I Was Never Crazy

I was no longer on the roof.

Instead, I was down with the two men who had been talking to the magician. Fortunately, not only were they turned away from me, thanks to my shouting, but they were also doubled over and gagging.

Side effect of the power, gentlemen.

My urge to live was stronger than my urge to puke. I sprang straight into action, swinging my sword like a baseball bat. I hit one of the men in the back of the head, knocking him out cold. The other man was too slow to react and found himself with the point of my sword pressed against his throat. This time, it was menacing.

“Arms up!” I ordered. He instantly complied.

“Erin?” I called out, not daring to take my eyes off the man.

“I did it!” she proudly shouted back from atop the roof. I had ordered her to shove off the roof whoever I would switch places with, onto the streets below. The fall wasn’t high enough to kill them, but it would certainly incapacitate them. “I’m going to go restrain him, now!” she announced. Indeed, that was the follow-up to the plan. She was proving herself to be surprisingly dependable.

Satisfied, I began interrogating my own hostage. “Who do you work for?” I demanded.

“I work at this restaurant, here. I’m just a waiter! What’s going on?” he yelped.

“Nice try. You’re with the Triple H gang, aren’t you?”

“No-”

“Then, you have information regarding them?” I suggested.

The waiter gulped. He glanced down at his passed-out companion. I could tell he was worried about being overheard.

“He’s out,” I assured him. “He won’t hear a word you say.”

The man nodded. “They often frequent this patio and restaurant, so I hear things. For example, I know that they trade their victims at the city port,” he whispered.

Finally, some important information. “Any names?” I asked.

“Yes, I know a few,” the waiter confirmed.

I handed him my map and pen. “Write them down on the back of the map,” I instructed.

Once he was done writing, I ordered him to stay still. I reluctantly sheathed my sword and fished around inside my pouch. I tossed the man a coin. He clumsily caught it, due to his visible confusion. “You’re a waiter, right? There’s your tip,” I said. Honestly, I just felt bad at having scared the life out of him.

I joined back up with Erin. She had bound the magician’s legs together and tied his arms behind a lamppost. The man had tears running down his face.

“So-” I started.

“They operate in back alleys at and near the port, where they sell people off to arriving and departing customers. They perform trades daily, mainly around noon and evening. Sometimes, they’ll even sell a boatful of people to rich businessmen. Their headquarters are inside a ship that never leaves, but he refuses to tell me its name,” Erin interrupted. She spoke so fast, I had trouble keeping up.

The waiter also spoke of a port. But a ship that never leaves…?

“How did you get him to say all that?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I just tickled him a lot,” she replied, mischievously. “I even recorded it all, like you asked!”

What a scary woman.

After further failed attempts at getting the stationary ship’s name out of the magician, I snapped a photo of him, and we departed. We rode like lunatics all night long, praying to make it to the port before sunrise.

Hours later…

The sky was still mostly dark. Even at this time, the port was seeing a bit of activity. I ignored all the movement. My gaze was locked onto a small, short and stout building. I instantly identified it as a customs house.

“Okay, this is where it gets really dangerous, so we need to think,” I muttered to Erin. She looked so exhausted, you’d think she'd personally ran all the way to the port. “We know that the Whip uses a stationary ship as their headquarters and that literal boats full of people can be illegally bought and sold here. Therefore, I suspect they’re bribing the cargo inspectors and record-keepers. However, I don’t see any way for so many captives to be transported through such a busy and well-guarded port, without them raising immediate suspicion.”

“Maybe all the guards are bribed, too?” Erin suggested.

“All of them? I find that hard to believe. The magician spoke of back alleys, but in a place like this? In all likelihood, he was referring to a hidden route that connects straight to the port,” I concluded.

I turned to Erin. “Ok, here’s the plan.”

During my years as a recluse, there was nothing I hadn’t studied, including things I never thought I’d actually need. This was the thought I had, as I picked open the lock to the customs house door, using my self-taught locksmithing skills. I’d managed to slip through the guard rotation, as the night shift clocked out and the morning shift took their place.

*click*

The door labelled Boneview Dock Official Records Archive unlocked itself. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.

I walked through the archive, guided by my lantern light. Quickly, I deduced this world's dating system. They used MM/DD/YYYY, like Americans and also had 12 months in a year. We were currently in the third one, which they called “Ansi.” To them, it was the year 1000, though I don’t know what they based that number off of. I decided to look through the records from both this year and the previous.

Over the next hour, I desperately scanned through the documents, looking for patterns…

Eventually, I had it. A galleon; the HMS Wind-up.

The HMS Wind-up, huh? This ship alternates: one month docked, one month gone; always arriving and departing on the first. This back-and-forth pattern is suspiciously regular compared to the other ships. Is it never delayed by natural events or bureaucracy? Do they never have shorter or longer missions? What makes this even stranger, is that ships can only dock for one month at a time at this port.

Secondly, its arrivals and departures are stated as “commercial.” It only ever transports wood, textiles and sugar. That's not the weird part. What stands out to me, is the sugar. Typically, it's harvested during the dry, winter season. Yet, here, the quantities don't make sense. For example, two months ago, in the middle of winter, it imported 90 barrels of sugar. Yet, eight months ago- which would be August- they imported 120 barrels of sugar.

Furthermore, all the other recurring ships receive different inspectors every few voyages, suggesting a rotation of inspectors. Yet, the HMS Wind-up is impossibly always inspected by a Mr. Garner and a Mr. Leon.

As I analysed these records, something subtle caught my eye…

The ship captains must sign off on each arrival and departure. The HMS Wind-up’s captain does no different; he consistently signs his name, “Tarlo Milton.” Except…

I double checked.

That’s right! Captain Milton’s handwriting matches bookkeeper Donald West’s handwriting! This suggests that Donald West is signing off for the HMS Wind-up!

Cargo inspectors Garner and Leon, bookkeeper Donald West and captain Tarlo Milton are conspiring to hide the HMS Wind-up’s suspicious activity…

I took some pictures and fled the scene.

*

By now, it was morning. The port was too active to sneak around anywhere. And yet...

I gingerly stuck the audio orb under the long, oval table in the HMS Wind-up. I moved as quietly as possible. I was almost certain there were people living aboard the ship. If they caught me, they'd kill me. With that in mind, I figured it was time to leave.

As I was exiting the ship, something shiny caught my eye. On an otherwise empty shelf sat a small, silver lockbox. I felt like it was staring at me. Something about this object bothered me so much that I approached it, despite being in mortal danger.

Against my better judgement, I picked it up for inspection. It had no lock. I tried to pry it open to no avail. Was there a sensor? No. A code? Nope. A button or a lever? None that I could find. How the hell-

“I suppose, if you ever need anything opened, head to AT Locks.”

The caped weirdo’s words echoed in my head, as I stared at the box.

*

“How did it go?” Erin asked, as she trotted up beside me. I didn’t respond. I needed to get this stupid, little box opened right now, for my own peace of mind. “Let’s go,” I ordered, as I rushed past her. Sensing my urgency, she hurried to catch up.

“What about the recording?” she asked.

“I’ll break back onto the ship tonight and retrieve it,” I said, hastily.

Six hours later…

Were we ever going to find this damn establishment?!

Sometime around noon, it had decided to rain and hadn't relented since then. The weather was as miserable as the tired and drench Erin and me.

I scanned every sign and building we passed by and had ordered Erin to do the same. Eventually, through a mixture of asking around, using the map and brute force, we found it: an oval, wooden sign hanging from the side of yet another small building in a row of tiny establishments.

AT Locks – Expert Locksmithing, I read. “This is the place!” I announced, triumphantly.

We entered the shop. It had a simple, rustic decor: wooden floorboards and brick walls. Right in front of me was a standing desk, home to a thick notebook and a pen. To my left were three armchairs surrounding a round coffee table, in front of an unlit fireplace. To my right was a worktable full of tools and padlocks. A chubby, elderly man with grey hair and a bushy moustache glanced up from said worktable. He wore a refreshingly simple outfit: baggy, brown dress pants and a beige button-up shirt. I could make out a navy tie under his woolly, brown waistcoat. It felt like watching a regular old man from Earth.

We greeted him and he wordlessly waved us in.

I set the lockbox down on his worktable.

“Good evening, sir. My safe’s lock broke off and now I can’t open it. Do you have any tools to cut it open?” I lied.

The old man flashed an unexpected but quickly stifled grin. “Of course. Let me take a look,” he beckoned.

I froze as soon as he had opened his mouth. I’d recognise that voice anywhere.

Allister?