Harbor Master Mortimer Wells sat back down at his desk with a sigh, his half-eaten breakfast of oats and milk still in a bowl beside a government writ. The directive had arrived from the mayor’s office late yesterday afternoon with a clear request: evict all docked vessels immediately and do not allow any new ones access to the harbor until further notice. Less clear was the reason for this unprecedented request.

Never in the nearly thirty years he spent in his position did they ever close the docks. Even when the quake struck that split them off from Tellavar. That only impacted the opposite end of the newly formed island, he had been told at the time. The harbor could continue business as usual.

“Idiots,” Mort muttered to himself. Did they realize the chaos they were causing?

He had spent his evening yesterday summoning and arguing with boat captains, convincing them to move their ships to other harbors elsewhere on Curvata Appa. Few took the request without complaint. Mort had been insulted, threatened, and laughed at more times than he could count. But once they saw that he stood firm, they all gave in. What choice did they have? Some may have determined it was easier to simply move their ships than to persuade him to let them stay. Those were the smart ones.

His morning to this point had been spent rounding up the last few remaining crews—the ones that were unable to be located or were otherwise unsuitable to operate their vessels the previous evening—to ensure their departure. He then installed signs on the docks explaining its closure. Now that all the ships were gone, the rest of his day should be quieter. He hoped.

He ate a spoonful of oats and frowned. His preferred breakfast was salted mackerel, grilled, which he had no time to fetch this morning. The oats would have to do.

Perhaps he would leave early this afternoon and make his way to the municipal building to learn the reason for the writ. He knew of the small island looming on the horizon, but wasn’t that supposed to pass them by? Surely there would have been a warning issued by local officials by now if that were not the case.

It could be worse, he supposed. His wage was paid by the local government, regardless of how many ships were docked with them. That’s not how all ports worked. Mort had heard many tales from sailors over the years and knew that in some countries merchant guilds oversaw the ports and paid harbor masters based on vessel count or sometimes based on the quantity of imported and exported goods that changed hands through the docks. Mort always felt that left the guilds with ample opportunity to unfairly manipulate the pay of his fellow harbor masters.

The rest of Mort’s morning was spent reviewing and filing the manifests of the ships he had just ousted. They were almost all merchant ships, as usual. They came from all over the world—Locarno, Tellapor, even Coryza—to offer their wares to the ever-burdgeoning population of Tellavar. When Curvata Appa was just a Tellavarian peninsula, they were under mandates about how to distribute the goods. But since branching off and becoming its own sovereign nation, they could now sell those goods to the highest bidder, infusing wealth into the island.

Mort mused over how much had changed in Curvata Appa during his time here, particularly over the last few years, some things for the better, others for the worse. He was nearly ready for lunch when he heard a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said, glancing out his window to see that a ship had apparently docked in the harbor while he had been busy with his documents. Hadn’t those fools seen the signs?

His door opened to reveal a thin middle-aged man with thick brown hair and bug eyes. The man gave a toothy grin and asked, “Excuse me sir, but are you the harbor master?”

“I am,” Mortimer replied in a cantankerous tone. “Is that your ship?”

“Why, yes it is. My name is Viktor, proud captain of the Lady Luck.” The man bowed slightly, still grinning. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, mister…”

“Mort.”

“...Mort. I hope this day brings you good fortune.” Viktor turned to shut the door behind him. He was wearing a navy pants tucked into brown leather boots with a vertically striped buttoned shirt and a sword sheathed at his waist. There was a kind of rattling noise made when he moved.

Mort eyed the sword. It was not unusual for ship officers to carry swords or guns—they were meant more for ornamentation than violence in his experience, though he did keep a small pistol in his desk drawer in case he ever encountered someone who would draw their weapon at him.

“You need to move your ship,” Mort said bluntly. “Governmental decree. I have the writ right here.” He tapped on it, still on his desk beside a now empty bowl.

“Oh my, that can’t be right, can it?” Viktor looked almost hurt by the request. “A harbor without ships, why that’s like the sea without fish.”

“Right or wrong, it’s here in black and white. You’ll have to dock elsewhere.”

Viktor stepped forward, rattling slightly again. “Is there anything you can do? I’m afraid my ship is in dire need of repairs. Why, we were assaulted by some pirates yesterday just a few miles from here.”

Mort did not know of pirates that would venture this close to Curvata Appa, though they certainly did operate and plunder along trade routes. And he had heard faraway cannon fire yesterday. Still, there was nothing he could do to help the man.

“If you got the ship here, you can sail it to the next harbor,” Mort said.

An exaggerated frown came upon Viktor’s face. “I suppose I cannot argue with that logic, though it is disappointing to hear. Quite disappointing, I must say. May I at least inspect the decree myself? My...client expects me to exhaust all avenues available to me.”

“Here,” Mort said, irritated again but handing him the writ.

While Viktor read, Mort looked out his window again. The ship looked like a fine craft, carved from wood the color of cinnamon, except where some makeshift planks, lighter in color, had been nailed to the side of the hull. From his vantage point Mort could not see any flags raised.

“Where do you hail from?” Mort asked.

Viktor said nothing, apparently engrossed in his reading. Mort watched him mouthing the words to himself slowly. Mort wished Viktor would leave so he could have his lunch.

Eventually, Viktor looked up from the paper. “I see you are an honest man. This letter is everything you said it was, much to my dismay.”

“That’s right. So, you’ll be on your way then?”

“I see no choice.” Viktor reached out to hand back the writ but absently dropped it on the floor beside Mort’s foot. “Oh, my deepest apologies.”

Mort grunted as he bent over in his chair to pick up the paper. As he did so, he heard the rattling again, louder and nearer. He looked up to see that Viktor had leapt to the side of the desk, sword unsheathed and held high over him. It seemed as though the two of them were frozen in those positions, Mort bent over in his chair and Viktor looming above him ready to strike. Mort was caught by surprise but understood what was happening. After what may have been an hour or only a moment, he reached for the drawer with his pistol. But before he could even pull it open, Viktor brought the blade down in a swift downward swipe, slicing his head clean off. Mort’s body crumpled to the ground beside his skull.

Viktor frowned again. His job sometimes put him at odds with good people. Mort had seemed like such a person, but he contested against Viktor. Like in any contest, there was a winner and a loser. For Viktor to win, Mort had to lose.

He took a handkerchief from Mort’s breast pocket and wiped the blood from his sword. It was a thin, double-edged blade. A red string was tied to its pommel and connected to two small dice that rattled as he sheathed it.

Viktor bent over to retrieve the writ, now with a few spots of blood on it. He carefully folded it and placed it in his pocket. He may need to find its source. He then left the harbor master’s office, but not before making sure to pull the window curtains shut and lock the door behind him. It was broad daylight out. He could not risk trying to dispose of the body now. He would worry about that later.

First, Viktor’s crew would need to remove the closure signs littered around the harbor. He hoped that would be enough for ships to begin docking there again. It seemed that word had not spread far about the impending collision. Viktor would need to devise a strategy to keep it that way.