Island Customs (Please Subscribe)

Quincy's forehead twitched as he watched a sand-caked foot, dark from the sun and thick with leg hair, step onto the mooring rope. Tall, thin, and dark-skinned, he looked up at the unkempt man who smelled of the sea. The man wore a hat and held a ledger. Quincy spoke slowly.

"What are you doing?"

The man standing on the rope answered in a shrill voice, "I should be asking you that. Who are you? Who gave you permission to dock? Have you paid the docking fee? If not, untie this damned filthy rope of yours!"

Sifa was moving wine barrels when he heard the commotion and looked toward the dock. Quincy had let go of the rope, but his fist was clenched. Sifa quickly set down the barrel, jumped onto the dock, and bowed slightly to the man before his hotheaded companion could explode.

"Forgive him, sir. He's only a laborer and barely knows how to read. Someone as distinguished as you surely won't hold it against him."

Sifa heard Quincy breathing heavily behind him. His hotheaded companion probably wanted to hit someone now, and Sifa was likely at the top of the list.

Sifa would rather not have interfered, but if he left Quincy alone, they would probably find their captain back aboard the Wavebreaker that evening, looking furious.

"Heh." The man, apparently the harbor clerk, laughed. It was probably the first time anyone had called him "distinguished."

The harbor clerk's job was to register ships entering and leaving the dock. Despite his title, he was not a government official.

Such clerks usually knew only basic characters and a little arithmetic—enough to record simple information about ships and make sure no docking fees went uncollected.

"Of course I won't quarrel with a laborer. I've seen plenty like him."