"What's the matter, is it that delicious?" Captain Kappa teased as Elyon tried to compose himself. "Chief Orion, perhaps we should consider increasing our budget—look at your junior here, moved to tears by a bowl of rice."
"I'm fine, just choked a bit," Elyon managed, hastily regaining his composure and continuing his meal with gusto.
"Is rice really that good? Maybe I'll have to give it a try next time I'm here."
"That would be freeloading, not dining. And don't come here again without necessity. I get enough flak from the bloated councilmen when I ask for funding—they drown me in spit."
"It's only one meal a week; that won't break the bank."
"You set a precedent and others will follow. It's not much for one meal, but it adds up over a year."
"How about I come only once a week?"
"Once a month. Any more, you pay out of your own pocket."
"Paying is out of the question. I could just as well cook for myself. How about once every two weeks? That's my final offer."
"You said it yourself: once every two weeks."
"Alright then."
After finishing their meal, Elyon and Kappa thanked Chief Orion and set off to find the so-called Bice Import and Export company. They hailed a hired carriage and, twenty minutes later, arrived at their destination.
"Elyon, does this look like an import-export company that deals with half a million pounds?"
"I doubt the rent here costs five pounds a year."
In front of them stood a one-story wooden shack with a brass padlock on the door and a battered sign that read "Bice Import and Export."
July 23rd marked Cor's first day on the investigation for Captain Kappa. Rising at 7 AM, his sister still slept soundly in the upper bunk.
Moving quietly, Cor washed his face with cold water and lit the stove with wood chips and waste paper. He scooped a handful of barley into a pot, poured in water, and tossed a chunk of yellowed, low-quality rock sugar into the mix. Staring into the fire, he thought of his parents.
His family had once been happy, living in a house with three bedrooms and a living room. His father was a factory mold technician, and his mother worked as a maid for a wealthy family. But everything changed when his father was injured at eight—his right hand crushed by machinery after an all-night shift. Though the infection didn't claim his life after the amputation, he lost his job and spiraled into alcohol and gambling, beating their mother for money when none was left.
One autumn morning, his father staggered home drunk and attempted to take his sister Barbara away.
"What are you doing with the child?"
"She's a waste of food at home. I'm finding her a better place."
"You beast! Let go of my daughter. You plan to sell her, don't you?"
"Does she even look like mine, or is she some servant's from your manor?"
"Have you no shame? She's your daughter."
"Heh, whether mine or not, the old bachelor next door's offering 50 pounds for a wife."
The ensuing struggle woke Barbara, who wailed. Their mother fiercely protected her, cornered until she grabbed the scissors and fought back. In the chaos, she stabbed their father in the temple. Blood spurted; he lay still. Her hands stained with her husband's blood, she whispered her last words to Cor to take care of his sister, then plunged the scissors into her throat.
Cor couldn't recall what followed. At the funeral, relatives treated them like outcasts, leading to their placement in an orphanage—a hellish existence.
"Brother, I'm hungry."
"The barley porridge is ready. Wash up and come eat."
"Okay."
Cor filled two bowls with porridge, placed them on the low table, and said,
"I'll be at the port gathering information for Uncle Kappa. Be good while I'm gone."
"When will you be back?"
"By eleven. We'll have something different than fish today."
"Great, I'm tired of fish."
Cor barely managed a smile, knowing that fish was the cheapest meal at the port. Generous vendors often sold him leftovers at a bargain, helping him care for his sister.
After finishing their sweet and steaming porridge, Cor instructed his sister to leave her bowl in the sink and reminded her of their secret knock.
"Three sets of knocks: one, two, and three. I'll be back by noon. In a few days, Uncle Kappa will have lots of picture books, and I'll tell you stories."
"Okay, I remember."
Children at the port had their own network of information. Cor often joined them to comb the beach for seashells, which they traded at a nearby store for small packets of candy.
Checking the position of the sun, Cor estimated it was between eight and nine in the morning. Walking to the beach where the children played, he spotted a few boys basking in the sun and greeted them.
"Hey, Monkey, Croc, where's Tyrant?"
Monkey was a skinny, lanky boy, Croc a chubby non-swimmer nicknamed after a freshwater crocodile, and Tyrant, an eleven-year-old whose father owned a seafood stall, was the leader, thanks to his lavish distribution of snacks to the group.
"You've been away too long, Cor. Tyrant's been sent to arithmetic school to learn the family business," Monkey replied, pausing his search for stones.
The mention of school seemed distant to Cor. He had only two years of schooling in the church and basic literacy and math skills.
"What do you know of any fishermen or sailors gone missing recently?"
"Missing? Haven't heard anything. Croc?"
"People leave on those smoke-billowing ships and never return. Not sure who you mean."
Cor understood the reference to the steamships crossing the Stormy Sea, often boarded by those seeking a new life in the colonies.
"Have you heard of anyone's father missing the past few days?"
"No, unless you're talking about someone who got drunk and drowned in the sewers, becoming a water ghost."
"Such things don't exist. Carry on with your shells. I'll look elsewhere."
"We're not collecting shells now. Mother wants us to catch shrimps and crabs to dry for porridge."
"Why not?"
"The store owner who used to take our shells is sick. His son took over and threw us out when we tried to trade, saying our shells were worthless. Told us not to come back."