Young Writers Society

Verse Title - Whispers of a Ghost-Ship.

“There have been many rumours spreading about my summons today. In order to quench some of the more... unsavoury ones, I shall summarise right here and now.” Franklin spoke to the assembled men. He shouted – anything quieter would die before it reached the end of the table – though he seemed unhurried, deliberate.

Again, Gustav Franklin seemed weary. Bored.

From the end of the room, Tolrin tossed his head and grunted. Lyeara stepped away, pearl scales glinting, and sighed.

“Global Tech issues, get on with it,” the iron god huffed, examining a fore claw to show just how much he thought of their king.

“My Lord. I have requested your – all of your - presence here to discuss... Several things. All of which regard the recent outgrowth of unauthorised Tech usage, and,” he cast his sharp gaze about the room then. “Nothing else.”

Several of them saw Campbell glance at him sideways. All of them noted that his look, whatever its meaning, went entirely unheeded.

“Regardless. On to business. I'd like to begin with a minor issue, if our guests don't mind,” the king sank back down into the chair and planted one heel against it, resting his knee on the table's edge. “I have heard reports of the HMS Tidebreaker sinking a pirate ship with extensive Tech off the coast of... well, I forget details - Captain Rage?”

Like a spring, the red-headed captain was suddenly upright, saluting.

“Sire!”

“Please inform us of the details.” Franklin leaned back in his chair once the focus was no longer on him. Looking up briefly, he noticed several of the Hohlstinians cast him confused looks. He saw their lips move, also, presumably in the patterns of their native tongue. Pretending he knew what they were discussing, he narrowed his eyes and gazed at them from the corners of his vision.

Their guilty starts, the way they scratched their necks, suddenly became fascinated in a loose fibre in their sleeve or a non-existent flaw in the stone of the table, told him all that he needed to know. He shut his eyes – no man needed his vision to hear.

“Please begin,” he muttered, then rubbed his temples and repeated it, louder this time.

“Sire.” Rage nodded, dropping his hand, then took a moment to gather his thoughts. All present waited in silence.

“Some time ago, my ship, the Tidebreaker, came across an unauthorised Tech vessel off the western coast, not far from the island of Afgifte,” he began, haltingly at first, “Her name was the Piranha: a snow with a propeller,clearly visible above sea line, to accompany her sails. We pursued her into Verrath territory, Sire, then... sank her.”

“I presume there were no losses,” Franklin straightened, interest snagged. “Were there?”

“... Yes, Sire... Unfortunately, we lost two men... Patrick Evans and Thomas Starr. Horace Tibbs is recovering from a gunshot to the thigh... It nearly clipped a lifeline, Sire, but unless it festers, he'll live to serve our crew again.”

Hearing this, the king raised an eyebrow and turned to Campbell, gauging his reaction. His adviser merely lifted a shoulder, unsure. At the back of the room, Lyeara shook her head slowly and Tolrin bore a row of cruel white teeth.

“Continue,” Franklin spoke over his shoulder.

“She now lies on the ocean floor... Some leagues from the northern coast of Siren's Isle, quite a way from out Capitol... We could not recover any of her Tech before she went under,” Rage added. Before he could sit down, the child that had previously sat so obediently by his superiors stood. With his chin straight, spine rigid, and gaze fixed firmly on the distant wall, he spoke. His voice was soft, almost a slither, but clear as a bell - as yet unaltered by manhood.

“Captain, if I may, that is not true,” he called out. From his pocket he withdrew a curled fist and, extending his arm, gradually unfolded it to hold up a small, copper object between forefinger and thumb. “I found this.”

With a start, Rage turned to observe the speaker with a, rather forced, stern look.

“You should have said earlier, boy.”

“I apologise, Captain,” the boy replied, then looked over as the king addressed him. Commanded him.

“...Show me, child.”

Complacently, the novice walked to stand before his king and, after a moment, knelt. Sighing, Franklin ran a hand through his auburn hair and squinted slightly at nothing in particular. Tolrin, too, squinted, his molten eyes picking out minute detail even from afar – a hawk would hide in shame before the hard, keen gaze of a dragon god.

“Rise, boy,” he grunted. Once he was upright, the boy silently handed the metallic object over and bowed his head. His eyes remained partly obscured by strands of black hair. This, and the angle, all but hid his expression.

Whatever his face did or did not reveal, Franklin was more interested in the boy's find, rather than the child. For now, at least. He glanced sideways then examined the piece with a critical eye, brows slightly furrowed. One rose as he spoke, quietly.

Seeing this, Fawkes hurriedly rubbed his glasses with a sleeve, as it it would allow him to see such a small machine from several feet away. In contrast, Tolrin seemed to have lost interest and now began to grate his claws against one another. For some time, an awful noise jarred through the silence, until Lyeara lashed him with her tail and commanded him to stop.

Unaffected, the king turned the device over in his hands a few times.

“The Order's insignia,” Franklin mumbled, then laughed – more a bark than a sign of a amusement. “Some 'Order'. A rowdy collection of thieves and feeble minded engineers, at best. You did well to recover this, child. Would you tell me your name?”

“They call me Ketsueki, Sire. It is a name I took from those of eastern Merai,” Ketsueki lifted his gaze to address his king.

“A name meaning blood... A strange choice,” Franklin examined him for a second. “Though by the colour of that eye of yours, I can understand why. I'm quite sure your Captain shall reward you for this, child. You may be seated, and have my thanks.”

“Thank you kindly, Sire. It is my pleasure,” Ketsueki said quietly. He bowed once, black cloth on arm to black cloth on breast, then turned and headed back to the gap in the row of sailors.

Perhaps it was only Fawkes that looked up then as the he passed, only he who saw the boy's eyes without his obedient mask. One, the right, was cold, merciless, the colour of ice, the left blood red, fierce with anger. Both glinted with a kind of primal, predatory rage. It was they only thing that matched in them.

Though perhaps, only Fawkes saw this naked hate. And one's man's eyes did not an absolute truth make.

Sliding his glasses further up his nose, the navigator hunched on the table, cupping his glass of water between his hands and gazing at it. The intensity of it belonged to a man who felt that there were very few things left in the world worth relying on.

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Once the novice was seated, the low hum of many men engaged in banter began. Allowing this to continue, Franklin turned in his chair to address his adviser while his guests were preoccupied, holding up his prize.

He said simply, “This.”

Seeing his adviser's curious expression, Franklin passed him the machine for scrutiny, then turned to Rage. With a nod,he invited the captain to continue. All returned to quiet as the Captain coughed.

“Secondly and... I fear more importantly... We have heard reports of the Crow's Passage near Verrath shores. We can't be sure though due to rumour... And without means of seeing under the sea...” Captain Rage shook his head. “Just a notification, Your Majesty.”

His report finished, Rage bowed and sat, pensively toying with a silver band around his ring finger. Around the hall, there were nods, mutters.

So these whisperings, these words that crept from mouth to mouth in the dead of night – they held some truth.

Tolrin snorted a derisive jet of sparks and looked to his companion for support in gloating; he received only a snort in return as Lyeara stepped forward. Her curved claws rattled on the stone floor with a harsh metallic crackle.

“Peace! We are not yet finished,” she cried. “Or would you keep us, the very Gods, waiting? As you were, Gustav Franklin.”

Nodding, the Franklin rose, surreptitiously leaning on the throne for what little support it could give him. Silently, he took the received piece of Tech from Campbell and offered it forth for those closest to view.

“You see this, gentlemen? A little piece of corruption. A cog in the mechanism choking along behind the scenes of our countries, to speak. Now I propose a spanner in the works -”

“What has this spanner got to do with our country, Franklin?” Austas smacked his hands on the stone of the table and jumped to his feet. Hazel eyes narrowed, he challenged the foreign monarch. “I don't appreciate being toyed with,” he growled.

“Your nation's influence on Tech, Herr Davion. Please... Sit down.” replied Franklin, calmly.

Gaze still dangerously sharp, Austas sat. His eyes did not leave the king for a moment.

Not to be discouraged so easily, Franklin continued.

“With the Gods as my witness, I am asking for, shall we say what I hope to be a world-wide change. Beginning with us. I am requesting for the punishment in both our nation's, for possession or creation of unauthorised technological artifacts – Tech – to be revised. To be raised from imprisonment...”

He slammed his palm down with a crack of metal on stone. Under it, the machine lay, trapped.

“...To death.”