The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book IV, Chapter 4

Fun fact: I only started visualising Mharra and Three as a couple early into book two, shortly before the chapter where I first wrote them flirting. The steamer was named the Rainbow Burst because of Mharra's garish paintjob, rather than as a reference to Pride, but it's interesting how things click as you write. Sometimes, chapters do not go as planned, because I decide things should go differently while writing.

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Mharra sat on a soft chair as he watched the rise and fall of the tides. Thinking of it as soft helped him not recoil away from the living metal of the object: the same substance that made up his ship, though the furniture itself did not think. All pieces of it were extensions of the steamer, nodes for it to channel its will through.

The hairs on the back of his hair rose whenever he felt himself being watched in rooms empty save for innocuous objects, but at least he knew the Burst's mind was the only one behind those unseen eyes. The limbs it made for itself were just that: limbs. No more free-willed than the branches of the echoing trees that lured fools on sweltering islands, to trap them in sap and turn their bodies into husks before breaking them down.

Mharra grunted, running a hand down side, under his coat. The bumpy scars left by those damned tendrils always felt strange to the touch, even through clothing, but at least he'd walked away alive, not to mention with a good story. He doubted most victims ended up in a talking tree's grasp because they thought they'd found a parent to kill again...but then, not everyone had families as wretched as his - and of those who did, not all succeded in striking back against them.

When Mharra had heard his mother's voice again, he'd thought that the hag had somehow faked her death, or returned from it, and he'd only been too happy to kill her again. But there had been no wrinkled old sow to kill apart: only a monstrous, bloated trunk, crowned with grasping branches and lashing vines.

'Would have been such a stupid death...' he muttered to himself. The ship tilted, as if nodding.

Mharra smiled as he felt his seat sway on its own, mirroring the sea's motions to create the illusion of a rocking chair. He was sure some would have appreciated the trick, even if he explained it. There were some people who grew bored when the mystique was torn away, and frankly, he'd rather deal with dismay than disinterest. Bizarrely, those same people didn't seem to mind magic as opposed to sleight of hand, even though everyone knew what magic did: it made what the mage wanted happen.

Maybe, if he found a stable enough island, he could ask the steamer to convert itself into a fair, and have people come and tour it. Or, depths, why not coax the ship into becoming an island? It would have been far from complicated for its shapeshifting.

'Say, Burst,' Mharra began, tapping the banister of the balcony the ship had recently created for him. He preferred to spend time outside when he could. His skin was dark rather than tanned, as his stoutness, but he still preferred to work on both. Sometimes, he wondered how Ryzhan could be as pale as a fish's belly when he'd spent as much time in the wind and under the sun as any sailor. His friend hadn't said his people had been inherently fair-skinned.

'Have you ever thought about settling down?' he continued, returning to his previous thoughts.

When the steamer spoke - which it only did to him, as far as he was aware, though he wouldn't have been surprised to learn Ib had goaded the steamer into cussing it out, that gadfly -, it did not always have the same voice. Sometimes, it kept one for a couple exchanges. On ither occasions, the ship's voice changed in the middle of a conversation, or even a sentence or word. It had resembled whistling steam, booming horns, grinding gears...but it could have never been mistaken for human, even allowing for Midworld's loose definition of the word.

Now, its voice was mellifluous and even, measured, as if the ship were carefully picking out its words. 'Raising a family has as much appeal to me as raising a household.'

'None at all, eh?' Mharra's laugh rose from deep in his chest. 'Fair enough!' He stood up, lacing his fingers behind his back and beginning to pace, the balcony lengthening and broadening to make room for him. 'Fair enough...I can't say I'm terribly enamoured with the idea myself, to be honest.' The image of him remaining in one place as some doddering old codger almost made him laugh again. 'Getting hitched is no reason or excuse to stop sailing, though those who can afford sedentarism often use it as both.'

Mharra made his way to the railing, leaning on it with both hands as he watched the clouds slowly pass above. 'But I was not talking about...family.' He'd be damned if his voice cracked or caught. That was decades behind him. 'More about no longer sailing. You know. Finding something else to do. We could afford it.'

The steamer sniffed importantly. 'I could say making yourself a sitting duck is just inviting disaster, but then you'd point out sailing into the unknown is the same with more movement.'

Mharra ran a hand along the edge of the banister, and there was little sarcasm in his voice when he replied. 'You know me so well...'

'I was made to sail, so I sail,' the Burst responded, pointedly not commenting on its captain's statement. 'Give the order, and I will leave a piece of me behind to look after you and tend to your needs. But I will not become a glorified shipwreck.'

'It would be unfair to ask that of you,' Mharra acknowledged, with a small twinge of guilt at his earlier thoughts. 'I suppose, with Ryzhan getting a chance to reunite with his childhood sweetheart, I am thinking about the future.'

'Not looking towards it?' the steamer prodded.

Mharra harrumphed, smirk almost invisible in his beard. 'Any Midworlder dumb enough to do that deserves whatever happens to them.' He was only mostly joking.

'Feeling your age?'

'You're likely older than me!'

The ship made a noise of dismissal. 'Pish posh. And even if it were true - not that I have the ability to remember anything from before you found me - it would not matter. I am ageless, unbending. You are flesh.'

'Suddenly, I don't regret the fact you speak so rarely,' Mharra groused jokingly. Then, curious, he asked, 'Is it true? That you don't remember anything from before I found you? I thought, with your powers...'

The steamer hissed, a cloud of burning smoke filling the sky. 'I have no interest in remembering, either. You are defined by your past. So is the mage. So was the ghost.' Mharra almost protested at the Burst talking about Three in the past tense, but he stopped when he noticed its tone. Likely, it was missing its engineer. Then, it sarcastically said, 'Don't you have another bloodless shapeshifter brooding over old slights? I don't believe you forgot it just because it left, unless you're more senile than I thought.'

'You'd better stop with the jabs at my page, unless you want to be jabbed,' Mharra threatened playfully, turning away and beginning to walk towards the door. 'Do tell me if anything happens to throw us off-course.'

This pleasure fleet they were heading towards likely made more stops than most would have, even if they'd been able to afford them, but that didn't mean they didn't sail. Ib's description of them, if it could even be called that, had been vague enough that Mharra didn't know if he was going to put on a show for withered old folk who whiled away their days in sunlit gardens, or crazed hedonists who turned themselves inside out and grafted new appendages unto themselves for the sensation and the thrill of the risk.

He'd dealt with both kinds of pleasure-seekers in the past, and several peoples in-between; in any case, it was likely this fleet could abruptly change course on a whim. Midworlders often had to do such things, with their knowledge of the sea often being bracketed by what they could spot on the horizon, but someone looking to simply amuse themselves could have turned away from an island because the waters or fishes in the other direction were pretty, for example.

There was also the possibility of running afoul of some nasty weather: ship-shattering waves, brought about by seaquakes or formed of their own, or their air-rending counterparts, which were no less deadly, for all skyqUakes began where their name implied; or maybe the fragments of destroyed islands, flung across the sea by earthquakes or eruptions.

But such things were decidedly less dangerous to the steamer than to the average vessel, for the Burst had none of the reasons a wooden hull and sails of cloth entailed. It was impossible to becalm, difficult to damage, and could not be shut down by antimagic the way an enchanted vessel of similar calibre could.

As such, confident that, short of an unusually powerful group of pirates or oceanic beasts, anything they might encounter on the way to the pleasure fleet would be, at worst, a setback, Mharra began to make his way back to his cabin. There was little to do but think, and that was best done in his quarters.

'I do not expect any surprises,' the ship replied to his warning.

'Well, yes, that is why they are called that,' Mharra said, lightly tapping his thighs as he walked through the door and down the shifting corridor, which changed from a straight line to a flight of stairs. 'Better do, though,' he cautioned as he began to ascend,' he cautioned, confident enough of his sea legs to take the steps two at a time.

'Captain?' the ship asked sharply, voice seeming to come from all around him, including from above and beneath. 'I realise I have not verbally thanked you for giving me a new life and purpose. That is less because I dislike babbling as much as you and the crew seems to love it, and more because, I believe, my service is thanks enough.' It paused - likely looking for a way not to sound apologetic, in Mharra's amused opinion. 'But I know some people need to have such things confirmed, blindly obvious as they are. So, thank you.'

'You're welcome,' Mharra said with a warm smile he hoped could be seen. He wasn't sure how the ship's senses worked, but it did not appear to miss much. At least in terms of sheer information, if not nuance. 'I would enjoy it if you stopped referring to the crew as if you are not part of it, though, Burst.' He chuckled. 'We, quite literally, could not have gotten here without you.'

'Aye, aye, captain,' the steamer said, and he could not, for the life of him, find any irony in the usually mocking answer. 'But to get to my point. I am grateful, though we are even. I would go as far as to consider you a friend.'

'That far? Can even you make such a journey?'

The ship's snigger was too deep to be called such, by human standards, but Mharra did not think it was quite a laugh, either. 'A great challenge for any vessel, indeed. But listen: I know many friends have the bad habit of not mentioning certain things, for fear of upsetting each other. That is not something I plan to begin doing.'

'Good to know,' Mharra said coolly, no longer jumping up the stairs, but instead adopting a languid walk. 'And?'

'And I feel the need to remind you that you are failing.'

Mharra glared at one of the walls, unimpressed, deciding it was as close to a face as any other part of the ship. 'If you are going to bring up how I'm the least powerful member of the crew, and that I can't even choose destinations any more because you do it, do not worry. I am fully aware.'

'There is no need to be bitter in the face of facts.'

Mharra scoffed.

'Regardless, that is not what I wanted to talk to you about, for I suspected you have realised it. What you might not have noticed is that you are going against your lover's wishes.'

Mharra silently stared at the wall, stopping and leaning against the railing, hands on his hips. 'Truly?' he asked, making a show of sounding incredulous. 'Fascinating. Did Three leave a will in the engineering room, which you've neglected to mention to me?'

'Do not accuse me of withholding information, sir.'

Mharra laughed. 'You cannot call me a failure for no reason and still make such demands.'

'I knew my engineer,' the Rainbow Burst said. 'Not the way you did, but it does not matter. I would say we were as close, for he understood me as much as anyone can. And I know he was an exuberant soul.'

Mharra's mood was too dark for him to enjoy the (unintentional?) wordplay, so he merely nodded.

'I also know he loved nothing in the world more than you. Do you think he would enjoy seeing you mop around, brooding? You haven't even thought about finding a new lover, once circumstances permit. Nor have you looked for other ways to entertain yourself.'

'I must have been too busy searching for Three,' Mharra said acidly. 'An ongoing problem, if you can recall. Has been keeping all of us busy for a while, and will likely continue to do so in the near future.'

The wall extended, forming a humanlike shape, as if a man had been buried inside it and was now trying to break free. It pointed at Mharra as it spoke. 'Three would not wish for you to remain sad. What if he is truly gone? Beyond salvation? He was as aware of the sea's dangers as any sailor, and he did not flinch from them. How do you think he would feel, watching you turn maudlin?'

Mharra looked at the ship's avatar for a long moment, then turned away, buttoning up his coat before undoing it. The fidgeting served no real purpose, but helped him calm down, to an extent. 'I will be in my chambers, ship. Notify me once we reach our destination, or if any emergency arises in the meantime. Otherwise, I am not to be disturbed.'

Behind him, the construct retreated into the wall, the metal as seamless and reflective as ever. '...You do not enjoy my company.'

'I despise unjust accusations, regardless of whose mouth they come from,' Mharra said coldly.

After ascending what felt like tens of times his height, he reached the door to his rooms, separated from him only by a short corridor. As he crossed it, he mused that he could've asked the steamer to shorten the route, but he did not much care for its help, at the moment.

Turning the wheel that served as a door handle, at the moment, Mharra once more wished it had been him who had participated in that experiment, not Three. He would've almost certainly died, aye, but would that knowledge not have been better for his lover than uncertainty? He felt like half his waking moments were spent imagining the worst things possible happening to his ghost. He saw little but Three in torment whenever he closed his eyes.

It was not a healthy way to think, and likely madder than not, but such things did not come to him by choice. Maybe, if they'd made any progress besides deciding on the Clockwork King possibly being able to help them...no. What had he contributed to that? As much as to the search itself, which was to say, nothing.

Mharra shrugged off his captain's coat, carelessly stuffing his hat into one of its many inner pockets. On most days, he would have been too dussy to even consider doing such a thing - his urge to fix Ryzhan's shabby clothes did not compare to the need to keep himself clean, show the tides and wind had not ground him down, leaving him an uncaring husk like so many other captains - but he found he could not give a damn.

Mharra tossed the coat behind him with one hand, then turned his head, smiling slightly when it landed exactly on the open spot in the clothes rack. A little bit of personal theatre, to get in the mood for the actual, upcoming show.

He still hadn't decided what he would actually do. His heart was pushing him towards tragedy, but what Midworlder wanted more of that? The few who did were unlikely to be the sort of folks Mharra would play for. But then, he doubted he could be convincingly funny, unless he manged to fake cheer with even more success than usual.

Rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand, Mharra made his way to his desk and -ponderously, feeling weary as a man twice his age - sat down in the wheeled chair. An interesting trinket, more useful for spinning in place than making one's way across a room without getting up. Debating on whether to spin until he got dizzy enough to forget some of his worries, Mharra decided he'd rather have a clear head, inasmuch as he could, these days.

The captain sat with his elbows propped on a semicircular desk, chin resting on his steepled fingers. After what must have been a few minutes, he lowered one hand to tap a code on the desktop. The steamer quickly obeyed his wordless command, making the desk's surface ripple and rise, until a moving map of the ship's surroundings stretched across it.

While distances could not always be depicted accurately, lest the details become invisible to the naked eye, Mharra gathered that there would be a while until he reached his next audience. On the map, the pleasure fleet was depicted as a collection of pretty white vessels, with flurishes in different shades of purple appearing here and there. Strangely, the ships did not appear to possess any oars, sails, paddlewheels or other means of propulsion - but when he asked the Burst whether they were magical, or possessed of the almost sorcerous technology of the Free Fleet, it said they weren't.

'I know hardly more than you,' it added, in a voice as quiet as the mutterings under Mharra's breath. 'But what my sensory arrays can spot indicate the grey giant's description was not inaccurate.'

Mharra ran a hand through his beard. 'I thought Ib was being metaphorical.'

'Maybe. But, until we can see them ourselves, we cannot discount the chance that they do go where their fancy takes them.'

That would be a sight. Sailing according to one's whims, to that extent? Practically unheard of...though, now that he thought about it, his crew had grown so strong that was practically how they travelled. It still felt uncanny to acknowledge.

Grunting in agreement with the ship, Mharra leaned back until his seat was balancing on its rear wheels. It would've been something of a balancing act even with a chair that merely had legs, but he figured he might very well throw in some acrobatics for the show. The possibility of falling onto his rear on a carpeted floor was too harmless to even be called a risk.

Although, his pride might be hurt if he failed to handle even balancing on a wheeled chair.

Taking his hands off the armrests and closing his eyes, Mharra began waiting the seconds as he waited for any news from the steamer.

The ship was not in a rush. Mharra had, decades ago, learned how to differentiate moments when, for whatever reason, his senses were so overwhelmed he could neither observe his surroundings for signs of time's passage, nor track his breaths or heartbeats. After thirteen thousand seconds, he opened his eyes, righted the chair, and stood up.

Nearly four hours...he couldn't recall how long it had been since he'd sat in place, indoors, for that long, sleep and conditions preventing him from being on deck aside. A luxury, by many standards, and his beloved wasn't even there for them to share it.

...Bah. The average sailor would have been dreaming up disastrous scenarios if cooped up inside for that long. They likely wouldn't have enjoyed it, either, though for different reasons.

'Might as well wander the halls,' Mharra mumbled, mostly to himself. He doubted he could so much as twitch without the ship noticing, but telling it wouldn't hurt anyone.

Outside, the wheel-lock was spun by the steamer's will, so that the door was ajar by the time Mharra made his way across his office, coated, hat on his head. Maybe, when he returned, he would go to his bedroom instead. Sleep didn't come easy to him when he knew there was nothing he could do to help with anything, but everything else was equally useless and more tiring, so, as long as he didn't become slovenly, there would be no problem.

The Burst even indulged him, changing its insides so there were always new hallways to travel, new nooks and crannies to discover. At one point, Mharra found himself facing a tall wall, sheer but for the handholds dotting it at irregular intervals. Smirking to himself, he grabbed two, placed a booted foot on a third, and began climbing.

A better way to spend his time than lazing around in bed. A captain had to be fit, unless they wanted a mutiny on their hands. Mharra knew his friends better than to think they would go against him that way (it wasn't like he could actually stop them from doing something they wanted, really), but if he became fat and slothful, those two would do their best to get him back in shape, so he might as well not get to that point.

His shoulders began to tremble after a while. The handholds were arranged - for there was indeed a method amidst the apparent madness; organised chaos - so that one of his arms was always extended a bit too much, but it was a good burn. Being hurt meant being alive. The times he'd been left numb or unable to move, usually after being poisoned, had made him feel more dead than any wound received in battle or during exploration.

Eventually, when he felt he could climb no more, the wall ended. Grabbing the top, Mharra heaved himself up, panting, and swayed for a moment as he took in the sight that lay before him.

Or the lack thereof. The steamer might have been providing him with strolling paths and obstacle routes, but it wasn't even close to artistic at the best of times. A hallways stretched beyond him, so long he couldn't see the end. The walls, painted (but were they, really, when the ship simply made them that way?) something between dark brown and black, were covered by small but bright orange lights. Round and closely-packed, they reminded Mharra of the unblinking eye clusters sported by certain insects, some large enough to swallow a Sea Worm like an ox would a blade of grass.

'This is quite unnecessary.' He gestured at the lights with one arm, rolling his other shoulder. And it was. Mharra hadn't grown up in a mine like Ryzhan had, but he had spent enough time in gloom to judge how strong lights were. He believed he could have found his way without the orange spheres as easily as his mage friend would have.

'If you want to add some decorations,' he said - thought out loud, really, he doubted the ship would take anyone's advice but its own when it came to aesthetics -, adjusting his three-cornered hat so that it sat at a rakish angle, 'you could start by making people feel welcome, rather than watched.'

This might have actually been one of the few situations in which he would have benefitted from being a narcissist, but being the centre of - practically - a thousand insectile eyes' attention wasn't something he much enjoyed.

At least the ship wasn't making them blink.

Mharra walked for half an hour, lost in thought. The corridors were shaped as he strolled, giving the illusion of undulation, but a small part of his mind noted his movements, along with whether he was going left or right, up or down. Failing to see a pattern, and knowing the steamer wouldn't strand or kill him (it could have done so earlier, had it wanted to, but what would be the point? Ib would turn it into so much scrap if the giant caught wind of that), Mharra instead began counting the shining orbs in the walls.

They reminded him of the lightning lamps of the Free Fleet, devices powered by shackled thunderbolts their makers called electricity. Did his ship have such sciences at its disposal? An image of the steamer catching lightning strikes, treating a storm like a farmer would a field, rose in Mharra's mind, and he laughed, uncaring if he was heard. Maybe the Burst would ask what was so funny, and they'd have something other than his alleged failures to talk about.

He was disappointing enough without imagined faults. Not for the first time, Mharra wished he'd have kept the crown from back home for himself. What could he have done with it intertwined with his flesh, when the dust of one shard let him do things some mistook for magic?

The captain shook his head. That was how thirsting for power began, and how ungratefulness was born. He'd escaped when his first true lover hadn't; he'd ended the monster who'd spawned him; he'd even surrounded himself with powerful people, who were nevertheless too virtuous to make a slave or plaything of him, as other mighty folk might have.

He had enough. If only Three had been there, he would have been happy, not just grateful.

But Mharra knew better than to wish for such things. Unless you struggled to achieve what you wanted, Midworld tended to reward hope with new reasons to despair.

It was one of the reasons Mharra appreciated naturalism. Ib had once mention, offhandedly, a spherical world, bounded in size, unlike theirs, where a philosophy with the same name declared that all things and events were natural. The captain had shrugged, thanking his friend for the shared lore, but it did not concern him, really.

There were wonders uncounted scattered across Midworld, and as many horrors - likely more. A man like Mharra could not sail for so long and not accept that fact. And if praising the former, or cursing the latter, while observing some rites here and there constituted a faith, well, he was more than happy to call himself faithful. The spirits of the islands and the seas, the beings some called elemental, enjoyed. being praised as much as anyone.

As he thought of them, Mharra fancied that he could hear the waves slapping against the hull of his ship. His imagination, of course: the ship had, in Ib's words, soundproofed itself (and wasn't that a strange notion? A quiet ship, even when nothing on or inside it was making any noise? Mharra would have once thought such a vessel would need a hull thicker than most fortresses' walls for such silence to reign). And even if it hadn't, the whirring and grinding of its many engines, hidden and not, would have covered all but the fiercest storm's roar.

Mharra's strides slowed down, by now a reflex when his body noticed danger, even before his mind thought of it. His smile, serene and contemplative, grew thinner, colder.

No, no fancy, here. He could hear the waves. And his hearing wasn't inhuman like Ib's, or sharpened by magic like Ryzhan. It had merely been honed by years and years on the sea.

The ship was quiet. Silent as a grave, and no one would have wished to be on such a vessel. Usually, it heralded threats that would soon smother the other senses, too. Like the shadows that ate every light not watched by someone, as well as every sailor without a torch or candle. Inside them, you boiled as if you had swallowed molten rock, but also shivered as if freezing to death. Yet, at the same time, touch and taste and smell were deadened, leaving one feeling buried. To say nothing of sight, which could be thwarted even by mundane darkness, much less its ravenous cousin.

Luckily, Mharra knew how to avoid such shades, as well as keep them from taking root. Sailors who feared running out of fat and tallow and oil often found themselves watching every darkened corner, and the darkness seemed to grow from their fears, until their nightmares became real. Him, he'd always figured that, if he were on a ship with nothing to light, he'd likely be in more danger for what lurked in the darkness, not the absence of light itself.

But there was no darkness here.

Oh, there was no source of light, to be sure, at least no visible one, but every handspan of the ship's insides was illuminated. The closest comparison Mharra could come up with was the sky on a mildly cloudy day, when the sun lit up the world, but couldn't quite be seen itself. He was sure that, if he had been able to dig into the steamer's skeleton, he'd have found some lighting torches, or something like them...but, if any were working at the moment, they were as subtle as the ship's noisier components.

Silence inside. Enough to hear the tides slapping against the hull through how much of the miraculous substance that made up the Burst? The ship's skin (he could not think of it as anything else) varied in thickness according to its owner's wishes, but why would it have thinned it so much?

'You know, Burst,' he started conversationally, for once wishing his ship would create a puppet so he could have something to look in the eye, 'if you're trying to scare me because you're annoyed that I told you off earlier, this isn't how you should go about it.'

No response. But who would have been optimistic enough, gullible enough, to expect one?

It was times like this that made him grind his teeth. Ib could have cracked the steamer like a whip until it behaved. Ryzhan likely could have as well, given enough time, though who knew how his magic would compare to the ship's ability to remake itself?

But Mharra? He had nothing except - and he had wanted to smack so many people over the years for using the term - parlour tricks. Nothing that could harm the vessel.

Still, it was being ridiculously dismissive of him. What, did it think he was like one of those children who only felt at home amidst flashing lights and endless chatter? Quiet, gloomy chambers were more likely to make him sleepy than frighten him.

He would not ask it to restructure itself and open a path, not right now. It would be like admitting its little game had rattled him. Even if it had, Mharra wasn't feeling very honest. The steamer would bring him back to the deck once they reached the pleasure fleet, or, if it had gone mad, it would face retribution from the rest of the crew.

This was more than a faulty vessel, for the Burst had displayed the faculties of a person, if a petty one. This was mutiny.

'And here I always thought Ryzhan would start one,' Mharra said, before laughing at his own words. Ah, but his young friend was far away, likely caught up in a battle of his own.

Gods knew the man could feel embattled in a rose garden. It was just the way he thought, not that Mharra could claim he was much better. Not without laughing at himself again, at least.

The captain kept walking, pulling his hat low on his eyes as if facing the sun. To fill in the silence, he brought his hands together in loud, infrequent claps. On many islands, he had seen revellers do this while sauntering about town, all but radiating insouciance. Helpful, if unintentional teachers, who had imparted upon him the nonchalance an actor often needed.

Eventually, his arms grew tired, so he began to roll his shoulders instead. A tuneless mining song rose from deep in his barrel chest. The ditty had been created to help men fill the hours spent in darkness with some liveliness, so it was short on sense, but charming in its own way. Ryz would have likely said something about how appropriate it was for the captain, his captain, to hum such a song.

'An' one an' two an' three an' freeeeee...' Mharra rumbled the lyric once again, stretching out the last letter. He almost regretted not asking around that port he'd first heard the song in. Three what? Miners rarely got away from work fast, so he doubted it referred to something easy to obtain.

Clearing his throat, he stretched his arms overhead, the resulting crack feeling as pleasant as it was to his ears. When he lifted his eyes, the sight made him huff good-naturedly.

'Come now, Burst, not even you can be this tasteless,' Mharra said, hands on his hips as he took in the apparition. It resembled his Three, though on the missing ghost's worst days, the bluish-purple of its form turning colourless at the edges of its already faint corpus.

The figure smiled wanly at him, but said nothing. Mharra's temper, usually something he had well in hand, threatened to rise. Had the ship really conjured an image of his lover to...what? Take revenge for being snubbed? It couldn't be that petty. To remind him of his alleged failures? It couldn't be that stupid.

Mharra stepped backwards, shaking his head, and was grateful to feel his back hit a wall. Leaning against it for support, he found his breathing had rapidly sped up. Surely his temper wasn't that wild that he'd start panting like some thwarted beast if annoyed? Maybe the steamer had a point.

Placing his hands against the wall (hadn't the nearest one been several paces behind him last he'd checked? Why change that now?), Mharra locked eyes with the facsimile. Its expression was unchanged, tranquil. For a moment, Mharra wanted to ask if it hadn't felt compelled by his rhyming, but that sounded ridiculous, even in his head, no matter in how sarcastic a tone he imagined it.

'Hello there,' he began instead. 'Is something the matter?'

The Three lookalike - only one corpus, he noticed, as if more proof was needed that it was an imitation - nodded, the movements strong but smooth, like that of a mute communicating with those who didn't know their gestures. There were as many sign languages as there were fleetson Midworld's seas, likely more, but nodding tended to be understood by one and all.

The being then lifted a hand, pointing at its face, which quickly went through several expressions, though its colouration made the false Three look apoplectic, or perhaps sickly. Like a man losing air, in any case. Looking closely, Mharra saw anger flash in those deep, dark eyes, then hatred, grief, regret, doubt...

Mharra did not much enjoy mirrors. They were useful when he needed to check for wounds that, while dangerous, could be neither seen without aid, nor felt. The rest of the time, using one made him feel vain. And, like his earlier confrontation with the steamer - he didn't feel polite enough to call it a discussion; far too much slander had been involved -, they made him look inward.

Mharra was rarely pleased with what he saw there.

'What?' he snapped, tearing his gaze free from the fake ghost's. If it was offended, it did not show it. Instead, it gestured at its face, then shook its head. Mharra stared at it, bemused, then connected the dots. 'You're saying I shouldn't be feeling like...that I shouldn't be focusing on the things you showed me?' he said, asking more than stating.

The thing nodded again, this time with some enthusiasm. The showman side of Mharra distractedly thought pantomime might be enjoyed by the pleasure fleet folks.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, with more understanding than he felt. Speaking with children and idiot-savants, people who were won over by enthusiasm more often than not, helped one mimic exuberance as needed. 'I see! What should I do, then?'

The steamer was probably watching and laughing its keel of, but Mharra was half-surprised he hadn't started talking to the walls earlier...well, talking without addressing the will behind them.

"Three" moved closer, not floating, like the person it as based on, Mharra noticed, but walking half on, half through the floor. A mark of clumsy ghosts, most often seen among newly-risen ones. Leaning its head back, it silently mimicked laughter, even rubbing its belly the way Mharra used to do when he wanted to make his ghost laugh along.

The captain's affected cheer faded. Looking straight through the creature, he glared at a wall as smooth and blank as any of those around him. 'Enough, Burst. Cease this farce at once.'

Three would never treat him like this. He wanted to believe this was his lover, reaching towards him from wherever he'd ended up, but he couldn't. Three would not treat him with silence, would not be as graceless as he was aloof.

Unless he had, has no choice, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. Have you thought of that? Perhaps he's trapped, or beleaguered, and this is the only way he can act.

Perhaps. But it was moot, for there was nothing to question or test, with the apparition gone. By the time his surroundings had shifted to take him above the deck, Mharra having closed his eyes to diminish the dizziness, the thing was gone.

Coat snapping in the wind, Mharra walked briskly across the deck, stopping at the railing and placing a firm hand on it. 'Burst, I do not know who you think you are dealing with, but I-'

'Sir,' it cut him off, voice surprisingly pleasant. 'Considerate of you to make your way here. I was just about to call for you.'

Despite himself, Mharra glanced up, seeing a smattering of shapes on the horizon. As his eyes adjusted, which took little time, he saw it was too dark to be morning yet, though dawn was quickly approaching.

How...how late had it been, when he'd gone inside? Noon, evening?

He rubbed his brow. 'What do you mean,' he asked tersely. 'You yourself made way for me, when I told you to stop toying with me.'

'...I know not of what you speak, captain, but that was mere coincidence. You were on your way up when I began shifting form.'

'Nonsense,' Mharra replied dismissively, though he could not help but feel some doubt niggling at him. 'Coincidence? You began changing exactly when I asked-'

'You did not ask anything, sir,' the steamer said, voice patient but firm. 'You haven't spoken to me since you left your chambers.' Sheepishly, it added, 'I understand I might have been prickly earlier.'

Mharra blinked, checking his breath for drink or lingering powders, but he was sober. In fact, he felt more clearheaded than he had in weeks. 'Since I left my chambers...?'

'Quite. You wanted to go for a walk, and I indulged you.' It chuckled. 'Had I knew you enjoyed climbing this much, I would have raised towers for you to scale, many-faceted spires...'

'Are you saying you haven't heard anything from me for, what, hours?' Mharra asked slowly.

'I have not. We haven't talked since...yesterday, I suppose.' In a chiding tone, it continued, 'As such, it would be best if you retired for now. I will wake you if needed, and talk to the fleet in the meantime.'

Come to think of it, he did feel tired, not to mention hungry. Had time truly flown by so quick, without points of reference? But the ghost-thing...was the ship simply lying through its teeth?

'Alright,' Mharra said lightly. 'So we haven't talked in a while, that is, I haven't asked anything of you since last evening or so.'

'Correct.'

Mharra scratched his cheek. 'But surely you heard...everything else?' he asked, some agitation creeping into his voice. 'The translucent thing, shaped like...' he trailed off, gulping. 'It just disappeared.'

'You haven't said a word for almost half a day, captain,' the steamer said calmly, like a witch doctor addressing the village madman. 'You seemed deep in contemplation every step of your journey.' In an admiring voice, it said. 'Come to think of it, I could almost envy such unity of purpose, for you were not made to sail wherever, every day of your existence. And yet...'

'Forget that,' Mharra said tersely. 'So you followed me as I walked, you say?'

'For own safety, yes.'

'You watched me?' Mharra stressed.

'As usual, captain. For your own good.'

'...And I was alone?' he whispered, not willing to believe it.

'Of course not,' the Rainbow Burst answered, and for an instant, Mharra thought it was going to come clean and admit to its mischief. But then it said, 'You are never alone, captain. I am always with you.' In a less chirpy tone, it said, 'But no, there were not, are not any people on my body besides you, if that is what you meant.'

Mharra placed a hand against his forehead, beginning to stagger. Luckily, a chair formed behind him, and he let himself sit down, taking quick, shallow breaths.

'But I must say, captain,' the steamer said, 'if you believe you are hallucinating, I could offer my services.'

Letting the ship root through his brain was the last thing he needed right now. 'I'll sleep it off,' he said roughly, trying to stand up. 'Should the pleasure fleet send any envoys, inform them that I am resting, but will be with them as soon as possible.'

'And if they mean us harm?' the steamer asked, not even bothering to hide an eagerness Mharra shared.

He smiled wolfishly. 'Well, then sink them, and chain up any survivors.' He laughed. 'Inform them that I'll be with them soon, as well.'

'Noted,' the ship positively purred. Mharra wasn't sure how much he trusted it at the moment, but it seemed they both wished a bastard would. It would be just like his luck to come up against people he might have an excuse to kill, but have to sleep while his ship handled matters.

* * *

'Hail, fellow!' boomed the approaching stranger, waving a hand high. Though the flat-bottomed ship he approached in was painted bright yellow and covered in garlands, he was a plain man, though tall and broad, skin tanned by sun and wind. He did not sport a beard or whiskers, or indeed, any hair on his head.

Rested if not at peace, Mharra sat atop the recently-created figurehead of his vessel: a brass-coloured jester, whose split face half cried, half laughed. He returned the wave, chuckling. 'Hail? Sky looks clear to me.'

The burly man laughed as Mharra gestured at the sky, and the captain smiled. Truly, it seemed he still had a while to go until he was to find Midworlders whose tnongue he could not understand. He was not complaining, though.

A couple hours later, Mharra stood in the middle of the Rainbow Burst, which had shaped itself into a circular stage. Around him floated thousands upon thousands of ships, of all shapes and sizes. The pleasure fleet, however, tended to cover their vessels in things that delighted the senses, from flowers to gemstones, and some odd shapes Mharra could not place. Devices? Artefacts?

It mattered not. Taking his hat off, Mharra silently vowed to give them a show they would never forget. They had accepted him easily, always looking for new ways to entertain themselves.

If other sailors knew what bounty they had spread across their fleet...but who was he to teach them to share it, really? Between Ryzhan and Ib and, aye, the Burst, could they not feed any and all sailors they could reach?

As Mharra gathered his thoughts, and reached into his sleeves, a woman who had never asked to become a monster watched him, from far, far away, at the same time she watched the friend they shared.