You have a name?
“Tress, sir.”
And are you truly a royal inspector?
“I…” Tress swallowed. “No. The coat doesn’t belong to me. I stole it.”
You’re a pirate now, Fort wrote. What you steal IS what belongs to you.
“I’m not a pirate,” she said.
You are so long as you want to keep breathing, Fort wrote. Don’t tell anyone you don’t intend to join us. That sort of talk gets a person tossed overboard.
Tress nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Don’t call me sir. I left that title behind a long time ago. My name is Fort. Anyone feed you yet?
In response, her stomach growled. She shook her head.
Fort leaned below his counter, then came up with a plate, the thin ceramic edge held between the first two fingers of his hand. Earlier, she’d thought he would lack dexterity due to his fingers—which looked like they’d each been broken in several places, then allowed to heal without splints. Yet he managed quite well. Some actions took more effort, and his hands did tremble, but he was obviously capable, even if he had to do things differently from other people.
After placing the plate before her, he pulled out a pot, scraped at the bottom, and slopped some crusty hash browns onto the plate. He followed that with some watery eggs.
Leftovers from breakfast, Tress thought. The dregs the others didn’t eat.
She waited, with difficulty, before eating anything. He watched her, then dropped a fork onto the plate. She took this as permission and dug in.
It was awful.
The overcooked hash browns had the consistency of beetle shells—complementing the eggs, which were reminiscent of what might have been found inside those beetle shells. You didn’t have to be a master cook to tell this food was awful, but to someone like Tress it was worse. Feeding her cold and crusty leftovers—the bits that hadn’t gotten any spices on them—was like locking a master pianist in a room by themself, then piping in off-tune kazoo renditions of great masterpieces.
Tress didn’t complain. She needed to eat, and she wasn’t going to reject the only thing she’d been offered. Despite it tasting less like food and more like what food turned into.
To take her mind off the “meal,” Tress nodded to the board that Fort used for communicating. “That’s an odd device.”
He handed her a cup of water （a nice bronze one that lacked ornamentation, but shone when it caught the light）。 The water at least tasted pure and clean. She drank it down eagerly.
It is, isn’t it? Fort wrote. Your words appear for me on the back as you speak. It can even differentiate voices, and puts a mark before them to indicate someone new is talking.
“Wow,” Tress said.
Now, you might be wondering why Fort didn’t read lips. I, like many hearing people, once assumed this was the magical solution for people navigating the hearing world. But in case you haven’t heard—pun intended—reading lips doesn’t work like it does in stories. It’s a messy business, full of guesswork, and is extremely taxing. Even for experts.
Fort used to rely on it anyway, enduring its low accuracy. Until he was able to find his way to this device. It had many functions—including some he didn’t know yet. For example, the words would appear larger if he wrote fewer of them, taking up all the space on the board. But when he wrote longer messages, the words shrank to fit more.
It’s wonderful, Fort said. I got it from a wizard a few years ago.
“A wizard?” Tress said.
From beyond the stars, Fort said. A very strange fellow. He used it to translate words to our language. I traded hard to get it. It seemed to surprise him when he realized how much it would help. It’s hard for me to write the usual way for hearing people, since I can’t make some of the shapes.
That “wizard” from the stars wasn’t me, by the way. I’ve always wondered who traded the device to Fort. That’s Nalthian tech, with Awakened predictive Connection circuits.
Fort turned the board around and showed her the back, where he could tap letters and bring down lists of common words. The board anticipated his needs, giving likely options. It worked with supernatural speed, seeming to anticipate his very thoughts.
I have to leave it out in the sun once a week, or it stops working, Fort wrote. And its magic won’t respond to anyone other than me. So don’t think about stealing it.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Tress said with a start. “I mean…you’ve been so kind to me.”
It isn’t kindness, Fort wrote. It’s a trade.
“For what?”
Haven’t decided yet, Fort said. Go back to your food, girl.
She did. Unfortunately.
As she tried valiantly to keep eating, another of the sailors walked in. This was the shorter woman who had stood up to the captain the day before. Her black hair was in tight curls. She strode in and slapped something on the counter, barely giving Tress a glance.
How to describe Salay, the helmswoman? She was the same ethnicity as Fort, and like him was from the Islands of Lobu in the Sapphire Sea, where the zephyr spores release a burst of air when watered. She had delicate features, but wasn’t the least bit fragile.
“All right, Fort,” she said. “I’ll give you three.”
She’d deposited three small earrings onto the table.
I told you, Salay, Fort wrote. I have no use for earrings. They make my ears itch.
“Four then,” Salay said, placing another on the counter. “I won them off a Doug at cards, but it’s all I have. They’re solid gold. You won’t get a better deal anywhere.”
At the word “deal,” Fort perked up visibly. He inspected the earrings.
“Come on, Fort,” Salay said. “I need to get back to duty.”
Fort rubbed his chin, then scratched at his dreadlocked head. Then he took something from below the counter and set it out for her: a pocket watch.
“Finally,” Salay said, slipping it off the counter and hurrying out.
Fort inspected the earrings one at a time, smiling. It was true that he had no use for earrings, but…it was a good deal. And good deals, to Fort, were their own reward.
Tress managed to choke down the last of the food. She felt she deserved a medal for that. Fort merely gave her another cup of water, then shooed her away—but not before he wrote, Come back after everyone else has had supper. Maybe I’ll have something for you to eat.
Tress nodded in thanks. On her way out, she passed me skipping a little as I went in to settle on a stool before Fort’s counter. The quartermaster brought out some more of the “food” and gave it to me.
“My favorite!” I said.
Don’t try to eat the plate this time, please, Fort wrote.
I dug into the food, humming to myself at the flavor.
What? Yes, I could taste it. Why wouldn’t I be able…
Oh, the five senses? Yes, I said I lost my sense of taste to the Sorceress’s curse. You thought…you thought I meant that sense of taste? Oh, you innocent fool.
She took my other sense of taste. The important one.
And with it went my sense of humor, my sense of decorum, my sense of purpose, and my sense of self. The last one stung the most, since it appears my sense of self is tied directly to my wit. I mean, it’s in the name.