Amelia Thornheart Chapter 120: Ishaq

Noise was the first indication they’d reached the Southern Terra-Firma.

At first, Alia had been enjoying a relatively quiet lunch. She’d been relaxing on the bow of the ship, sowhere in the shadow of Turret Three, nestled between the washing lines the Vengeance’s crew had strung up. She’d found a rather cosy spot—perched on a pile of fishing nets—to sit back and drink her coffee and watch Allston’s n try to hook the native flying fish with jury-rigged fishing lines.

Their colourful lures danced and bobbed in the southerly wind, trying to catch the attention of the nearby schools of fish. Alia recognised the slim bodies of longtails, gliding along the air currents like fluttering pieces of silk, and the stouter, atier bodies of arkis, doing their best to nip at the tantalising bait without getting hooked. She saw other species—new ones that Alia guessed were native to Ishaq’s surroundings; small, vibrantly-coloured fish that darted around the ship before circling the upper-hull aetherscope.

Their attraction to the ship’s superstructure was their downfall. Allston’s n, confidently navigating the rigging with a peeka’s dexterity, were able to catch dozens at a ti with a well-placed throw of a net. While each successive catch brought a few celebratory noises, the activity on the first deck was limited; the growing heat and humidity stifled everyone's enthusiasm and sapped their energy.

The day ticked on, and the Vengeance suffered a continuous assault by not only the Red Moon’s growing influence but also the relentless sunlight from above their heads. The deck was slowly becoming cramped as more and more of the ship’s three-hundred-strong complent either got permission or found excuses to escape the ship’s stuffy insides. Serena must have relaxed the ship’s uniform regulations, as Alia didn’t spot a single common sailor without an unbuttoned and loosened shirt, damp with sweat.

Unlike her demon colleagues—tugging at their clothing and wiping their brows—Alia was enjoying the heat. Of course, with the slightest encouragent, she could have willed her wards into maintaining perfect temperature regulation. But Alia didn’t do that. She didn’t want to do that. She wasn’t travelling the world to avoid new experiences, after all. She took the ti to modulate her aether, finding a balance between her magical protection and the South’s natural environnt.

So she spent a quiet lunch sipping her coffee and enjoying the cooling southerly wind tickling her brow. Her nest of fishing nets grew more comfortable by the minute. It wasn’t long before she felt her eyelids grow heavy. With the soothing sounds of the ship’s purring lift engine, Alia had almost been lulled into a deep sleep when a loud, jubilant cry sounded from nearby.

Blinking herself alert, her attention was drawn first to the demon observer who’d made the excited noise, and then to his arm pointing off the ship’s bow. Alia bounced up and, darting between washing, joined her fellow crewmbers in rushing to the railing and peering out into the expanse.

There, thirty-or-so kilotres to the west, level with their sailing elevation of six thousand tres, were the distant shapes of mountain tops standing tall and proud above the continent's edge. The mid-sky air shimred from the heat, making it seem as if the mountains were waving at them—welcoming them to new lands and new adventures.

“Cascadia hoy!” exclaid a nearby demon, his hands raised to the sky in celebration, an expression of relief plastered on his face. Another sailor echoed his cry. Then, before Alia had ti to think, she found herself caught in the midst of celebratory shouts and enthusiastic cheers—a sudden onslaught of activity that she wouldn’t have thought possible coming from a group of sailors that were only just a mont ago so drowsy.

“Thank the Empress, we made it!”

“It’ll take more than tornadoes and pirates to stop us!”

“The Moons guided us true!”

“Praise our wonderful captain!”

That last shout, of course, ca from herself. After squeezing out of the rabble and finding so breathing room, she’d eagerly joined in on the cheers, throwing out the shaless complint for her wonderful girlfriend. However, any hope that her words would be drowned out by the hollering demons quickly proved worthless.

Perhaps her luck—the sa luck that had profited her a week's worth of Jimari coffee at Tos’ card table—had run out for an unexpected lull in the celebrations ant her words were carried clear and true over the Vengeance’s deck. The surrounding demons stopped and looked at her. A mont of silence passed before a different type of celebration began, one where Alia found herself hoisted up and thrown into the air.

“We should be thanking you, Miss Liona!” soone shouted as Alia tumbled in the air, her vision obstructed by her hair. “If it weren’t for you, we’d be arcwhale food! Ain’t that right?” Alia fell, but before she could hit the decking, a dozen pairs of hands grabbed her, launching her high once more.

“That’s right!” another demon called. “Did ya hear the rumours? Her magic—”

“Settle down, you fools!” A familiar, masculine voice cut through the chaos. “Put her down, you idiots. What if you throw her overboard by accident? Who do you think would have to explain that to the captain, huh?”

Alia was quickly lowered. Blowing a lock of hair out of her mouth, she twisted her head to look at her saviour. There, with his towering muscular fra and a disapproving frown set against a background of marbled skin, stood her friend—Tos, the ship’s quartermaster. The demon was doing his best to look annoyed, but if Alia wasn’t mistaken, there was the faintest glimr of mirth in his yellow eyes.

“I think I would be fine, Tos,” Alia said with a grin as she found her feet. Straightening her clothing and tidying her hair, she continued, “It’s not like I wouldn’t be able to find the way back up, you know?” She punctuated her retort with a playful wink.

“You might be fine, but surviving going overboard is a little beyond a typical kitchen mage, don’t you think, Miss Liona?” Tos lectured, tapping his temple as if to say, ‘Use your noggin.’ The quartermaster leaned in, saying in a quiet voice, “Any large-scale magic you perform from now will be picked up by Ishaq’s strategic aetherscopes. I ain’t sure how influential Intelligence is all the way down here, but I’d rather not have our horns twisted by the Tasalsul when they find out what cargo”—Tos gestured at her—“we’re sneaking into Ishaq.”

It took Alia half a second to realise that she was the cargo the lecturing quartermaster was referring to. It took her another half a second to inflate her cheeks, place her hands on her hips and manifest the most perfect pout a magically-disguised human could manage.

“Hmmph!” Alia turned away, turning her nose up in mock propriety. “Cargo my arse! How about I throw you overboard, mmm?” She stuck her tongue out for good asure, but only got an eye roll in return.

“Moons,” Tos intoned, tugging at his collar. “At least I’d cool down as I fall.” He licked his finger and held it up high. “This wind better pick up or we’ll boil alive.” Tos tapped his foot on the tal deck. “It’s all well and good serving on the infamous Black Ship, but perhaps we need a change of colour around here. There’s a reason the Southern Admiralty paint their ships white.” Tos nodded, his eyes focused on a point past Alia’s shoulder. “Look for yourself.”

Alia turned to see a white ship turning off starboard, slowly positioning itself in the Vengeance’s vicinity. Unlike nes’ wooden Nefertari, this ship had white tal plates lining its hull. A short superstructure—crowned with the telltale bulbous shapes of aetherscopes—reached both to upper- and under-sky. It was more heavily ard than the Nefertari, but almost half the size of the Vengeance. Two turret pods and two smaller casemate turrets were all the potential conversation the ship could offer.

“Ishaqian periter ship,” Tos mused. “Let’s hope we pass the check.”

As if on cue, Alia sensed a series of pulsations propagate from the Ishaqian ship. It was their aetherscope ssaging the Vengeance. There was a brief mont of pause, and then their aetherscope responded, sending ripples through the aetherfield in ti with whoever was tapping out the reply inside the bridge.

Feels like Finella, Alia thought. She’d beco rather adept at identifying which crewmber was staffing the communication equipnt by their tapping cadence. Each person sent aethergrams with their own personality, and Alia had practised trying to write down the encrypted ssages as they ca in. Aiden was the slowest and most inexperienced, Finella was faster and almost rhythmic in the way she tapped, while the Sensors Officer was the most proficient, sending ssages with almost robotic efficiency.

The Ishaqian ship fired off another ssage. This one wasn’t encrypted, and Alia caught just enough of it to get a gist of its aning. “I think we passed,” she said, feeling the edges of her lip curl. “They’re welcoming us to the South.”

“Thank the Moons for that,” Tos said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “With how the Captain’s been dealing with ships throughout the Passage, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d sent ‘em a warning shot if they tried to play any gas.” Tos sniffed, looking Alia up and down. “I’ve heard rumours our Arakian lord has invited you and the captain to experience the delight of his further company, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Alia chirped. “I can’t wait!”

Before Tos could open his mouth, Dagon appeared at his side, saying, “Better be careful, Miss Liona. Southern Lords might seem friendly, but they take their own form of etiquette every bit as seriously as the Eastern nobility.” Dagon shared a look with Tos before shaking his head and continuing, “nes may let a mistake pass, but his wife is an influential politician over in Centralis. One slip-up from you and you’ll embarrass House Halen, and—assuming that nes’ wife finds out your true identity—House Thornheart and everyone else backing your entry into Cascadian Lordship. Ain’t that right, Tos?”

“That’s right, Dagon.” Tos nodded seriously. “The South are very particular about their dining etiquette. You’ve eaten Manwese cuisine before, haven’t you?” After Alia nodded, Tos said, “Ishaqian culture has a similar concept, only instead of the Manwese thod of building a small biteful using vegetables and at with chopsticks, you’re supposed to skewer your food using a long”—Tos held out his hands a foot apart—“two-pronged fork, similar to a carving fork. You’ve got plenty of experience with that, haven’t you?”

“S-shut up,” Alia said, doing her best to glare at the cheeky quartermaster. “I’m reading that book you got , so I’ll be prepared for anything.” She gave him a nod. “Go on then, what do I do with the fork?”

“It’s called a longfork. You need to layer the ats one by one, creating an almost kebab-like al, but you’ll mix in grilled fruits and vegetables. The key thing is”—Tos held up a finger—“a proper Southern table will have ats from all over the Empire. Traditionally, the order you skewer and thus consu the al is used to indicate your political and family alliances.” Tos’ eyes flicked to Dagon. “Aint that right, Dagon?”

“Mmm.” Dagon nodded seriously. “Consider this: if they serve Eastern venison, when should you skewer it, Miss Liona? If you skewer it first, you eat it last. What ssage might that send to your Ishaqian hosts? Does eating it last an you hold the East furthest from your own priorities, or does it an you hold it as the most important, saving it to last where you can savour it the longest?”

“I… I don’t know,” Alia said after so thought. “What do I do? It seems no matter what I choose, I might cause a misunderstanding!” She squird on the spot, feeling an awkward knot of anxiety form in her stomach.

Tos shook his head. “There’s no need to concern yourself, Miss Liona,” he reassured. “For foreigners, there’s an established way for you to show your respect while also maintaining pride in your background.” Tos raised a finger, saying, “First, you skewer the ats from the East, followed by fruits and vegetables if there are any”—a second finger was raised—“then you’re free to explore the Southern dishes. You’re expected and encouraged, as a foreigner, to experint. The only important thing is to make sure you have more Southern food on your longfork than food from your native Terra Firma. Ain’t that right, Dagon?”

“Perfectly explained, Tos,” Dagon said. “If you do it that way, Miss Liona, you’ll get by fine. There’s just a few”—Dagon held his thumb and forefinger close together—“niggles that might catch you out.” As Tos grunted in agreent, Dagon continued, “There are certain ats that follow their own rules.”

“Like… like what?” Alia asked, feeling her eyes widen.

“Mutton, for example,” Dagon explained, “is considered a common at, and should not make up much of your fork at all if your host offers a finer selection, which I imagine Sayyid Bastet will. And then there's the problem with fish…” Dagon trailed off, glancing at Tos with a grimace and a shake of the head.

“Ah, that’s right,” Tos said, scratching his chin with a thoughtful expression. “You can skewer normal fish with at hunted from the land, but you should never mix waterborne fish flesh with anything but fruit. Doing otherwise is considered a slight in these parts.”

“R-right.” Alia nodded earnestly. “Land-based at with flying fish. Waterborne fish with fruit. Anything”—she swallowed awkwardly—“anything else?”

“It’s unlikely, but you need to know what to do if they try and show off and serve native Ishaqian humonic ats,” Tos said with a sigh. “In that case, there’s only one thing to do. Anything else and you’ll be thrown out and blacklisted from every establishnt this side of the Empire. Ain’t that right, Dagon?”

“That’s damn right,” Dagon affird with a sigh. “Would be terribly embarrassing for the good captain, as well. I’m sure she’ll remind you when we make port.”

“Well, tell now!” Alia huffed. “Stop hiding information!”

“If they serve Ishaqian humonic at,” Dagon said, swallowing loudly. “Which is delicious, by the way. Very nutritious.”

“I’ve always found it a bit stringy,” Tos said.

“You need to slow cook it, brother. Keeps it tender.”

“But it can be so hard to catch, can’t it?”

“It can. Expensive as well.” Dagon faced Alia and said, “If they serve humonic at, then you should skewer it first and last. This shows you’re fully enjoying the host's al, and prioritising the shared experience of eating humonic ats over whatever your politics or relationship is.”

“Got it!” Alia absorbed the information. “Humonic at. First and last. Uh, what’s humonic at anyway? It sounds like… like…” She found herself trailing off as her mind connected the dots and she realised exactly why Tos’ and Dagon’s expressions looked like they were barely holding in their laughter.

“Oh, co on!” she exclaid, huffing, pouting, and rolling her eyes all at once. “You idiots are incorrigible!” The idiots in question began braying with laughter, sniggering in satisfaction and wiping tears from their eyes.

Alia did the only thing she could think of, and that was to summon an ice-cold wind.

“Ahh!” Tos spread his arms. “That feels nice. Thank you, Miss Liona. Always a pleasure when an innocent jest is rewarded! I just—Ooo! Ahh!” The quartermaster’s noises of gratitude were replaced with sharp exclamations as Alia twisted her aether and rapidly lowered the wind’s temperature. “N-now, Miss Liona. If you freeze us, we won’t be able to give you the b-book on Ishaqian culture, a-aint that right, D-Dagon?”

“T-that’s right, T-Tos,” Dagon chattered, rubbing his arms.

Alia stood straight and placed her hands on her hips. She asked, “Other than your little jest, is longfork etiquette a real thing?” At her words, the two demons nodded earnestly while the surrounding crew mbers laughed and cheered. With a bit of willpower, Alia ended her Marzanna ice magic and allowed the incorrigible quartermaster and First Officer to defrost in the moonlight and sunlight.

“What a bizarre feeling,” Tos mumbled. “To go from disliking the sun to welcoming it in the span of only a few seconds.”

“You’re telling ,” Dagon said with a shiver. “Miss Liona, you could earn good money keeping trade caravans cool throughout the Red Sands, should you ever consider a career change.”

“Maybe,” Alia said, grinning. “But you’re stuck with for now!”

“Our privilege,” Dagon mused with an eye roll. Before Alia could protest, the First Officer pointed at the sky. “Looks like we’re getting a welco party.”

Alia turned to see that more white-hulled ships were joining the Ishaqian periter vessel. Only, these weren’t military ships. They were fishing ships. Not the jury-rigged fishing vessels Alia had seen throughout the Passage, but proper, well-equipped ships with the rigging to support large nets and dozens of fishing lines.

And what colour they boasted! Allston’s n and their fishing lures seed almost dull in comparison. The Ishaqian fishing vessels draped vibrant flags that drew the eye. From what Alia could see, they were a form of advertisent for whatever company owned or insured the fishing vessel. Half the flags bore bright Imperial script, while the other half were in the curvy Hakian script Alia had struggled to learn in recent days.

The flags were supplented by colourful ribbons, streaming from the rigging and trailing for a dozen tres. So of the larger ribbons had a line of script sewn into them, running their entire length. Alia couldn’t yet read Hakian, but she wondered if they were further advertisents or the textual form of the prayers she’d seen nes and his n frequently utter reverently. At the ribbon’s ends, there were even more colourful lures, enticing longtails to try their chances.

Even the nets weren’t bland. They were richly decorated with more lures, more ribbons, and patterned cloth. They were larger than the nets Alia had seen the Vengeance’s crew use, and larger than the nets she’d made her nest in. Covering dozens, perhaps hundreds of square tres, they were attached to lengthy portside and starboard beams, seeking to catch any fish daring to nip at a bit of bait and too slow to escape. Looking closer, she saw the nets were layered in such a fashion that a fish could enter easily, but would struggle to leave.

It only took a few minutes for the Vengeance to have more than twenty fishing vessels pulling in close. Their crews were friendly, shouting their welcos and waving. While the Ishaqian crews had thick accents, making their Imperial a little difficult to decipher, Alia had enough practice from nes that she could make out most of what was being said.

“Welco, foolish and brave souls! You must have been mad to sail the Passage!”

“You won’t last long if you keep that ship black!”

“Hungry? Co to Samak’s Fishery! We always serve the sa day we catch!”

“Afternoon, boys! You look tired!”

The last shout ca from a slender Ishaqian woman with slightly curled horns. She stood at the railing of her ship, her white dress contrasting with her darker skin. “Get closer!” she called to the ship’s captain.

The demon at the helm operated his station with deft hands and a mont later the ship pulled up alongside the Vengeance, closer than any of the other vessels.

“Long trip?” she chirped, winking at the Vengeance’s crew. Raising a hand, she pulled a pin from her shoulder. The top of her dress fell away, revealing her bare chest.

There was only the briefest mont of quiet before the sailors on the Vengeance’s deck began hollering as a different type of heat descended upon them.

“If you like what you see,” the woman shouted, turning her body to the left and right. “Co relax at Madam Sakina’s! You hear that? Madam Sakina’s! Ask for , Ihra!” Ihra giggled, spinning her enticing body. “I’ll be delighted to be your company for the day… and the night!” As the demons around Alia shouted all kinds of nonsense, Alia couldn’t help but respect the woman’s brazen confidence.

Perhaps Ihra has a sixth sense, as Alia found her eyes suddenly locked with the Ishaqian woman.

“Oh?” Ihra mouthed. “We welco won as well! Whatever your taste is”—Ihra winked—“we have more than enough talent to—” Ihra was cut off by a hiss of steam and the rumbling noise of Turret Three’s bearings. The several-tonne weapon groaned as it began to rotate, its barrels slowly coming to bear against the nearby ship and the topless vixen aboard. Its movent was accompanied by the snapping sounds of the washing lines attached to the barrels.

The neighbouring ship’s captain wasted no ti in spinning the wheel and pulling the ship away from the Vengeance, darting away and low out of sight. “Rember, Madam Sakina’s!” was the last cry Alia heard before Turret Three’s rotation began reversing, returning to face its original bearing.

She shared a look with Tos and Dagon.

“I guess that’s why they say ships lose n in Ishaq,” Alia said with a grin. She glanced at the bridge, under no illusion as to exactly who’d ordered the perhaps slightly too aggressive response to Ihra’s sales pitch.

Well, Serena had nothing to worry about. Alia had already made a solemn vow to make up for the weeks of relative inactivity they had suffered during the three-week trip since leaving Asamayawa. No matter what kind of pleasure might occur during a night at Madam Sakina’s establishnt, it would pale in comparison to what Alia had planned for her soft-hearted and occasionally scandalous girlfriend.

Making a ntal note to tease Serena about this in the future, she moved to the very bow of the Vengeance, where she could get a good look past the dozens of colourful vessels and at Ishaq proper.

“Whoa!” Alia exclaid, taking in the sight of the Southern plateau city. That said, could it be called a plateau city? From what she could see, it was more of a slope city. Ishaq did have a large level area at the top, from which hundreds of two- and three-story buildings sprouted, coloured not only white, but also light blues, greens, and even pinks. However, unlike the previous plateau cities of Kenhoro, Shimashina, and the Three Sisters, there was no distinct sheer drop to continent level.

Instead, there was a constant, gentle slope all the way to the ground. There had clearly been so effort in creating more even ground for construction, as there were distinct tiers to the city, each one forming a semi-circle of urban life, curving around Ishaq’s centre and ending at the mountain range behind. Instead of vertical plateau lifts, there were inclined platforms that served the sa role. Great tracks sloped from the ground to the top, and Alia could see systems of counterweights and steam engines working to pull people and material up and down the city.

Peering left and right, she couldn’t see the start of the Southern wilderness—Ishaq had cleared the thin strip between the mountain range and the continent edge further than she could see. But she could see so examples of the great towering trees that were the South’s version of the East’s ironwoods. The trees she sighted throughout the city had evidently been left with purpose; their broad leaves offering large patches of shade, in which she could see the Ishaqian natives relaxing.

She could barely stop herself from bouncing on her feet as the Vengeance made its final approach, aligning with a ship bay at the highest tier of the city. Drawing ever closer, Alia realised Ishaq was in the midst of so form of celebration. She could make out the natives—dressed in vibrant, loose clothing—drinking and making rry throughout the city. Dozens—no—hundreds of colourful kites flew from rooftops. She could see so kite flyers practising moves while others seed determined to battle it out in the skies.

After hearing about Ishaq’s kite-flying culture, she’d asked Allston whether they were a danger to the ship. Her concerns that a rogue kite might tangle the ship's propellers were quickly put to rest by the chief engineer, who’d scoffed and told her that ‘You’d need a kite made of chain and tal to have a chance of denting my propellers.’

As they ca into dock, Alia could see many Ishaqians—especially the children—pointing at the Vengeance with expressions of wonder and curiosity. For them, she imagined, the ship was an unusual sight. Not only was the Vengeance an unusual hull shape, but it was also black—a very impractical colour when sailing under the burning sun and moon.

Alia did her best to wave back. If she wasn’t mistaken, she earned a few welcoming waves and toothy grins in response.

The last few hundred tres were the slowest. The Vengeance belched steam from its vents to counter the southerly wind, now noticeably stronger than before. It manoeuvred into its waiting bay, and, with a judder that ran throughout the ship, it settled into the keel blocks and hissed out one last burst of steam as if to announce to Ishaq and the rest of the South, ‘I am here!’

Alia grinned.

They’d finally arrived in Ishaq!