Free The Hell of It by Peter Orullian

 
    Russet hues lit the western horizon and caught in the surfaces of the quiet harbor. Soon the sun would set, making Malen Staned’s scrub-work more difficult. But he was nearly finished. Kneeling on the trawler deck, he scrubbed away fish blood with a stiff brush and scraped the tougher bits with a flat knife. Around his knees he wore the double-woven wool wraps that hands-and-knees workers used. But even with the wraps his bones ached. He paid the pain little mind and added a fistful of lye to his water bucket before mopping down the deck—the smell of scales and entrails was particularly strong today. He was shooing away a few lingering seagulls when Captain Lowell appeared from the small stern-side doorway. A doorway that led to the man’s cabin, where he would have been reviewing his daily catch ledgers.
    â€œMalen,” the captain said, and waved him over before disappearing back inside.
    He set down his mop, grateful to be done for the day. His arms ached, and at this hour his son, Roth, would be waiting on him. Before going into the captain’s quarters, Malen rolled down his sleeves. He always sought to be as presentable as possible when he spoke with the ship’s steward. The smell of fish was strong on him, but there was no help for that.
    Just as he reached the doorway, another man emerged—one he didn’t know. The other’s eyes narrowed against the glare of westering sun, and he moved with a deliberate step to the portside plank. Malen caught a glimpse of a patch sewn to the man’s cloak, the insignia of the League of Civility—four hands, each gripping the wrist of the next to form a squared circle.
    Some called the League our civic mind . They were an influential fellowship that challenged old traditions and had become the Wanship watchdog. More than that, really. Beyond the port city of Wanship, throughout the broad kingdom of So’Dell, the League, some said, was more powerful than the ruling class. The squared round of hands carried more weight than the So’Dell realm mark—a schooner whose sails resembled swooping cutlasses. But Leaguemen didn’t go about idly.
    Malen watched the stranger descend to the dock before turning and ducking into the dark hall. He now felt a tug of uncertainty, coming to the captain after a Leagueman’s visit.
    Inside the ship’s cabin, two small lamps burned against the onset of twilight. Malen liked the quiet feeling of authority here. The charts and compass and skyglass all gave him a sense of the captain’s knowledge, and Lowell made smart use of the instruments. Other trawlers had lain up at the dock for weeks now. Given the new levies, and the rate of their yield, most were unable to afford a crew. Captain Lowell still sailed daily to the fishing waters.
    The man sat at his small desk, staring down at a ledger marked with dates and notes of catch size. He wore his spectacles, which gave him a studious, seasoned look. The lenses caught the glimmer of the lamp flames.
    As if coming to the same conclusion again, the man sighed and removed his glasses.
    Malen sensed it before Lowell spoke. The captain had been staring at his ledgers, as though trying to will a different sum from the numbers there. Numbers, Malen guessed, that led to a grim financial reality. Numbers that were about to take him in their rough embrace.
    â€œI’m sorry, Malen. These are hard times.” The captain shut his eyes tight, and rubbed at them with the balls of his hands. He then finally looked up at Malen, blinking away some weariness. “There’s no other way, my friend. I have no more work for you.”
    Malen’s heart began to race. This had been the only job he could find. The fishing trade, though slow, was the last profitable commerce in Port Wanship. Maybe in all of So’Dell, come to that. And even so, he made scarcely enough coin to get bread and oil and other common necessaries. His mind went