Heretical Fishing

Chapter 39: Approval

Istopped my hand before it got too close to the otter as I realized what I was doing. Noticing my outreached hand from the corner of its eye, the otter turned from the crab, giving me a questioning chirp.

“Is . . . is it okay if I pet you?”

It made no move, staring between me and my extended hand. It gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Slowly, keeping my hand as steady as possible, I placed my fingers on the fur of its upper back. I scratched the otter, my fingers easily parting the soft fur. It was wet still from its passage through the waters of the river, and some sort of slippery film coating its fur.

The film didn’t bother me. Its body was warm, radiating enough heat to ward off the chill I’d expected to find. It leaned into my touch, arching its back so my fingers were more firmly pressing into its body. I continued scratching, moving my hand up toward the rear of its neck.

Snips hissed, grabbing my attention, and I paused my petting, glancing at her. She wiggled her back, pointing to the top of her carapace with her free claw.

I smiled. “Of course—sorry, Snips.”

I started petting her with my left hand; my right resumed scratching the otter. Snips bubbled happily, and the otter bent down so my fingers dug into the back of its head. It let out a happy chirp, and I started rubbing the area around its ears. Its head lifted, again making my fingers dig in harder. I closed my eyes, bathing in the sounds of happy chirps and joyous hisses.

I wish this moment could never end . . .

Both of my animal pals looked at me when I reluctantly withdrew my hands.

I pointed down at the crab in front of the otter. “It won’t be as tasty if it gets cold. By the way, sorry if this is rude to ask, but are you male or female?”

Sergeant Snips let out a sharp hiss I took as a snort of amusement, and I turned to her.

“Don’t be rude, Snips—I had to ask you the same thing.”

She froze, peering at me and dipping her body in apology.

I shook my head with a smile as I returned my attention to the otter. It pointed to Snips, then to itself—no, herself.

“You’re female.”

She nodded in a matter-of-fact way, not taking offense at my question.

“All right, thank you.”

Her eyes locked back onto the waiting meal. Extending both forepaws, she tested the heat by tapping the crab rather adorably with rapid-fire touches. Finding the temperature acceptable, she removed a rock from one of her pouches, and with a swift crack, smashed the joint of the claw and body. She took the claw in both hands, tasting the sweet, exposed flesh with tentative licks.

The events of the next second were a blur; she held the claw in one hand, smacked her rock up and down its length, and lapped up any juices that threatened to drip into the sand. With dexterous purpose, she discarded smashed sections of shell, biting and sucking the meat revealed within. She was a storm of movement, and I couldn’t help but stare in amazement. Snips was watching too; she took it as a challenge.

Crunching came from my left, surrounding me with a symphony of noise. I smiled and cracked the claw in my hands.

I love my life.

Trent, first in line to the throne of Gormona, and, by his estimate, quite a ladies’ man, stared down the two cultivators accompanying him. He focused on the first cultivator, a man with short-brown hair.

“Come on! It’s not that far out of the way to stay in a tavern.”

The cultivator shook his head. “No. It’s too far.”

“You’d rather spend the night in a forest? There are ladies in a tavern. You’re a man, aren’t you? I could just order you to do so, cultivator. Then you’d have to.”

“Why? So you can be shot down again? You didn’t have your fill of rejection in the last village we passed?”

Seeing red, Trent slapped him, causing his head to jerk to the side. He expected a reaction; anger, sadness, anything. The cultivator merely straightened out, his cheek already reddening as he stared back at Trent.

“I was told by my handler that our mission was to locate cultivators, not harass every serving girl we come across.”

Trent’s face heated, and he tried to make the cultivator submit with a rather potent glare—the cultivator looked back with practiced calm, not responding in the least to Trent’s implied threat. The other cultivator, a man with long blonde hair, stared into space, not even registering the conversation.

Eyebrow twitching, Trent tried to take a steadying breath, but gave up halfway through, releasing his lungs with a frustrated groan.

“I’m the leader of the expedition, so you need to listen to my orders. I’m a prince!”

Trent pointed at the collar around the impudent man’s neck. “That alone should remind you of your position, cultivator.” His gaze was, again, unmoving.

“You are the leader, yes, but that doesn’t mean you get to change our orders. We are to follow and assist you in finding cultivators, so that’s what we’ll do. Spending the afternoon and night in an unrelated town goes against the parameters of our existing orders.”

“If you don’t listen, cultivator, that collar will detonate. Is that what you want? You want to—”

“It won’t detonate because I’m following my orders. If I were to attack you, to place you in danger, then yes, my life would be forfeited. Seeing as though I’m not doing that by insisting we stick to the mission, I suggest we leave this town behind and continue our search.” The infuriating man’s countenance didn’t change, even in mentioning the possibility of his own death.

Trent snarled and turned, not wanting the cultivator to see how affected he was. Not that Trent realized why he turned away, of course—he was as ignorant as he was repugnant.

“Fine. I’ve decided the girls of this town are beneath my attention, anyway. Let’s go.”

Trent climbed back on his horse and spurred it on, not even hearing the sound of the cultivators’ footsteps falling in beside him; he took it as a given that they would follow.

This mission will be even more boring than I thought if I can’t even look at the local girls as we go . . .

Sebastian, leader of Tropica’s Cult of the Leviathan branch, grinned. Gary, his trusty apprentice, watched the smile grow, cringing at the malice it held. A runner had come with an urgent missive, the communication deemed important enough to not wait for the merchant’s monthly visit.

“Good news, boss?” Gary asked, already dreading the answer.

“Great news, Gary—no, perfect news. The main branch agrees with my assessment and will be sending an artifact I can use to deal with Fischer—once and for all.”

“I know artifacts exist, but is there really one strong enough to deal with someone immune to even the deadliest of poisons? Are . . . are you sure it’s a good idea, boss?”

Sebastian’s grin turned to disgust as he peered at Gary, somehow looking down at the taller man, even from his seated position. “Yes, I’m sure it’s a good idea. What makes you say otherwise?”

“Well . . . it’s just that we don’t even have the new baby lobsters yet—”

“They’re called crickets, Gary! Crickets!” Sebastian yelled, a vein bulging in his neck.

“Er, right, crickets.” Gary forced himself to meet Sebastian’s furious eyes. “We haven’t even gotten them yet, and maybe further antagonizing Fischer is a bad idea . . .”

Sebastian’s stare flattened, his expression becoming one of indifference. “Are you a coward, Gary?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Have you so easily forgotten Pistachio, Gary?”

Gary clenched his jaw. “No, sir.”

“Then cease your incessant chattering. The crimes against our cult and Pistachio demand retribution. The next time you voice such concerns, leave, and don’t bother coming back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gary left the home that served as their headquarters, stepping out through the back door into the waning light of the setting sun. He knew better than to continue a conversation with Sebastian after his mood had shifted. His thoughts swam as he walked along the cobbled stones connecting to the breakwall. Stopping absentmindedly, he stared out at the eastern skyline, the beautiful colors bringing a touch of peace. Still, his mind whirred.

How do I steer Sebastian off this path of vengeance . . . ?

“This is what I made today!” I said, gesturing at the pond. Snips blew curious bubbles, and the otter chirped in consideration. “It’s called a pond, and fish can live in it.”

Snips crawled down into the hole, making the sign for salt as she cocked her carapace questioningly.

“No, I was thinking fresh water—if salt water leaks out from here, it could ruin the soil, potentially even killing the surrounding grass and trees.”

Snips pointed down, then mimed eating, small questioning bubbles coming forth.

“Not for eating, no—well, that’s not what I planned, at least. If we stock the smaller fish in here, it will be an easy source of fresh bait for us to use. This is just a test pond to see if it works. If it does, we could even create a brackish one for stocking the common eels that are such good bait.”

Sergeant Snips’s carapace swayed back and forth in thought as she considered my words. She started drawing in the soil. The word for water, then the word for leaving, both of which she had taught me since discovering she was literate.

“Will the water drain out through the ground?”

Snips nodded.

“Well, maybe. If we get it lower than the water table, which I’m guessing is about the level of the river with how close we are to it, then the water will remain. Otherwise, we’ll have to line the ground with something to stop it draining.”

I shrugged. “That’s all assuming the water drains at all—it’s not sandy this far back, but I’ve never made a pond before. We’ll have to work it out together.”

The otter joined Snips in the hole, walking around and testing the soil with her claws. As I watched them inspect the earth, I smiled at the curiosity they both held.

They’re more alike than Snips would care to admit—man, I hope they grow to become good friends.

My eyes went distant, and I started considering the most important task I had at the moment.

The otter needs a name . . .

When Fischer retired for the evening—after making the otter and her swear they wouldn’t attack each other when left alone—Sergeant Snips, chosen of Fischer and defender of his land, turned to the new recruit. They stared at each other, Snips with a tinge of frustration coloring her expression, the otter with an infuriating calm. Snips took the first step toward peace. She gestured for the otter to follow, and not caring to see if she did or not, set off.

It’s to be expected that my master would accrue more followers. He’s too kind to request work, so it’s my responsibility to ensure any recruits contribute to his land.

The otter’s paws padded through the sand behind her.

Good. I shouldn’t have to force obedience.

Snips eyed the landscape as they moved north. She already had an idea for the ideal spot but kept an open mind as they traveled toward it.

Not seeing any better positions, she stopped on the sand fifty meters northwest from the headland. It was in a small dip of the sandy mounds, protected from the strong southerly winds by the headland, but not so close that they would hit rock.

Snips pointed at the sand and dug her claw through it, then pointed toward the forest, where Fischer had shown them his pond. The otter cocked its head and chirped, clearly not understanding.

Great—it’s a moron.

Snips scuttled out from the center and began dragging her claw through the sand as she drew a large shape. She walked all the way around the hole she envisioned, its size and scope much grander than that of the small pond Fischer had dug.

The otter let out a sharp chirp, walked into the middle of the soon-to-be pit, and nodded. She started digging, and Snips nodded her approval.

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