Chương 180: 20. Daily Life at Sea 2

I had initially assumed the most important thing on a ship was not falling off. I was wrong. On Tidesever, the three most important things were: First: don't block anyone's path. Second: don't ask useless questions. Third: when everyone else is working, make yourself look useful. Nobody formally explained these rules. I derived them empirically over a single morning—through being shouted at by Blake twice, criticized by Lov three times, and nearly taking a wet rope to the face when a coil snapped back.

"Not like that!" Blake pulled the line from my hands and rewound it in about four movements.

"You think you're hanging laundry?"

"I've never done this before!"

"You have now." He grinned.

"Congratulations." Nico, collecting hook-lines on the opposite rail, watched me get corrected and laughed like he had front-row seats to entertainment.

"Cedric, that knot you tied would work great for hanging yourself later."

"If you're that bored, I can demonstrate on you first."

"Secure yourself before making threats, Freshwater Stomach." I took a slow breath, telling myself not to engage with a boy who ate apples like he was working through personal grievances. Unfortunately the breath came in too full, pulling sea wind that contributed unhelpfully to my ongoing stomach situation. At exactly that moment, Ignicia walked past carrying a roll of spare canvas roughly half her width. I stared.

"Wait—doesn't that take two people to—""This?" She shifted the roll onto her shoulder with casual ease.

"It's not heavy." Right. For a moment I had nearly forgotten. This was the woman who had carried torpedoes on her shoulders and casually reorganized my understanding of physics. Blake watched her set the canvas down and let out a low whistle.

"I'm starting to like this lady," Blake said.

"You'd better limit that to appreciating her work efficiency," I said, expression flat.

"Relax, kid." He patted my shoulder.

"I like staying alive." That was, genuinely, the most mature sentence anyone had produced on this ship all day. Lov stood behind us, running a strip of cloth along her flintlock. She looked at Ignicia for a moment, then said, without warmth: "She learns faster than you."

"Why don't you just say I'm an eyesore and save us both time?"

"You already know. That's sufficient." This ship had a genuine talent for grinding people's temper into existence through sheer proximity. Around midday, Marro took formal command of the ship's rhythm. When he was just standing around, that infuriating looseness was almost a physical presence. But the moment he stepped into the captain's role, it was like he had exchanged one set of bones for another. Same economy of words, same caustic delivery—but every order landed with precision that left no room for doubt.

"Take the port auxiliary sail in by a third."

"Blake, if that line chafes again, you're swimming to check the hull tonight."

"Nico, eyes on the horizon. I didn't tell you to study someone's cloak."

"Lov, secure the powder case. If this ship blows, your name gets carved first." Under his hands, Tidesever moved like something alive. Not silent—coordinated. Rope, pulleys, canvas, footsteps, waves, wood against wood—everything interlocking. The crew insulted each other constantly but worked without a wasted motion, as if each person carried an internal map of where to stand, what to do, and when to get out of the way. I watched from the side and something quietly clicked. This is why ships like this survive.

Not because the people are particularly good. Not because they like each other. Because at sea, no one can afford to treat the rules as entertainment. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. When Marro turned, he caught me standing there with what must have been a contemplative expression.

"Boy."

"What."

"If you keep standing there looking like you've just understood the meaning of existence, you can start scrubbing deck."

"... I was just watching how you operate."

"Then watch while you work." He jerked his chin toward a wooden bucket.

"Clean that out." I looked inside. Fish, blood, water, and several substances I declined to investigate further. I looked back at him.

"This is revenge for criticizing your fish soup yesterday, isn't it?"

"No," he said with perfect serenity.

"I simply feel you should develop a deeper appreciation for where your ingredients originate." Bastard. By afternoon, the sea had settled enough that my stomach allowed me to reclaim basic human dignity. I sat in the shade of the gunwale sharpening my short blade, letting my hands find the ship's rhythm. Ignicia sat opposite, looking out at the horizon—though by her standards that probably didn't qualify as spacing out so much as thinking very quietly.

The wind had blown a few strands of golden hair loose across her forehead. On shore, she always carried an edge—fire, blade, something high-register that could incinerate anyone who moved wrong. Out here, with fewer walls pressing in, fewer eyes to watch for, fewer decisions requiring immediate response—some of that tension had eased. Not softened. Just... loosened. I watched her for a moment. Before I could speak, she said without turning:"Keep staring and I'll start charging."

"Have you been taking lessons from Marro?"

"It's called reality."

"I just wanted to ask something." She turned then.

"Ask." I hesitated, then said it.

"When we reach the Dragon Kingdom—what are you planning to do?" She didn't answer immediately. Sea wind moved between us, carrying salt, sun-warmed timber, and something that felt strangely distant. After a long pause: "Return to the capital first."

"And then?"

"Then make sure the people who need to know understand that the Yanxia Empire and the sea-dragon tribes have begun coordinating." I frowned.

"You think your father's court has no idea this is happening?" She lowered her eyes, fingertips tapping the rail twice, lightly.

"Not knowing and having no sense of it are different things," she said.

"But instinct and evidence are separate currencies. Especially in the Dragon Kingdom."

"You have that problem there too?" She looked at me.

"Did you think only humans enjoy pretending everything is negotiable until it's completely beyond saving?" Fair point. That successfully adjusted my remaining romantic assumptions about dragon politics. I thought for a moment, then asked: "What about me?" This time she actually paused.

"You?"

"Yes." I slid the short blade back into its sheath and looked at her.

"Once we reach the capital—what am I? The envoy who escorted you back? Some unfortunate swordsman fished from the sea? Or..." I stopped. Because in saying it, I realized I didn't know what I was asking. Status? Position? What she intended to do with me once we arrived? Ignicia looked at me. In the afternoon light, her golden eyes were bright without being harsh.

"You're Cedric," she said.

"... That answer is somewhat thin."

"No." Her voice was level.

"That's the most troublesome kind of answer there is." I blinked. She turned back to the horizon.

"A bodyguard can be paid off and dismissed. A foreigner can be handed to the protocol office. An unfortunate swordsman gets a guest room and meals." Her tone stayed as even as someone reading weather reports.

"Unfortunately, you're none of those things." Something hit my chest—very lightly. Not hard. But precise. Before I could find a response, Nico's voice exploded from the mast.

"Hey! If you two keep making the deck atmosphere feel like a romance novel, I'm actually going to be sick!" I turned instantly.

"Do you experience physical pain when you go a full day without getting punched?"

"Catch me first, Freshwater Stomach!" He ran. Fast. Blake was already laughing hard enough to need the rigging for support. Lov simply rolled her eyes with the comprehensive disdain of someone watching two people whose combined maturity remained statistically unimpressive. I took a slow breath and sat back down. Realistically—I probably couldn't catch him anyway. Ignicia tilted her head. That faint, brief curve appeared at the corner of her mouth.

"Your face is red," she observed.

"Sea wind."

"The wind wasn't that strong today."

"You're in a good mood, aren't you."

"Reasonably." Fine. Better this than her sitting in cold silence. By the second day, I woke up without immediately wanting to donate my stomach to the ocean. This was, arguably, humanity's single redeeming feature: given sufficient time and failure to die, we could eventually accommodate almost anything. I came up to deck before full dawn. The sea was gray-blue, morning light just beginning to tear a pale line across the horizon.

The late watch was handing over to the morning shift; Lov leaned against the gunwale with water, Blake crouched at the bow checking forward rigging. The whole ship sat unusually quiet in the mist—only timber and water speaking to each other. Marro was already at the stern. One hand on the helm, one resting on the compass box edge, eyes forward—looking like someone who had simply never slept. I walked over. He didn't turn, just said: "You look human today."

"Thank you for setting the bar at such an accessible height."

"Being alive is enough at sea. Standards are luxury." I almost argued. Instead I stood beside him and looked at the water ahead. Today's wind was harder than yesterday's, the sails drawing fuller. Tidesever cut through the swells with different quality—faster, steadier, as though yesterday hadn't only been sailing but demonstration that this ship survived on skill, not luck.

"You spent all yesterday watching," Marro said without preamble.

"What did you see?" I looked at him.

"Is this a test?"

"No. I'm determining whether an extra mouth aboard serves any function." This man genuinely refused to offer even basic conversational courtesy. I looked out at the water, thought it through, and answered honestly.

"Your ship is small, but too agile for her size. You're not fighting the waves—you're reading their angle and cutting through. Yesterday you adjusted sail trim twice for speed, and once just to avoid three consecutive swells hitting the starboard bow." Marro finally turned his head to look at me. I continued.

"And your crew argues constantly, but everyone knows their position. Blake watches rigging, Lov manages weapons, Nico runs around like something escaped from a tree, but his timing on information relay and gap-filling is exact. You're not running them as ordinary sailors. You're making each of them half crew, half fighter." Morning wind came across the stern, carrying cold at the edges. Marro looked at me for two full seconds. Then he made a very short sound through his nose.

"Finally. Something besides a sword hand."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Call it evidence I'm in an acceptable mood today." Extracting that level of acknowledgment from him was, in measurable ways, harder than winning a sparring match. Before I could appreciate the minor victory, Nico's voice rang out from midships.

"Blake! Kingdom boy didn't throw up today! You sure you didn't feed him brine?" My expression flattened immediately. Wonderful. Tidesever remained, as ever, a picture of serenity.