Moving On

She has again taken your hand in hers and now asks about Furred Oysters and Oozehead Lampreys.

It is a short cab ride to the Nightfisher’s Market and both of you avoid discussing why her sister seeks these fruits of the sea. The Younger Dustwell has helped her parents sift through the bycatch back on Mutton Head and recognises the oysters from your descriptions of hard, pink shells overgrown with green and tangy tangle. And she remembers men secreting away one or two the day before they took the Barenhaven ferry.

You tell her about the chowder served in brothels{if Feysilvered Lenses > 1} and about the rare pearls crushed and used in all kinds of concoctions. {elseif Creeping Shadows > 1} and about Powdered Spring and its ingredients, one extracted from the oyster’s rare pearls.{else}. {endif} And her guesses about {if Creeping Shadows > 1} its {else} the oyster’s {endif} legality are correct enough.

”How bad are those fish things then?” she asks.

{if Feysilvered Lenses > 1} You clear your throat. There are no nice words to find. What you know is bad, and what you can guess is worse. Oozehead Lampreys are banned all over the Empire, under penalty of **** or hard labour. She gasps and clasps your hand tighter. You offer a warm smile and an easy reassurance. They are not fishes, and they are never brought in by mortal fishermen. And yet they reach the City, and the High-Office of the Censor for Other Matters considers those smugglers in league with a cabal of Fey, illusive and dangerous. (You have your own theory.) Those they catch earn their passage to Gallow Oak, but the flatfoots will neither look nor care for your possession of a handful of the things. And they are always amenable to bribery.

”But what are they?”

You shrug. They are not fish. One academic has argued that they are not in fact alive but – like the Liar Stars – shine with the semblance of dead divinity. The Censors have on occasion classified them as a member of the Foe; as thinking, feeling, scheming organisms. And you have seen them: Sucking worms clinging to the breasts of Nixen, the sallow-faced Fey whose Soul-Lights lure Mariners down to a briny ****. And you can guess at some of their uses. The One-Eyed Captain seeks to balance her humours, to forget the recent or to remember the better. Rumour has their fat used in the cooking of Winter Grease. They speak to women, or so the Mariners say, and shun men. There might be rituals unknown even to you. Your companion has fallen silent. You said much and she no doubt guesses more.{elseif Creeping Shadows > 1} You clear your throat. There are no nice words to find. What little you know is bad, and what you can guess is worse. Oozehead Lampreys are banned all over the Empire, under penalty of **** or hard labour. She gasps and clasps your hand tighter. You offer a half-smile and awkward reassurances. The people so judged were smugglers, bringing in Lampreys by the boatload, and you are fairly confident that the flatfoots will neither look nor care for your possession of a handful of the things. Or that they might at least accept bribery.

”But what are they?”

You lower your eyes. No one knows, but you have seen them: Sucking worms clinging to the breasts of Nixen, the sallow-faced Fey whose Soul-Lights lure Mariners down to a briny ****. And rumour has their fat used in the cooking of Winter Grease. You do not share your guess as to why the One-Eyed Captain would want them. The Younger Dustwell nods at the silence and casts down her gaze as well. {else} You shrug. Oozehead Lampreys are illegal too, and rarer.

”But what are they?”

You lower your eyes. No one knows, but you have seen them: Sucking worms clinging to the breasts of Nixen, the sallow-faced Fey whose Soul-Lights lure Mariners down to a briny ****. You do not share your guess as to why the One-Eyed Captain would use them. The Younger Dustwell nods at the silence and casts down her gaze as well.

{endif}

The lights of the Nightfisher’s Market brighten both your moods. She, smirking again, points out a prostitute and her john who have overestimated the cover back-alley shadows provide. Wispfire Jellyfish floating high catch her eye next, and she pulls you towards a hawker selling Bone Charms underneath. You stop her from overpaying tenfold for the useless trinkets, and together you look for Furred Oysters.

A Canny Coastermonger offers you a reasonable price for ten and answers your whispered question with a nod and smirk.

You spent One Taler.

You now have {@49 Talers} Talers.

She sends you on, down the stairs into a dismal cellar to see her Cunning brother. Red-tinted Tar Lanterns light the way to his room. He sits at a small table, bathed in infernal glow and surrounded on all sides by the wine-dark waters of a giant tank. Small crates without labels clutter the floor, rising to the lower rim of the encircling glass. You help the Younger Dustwell climb over an inconvenient row and then move to shake the Cunning Coastermonger’s hand.

Veiny, thumb-thick creatures float motionless, as if dead, until he puts on his wet hard-leather gloves and catches one. It thrashes, trying to slip free, and grows in his grasp. A cloud of purple miasma explodes from its fist-sized head and the needle-sharp teeth in its eye close around his thumb.

”First time buying a cunt biter?” he asks. ”Or are you familiar?”

The Younger Dustwell scoffs. ”A – excuse me – what?”

”A cunt biter. Or Oozehead Lamprey if you’re the scien – ti – fi – cal type. Either way, works the same. An’ I am a church-goin’ and Lord-fearin’ man so I won’t call it a godling. Are you familiar then?”

”Remind us.”

”Well name’s the clue. Though I’d leave a gap. A finger’s width, two if you wanna be safe. It’s got nasty teeth.” He squelches what must be its head and shows you a second row inside the milky-white eye. ”But it’s supposed to be less painful than it looks. For womenfolk at least. Or so I heard. But I’d still keep ‘em a finger’s worth away from – from there. Besides, you can’t really expect people to put their cocks in if it’s that close.”

”I see,” says the Younger Dustwell, though her expression says the opposite. ”But why would I want something like that anywhere on my body? At all?”

”It don’t need to be you. But it needs to be activated. It feeds on fucking, something about chemicals going off in the brain. Sparking in her nerves. Or even his. But then it’ll shrink, you’ll see. And after that, it can be used. It’s calming then, maybe, or something. Never tried it myself, it doesn’t work for men, I don’t think. But the customers never complain. An’ I’d sell you one prepped, but I’m out.” He smirks. ”Besides, new customers don’t tend to like‘em. They don’t look like much if they’re full. Too small. An that reminds me...”

The Cunning Coastermonger relaxes his grip until he holds the snapping thing by its likely tail. ”It ain’t alive,” he says and slams the lamprey eye-first against the table’s edge. The head explodes with a wet snap, staining the metal top with purple pollen. The Coastermonger shows you the shrinking form, lifeless and limp like a string of old leather. ”They keep just fine without water.” He opens up a crate, filled to the brim with more raggedy lumps of tough tissue. ”Just needs a day or two to refresh.” He picks up a handful and throws them into the water.

They twitch to a wretched semblance of life, one staring at you with its pinprick eye. The tabletop glitters behind you, now metallic clean.

”So how many you need? An’ don’t worry, I’ll pick ‘em fresh. Some nice, fat ones for you. An’ I can give you the name of a working girl who’ll feed ‘em – if that’s how you wanna do it.”

”Three. I want three.” The Younger Dustwell’s voice is firm. ”How much?”

”20 each.”

”I see.” She turns to face you. ”I’ve got some of my sister’s money, but I didn’t think we’d need this much. Could I ask you to cover for the third?” She exhales. ”And for the whore, I guess. Or,” she grins. ”You could help with the feeding.”

You haven’t seen her take anything from the One-Eyed Captain’s room. And you are unsure whether or not her last comment was a joke.

”Well,” the Cunning Coastermonger says before you can formulate an answer. A fresh lamprey wriggles in his leather-clad grip. ”I was about to lock up, and the feedin’ does take a bit of practice. You could do with an experienced hand, an’ there might be some give with the price.”

”I see.” She touches her finger to the lidless maw. It snaps shut, drawing blood. She gasps, then moans. ”Well, the night is young.” She licks her lips. ”And an expert may be – helpful. But I’d want a chaperone. What do you think, First Officer?” Her eyes are on your groin. ”Should we give it a try?”