The Minerva was bigger.
Ship-building technology had advanced in the last thirty years. Clinker ships were a thing of the past – the Nancy Tulip, ironically, had seen to that. Ships could not be built big enough or stable enough for modern needs using the old methods. Cog built ships like the Minerva were the order of the day – smooth-hulled, wider at the keel, safer and more stable in heavy seas and high winds. Ships were bigger, as a rule. Rarely as big as the Nancy Tulip, but on average, the cog-built ship was the way forward.
Even by the standards of the new technology, the Minerva was huge. Marius stood to one side as a stream of navvies climbed the steep gangway. A dozen barrels rolled their way upwards to disappear behind the gunwales, as did a constant stream of wrapped bales. Chickens in wicker cages were carried past. A navvie staggered under the weight of a dozen crossbows. As quickly as the labourers entered the ship they returned, jogging down to disappear inside a massive warehouse twenty yards further down the wharf. Marius stepped back into the shade of the building and admired the industry with which the navvies climbed the sheer face of the walkway. The deck of the Minerva towered at least forty feet above the wharf, and the hull was a good one hundred and sixty five feet from prow to stern, if Marius was any judge of size. Where the Nancy Tulip, for all its master’s lunacy, had been a fully-functioning warship, weighed down with cannon and armouries, the Minerva was built for trade. Marius swept his gaze across the vast expanse of wood, estimating how much of the ship’s innards might be given over to empty holds. He whistled. With the kind of load the Minerva was capable of carrying, it was likely to be headed out on a long, long voyage. Exactly what Marius was seeking. He stepped out of the shade and made his way to the foot of the gangway.
“Hold your horses, pal.” A massive, anvil-jawed man in shirtsleeves sat on a barrel at the walkway’s base, ticking items off a sheaf of paper as they passed. Without looking up from his task he tilted his head in dismissal. “Unless you’re carrying supplies you’re in my way, so piss off.”
Marius stared past him towards the deck of the ship. “I’m to speak to the captain.”
“Captain’s already seen the dock master. Papers are all in order. Now you’re in my way and you’re getting up my nose.” The sailor stood, laying his sheaf on the barrel. The passing navvies immediately stopped, and laid down their burdens. “I hope you know how to fly, laddie.”
“My name’s Helles,” Marius said, as the sailor raised fists the size of a small child’s head. “My… friend saw him last night, regarding passage.”
“The lady?” The sailor lowered his hands, looked Marius up and down in something approaching surprise. “Red-haired lass, built like a long night in the tropics?”
“Her name’s Keth.” Marius said, feeling a disconcerting stab of jealousy.
“Bloody hell, son.” The big man stepped back, and nodded towards the top. “If you can keep her to yourself you’re more energetic than you look.” Marius stepped on to the gangway, and the sailor returned to his seat. “Captain’s in his cabin at the rear castle. Tell him Spone passed you through.” He glanced up at the resting workers, dismissing Marius from his attention. “Right, you horrible lot of lazy old whores, sleep time’s over. Shift your arses!”
Marius scurried up the gangway ahead of the belaboured navvies. He turned sternward at the top, away from the stream of labourers, and made his way past teams of labouring sailors as they made their way to various holds arrayed across the deck. Everywhere was industry, energy, and organised panic as the crew made the ship seaworthy. A set of steps led upwards to a poop deck above his head, dominated by an enormous wheel that looked over all the terrestrial endeavours below it like a god’s unblinking eye. Marius stared up at it for a moment, wondering at the size and strength of the man who could turn that massive wooden circle. The space between decks was closed off by a pair of doors. Two stained glass windows faced out onto the deck – Marius would need to pass multi-coloured impressions of the Old Gods Oceanus and Aequoris in order to speak to the captain. He drew no comfort from the knowledge that the man responsible for his safe escape was so superstitious. He tugged the brim of his hood further down over his face and knocked upon Oceanus’ blood-red nose.
“Enter.” The voice from within was imperious, clipped. Whoever was knocking was interrupting something far more important than their errand warranted, that much was made clear. Marius pushed open the door and stepped through.
A trading ship is a working ship. All available space is devoted solely to the making of money. The only room not devoted to that noble purpose was used to house the absolute minimum number of sailors it took to make the journey possible. There is no room for frippery, for useless substance, for baggage or personal items not utterly necessary to the trader’s only mission – to make as much money in as quick a time as possible. Everything is streamlined, cut back, minimalist, functional. This was not the case within the walls of the captain’s cabin. The moment Marius stepped through the door his feet left bare wood. The cabin was floored with mosaic tiles, patterned so that he stood upon the lower paw of a puissant lion, whose roaring head poked out from under the oak four-poster bed underneath the starboard window. Heavy velvet drapes were parted to allow sunlight in, where they fell directly across the captain’s desk, a slab of black wood so large the cabin must have been built around it, rather than try and fit the thing through the door. The captain himself was sitting in a high backed chair that looked like a replica of the throne of Lenthus XIV, the so called Moon-King of Ureen. Marius hoped it was a replica – its cost would be merely breath-taking, instead of impossible to comprehend. Massive gold-framed paintings adorned the walls. Marius counted at least two Fermenis, and one Cabdur that, if genuine, was probably worth as much as the rest of the boat added up. Tables abounded, and shelves, piled high with ornaments collected from around the five oceans. Marius frowned. How could any of this survive even the most moderate sea, never mind the massive swells such as those he had experienced crossing the lower equator? Either everything was glued down with the strongest glue known to man, or this captain must have a boy solely employed to pack and unpack the room depending on sailing conditions. Marius caught movement in the shadows of the far side of the room. As if in answer to his thoughts a young lad emerged, no more than eight or nine years old, polishing a small picture frame and replacing it on a low shelf by the door to the captain’s wash room. He looked up at Marius and nodded a greeting. Marius returned it, and took a small step to the side, positioning himself so he stood in front of a small table that bowed under a field of velvet-mounted brooches and pins. He stood with his hands behind his back, and willed his torso to stillness. The captain looked up from a spread of parchment, and raised his eyebrows.