The Mosque Hill Fortune (The Sons of Masguard, Book One)

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It would be an understatement to say that Eadric was not well-liked. Since gaining passage on the Albatross, the queen’s advisor had dismissed his quarters as unsatisfactory, the crew as incompetent, and the captain himself as a poor conversationalist and dinner companion. A suspicious person might think he was going out of his way to alienate everyone around him, but the truth was that the insufferable bird couldn’t help it. He’d spent years cultivating a cloud of haughtiness. It served him well in a world where scholars were seen as the gatekeepers of history, whose disdain, disregard, or general malaise could prompt a less-than-favorable footnote on a person’s permanent legacy. What he hadn’t realized was that neither ship nor sailor gave a crab’s leg what future generations might have to say about their importance. They had a job to do. And Eadric, for the most part, was putting himself in the way.

“Marshall.” The kookaburra chirped abruptly as he came to a clumsy landing on the rail near Marshall’s arm. “I demand that the imposter who calls himself a cook be put off this ship, post-haste.”

Lieutenant Ryder joined her captain in staring through the fog at the approaching coastline. “He’s making demands now, is he?”

“Post-haste, no less.” Marshall arched an irritated brow.

Eadric sniffed and puffed his feathers. “Go ahead, make light of a serious matter. But I know what happens on these ships. And I’m telling you, that galley of yours is a health hazard just waiting to happen. When I expressed these concerns to your cook, he had me removed and barred from – and I quote – ‘his kitchens.’ Can you imagine the audacity?”

“Indeed I can,” Marshall replied, stone-faced.

“Positive thoughts, sir,” Ryder reminded in an equally-stoic tone.

“Were that not enough,” the advisor went on as though he hadn’t heard. “He outrageously believes that I should have to adhere to the navy’s pedestrian system of rationing. I’m no commoner, Marshall. I’ll not be treated as one.”

“Certainly not,” the captain said.

“For shame,” Ryder agreed.

 Eadric looked from one to the other until it finally sunk in that they were making fun of him. “Do you allow all of your people to behave so… brazenly… with those who are clearly above their station? Do they speak to you in this manner, as well?”

At that, Ryder turned to lean on the rail with a glare. “The captain has earned a little something called due deference, advisor. So we speak to him, ever and always, with the highest of respect. For example, were any of us to seek permission to hurl a certain pretentious windbag from the deck by his tail feathers, we would approach him with sir and leave with please. We’re very well-mannered pedestrians that way.”

Chirping in alarm, Eadric took a skittish hop back on the rail.

Marshall coughed, suppressing his amusement. “Positive thoughts, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, the thought becomes more positive by the moment, sir.” Her teeth glinted with every word.

“Captain.” They were interrupted by a uniformed young fennec before the situation could escalate. “Helmsman says we’re as close as we can draw to Pelham Point. Any farther and we put the Albatross at risk. Should we ready a raft from here, sir?”

Seeming grateful for the chance to answer an honest question, Marshall gave the ensign a nod. “That would be appreciated, Mr. Wexler.”

With a final glare in Eadric’s direction, Ryder turned and placed a hand on the hilt of her sword. “Sir, if you require a security escort…”