Shades of Grey
Chapter 3: The beaute de la Mer

VILLE DE MER— JANUARY 1843

“Grey…Grey, wake up.”

I opened my eyes to replace that Forma had assumed the body of a stallion and I was prostrate on the ground against an oak tree with the rays of the mid-day sun beating down upon me.

I rubbed my temples, my head pounding with unrelenting force as my body recovered from the Gargouille incident.

“How long have I been asleep?” I asked in a pained stupor as I downed a small amount of the analgesic. I grunted as my muscles began to recuperate faster.

“About a day.”

I looked sharply up at Forma.

“You let me sleep for an entire day?!”

“You needed the rest.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Well I haven’t been flying the whole time. We arrived here late last night so I slept through the night. But we’re here, so you best wake up.”

Perturbed that she had allowed me to sleep so long, I stood up, stretching as the analgesic worked its magic.

“Where’s the village?” I queried in a mildly pained stupor.

“Through those gates.”

Forma nodded toward a busy looking village surrounded by a large white brick wall. There were two bulky, muscular guards guarding the wooden portcullis; each holding very long spears and brandishing bandoleers impressively stocked with assorted irons. I swallowed anxiously, doubting my ability to deceive my way through such well-armed security.

“Is it very difficult to get in?” I asked in cautious fear.

“Not really. From what I gather, they ask you what your business is and then they use a Vericium to verify that you are telling the truth.”

I stared at the guards and focused my hearing to the conversation they were conducting with a peasant man who stood eagerly at the gate.

“What is your name sir?” asked the first guard.

“Victor du Monde,” responded the man.

“Where are you from?” inquired the second.

“Brise de Montagne,” Victor replied confidently.

“What is your business here?”

“My mother is Monique Rosette du Monde. She is dying and she has requested that I come to see her.”

The first guard swept a thin, wand-like device — the Vericium — around the man’s frame, searching for the slightest hint of deception. When they found none, the device gave a satisfied ‘ding’ sound and the man was allowed to pass.

“Alright, seems simple enough!” I said as I stood. “I just need a suitable disguise...”

“Finally, a chance for you to use the Pallitus,” Forma smiled as she changed into herself and sat on a nearby boulder. “I’m tired of being the only one who can shape-shift.”

I smiled, remembering the day Lady Raysa gave each year six Tyro a Pallitus on the night of commencement to year seven, just after we had learned how to use them properly. Designed by an Elf named Bella Starr, the cloak could alter your appearance while you remained the same underneath: a virtual Mambrino’s helmet for the travelling Hunter.

I removed my hat, letting it hang around my neck and threw the thin black Pallitus over myself, turning to Forma. Her face contorted as she concealed laughter.

“Oh, how bad is it?” I asked through a groan.

“You look like Lord Rasna’s ugly brother!”

I rolled my eyes as Forma rejoiced in obnoxious laughter. I then concentrated on manipulating the fibres of the cloak, deciding to keep “the old man’’ façade. When I opened my eyes once more, Forma cocked her head in thought, her chuckles slowly dying.

“Better,” she finally said. “More believable.”

Forma unsheathed her cutlass and held it out towards me so I could see myself in the spotless metal blade. She was right: I did look believably old, as if Methuselah himself was staring back at me. A straw hat sat atop my balding head and loomed over my paper-white beard that hung well below my waistline. The long beard took the focus off of my tallow, leathery skin and my thin, wizened brown eyes. I appeared to be crouching as if my body had been through seventy years of use, even though I stood perfectly straight under the cloak. Elf magic was fascinating…

“Alright, let’s go!” I said, my voice now sounding as old and withered as I looked.

Forma became a very old mule and I gripped the bridle around her neck, gently leading her down the path while trying to walk as slowly and tenderly as an old man, but I had not used the Pallitus in a very long time and my skills were rusty. Forma had to reprove me several times telepathically to lessen the speed of my motions, to match my movements with the age and decay of my appearance.

“Name?” asked the officer once we had reached the portcullis.

“Keller Van Saan,” I said, borrowing the name of a year five Tyro I had met during my commencement to year three. To this day, I am unsure as to why I chose his name, I found him quite peevish during school…

“Purpose in this city?” asked the second guard.

“I need to charter a ship.”

“To where?”

I froze. I had not counted on such a direct question and I certainly could not tell them the truth. I felt Forma stiffen as one of the guards gripped a Vericium and prepared it for use.

“Romania,” I finally answered. “To visit an old family friend.”

The guard swept the device around me, detecting my pulse. He waited as the machine calculated my status, lying or not, and nodded in satisfaction as it dinged happily.

“You may pass.”

Relieved, I nodded curtly and entered Ville de Mer, which was a much more populated (and wild) city than I had thought. At least twenty streets branched out away from the entrance square where I stood and the mass of people looked as though they were celebrating Bacchanalia. The men appeared to be flat-out drunks and those few that were sober easily stepped over or around the stumbling drunkards: not caring whether or not they were in the path of someone else, only that they got to their own destination in a timely fashion. I saw three carriages narrowly run into each other and one carriage took a turn too sharply and narrowly collided into an old woman crossing the street, neither of which paid the other any attention.

Fawney droppers and bit-fakers were busily roaming the streets, preying on the ignorant masses while the pick-pockets made their rounds about the distracted crowd, stepping over eager bums and moochers. I held my belongings close to my chest for safekeeping.

“How can people live in such a reckless city?!” I asked Forma. “There seem to be more cadgers and criminals than respectable citizens!”

“There must be something in the water,” she suggested.

I laughed aloud — doubtless deepening my disguise from a harmless old man into an insane harmless old man — and began walking in the direction of the docking port.

“Here you are, old man,” said a young voice suddenly from my left.

I turned just as a little girl of about ten years old slipped several shillings into my bag, smiling at me with the self-righteousness that any middle class citizentends to have when making alms to a poor person.

“Times are hard,” she said empathetically. “But God has a special plan for you. Don’t give up hope!”

She then began skipping away with the joy of Shakespeare’s Miranda, pleased with her beneficence. I turned to Forma.

“That girl thought I was poor,” I said in quiet surprise.

“Well, you do look the part,” Forma rationalised. “And we could use the money. Maybe you should make a couple rounds about the city first.”

She laughed at her own joke, which was a strange sound to hear from a horse.

“Oh shut up. Which ship do we want?” I asked in a short voice as we stepped onto the endless dock. More ships than I could count sat anchored in the port and it almost gave me seasickness to look at all of them: one large bobbing flotilla with hundreds of stevedores loading the rocking triremes, clipper ships and even some new steam ships with carts of supplies. I had to avert my eyes after several moments to avoid worsening my nausea.

“Whichever is the cheapest, we have limited funds,” Forma reminded me.

I looked around and saw a price list nearby, checking it casually. None of the captains were very cheap: the cheapest demanded a hundred francs, which I could not afford even with the money I had received the previous day.

“Forma, we can’t afford any of these ships!” I cried in distress.

“Wait… check the last ship on the very bottom.”

I looked to the last name listed, the Beauté de la Mer, and saw that it would cost only ten francs to get as far as Islola diFallacia, just off the coast of Italy. That would give Forma enough time to rest and be ready to fly the remaining distance to Romania by tomorrow morning.

“If yee be wantin’ the Beauté de la Mer, yee best be willin’ ter pay in full ahead er time,” said a low droll behind me.

I turned to see a very lanky old man in a brown cloak leaning against the support posts of the dock, swinging his feet as he flashed me a Puckish grin. His hazel eyes and quizzical brow looked playfully cognisant and I had a feeling he could see past my miserly disguise.

“I have enough money sir,” I responded. “I will pay whatever you ask.”

“Great! Then yee got yerself a vessel!”

I smiled and shook the man’s hand eagerly as he led us down the docking port towards his ship.

“So, my good sir, what’s yer name?”

“I’m Keller Van Saan,” I said, bowing in respect. “And this is my mule, Bertha.”

I felt Forma cast me an irritated look at the name. I laughed to myself at the memories it unearthed.

“I’m Saul Barnaby, captain of the greatest ship in this fine port: the Beauté de la Mer!”

He stopped walking and pointed with paternal pride to the ghastliest ship I had ever seen in my young life. Next to the majestic iron ships and brand new clippers that stood docked at every other station in the port, the ancient wood exterior of the Beauté de la Mer appeared infected and entirely unseaworthy. The huge sails were so worn, they looked yellow and the mermaid figure at the bow of the ship was almost completely covered in lichen and seaweed. My stomach churned slightly at both the rancid appearance of the ship and the thought of how it would fare against nature and the elements.

“Idn’t she beautiful?!” Saul cried proudly as he led Forma and me up the walkway onto the deck of the ship, gesturing around gaily in pride as he regailed his triumphant victories.

“That’s where I almost loss me ‘ead durin’ the Hurricane o’ 1794…I killed an evil soljeer o’ the Grayman’s Army over dere… an ’ere’s where I fought ’ostile water nymphs that wanted me ship back in 1800!”

“You’ve fought water nymphs?!” I cried, astonished.

“You name it, I’ve fought it. I was a Creature ’unter once.”

I stopped walking and stared at Saul in shock. The captain of the oldest, mouldiest, most unattractive ship in the world was once a Creature Hunter?

“You were a Hunter?!”

“Yeah, so yeh can take off yer fancy coat. Yer okay ter be yer ’unter self on this ship.”

I reached up to remove my cloak and Forma changed back into her self, resting on my shoulder. Saul stared at me in surprise as I revealed my face.

“Wow, yer a youngling, aren’t yeh?” he asked.

“My Commencement was three days ago,” I admitted.

“Good God! Have yeh even fought anythin’ yet?”

“I stopped a Gargouille from destroying a village several miles east of here yesterday.”

“A Gargouille?! On yer first go?”

I nodded as Saul studied my face before shifting his gaze to my Flamesword hilt. He lightly traced my name with his fingers, a nostalgic hunger evident in his eyes.

“I remember de day I got mine…’’

I smiled politely as his eyes then turned to Forma.

“Yer Maisling’s beautiful. What’s yer name?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, folding her hands in an unflagged display of defiance.

“Forma!” I cried, flicking her off my shoulder in annoyance. She folded her arms once more after recovering her balance in the air and flitted around me, angrily resting on the brim of my hat. “Don’t be so rude!”

“S’okay, not the first time I’ve gott’n that reaction. It’s been a while since me ’unting days. Y’know, I was quite a handsome devil before...” His eyes then grew cloudy, as though there were a great Melpomenean tragedy behind his downfall.

“So, where am I staying?” I asked, attempting to divert his attention.

He brightened in remembrance and opened the door to the cabins below.

“Sorry ’bout that! Right this way!”

As he went down below, Forma flew off of my hat directly infront of my face, her expression brooding with cynical irritation.

“You can’t possibly be willing to charter this man’s ship?” she exclaimed. I brushed her aside and walked up the entry ramp. She flew next to me in irritation.

“Forma, he’s our only option unless we plan to steal a ship or if you want to risk flying all the way to Vikka.”

“But I don’t like this man! Aren’t you the least bit suspicious of him?”

“No! I’m tired and I would like to leave as soon as possible so please stop your childish remonstrations and follow the captain!”

No sooner had I spoken than Saul appeared once more on the deck and gave me a puzzled frown.

“Are yeh comin’ or what?”

I kept my unrelenting gaze on Forma and commanded her to follow. She rolled her eyes and obeyed, visibly disinclined. I walked over to the doorway where Saul stood but seconds before I reached it, another man swung down right into my line of vision. I started and gave a brief cry of alarm.

“Elkin! What ‘ave I told yeh about doin’ that ter guests?” Saul turned to me. “’pologies. This is me assistant, Alonzo Elkin. E’s a Romanian sailor ’oose ‘elped me greatly in me travels! You’ll be seein’ lots o’ ’im, but ’e doesn’t talk so much, so yeh won’t be ‘earin’ so much o’ ’im…”

Elkin hung agilely from the thin rafters and ropes as though he was a chimpanzee in the jungle, but he looked more like a clodhopper or a deviant preparing to steal children. His face was hollow, feint and unfeeling; his black eyes haunted by a malevolent curiosity and I feared that he would be the sort of man to peep in on me during the night as I undressed. I resolved to have Forma do a complete sweep of our room for any secret eyelets once we were settled.