A Three Hour Tour (1/2)

“Are you all right under there?” Stormanorm asked, as a shadow blocked out the light from the center of the room.

“Yes, I think I am,” Threadbare said, retrieving his hat and resuming scrubbing. For a second he debated gouging out the carved message, but he put that aside. If they were going to give him this cabin eventually, then he could do it when there weren't any ears around to hear suspicious activity. Besides, it was unlikely to be found by anyone bigger than a breadbox. “This stain is being stubborn.”

“You've done pretty well. You sure you're a princess?”

“I wasn't raised as a princess,” Threadbare said. “And I'm still not one. We don't have kings or things like that anymore.”

“Mom says give it a few years, you probably will again.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Stormanorm put away the cleaning rags, dropping them into his own bucket. “She likes what you're doing because she thinks kings are a really bad idea. All pirates do. The pirate code says everyone should be free to follow their own fate, chase their own destiny. Nobody should tell anyone else what to do.”

“We still kind of do,” Threadbare said, following Stormanorm as he went out into the corridor.

“Yeah, but you're not KINGS about it. You don't pretend that you have a divine right to be in charge. It's like a pirate council, you argue and end up telling people to knock things off when they get dumb. You don't change your mind on a whim and everyone has to stop what they're doing and humor you. That's good. That's not perfect, that's not pirates, but it's a step in the right direction.”

“But she doesn't think it will last?”

“No. See...” Stormanorm paused, with a foot on the ladder. “You want to come with and talk while I do chores?”

“Sure.”

“Alright then. See the thing of it is, most people don't like thinking for themselves. Freedom takes work.” Stormanorm descended into the next deck, and Threadbare followed, taking the rungs of the ladder with the long experience of a small creature in a larger-sized world.

“You're pretty good at that,” Stormanorm said as he touched down. “Also I'm surprised you wear panties.”

Threadbare was confused for a moment, before remembering that Celia had been in a skirt when Renny saw her. The illusion around him was probably wearing a skirt, too. Which meant... “Oh, you looked up my skirt?”

“Sorry. You were above me and all.” Stormanorm shrugged. “I'll avert my eyes in the future.”

“You're forgiven.”

Stormanorm coughed. “Anyway... you lot not lasting.”

“Right. That.”

“Thing about being free is that it's harder. With a king, you don't have to think. The king does that for you. You just have to do what they say and keep them happy. And if they're a bad king, well, the gods will take care of that and maybe the next king will be better. And you can blame all of your problems on the bad king. So you don't have to take responsibility for your own problems, because it's ultimately the king's fault.”

Threadbare took his time considering his reply, and they walked in silence for a bit.

The corridor led down to a wider one, down on the third deck. Doorways off the main passage were roped off with hanging curtains, or left open. One of the rooms they passed had a number of hammocks strung between support posts, and footlockers nailed to the floor at intervals. Crewbunnies were working in there, stuffing blankets into portholes, caulking the cracks in the boards of the deck, and otherwise trying to weatherproof the place.

Most of the crewbunnies stopped and looked over to Stormanorm as they entered. Buck-toothed smiles greeted him, and one crewmember gave him a vigorous wave that made her ample flesh jiggle in a way that made Threadbare worry for the sturdiness of her shirt.

Stormanorm deposited the now-clean chamberpot and a few more blankets he'd grabbed from the forecastle and got out of there rather quickly.

“I think it's a bit more complicated than that,” Threadbare said when they were out. “Kings and councils and freedom, I mean.”

“Eh, I don't think so. We've plundered all over Datland, and that's usually how it goes. Caused a few revolutions too, and killed a few kings when they gave us trouble. At the end of the day people are lazy, and don't want to think for themselves. So they bend the knee and give up their freedom to someone who doesn't deserve it.”

“A lot of them didn't have a choice,” Threadbare said. “If they didn't, then they would be punished or even killed. They were in a position where they had to do what the king wanted or be harmed for it. Is that laziness? Or ignorance?”

This time Stormanorm took a few minutes to reply. They crossed the corridor to a small, cramped kitchen, where an overly plump crewbunny in an apron was busy taking stock of the food. Her face lit up as Stormanorm entered.

“Ooooo, Normy! Ye came down here to see me! Such a good boy, to cheer up old Duffy,”

She had a wooden leg, Threadbare noticed, and the other one seemed twisted and a little off. As he watched, she hauled herself over on a series of ropes hanging at head level on the kitchen, muscular arms carrying her large form within range of Stormanorm, who hugged her while she chattered and nattered on about supplies and how she'd been quite scared when the ship went down, but knew he'd see them all through.

Only when Stormanorm disentangled her arms and started writing numbers down in a small book did she turn her attention to Threadbare.

“Oh! You'd be the dolly girl, then! I was told ye'd be coming!” She bent down a bit, laboriously, to offer a pudgy hand. “I'm Duffy, it's short for Duffodil. Me mam couldn't spell, ye see.” she giggled, and Threadbare shook her hand happily. “Normally I'd be askin' about yer food allergies and preferred dishes, since we treat our guests right, but... well I hear yer not much for eating. Shiver me timbers I couldn't deal with that, I couldn't. It must be hard!”

Threadbare remembered his conversations with Celia. For a moment it tugged him back to darker times, so he tried to twist his face into the expression she'd made, trusting the illusions to follow his cue. “It is,” he admitted. “I wasn't always like this, and I miss food. But I appreciate you being kind about it.”

“Bah, tisn't a thing but just simple decency,” she hauled herself back up with the help of the ropes, and beamed a many-chinned smile down. “Even if ye ain't much for feasting, stop by and tell ol' Duffy how yer day's going whenever. I'll be here, and I don't mind a listening and catching up wi' me shipmates! And as for ye...” she turned to Stormanorm, who was edging out the door. “Oh no ye don't! Take this with ye and eat! Get more meat on yer bones, yer a growin' boy!” She moved with swiftness that quite surprised Threadbare, swinging over on the ropes and shoving some sort of bun in his face.

Stormanorm pocketed the bun. “I'll eat it later. Thanks Duffy.”

She tried to pinch his cheek through the veil, but he blocked her hand and was gone before she could stop him.

“Such a sweetie. Ah, if I were only three years younger...” her ears twitched against her chef's hat. “Well, Cap'n Anne would still kill me. But it might be worth it.” She pressed a hand to her heart, and sighed.

Threadbare hurried out while she was mid-reverie. Stormanorm was moving a bit more hastily, heading down the hall, peering in the doors to the sides. It looked like they led to long, narrow rooms that were taken up mostly by cannons, each one sitting behind a closed firing port.

“I think you always have a choice,” Stormanorm said.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, maybe you're stuck early on when you're a child, or without enough power to affect things, but you don't stay that way forever. Unless your luck is absolute shit, then sooner or later an opportunity comes up. At some point in your life you get the chance to stand up for yourself, even if it's in a really small way, or the odds of success are really bad. And most people don't! They just roll over and accept their fate, and lick the hand that holds them down. They don't have the courage to step up and stand for themselves.”

The doors at the end were storage rooms, full of things that seemed to be useful for keeping the ship running. Things like piles of wood that matched the hull, sailcloth, lots of coils of rope, several kegs of gunpowder and stacks of cannonballs lashed together to keep them from rolling and causing havoc. There were also more mundane things, like lanterns, oil, and various sundries.

Stormanorm grabbed several blankets and started hauling them back to the crew quarters, cursing as they caught on some rough planks. Threadbare hastened to help, and caught a grateful glance from the beastkin.

“I'll never get used to how strong you lot are,” he commented, as Threadbare helped him navigate the fabrics past the places where the walls and deck had been obviously patched and were still rough. “You're so tiny, but you're still golems after all. Enough to give Mom a challenge, and that's no small feat.”

“We've been through a lot on our side of things,” Threadbare told him. “Not really pirate-style adventures. More desperate and a bit less fun overall, but I like to think we did well.”

“Eh, ours aren't exactly fun and games either. Oh they make for good stories when they're told, but...” Stormanorm dropped the blankets off with the crewbunnies who were winterizing the compartment, and got out quickly, declining their offers of hugs for his assistance. “...but this last job? We lost a good two thirds of our crew to your people. I lost some friends there.” His voice grew quieter, as they moved back into the rear of the deck. “And I don't grudge you that, because you didn't ask us to come and kidnap you. But they were friends, and I'll be a while mourning them. You know?”

“If it helps, the standard guard policy is to recover the wounded and medically treat prisoners of war,” Threadbare said. “You may not have lost as many as you thought.”

Stormanorm was silent, his expression unreadable behind the veil, his body language concealed by the shapeless robes. “Thank you,” he said finally. “You're alright, for royalty.”

“I'm not royalty anymore,” Threadbare said, doing his best to mimic Celia's tone when she had to remind people of that. “And I've thought of what you said. About people being afraid to seize their moment.”

“And?”

“There are two components to fate. Your luck and your perception. Do you know why that is?”

Stormanorm shrugged, stopping at the main staircase down to the third deck. “Not really. It just sort of is.”

“It's because if you want to make your fate, you have to see your opportunities and realize them when they arrive. If you don't, then no matter how lucky you are, you won't make the leap. And rabbit beastkin have a very high perception, don't they?”

“They do,” Stormanorm said, slowly.

“So of course for you it's a less of a leap. Less of a risk when you take your fate in your own hands. But humans, dwarves, most of the people that make up Cylvania down there, what if their moment comes and they don't realize it, and it passes them by? Does it make them cowards? Does it make what happens to them their own fault? I don't think so. And it's that suffering that I want to end, that I hope we can end.”