Chapter 56: Gima is Not Amused

Why isn't the flower boat docked? Why do we have to take a second, crappier boat to get to the first boat? Is this some kind of sick, logistical joke?

Gima’s internal monologue was a stream of pure, unfiltered rage.

The rotting skiff beneath her feet was taking on water faster than she could complain about it. The boatman, a man whose grin was as vacant as his skull, would periodically scoop a bucketful of filthy canal water out, only for another bucketful to seep in through the floorboards. One scoop, one paddle stroke. Their progress was glacial.

All around them, sleek, elegant sailboats zipped past, their wakes slapping against their sad little raft and sending waves of murky water sloshing around their ankles. Gima had to perform a delicate balancing act to keep her new boots from getting soaked.

“Careful now, missy!” the boatman had the audacity to say. As if summoned by his idiocy, a large ship powered by, creating a wave that sent the skiff into a violent lurch.

Distracted, Gima’s foot slipped, and she plunged her boot into the bilge. The cold, dirty water soaked through the leather instantly, making her black stocking cling to her skin like a clammy second thought.

Her head snapped up, her eyes scanning for the bastard responsible.

The boatman just gave her that same stupid, toothy grin. She couldn't even work up the energy to be mad at him. He was just a pawn in this game of humiliation.

“Good morning, noble knight of Barto,” a smug voice crowed from above.

Gima looked up. There, leaning against the rail of a magnificent ship, was the thick-necked, triumphant face of Strong, flanked by a pack of smirking, silk-clad youths. They were all pointing and laughing, staring down at them like they were a particularly fascinating piece of refuse.

The little princelings pointed and snickered as if they were observing exotic animals at a zoo.

“Strong, is that the meathead knight you mentioned? He looks a little scrawny, not as buff as you.”

“Just another country bumpkin who doesn’t get how things work in Salem City.”

“His horse probably can’t swim. Otherwise, you know he’d try to ride it across.”

“I’ll give him this, though. His attendant is a total knockout.”

“Please. What kind of ‘proper’ knight travels with a piece like that?”

Their jeers faded as their ship sailed on.

Damn it all. If only I had a sliver of my old power, I’d have sent a single fireball your way and booked you all a one-way, first-class trip to the afterlife.

Gima clenched her little fists and shook them at the departing ship. Unfortunately, she couldn’t even conjure a spark right now.

She then turned her glare on the true architect of her misery: George.

He stood with his feet planted firmly in the bilge water, the hem of his fine robes soaked, but he was utterly unfazed. His eyes were laser-focused on the flower boat.

“George, we are being mocked,” Gima seethed. “You need to do something. Preferably something involving violence.”

“I see traces of… a forgery.” he muttered to himself, before turning to her as if just noticing she existed. “Gima? What’s wrong?”

Taking a deep breath, Gima pointed. “We have been provoked. By that muscle-bound troglodyte whose only known skill is beating up goblins.”

“How so?”

She explained. He nodded. Her spirits lifted. “So, are you going to unleash the righteous fury?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You jump on his boat, you kick him square in the ass, and you send him for a swim! It’s not complicated!” Surely his paladin class had some kind of dash skill.

George’s brow furrowed. “That would be highly improper. We are guests, not ruffians. We must maintain a certain level of decorum.”

“Then do you have a better idea?”

“I am thinking.”

“And the results of all that thinking are?”

He gave it a moment of serious consideration. “We build up our psychological fortitude and pretend it never happened.”

Gima felt a wave of despair so profound she wanted to throw herself overboard.

This damn virgin’s brain has been so thoroughly scrubbed by the Holy Sanctuary’s goody-two-shoes agenda that it’s turned to stone! How could he possibly conceive of a comeback that is both satisfyingly brutal AND polite?

She made one last, desperate plea. “This isn’t a storybook, George! You don’t have to worry about the narrative justification for your badass moment! Just go hit him!”

Having spent enough time with her, he’d picked up most of her slang. “Are there storybooks about badass moments?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

She remembered his library: bestiaries, prayer books, and mind-numbingly dull classics—the kind everyone has heard of, everyone praises, but no one actually reads.

 “Just… forget I said anything.”

The pathetic boat crawled onward, a conspicuous turd floating in a sea of pristine yachts. The guests on the flower boat had all noticed them now. The wind carried their whispers to her.

“…Is that the septic barge?…”

“…I guess they spent all their money on their outfits…”

“…They must be lost…”

Gazes of bewilderment and amusement fell upon their ugly little skiff.

Gima sighed, closing her eyes and indulging in a brief, beautiful fantasy where she pulled an AK-47 from a thigh holster and raked the deck with automatic fire. The image of screaming nobles, flying hats, and fainting ladies was immensely comforting.

Alas, reality was cruel.

This flower boat was probably the most luxurious in all of Salem City. It was three stories high and as wide as a public square. It even had a garden, with lush green trees cultivated in alchemical soil, their branches heavy with glowing orange fruits that were also products of alchemy. To cultivate a garden on land with alchemy was expensive enough; to move it onto a boat required both immense funding and technical skill.

Gima had been on this boat before. It was said to be the handiwork of the Good Master’s daughter. The fruit was sweet, and the garden had a nice atmosphere. Last time she was here, she’d had a rather enjoyable romp on the lawn.

This time, returning to the scene, she was not happy at all. The pile of decaying wood she was currently standing on barely qualified as a boat, and it only made the magnificent vessel ahead seem even more out of reach.

This is Liz’s grand revenge, isn’t it? Fine. Duly noted. She made another entry in her little black book of future atrocities. Family-wide annihilation, ashes scattered at sea. Fun stuffs.

The stares of the guests were getting to be too much. “Can you go any faster?” she snapped at the boatman.

“Hehehe.” He just grinned.

“This boatman is a real work of art from Liz huh,” she muttered. “A masterpiece of escaped asylum patients.”

“Hehehe.”

“Gima, be polite,” George chided.

“A snail that evolved to have legs would be lapping us right now! I could write an epic poem with a hundred verses about how much this boat sucks!”

Suddenly, George reached for her. “What?”

“Take my hand.”

She placed her small hand in his, and he enveloped it in his warm, strong grip.

“Hold on,” he said.

“If you read in some parenting book that the best way to calm a fussy brat is to hold her hand and stare at her with grim determination, you should burn that book,” she quipped.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved closer, sliding his other arm under her armpits and around her torso, pulling her flush against his chest.

“Whoa, hey, even if the book said to hug the brat for security, this is not the regulation hold!” she squeaked, the tips of her ears burning. The position was alarmingly intimate, like a waltz hold.

“Boatman, hold steady!” George called out. He bent his knees slightly. “Gima, you holding on tight?”

“What are you—AH!”

Before she could finish, they were airborne. George had launched them from the skiff in a single, explosive leap, soaring through the air.

The wind whipped at her face. She looked down and saw the deck of the flower boat rushing up to meet them at an alarming speed. The memory of her fall from the skyscraper resurfaced, and a jolt of her old acrophobia shot through her. She instinctively wrapped her arms around George’s neck, burying her face in his chest.

The pristine white deck expanded rapidly, rushing up to meet their feet.

George landed with a solid thud, bending his knees to absorb the colossal impact. The deck groaned in protest, but held. He had cradled her the entire time, shielding her from the force.

A collective gasp and a flurry of shrieks erupted from the guests who had been pointing and laughing just moments before. They scrambled back in a panic.

“It’s a beyonder!”

“Boarding party! We’re being attacked!”

“Who is it?!”

A middle-aged man in a grey breastplate, his face marred by a burn scar, came down a staircase. He had one hand on his sword and was flanked by two heavily armed guards. His features were resolute, and his remaining eye was sharp and steady. His mere presence calmed the rising panic.

Gima recognized him. One of the three pillars of Salem City, a man named Chamberlain, who managed the Good Master’s military forces. Loyal and dependable. The scar on his face, it was said, was from a close encounter with a black dragon in his youth. His power level was unknown; back then, she hadn’t cared. To her, he would have been just a slightly larger-than-average fodder.

He saw that George and Gima were unarmed and unarmored and motioned for his guards to stand down.

George gently set Gima on her feet and produced the invitation. “Apologies,” he said calmly. “I was merely in a hurry to board.”

Chamberlain had a guard bring him the invitation. After inspecting it, he looked up, his single grey eye assessing George. “And who, sir, might you be?”

“My master hails from Barto and seeks the grace of the Goddess,” Gima chirped, stepping forward.

Chamberlain’s gaze shifted to her, a flicker of confusion in his eye.

“Apologies,” she said, puffing out her chest. “He was cursed by the gods for his past deeds and can only speak 140 words a day. I serve as his voice.”

George gave a solemn nod.

“We are honored by your presence,” Chamberlain said, his tone stiff but respectful. The display of power had clearly won him over. “Salem City has a need for warriors like you. The challenges I can offer will no doubt bring you closer to the Goddess’s favor. Feel free to seek me out.”

“I’ll consider it,” George replied.

Chamberlain nodded and dismissed his guards.

A low buzz of excited whispers filled the air. Gima’s ears swiveled, drinking it all in.

“Who is that man? I’ve never seen Lord Chamberlain so polite.”

“Didn’t you see him jump? A hundred meters, easy! He has to be Silver-rank, at least!”

“The situation in Salem must be dire if Lord Chamberlain is being so courteous.”

Gima felt a wave of profound satisfaction.

Just then, Strong and his sniveling friends approached, their faces a perfect picture of disbelief.

“Faster than you,” Gima said with a little wave. An servant appeared, and she and George followed him away, leaving Strong and his friends standing there with their mouths open.