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The Log Book of the Ketty Jay: 1
Transcriber’s note: At the time of writing, what follows are the only entries ever discovered from the Logbook Of The Ketty Jay. Darian Frey was never known for his diligence, and he apparently forgot about writing in the logbook on completing these entries. Considering the adventures which followed, however, he can perhaps be excused. The affairs he became embroiled in have been luridly recounted by various pulp biographers, but I direct your attention to the only official and unbiased account of the tale, written by this humble scribe, which bears a title as honest and straightforward as the words within: Retribution Falls, available now in bookshops all over Vardia.
Kingsday Firstweek, Swallow’s Reap, 147/32
Feel rather heroic today, actually. There’s nothing to make a man feel like a man like setting right some wrongs.
Now I’m not going say I haven’t pulled off a few injustices in my time, but Feckley’s little trick was just low. I beat those guys fair and square at Rake, and he spiked and robbed me. It’s not often I beat anyone fair and square at anything, so when I do I’m kind of precious about it.
Once I’d got out of bed and had my bowels back under control (an unpleasant-yet-strangely-satisfying side-effect of the spike) I gathered up the boys and we went down to Feckley’s den. Harkins I left to guard the Ketty Jay. He’s a fine pilot but his bravery ends at the limits of his cockpit. He’s not cut out for the physical stuff. Confrontations turn him into a gibbering wreck. He’s likely to accidentally shoot someone out of nervousness. Quite possibly one of us.
I took Silo along this time. He doesn’t often get off the ship on account of his being a Murthian and liable to get lynched when he’s on his own. It’s been a good few years now, but nobody’s forgotten the war. Suppose the wounds run pretty deep. Me, I’m not fussed about Sammies or Dakkadians or Murthians or whoever – live and let live, that’s what I think – but my guts still twinge when I think about that time in Samarla. The end to my illustrious career hauling cargo for the Coalition Navy. Still got the scars on my belly.
Silo and Malvery are the muscle, really, so I let them go in first. Pinn next, cause he’s eager. I follow him in – can’t go last, that’d just look weird – and behind me comes Keddle. I’m thinking I should start getting the passenger involved in this kind of thing, maybe. An extra pair of hands never hurts. And that golem would be pretty damn useful, if slightly unsubtle. Seeing Bess walk through town would raise a few eyebrows, and I like to keep my profile a little lower than that.
We boot our way into the den, bristling with guns. Feckley’s got some muscle, too, but they’re slow to their weapons. ‘Don’t you even think it,’ I warn ’em, but there’s always one. He thinks he’s being ever-so-sneaky as he moves his hand towards his holster. Malvery spots him and shoots him with that big lever-action shotgun of his. Takes his head off above the jaw. Nobody messes with us after that.
Card dens have a lot of money lying around, and this one was no exception. Much more than was taken from me, anyway. I figure I deserve it. Just to be nice, though, I let the players keep the money in their pockets and what they have on the table in front of them. I’d be a bit of hypocrite if I didn’t. It’s not their fault that Feckley’s a cheating pusbag.
He glares at me all balefully as we empty out his den. I can tell he’s wishing he killed me when he had the chance. I know he’s thinking up some kind of revenge if he ever lays eyes on me again, so I get my retaliation in first and shoot him in the foot. That’ll teach him for glaring.
After that we reckoned it was best to get out of town, so we did, and then followed the obligatory grog-soaked celebrations of a job well done. It’s not often we have a genuine reason to celebrate – we usually just make one up. So this time was a bit special. Put me back to bed for a day, but it was worth it.
Where next, Log?