The Captain's Treasure

Night turns the tavern into a beast with a hundred mouths, all of them howling for attention. Every table is thick with bodies: weather scabbed fishermen, stone-faced merchants in stained linen, a few street children bold enough to slip underfoot and beg for scraps. Sweat, fish, and the burnt-sugar stink of overproof rum smother the air, while laughter punches holes through the din in irregular bursts.

I ride the chaos like a practiced knife fighter. I’ve learned that the most efficient path is never the straightest; it’s a zigzag, a dance, a constant adjustment to elbows, spilled ale, and the surprise foot that appears just where I didn’t want it. My tray is laden, its contents sloshing from the uneven mugs and the sharp bite of my tavern's special deep amber rum. but I never spill. The secret is to keep moving, never stop, never give them time to notice my presence long enough to grab. Circling the first table, it is filled with my regulars: old dockhands, caps pulled low, teeth like stones, slapping down their drinks with a flourish. I began refilling mugs at the table.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” I tell the one with the hooked nose.

As I fill up his mug and take the coin he leaves on the table for me. He grins, showing his one gold tooth, and tries to slide an extra coin into my apron. Trying the same tricks as always to cop a feel, but I am faster; I tug the string tight and nearly catch his finger.

“Next time you reach for my waist, I won't be nice and let you keep whatever finger I catch.” I winked as I moved away to the next table.

The men at the neighboring tables hoot and holler even louder now. They always love a good show with some rum.

At the far end, a group of familiar farmhands are engaged in a contest to see who can drink the most without breaking eye contact with the other. A stupid drinking game. The biggest of them, ears red as boiled lobster, is already swaying. I stop by just long enough to refill their pitcher, leaning in using my chest as a distraction.

“On the house, if you can spell your own name backwards,” fluttering my eyes at him. Pretending I had no clue that he was in the middle of a drinking contest. He gets flustered by my chest and eyes, and I pocket the two coppers he fumbles from his pile of winnings, not quite noticing he was too busy looking at my breast. This was for the chair he broke last week. I was tired of all the excuses on why he hasn’t paid me back. He never answers me, so I pout and walk away, making a show of my disappointment at his lack of an answer. I make sure I take the rum away too. No freebies here. Unless it suits me.

I was mid-stride, happy to get the money the man owed for the chair. As I was balancing a fresh tray, a heavy hand clamped around my wrist.

“Hey, love, what’s the hurry?” The voice is thick with brine and last week’s regrets.

No need to look down, didn't have to. I knew the hand, the scars, the underlying hunger for more than what was on the menu.

“Your hands belong on your mug, not on me, unless you’d prefer wearing your ale instead of drinking it.” To anyone else, it would have seemed like I just held his hand to stop it from moving further, but I held back his pinky finger in a direction that was not comfortable. This wasn’t the first time he had tried this, and he wasn’t the only one tonight trying to warm my bed.

Silence dragged on for a few heartbeats.

The man, one of my regulars, barrel-chested, face gone soft from too much sun seems to be stunned. He finally blinks. Then he laughs, loud and wheezy, letting go. Not sure if he thought my threat was funny or was just trying to play it off.

He laughs, then his table erupts with belly laughs. The laughter ripples out, drawing attention from the nearby tables. Even the bard stops playing for a moment to see what the commotion is all about.

I bow, with a curt dip of the chin, and keep on moving. I was used to the attention. There’s a comfort in knowing what will happen next: the joking, the flirting, the way the crowd takes my side as long as I keep the drinks coming.

Sliding past the bar, where an old merchant is trying to impress a woman much younger and twice as bored.

“Another for the lady?” I ask, arching a brow. The woman shrugs; the man tries to wink and smiles but it comes off all wrong. Showing off a shiny gold tooth. I tried hard not to roll my eyes at him. “Your credit’s good until the bottle’s dry,” I tell him as I move across the bar, cleaning up empty bottles. When I got to the women's side, I whispered, “Tap your glass three times if you want an escape route. I’ve got a back door you can use.”

The woman laughs, clearly fine with the pervy old man's attention. For a moment, I felt the familiar throb of satisfaction. For all the sweat and noise, there’s power in this: the ability to orchestrate a crowd, to move people like pieces on a board. I learned from the best.

My mother.

I pulled out her wedding band, which I kept on a chain. I would have to visit her in the morning. She was amazing at this before she got sick. When I was a little girl, I loved watching her ‌dance around the crowd. She moved around all the drunk men and even women trying to warm her bed. She always handled it perfectly.

I never saw her take anyone to bed. She was waiting and hoping for news about my father, who was out traveling and securing trade for our small island. He always came back until he didn’t. It has been 5 years since I saw him. I gave up hope of him ever coming back. My mother, however, never did.

From the kitchen comes a hiss of steam and the wet slap of dough on a counter. The cook, ancient and nearly deaf, but unbeatable with a cleaver, shouts out my name. “Siri! You got arms, don’t you?”

I called back, “Not for carrying you, old man,” but I ducked through the swinging doors anyway, depositing the empty tray and accepting the waiting loaves. The kitchen is its own world, hot and damp, smelling of garlic and fried onions. I love it, just for the ten seconds it gets me to stand still. This was the smell of my childhood. Cookie has been here since the day my parents opened, and has been my rock through all that life has thrown my way over the past five years. I have no idea how I will ever repay Cookie. I would figure that out another time. It was time to continue my nightly dance.