Voyage

The ship had no name. Marcus had not named it, saying that a ship's name should be chosen by the person who sailed her.

So the nameless white waxwood sloop carried four people away from the rocky shore of White Wax Island and into the winds of the East Blue.

On the first day, the coastline was still visible. The bead-like islands of the Konomi Archipelago lay scattered across the horizon, looking from afar as though someone had tossed a handful of tree-covered stones into the sea.

On the second day, even the islands had vanished from sight. Water stretched in every direction, blue-gray and blending into the sky, with no boundary between them.

The people of White Wax Island had never been surrounded by so much water in all their lives.

Roy sat at the stern for the entire afternoon, staring toward White Wax Island. There was nothing in that direction anymore, only the sea.

On the third day, the four of them finally survived their seasickness.

A sea chart was spread across the deck between them.

The sea chart Barlow had spent a year drawing was already frayed along its folds. The sea breeze curled up its corners, so Damian held down one side with a short knife while Mila pressed down the other with her palm.

Barlow's finger landed on Orange Town, then moved away again. His brow furrowed tightly.

"It was Big Brother's fault," Damian said first, his voice muffled. "We should've found someone at the docks who knew how to sail."

Barlow waved a hand. The motion was small, but the meaning was clear.

Stop talking. I'm thinking.

His finger traced several lines back and forth across the chart. His eyes remained fixed on the dense markings on the paper, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"This direction."

His finger stopped at a point. "First, head west by northwest. After passing this uninhabited island, turn due north. In three days, we should be able to see the easternmost island of the Wind Organ Archipelago."

Mila stood and walked to the helm. The steering wheel was made of white waxwood, polished by Marcus until it shone like a mirror. In the sunlight, its grain looked like ripples spreading across water.

She gripped both sides of the wheel and turned it in the direction Barlow had indicated.

The helm caught.

The sea wind poured in from the side, filling the sail taut. Beneath the water, the rudder was pressed by the current. Every degree of movement had to contend with the waters of the entire East Blue.

Mila's arms tensed. Her sleeves were rolled above her forearms, revealing the lines of muscle along their inner sides, each one like the grain of white waxwood.

The wheel turned another half circle before stopping. Her knuckles whitened, and fine veins rose on the back of her hands.

Roy stood from the deck.

"This sort of thing."

He took a step forward.

"Should be left to men."

Mila released the wheel. Her movements were unhurried, even composed.

She turned around. Her left foot planted firmly on the deck, her right heel lifted, her hips drove her waist, her waist drove her shoulders, her shoulders drove her leg, and her leg snapped upward like a whip.

Before Roy had even finished speaking, Mila's instep struck the outside of his calf.

The outer edge of her foot cut in at an angle. The force was short and crisp, like striking bone with the back of a knife.

Roy's mouth was still open, but his body had already toppled sideways. His shoulder hit first, and he rolled half a turn across the deck before the back of his head knocked against the rail.

"Sorry, sorry." Roy lay on his side, one hand clutching the back of his head while the other rose in surrender.

"Big Brother will do it. Big Brother will do it."

He emphasized the words "Big Brother" heavily.

Mila looked at him and clapped her hands.

Then she gripped the wheel again. This time, it moved.

She followed the wind and found an angle that let the current slide along the side of the rudder.

The wheel turned steadily through half a circle in her hands. The bow shifted by a subtle degree, the sail swelled full with wind, and the entire ship gave a slight leap forward.

Mila did not look back. "Steering requires finesse, not brute force. Just like swordsmanship. And if you keep saying things like that, next time I won't be kicking your calf."

Roy climbed up from the deck and patted off his pants.

"Kicking where, then?"

Mila did not answer, but the back of her head seemed to have the answer written on it.

By evening, the sea wind had weakened. The sail went from being full of wind to hanging lazily, and the ship slowed, rocking gently from side to side with the swells.

A vast bank of sunset clouds piled along the western horizon, layered from orange-red to purple-gray, dyeing the sea the same colors.

Mila secured the helm and rummaged through the cabin for hard bread and fresh water. The four sat on the deck and ate dinner beneath the sunset.

"When we reach Orange Town," Barlow said, breaking his bread into small pieces and soaking them in fresh water before eating them.

"First, we find a dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the Wind Organ Archipelago come in two kinds. One belongs to merchant guilds and isn't rented out. The other belongs to the town office. They charge by the day. It's expensive, but the location is good. We want the second kind, even if it costs more."

Mila swallowed a mouthful of bread. "What's the use of a good location?"

"A well-located warehouse is less than two hundred steps from the docks. Dozens of ships enter and leave Orange Town's port every day. Their cargo piles up on the docks after unloading, and if it can't be moved that day, it needs a warehouse. Shipowners want to leave as soon as they unload, while cargo owners want to collect their goods the moment they arrive. Whoever has a warehouse close to the docks can take business from both sides."

"What about the price?"

"Ten percent below market rate. Don't get greedy. First, bring the goods in."

Mila nodded. "What happens after we rent the warehouse?"

"Then I'll scout goods, and you'll scout people."

"Who?"

"Shipowners at the docks. Independent operators with small ships running short routes. Orange Town is full of them, and their ships are never fully loaded. You don't need to negotiate prices with them. You only need to let them know there's a newcomer with goods on hand, a warehouse by the docks, and freight fees settled daily."

"Then they'll come to us themselves."

"Right."

Mila stuffed the last piece of bread into her mouth and only spoke after chewing it down. "What about you? What goods are you scouting?"

"At Orange Town's docks, nearly thirty percent of the fruit unloaded each day rots because it isn't handled or transferred in time. Of that thirty percent, shipowners accept one-third of the loss themselves, while the other two-thirds belong to the cargo owners. I want those two-thirds. Not the rotten fruit, but the fruit that's about to rot. Once goods reach the docks, if they can't be cleared out that day, the price drops the next day. A twenty percent reduction is a reduction, and so is fifty percent. We take it over and transfer it out that same day."

"Transfer it where?"

"The Konomi Archipelago. I spent a year traveling markets. Which island lacks what, and what prices each island pays—I have it all in my head."

Mila leaned into the shadow of the rail. "You've thought it through pretty clearly."

"I've been thinking about it for a long time."

Night fell completely, but Mila and Barlow remained on deck. An oil lamp had been lit, its flame flickering in the sea breeze and making the writing on the chart appear and vanish.

Barlow's finger moved across the chart, from Orange Town to the Konomi Archipelago, then to the edge of the Goa Kingdom, then back to White Wax Island. Every time he stopped, he named a place and spoke of its products, population, dock berths, and market days. Mila listened, asking a question now and then, but more often staying silent.

At the stern.

Damian gripped his short knife, its tip pointed at the deck. Roy stood opposite him.

"Did you see Mila's kick earlier today clearly?"

"I saw it clearly." Roy rubbed the outside of his calf, which still throbbed faintly.

"Then why didn't you dodge?"

Roy thought for a moment. "...I didn't think to dodge."

"Again."

Damian's blade came down. It was not like Mila's short, crisp force, but something else entirely—broad and powerful, descending like an axe splitting firewood.

Roy shifted aside, and the blade missed by a hair's breadth past his shoulder. He did not counterattack, because Damian's second slash was already sweeping toward him.

The flat of the blade cut toward his ribs. Roy jumped back a step, his heel scraping sharply against the deck.

"Too slow."

Damian withdrew his blade, switched it from his right hand to his left, and shook out his right wrist.

"I haul cargo at the docks during the day, then train for two hours at night. You train in the woods all afternoon."

"But that isn't an excuse. Again."

He chopped down once more.

The two figures crossed beneath the moonlight at the stern. The sound of blade striking blade was mostly swallowed by the sea wind, and the little that remained mixed with the sound of waves, unable to reach the bow.

After who knew how many exchanges, Damian stopped first.

He drove his knife into a gap in the deck, braced both hands on his knees, and panted heavily.

Roy leaned against the rail, his chest heaving.

Damian straightened and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

Moonlight fell across his broad shoulders, casting uneven shadows over the muscle lines he had built through training.

"I started hauling cargo at the docks when I was seven. Back then, Dad's back was bad, and ship repair work came and went. There were four people in the Household, and I was the oldest."

He pulled the knife from the gap in the deck and sheathed it at his waist. "I've been hauling since I was seven. I built strength and toughened my body, but strength isn't swordsmanship."

He looked at Roy.

"The day you awakened and killed more than ten pirates, I didn't say anything after I heard about it."

Roy did not reply.

"It wasn't that I didn't want to say anything. I just didn't know what to say. I'm the eldest brother. Protecting the Household is supposed to be my responsibility. But that day, you protected the Household."

Waves slapped against the hull, one after another.

"That won't happen again."

Damian drew his knife.

"Again."

The two of them took their places at opposite ends of the deck. Moonlight stretched their shadows long and slanted, dragging from the stern all the way to the edge of the rail.

This time, Roy moved first. His knife was lighter than Damian's, and faster.

The short blade sprang from his waist, cutting an arc through the moonlight.

Damian blocked it. The clash of steel rang out sharply before the sea wind swept it away.

Then came the second strike, and the third.

Under the oil lamp at the bow, Barlow's finger stopped over the sea chart.

He glanced toward the stern. Two figures crossed in the darkness, flashes of blade light flickering in the moonlight like flying fish occasionally leaping from the distant sea.

Mila glanced over as well.

"Big Brother is training harder than before."

"Mm." Barlow drew his gaze back to the chart.

"Do you think he can catch up?"

Barlow's finger paused over Orange Town. "He doesn't need to catch up. He has his own path. That path requires more than swordsmanship."

He paused. "But swordsmanship can help him stay alive long enough to walk that path."

It was exactly like those evenings on White Wax Island, except that beneath their feet was not leaf-covered earth, but a deck of white waxwood.

Above them were not the branches and leaves of white wax trees, but a sky full of stars.

Around them was not the silence of the forest, but the waves of the East Blue.

At the stern, blade light continued to flash. Once, then again.