Sea boiled down to nothing more than choosing between one delay, an even worse delay, and a horrible death.
Foster grunted again, looking down at the pair of spectacles hanging against his beard. “I, uh, brought you something.” He held out the bottle.
Calder angled the ship to take them into a relatively clear stretch of water, and then took a hand from the wheel to examine Foster’s gift. It looked like an undersized wine bottle with a white label that read, simply, ‘Batch 419.’
He tugged out the cork and took a swig, expecting the bitter wash of cheap wine. Instead, he was greeted by a wash of fruity flavor that reminded him of peach.
When did we get a vintage like this?
“Alchemical wine?” he asked curiously. After a second, he took another drink. His parents would both have been offended for different reasons: his mother would have argued that he was abusing the wine by drinking it directly from the bottle, and his father would have wanted him to share.
Foster shrugged. “How should I know? I got it from Petal.”
Calder sprayed a mouthful of orange wine onto the deck.
“Not good? Oh well, I’m sure she’s got more. I thought, uh, you might like to hit some targets for a while.”
Foster hefted the musket.
Calder ignored him, focusing on his body. Did he feel a warmth running through his veins? Was it poison? Something worse? Should he have himself locked in the hold?
“Foster...I mean, Duster. What was in that?”
The gunner frowned, confused. “Wine?”
“If Petal put nothing else in that bottle, I’ll give you my share from this job.”
Foster reached into his jacket, pulling out a few rolled up papers that looked as though they’d been torn from a book. “She wouldn’t poison you, you know that.”
In point of fact, he didn’t know that.
He held up the papers, on which he’d drawn targets. “Where do you want me to set these up?”
Calder adjusted their course to keep them from running into a partially submerged Spire. “I’m a little busy here, Duster . If I stopped to shoot for an hour, we’d all be dead.”
Foster shifted from foot to foot, looking at his handful of targets. “It helped me,” he said at last.
Calder stopped. If anyone understood how he was feeling, it was Foster. He’d had a reputation as a world-class gunsmith, which had earned him quite a fortune among the Empire’s elite. It was once considered quite a distinction to own a Dalton Foster original. Even Naberius bragged about it.
But that was before the Emperor’s death.
Afterwards, until the four Regents and the Imperial Guard restored order, the Capital had spent a few months swallowed in chaos. An opportunist had found Foster, kidnapped his family, and forced him to make a gun. Every day until he’d finished, Foster’s family was tortured.
Not all of them made it.
The survivors, scarred and scared, had abandoned Dalton Foster. His own wife and children. As far as Calder knew, the man hadn’t seen or heard from them for years.
Calder’s lips stretched into a grin.
Foster scowled, crumbling the targets in his fist. “Something funny, Captain?”
He shook his head furiously, still grinning. “No, it’s...I can’t...I can’t stop smiling.”
Out on the deck, a frizzy head poked up through the trap door to the hold. Petal looked at him with beady eyes, and then hurriedly ducked back down.
“Ah,” Dalton said. “So that’s what was in the wine.”
For Petal, it was actually pretty good logic. If Calder wasn’t happy, then slip him some sort of concoction to make him smile. He’d have to watch his food for the next few days; once she found out this batch hadn’t worked, she would try a newer version.
“Thanks for trying, Foster. Some other time, perhaps.” The words might have sounded a little less ridiculous if Calder wasn’t smiling like a painted fool.
Foster nodded and walked off. Calder honestly couldn’t tell if the man was offended or relieved.
A hand clapped
Foster grunted again, looking down at the pair of spectacles hanging against his beard. “I, uh, brought you something.” He held out the bottle.
Calder angled the ship to take them into a relatively clear stretch of water, and then took a hand from the wheel to examine Foster’s gift. It looked like an undersized wine bottle with a white label that read, simply, ‘Batch 419.’
He tugged out the cork and took a swig, expecting the bitter wash of cheap wine. Instead, he was greeted by a wash of fruity flavor that reminded him of peach.
When did we get a vintage like this?
“Alchemical wine?” he asked curiously. After a second, he took another drink. His parents would both have been offended for different reasons: his mother would have argued that he was abusing the wine by drinking it directly from the bottle, and his father would have wanted him to share.
Foster shrugged. “How should I know? I got it from Petal.”
Calder sprayed a mouthful of orange wine onto the deck.
“Not good? Oh well, I’m sure she’s got more. I thought, uh, you might like to hit some targets for a while.”
Foster hefted the musket.
Calder ignored him, focusing on his body. Did he feel a warmth running through his veins? Was it poison? Something worse? Should he have himself locked in the hold?
“Foster...I mean, Duster. What was in that?”
The gunner frowned, confused. “Wine?”
“If Petal put nothing else in that bottle, I’ll give you my share from this job.”
Foster reached into his jacket, pulling out a few rolled up papers that looked as though they’d been torn from a book. “She wouldn’t poison you, you know that.”
In point of fact, he didn’t know that.
He held up the papers, on which he’d drawn targets. “Where do you want me to set these up?”
Calder adjusted their course to keep them from running into a partially submerged Spire. “I’m a little busy here, Duster . If I stopped to shoot for an hour, we’d all be dead.”
Foster shifted from foot to foot, looking at his handful of targets. “It helped me,” he said at last.
Calder stopped. If anyone understood how he was feeling, it was Foster. He’d had a reputation as a world-class gunsmith, which had earned him quite a fortune among the Empire’s elite. It was once considered quite a distinction to own a Dalton Foster original. Even Naberius bragged about it.
But that was before the Emperor’s death.
Afterwards, until the four Regents and the Imperial Guard restored order, the Capital had spent a few months swallowed in chaos. An opportunist had found Foster, kidnapped his family, and forced him to make a gun. Every day until he’d finished, Foster’s family was tortured.
Not all of them made it.
The survivors, scarred and scared, had abandoned Dalton Foster. His own wife and children. As far as Calder knew, the man hadn’t seen or heard from them for years.
Calder’s lips stretched into a grin.
Foster scowled, crumbling the targets in his fist. “Something funny, Captain?”
He shook his head furiously, still grinning. “No, it’s...I can’t...I can’t stop smiling.”
Out on the deck, a frizzy head poked up through the trap door to the hold. Petal looked at him with beady eyes, and then hurriedly ducked back down.
“Ah,” Dalton said. “So that’s what was in the wine.”
For Petal, it was actually pretty good logic. If Calder wasn’t happy, then slip him some sort of concoction to make him smile. He’d have to watch his food for the next few days; once she found out this batch hadn’t worked, she would try a newer version.
“Thanks for trying, Foster. Some other time, perhaps.” The words might have sounded a little less ridiculous if Calder wasn’t smiling like a painted fool.
Foster nodded and walked off. Calder honestly couldn’t tell if the man was offended or relieved.
A hand clapped
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