The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Fairbanks

Able's sea legs came back to him shortly, and the choppy waters beyond the bay made him glad for it. It had been several years since his last voyage, a nice trip to warm summer beaches. This time would be unlike that. He'd booked this passage before his mother could work herself and therefore the rest of his family up again. Before anyone could catch on to what he was about and try to stop him.

Now he was trapped on a tiny, wooden sanctuary in the middle of the ocean with little to do but soberly consider the position he had rushed himself into. He had no contacts when he landed, limited funds, and had only a bare-bones compilation of research. He was even short on supplies since he had packed as lightly as he dared, in case he'd have to carry his belongings for miles on foot.

Once aboard, he had made a list of things he needed to do, and it only got longer every time he looked at it. For someone who had long criticized the slipshod work of others, he was well on his way to replicating their efforts. But he had to hope he could manage to be accurate and timely at the same time, for once.

He also had to focus his hopes on his work instead of on finding his father alive and still working with the Rebels. Realistically, even finding out what had happened to him was a long shot. He hated how often he was having to remind himself of this.

Despite a strong headwind, the trip only took nine days. Modern trade ships with their adaptable sail plans were truly a marvel. Able had packed several jackets in anticipation of cold, but the day was mild when they arrived. The port was in demand, too, so they had to wait nearly half the day for a free dock. Able didn't mind, as it gave him the chance to observe the town from a distance.

Fairbanks was smaller and drabber than any of the ports he had visited before with paint appearing to be in short supply. The buildings were largely made of timber, and exposed timber at that, looking almost like cousins to the ships floating in the harbor. They also were not mounted on pilings, but the city rose starkly above the wharfs, so perhaps the monsoons were not a problem. Or, now that he thought about 54.5 N...maybe there were no monsoons at all?

The streets wound their way up the hillside and were worn down by people and carts and wagons pulled by horses that were smaller and shaggier than any he had seen before. Similar to the houses, the transports seemed an unpainted wood. Back in Larbantry, horse-drawn carriages were typically lacquered black or even cinnabar red and thus used only by the very wealthy. But here, the common folk apparently kept horses instead of cattle.

By afternoon, the fishing boats were all moored along the small docks, making them easy to tally above a hundred. Earlier they had weaved in between the press of trade vessels to get to the trawling waters. The harbor traffic was surprising. Able had expected most of these to anchor in the harbor and put the tenders ashore to restock supplies before heading West, and several did, but a greater number were in line to dock. From what Penman had explained over lunch, there were not many overseas goods that the local people could afford.

On that thought, Able went to go find the captain, who ended his conversation with his bosun before giving Able his attention.

"I was just wondering," Able started, "if it's not a problem, might I ask what the cargo is and where it's bound?"

The captain took his pipe from his mouth and nodded amiably. "It's no problem, lad. What we have is mostly grain and linen, and it's ordered by Adeptsby."

"Adeptsby?" Able frowned as he tried to remember why this was familiar. "Wait, Adeptson is..."

"The new count, aye, and he's building this grand castle town in his own honor. Isn't that nice?" The captain wryly returned to his pipe.