The Longmist Mutiny

 Phial was not among the crew that morning.

Captain Reaton called out for him several times. Phial never answered. Was he still below deck, sleeping?

Nicholas had last seen him at the bow the night before, smiling and boasting about his past raids and travels. After interacting with Phial beneath the glittering darkness, Nicholas went under to see the cabin-boy. That was the last time he'd seen Phial. And no one else reported seeing him below deck.

"Have you seen Phial?" Captain Reaton asked for the hundredth time from the upper deck. Her short-cropped hair was blowing about wildly. Each time she turned her head, strands of hair whipped in front of her face. "What about you, Tunler?"

"Not since last night," said Tunler the seven-fingered sailing master, the harsh wind nearly draining his words.

Nicholas watched Reaton among others, from the bottom of the steps to the upper deck. The captain leaned against the railing.

"I never saw him in his hammock," the cabin-boy shoved his way through the crowd.

Reaton sighed and descended the stairs. Nicholas stepped sideways so she could pass him. The captain's eyes squinted over each and every face. Suspecting. Mistrusting. When she reached the bottom of the steps, the crew forming a half-ring around her, she halted.

"I will have to speak to each of you individually," she said. "Every person on this ship. Someone among us is a murderer."

There were a few nervous murmurs. The older faces were grimacing, while the younger ones were twitching and glancing back and forth. Even Nicholas was anxious. As weapons master he was usually one of the calmest members of the crew.

"Get back to whatever the hell you're supposed to be doing," Reaton ordered finally.

Phial had been the quartermaster. A huge, pale man. Tattooed face. Scarred, bald head. Some -- most, actually -- claimed he had maintained more control over the crew than the captain herself. Nicholas was one of them, because it was true enough. When Phial passed an order there was no one who argued against him. He could stare into the eyes of the bravest crew members and make them sod themselves. Before he went missing, that was.

"What d'you think happened to him?" asked Gentle Battins.

"No bloody idea," said Nicholas.

Before long the varying stories had spread across The Longmist. Common consensus believed Phial had wondered drunk onto deck and fallen overboard and into the Green Sea. Others believed he had jumped on purpose. But those who knew Phial well saw that he was not that kind of man.

The Longmist was an enormous vessel, built to fit a crew of a hundred and fifty, its sails brown with yellow stripes. The crew had been tasked with transporting supplies across the sea, two hundred miles of it, for Lord Coffard of Borlor Island. Four hundred swords. Nine hundred daggers. One thousand, two hundred crossbow bolts. A half-hundred barrels of wine. Two hundred and twenty jars of salt pork. Just as many bottled sun-dried fruits. Fourteen oaken drums of dried cod. And forty mercenary soldiers for Lord Coffard's guard – something Nicholas openly protested.

We are not slaves. This was an idea of his that was beginning to spread throughout the ship.

Nicholas returned to his armoury below deck for a morning sleep, mainly to avoid the commotion. Even with the furs draped around him and head bathed in the plush cushion, his mind was keeping him awake, racing with far too many concerns. His eyes would barely close. What if Reaton thinks I did it? What will happen to me?