Chapter 22. Harbor Whispers

  Port Sallow sprawled before them like a sleeping predator – deceptively quiet in the morning light. Weathered docks extended into the harbor like grasping fingers, warehouses looming behind them like mismatched teeth. The respectable trading vessels clustered near the harbor's center like wealthy merchants avoiding street beggars, their freshly painted hulls and snapping flags proclaiming legitimacy that cost extra.

  Among them, a massive armored vessel stood out – its hull encased in overlapping metal plates that resembled a turtle's shell, though many were dented and scarred from past encounters. Massive claw marks scored its side, gouging deep enough to expose the inner hull plates in places. The remnants of what appeared to be enormous teeth still protruded from the starboard armor, embedded too deeply to remove without compromising the hull's integrity. The streamlined deck had no protrusions, only reinforced gunports and hatches lined its sides. Patches of newer metal gleamed against the weathered whole, telling tales of hasty repairs after violent confrontations.

  "Regent's Bulwark," Thristle identified it, throat tightening as if the name itself were hard to swallow. "Military escort? This time o' year?" Her careful pronunciation slipped with her rising anxiety.

  "Unusual, aye?" Marcus appeared beside them, cradling a steaming mug that smelled more of rum than tea despite the early hour. His face creased with the particular frown of a sailor spotting storm clouds on a wedding day.

  "Very." Thristle's gaze tracked across the harbor. "See those new spikes on the chains? For keeping things from swimmin' in." She gestured toward metal barbs that gleamed like fresh teeth against the weathered links stretching across the harbor mouth.

  The Wavechaser approached a different section – a collection of smaller, shabbier piers jutting from a forgotten corner of the port. Here, vessels of questionable origin docked briefly for equally questionable exchanges, their captains paying in coin rather than paperwork. Warehouses tilted at angles that suggested arguments with gravity, connected by a maze of salt-stained walkways that had been patched so many times they looked like patchwork quilts.

  "Fisherman's Cut," Thristle murmured, eyes scanning the familiar landmarks. "Hasn't changed much."

  "Corrupt places rarely do," Seraphina noted. "They just develop new methods for old vices."

  They stood at the rail, watching as sailors prepared for docking. Below decks, Vesper waited in the hold, its massive form contained but restless. Thristle had spent the better part of an hour explaining exactly why he couldn't simply follow her into port – a conversation that had involved increasingly creative threats about what would happen if he disobeyed.

  "Remember," Thristle said quietly, "if I'm not back by sunset—"

  "I come to find you," Seraphina finished, her hand briefly touching the rifle concealed beneath her perfectly pressed traveling cloak. "Though I'd prefer to avoid that particular adventure."

  "Makes two of us." Thristle checked her crossbow, making sure the mechanism moved smoothly. Her fingers then found each of her belt pouches, confirming their contents with practiced movements. "Old Madame Moss still has rooms above the Silver Kraken if you need information. Just don't drink anything she offers unless you've paid for it first."

  "Noted." Seraphina replied dryly.

  A shout went up as they approached the pier. Sailors scrambled to position, lines were readied. Through the morning haze, dockworkers appeared – rough-looking men with calculating eyes that assessed the ship's value in a glance.

  "Something's off," Thristle murmured, her posture shifting subtly. "Those aren't the usual dock hands."

  Seraphina followed her gaze. The men waiting at the pier wore the standard rough clothing of port workers, but their stance spoke of different training. They stood too precisely, their apparent casualness too carefully arranged.

  "Uniforms under those clothes," Seraphina concluded, "City guard?"

  "Probably." Thristle's smile was tight. "Question is, are they waiting for us specific, or just another shakedown?"

  The answer came before the Wavechaser had fully docked. A figure detached from the group – a woman in a harbormaster's coat that had been tailored to military precision. She carried a clipboard and the unmistakable authority of someone used to being obeyed.

  "Inspection!" she announced, voice carrying easily across the water. "All crew and passengers to assemble on deck for verification!"

  "Definitely waiting for us," Thristle hissed, fingers already mapping escape routes with tiny, nervous movements. "We need to—"

  "Hold," Seraphina's hand caught her wrist. "Causing a scene now only confirms their suspicions. Let me handle this."

  The ship settled against the pier with a gentle thump that belied the tension vibrating through everyone aboard. The gangplank was lowered, and lines were secured, as the inspection party boarded. The woman in the harbormaster's coat moved directly toward them, her gaze sweeping the deck with a professional assessment.

  Just as the harbormaster opened her mouth to speak, a commotion erupted from below decks. Sailors stumbled back as a familiar blue mass surged up through the hatch, flowing across the planks with alarming speed.

  "No, no, NO!" Thristle's voice cracked with horror as Vesper materialized beside her, his surface rippling with protective patterns like waves before a storm. "I specifically told ye to stay hidden, ye impossible pudding!"

  The inspection team froze, hands moving to weapons. The harbormaster's eyes widened as she took in the massive gelatinous form now curling around Thristle's ankles like a possessive cat made of shimmering jelly.

  "Sweet merciful gods!" The harbormaster stumbled backward, clipboard clattering to the deck as her hand flew to her weapon. Her guards formed a defensive line with practiced efficiency, crossbows leveled at the massive gelatinous form. "Nobody moves!"

  The bear skull floating within Vesper's translucent mass rotated slowly, empty eye sockets somehow finding each guard in turn. The slime's surface darkened to warning purples, tendrils forming and dissolving as if testing the air.

  "He won't hurt anyone," Thristle said quickly, stepping between Vesper and the trembling guards. "Please don't shoot—he reacts poorly to sudden movements."

  "Control that... that thing," the harbormaster ordered, voice steadier than her hands. Her eyes darted between the slime and Thristle, professional training wrestling with primal fear. "Before my men decide it's a threat."

  Vesper's surface rippled with what might have been indignation or amusement—hard to tell when your face was made of translucent goo—but he settled slightly, color lightening as Thristle placed a calming hand on his surface.

  The harbormaster's expression shifted as she finally looked beyond the slime to its companion. Recognition dawned slowly, incredulity replacing fear.

  "White hair... elf..." she muttered, studying Thristle more carefully. "Wait. You're that Thristle? The alchemist's apprentice from the eastern quarter?" Her tone suggested she was connecting pieces of information that created an unexpected picture. "The one who—" She stopped herself, eyes darting to her watching guards.

  Thristle blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "I... yes?"

  The harbormaster composed herself, though her eyes never left Vesper's undulating form. "Is that your...?"

  "Familiar," Thristle replied without hesitation, her cultivated academic accent sliding into place. "He's been with me for some time. Invaluable research assistant, really."

  Vesper's surface rippled with what looked suspiciously like preening at this description, the bear skull rotating slightly as if to present his best angle to the inspection party.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The harbormaster's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline as she consulted her clipboard. "Records indicate you never registered any familiar with the Guild. Especially not something of this..." she gestured vaguely at Vesper's, which had tilted to study her with unsettling intensity, "...unusual nature."

  "A recent acquisition," Thristle improvised, her scholarly tone gaining confidence with each word. "I've been meaning to complete the proper paperwork, but we've been traveling extensively on Lord Blackbriar's business. Very pressing research matters, you understand."

  "This... creature doesn't match any classification in our records." The harbormaster's professional assessment couldn't quite hide her fascination as she watched Vesper form a small tendril that reached curiously toward her clipboard.

  Vesper's surface darkened slightly at the clinical description, small ripples of indignation crossing his mass like storm clouds gathering. The tendril withdrew with dignified slowness.

  "He's a rare specimen," Thristle continued, placing a protective hand on Vesper's surface. "From the far southern territories. Beyond conventional taxonomies. But thoroughly trained, I assure you."

  "Hmm." The harbormaster made a note, her quill scratching across parchment with bureaucratic finality. She looked up with an awkward cough. "Well, Miss...ter? Thristle—" she stumbled over the address, eyes flicking between Thristle's clothes, features, and stature with obvious confusion. "You're requested at the Guild. As soon as possible."

  Thristle's carefully maintained composure cracked like thin ice under a boot. "What?" The word emerged in her village accent, higher and sharper than her cultivated tones.

  "The Guild," the woman repeated, with a peculiar emphasis that made the simple words feel weighted with hidden significance. "Your presence has been specifically requested."

  Thristle swallowed hard enough that everyone heard it.

  Seraphina stepped forward smoothly, the picture of professional composure. "We're traveling under Lord Blackbriar's authority," she said, extending their papers with a maid's perfect deference. "Any official business should be arranged through proper diplomatic channels."

  The harbormaster examined the documents with practiced thoroughness. "These appear in order, but Guild matters fall outside Lord Blackbriar's yurisdiction." Her tone suggested this distinction was crucial rather than bureaucratic. "I'm afraid the ship will need to remain in port pending further inspection."

  "On what grounds?" Seraphina's voice remained perfectly polite, though her posture had shifted to something that suggested she was calculating exactly how quickly she could reach her weapon if needed.

  "Recent security concerns." The harbormaster gestured toward the Regent's Bulwark, its scarred armor gleaming dully in the morning light. "I should also warn you that explosives and volatile compounds are prohibited within city limits without proper authorization."

  Thristle's hand went protectively to her belt pouches, fingers curling around them like a miser clutching coins. "These mixtures are standard alchemical supplies, well within permitted—"

  "Standard supplies don't include the particular formulations you're known for," the harbormaster interrupted, her gaze suddenly sharp as a fish-gutting knife. "Your reputation precedes you."

  Thristle winced, cheeks coloring slightly.

  "Your crew may disembark, but the ship stays here," the harbormaster continued, her tone suggesting this was a significant concession. "And I strongly advise you to leave any... creative mixtures aboard unless you wish to see them confiscated at the first checkpoint."

  Behind them, Marcus and Jo exchanged looks before quietly slipping out of sight. Vesper's surface churned with darker blues, sensing the tension in the air.

  "The Guild representatives will be expecting you," the harbormaster added, her clipped words carrying an unmistakable warning. "And you'll need to register your... familiar... at the guard house by the eastern gate. They'll provide details about your appointment."

  "Of course," Thristle agreed, her smile stretched thin enough to see through. "Always delighted to consult with fellow professionals."

  The harbormaster studied Vesper with renewed wariness, particularly noting how a small tendril had formed to poke experimentally at her polished boot. "Is it—he—truly under control? The Guild will expect proper containment measures."

  "He," Thristle confirmed, her hand settling on Vesper's surface with practiced familiarity. "And yes, he's fully under control. Aren't you?"

  Vesper's rippling surface somehow conveyed both agreement and mischievous reservation, like a child crossing fingers behind their back while making a promise. The bear skull rotated to focus empty sockets on the harbormaster, who took an instinctive step backward.

  "I should warn you," she added, voice firming, "if your familiar damages anything—anything at all—you will be held personally responsible. Property damage, injuries, disturbances... everything comes back to you. Is that understood?"

  "Perfectly," Thristle replied, her throat suddenly dry as sun-bleached driftwood. Her fingers curled into Vesper's surface, half reassurance and half warning.

  "Excellent." The harbormaster's tight smile suggested she found nothing excellent about the situation. "Dock fees will be collected by noon. Standard rates apply."

  With a sharp gesture to her men, she departed, though two guards remained stationed at the pier's end, their casual poses betrayed by watchful eyes that never left Vesper's shimmering form.

  "That went well," Thristle muttered once the harbormaster was out of earshot, though her face had paled considerably. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her collar.

  "Did it?" Seraphina's voice remained mild, but her eyes had taken on the particular sharpness they acquired when assessing potential threats. "The ship is effectively impounded, your movements are being monitored, and now we must account for Vesper in a city that's clearly been warned about you specifically."

  "But they didn't clap me in irons on sight, which honestly exceeds my expectations," Thristle replied, her voice unsteady despite the attempt at humor. She knelt to address Vesper at eye level, though she kept her voice low enough that the watching guards couldn't hear. "And what part of 'stay hidden' remained unclear to ye, pudding brain? I used small words and everything."

  Vesper's surface danced with innocently patterned ripples that wouldn't have fooled a child, much less someone who'd spent weeks learning his visual language. A tendril reached out to poke her cheek in what somehow managed to convey both affection and smugness as if to say: You needed me whether you knew it or not.

  "Don't play innocent with me," Thristle scolded, though her words carried no heat. She glanced nervously toward the watching guards, then back to the looming buildings of Port Sallow. "The Guild... gods, I'd hoped to avoid them entirely. This complicates everything."

  "You know which guild she meant?" Seraphina asked, her posture subtly shifting to place herself between Thristle and the watching guards.

  "I have my suspicions," Thristle replied, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "And if I'm right... well, let's just say this could be very, very bad." Thristle checked her remaining pouches – the ones not containing anything explosive – her movements jerky with barely suppressed fear. She trailed off, swallowing hard. "Well, let's just say there's history there."

  Before Seraphina could press further, Vesper surged forward, wrapping around Thristle's ankles in what was unmistakably a restraining hold. The slime's surface patterns conveyed absolute refusal to allow her to wander off alone, as clear as if he'd spoken aloud.

  "Oh, come on," Thristle sighed, trying unsuccessfully to extract herself from the slime's grip. "I can't exactly take ye with me into the city. Ye're not what anyone would call inconspicuous."

  Vesper's only response was to tighten his hold slightly, his surface patterns conveying something that looked remarkably like: Try me.

  "Perhaps," Seraphina suggested, eyeing this interaction with a carefully neutral expression, "our friend has the right idea. The harbormaster clearly recognized you both. Attempting to separate now only confirms their suspicions."

  "Fine," Thristle relented, though her expression suggested this agreement was purely tactical rather than sincere. "But we do this my way. No unnecessary risks, no confrontations, and absolutely no dissolving of public property. Clear?"

  Vesper rippled with what appeared to be agreement, though Seraphina noted how his coloration maintained those deeper, watchful blues. His bear skull core rotated slowly as he scanned the port, cataloging threats and escape routes with predatory assessment.

  "I know Port Sallow," Thristle continued, her voice dropping as her fingers unconsciously found the hidden marks on her arm, tracing them through the fabric. "I know all the ways to disappear here when needed. And I know exactly which contacts might explain why any Guild would suddenly take interest in a washed-up alchemist's apprentice."

  Her green eyes met Seraphina's, determination replacing earlier anxiety. "Trust me on this. Please."

  Something in her expression made Seraphina relent, though her posture remained alert as a cat watching a mouse hole. "Lead on," she said, checking her weapons with subtle movements that looked like simple adjustments to her clothing.

  "Right." Thristle cast one last glance at the ship, where Marcus and Jo were conspicuously absent from the crew gathering their belongings. "Though I suspect our cook and navigator have already decided to make themselves scarce for reasons of their own."

  "Interesting timing," Seraphina noted. "Perhaps they know something we don't."

  "Home sweet bloody home," Thristle muttered with palpable irony, then stepped onto the pier and into the tangled streets of her past, Vesper flowing beside her like a particularly determined shadow.

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