He deemed himself presentable, anyways. His crew had seen him look worse.
Fynn did not need his sword, nor the knives he’d laid out on his desk the night before. He was skilled enough in hand-to-hand combat that weapons would only weigh him down, and he did not anticipate a fight today. He did, however, stuff a generously-filled pouch of gold into his pocket, and after snuffing out the candles with a gentle gust of his wind, Fynn stalked out of his cabin and into the Sonamire sunlight.
His crew was frantic as they prepared to drop anchor in the harbor, but the Captain had expected nothing less.
He wove his way through scrambling deckhands, and he did not flinch when a rusted pulley snapped free from the rigging above. His crew leapt out of the way as it crashed to the deck near Fynn’s feet, splintering the stained mahogany planks and scattering shards of broken icicles.
“Sorry, Cap!” Amael called, tangled amongst the rigging halfway up the foremast. “I’ve been meaning to check the lines to see what needs repaired. I didn’t think we’d reach the port so soon.”
The Captain waved at him in dismissal. “Don’t bother,” Fynn said. “Half the ropes need replaced. I’ll see what I can find in the market.”
He had checked the rigging himself last night. Fynn would send Riel into the market to barter for new rope and tackle, then make her switch out the lines to give Amael a break. It would serve her right for slamming his cabin door.
The wood groaned beneath Fynn’s feet as he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. He prayed that the planks did not snap beneath his weight. He needed to replace those, too.
“It’s about time, pretty boy.” Riel grinned at him from the center of the deck, touching Gracia’s shoulder. The helmswoman sagged in relief as Fynn emerged from the stairwell. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen overboard.”
Gracia’s hands shook against the wheel, her fingers grasping the helm so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Her sea-green eyes were fixated on the port ahead, the staggering mountain that could splinter the Refuge into pieces, and the ice that drifted through the water. “Thank the Gods you’re here.”
Fynn chuckled. “Would you like me to walk you through this?” he offered calmly. “Or would you prefer I take over? You can do this, Gray, but I won’t make you.”
The helmswoman took a breath, her blonde hair whipping across her face in the wind. “Will the ice harm the ship if I hit it?”
“No,” Fynn said. “It’s free-floating. The ship’s wake will push it out of the way.” He studied the busy quay, the dozens of ships docked in the harbor. “If you’re comfortable, drop anchor in the dock on the end.”
A thick sheet of ice cracked against the prow of the ship, hard enough to rattle the planks, and Gracia backed away from the helm. “I can’t,” she whimpered, retreating into the safety of Riel’s open arms. The Quartermaster kissed her temple. “I’m sorry, Fynn.”
He took her place behind the helm. “It’s all right. You’re still learning.”
Fynn steered his ship towards the dock. His helmswoman watched him intently, observing the way he navigated the choppy waters. He was not frightened of the cliff, of the ice, or the enemy ships that watched them sail to shore.
“Where’s Luca?”
“Below deck,” Gracia answered. “Taking inventory. He’s running low on medical supplies, bandages and gingerroot, mostly.”
“Get me a list of what he needs. I’ll get it while I’m out.”
The Captain closed his eyes. Shivering, he drew an icy breath, and a gust of wind filled the sails of his ship. They opened fully to the breeze, the rigging growing taught as it strained against the billowing fabric. Fynn prayed nothing else snapped.
Fynn exhaled through his nose as they approached the shore. Ice scattered from their path, shoved aside by his Magic. “Get me that list,” he repeated. Exhaustion pulled at every inch of him as Fynn hunched over the wheel. “Only the necessary supplies. We’ll pick up the rest in a different port.”
Gracia’s brow creased with concern. “Aye, Captain.”
A quick nod from Riel had her scurrying down the quarterdeck stairs, shrieking when the wood creaked beneath her. Riel flinched. “I don’t know how she ended up here.”
“Like the rest of them,” Fynn wheezed. “She asked for a home and I gave her one.”
Riel angled herself towards the Captain once Gracia disappeared below deck. “Did you sleep last night?”
The breeze guttered. “No, but I was resting this morning.”
His Quartermaster heaved a sigh and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this,” she scolded. “The ship will sail on its own. We don’t always need your Magic.”
“My Magic is what gets us from port to port before we starve. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of sea food.” Fynn smiled at her, though it lacked its usual charm. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
“You’ll rest once we leave Valestorm,” Riel declared, her braids fluttering like whips against the Captain’s sputtering wind. “No wind, no Magic, and you’ll let me deal with the crew. I can’t have you falling overboard because you’re sleepwalking.”
Fynn snorted. “Aye, Quartermaster.”
A final gust of his wind had the ship sailing into the open waters of the quay. Fynn steered them into the empty dock at the end of the harbor, and before the ship could crash into the cliff beyond, his crew dropped the anchor. Riel stumbled against him, cursing as the ship jerked to a stop. Fynn was accustomed to the jar.
“Find Gray and get that list, and ask Amael what he needs for the rigging.” Fynn backed away from the helm, already knowing exactly what Amael needed. But it was fun to give Riel an extra task. “You’re heading into the port to help me shop.”
“Why do I have to go?” Riel groaned. “Why not Amael or Luca? It’s their supplies, not mine.”
Fynn pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Because they didn’t slam my door this morning.” He bolted away before Riel could throttle him, her fist already raised to do so. A dozen gold rings glittered at her knuckles. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave you.”
He left her protesting on the quarterdeck, cursing him to the Gods.
The Refuge swayed in the Emerald’s wake, but despite their ship being anchored, Fynn’s crew continued their morning duties. They would not follow him into Valestorm, not even if they’d spent the last three weeks at sea.
Amael dangled upside-down from the rigging, his dark skin gleaming with sweat as he tightened and secured the lines. Milo and Jax, a pair of brothers that Fynn had rescued in Jadoa last year, were scrubbing the deck and bickering about whose turn it was to empty their water bucket and re-fill it. A dozen other deckhands scrambled about, and Riel, of course, was still bellowing from the helm, both Luca and Gracia having joined her.
Fynn motioned for the gangplank to be lowered to the boardwalk below. Arden, a small deckhand with hair as black as midnight and skin as pale as the moon, hefted a narrow piece of wood over the designated alcove in the hull. It bumped against the dock, and the Captain nodded his thanks. She dipped her chin in acknowledgement, her thin lips pursed and blue from the cold as Fynn stepped over the hull.