The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book II, Chapter 3

"People who say the journey matters more than the destination clearly have never spent a decade going in circles around the same castle."- Sevhan the Stubborn, adventurer;

When Mharra said we'd be looking for the Free Fleet, I expected him to reach out to an old acquaintance, perhaps, either a member of the Fleet or someone who kept track of them.

But the captain, my captain, had never even seen the Fleet.

'Then how the Pit are we going to find it? It's big, yes, but Midworld is infinitely larger,' I had told him after he'd revealed his lack of connections with the Free Fleet.

'Indeed it is, Ryzhan,' he had replied. 'But you know what is not infinite? The Fleet's voyages. Oh, their ships are all self-sufficient-a fact they're quite proud of, or so I've heard-but their patience is not. No matter how big the tub you ride in is, no matter if it flies or floats, it won't prevent cabin fever.'

'What're you trying to say?' Three had asked, floating up through the floor as soon as Mharra has finished his sentence.

The captain had smiled. 'Why, my boys...the Fleet must stop on an island, every now and then, to talk and mingle with other people, if only to hear new ideas and perspectives. They can't live in echo chambers, no matter how in love they seem with their propaganda.'

And so, we set out on a wild goose chase. No, that was a poor comparison. At least geese left signs a trained tracker could follow. It was more like looking for a needle in a stack of identical needles. Why, you ask? Because islands appeared and disappeared all the time on Midworld. Oh, sure, most of them were visited by one of the Great Powers, if they survived enough, that is, but their inhabitants rarely stuck together long enough for the fact to make it into the records.

If they even had records.

The truth was, besides immense extended families, or extremely tight-knit communities, like the one I had once been part of, most islanders were only brief allies of convenience. They lived on and tended the same lands, as long as those existed, for a few years or decades. Then, when nature came to drag the island beneath the waves or scatter it into the winds, they would split with nary a look backwards.

No one would begrudge them that. Midworld, as it had been literally beaten into my skull, was not a a place for attachment. Not to places, at least. Those who insisted on forming such attachments, despite everything, were seen as weaklings or madmen.

I wondered what the Illuminated, with their floating island, thought of such assessments. Or the Clockwork King and his rival Queen, with their shifting demesnes.

I supposed I'd have to ask them, if we ever met.

Most islands we came across were the same. Recently-formed, with people settling on them months or years after the fact. Fledgling communities, doing their best to get by. Some islands were inhabited by veteran sailors, who had braved the tides and storms of Midworld for generations. Others, by people who had spent their lives on safe, long-lived islands, whose safety had ended, at long last.

If I felt some form of kinship with the latter, I saw no need to show it. There was no saying who knew me-that is, one of my previous identities.

After months of searching, we started feeling what Mharra had called 'cabin fever', too. Three spent more and more time outside the ship, flying through the clouds or under the waves, one of his selves remaining in the engine room to keep the steamer moving. Ib was on deck for most of the journey, pacing with an impatience wholly at odds with what I'd come to know of the grey giant. Repeated discussions and reminders had managed to make Ib remember that yes, we were indeed looking for the Free Fleet. In fact, we were going there for it, so it could finally learn of its past and be at peace with itself.

Ib had smiled vaguely at those promises. I didn't know if it didn't believe in the chances of it happening, or if it was nervous at the possibility.

I though of the Seaworm, that mountain-sized, mountain-crushing monster, and how easily Ib had crushed it, while laughing.

I shuddered. During my lonely travel, I had seen, and even met beings just as terrifying, if not more so than Ib. Even so, I wasn't particularly eager to meet anything that could make it nervous.

Eventually, Mharra decided that we needed to clear the air, or we'd end up beating each other up out of sheer boredom. So, one night, we stopped by a pine-covered island. Two of Three's selves remained on the steamer, to defend it against whoever got a bright idea about stealing it, or from it, and to keep it ready in case we angered anyone dangerous and had to make a quick run for it. You never knew.

The island was inhabited by lumberjacks and their families. They had landed a few years ago, and hoped to stock up lumber for as long as the island lasted.

I don't know how some islands appeared out of the sea with trees already grown on them. Another of Midworld's mysteries.

There were no settlements, as such, on the island. Just the lumberjacks' houses, with they yards and animal pens around them. There was, however, an inn.

Because there always is one, wherever there are people.

The inn was surprisingly large, several stories tall and almost as wide, with brightly-lit windows blazing out of the wooden façade. Inside, there were humans and constructs, from golems to homunculi, and all three kinds of the Folk: the Landfolk, the Seafolk, the Skyfolk.

We found an empty table, to my surprise, and Mharra ordered a few sweet ciders for everyone. No heavy drinks, he said. We needed to keep sharp.

Only two of us could actually get drunk, but I appreciated the thought.

We sat and drank for a time, until Mharra stood up, stretching, and mouthed that he'd start asking about the object of our search. He began moving around the inn, and I couldn't hear anything over the clamour of raised voices and laughter, of clinking glasses and crackling fire. Ib and Three, however, could.

'No luck, Ryz,' Three said, hovering cross-legged and upside down. 'They know what the Fleet is, which they're quite eager to tell you, but Triarchs, everyone knows that. We-'

'Wait,' Ib cut him off. 'The man he's talking to now-he seems to know something. I'll tell you what they're saying...' Ib was silent for a moment, then started speaking in another voice. It was human, male, but seemed ridiculously thin, coming from the giant.

'...don't know too much. Why else do you think they'd let me live, let alone leave? Heh.' Ib mimicked the man's grin at his wordplay. 'Once you stop being an elector, they start choosing for you-more than before, that is. It's how they knew I had to be banished. For my own good, you see? But I can point you to them, not that I can imagine why you'd want to meet the prigs...yes, I know the signs of their passing...'