“And no one tries to stop ’em?” Red Whale asked.
“Oh, sure,” BorMane chuckled, “there’s plenty as could stop ’em if they wanted—but, ya see, ships come to Crossports Slizzer because they want to. It’s a bit of—well, I guess you’d call it—a ‘twilight place.’ Ya see all those ships in the harbor? Why, everyone of them’s either a pirate or pays protection money to pirates—but since this is the only port in hundreds of miles, and the best eatin’ in the Seven Seas, why, let’s just say good and bad slosh together here—a sort of ‘convenient peace,’ ya might say.”
A sickly-sweet, but sharp and fiery, odor hung in the air. The scene was strangely quiet, with only a few wagons, pulled by teams of enormous tortoises, creaking and rumbling across the cobblestone streets. Here and there, the wagons stopped and a couple of burly Watch-Cougars hopped off and picked up bodies from the street, tossing them on the wagons. The process continued as the wagons worked their way down the street. The strange sight put a damper on the enthusiasm of the crew.
“Not a soul breathin’!” one seabeast howled. “Why’s t’s the plague! We’ll catch t’death o’ it! Let’s get out’a here!”
“Yi! You’s got that right! Looks like body-pickers gatherin’ the dead—poor souls!” another moaned.
“Now don’t you go makin’ up stories you’ll be fools for later!” BorMane chuckled. “You’re just seein’ a bit of what draws these ships here!”
BorMane, having stopped at Crossports Slizzer several times during his voyages crisscrossing the Voi-Nil, was the only member of Daring Dream’s crew who knew the place. “You’ll see now how it is with the Voi-Nil,” he chuckled. “Soon’s we hit the wharf and the gangway goes down, you’ll see wonders!” the old Coyote chuckled. “Why the ships’ are peaceful ’cause their crews have abandoned them ’n gone ashore. And the town’s quiet ’cause now just about everybody’s sleepin’—it’s the daily Snooze.
“The daily Snooze?” Red Whale asked.
“Crossports Slizzer is known for its eatin’,” BorMane answered. “Why there’s shark chop houses, muck n’ crots rooms, Slizzer Eel barbeque joints, seaweed cafés, and lizard roasters by the dozen—but those ain’t places for a decent beast. There’s better places for the money you’ll spend. Check out Flimbard Street, the area around Stand n’Step, or head up the road to Lugmate Hill—the grub’ll cost you dear—a hundred pieces of gold for a spot o’ tea, but any other meal, in any other place, seems the vilest slop imaginable in comparison. Fat paunches make for lean wallets in Slizzer.”
“I don’t want to see any more wonders than I have to,” Red Whale replied. “We’re bound for the Outer Rings and I don’t want to waste more time in port than necessary.”
“It won’t take long to see the wonders, Capt’n,” BorMane said mysteriously. “Why, the place itself is a wonder—a regular crossroads of the world, where before it was just a bit of rock piled high with tortoise dung and overrun with flies and mosquitoes—but once the first Whale freighters discovered the place, and the pirates followed them like flies after honey, things began to happen. Now it’s eatin’ and fightin’, eatin’ and fightin’, nothin’ but eatin’ and fightin’. Slizzer’s a wild and reckless place, full of careless livin’ and terrible bad singin’. Aye, you’ll soon see how it is.”
A loud staccato, almost like the sound of someone beating a drum, interrupted BorMane and Red Whale’s conversation. A red-faced old Seagull was nearly running up the gangway, stumping toward them on a wooden leg. The old seabird appeared to have a rugged history. Long white feathers poked out wildly around the edges of a dark blue tricorn hat, calling attention to a ghastly, purple-white scar running diagonally across the bird’s face. As the old Gull approached, Red Whale noticed that the old seabird’s beak was cut off at an odd angle—an angle exactly matching the run of the scar.
“Crinoo!” Red Whale exclaimed softly, “that old sea-beater’s got stories to tell—looks he took a cutlass slash full in the face sometime.” The wooden peg, fitted snugly to where the Gull’s right leg ended just above the knee, suggested other stories the old Gull could tell.
“You’d be Cap’t Gummerpobb of the Darin’ Dram, I’ll wager you a barrel of Blazin’ Muck!” the Seagull roared loudly, greeting Red Whale in a deep, gruff voice.
“And who might you be, blowin’ in like a typhoon?” Red Whale asked.
“I’m Jick Maloon, mayor of this paradise—but beasts ’round here’bouts call me JM Death,” the Seagull replied roughly. “Or, mostly just Death—that seems what folks remember most about me—seein’s how I’ve been killed or marooned and left to die thirteen times and I’m still here, as ya see.”