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, I smugly thought, despite not feeling too fresh myself. However, my urge to live was stronger than my urge to puke. I sprang straight into action, swinging my sword like a baseball bat.

*Whack!*

I hit one of the men in the back of the head, knocking him out cold. The other one 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 the magician off the roof as soon as we switched places, onto the streets below. The fall wasn’t high enough to kill, but it would certainly incapacitate him. “I’m going to go restrain him, now!” she announced. Indeed, that was the follow-up to the plan. She was remarkably dependable, though I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, considering she was an experienced investigator.

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

“I’m just a waiter! I work at the restaurant right here. What’s going on?” he cried.

“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 repeatedly, as he nervously fiddled with his fingers. “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 sheathed my sword and fished inside my pouch. I tossed the man a coin. He was clumsy with his catch.

“Sir?” he asked, inspecting the coin.

“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.

***

The sky was still dark but brightening up. Even at this time, the port was seeing a bit of activity. I ignored all the movement. My gaze was locked onto a long, short and stout building.

Even in this world they look the same.

It was 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 face 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. I’d managed to slip through the guard rotation, as the night shift had clocked out and the morning shift had taken 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 didn’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?

It alternates: one month docked, one month gone; always arriving and departing on the first. Such a 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. Typically, sugar is harvested during the dry, winter season. But here, the quantities don't make sense. For example, two months ago, in the middle of winter, the HMS Wind-up imported 90 barrels of sugar. Yet, eight months ago—which would have been August—it imported 120 barrels of sugar. How could they have imported more sugar during the summer than during the winter?

Furthermore, all the other recurring ships receive different inspectors every few voyages. In fact, I’ve managed to deduce the exact rotation cycle of these inspectors. Despite that, 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 attention.

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

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!

My eyes gleamed with excitement. I was having so much fun, I’d almost forgotten there were lives on the line.

Cargo inspectors Garner and Leon, bookkeeper Donald West and captain Tarlo Milton are conspiring to hide the HMS Wind-up’s true activity. This must be their headquarters!

I took some pictures and fled the scene.

***

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

Moving as quietly as I knew how, I gingerly stuck the audio orb under the long, oval table in the HMS Wind-up’s dining room. I was almost certain there were people living aboard, who would kill me if they caught me.

Faintly, in the distance, a creaking sound. A door opening? Regardless, it was—

Time to go!

I turned to exit the ship. Just then, something shiny caught my eye. On an otherwise empty shelf sat a small, silver lockbox. This feeling... like it was staring at me. My mind involuntarily flashed me back to Shinichi on my nightstand. I approached the box, 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. And yet, judging from the thin, horizontal line, it was clearly made to be openable.

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

The caped weirdo’s words bounced around 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 thing 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.

“What about it? It hasn’t exactly had time to record anything so far. I’ll break back onto the ship tonight and retrieve it,” I hastily replied.

***

We had been riding for nearly six hours. Were we ever going to find this damn establishment?!

Sometime around noon, it had decided to rain and hadn't relented since. The weather was as miserable as the tired and drenched Erin and I. 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 well-worn tie under his woolly, brown waistcoat. It felt like I was back on 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. I’d recognise that voice anywhere.

Allister?