Merchant, Marine: We’re All Free
“Ala Gannha.” Stamp, slide, shuffle. “Ala Ghiri.” Shuffle, shuffle. “Gannha again…” Stamp, stamp. “Ala Mhigan Quarter.” Shuffle. A pause. “The Saltery? Thought it was a ruin. Calling back old families, I suppose.” A final shuffle.
Ulf Hartsblood set the stack of completed requests to the right side of his desk, and in so doing he created a terrible asymmetry. On the left, the stack of incomplete requests still remained; he had brought them all to his offices on the island proper, in the hopes that the number of them would represent the importance of the matter. Upon comparing the sizes of both, what he found instead was only a sense of how much damned paperwork he had yet to do. Necessary, of course. Vital to the continued functioning of the Immersabilis and the Firmitas. But still a damned great lot of stamping to be done.
He rubbed his temples as he leaned back into his seat. As a Pilus, the administrative work always held a certain tension that made it tolerable. The wrong word in the right place would pull his cohort into an official’s political games. It was no more enjoyable, but at least the importance of it was more tangible, more fraught. In the peace of Gloam, with no threats but the disappointment of the men and the risk of a tongue-lashing from Balther Wright for filing improperly, that importance seemed distant.
He flipped open one of the approved requests to Ala Gannha, lips pursing as he browsed the contents. While technically skilled, the common soldiers of Garlemald and its territories were no more likely to be lettered than any other man; in the Empire, requests from the ranks were often dictated to Optio who could shape them into more palatable forms. Lacking that, he received missives more like the following:
If it pleezes the Pilus I wuld like veri much to go to Gannha, wyf an brodr stil ther, to see them safe an bryng them hom. Names ar
And as simply as that, he was reminded of the importance of the matter. He closed the request and put it back in its place.
“You’re still at it, then?” The question came as his office door was opened. Ulf had few complaints about intruders in Gloam; everybody made a point of getting to know everybody, because if one mutinied against Garlemald at the same time and place as others were mutinying against Limsa Lominsa and nearly escaped total destruction by only the finest hair, one tended to get to know one’s immediate companions quite well. Besides, he recognized the voice, and the current Speaker of the island was always welcome.
“As I will be through the rest of the cycle,” he said, gesturing to the size of the stack on the left. “The whole crew clamor for it. It’s not a matter of not allowing it, isn’t it? Just sorting through who can go and at what times to keep everything up and running at more than a skeleton crew’s efficiency.” He took hold of the stack, and feigned a pushing motion. “If I could send them all at once, I would. And then what happens when some raiders come calling, Mr. Sawyer?”
Everard Sawyer didn’t seem bothered by the scenario; he only shrugged, and pushed a bit of stringy red hair out of the way of his glasses. “Then the Tumult and the Lucky Lord get to raise their banners and take charge for a few moons. Slaeglac does have the odd moment of restlessness, you know. And there’s far less chance of Garlean fleets from the east now. So if you wanted to, well.”
“And then what of the submersibles? We need the Immersabilis to ply the waters, at the very least, and enough men on the Firmitas to keep it maintained.” Private whale-ships. Ulf had been stunned when a cargo vessel had brought news of those. Virgil’s toy was exactly as revolutionary as he’d thought it would be.
Sawyer seemed to concede the point with a bob of his head. “Not all, then, but most. And then the ones that get left behind might resent it, and . . . “ He trailed off, following Ulf’s presumed logic to its conclusion. “Fair enough, I suppose. Are they going to be coming back?”
“That is what most of them would have me believe. Nearly all, if you asked me to estimate, and their families with them once they’re found.” The spouses and siblings and children of four-hundred and some soldiers. Ulf had been dreading the math of this. The treaty guaranteeing their sovereignty had particular stipulations - the first of which being to turn away further expatriates until their population fell below certain limits. Two exceptions had been made - for the families of the Ala Mhigans and pirates on the island, and two others. “Do we have the room? We’ve the right, I know, but the room?”
“Of course.” Sawyer looked surprised at the question. “Slaeglac planned this around far more of his comrades arriving than proved to be the case. It may put us close to what the island can support, but the crops have been fine, the gil has been fine - yes, we have the room and the right. Tell them that - or I can tell them if you prefer.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “But we need to talk about this later, you know? You ought prepare yourself.”
“There isn’t anything special about - “ Ulf began, then started up in his seat, eyes widening. “The Halberd?”
“Coming in today,” Sawyer said. “Sail sighted a bell ago, and should be in the harbor in another.”
“I’ll be at the dock in half that.”
Gloam was never a picturesque island, nor would it ever be so. The weather was prone to fog, and the refinement of ceruleum that was ensuring the island’s import and income alike tended to give the air a faintly blue quality; it was nothing like the more elaborate facilities of Thanalan, but instead made it seem as if the sky was occasionally falling apart around the inhabitants, slowly drifting into shreds. There had been trees, but many were gone save at the island’s fringes, cut down for lumber and to clear land for farming, which almost redeemed the rest by its organization according to Gridanian principles of agriculture. But not quite.
The buildings in the island’s interior had been haphazardly placed, and were now a mixture of the Garlean steel gifted to Slaeglac to begin his grand plan and more traditional buildings cut out of the lumber available on the island itself. There were fewer homes than residents, as many of the pirates preferred to stay on their ships, and the Ala Mhigans on their own vessels. A town center had appeared by accident rather than intent as a larger empty space appeared between a few buildings, and this was occupied solely by a pair of small monuments, hewn roughly out of rock. One bore the rude inscription “For them what made it an them what dint” on its face, surrounded by the sigils of several pirate vessels, former and otherwise, and the marking of the former Special Expeditionary Cohort of Garlemald among them. On the second rock, a similar inscription: “For them what saved us.” This was surrounded by sigils as well, from a smattering of Maelstrom vessels, official privateers of Limsa, and what appeared to be the sigil of a Lalafellin trimaran.
Nobody on the island was artistically inclined, by the look of it. But nobody had suggested improving upon them either.
The island’s natural harbor was small, rocky, and sheltered, concealed from easy observation at sea by the good fortune of its mouth facing the Rothlyt Sound. The smaller vessels of the ex-privateers sheltered there without incident; so too did trading vessels under the banner of the Eglantine family, now serviced and loaded at the newly constructed dock. Larger ships were forced to row inside once past the mouth, and the Firmitas never entered, lazily rotating its position outside the island to avoid letting unknowing onlookers get too curious about what in the hells that floating gunship platform could have been doing right there in the Sea of Jade.
Yet for all its practical difficulties and aesthetic failings, nearly a year of quiet had been kind to the island, or at least to its people. They had found that, contrary to their expectations, running an island after it had been founded was easier than founding it, because nobody was trying very hard to kill them while they were going about the business of running it. The odd pirate vessel tried to poke at what it thought to be easy prey, and was soon seen off in one form or another. Garlemald had other revolutions to fear. And the Ninth Squadron of the Maelstrom knew the island, knew it well, and kept its distance.
Today was the exception. The squadron flagship, the Halberd, was a Limsan war galleon of considerable size, and could go no further than past the mouth of the island. This was no burden upon the vessel, which dropped anchor and released one of its ship’s boats with but a few occupants to row the remaining distance to the dock.
And there, waiting at the dock, was Gloam. All of it, in one form or another. The pirates and expatriates who had taken their families and tried to find a different kind of freedom, intermingled with once-Garleans, now Ala Mhigans who had tried to use them, and instead found them allies. And there, in front of them, the captains who had led them into folly and had somehow come out of it fortunate. The plan had been to have a simple meeting and exchange, once notice had been sent to the island from Limsa, but a small place and a small people meant no secret went hidden for very long.
Slaeglac fidgeted with his attire. The old Sea Wolf was never one for a fine dress uniform, and he’d had to make do with the nicer clothes he’d managed to take with him on his initial voyage out to the island over a year ago. He’d made sure to wash them, at least. But his hands still drifted to the single sahagin tooth he wore around his neck to keep them busy rather than fuss with his attire.
“It looks fine, Captain,” said Sawyer at his position beside the man, in the center of the island’s leaders, such as they were.
“Just m’name,” said Slaeglac. “You’re Speaker, so just m’name.”
“True. Still your first mate, though. And what if they vote you in next season?”
“Swore that’d never happen an’ you know it.”
“They could overrule you. Insist you owe it. Part of your service to them.”
Slaeglac scowled. “Tryin’ t’kill me, Sawyer? Betrayal at long last?”
Chuckling, Sawyer patted the man’s arm. “No, Slaeglac. Likely it’ll be one of the Duskwights to oversee the crops.”
The Sea Wolf’s scowl remained, and he examined the rest of the leadership. He took some comfort in knowing his fellow Limsan captains were just as uncomfortable. Hannah Half-Gil of the Lucky Lord seemed as ill-suited as he, and Aerstbhar of the Dodo’s Wail was lost without his books to distract him. Ulf, more accustomed to military meetings, seemed the most comfortable of the lot of them, and damn the fellow for it. Though, truly, Slaeglac would never damn the fellow at all.
The ship’s boat became more than an outline, made itself into a shape, took on definition, and reached the dock. Its occupants climbed up a rope ladder, save one, who had to be pulled. “Swive me,” said Hannah, her voice low. “That’s really him, innit? Blessed bastard to make it out in less’n a year.”
“Too popular, I heard,” whispered Slaeglac in response. “Too big a cause back home. Better to give ‘im up than keep ‘im and risk more trouble, y’know?”
“About time they held up their end,” said Aerstbhar. “The deal was only half-done until then.”
“Quiet.” Ulf’s voice was short and sharp. “They approach.”
It was a small group indeed, no more than the captain of the vessel, two guards, and one man in chains. The leaders of Gloam were familiar enough with the captain, who had been on hand to finalize the treaty, but nearly all had never laid eyes on the prisoner before. Despite his shackles, neither of his keepers seemed concerned with keeping a close eye on him, on giving him the chance of escape, perhaps because he did not seem fit enough for the task. There were few who spent time in a prison hulk who would.
The captain, a Sea Wolf woman of green hue, dark hair, and tall disposition for her kind, offered a Maelstrom salute. “Captain Torrael Wanngeimdottir, requesting transfer of a prisoner to the custody of Gloam.”
The group looked among each other. There had been some debate, but they had settled on Sawyer, as the current Speaker, to approach. He stepped forward and returned her gesture, though far more informally. “Speaker Everard Sawyer. I accept your request. Please transfer the prisoner to our custody.”
Torrael turned her head, and nodded to the guards. They took care in unlocking the man’s shackles; hundreds of pairs of eyes were upon them, and whatever roughness they might have had softened in that scrutiny.
Rubbing his wrists, the prisoner gave Torrael a questioning glance. She offered only a curt nod of encouragement. He took his first free steps in over a year, until he stood between she and Sawyer.
“You are Dominic Morris?” Sawyer asked.
The prisoner opened his mouth, spoke in a scratching squawk, cleared it, and spoke again. “Th-that I am.”
“Mutineer of the Maiden’s Wound?”
Dominic managed a rueful smile beneath a heavy beard. “So the courts declared.”
Sawyer scrutinized the man as if there were defects in his statements or flaws, as if he might be an impostor. There was little sense in Limsa sending a false prisoner when they had already sent over the other, but past experience had shown them willing to renege in very serious ways. If there was any test -
The rapid patter of boots on the dock behind them caught Sawyer’s attention. He did not have time to turn behind him before a Midlander of somewhat small stature had broken through the crowd, past the assembled leaders of Gloam, and captured Dominic in as tight a hug as she could manage without toppling him. Astri Striker clung to him with no words (for she had no words) and muted sobs (for they were all muted).
If there was any test, Sawyer finished, that was it. “We accept custody of Dominic Morris, Captain Torrael,” he said, drawing her attention away from the embrace and trying to put her guards at ease. “We thank you for your visit. Please give the Commodore our regards.”
Torrael could not help an amused smirk. “The Second Commander,” she said, stressing the lower rank, “Is on assignment with the Alliance. I shall be sure to pass along your words when next I see him.” She saluted once more. “Our business is concluded. Permission to disembark.”
“Granted,” said Sawyer, but it was only halfway-said. His attention had turned to Morris, who now found himself warily surrounded by the captains. None seemed willing to pry Astri away for fear of losing a digit.
“They’re not, are they?” said Hannah.
“Man nearly went to the noose for her an’ all. Not sure what that is, but it’s somethin’,” said Slaeglac. He diplomatically patted Morris on the shoulder, getting his attention rather than hers. “Good t’have you. Word is you’re something of a ‘jolly sailor’, at least as we’ve heard. We’ll just, ah, talk more about it once you’re unlatched.”
The exchange ended, the parties drifted away. The captain returned to her vessel, the leaders to the dock. Astri’s embrace had ended any chance of solemnity on their part, and as he was escorted into the island, he was all but devoured in their joy, the only one among them who was no mutineer, and the one who had suffered the most for it, among their numbers at last.
And later in the night, Astri composed a letter in the shaky hand she had been taught the year before, as she did every moon for when the trading vessels docked to take ceruleum and the post. And, as always, there was the same phrase before she moved on to the news of the moon, but slightly amended for the first time and every time thereafter:
Dear Mr. Vashir,
We’re all free.
-fin-
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