain and his first mate.
"The ship is currently being repaired, so the crew members have downtime," Trevor explains. "Some have gone to explore the city—or rather the taverns—and the others are likely in their cabins or working on hobbies."
"How did the ship get damaged?" I question. The thought of such a beautiful vessel being defaced pains me.
"It took a few cannonballs to the hull, nothing too serious, but we did lose a few crew members that day, hence the recruitment." Trevor walks me over to the double doors near the bow of the ship.
"Were you fighting the Vardrans?" the aching need for revenge surfaces once more at the mention of the heinous faction.
"Sadly, no. But we were chasing down a fleet of Vardran ships over the tropics when pirates ambushed us. Disreputable bastards, they are!" He spits.
The inside of the ship is made from a darker wood than the outside. It's not one that we ever used back on the islands. Through the doors is a short corridor with rows of more doors framing either side and at the end of the corridor is another set of double doors.
"These are the crew's quarters. There are more rooms below if you continue down the stairs. The cabins belonging to the captain, first mate, and the quartermaster are on the stern side of the ship, along with the war room—which you'll probably never see. War tactics are usually only discussed between the senior military members. Those doors at the end lead to the mess hall, and beyond that is the galley," Trevor explains.
As it turns out, my room is the first on the left.
"First bloods need to be able to get above deck as quickly as possible," he adds.
Realising that I was essentially being used as a human meat shield should induce some anxiety, but I only feel impassive.
Trevor pulls out a ring containing a small handful of keys. After trying a few in the lock without any success, the fourth clicks into place, and the door swings open.
"Here we are." He gestures for me to enter.
I step into the room and am surprised to find it more spacious than I was expecting. There's a single-sized bed framed in sturdy wood, which I assume is to prevent the sleeper from rolling out while the ship is in flight. Due to its height from the floor and the height of the frame surrounding the mattress, a small wooden ladder sits at the end. Two long drawers are set into the bed frame underneath the mattress, and a small end table is positioned at the side of the bed.
To the right, pushed against the wall, is a small writing desk and stool, and to my left sits a large wooden chest with a lock and a wash bucket and sponge.
An oil lamp hangs on the wall above the desk, and on the back wall, above the bed, is a small window. The two shutters are currently latched closed.
Upon a closer inspection, I notice that the larger furniture is bolted to the floor to prevent movement. Only the wash bucket and stool remain unfixed.
"The living quarters are very generous here on the Zarla," Trevor explains. "On most other aerial ships, you'll find about four crew members sharing one small sleeping space. But our captain believes in keeping a happy crew. It helps that we try to keep as small a crew as possible. Some ships have fifty or more crew members. We try to keep below twenty. Living conditions are better, and our supplies last longer."
I nod as Trevor continues his ramble. I'm happy to let him continue without having to offer any input.
"There's still plenty of day left, so I'll carry on recruiting and hopefully fill up a few more vacancies. I'll leave you here to get settled and return at around six o'clock to give a tour of the ship. Up to now, it's just you and the assistant cook we hired this morning." He pauses at the door. "I forgot to ask, do you need to collect your belongings?"
I shake my head. "I have everything with me, thank you."
His eyes drop doubtfully to my small bead bag. "Travelling light, I see. Well, that's always useful," he says brightly. "Oh!" He pauses once more before leaving and fiddles with the ring of keys. He removes the one he used to unlock the door and hands it out to me. "Keep this key safe, only the captain has a skeleton key, and he'll be out at the embassy most days while we're on land."
"I will, thank you again," I slip the key into my trouser pocket.
Trevor nods and then finally leaves, pulling the door shut behind me.
The room is suddenly cast in darkness. I climb up onto the bed, unlatch the shutters, and pull them open wide. I lean out and take in the split view of the turquoise ocean and busy harbour below. Further along, a group of fishermen unloads wooden barrels from their trawler. That had been the skipper, Finn, and me, not just a few days ago.
The sorrow buried inside rushes to the surface as though a valve had been opened. I grip my chest as if I could physically stop the emotion. Being left alone with my thoughts isn't ideal, but I don't like the idea of exploring the ship when I haven't been introduced to any of the crew other than Rat.
Trevor said he would be back around six, but since I don't have a timepiece, I have no way to tell how long that will be. Back on the islands, we had no sense of time. We rose with the sun and finished our day as it set.
I busy myself by storing the few belongings I have around the room. I place my mother's book inside the small drawer of the writing desk. I hadn't paid much attention to it when I grabbed it, but now I recognise it as the book she uses to document her herbal recipes and tinctures. If I were to open the cover and flit through the pages, I would see her neat handwriting and her pencil drawings of herbs and plants. But looking is too painful, so I close the drawer and push it from my mind.
Since I haven't been given a weapon yet, I place the set of gutting knives under my pillow for protection and leave the hook that was once wrapped around my wrist on the side table.
Finally, all that's left in my bag is a bloody piece of purple cloth. My heart falters as recognition strikes me. It's the flag from the Vardrans that killed my mother. I barely remember grabbing it as Finn dragged me away. I take a closer look at the burnt orange emblem on the front—an angry-looking bird of prey with a long, curved beak open wide and wings spread out in flight. What appears to be a dead rodent hangs from its large talons.
Hatred resonates through me, and I want nothing more than to burn the cloth or throw it out of the window to the water below. I can't, though. I need a reminder of why I'm here. Instead, I toss it into the empty chest and close the lid.
With nothing else to do, I stretch out on the bed and try to distract myself by thinking about what life as a crew member entails.
I had been so caught up in my desperation to fight in the war against Vardra that I had rushed into joining the aerials without giving it much consideration.
I'm way out of my depth. I don't know what life outside of the Curio Isles is like. I don't know how to communicate with these people. Airships aren't like fishing trawlers; what if I mess up and we crash? I'll be responsible for the deaths of the whole crew. I'm so stupid! I should have gone with Finn and the skipper.
My mind whirls with doubts, and as the anxiety inside me builds, I feel as though the room is without oxygen. My lungs feel as though they're failing.
I quickly lean my head out of the window and try to slow my breathing. It's probably best that I stop thinking at all.
I stay in that position, with my cheek resting on the windowsill, just watching as the people below busy themselves with their everyday lives and gulls squabble over the fish.
———
I'm startled awake by a rapping at the door. For a brief second, I think I'm back at home on Scale Shell island, but my bed isn't this high off the ground, and I can't smell the pungent fragrance of my mother's herbs. The position of the late afternoon sun has cast the room in darkness.
Still disoriented, I stumble down the ladder and open the door. I am greeted by Trevor's beaming face and … a goat? Or at least the young man standing before me looks somewhat like a goat. He stands at around my height and has a cloud of curly hair down past his ears. Two large curly horns protrude from his head, and while his hands, which twist around each other nervously in front of his body, appear human, his feet are hooves. He has a well-rounded face and a plump, roly-poly build.
"I'm back for the tour, as promised," Trevor booms. "This is our new assistant cook, Dusty … uh …?" He looks questioningly at the horned man.
"Dusty Kaftol," he mumbles with a nod.
"Precisely! And this is … erm? Sorry, I'm bad with names." Trevor scratches his head sheepishly.
"I'm Sefarina Wavegrey." I offer Dusty my hand with a smile, and he shakes it gratefully. He seems as awkward and out-of-place as I feel.
"I'm a faun," he blurts. "Half man, half goat." He must have noticed my surprise and confusion at his appearance, and I instantly feel guilty for making him feel uncomfortable.
"It's lovely to meet you, Dusty." I try to make my voice as friendly as possible to put him at ease. "I'm sorry, I've never met a faun before. I've lived on an island my whole life, and I hadn't met any other races until a few days ago," I explain.
"That's okay," he says hurriedly. "Us fauns don't usually leave our glen. This is all new for me too."
"Great, now you're all acquainted, I'll carry on with the tour. I'll show you the deck first before it gets too dark to see anything." Trevor gestures for us to follow him back outside.
I don't bother to lock my door since there's nothing of value in there worth protecting anyway.
Dusty flashes me a smile as we step through the doors. He seems relieved to have another rookie to share the experience with. His hooves clomp loudly on the wooden panels. It's fortunate that he wasn't hired for a position that requires stealth.
The air outside is still mild, but there's a dampness that clings to my skin. The remaining sun is just an orange glow on the ocean horizon.
"I know you both might already have an idea about the anatomy of a ship, so I'll only give you a brief run-through of the main parts. You'll have plenty of time to learn everything in more detail as time goes on anyway. I don't want to overwhelm you on the first day," Trevor says informatively.
He gestures behind us. "This part of the ship that we have just come from is the bow—the front of the ship. We're currently standing on the main deck, but up those steps is what's called the forecastle deck. The crew's quarters and the galley are part of the forecastle."
Trevor spins on his heel and turns his attention to the three masts towering above us.
"The mast at the front end of the ship is called the foremast, the one in the center is called the mainmast, and the one at the back is the mizzenmast. They are very much similar to the masts you get on a maritime vessel, but with one main exception: the mainmast is much wider. Do either of you know why?" He asks us.
Dusty and I exchange glances before nervously shaking our heads.
Trevor doesn't seem phased by our lack of knowledge. "The mast is wider because it's hollowed out, and inside is a pipe made from very light alloy metal. You'll see what it's for later. Now, these net-looking things that extend from the ground up to the masts are shrouds. They help to support the masts and also serve as a ladder." He pauses and rests his hands on his hips while he ponders. "I think that's it for the main deck. For now, let's move on to the stern."
As Trevor rushes over to the back of the ship, I begin to feel overwhelmed. This all looks so complicated, and I'm afraid that I'll forget everything he is telling me. The fear I had earlier about causing the ship to crash rushes back to me. I hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears, and my head starts to feel as weightless as if it doesn't exist.
Soft, stubby fingers curl around my wrist, startling me from my thoughts.
Dusty's concerned mossy green eyes peer out at me from under his brown curls. "It's alright, don't stress," he says softly. "It seems like a lot to take in now, but we'll have plenty of time to learn everything. There's a whole crew here who know how to fly a ship; we'll probably be assisting and scrubbing the decks for the most part. We can do this together."
His confident, friendly smile instantly makes me feel at ease. I know he's right. Trevor himself told me that my primary role would be fighting as a first blood and that they would give me training on other ship duties.
"Thank you, Dusty." I haven't known the faun for an hour, but I'm already grateful for his companionship.
"Don't mention it." He beams.
"You two should hurry, or you'll be seeing naught but fireflies," Trevor calls.
As we exchange smiles, Dusty releases his fingers from my wrist and takes my arm in his.
Trevor continues his lecture as soon as we catch up to him, oblivious to my brief meltdown. "This part here at the back of the ship is the hull. Those steps there lead to the quarterdeck where the helm is. Our designated helmsman is Buckzbee—a hobgoblin, really great fellow—but we have numerous other members here who take over while he's resting."
Well, that's reassuring, at least.
"Through those doors is the war room, the navigation room, the medical room, and the cabins belonging to the captain, the first mate, and the quartermaster.
No sooner has Trevor finished speaking than the doors swing open, and the taller, surly man from before steps out. His face appears even more sour in the dim evening light. He has long, straight hair tied back at the nape of his neck. As his eyes fall on me, his nose wrinkles as though in disgust.
"Ah, here's the man himself, Quartermaster Featherstone," Trevor says.
"Why did you let her join?" He snivels bluntly.
My blood begins to boil, and even Dusty looks appalled.
"She's an excellent fighter, Julius. The captain gave her his approval." Trevor's voice takes on a warning tone.
"She looks like a witch."
If I still had the trawler hook wrapped around my wrist, I would be fighting the urge to stick it in his neck. Instead, I'm left seething in silence.
"She's not a witch, and if you have nothing nice to say about our crew members, you shouldn't say anything at all," Trevor argues.
The quartermaster mutters something indistinguishable as he stalks off in the direction of the forecastle.
"I'm sorry about that. Pay no attention to his remarks. We know you're not a witch." Trevor says apologetically.
"Thank you," I say. I refrain from telling him that my aunt actually was a witch. Somehow I doubt that would help win over the crew's approval.
Trevor opens the hatch on the main deck that leads down to the floor below—the gun deck. I expect it to be a wide, open space, but there's a long, rectangle inner room. Various metal pipes, cogs, and dials protrude from the wood.
"That there is the engine room. I'll show you that later. This whole outer area is the gun deck, which is where I spend most of my time servicing and maintaining the cannons." He proceeds to tour us around each cannon and their respective cannonball stacks and give us a long-winded lecture on how they work and the correct procedure for firing and cleaning.
Judging by how much Dusty is yawning, I assume that he's as bored as I am. At some point, I remove my attention from Trevor's maunder and start counting the knots in the wood under my feet instead.
Thankfully, though, we're saved by the sound of footsteps descending down the steps to the gun deck.
My eyes dart up and fixate on the steps in apprehension. I hope it's not the rude quartermaster come to insult me more.
My tense muscles relax as a spindly, bird-like spectacled man comes into view. His uniform is covered in multiple oil stains, and a plethora of tools hang from multiple belts strew over his body. His hair is grey and sticks up from his scalp in short spikes.
"Grimsby!" Trevor calls to him.
The man raises his head and, upon noticing us, approaches with a welcoming smile.
"Hello, you must be new recruits," he greets us. His voice is gentle and refined. "I'm Grimsby Tinker, one of the two engineers on the Zarla. I'm honored to meet you both."
I'm about to say that I'm honored too, but Trevor interrupts in his usual, talkative way.
"This is our new first blood and our assistant cook." He gestures to us, respectively. "Don't ask me their names; I haven't the foggiest."
Grimsby chuckles softly. "That's quite alright. Would you two care for a tour of the engine room? I'm sure that Mr. Warsheep here has already bored you to tears with his cannon talk."
"We'd love to see the boiler room!" Dusty says quickly.
"What do yeh mean bored to tears? Cannons are fascinating, and these two were thoroughly enjoying my lesson." Trevor crosses his arms with a huff in faux outrage.
Dusty and I exchange looks, but neither of us argues.
"But I think I have covered everything anyway, and I don't want us to miss dinner, so I'll let you take over quickly."
The inside of the engine room is even more astonishing than I can imagine. While a few pipes are scattered on the wall outside the room, the inside is completely covered. They interweave so intricately that I can't begin to comprehend how they function. Numerous dials and gages are positioned around, but since the engine is off, they all remain stationary.
"How does it all work?" Dusty asks, echoing my thoughts.
"Well, it's essentially all run by steam. If you follow me to the furnaces at the center of the room, I'll show you where the process starts." Grimsby pushes his spectacles back up to the top of his nose and strolls to where three furnaces stand in a row. The center one is the largest, extending up to the ceiling, while the two flanking it are considerably smaller. "One would probably assume that this larger furnace is what powers the engines, but it's actually these smaller two. You see, the ship has two engines—one powers the front two propellers, and the other engine powers the back two. Fuel is burned at this part at the bottom of the furnace, which heats up water in the boiler at the top. The water is then converted to steam, which runs through the pipes and activates the pistons that essentially cause the propellers to spin at a rapid enough rate to give us lift."
"That's fascinating! What do these pipes do?" Dusty points to the pipes decorating the nearest wall.
"Those pipes lead to the outside of the ship and are used for expelling steam. Maintaining the correct pressure is key. Pressure either too high or low will result in devastating consequences."
Dusty nervously gulps.
"But you needn't be concerned. You will not have to work on the engines as part of your duties. In fact, I kindly ask that you refrain from touching anything in here. I and the other engineer, Leki Husz, who works the night shifts, will always ensure everything is working as it should." He smiles.
His comment about the devastating consequences still has me feeling uneasy. "What happens if the engines fail during flight?" I ask though I'm not truly sure I want to know the answer.
"Ah well, your question has brought us back to this large, middle furnace. Unlike the two steam furnaces, this one does not take fuel. We burn something completely different. Follow me to the supply cupboard." He heads us over to the corner of the room where a large, wooden supply closet has been built. He pulls open the door with a click, and inside I see a mountain of something that I immediately recognise.
"Sea sponges," I say quietly.
"You are familiar with them?" Grimsby asks, surprised.
"We farm these back on my home islands and distribute them to the mainland."
"Oh, I see. Well, these are sourced from the northern coastal region, but they have become increasingly expensive. Do you think you would be open to mediating a trade deal?"
His kind offer is like a blow to my chest, and the grief rises in me. I feel myself wince before I can compose myself.
"I'm sorry," I apologise. "I should have expressed that they were farmed back on my islands. There is no one farming them anymore."
If Grimsby picks up on my solemn tone, he doesn't comment on it. "That's a shame. With the ever-increasing number of airships being used these days, sea sponge is in such high demand. It matters not as we have more than enough for now."
"What are they used for?" Dusty asks curiously.
In a flash, Grimsby resumes his teacher role. "When burned, it produces an extremely buoyant gas. Has Mr. Warsheep told you about the pipe at the center of the mainmast?"
We both nod.
"That pipe is what extends from this furnace. At the top of the mast, a colossal stretch of lined fabric is stored. In the event of an emergency where the ship falls, the fabric is released around the top of the pipe in a balloon shape, and it is filled with sea sponge gas. It keeps us airborne long enough to be able to land safely."
The fact that sea sponges release a buoyant gas when burned was not news to me, but I didn't know that was the main reason for the demand for the commodity. When smoked in a pipe, the gas from the sea sponge serves as a highly potent drug that causes feelings of euphoria and even sometimes hallucinations. I had always believed that to be the primary purpose for its usage.
"I believe that to be everything worth mentioning." Grimsby claps his hands together. "No, wait. There is one more thing to mention. While I asked you not to touch anything in this room, there is one exception." He gestures to a wooden water pail in the corner of the room near the entrance; next to it is a water barrel.
"Is that to put out a fire?" I ask. There's no other reason I can think of why we should need to use it.
"Not exactly. In the event of my death or if I require the assistance of Leki in an emergency, you will need to wake him. He sleeps during the day—quite heavily, I might add—but tossing a bucket of water over him should do the trick."
Both Dusty and I look to the man for signs of humour, but the refined man doesn't appear to be joking.
Trevor greets us back on the gun deck as we exit the engine room.
"Finally, you're done learning about pipes and sponges. I'll quickly show you the hold and brig on the lower deck, and then we'll hurry along to the mess hall for dinner before it all gets eaten."
Not half an hour later, I am sitting on the bench of the long dining table in the mess hall, feeling awkward.
Trevor had informed us that most of the crew would be absent for dinner as they preferred to spend the evenings in taverns or, in the case of the captain and his first mate, dining at the embassy while discussing war tactics. However, Trevor had decided he was too tired and hungry to properly introduce me to the crew members who were present. He had just mumbled an announcement that I was the new first blood joining the crew and took his position at the table. From that point onward, everyone had largely decided to ignore my presence and talk amongst themselves.
It wouldn't be so bad if I had Dusty to sit and converse with, but he had insisted on helping out in the galley. Graham Parson, the head cook—a stout, middle-aged man with a bulbous nose—was quick to take him up on his offer.
They're probably just unsure of how to strike up a conversion with new people, I tell myself.
I take the opportunity to look at some of the crew I haven't met yet. Grimsby is chatting to a haunt, sleepy-looking man with long jowls and large gold hoop earrings who is currently resting his head on the table next to his bowl. He looks about as uninterested in what Grimsby has to say as he does about eating the appetiser soup. Based on the oil-stained uniform he wears, I assume him to be Grimsby's night-shift counterpart, Leki.
Towards the other end of the table near the quartermaster sits a man with a long chin, bald head, pointy ears, and pale green-tinged skin. He must be the hobgoblin quartermaster that Trevor told us about.
A dark-haired older man sits in silence across the table to my left. His face is expressionless, and when Trevor mentions something to him, he merely gives a curt nod. He wears a medical uniform with an armband that reads SURGEON. I'm not sure I would like to be operated on by someone who appears so compassionless.
A young, pretty woman suddenly hurries into the room and takes a seat next to the surgeon. Her hair is almost platinum blonde and styled in a neat braid overhanging her right shoulder. Her eyes are a striking icy blue colour that contrasts with pale hair but compliments the dark blue uniform, which is the same style as the surgeon's, but her armband reads NURSE.
Her eyes fall on me, and, eager to finally make a female friend, I flash her a polite smile. Instead of returning it, however, her eyes narrow into a scowl before turning away from me to join the table conversation.
I sigh, dejected. Her attitude towards me was not different than that of Sunny Moore's. Do I project an aura that antagonises other females?
I am relieved when Dusty walks in from the galley with the head cook as they carry in the main course dishes. On the menu tonight are whole, roasted quails along with herb-crusted potatoes and a mix of boiled vegetables.
"I hope you enjoy the potatoes." Dusty sits in the empty space on the bench to my left. "Graham allowed me to rustle up my special herb mix. It was my family's favourite back home."
"They smell delicious," I say as I fill my plate. I am about to ask what prompted him to leave and become a ship cook, but before I can open my mouth, the crew members pull him into the conversation to ask various questions of their own.
I can't help but feel taken aback. Was Trevor wrong about my being welcome aboard the ship? Surely it can't be because I'm a woman. They seem to be content enough in the presence of the young nurse. And I can't see how I could have offended them in any way. Has the quartermaster told them all that I'm a witch?
"Don't take it personally."
I jolt. I hadn't noticed that Rat had taken the seat on my right. He tears off a chunk of bread roll and gnaws at it.
"What do you mean?"
"They're not ignoring you because of who you are or what you've done. It's your role. The crew members avoid engaging with first bloods." He says nonchalantly.
"But why?"
"Because the way they see it, we probably won't survive for long anyway. It makes no sense to get to know someone who will die soon. Becoming attached would just make it harder for them when the time comes."
I glance to where the crew laughs merrily among themselves. What Rat says is true, it wouldn't do them any good to get to know me, and I'd be better off not getting to know them either.