Marrin gulped his beer, wiped the foam from his upper lip and explained, ‘We have to call ‘em tits, and I’ll tell you why: because we’re not talking about breasts, or bosoms, or glandular organs. We’re talking about tits: grip ‘em, hold ‘em, suck ‘em tits, playthings designed by the gods to reduce men to babbling prehistoric critters at the mere mention, and worse – gods willing – when we catch sight of one… and it don’t even need to be a pair to get us going; it’s the promise of both of ‘em out in the open air that drives us so rutting mad.’ He took another drink and pointed out, ‘But you’re changing the subject. I was talking to the captain.’
‘Right, sorry,’ Sera said through a mouthful of billowy smoke, her sarcasm as thick in the air. ‘Please, do go on.’
‘Now, Captain,’ Marrin began.
‘Wait,’ Doren Ford interrupted, ‘are we really having this conversation?’
‘Of course. Why?’ Marrin looked surprised.
‘I am not going to have sex with another woman while we’re in Orindale and my wife is in Southport, Marrin; it’s just not going to happen.’
‘But you see, Captain, you’re coming at it from the wrong tack.’
‘Am I?’ The current conversation notwithstanding, Captain Ford liked these two; they were the closest thing he had to a first and second mate on the Morning Star, his weatherbeaten and currently a little leaky old brig-sloop. With nothing to haul back home to South-port, he’d ordered them to oversee the repairs while he met with business contacts in Orindale to find a westbound cargo to see them all through the Twinmoon: firewood, textiles, winter vegetables – anything to bring in a few copper Mareks. They were moored on the mudflats north of Orindale, just south of the salt marsh. It was too expensive to pay for mooring off the southern wharf, even during the winter Twinmoon, especially as he wasn’t unloading anything lucrative. And this far north, the inns were cheaper and less crowded; he preferred it that way.
‘Take your wife,’ Marrin insisted, pressing on with his argument.
‘I don’t like where this is going,’ the captain said warningly. He crossed his arms, trying not to look unsettled when they came to rest on top of his paunch. I need to cut back on the pastries, he thought in passing.
‘Hear me out, hear me out,’ the young sailor protested, motioning for another beer. ‘Your wife is near-on perfect, wouldn’t you say?’
Captain Ford nodded.
‘I mean, her tits have got to have been formed by a randy god, and that backside – rutting whores, but that backside was carved from marble by a Pragan master. She may be the most beautiful woman in the Westlands, sincerely.’
‘And?’ Captain Ford twirled a finger as if to say, So get to the part where I smack the shit out of you.
And… and I would never suggest that you do anything to violate the holy bond that you and your wife consummated when you stood the tides together, but don’t you ever want just a different look, a different taste? I’m not saying you’d have better; you probably wouldn’t – again, that being my own, personal and entirely qualitative opinion – but don’t you ever want a different shape or flavour, just for an aven or two?’
‘No,’ Ford said dismissively.
‘Good for you, Captain!’ Sera frowned at Marrin, one yellowed, chipped tooth peeking out beside the curved stem of her pipe.
‘Well, then you’re a madman, Captain, a gods-rutting madman. I love you, I do, I’ll not deny it, and may I grow old and never serve on a different ship than our own little stewpot out there, but you are a madman, and I just hope you find a healer somewhere to help you overcome this tragic affliction.’
‘Who are you?’ Sera said, taking a swing at Marrin’s head.
‘I’m a man,’ Marrin replied, ‘an honest man who understands what men need.’
‘And get it from you, will they?’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘that’s not what I meant, you seagoing whore. What I meant was- Well…’ He looked around the room. The captain had taken rooms for himself, Sera and Marrin here, rather than them sleeping aboard the Morning Star. The rest of the crew had politely turned down the captain’s offer and found their own lodgings near the northern wharf, where Tubbs and Kanthil knew a generous barman. Marrin figured young Pel for a goner but wished him good luck as he tagged along with the more experienced sailors.
‘Over there, her,’ Marrin pointed towards the bar, ‘just take a look at her.’
‘Great gods, Marrin, she’s got to be four hundred Twinmoons old!’ Sera was appalled.
‘No, not her, you drunken wench, the other one; look, her!’
Brexan Carderic emerged from the kitchen balancing trenchers of fresh jemma fillets, potatoes, several loaves of bread and a small bowl of gravy.
‘Her?’ the captain asked.
‘Right, her,’ Marrin said. ‘Now, she’s not your wife by a healthy margin, but look at her. Look at that taut body. Look at the way her hair falls about her face when she walks; can’t you just imagine that hair all spread out over the pillows while you looked down at those pert little twins from above?’
The captain sighed. ‘What you don’t understand, Marrin, is that when my wife and I stood the tides together, we agreed not to look at other people in that way, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re not ready to get married.’
‘Thank the gods of the Northern Forest for that,’ Marrin said with a heartfelt sigh. Sera shook her head and shrugged.
Captain Ford watched Brexan move through the tables, almost dancing as she sidestepped, spun and slipped around and between the other patrons. She looked up and caught him watching her. Seemingly amused, she smiled; Ford couldn’t help but grin back. He reached for his beer, meaning to finish it off, but feeling the swell of his stomach beneath his shirt, decided on a sip instead.
When she finally reached their table, Brexan doled out the trenchers and the bread then carefully put the gravy bowl in the centre where everyone could reach it. Laughing to herself, she said, ‘Well, that was tricky. I’m glad you didn’t order the soup.’
‘This looks delicious,’ Captain Ford complimented her. ‘Did you make it?’
Brexan laughed out loud and covered her face with both hands as if embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she giggled, ‘but, ahem, no – you’d know it was mine if all the locals were lined up outside with buckets while women and children leaped to safety from the upstairs windows.’
He smiled back. ‘Please give my thanks to the cook, in that case.’
‘And bring three more beers,’ Marrin cut in.
‘You must be thirsty,’ Brexan said.
‘I am a lot of things.’ The inebriated sailor tried to guess her age; he figured she couldn’t be over two hundred Twinmoons, close enough to his own age for a sexual foray to be entirely acceptable.
Brexan glanced at Ford, who sighed and said, ‘We let him out of the basement from time to time; it seems like the humane thing to do.’
‘I understand,’ Brexan said. ‘I used to work with- well, a group of men, and-’ Realising her mistake, Brexan tried to back away from discussion of her time in the Malakasian Army, ‘Well, they were… You know-’ She decided to stop digging any further and hoped they’d put it down to shyness.
‘See that?’ Marrin was smug. ‘She’s speechless.’
Sera winced. ‘Please, if you know what’s best for you, run, run fast!’
‘Let me ask you something,’ Marrin said to Brexan, who nodded slowly.
Are you attached to any man right now? Are you married, or into anything serious?’
Brexan thought of Versen, and while she expected to feel sadness – memories of him usually brought on her depression – she surprised herself by smiling. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Why?’
‘Excellent, truly.’ Marrin finished his beer. ‘Of course, I don’t want this to interfere with you bringing me drinks until my friend here is checking me for a heartbeat.’