Flotsam was sitting in a place he had found. It was called The Ticklish Turncoat. Word on the street had been that the meals were better than the rest to be expected for the seafront, and Flotsam was well enough ready for a hot meal his own. He found himself contemplating the bread he had, in a way its freshness and buttery companionship were as inexplicable as anything. He used it in lieu of his spoon, scooping up dollops of gravy and roast vegetables for every bite that melted the spread butter even as he ate it.
He paused often. Often to wipe at the slops on his muzzle, but these gestures he combined with frequent glances about. Flotsam had put himself in a corner opposite the front door and it did not take him much at all the look the room over. There was a fireplace ready with firewood, but it had only the barest few coals necessary to heat a kettle and keep the cauldron of stew warm, such was the weather. Stairs led to a second floor and Flotsam debated the merits of taking a room here for a night or two. Next to that a hall cut by to the back rooms, presumably to the restrooms also. Occasionally the cute little cook would that had brought him his meal would bustle past, her busy little hips and swishing tail made all the more charming by her expression of busy, attentive focus to her job. But her jobs were only minor ones at the moment, busywork to keep a restless pony moving.
Flotsam knew the feeling.
In the end, Nauticaa had given Flotsam both parcels of coins, the bigger and the smaller. It was impossible to calculate exactly how much he might have earned, a consideration that would have to be compounded by how many damages he had also caused, but for all that, it was a moot point. Flotsam had never been a true member of the crew to The Mother of Mercy, signed and listed to the great registry book Nauticaa kept in her desk. He’d been surprised to learn the captain of the ship that had saved his life had been entitled to his free labour, until their next docking, or so the custom went. She had never made a point of stating that, but then again, Flotsam had never been shy of working anyway.
At least, not in this life.
That technically made his wealth gifts, not rewards or even wages. And Flotsam was largely okay with that. The gold band still dangled from his ear. Three gifts. Not to mention the comforts of The Captain’s bed. Four.
A fifth sat atop his head, though it wasn’t from Nauticaa.
After the goodbyes were said, but before he’d disembarked, Charming Booty had come rushing back, a tricorn cap in tow.
“For that,” she’d said, gesturing his horn and smiling sadly.
“Yeah,” Flotsam had agreed. “Thanks.”
The somber stone had come off. Flotsam's magic was his again. And his horn was stained a sooty black with the stuff. It looked like a sickness; a black horn on a white stallion, certainly like something to draw more attention than Flotsam was ready for.
The hat was battered, resilient and similarly stained. It was a useful concealment for his horn and gave Flotsam a semblance of belonging in this strange place. His was not the only tricorn, though others had not perhaps had the same pedigree for age and wear as his.
The cute little cook came for another pass and Flotsam waved her down. “What can I get to drink? No, better idea, what’s your favourite? I’ll have that.”
She was brown, and she frowned. “I don’t think you’d like my favourite.”
“Oh? Too strong? I’m not looking to lose my mind just yet.”
“Too weak, actually. I don’t drink liquor. Just teas.”
Flotsam grinned. “I am well used to tease! Could you bring me one? And one for yourself, if you’ll join me? I need conversation more than I need brooding, just now.”
“I’ll get you that,” said the mare.
In a minute she had swept clear a table left by departing patrons, refilled an old stallion’s pint of darkest ale and still made it back with a teapot. Steamed aroma played at Flotsam’s senses. “You’re not from around here.”
Flotsam felt playful. “This is Rivaplút. More ships than houses. Nobody’s from here.”
The proprietress narrowed her eyes, but the edge of her lip turned up. A game it was. “One or two of us are.” She poured the tea and they watched the two cups steam. “Nice hat.”
Flotsam gave her his eyebrows and his teeth. “Thanks. It’s an heirloom, near and dear.”
“Makes you look like a pirate.”
“I’ve been on a boat.”
“It’s a big hat.”
“I sleep in the Captain’s bed.” Flotsam shrugged. “Most nights. Now I’m thinking to sleep in a different one for a while. Find new bearings. How well do you know the city?”
The little mare chuckled, her voice low. She sipped her tea. “A stallion stops and asks for directions. You really aren’t from around here. And I know here well enough. Do you like the tea?”
“It...” Flotsam lost his playful verve. It was hot, but delicate, like fruits or flowers. “I might have had this before. A long time ago.”
The mare’s sigh was sympathetic, and amused. She had a lilt of ribbing to her tone, as if calling a bluff. “Your jasmine tea just happens to bring up painful memories of a love long-lost?”
Flotsam smiled. “How lovely that would be. It’s nice.”
“Well, thanks. I’ve seen what the drink does to ponies. I’ll stick to this.”
“You serve it readily enough,” said Flotsam, nodding to the ancient of a stallion stooped over the bar, cradling his pint.
“I figure we have freedom, and our own choices to make in that freedom. Besides, taverns are ships that sail on alcohol. I’m not about to run the Turncoat aground.”
“That sounds like a quote.”
“Oh, it is. Words for a stubborn daughter.”
Flotsam ripped another bite from his stew-sodden bread. He wiped his muzzle and clapped his hooves. “Right, then. The room upstairs...”
And they negotiated a price.
It was evening. Darkness fell on the port city. Flotsam had met up with some of the Mercy’s and he hadn’t quite made up his mind whether they were there for the fun of it, or if curiosity or concern for his state factored into it. At any rate they had found him and lead him from the Turncoat to an altogether different sort of tavern, the kind with hot air and sticky tables. A squeeze-box player crooned for biteens next a smoky fire and though crowded with people, few spoke, those that did in hushed tones and only to their own.
“The Thnake’th Thithter,” Patches announced with utmost thibilance, thweeping a hoof across the grumbling, dismissive array of grumbles and smells arrayed before them.
“Cistern” Shanty hissed. “Cistern. Like a piss pot.”
“I like sister,” Parrot said. Her garish green stood out, but it was her roving eye that stood out more, it bounced each way and back again. To Flotsam, it looked the young foreigner was sizing them up, all of them.
There were half a hundred or more. Mostly ponies. Some griffons, but they didn’t seem cut from the same gray cloth Gadfly and her kind had been. Even a minotaur was in attendance, a big bull of a fellow stooped over a dicing game in the far corner, his back turned.
“Sister is good,” Flotsam said distractedly. This was the largest, densest crowd he could remember seeing that wasn’t actively warring across the deck of the Mother.
“Flottham liketh it, tho I’m right!”
“Cistern! Cyst. Urn!”
“Nope! Nope!”
Parrot laughed. In the jungle pegasus, it always ran to the slightly maniacal. “Squeezy, let her have it. Piss pot is piss poor, anyway.”
“Whatever.”
They squeezed for seats and got a round. “Thanks,” rumbled the husky voice of Harpoon, descending on the group and lifting Patches’ mug.
“Hey!” squeaked the filly, her protest cut off by the replacement of her drink with a fruity looking thing with an umbrella in, so that her high pitched, drawn out cry shifted suddenly to a bubbly, contented, “ooh!”
Harpoon nodded gravely to the filly, then eyed the teens in turn. The message unspoken was apparent: She’s too small, leave her off. Shanty looked away in a huff. Parrot grinned and wiggled her eyebrows.
The First Mate dropped in next to Flotsam; he twisted up inside. “Dry land working for you?”
“So far. Got a place. Got a hat.” He gave the tricorn a flick.
Harpoon rumbled acknowledgement. Not many ponies could have cut through the din with just that, but she could.
“Yeah,” said Flotsam, drinking by magic, “horns aren’t usually the opposite colour to the unicorn. Black on white kind of stands out.”
“Mhm.”
“I’d like to keep it to myself, for now. Figure it out tomorrow, you know?”
“I got no reason to tell.” She rolled her neck and her wing brushed his side.
“M-makes me look like a pirate, for starters.”
“It does.”
A moment drew out slightly longer than other moments, and Flotsam headed it off. “How’s Sea Bed doing? I scared her pretty bad.”
“She’ll get over it. Always took her for a spook.” She swigged her drink. “Bug. Same difference.”
“Don’t they... swarm up? Supplant nations? Stuff like that?”
“Nah. She’s just a spook. Harmless. Drink your beer.”
Flotsam did as he was told. He’d largely tuned out of the teenagers’ conversation, but it drifted to him now. Parrot was poking fun at Siren - probably specifically to goad her friend - and Shanty was heatedly taking the bait and defending her patron, er... thing?
He leaned across the table, pint sloshing. “So, Siren is like a goddess, or something?”
“lovemaking goddess,” Parrot chuckled. “Spirit? Whatever. I was just suggesting Shanty spend less time appealing a higher power and more time appealing Charming Booty directly, if she’s going to get what she wants.”
“What does she want?” asked Flotsam. Money? Hats? Charming Booty had a lot of stuff.
“That red, red mane. That red, red tail!”
Parrot flicked open her wings only to be flicked by Shanty in turn. “Shut up!”
“Your red, red cheeks!” The pegasus hooted, with a cross-eyed squawk mixed in, until the laughing fit had her wheezing. Shanty was trying to pummel her to little effect.
“Travel does strange things to a pony,” Flotsam mused.
“It gets you pent up,” Harpoon suggested.
Flotsam supped his beer. “More than you realize. Er... where’s Patches?”
“Making friends.” Harpoon flicked a wing lazily.
Beyond the din of conversation, Flotsam could just make out the tops of lanky little one’s ears. As he watched, the minotaur and his dicing partners paused their game and turned to face her.
Flotsam made to stand up, but a feathered tip across his backside sat him back down. Not to mention made him shiver. “She’s fine,” Harpoon said. “Want to learn something?”
It wasn’t a question Flotsam was expecting, least of all from Harpoon.
The First Mate gestured the teenagers. Their squabble had spilled a drink and Shanty, sopping with beer down her barrel huffily dragged the pegasus to the bar.
“For all Shanty’s goddess-bothering, Parrot understands better.”
Flotsam had the shape of a question on his lips.
“I never read a good book, but I can tell you everything Siren wanted us to know in five seconds.” She counted out three feathers. “Show what you feel. Take what you want. Desires are good. Everything after that is wind blowing. What do you feel, Flotsam?”
“I-”
“Show me!” she hissed. She put a hoof on his thigh, her eyes held his.
Flotsam felt his blood; his heart. The crowd seemed more distant and Harpoon, nearer. His breath seemed cloyed with heady airs. He put a hoof around her back, another over her shoulder. He pulled her and he kissed her, deeply.
She tasted like sweat and strength and dangerous living and it thrilled him. She bit his lip; he bit hers. Flotsam pushed away her jaw and bit her neck, sucking it well hard enough to elicit a deep groan.
“White bruises better,” Harpoon teased through her moaning. Mouth full and occupied, Flotsam could only murmur acknowledgement.
“Let’s go,” he whispered.
“I’m right behind you,” she growled.
Flotsam nipped the pegasus and kissed her. “For now.”
And Harpoon laughed, her hoarse, husky femininity speaking to Flotsam in a manner that waylaid all doubt, all hesitation.
Sooner or later, the teens and the filly would notice their two elders’ absence from The Snake’s Cistern. Or Sister, because Patches liked it that way more. But by that point in the night the young trio had their own immediate excitement to resolve, and as for the missing two, well...
The same could be said for them.
Early to bed, early to rise, so the expression goes. And it applied that night, in the Turncoat.
In a manner of speaking, anyway. In a manner of speaking.