Chương 167: 16. One-Eyed Marro 1

The moment that name rolled out of Porter's mouth, my first thought wasn't we're saved. It was: do people around here hold some kind of competition to see who can pick the most ominous name for themselves? Blackbeard Bay. The Old Captain. One-Eyed Marro. Give me two more and I could probably compile a heartfelt memoir titled How to Get Sold at Port While Paying Your Own Shipping Fees: A Survivor's Guide.

Before I could even open my mouth, Ignicia set her cup down beside me, those golden eyes lifting with the measured interest of a scholar who had just encountered a fascinating specimen.

"One-eyed?" she repeated, her tone carrying the same curiosity one might use when asking about the breeding habits of a rare magical beast.

"Humans actually advertise their missing body parts in their names?"

"Not everyone does," I muttered, keeping my voice low.

"But people in places like this love repackaging their defects as legend. Makes anyone thinking about punching them hesitate for half a second first."

"I see." She nodded with genuine contemplation.

"So if you were to lose an arm someday, would you rename yourself 'One-Armed Cedric'?"

"Thank you so much for taking such an active interest in my retirement planning." The woman behind the counter watched us with the expression of someone observing two people who were actively drowning yet somehow still had the energy to bicker about navigation techniques. She wiped foam off a wooden mug with the back of her hand and said, unhurried: "Don't celebrate yet. Hearing the name doesn't mean you'll get on his ship."

"At least it means this port doesn't exclusively specialize in shallow graves," I replied.

"No." She produced a smile that was entirely on-brand for Blackbeard Bay—which is to say, it contained exactly zero comfort.

"It just means that if someone can get you out alive, that same person is probably very good at selling you for a premium halfway there." The honesty was so bleak it was almost worthy of respect. Porter belched, spat a fruit pit of mysterious origin onto the table, and slurred an addition: "Marro's not a merchant captain. Not one of those Kingdom-licensed, paperwork-filing types either. He runs routes that don't exist on charts, carries cargo that shouldn't exist.

Bootleg spirits, contraband, deserters, wanted idiots, and the occasional distinguished guest for whom surviving until tomorrow would qualify as a minor miracle." He paused to look us over, his gaze lingering specifically on my equipment bag—still wet enough to provide half a barrel of seawater if properly wrung out.

"You two look like you fit those last two categories pretty well." For a moment, I genuinely couldn't identify a single angle from which to argue with that assessment. Ignicia, characteristically unruffled, tilted her head slightly.

"If he can actually deliver us near the Dragon Kingdom's mainland, I can tolerate him being an uncouth human." The woman behind the counter snorted.

"Wrong, girl. Someone who survives Blackbeard Bay long enough to still be sailing isn't uncouth. He's dangerous."

"What's the practical difference?" I couldn't help asking.

"Plenty." She held up one finger.

"Uncouth just means his mouth is offensive. Dangerous means you fall asleep and wake up missing your money, your boots, and if your luck's really run out—your kidney." I silently shifted my chair half an inch closer to Ignicia. She glanced at me. The corner of her mouth lifted—barely, the kind of movement that, had I not been sitting right beside her, I might have blamed on the shifting firelight. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what that expression meant. She was in a good mood. And when a fire dragon was in a good mood, the one who inevitably suffered for it was me.

"So," I said, hauling the conversation back to solid ground with both hands, "where do we find this One-Eyed Marro?" The woman didn't answer immediately. First, she pressed her palm over the two silver coins I'd placed earlier and drew them toward herself. Then she let her gaze drift lazily toward the upstairs rooms.

"You're staying here?"

"We are."

"One night?"

"One night to start."

"Then you know how things work." She gave a small nod.

"In Blackbeard Bay, tracking down a captain's whereabouts can be more troublesome than tracking down a mistress. A mistress at worst takes your money. A captain will throw you straight to the fish." She finished and jerked her chin toward a table in the far corner, half-swallowed by smoke and noise.

"He's not here tonight." I frowned.

"You're wasting my time?"

"If I wanted to waste your time, I'd tell you he's at the south pier and send you wandering around at midnight by yourself." She answered with complete laziness.

"Then your boots would be floating in the drainage ditch by morning." The educational value of the conversational style in this port was truly staggering. Porter chuckled darkly, with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had witnessed that exact scenario more than once.

"Marro just made port two days ago," the woman continued.

"He doesn't show his face during the day. If you want to see him, wait until after the night watch changes, then go to the repair shed behind Salt Dog Wharf. There's a black-hulled, red-striped two-masted cutter there. The figurehead is a sea serpent biting a dagger. Don't knock the front door—go through the side entrance with the broken net hanging over it." She paused, then added: "Assuming he's willing to see you."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then it depends on how much money you're offering, or—" Her gaze slid toward Ignicia with an expression that made my scalp prickle, "—how much ability you have to make people think twice before doing something stupid."

"We have considerably more of the latter," I said immediately.

"I can tell," she said. She said it too quickly for me to determine whether it was a compliment or whether she was simply taking out insurance on her tavern in advance. Ignicia picked up her cup and finished the remaining ale in one swallow, her brow furrowing with the precise disapproval of someone evaluating a substance that tasted strange but probably wouldn't cause organ failure.

"Bitter," she concluded.

"That's ale, not sugar water."

"Humans are strange," she said with complete sincerity.

"You willingly spend money on bitter liquids, yet you treat flammable substances with such excessive caution." My mind flashed—involuntarily and with perfect clarity—to the image of her taking a mouthful of gasoline in the submarine and erupting like a small, indignant volcano. My jaw twitched violently.

"That's not excessive caution. That's basic human survival instinct." She looked at me with the measured consideration of someone deciding whether the phrase basic human survival instinct could reasonably be applied to my specific case. Honestly, I wasn't entirely sure myself. I pulled the conversation back on track.

"So. After the night watch. Salt Dog Wharf. Repair shed. Black hull, red stripes, two masts, sea serpent figurehead."

"Good memory," the woman said.

"I'd prefer not to die looking like a lost idiot."

"Don't worry," she said, her mouth curving with something that was almost a smile.

"In Blackbeard Bay, getting lost and being an idiot aren't usually what kills you. What actually kills you is—trusting people too easily." The words settled just as a gust of wind pushed through the tavern door, carrying salt and rotting timber, making the hinges groan like some ancient, unhurried warning. I was quiet for two seconds, my hand finding the hilt of my sword—still not entirely dry. We'd survived an underground shipyard, an ancient submarine, an explosion, and a speedboat with an enthusiastic leak.

And now the next obstacle was apparently negotiating passage with a dangerous captain named One-Eyed Marro. If fate had a face, I was increasingly certain I would very much like to punch it. Ignicia rose from her seat. The hem of her cloak still carried faint white traces of dried salt. She looked down at me and spoke in the same tone one might use to announce dinner plans.

"Rest for an hour. Then we go find him."

"... You've already decided?"

"What else?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have a better ship?" No. More precisely: I didn't currently have any ship at all, let alone one that could complete a voyage without enthusiastically taking on water halfway. So I stood, accepted my fate, and followed her toward the stairs. Behind me, the woman at the counter offered one final piece of advice.

"One more thing, boy." I looked back. She was wiping a cup, not bothering to look up.

"When you meet him—don't lead with where you're going. Ask him first: whether he dares."

"Does it matter?" This time she looked up. The smile she gave me was thin as the back of a blade.

"It matters a great deal. A man who can't make the run will talk routes with you. A man who dares will talk terms of survival first." I didn't answer.