Open Mettle: Indiscipline

[Cryle]

"Five would allow for thirty-one, but accounting for punctuation and a number signifier, it would fall short. So six is rather ideal. That would allow for sixty-three."

"That's almost double!"

"It's one just over double, actually. How-ever... If we're to add dashes, it would be nine. A three-by-three grid, dots in the corners and center, dashes at the cardinals."

"There's birds?"

"The directions. North, south, east, west. I like this, but then..."

"...then...?"

"Well, for maths, if the dashes represent degrees, then the dots can only go up to thirty-one. But there's eighty-nine between every cardinal degree, so to fit an entire angle within a single symbol would still be impossible with only nine. Unless the dashes represent multiplication of the whole number... hm, but that would require..."

"Is that important... I mean, it's not going to come up is it? Who is going to write to me about degrees? Unless you're going off to a university after you leave the ship?"

"If you're to be the code-breaker in my absence, the things that would need to be coded would involve degrees. Augh. Fine, if there's a symbol that represents the idea that the following symbol is a measure of degrees, that will work. With nine, we have five hundred and eleven combinations."

"Cryle... I'm not going to memorize five hundred things."

"Why not? You've learned over five hundred words."

"Words are sounds! You're talking about tiny dots on paper. I can't just swipe my paw over dots and know how many there are, and then remember all the... con... conflagurations - "

"Configurations."

"See, I don't know five hundred words! That's the five hundredth word, that's too many words."

"Alright. I'll keep it simple for you. It's just proof of concept, it doesn't mean we have to fill out five hundred symbols. The dots will be letters. Four dashes means the symbol is a whole number, and the dot arrangement can be in decimal. Four dots in the corners for a zero, one dot in the center for one, one dot on the top left for two, top right for three... something like that work for you?"

"Urff... I guess."

Silence settled over the pair for a while as Cryle scritched out ideas in her notebook. Korya's tail hung over her hammock, twitching idly, but the feline remained otherwise still, a sure sign that her thoughts were deep as the ocean.

It had been only a few days since they'd left Vulpinsula, and routine was starting to settle in somewhat, in a hazy, uncoordinated way, despite Frogears' best efforts. Korya's mood swings were nothing very new to Cryle, who had siblings, but it was obvious even to the socially oblivious rat that things were bothering her bunk mate. Yesterday, not even Griblo's most horrid puns could crack a smile. In an attempt to make the little leopard cat feel useful again, Cryle had opened up with her idea of a coded alphabet, not made of ink, but of indented shapes.

Now, in their off-shift hours not specifically allocated to sleep, the two schemed. Cryle had requested a few things from the ship's carpenter, to see what was even possible - her schematics for Korya's telescopic walking stick had been completed, but required hollow tubing with threaded ends, springs, and other such seemingly frivolous desires.

And for one glorious moment, nobeast was bothering them, allowing Cryle to work in relative peace. Although she had one of those portentous feelings that this was about to change. Rumors of a potato thief were already circulating and drawing unwanted attention to the skittish, curious crimson-hatted ratmaid who kept poking around muttering about hidden compartments everywhere - Cryle's other pastime. But she was definitely no potato thief!

"What if," said Cryle, "Some of them were words. Common ones, like 'the', 'and', 'it', 'there', 'why'... or names of things? Save on paper space, reading time, and be even more confusing to anybeast trying to decode it!"

"Crrryyyyyyleeeeeee..."

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

The hammock gave a faint creak as Griblo shifted, one gold hoop catching the lantern glow and scattering a wavering star of light above him. He stared daggers at the planks overhead. Those damn missing potatoes. Two dozen tubers short by his count now, and every time he so much as breathed near the stores he could feel the specter of suspicion creeping up his spine. Assistant Purser. Right. Hard to look assistant anything when a thief kept making him seem like he couldn’t keep track of a simple sack of spuds.

If he found the culprit… forget reporting them to the bosun. He’d string them up from the rigging himself just to prove a point.

He was mid-fantasy about which knots he’d use when Cryle’s voice drifted over as a relentless tirade of complicated jargon that made his muzzle scrunch.

Then came Korya’s thin, wilted plea:
“Crrryyleeeee…”

That was the classic sound of someone’s spirit folding in on itself in desperation.

With a long exhale through his nose, Griblo rolled sideways and slunk off his hammock like a poured out liquid. He snagged a wrapped cloth bundle from his effect, which were definitely not part of the official rations, and padded across the narrow berth. Reaching the talkative, gently swaying mass of their closely hung hammocks, he lifted a paw and gave the undersides a light poke.

"Pssst… oi, lit’le terrors."
Another poke.
"It’s yer fairy ferret purser, wit’ some extra vittles. D’ cookie on board ’taint feedin’ us’ns near enough t’think like ye is! Time fer a break an’ a snack."

He held up the offering: a few sugared nut clusters wrapped in the cloth, smelling faintly of cinnamon, alongside several glossy chunks of preserved pineapple.

Rocking back on his heels, he popped one of the crystallized pieces into his own mouth, smacking his lips like a naughty dibbun who’d pinched sweets straight from the kitchen.

"T'aint always gonna be free, so ye best shove it down yer maws ’fore I change m’ mind, now."

 

[Cryle]

Cryle had smelled him coming long before the whisper, the poke, or the horrible sight of his face peering over the edge of her hammock. Korya, too, had smelled him, but ignored it, because Korya smelled pretty much everything, whereas Cryle's pointed nose was fine-tuned specifically for the scent of pineapple; the combination of crisp fresh parchment, binding glue, and pressed ink; and the delightful aroma of gently-applied machine lubricant.

She sat up and stared at the pineapple chunks as if they were both a glowing offering from some celestial being, and like they were about to sprout black gooey tentacles and strangle her. Then she snatched them up anyway, stuffing not her maw, but the pocket of her coat that she was using as a blanket. The clusters were passed along to Korya, who didn't even sniff them before stuffing her cheeks like a hamster.

Cryle scowled at the memory of Mr. Pawminton.

"You told him?" she hissed at Korya.

"Maurnf," said Korya, and after several long crunches followed by a swallow: "H'only that you're a Pineratple. And that you smell like pineapple, and were sad because you weren't sure you'd have pineapple enough to last... Hi, Griblo! These are great, so crunchy. Thanks!"

Cryle grumbled and scrunched herself up inside her hammock. She gave a small nod and muttered a tiny "'ank 'oo" to Griblo, then sat up, a wild look flashing behind her large spectacles.

Purser!

"Mr. Jankweed," she said slowly, as if that wasn't his real name, "Is it possible that the pursuary has in its possession any number of metal rods thicker than one millimeter but thinner than six, preferably in the two-point-five range, ten small springs, a rolling pin, two sheets of loose paper, scrap wood measuring at least one by eight by twenty centimeters, and various small, malleable sheets of metal which could be bent with minimal effort and cut to size with basic engineering tools?"

The look in the ratmaid's eyes was the kind of look that saw lightning and chased after it into the skies themselves; or a wildcat who had spotted a little red firefly in the distance and had already done the rump-wiggle and couldn't simply un-wriggle the harnessed energy without catastrophic physical harm to itself.

Korya crunched away at her nut clusters and rolled back and forth in her hammock, until she simply rolled out of it and thumped to the deck below, landing on all fours. She stood up and began to rummage for her clothes.

"Yeah, Griblo! You got anything like... all that? Let's go get it. Rolling pin! Centipedes. Mandible metal. C'mon, c'mon."

Korya sidled over to the ferret and gently patted his arm, holding onto it for guidance - while also tugging at it impatiently.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo lingered where he was, steel blue eyes flicking between the two hammocks as the snack exchange played out in full. Cryle pocketed the pineapple chunks like a miser banking coin, while Korya made short work of the nut clusters, cheeks bulging as she crunched away with single-minded devotion.

A corner of the ferret’s mouth twitched.

"Oi," he muttered toward Cryle, tone dry as old rope.
"Yer s’posed t’ eat dem, not pocket ’em like coin. Ain’t my fault if ye’re pickin’ lint outta yer teeth later, haw haw."

He caught the tiny, muttered “‘ank ’oo” all the same. It earned a small nod, satisfied and unremarked upon.

Korya, meanwhile, swallowed and beamed up at him.
“Hi, Griblo! These are great, so crunchy. Thanks!”

Griblo straightened a touch at that, pride warming his chest like a good nip of free grog. He rocked back on his heels, hands hooking briefly at his belt as if to keep from preening outright.

"Aye, well," he said, feigning gruffness that didn’t quite stick.
"Figured ye deserved summat decent."

That was when Cryle sat up properly and spoke his name like a title.

“Mr. Jankweed…”

The list came out of her in a rush, a precise and relentless onslaught that nearly bowled him backward. Rods. Springs. Paper. Wood. Metal. Numbers and measurements that meant nothing to him, all delivered with a look that dared the world to tell her no.

Still, Griblo listened. His posture shifted, spine straightening as the scrungly ferret receded and the Assistant Purser stepped forward in his place. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. But he didn’t promise anything yet, either.

Behind him, there was a sudden thump as Korya rolled out of her hammock and landed on the deck, already moving, already rummaging for clothes.

“Yeah, Griblo! You got anything like… all that? Let’s go get it!”

She was on him a heartbeat later, small paw wrapping around his arm, tugging insistently toward motion and adventure. Griblo let her hold on. Let her pull. But he didn’t move just yet.

"Oi, take it easy ye spitfire!" he said, not unkindly, but anchoring himself in place.
"We’ll get there. Jus’ gotta discuss dis proper, firs'."

He looked back to Cryle then, expression measured.

"Right. Here’s how this goes:"
"I'll help ye where oi can, but we ain’t nickin’ nothin’. Everythin’ we take gets wrote down, an’ everythin’ that ain’t ours gets asked fer first!"

His gaze flicked briefly to Korya, then back again.

"Paper I can spare. Got wrappin’ enough t’ share an’ still keep me own bits dry. Wood we can get from an empty crate in stores. No beast’ll miss one o' dem."

He jerked his chin toward Korya.

"Rollin’ pin’s galley business. That one’s on you, kitten."

Then he hesitated, scratching lightly at one ear ring as the metal part of the list settled in.

"Now… rods an’ springs? That’s trickier. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout them fancy numbers ye’re spoutin’, but I do know metal ain't a t'ing we kin take wit'out some beast noticin'."

Pausing briefly, he led Korya back toward his own hammock, he pulled a fairly sizable metal tin from his wares, carefully transferring its wrapped contents into the space it left before returning to the sour-faced mouse’s bunk with kitten in tow.

"I got this, mind. Ain’t good for keepin’ tobacco dry no more, but it’s metal enough if ye just need somethin’ t’ bend or cut."

The tin was orange and dusty on its exterior from surface rust, a result of it taking a bath in Bully Harbor the day before they shoved off, but it still appeared solid enough otherwise.

"But rods an’ springs proper? That’s a word with the smithy. An’ I won’t say yes ’til they do."

He let out a satisfied grunt, relishing the unfamiliar weight of authority settling comfortably on his shoulders.

"Now," he added, a thin smile curling at one corner of his mouth.
"If ye’re both still keen after hearin’ all that… we can start lookin’."

Only then did he shift his weight, ready at last to let Korya drag him wherever she pleased.

 

[Cryle]

Cryle listened patiently to Griblo's explanation of procurement, with the occasional huffy interrupt from Korya along the lines of "...not a kitten..." and "...galley's off limits..."

The ratmaid considered her options as she sat and swung in time with the ocean's movements deep below. She chewed pensively on a pineapple chunk - she had slipped one while they'd been briefly away, and made sure to check for the fifth time that day that there was no lint in her pockets. She would not stand for dirty pockets, but she had no need to explain this to anybeast. The pineapple would be safe if she remained vigilant.

"She's got that face again," said Korya, when Cryle took more than a moment to process Griblo's information. Both ferret and rat squinted at her, and Korya's own face remained politely impassive for an impressive amount of time before she broke out in a mad grin. Cryle resisted the urge to sigh in defeat.

This cat, sometimes. Honestly. Sometimes.

She turned Griblo's tin over and over in her paws. It could be flattened. It could be bent, and twisted, and hold shape just enough for a demonstration, but it would not likely manage any kind of sustained pressure. The design would require swiftness and momentum instead. That would make it larger. Not truly ideal in the circumstances. But for lack of materials, having a working prototype that could shatter itself would be better than nothing. The alternative, weightier and very capable of pressure, but thicker...

"Wood scrap is free?" said Cryle, eventually. That changed things. She could carve wood. Didn't need machines for that, just tools, and she had tools. Wood could be carved in such a way that it could slot together like a puzzle cube, with only one way to un-twist and disassemble. What she had in mind was more complex than a cube, however, and nails and screws - or at least glue - would be required.

She elegantly rolled out of her hammock, swinging her coat over her shoulders in one stylish movement, and was very pleased when it didn't smack anybeast or herself in the face. She grabbed her hat and put on her boots, tied on her tail ribbon, and was ready.

"A rolling pin can be made from wood scrap. I'll take the tin."

Korya was bobbing up and down with pent-up energy. She'd been locked in the galley too long, forced to make food that she didn't care about, and her off-time had been spent likewise cooped up in her hammock more often than not. Exploring the ship before the voyage, it had been so empty, with only a handful of active crewbeasts already berthed inside its belly. Now, packed like sardines, with drills and duty always afoot, it was barely safe for her to be hurtling down deck after deck in search of entertainment.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, let'sgoletsgoletsgo-hooooo-hooooooohhhh...!"

She tugged at Griblo's arm, while also not actually trying to move him at all; he was her guide in this adventure, she had decided.

Cryle grabbed her notebook from her hammock and pattered after them, dreading and formulating an explanation for her fevered desires.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo waited while Cryle dressed, letting the moment breathe instead of crowding it. He leaned against a stanchion with practiced ease, one paw loosely braced behind him, the other idly hooked in his belt.

"Fer what it’s worth," he said at last, voice pitched casual, "askin’ after metal proper ain’t off the table. I’ll do it on the books, an’ I’ll stand there with ye while ye explain wot ye’re after. Just don’t expect me t’ translate them fancy numbers. That part’s on you."

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a refusal either. It was the kind of reassurance that came with terms attached, and Griblo seemed content to leave it there.

Once boots were tied and coats settled, he tipped his head toward the passageway and started off, letting Korya keep her grip on his arm as they moved away from the bunks. Korya leaned into that grip with undisguised enthusiasm, tail swishing hard enough to brush passing hammocks as if she were daring the ship to scold her for it. Every few steps she tugged again, not to hurry him so much as to make sure he was still coming, ears flicking toward every new sound they passed.

The farther they went, the quieter it became, with fewer hammocks, fewer voices, and the air cooling as the ship’s deeper bones swallowed them up. Lantern light thinned. Footfalls echoed.

It was somewhere between one ladder and the next that Griblo’s tone shifted.

"Since we’re already wanderin’," he said, glancing ahead rather than at either of them, "there’s somethin’ else I ought t’ mention."

He gave a soft, humorless huff.

"Ain’t just potatoes goin’ missin’."

He slowed a fraction, just enough that the words had room to land.

"I’ve checked every store I know about. Twice. Three times, some of ’em. An’ unless there’s a hold I don’t know packed full o’ rations from deck t’ beam… we’re cuttin’ it close."

Another pause.

"Real close."

He lifted one shoulder, careful, measured.

"Could be I’m missin’ somethin’. Could be there’s a stop planned no one’s bothered tellin’ me about. I ain’t sayin’ anybeast’s lyin’."

A sideways glance now, steel-blue eyes sharp but steady.

"I am sayin’ the sums don’t like the course."

He didn’t press the point further. Didn’t pile on theories or sharpen it into accusation. The thought was offered simply as gossip and then set aside, like a weight shared rather than dropped.

"Anyhow," he added, lighter again, "wood first."

The carpentry space opened up before them in a cloud of dense wood dust and lacquer fumes. Compared to the crush of the bunks, it felt cavernous, quiet, orderly, and worn smooth by long use. Old crates were stacked along the bulkheads, several already broken down into neat piles of planks. Barrels had been repurposed into stools, bins, braces. Nothing here went to waste; everything bore the marks of having lived at least one life already.

Griblo took it in with an appraising eye, the tension easing from his shoulders just a touch.

"See?" he murmured. "This lot’s honest. Scrap what knows it’s scrap."

Somewhere deeper in the bay, wood shifted. A faint scrape answered, slow and deliberate, followed by the soft knock of something being set carefully aside. The sounds weren’t loud, but they were purposeful. The kind that spoke of work already underway.

Griblo stilled, lifting one finger in a quiet, reflexive gesture for pause.

"We ain’t alone," he said under his breath, not wary so much as respectful. "Ye' see dat ol' molebeast innere?"

He stepped forward then, easing them properly into the space. Around them, the quiet hum of the ship settled back in as whatever worked beyond the stacks continued unseen.

 

[Cryle]

Paws pitter-pattered. Boots bip-bopped. Cryle slunk after the pair ahead of her, hat low against the glare of lanterns.

A bio-luminescent container at each temple, mirrors and lenses, built around a simple frame of disused spectacles, a latch - just the thing! A lever on the side, each side, to open and close the container. Even a small amount of glow would suffice, with the right refraction point, surely, and you'd have the perfect device for seeing in the dark! On and off, each side separate, perhaps a revolving container door to adjust levels just so... Oh, if only I could find the thing that would give the perfect glow, with none of the flicker...

But no. Focus. The stamp machine first.

What was Griblo on about... ah...

"If I may suggest," the rat said gently, more for Korya's benefit - the cat was so far prone to too many mood swings and bouts of regret and worry over everything - "The Captain and Admiral are well-aware of the ship's situation and heading, and are seasoned seabeasts. If they deem the stores sufficient, then I would not worry. And if they are not sufficient, then we must rise to the occasion, for surely it would be a test of our own mettle.* And if that is the case, I remind you that we are atop a vast bounty, and there are ways of diluting the salt-content of seawater to make it potable. If it would ease your minds I could devise an example filtration system and provide numbers for the time and amount of materials required per crewbeast. I am no stranger to consuming a smaller portion than I am otherwise used to, in order to make sure there is enough for all. We will persevere regardless."

"Cor," said Korya. Her voice trembled with admiration. She gave a petite little kitten sneeze-squeak; the smell of sawdust was heavy, and a sensitive little nose such as hers had picked up the dust even before Cryle's sensitive little nose had.

They crept forward, and something about the whole situation had Cryle's fur raising. If her tail had fur, it would have been as poofy as Korya's.

"I don't see him," said the little cat quietly, barely a whisper. Followed by a strangled pause and a snrkpbblt.

Cryle didn't notice. She was inwardly resisting decades, if not centuries, of Imperial propaganda. It was in her genes to dislike woodlanders; Rascallos the Imperium over had fought against them for as long as there had been Rascallos. They'd been enemies when she was born. And now it seemed like they were everywhere. Taking up important engineering positions, like that smelly old hamster and his stubby, dorky tail, Mr. Pawminton, back in Bully...

It wasn't fair, her genes said. And her brain said: Shut up. Of course it was fair. Logically, it had to be.

Another part of her said: when has the Imperium ever run on logic?

She told that part to shut up, too. Right now, she needed to focus on the other thing that was difficult... Asking somebeast in a position of power for things and having to present her case for why she wanted or needed the things.

She tilted her hat up and gazed at Griblo with the look of a rat who was stuck in a glue-trap at the bottom of a steep ramp, with a runaway cart at the top of the ramp, and no burly ex-con mayor around for nautical miles.

"...I can write down the measurements, if... you could... erm... ask..."

"Hey, Mister Molebeast! Navigator-in-Training Cryle Rascallo wants some metal bits and a rolling pin and some other wood!"

Cryle very nearly did an about-face and ran back to her hammock. It's what she deserved for not specifying her request was for Griblo to handle it...

Korya beamed and waved at the wall.


* She said the thing!

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo listened to Cryle’s reassurance in silence, boots slowing as her words unspooled beside him. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. When she finished, he gave a small grunt that might have been agreement, or might have simply been acknowledgment that he’d heard her at all.

"Aye," he said at last, noncommittal as a closed ledger.
"Maybe so."

He left it there. The sums still itched at the back of his skull, unresolved, filed away rather than discarded. Cryle was on the inside of things, after all. If there was more to it, she’d not be the one free to say so. Griblo made a mental note and moved on, eyes forward, paw steady under Korya’s still-tugging grip.

When Cryle faltered, hat tipped low and courage visibly mustered, he glanced her way just in time to hear the start of her careful request... and then Korya detonated it.

“Hells teeth!” Griblo hissed under his breath, followed by a sharp, instinctive, "Shhh!"

He pinched the bridge of his muzzle once, then straightened, professionalism snapping back into place like a well-worn coat. If the cat was going to announce them to the bulkheads, then so be it. He cleared his throat and raised his voice just enough to carry.

"Assistant Purser Jankweed," he called, measured and formal, "askin’ after scrap an’ stores."

For a moment, there was only the soft creak of timbers and the distant sigh of the sea pressing against the hull.

Then something shifted beyond the stacks.

A shape straightened slowly from behind a leaning tower of planks, wood dust shaking free from a broad, earth-toned coat. The mole blinked once behind thick spectacles, claws still braced on a stave he’d been inspecting.

“Oi be hearin’ voices, zurr,” Foremole said mildly, a pleased note tucked into his cadence. “Not heard another soul fer hours, ee haven’t. Thought oi were talkin’ to meself again, hurr.”

He set the wood aside carefully before padding closer, gaze passing over the little group with calm curiosity.

“Wot can oi do fer ee?”

Griblo inclined his head, respectful but brisk.

"Need scrap wood," he said.
"Crate planks, barrel staves. Nothin’ load-bearin’. On the books."

Foremole’s brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Those bits ain’t waste, zurr,” he replied, not unkindly. “Crates an’ staves gets partched back 'n when hull’s tired. Ship'll rot t' 'er bones if ee let ’er.”

The tension settled there. Griblo spread his paws a fraction, conceding the point without retreating from it.

"Aye. Figured ye’d say as much."

He tipped his head toward Cryle, stepping aside just enough to put the choice squarely where it belonged.

"It’s her contraption," he added plainly. "Oi’m just fetchin’ an’ writin’ it in th' books.."

Foremole’s attention shifted then, settling on the rat with patient expectation.

“Oi don’t mind helpin’ clever paws,” the mole said gently, “but oi likes t’know wot me wood’s bein’ asked t’be.”

Griblo folded his arms, content to wait, the faintest curl of anticipation tugging at one corner of his mouth as the question finally, inevitably, hung in the air. The ship creaked softly around them as if it too were listening.

 

[Cryle]

Cryle was wildly acquainted with the tops of her boots already, but familiarity was often a source of comfort, and so she continued to observe them instead of... whatever was talking to them. She'd heard mole noses were grotesque things, like they'd tried to eat a squid while a squid had tried to eat them, and both had lost the fight. Or like a bat. She'd seen a bat, just once, in a book, and she hadn't slept for a week afterwards, and had very nearly taken up sports. It was easy to understand the popularity of Whack Bat when you knew its origins had helped keep the Imperium safe from such visions.

There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence, ended with Korya nudging over to the rat and placing a paw on her arm.

"Cryle... just pretend you're explaining it to me, right?"

Cryle nodded, still silent. She took a breath, sighed, another breath, and fidgeted. Focused her senses on the sway of the ship, imagined she was still in her hammock, sketching in her notebook.

"It's... a..."

The lights sputtered briefly, as did her thoughts. Wrong way to start.

"I've just finished a new alphabet," she said. "It's based on nine shapes. Different combinations of the nine shapes. Not different arrangements of the shapes. Each shape has its own spot in each letter and numeral. Just different combinations. The shapes are meant to be felt by pawpad, not read with the eyes. So in order to write in this alphabet, a machine capable of making impressments in paper - " the word impressment stung a little on her tongue; was it even the right word? " - would be ideal. This requires nine levers for each shape, a tenth lever to move to the next letter, an eleventh lever to reset the position to the start of the paper, and a way to rotate the paper around a wood or metal block which would have all the shapes indented upon it, to ready the next line. The levers would have metal or wood stamps with the shapes, so that pressing the other end of the lever applies the stamp upon the rolling pin... the, um, block, which has the indentations... Squeezing the paper between them in order to print. Much like a printing press, but on a much, much smaller scale, requiring no ink."

She took a breath, and Korya patted her back encouragingly.

"Applications of this machine and alphabet would also be useful for secure communications. Coded messages which are invisible to the eye, could be printed upon paper which has already been written on. The nine shapes also allow for compression of information, as a single 'letter' of the alphabet could be used to denote numbers up to two-hundred-and-fifty-five, which I believe can be used to create a deeper, more secure encryption of sensitive information. To this end, I have sketched a rough diagram of the parts I would need to build it, in the sizes and shapes I think would be best suited to my abilities to piece it together in my own time. Mr. Jankweed has already donated some malleable tin, but having more firm wood, even just a few sticks, smaller in width than a pencil, would help. The largest piece would be the, um, rolling pin - a cylinder thick and sturdy enough to be stamped upon, to support and rotate the paper. And eventually the frame which would hold all of the pieces together."

Her trembling paws held out her notebook, stretched out of view from under her hat. She hoped the mole would not touch her when he took it, if he took it.

"Cryle is a genius," said Korya, dripping with adoration. "I think I even understood half of that!"

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo stood very still while Cryle spoke.

He didn’t interrupt. Barely fidgeted. The usual restless ferret energy went quiet as her explanation unfolded, piece by careful piece. The levers. The shapes. The pressure. The paper caught between wood and stamp. The alphabet meant for pawpads, not eyes. For a while, the only movement from him was the slow tilt of his head, ears angling as the idea took shape in his mind, his earrings adjusting in place to show plumb.

Then, somewhere around no ink required, it clicked.

“Oh,” he said, softly at first. Then, louder, with dawning delight, "Ohhh! Hell’s teeth, that’s wot ye’re buildin’!?"

He barked a short laugh, sharp and bright, the tension draining out of him all at once.

"High-tek spycraft an’ medical gizmos, all rolled int'a one," he went on, wagging a claw in her direction. "Oi, sign me up as an ’elper on 'de patent so oi get a cut o’ yer future riches, eh? Haww haww!"

The joke landed lightly, meant less to tease than to let Cryle know she hadn’t just said something foolish. If anything, Griblo looked impressed. He rocked back on his heels, gears turning in his scrungly mind.

"Roight. D'is ain’t jus' tinkerin’, d'en," he said, tone bright with excitement. "D'is is accessibility! An' it means a crewmate reads fer 'erself, an’ messages stay private when in 'de wrong paws!"

He nodded once, decisive, and opened his ledger.

Under 'Material Use', he wrote: "For medical purposes".

The book closed again with a quiet, satisfied pat.

Foremole, who had listened throughout without interruption, took the notebook then with careful claws, worn by years of honest work. He made no contact with Cryle. He angled it toward the lantern light, nose twitching faintly, eyes moving slowly over her sketches. He took his time. Not because he struggled, though his beady eyes did squint quite a bit, but because he truly was studying her work..

“Hmm,” the mole murmured. “Pressin’ an’ markin’, you'm says. Shapes fer feelin’, not seein’... But oi sees it, hurr.”

He turned another page, then another, brow knitting not in doubt, but consideration.

“This ain’t fer play-wood, no no.” Foremole said at last, closing the notebook gently and handing it back. “This is summat meant t’last. Meant t’be used.”

He looked from Cryle to Griblo, then nodded once.

“Oi won’t say no t’this,” he continued, voice steady as ballast. “Not when it’s got purpose in it. But oi won’t see it bodged up neither.”

Padding a few steps toward the bulkhead, he tapped a claw against a neatly stacked set of pale planks set apart from the rest.

“This wood’s got a good feel t’it,” he said, patting the stack. “Straight grain, dry as ee please, won’t fight the blade none. Ee’ll want this fer wot ee’s buildin’, hurr.”

Then, with a small huff that might have been amusement, he added, “An’ ee ain’t doin’ this in a hammarck...”

Foremole swept a paw across a cleared stretch of bench, scarred with old tool marks and burnished smooth by long use.

“This is 'ee carpentry space. Ee work ’ere when ee build. Ee take wot ee need, when ee need it. But oi’ll be keepin’ an eye, mind...

Griblo inclined his head immediately, no argument in him at all.

"Fair," he said simply. "Oi’ll log wot ye tell me she used."

Foremole’s gaze returned to Cryle, gentler now.

“Finish wot ee start,” the mole said, kindly but firm, “an’ oi’ll back ee all the way. Ship’s better fer beasts who make things she didn’t know she needed.”

The Blackship creaked softly around them, timbers settling, as if listening... and, just maybe, sharing its own approval.

 

[Cryle]

"Oi, I don't need accessibility, I can read just fi... fine...!"

Korya's indignant reply to Griblo's revelation felt distant and echo-y, like it came from another room. This was due to all the blood rushing around in Cryle's head as she blushed so fiercely her silvery fur was turning pink even in the dim light of the hold.

Cryle realized her mistake a little too late. The notebook was not just invention notes and sketches. It was everything she felt like writing down or drawing. And that may have included, recently, Chapter XXVI of her romantic fiction, The Astronomer and The Puzzling Tale of Lust in the Dark Times of the 14th Century: A Fascination of Intense Restraint in the Face of Everlasting Love and Eternal Torment, Featuring Magical Moon Ranger Ryleca Starmist and Her Lover, The Secret Which Must Never Be Shared Under Pain of Annihilation: Part II: A Mathematical Certainty Unravels In Mysterious Circumstances And The Consequences Are Dire. There were words written there which would not be suitable for Foremole's eyes. Or anyone's. Words which wobbled out of horizontal alignment because they had caused her to flush and shiver with embarrassment and, it must be said - although probably shouldn't - delight. Words which involved horizontal alignment, in fact.

As well as a rather racy, anatomically correct sketch to better illustrate what she had trouble articulating in writing, which also had little engineer's notations.

If he only turned the notebook back a couple pages...

The ratmaid trembled in absolute dread. And then the book appeared under her hat brim, and she held it close to her chest and breathed out as quietly as she could.

Out of the corner of her eye, Korya was feeling about stacks of wood, making inquisitive feline noises that rhymed with mrrp? It helped, Cryle realized, to focus on her friend's physical-ness. It was grounding, in a weird way. Korya was simply looking around while waiting for the world to require her active response to stimuli, the way Cryle herself often did with her eyes. But her eyes were her paws and fingers, and that's why they were all here.

Focus...

"I, erm...." she began, still looking mostly at her boots, "...would prefer working with scrap at first, to make sure... as much scrap as possible, I wouldn't want to waste any good wood on a mistake in the design. Or... Or perhaps, I better make sure the design has no mistakes before I begin? It was rather, um, rushed, in the excitement of the moment... It's quite late to start it tonight, of course, but... having some materials ready for next time I'm off-duty would be... ni... nice."

Korya pattered over and leaned against her, her paw stuck in her mouth.

"I wouldn't say no to roaming a little longer, but wouldn't say no to getting back to the hammocks either! I got a splinter," she added, with a slight whine. "Mr. Foremole, do you have assistants? Maybe I could upgrade from biscuits and fish-heads to chopping lumber and... and... I'm good with my paws! You seem nicer than the cook, and no Brindlecoat down here..."

Cryle fidgeted as Korya babbled on, distracting and obfuscating everything as usual. But that was fine. Korya's distractions often led to different ways of thinking, which led to discoveries...

She tried to put her notebook away and fumbled in her nervousness, and it flopped to the floor and fell open. And she froze, because right there on the page was a rather racy, anatomically correct sketch, which also had little engineer's notations.

She looked up.

Foremole and Griblo were both looking down.

The Secret Which Must Never Be Shared Under Pain of Annihilation, said Cryle's thoughts, before promptly ceasing their existence.

The ratmaid stood there, her head completely empty for what might have been the first time in her life.

 

[Herman Lasichin]

The numbers just kept adding up. Every day the amount of supplies used would grow across the board, and there were more and more misplaced items and "unaccountable changes". Herman Lasichin thought on it over a few nights, and finally decided that he needs to raise his concerns to Brasseye the quartermaster and ask him to raise them further to the captain or the admiral. He couldn't trust anybody that they weren't stealing, but he could trust that he would be the one blamed for the missing items whenever it will come time to point claws, and the least he could do against those accusations is tell the truth and nothing but the truth and make sure at least somebody else was aware of it.

After jotting down that there were two apples, a pound of flour and a dozen sugar nut clusters unaccounted for, the assistent quartermaster's next stop was the carpenter's space, and the mole who inhabited it. Herman found the mole strangely agreeable, his untrained ears had trouble with his unique accent but after spending years around academics and intellectuals, the simple words of the simple truths coming from such a simple beast were very soothing to hear. If he was less busy at night and the mole was awake more during the day, they could perhaps chat about more than just the amount of spare wood he had.

Herman could tell there was a crowd in the carpenter's space as he entered it, which was already a surprise considering it was among the least popular parts of the black ship. His shiny green eyes spotted the navigator, assistent purser and a feline whom he hadn't heard much about yet, a very strange group to have assembled in here that's for sure. Especially because none of them seem to be looking at each other, or at the wood, but at a notebook left open on the floor. He looked over the page, having to twist his head a little to look at it right side up, and couldn't help but smirk at the contents. Where he came from, everybody had an embarrassing fancy like that or two, and while they were usually only allowed to share it in the private company of their secret notebook or their second half, nobody would hold it against them if through some misfortune it got revealed to the public.

"Weeeell, I don't think the damnation of vice said a thing about a Jill lying with a jill as with a Tod..."

herman's chuckle quickly died down. This wasn't the grounds of his universities citadel. He would guess that nobody would be familiar with texts like "The damnation of vice, and more importantly nobody here seemed to be having a laugh at the event. It came to him that, for all he knew, there could be dire consequences if the word of these sketches spread around the ship. He looked at Kryle, confirming his suspitions that she was the owner of the notebook and the one who drew that unfortunate sketch. He wanted to say something more, but felt too awkward to either appologize, or try to ask the mole about wood used today.

 

[Korya]

"That's what I tell beasts, too!" chirped up Korya. She raised a paw and waved vaguely towards the newcomer's voice, assuming everybeast had gone quiet to acknowledge his arrival.

Then her ears quirked to the side.

"...why would that come up at all?"

"Qslrp," said Cryle.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo’s laughter came out before he could stop it.

“HAW H...!”

He clapped a paw over his muzzle a heartbeat too late, ears flattening momentarily as the sound echoed off the timbered walls. His eyes flicked from the page on the floor to Cryle’s face, and whatever joke had been lining up on his tongue died there, unfinished.

“...er...roight, 'scuse me,” he muttered, already bending down.

He scooped the fallen notebook up in one quick motion and snapped it shut without a second look, the covers meeting with a soft, decisive thup. He then turned and pressed it carefully into Korya’s paws instead, angling it so she had a firm, steady grip.

“’Ere,” he murmured, a lighter, crooked chuckle slipping out of him, not unkind.
“You keep it safe fer ’er ’til she unfolds ’erself, heh-heh.”

Only then did he straighten, scrubbing one paw down his face and shaking his head, failing to wipe the mirth fully away.

“Oi swear,” he went on, louder now, the goblin-like lilt back in his voice, “d'is ship’s already got more secrets stuffed 'tween its planks d'en a smuggler’s coat. Thank'ee fer th' idea though! Next voyage I’ll be packin' stuff loike that ter make trade!”

Meanwhile, Foremole had watched the exchange in silence, thick claws folded loosely against his apron. He gave a low huff through his nose, something between a snort and a chuckle, eyes crinkling just a touch.

“Hurr… young ’uns an’ their birds an’ bees fancies,” the mole said mildly. “T’ain’t moi place t’look, no.”

With that, he turned back to his bench, tapping a claw against the pale planks he’d set aside earlier as he went back to his former task.

Griblo rolled his shoulders once, the last of the awkwardness shaken loose, and then his gaze caught on the newcomer standing just inside the carpenter’s space.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, ears lifting. “If it ain’t another numbers beastie.”

He didn’t bother with titles. Didn’t switch tone. Off-hours Griblo had very much won the day.

“Herman, roight?” he went on, waving a paw as if they’d met a dozen times already. “Good timin’. We was jus’ talkin’ supplies.”

“Long an’ short of it,” Griblo said, tipping his chin toward Cryle without putting her back in the spotlight, “she’s makin’ a thing what lets blind beasts read fer themselves.”

His grin crept in, proud and just a little feral.

“Presses marks inta paper. Can’t see ’em, but ye can feel ’em. Handy fer messages too, if ye don’t want every nose on board sniffin’ ’em out. De captain moight be innerested in d'at part!”

Leaning against a stack of used crates casually, he went on.

“It means she needs metal bits,” he continued easily. “Small ones. Springs, rods, d'at sort. I ain’t got the foggiest 'bout the numbers 'n' all, only that it ain’t gettin’ built without ’em.”

He shrugged, already at peace with that.

“Oi marked it as medical needs fer d' ministry's books. D'ell see it as an investmint fer sure.”

Griblo stretched his arms with a look of total self-satisfaction.

“I was about t’go see Temerity an’ poke the armory,” he added, “Unless you got a better place t’find wot she needs.”

The question wasn’t a challenge. It was offered in casual collaboration.

“Either way,” he said, clapping his paws once, “wood’s sorted. Night’s still young.”

Then Griblo shifted his weight toward the passageway, ready to keep things moving, glancing back only to make sure he still had his entourage of midnight meddlers with him.

 

[Herman Lasichin]

Griblo rolled his shoulders once, the last of the awkwardness shaken loose, and then his gaze caught on the newcomer standing just inside the carpenter’s space.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, ears lifting. “If it ain’t another numbers beastie.”

He didn’t bother with titles. Didn’t switch tone. Off-hours Griblo had very much won the day.

Herman let a grin come back over his snout. The awkward moment had past, and the ferret at the very least was ready to get back to business, a terrain he was much more familiar with. He might even get away with his earlier remark without having to make any additional comments. He sailed across the sea and got aboard this ship just to avoid people demanding he retract his statements, he didn't want to handle that sort of trouble here too.

“Herman, roight?” he went on, waving a paw as if they’d met a dozen times already. “Good timin’. We was jus’ talkin’ supplies.”

"Yes, Herman Lasichin", the weasel held out his paw to shake the ferret's, "You're Jankweed, right? my mind is struggling to remember your first name, appologies". Herman couldn't help but act as friendly to the fellow numberbeast, although he only heard about him through brasseye's accounts. He found that the assistent purser was more friendly than his boss suggested, and also more understandable.

“Long an’ short of it,” Griblo said, tipping his chin toward Cryle without putting her back in the spotlight, “she’s makin’ a thing what lets blind beasts read fer themselves.”

His grin crept in, proud and just a little feral.

“Presses marks inta paper. Can’t see ’em, but ye can feel ’em. Handy fer messages too, if ye don’t want every nose on board sniffin’ ’em out. De captain moight be innerested in d'at part!”

Herman leaned in, his interest in the project peaking right away. Writing systems were one of his many interests back in his days as a student, especially hidden writing and coding. The field was only beginning to seriously form when he studied, but no thanks to many administrative and political roadblocks nothing but the most basic theory could be established. His mind was already imagining what developments could be made here with only a few passionate beasts working together and no formalities dragging them down.

Leaning against a stack of used crates casually, he went on.

“It means she needs metal bits,” he continued easily. “Small ones. Springs, rods, d'at sort. I ain’t got the foggiest 'bout the numbers 'n' all, only that it ain’t gettin’ built without ’em.”

He shrugged, already at peace with that.

“Oi marked it as medical needs fer d' ministry's books. D'ell see it as an investmint fer sure.”

Griblo stretched his arms with a look of total self-satisfaction.

“I was about t’go see Temerity an’ poke the armory,” he added, “Unless you got a better place t’find wot she needs.”

The question wasn’t a challenge. It was offered in casual collaboration.

"The armory is tripple checked, nothing there can go missing without the captain and the admiral putting it in their reports to the navy", Herman said lightly, looking around to see if anyone else could be coming upon their unplanned meeting.

"I don't know a single thing on how things work here, but where I come from, they won't let a speck of dust go out of the armory if it isn't for war, especially not for medical purposes".

Herman leaned in closer, as if eager to share a secret:

"But now, there's this maintenance room, as I like to call it. It's full of odd metal bits and pieces, you can also get to the various ugly machinery of the ship there and use those pieces to fix some of it if need be. Nobody on here can keep track of what is there, except me that is"

Herman gave Griblo a wide smile, he enjoyed saying the last remark perhaps more than it was polite to.

"Your rodent friend can take whatever she needs from that room, I put it under ship maintenance in my reports, and nobody else could dispute it or ask questions.

“Either way,” he said, clapping his paws once, “wood’s sorted. Night’s still young.”

Then Griblo shifted his weight toward the passageway, ready to keep things moving, glancing back only to make sure he still had his entourage of midnight meddlers with him.

Herman folowed close behind him, gesturing the way towards the place he just described. He turned towards Cryle as he stepped by her:

"I would love to talk more with you about your system sometime, I'm very curious about it"