Testing the Waters Behind the Sails (2)

As Barlow began to speak, the owner happened to come upstairs carrying a tray.

Five appetizers were arranged on the tray—West Blue-style chilled seafood platters. The owner set down the dishes one by one, naming each as he went, then placed a heavy wine decanter in front of Barlow.

"This is a newly delivered batch—citrus rum. Give it a try," the owner said.

Barlow picked up the decanter and poured a finger of liquor into Damian's glass first.

Then he turned to Gwen. His hand paused in midair, the spout hovering two inches above the rim of her glass.

"Does Miss Gwen drink?" he asked.

"Not much, but I can drink today." Gwen nudged her glass half an inch closer to the decanter.

Barlow poured her half a glass.

Then he filled a glass for Mila, another for Roy, and finally poured himself half a glass.

He set down the decanter and raised his glass, his index finger slightly lifted among the five fingers, pointing straight toward the sky.

"Welcome. It is good to officially meet you," Barlow said steadily to Gwen.

"But before that, I owe you an apology."

"An apology?" Gwen looked at him.

"When you first arrived in Orange Town, I looked into your background." Barlow set his glass back on the table without drinking.

"You appeared in none of East Blue's ship registries or port entry records. As the head of the merchant association, I needed to know something about strangers approaching my family. Not being able to find anything was my failure, so I owe you an apology."

Gwen raised her glass and took a sip.

The citrus flavor of the rum spread across the back of her tongue. She neither wrinkled her nose nor smacked her lips, drinking it more smoothly than Roy did.

"I should be angry," she said, setting down her glass.

"But if our positions were reversed, I would have done the same. So there is nothing to apologize for, Mr. Barlow."

"Just Barlow."

"Barlow." Gwen changed how she addressed him without refusing, yet without becoming overly familiar.

"So does this meal count as formal approval?"

Barlow did not answer. He raised his glass, took a sip, and the corner of his mouth moved.

That slight movement at the corner of Barlow's mouth did not count as a smile, but Gwen understood it.

She did not press her advantage. Setting down her glass, she rested her left hand naturally along the edge of the table, her fingertips exactly one finger-width from the edge of her plate.

It was the posture of someone who knew she was being examined, but had no intention of displaying anything voluntarily.

Mila's gaze had remained fixed on her, and Gwen had clearly noticed.

"Miss Gwen, you said you had helped people keep accounts. Can you calculate something for me?"

"Go ahead."

"A merchant ship departs from Orange Town loaded with citrus and dried fish. It stops at three islands in the Konomi Archipelago to unload goods and resupply, with Loguetown as its final destination. Orange Town's dock commission is ten percent. Each island in the Konomi Archipelago takes twelve percent. Loguetown's port entry fee is three percent of the cargo's value. Citrus costs two thousand Beli per crate in Orange Town, and dried fish costs fifteen hundred per barrel. At the first island, thirty percent of the citrus and twenty percent of the dried fish are unloaded. At the second island, goods of equivalent value are exchanged for a batch of shellfish. At the third island, the remaining citrus is sold. All the dried fish is sold in Loguetown. Citrus sells at a twenty percent markup on each island, dried fish at a fifteen percent markup, and the shellfish sells in Loguetown for 2.4 times its purchase price. What percentage of the initial investment is the ship's net profit?"

After hearing that, Roy silently crumpled the napkin in front of him into a ball.

Gwen's pupils shifted faintly in their sockets, as though she were reading an account book visible only to her.

"What is the initial investment?" Gwen asked.

"Assume a number."

"One million Beli."

Gwen placed one million Beli onto the invisible abacus in her mind and finished the calculation in less than five seconds.

"Forty-two point seven," Gwen said.

"Forty-two point seven percent."

Her tone was unhurried as she answered, neither boastful nor hesitant.

Then she added, "If Loguetown's entry fee goes through the dock's bulk cargo channel rather than the merchant association's dedicated berth, another half a percentage point can be saved."

Mila fell silent.

Her silence was brief, so brief that Roy had not even had time to unfold the crumpled napkin.

But this was Mila. Her silence never needed duration to carry weight. It meant the answer was correct—and that it had come faster than she had expected.

Mila said nothing, so Roy spoke for her.

He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the tabletop.

"That fast? I've seen those old dock accountants do this kind of arithmetic. They need an abacus, and your question was more complicated than what they usually calculate."

Gwen withdrew her left hand from the edge of the table and placed it on her lap. "I use my head and my fingers."

She paused, as if she had remembered something unimportant.

"I'm missing part of a little finger."

Gwen raised her left hand and placed it on the table. All five fingers were intact.

Then she raised her right hand and turned it over. The second joint of her little finger bent slightly inward. It was easy to miss, but on closer inspection, a faint old scar could be seen along the side of the finger bone.

"Mathematics relies heavily on the decimal system," she said.

"After calculating with nine fingers for long enough, you get used to adding an extra carry in your head. Once you get used to it, it's faster than using ten fingers."

Roy's expression shifted from playful amusement to something closer to curiosity.

Mila stared at that slightly crooked little finger for two seconds, then looked away and lifted her half-full glass of rum for a sip.

Barlow did not look at her little finger. He was watching Damian's expression.

Damian was holding his wineglass and looking at Gwen.

It was Damian's particular kind of looking—without blinking, pupils slightly dilated, lips parted by half an inch, as if he were silently reciting something.

Gwen turned her right hand back over and glanced at her little finger before saying, "When I was little, a rope caught it while I was rowing. There was no doctor on the boat at the time, so they only did a simple bone setting. It healed badly. It doesn't limit my movement now; it is just a little crooked." The corner of her mouth curved for an instant.

"You can row too?" Mila asked.

"A little. I can handle a small dinghy, but not a large sailing ship."

"Then you rowed to Orange Town all by yourself..." Roy got halfway through before Barlow bumped his thigh with a knee beneath the table.

He paused and swallowed the rest of the sentence, changing it to, "...that's impressive."

Gwen seemed not to notice the pause, or perhaps she had noticed and decided not to hold it against him.

The owner came up carrying the main course.

The charred aroma of baked red snapper and sea salt flooded into the private room ahead of him.

The fish was covered with a crisp layer of golden-baked cheese, its edges slightly charred, steam rising through the cracks.

Carrying a large platter, he efficiently served everyone, topped off Barlow's wine by half a glass, and then asked Damian whether he wanted more soup.

Damian said yes, so the owner went downstairs and soon brought back a small pot of steaming clear clam soup.

The warmth from the food softened the stiff atmosphere in the private room somewhat.

Damian placed a piece of the tenderest belly meat from the baked red snapper onto Gwen's plate, then ladled her a bowl of clam soup.

Watching this, Roy nudged Mila's foot with his toe beneath the table. Mila did not respond to the signal.

Gwen took a sip of soup from her bowl, set the spoon on its rim, and looked up at Mila.

"Miss Mila, that route you mentioned just now—from Orange Town to Loguetown—did you make it up on the spot, or did you travel it about a month ago?"

Mila nearly showed surprise. She controlled it in time, but the hand holding her wineglass still paused.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything." Gwen picked up her napkin and wiped the corner of her mouth.

"It was in the details of your question. The ratio of dried fish to citrus showed that it was real data. Exchanging for shellfish at the third island showed that you knew the seafood market in Loguetown was rising. And bringing up Loguetown's entry fee—those were all details only someone who had truly run that route would know."

"Who would notice details like that?" Mila tightened her grip on her glass.

"I would."

Gwen said that single word, "I," very softly.

For a while, no one in the private room spoke.

The sounds of cutlery touching porcelain, dockworkers' chants as returning fishing boats unloaded near the harbor, and the occasional cry of seagulls drifted in through the open porthole.

The sunset had changed from the white glare of noon into slanting honey-orange light. Its beams passed through the porthole glass and fell across the round table's white cloth, dyeing the white wax tree branches in the coarse earthenware vase a warm yellow.