Tales of a Spice Trader; Chapter 1

“Coffee, black, no sugar,” I put the coins on the counter and wait for the bartender to cross the expanse before removing my hand. Fish Port, notorious for the transient carelessness of a population on the move, was not a place where the hand left the money before it was safely claimed by the intended recipient.

“Food?” The bartender grunts, thick lower-jaw tusks making a soft grinding sound as they shift against the upper teeth. The tusks themselves aren’t a shock, but the hammered gold bands encircling them, the fine filigree in the carvings, and the blunting polished onyx nibs at the tips, are. They’re the marks of the Baikal, but not just run of the mill Baikal – royal family Baikal.

He grunts at me as I inappropriately stare at his ornamentation.

“Payment from a runaway,” he shakes his head slightly, the bristling mane running from the top of his narrow skull down to his broad shoulders whispering as the wiry hairs dislodge the weak and cast them to the floor.

“No food,” I remove my hand as he covers the coins with his own, not counting them, and slides them over the edge into the trough just out of sight.

He turns and pours a pot of steaming black liquid into a chipped once-white mug and places it back in front of me, curious golden-brown eyes waiting for the question I need to ask.

I sigh, “I am looking for a boat.”

“Ship,” someone nearby corrects me with a growl.

“I am looking for a ship,” I amend, acknowledging the sailor and mindfully controlling my tone. Superstitious and ready to fight, the muscle-wrapped seaborne of the port were one of the reasons money had to be in constant positive control.

“Passage isn’t cheap,” the bartender leans back from the countertop and idly runs a maybe-clean cloth around the inside of a definitely dirty cup.

The hard part of transactions anywhere in this bastard-run province is the three Cs of cost. Anything could be bought or bartered for depending whether you paid in coin, company, or cargo – depending on how much of it you had on your person. I wasn’t exactly low on coin, didn’t really have a mind for selling my company, and wasn’t carrying a lick of cargo with which I was willing to part.

At my momentary silence, the bartender continued, “Passage where? That weights your price.”

“Nowhere specific, I am a trader, I can trade wherever I land,” I take a sip of the soul-mending coffee and savor the sweet taste of stale beans, filthy water, and the distinct sensation of grounds embedding in my teeth.

A curious, invested, kind of quiet starts to dull the casual sounds of a bar full of people. The bar itself, the Laughing Boar, a bit on the nose, sat middling on the port’s main boardwalk, splitting the whole port town between north and south. It was a huge place with three levels, the top two encircling the bottom with a railing over which some curious faces began to peer.

 

A trader could be many things on the right boat. Ship. A source of reputation, of income, a mark of prowess, a ticket into restricted areas, someone to rob or screw or both, but most importantly – they paid well. Traders who had traveled the world carried with them the currency of every nation, the knowledge of every tradition, the taste of every culture, and the cargo to ease the way for those who knew how to capitalize on their good fortune.

I wait while the silence permeates.

“What have you to trade?” The bartender knows he has something everyone in this town wants and he’ll pry the right information out so those interested can weigh whether I’m worth the loss of space and the potential frustration of sailing with someone who bears no respect for their naval customs or laws.

“Spices,” I reach into the small bag on my lap, strapped across my shoulders to keep it at my belly when I stand, and pull a small vial of dark miniscule grains from within.

I hand it over to him, “Vanilla, from the steppe. A gift for your hospitality if you’d let me rent a room for the evening while I get my affairs in order for the trip?”

A softness, unguarded, leaks into the Baikal’s eyes before he can stop it. Reaching out, almost tentatively, he takes the delicate glass vial and holds it up to the light. The pod I gutted into that vial is still in my pouch, the skins of the vanilla bean just as flavorful but subtle. This one pod’s innards are worth more than he’ll intake in the bar over the next month, maybe two, depending on the weather. Good weather is a bad day for an inside establishment. I’d wish rain for him, but I need the ships to sail.

“A rare thing,” he whispers, watching the lightly purple iridescence shimmer on the dark brown seeds. He would know how rare they are; those hammered bands have grown into his tusks, the onyx caps saving the sharpness of the tips without endangering his own skin, the careful craftsmanship in the carvings. Royal Baikal treasure the scent of vanilla and carefully cultivate and protect the forests in which it grows.

“All I can offer at the moment,” I respond and pat my bag. “But when I return, and with luck and hope I may, I will reward what kindness you may spare.”

He doesn’t take his eyes from the glass vial as he reaches into a pocket hidden behind a long leather apron and produces a key. As he slides it across the table, those with ships or crews uninterested in spices go back to their conversations. Those interested have begun to clear their tabs, tables, or schedules.

“Top floor,” he says, pocketing the vanilla. “You have bags?”

“Two trunks,” I locked them in the communal storage room by the dock, guarded by the Queen’s own to establish at least one safe harbor for goods. Two trunks of spices are a lot of spices, and the slight widening of his eyes tells me exactly how much he realizes he’s going to have under his roof.

“I’d like to leave them there,” I slide my lockbox key over to him as a safeguard, “In the event I somehow misplace myself in the night.”

He’ll know how to use them, spend them, sell them, or waste them in the event someone decides this is my last night on earth.

The bartender nods, “I’ll bring fresh coffee and dinner to your room if you’d like to retreat for the evening. I’ll send the sow with hot water for a bath when its ready.”

I nod because there isn’t much else to do but graciously accept and go back to sipping my shitty coffee. After a few minutes left to my solitude by the vanilla-enraptured bartender, the stool beside me is filled by a body.

“I’ve space for a trader.” The voice is brusque, the hand on the counter too close to my elbow is scaled and scarred, the muscles in the forearm chorded and rippling like the sea as the owner drums their clawed fingers on the heavily dented bar top.

The scales are small, shimmering, desert colored and, in many places, missing. It wouldn’t have been noticeable, the pale skin beneath the clotted-cream-colored scales would have blended in, but each missing bit was burnt black. Charred. Or tattooed to stand out. Healthy Cerasti replaced their scales after every molt, so my neighbor has either been on a ship that starved its people to save money, or they have deliberately removed the same scales in some pattern I don’t know.

I look up from the coffee and meet the horned golden eyes in the smooth angular face.

“What do you ship?” A common enough question.

“Parcels. For trade. We have room for a trader and their goods,” those golden eyes with the thin black slits drop down from my face to my chest, to my lap, to my clothing, assessing.

“I identify as female,” I answer their question.

A stroke of disappointment shivers their expression. Then, they shrug, “Acceptable, though not preferred. Coin then.”

I smile at the honesty.

“What do you ship?” I ask again.

“Goods for trade,” they say again, the s a little more pronounced as their annoyance flares briefly.

“Slaves,” the stool behind me says. I don’t turn to see who speaks - the Cerasti in front of me goes viper-still. The claws on the slender fingers tighten and the wood cracks under the pressure.

“Cerasti deal in slaves,” the voice says again, followed quickly by the sound of a heavy empty glass touching the counter. The smell of the thick hoppy beer made thicker by the gut-bubbling belch.

“Trade. Goods.” The shipper before me says again, pupils dangerously thin and fixed over my shoulder.

“Are your goods living?” I lift my now-cold coffee and take a loud sip to draw their attention back.

Eyes flick back to my own, “Yes.”

“Are your living goods of a species akin to my own?” I arch one brow curiously, containing the judgement that may result in a strike.

“No,” they say, a little too much fang in their smile.

“Are they your kin?” The voice behind me asks.

“We do not inquire to your transport,” the viper hisses then, pupils dilating to take in more light, preparing a well-aimed strike.

“I am accustomed to the traditions of your people, Cerasti,” I put my mug down. “There is no judgement from me. Are you transporting a defeated village for pit work across the sea?”

There follows a moment of full body tension before the Cerasti’s form loosens, the conversation shifting from one of barter to one of commonality, of explanation of known things, and the casualness of Cerasti ways.

“My mother is kind. She transports only the village adults who will survive the journey, and those who joined in rejection of their conquest. All elders and offspring were spared,” they dip their head in acknowledgement of a conqueror not present.

It is a fair feat for one of their kind to allow the vanquished to live – many other species believed in total annihilation, some kind of re-programming, inter-breeding to wipe out pure lines that might rebel in the future, or total slavery of a whole people, sold off to the highest, furthest, bidder. Take the homes, the homelands, and the people and there was nothing left to fight again in the future.

“A truly generous and kind approach,” I lift my mug to them in toast, “but I cannot travel with you as my own culture abhors the practice of slavery. When perhaps we cross paths again, and your hold is empty, I will join you.”

Unoffended, the Cerasti tipped their head, stood, and vanished into the now boisterous late afternoon bar crowd.

Swiveling around to the second speaker, I’m not shocked to find another human. Cloaked very mysteriously, with gloved hands and a lower-face mask with a slit for eating and drinking, there was too much fabric and not enough skin to make out any other discerning features. Even human would have been a stretch if not for the band encircling their upper arm. Crimson-edged jade, with a spiraling serpent stitched in white; it marked them as crew of the White Wyvern, famous for their specieist crewing custom. Among other things.

“Throwing with in slavers?” They tapped the bar top, eyes on the Baikal.

“You have room on the Wyvern for a trader?” Mug empty, I leave it on the counter. When the bartender returns and casually asks if I’d like another, I shake my head. No more caffeine for the evening. I’ll never sleep and tomorrow – tomorrow I need to be as awake and clear headed as possible.

“I might,” the human trying too hard to be coy says, modifying their voice into deeper, gruffer, timbres.

 

“Will your crew mind their manners? I’ve a bad streak of luck with human-only boats.”

 

“Ships,” the person corrects softly, lifting their new beer to their lips. “And we’re not all humans.”

No mask in the world would have hidden my surprise.

“New management,” the Cloak-and-Dagger says, not trying to hide their voice behind an affected deepness.

They turn their stool then, the skin exposed above the mask painted deep red to hide the natural pigment from prying eyes, their light-colored eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I’ve no preference for your gender, mind, but some others may,” their eyes focused over my shoulder.

“I’ve no need, nor want, for spices,” their eyes came back.

“Which leaves coin,” I offer.

“Which leaves coin,” they shrug, “or.”

“Or?”

“The Wyvern sails for a multitude of ports. To pick up and drop off. Nothing of your concern. Living,” they hold their hand up to stave off a comment, “but not in bondage nor transported against their will. You have been to some of these ports, I should think, as a trader of spices and knowledge, I would ask that you share it, freely, and often, to all on board.”

Stories. My breath catches. Memories. That which cannot be bought or traded or sold.

I see teeth behind the mask and know the human before me is smiling.

“Terms?” I manage to croak out.

Cloak turns and waves the bartender over again, “Something stronger, if you don’t mind. It never does to negotiate terms of passage with a clear head.”

There is laughter in their tone now and I find the levity infectious. Four small glasses are produced from behind the counter and a tall, thin looking clear bottle with an amber liquid inside is up-turned.

 

I take one glass, they take another, and the first of several shots burns its smooth way into my guts.

 

It takes two hours of back-and-forth negotiation of rules, laws, and foundations. Liberal input from the drunk crowd turns several rules into bawdy suggestions, of punishments and positions, and ribald laws of repayment. When the sky outside the storm-safe windows begins darkening, I stand from my stool and place a steadying hand on the Cloak.

“I’ll have my trunks on the dock by dawn, Captain, to ensure I don’t slow down your launch.”

They nod, finish the last of the shots, and stand as well, clasping my steadying hand in their own, to shake on the promises made.

It takes me a second to wonder if they’re taller than me but in the assessing second between standing and crouching, I miss the opportunity to tell. Instead, they bend slightly forward, mouth to my ear, and whisper their suggestion for closing out the evening.

 

Over the roar of the bar, I lean into the presence in such intimate proximity, “A bath first. Filthy sailors taste too much of sea and foam, and salted leather.” My skin prickles with something long forgotten. 

 

They laugh again, head tilted back, hand on their belly as their other grips my shoulder. 

The bath is filled and steaming, near to boiling hot, when I find the last room in the hall on the very top floor. It has three locks – the key in my hand opens one from the outside, the key on the table within closes one from the inside, and a bolt anchors the door to the floor. I strip from my clothing and fold the items carefully on the low bench at the end of the hay-and-cloth bed, tuck my boots beneath, and work my fingers through my carefully managed hair. Can’t keep too-long hair on the seas – between lice and the wind, it would be a tangle of straw hacked down to my scalp. But the sailor-common shaved sides and a foal’s crop on the top is not my taste. 

“Your last ship didn’t shave you?” Captain says, coming up behind me and hovering a curious hand near enough my scalp to touch, but not quite.

“Sea hair,” I say, “If there’s an outbreak of lice, I generally leave the ship.”

“Or bathe more,” they whisper into the nape of my neck, hand between my shoulder blades.  

I turn and look up at the person standing behind me. They’ve put their clothes in a chaotic pile in the corner, one boot with a sock still tucked into it laying on its side while the other, militant and upright, is facing the wall. Their mask, discarded, is tucked under the Wyvern armband; itself folded neatly and placed carefully on a chair. 

 

Chaos, and respect, displayed at once. I look back at the scars and brands and ink nearly covering every patch of skin from collar to ankle. When they take a step forward, my hands go to the binding on their chest, eliciting a menacing grin.

“Bath. You smell of seaweed.” 

The skin-prickling heat of water loosens some tension I’d forgotten; had tried to forget. Dunking my hair into the scalding bath set bumps down my arms. Unusual, but enjoyable. When I look at Captain, they’ve gone under the water, their short-shorn hair, their bare side-skull, not holding any of the water as they surface. The paint mixes with the water; grime and pigment turning the soap-opaque water into a visual slurry.

Washed with vanilla scented sand-scrub, a kind gift from the boar downstairs, the chill in the water finally drives us to the uncomfortable poking of fresh hay under thin blankets.

The cock beyond the window screamed its fury at the crest of the sun before the damned orb had even broken above the sea’s far edge. Hay, embedded in my skin, was plucked carefully out from under may nails, from between my toes, and from my ass as I rolled from the disheveled mattress and stood. My partner for the evening lay quiet, their breathing content and deep in sleep still. At the one sea-facing window, I pull the curtains wide enough to see the light crews outside walking the length of the boardwalk, extinguishing lamps. Nautical dawn painted the sky in bruise-blues and scar-pink.

A cautious glance back to the White Wyvern’s Captain, the sheets tangled down at their calves, lets me see more of the markings. Dozens. Across the calves and up the thighs, whirling around the buttocks and creeping up the back. Down across the shoulders and disappearing with the forearms under the cotton pillows.

I recognize most of the marks. The brand of a pirate captured in the south. The tattoo of a thief wringing both forearms from a nation in the west. The peeled-and-healed scarification of adulterer on the shoulder, a mark rarely seen from a nation long dead. Sins permanently etches in areas hidden by clothing but laid bare if the wearer was ever intimate or vulnerable. Damned to be sinless and alone or shamed when exposed.

But the one mark, there below the hairline on the back of the neck, previously hidden by the collar of the heavy leather and cloth jacket discarded on the floor – that mark I haven’t seen in a long time. Something usually only seen once in a lifetime. The irmor humyx knot. Human-like, immortal.

Compulsively, my shoulders tighten, feeling the flesh pull where my own, identical, brand sits in the center of my spine.  

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