Chapter 23: Bureaucratic Entanglements

  Port Swallow hadn't changed—still the same labyrinth of salt-stained cobblestones and buildings that leaned against each other like drunken sailors comparing hangovers. The air tasted of brine and old fish, with that distinctive undertone of questionable decisions that defined port cities everywhere. Morning light caught on cracked windows and rusted hinges, turning everyday decay into reluctant beauty.

  The crowd parted around their unusual trio like a river encountering particularly stubborn stones. Thristle led with uncharacteristic rigidity, each step measured as if the cobblestones might suddenly rearrange themselves beneath her boots. Seraphina maintained perfect maid's posture despite the rough surroundings, her back straighter than the moral compass of most Port Swallow officials. Behind them flowed Vesper, his translucent mass catching the sunlight in patterns that scattered blue-tinted rainbows across nearby walls, drawing stares that ranged from fascinated to horrified.

  "Just act normal," Thristle muttered, then caught herself with a strained laugh that sounded like a door hinge in desperate need of oil. "Whatever passes for normal with a slime made of mostly mystery and mischief in tow."

  "You're fidgeting," Seraphina observed quietly. "More than usual, which is rather impressive given your baseline."

  "Am not." Thristle's hands immediately froze in their nervous dance across her belt pouches, as if caught stealing sweets. They resumed their frantic inventory precisely three seconds later. "Maybe a little," she admitted. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the vials, a percussive confession of anxiety.

  Vesper rippled with concerned patterns—deep purples swirling like troubled thoughts given liquid form. He pressed against her leg, his cool mass a silent reassurance. The sudden gesture might have been comforting if not for the way passersby stumbled back at the sight, one port worker nearly dropping a crate of fish that protested with indignant flapping.

  "Sorry!" Thristle called reflexively, her village accent surfacing with her embarrassment. "He's friendly! Mostly. Unless provoked. Or bored. Or... Oh sweet oak roots." She winced, running fingers through white hair. "Not helping, am I?"

  The crowd thickened as they approached the guardhouse—sailors stumbling from taverns with the determination of men trying to keep the night alive despite the morning's evidence to the contrary, uniformed officials moving with the particular self-importance of those with very little actual power. Thristle's steps shortened with each block, her breathing quickening until it matched the nervous flutter of harbor gulls squabbling over scraps.

  "The guardhouse is just ahead," she said, her voice tight as a drum skin. Her careful city pronunciation had returned, each word meticulously shaped as if pronunciation might protect her. "Where we register Vesper and discover which particular Guild has decided to ruin my life today."

  "You're dramatizing," Seraphina noted, though her eyes never stopped their careful assessment of their surroundings. "We don't know their intentions.

  "Oh, I know intentions in Port Swallow," Thristle replied, her accent slipping back toward village roots like a mask coming loose. "Everybody wants something. The question is what price they'll extract for it." Her left hand found the marks on her arm, tracing them through fabric with unconscious movements.

  The guardhouse loomed before them—a solid stone structure with barred windows and iron-bound doors that suggested it was designed less to keep danger out and more to keep secrets in. Guards flanked the entrance, their expressions shifting from professional boredom to alert interest as they spotted Vesper, hands moving to weapons with the casual readiness of men who'd used them before.

  Thristle halted abruptly, thirty paces from the entrance. "I can't do this." The words emerged tight, barely audible.

  "Thristle—" Seraphina started, but was cut off by a sharp gesture.

  "You don't understand." Thristle's voice had dropped to a whisper, her shoulders hunching like a flower closing against approaching frost. "If it's the Merchant's Guild, they'll—they never forgave me for—" Her hands shook visibly now, fingers curling into her palms hard enough to leave marks. "Maybe we could double back, find another way. The sewers might—"

  Vesper surged forward, cutting off her escape route with his substantial bulk. His surface shifted to those calm blues, ripples moving in almost hypnotic patterns like gentle waves on a moonlit shore. The bear skull rotated slowly, empty sockets somehow conveying more comfort than many faces with actual eyes.

  "Breathe," Seraphina instructed, her voice carrying that crisp authority that somehow cut through panic like a freshly sharpened knife. "Focus on me."

  Thristle gulped air like a drowning woman finding surface, her eyes darting between the guardhouse and the nearby alleyways. Calculations of risk and escape played across her features with the transparency of a child planning to raid a cookie jar.

  "If you run," Seraphina continued, each word measured as precisely as an apothecary's remedy, "they'll only pursue. And our friend here isn't exactly inconspicuous for a fugitive's companion."

  "Fair point," Thristle admitted, still breathing too rapidly. "Hard to disappear with a giant blue pudding following you around." She pressed her palms against her eyes, leaving smudges of dirt that matched the shadows beneath them. "Just... give me a moment."

  Vesper's surface rippled with what looked suspiciously like concern, tiny waves of worry crossing his mass. A small tendril formed, gently patting her shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort that left a damp spot on her sleeve.

  "I'm fine," she told the slime unconvincingly. "Just having a minor existential crisis about facing potentially life-ruining consequences for past decisions. Totally normal Tuesday."

  "It's Thursday," Seraphina corrected mildly.

  "Even worse." Thristle squared her shoulders, visibly forcing her breathing to slow like someone trying to tame a wild horse. "Right then. Let's get this over with before I lose what little courage I've mustered. It's hiding somewhere behind my overwhelming desire to run screaming in the opposite direction."

  The guards stiffened as they approached, hands moving to weapons with practiced coordination.

  "Visiting the registry," Thristle announced with forced brightness that wouldn't have fooled a concussed chicken. She gestured to Vesper with a flourish that nearly knocked her off balance. "Familiar registration. Very important. Absolutely essential. Completely legal. Nothing suspicious whatsoever."

  One guard looked skeptical, his eyebrow raising into territory previously explored only by professional doubters. "That's a familiar?"

  "Advanced research," she replied, falling back on her academic persona like armor too small for the wearer. "Revolutionary breakthrough in semi-solid companionship theory. Cutting-edge arcane biology. Very prestigious journals. Many important papers." Her hands fluttered through explanatory gestures that explained nothing.

  The guards exchanged glances that contained entire conversations before reluctantly stepping aside. "Registry's first door on the left. And keep it contained."

  Their progress halted at the guardhouse entrance as one of the guards stepped between Vesper and the door, hand raised like a dam attempting to hold back a particularly determined ocean.

  "Whoa there. That thing isn't coming inside."

  "He's with me," Thristle protested, her voice rising toward what dogs would find uncomfortable. "I'm registering him. How can I register him if he can't come in?"

  The guard folded his arms, muscles shifting beneath his uniform like tectonic plates settling into immovability. "Rules are rules. No dangerous creatures inside the guardhouse."

  "But I can't register him unless he's inside," Thristle pointed out, logic battling bureaucracy with the futility of waves against cliffs.

  "Not my problem," the guard shrugged, his expression suggesting this particular circularity brought him professional satisfaction. "Building regulations. Captain'd have my hide if that thing dissolved anything important."

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  Vesper's surface darkened slightly at the implied insult, small ripples of indignation crossing his mass like storm clouds gathering on a distant horizon. A tiny tendril formed near his base, poking experimentally at the ground as if considering options.

  "He wouldn't—" Thristle began, then caught herself, memories of various dissolving incidents flashing across her face. "Well, not on purpose, anyway."

  "Precisely the concern," the guard replied, expression suggesting he'd just won a particularly satisfying argument.

  Seraphina cleared her throat delicately, the sound somehow carrying both perfect propriety and veiled threat. "Perhaps there's an alternative solution? A window, perhaps?" Her words remained perfectly polite while her posture suggested continuing obstruction would be unwise.

  The guard considered this, then nodded toward a barred window to the right of the entrance. "Registry clerk sits just inside there. You can stand outside, it can stay with you, and you can pass papers through."

  "In the street?" Thristle's outrage was palpable enough to taste. "Like common—"

  "Perfectly acceptable," Seraphina interjected smoothly, steering Thristle toward the window before she could finish the comparison. "Thank you for your assistance."

  The window in question was small, barred, and clearly not designed for conducting official business. It creaked open with the protest of something that hadn't moved in years and preferred to keep it that way, revealing the interior desk where the clerk processed documents.

  An ancient man sat just inside, his movements occurring with such deliberate slowness that watching him lift his quill made time itself seem to stretch like taffy in the summer heat. His uniform hung from bony shoulders, the fabric worn shiny at the elbows from decades of desk work. His eyes blinked with the careful consideration of someone who suspected each blink might be their last and wanted to make it count.

  "Next," he called the word extending to improbable length as his gaze slowly pivoted toward the window.

  Thristle pressed her face to the opening with visible apprehension, her expression resembling someone preparing to kiss a particularly unpleasant toad. "Good morning. I understand there's a Guild request for me? Thristle, alchemist's apprentice. Also need to register my, um, familiar." She gestured to Vesper, who was forming small ripples of indignation at being denied entry.

  "Window... registration... is... irregular," the clerk intoned, each syllable stretching into eternity like a dying breath given unnecessary theatrical flourish.

  "Not my idea," Thristle replied tersely, jerking a thumb toward the guards with enough force to nearly dislocate it. "They won't let him in."

  "Name," the clerk continued, unperturbed by her explanation or indeed by any concept of time itself. His quill hovered over the registry book with agonizing patience, poised as if waiting for divine inspiration.

  "Thristle." Her fingers drummed nervously on the windowsill. "Former apprentice to Master-"

  "Thhhhhrrrriiiiiiissssssttttlllleeeee." The clerk's hand moved with glacial purpose, each letter formed with excruciating deliberation. "And... the... nature... of... your... business... in... Port... Swallow?"

  Passersby on the street gave them a wide berth, some stopping to stare at the bizarre scene—a white-haired elf awkwardly bent halfway through a guardhouse window while a massive blue agitated slime rippled behind her.

  "I was told a Guild requested my presence," Thristle replied, her voice tight. "I'd like to know which one."

  The clerk blinked once, a process that seemed to take several seconds. "Guild... request..." His free hand began a torturous journey toward a stack of papers. "Let... me... check... the... records…"

  Vesper's surface rippled with what might have been either amusement or sympathy—the patterns suggesting he was developing a new appreciation for the concept of patience. The bear skull tilted, watching the clerk's movements with scientific fascination before experimentally extending a curious tendril toward the window bars.

  "Don't," Thristle hissed without looking back, her awareness of the slime's intentions almost supernatural. "I mean it. One dissolved bar and we'll be in a cell instead of registering you."

  The tendril retreated with wounded dignity, though Vesper's surface patterns suggested he found this restriction highly unreasonable given the circumstances. A small ripple of darker blue moved across his surface like a child muttering under their breath after being scolded.

  "Ah... yes..." The clerk finally extracted a folded note. "Guild... request... for... one... Thristle..." He squinted at the paper, his face a study in professional thoroughness. "Miners'... Guild... requests... your... presence... at... your... earliest... convenience."

  "Miners' Guild?" Thristle's voice cracked with surprise, hitting notes previously accessible only to startled songbirds. "Not Merchants'?"

  "No... mention... of... Merchants'..." The clerk peered at her over spectacles that had slid dangerously low on his nose, threatening to launch an expedition toward the floor.

  "Thank the gods," she muttered under her breath, relief visibly washing over her face.

  "Would... you... like... me... to... inform... them... of... your... arrival?" the clerk continued.

  "NO!" Thristle shouted, the force of her response making both Vesper and Seraphina jump slightly. She composed herself with visible effort, smoothing her features like someone straightening rumpled bedsheets. "I mean, that won't be necessary. The Miners' Guild is fine. Wonderful, even. Miners are great. Salt of the earth. Literally, sometimes, depending on what they're mining." Relief made her babble, tension draining from her shoulders so rapidly that she nearly slipped from the window ledge into a puddle of released anxiety. Vesper steadied her with a careful tendril, his surface shifting to calmer patterns that suggested both amusement and concern for her mental state.

  "The... familiar..." the clerk continued, turning his head with a monumental effort toward Vesper. "Must... be... registered... according... to... city... ordinance... seventeen... dash... B..."

  He pushed a stack of forms toward the window with the speed of continental drift, only to have half of them scatter when they hit the bars. "Please... complete... all... required... fields..."

  Thristle stared at the paperwork with dawning horror. The top form alone contained at least fifty blank spaces, with checkboxes beside taxonomic classifications that clearly had never contemplated anything like Vesper.

  Resigned to her fate like a prisoner approaching the gallows, Thristle leaned against the wall and began filling out the forms, using the windowsill as a makeshift writing surface. Her quill scratched rapidly across the parchment, moving with the desperate energy of someone trying to finish a task before their sanity completely abandoned them.

  "Species," she muttered, glaring at Vesper as if this were somehow his personal fault. "What even are you?" Vesper's only response was to ripple innocently, the patterns suggesting he found her predicament thoroughly entertaining. "Fine. 'Corle'... Ugh. 'Corlerfull slime.'" Her handwriting grew increasingly wild and cramped as she attempted to fit explanations into boxes clearly designed for simpler creatures. Under "Owner," she hesitated, then scrawled her name with a flourish that sent ink spattering across the page.

  ---

  "Miss... or... Mister... Thristle of Blackbriar?" the clerk inquired, his eyes slowly traveling between Thristle's face and her clothes, clearly trying to categorize her. "How... should... I... properly... address... you... on... official... documentation?"

  Thristle's quill paused mid-stroke. "Just Thristle is fine."

  "But... it... is... important... for... the... records..." the clerk insisted, his voice stretching each syllable to impossible lengths. "City... ordinance... requires... proper... honorific... designation... for... all... official... documents..."

  "Seriously?" Thristle's expression flickered between frustration and disbelief. "Does it matter?"

  "Most... certainly..." The clerk nodded with excruciating slowness. "We... must... maintain... proper... documentation... standards... according... to... Port... Swallow... Registration... Act... of... twelve... fifty-seven... paragraph... seven... subsection... C..."

  "It's really not—" Thristle began.

  "Which... states..." the clerk continued inexorably, unstoppable as the tide and just as concerned with human distress, "that... all... persons... must... be... categorized... according... to... appropriate... gender... designation... for... taxation... and... inheritance... purposes…"

  Vesper's surface rippled in what looked suspiciously like amusement, tiny waves of blue mirth crossing his mass as he watched Thristle's composure disintegrate. Her forehead met the windowsill with an audible thunk, the gesture of someone surrendering the last shreds of their dignity to bureaucratic inevitability. "Fine," she muttered to the wood grain she was now intimately acquainted with. "Put whatever you want."

  "I... cannot... make... that... determination..." The clerk's expression remained professionally neutral, though something almost like enjoyment flickered briefly in his ancient eyes. "Only... the... registrant... may... declare... their... proper... honorific..."

  "Miss," Thristle finally said, throwing up her hands. "Or Mister. Or Poobah of the High Seas. Whatever gets this form processed."

  The clerk blinked slowly. "I... will... note... 'undecided'... pending... further... clarification…"

  Thristle finished filling out the remaining sections with increasingly erratic handwriting, her patience visibly fraying with each box. When she finally passed the rest of the completed stack through the window, she sagged against the wall with the exhaustion of someone who'd just run a marathon.

  The clerk's eyebrows drew together as he examined her work, a process that seemed to take several geological ages. Finally, he looked up with mournful slowness.

  "But… I... cannot... accept... this... form."

  "WHAT?!" Thristle nearly climbed through the window in her outrage. "Why? Did I miss something?"

  "We... accept... forms... filled... only... with... common... language..." The clerk pointed at her answers with painful deliberation.

  "But it IS common!" Thristle jabbed a finger at the page, nearly poking a hole through the parchment in the process. "That's plain Common right there! What about this isn't common enough?"

  "Then… your... penmanship..." the clerk clarified, "is... not... legible... according... to... city... standards…"

  Seraphina, who had been watching this exchange with the remarkable composure of someone witnessing an expected disaster, finally stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on Thristle's shoulder before she could launch into what promised to be a creative tirade involving the clerk's ancestry and unlikely biological origins. When she looked at the forms, her face fell as she examined Thristle's chaotic scrawl. With a deeply resigned sigh, she held out her hand for the documents.

  "Allow me," she said smoothly, gently extracting the rejected forms from Thristle's white-knuckled grip. "I'll rewrite these."

  Thristle threw up her hands in defeat, stepping away from the window to mutter darkly about bureaucrats, their ancestry, and creative suggestions for where they could store their feathered quills.

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