Not much more than a shit's throw. That's what his mother used to say, tossing opaline stones across the often calm beryl chop of the Northern Liad. She was, of course, referring to the general direction of their homestead to the merchant foreshore of Elbion. Truth be told, she never had a very good sense of direction or at the very least, a poor form in describing it. It was on more than one occasion, when offering to give direction between the merchant republic and their small coastal village, that she was content to throw her arm towards the smell of the seas and point accusingly. Go that way and when ya see a stone as big as my arse, take a hard left and you'll be on your merry.
Or...take a few steps down the mountain, get those prissy pants crabshells locked in a boulder, and tumble on down along the high tide. You're bound to catch us eventually!
Jerus was, for all his life, a momma's boy. Even when she was planting that big foot of hers promptly on his rump, kicking him out the door and giving proper credence to the notions of sinking or swimming. It had been so long since the time he had spent with her that he couldn't recall if expatriation came around the official date of adulthood or, if like everything else, his mother was content to jump the gun. Either way, he had found that Elbion was a good deal further away than a shit's throw, even as the crow flies.
By the time he had made it to Elbion, if he wasn't a man yet, the roughage of brigand and vandalistic lifestyles had given him the appropriate dietary requirements to grow and put on a proper shell. Or perhaps it was just a healthy bit of grime. Either way, he stood out as someone who could carry himself and by the time he reached the port, he found no difficulty where twine and tar were of concern.
"Aye, yer do well here boy! And if ya don't, ta investment will be sound. On account of dose pearly whites!"
Jerus never went by his proper name. Not when he first started as tar tender and not when was promoted further, eventually making it to the Erca'Ryt Trading Company. Most called him Al, which was short for Ali, which was short for Alabaster. On account of dose pearly whites.
It was a common thing for men of salt to rot, from flesh to bone. And teeth weren't any special exception. Like white sea foam churning in the muck and mire that passed for Rou water, turning ever stronger shades of brown, the teeth were always on their way out. Scurvy, biscuits that resisted teeth like bricks holding off a wooden dowel, and alcohol for when the water went stale. But not Al. He was raised on a proper diet of oily fish, filled to the brim with phosphorous and all the other calcium requirements that one might need for healthy bones. And he maintained that habit at every port, using all his earnings to buy fresh food and the sort that would could keep. The recent trip to Ragash had been no different...
He chewed gingerly on a hard piece of cheese, watching the Baal-Asha shoreline pass by them in a northerly fashion. The cheese was pungent and carried heavy tones of soiled sock and hints of feet that were trapped in them. That was his preference; it kept the mooches at bay and it didn't bother him all that much. Taking another bite, he spied out into the dark waters and saw nothing but the glistening blots of the moons reflection, obscured by overlapping shadows of passing clouds. But where his eyes failed him, his ears picked up the slack.
"Oye, got some ruckus on the bilge port."
"The wut!" One of the toothless lice returned, smacking the mop against the boards.
"Heard something over 'er." Al pointed and the mopper moved over to inspect. A slice and wet flop was heard as the man stumbled backwards, holding his stomach where a primitive weapon had torn open flesh from shoulder to navel. The sound was followed by a thump and slosh, like an eel had been set along the tar boards.
Behind Al, Lazarus hopped down from the quarter deck, weightlessly. The landing, in the midst of the wild sounds of the river and the creaking of the ship along the water, blurred into the ambient noise. The Captain was eating an apple just as he motioned for Al to head up the stairs. "Scuddle up now tender. This lot is sure to see them teeth of yours and as miserly as they are, bound to try and use you like a weapon. Last thing I need is a toothy batty-fang on your account. Go find Terzine, tell him he's needed."
Just then, Lazarus lurched forward and flung the apple at the Kivren. It was wide of the mark but got the creature's attention. "Oye, porpoise! Where the fuck ya off to?" He turned back to Al. "Now, Al! 'Fore I get cross."
Al had just enough time to get halfway up the stairs before the Kivren was charging the Captain. And above them, an emerald streak of lightning cut across the dark sky.
