Clement’s Squibyard

It was more of a scrapyard than a squibbing dock, and Clement knew it. Despite protests from his workers, from the sailors who stumbled back to the tangled piles of lumber, canvas, and rope, from many first-time ships that sunk down to the low sky spire upon which Clement had made his home, Clement knew that his office has more trash than treasure.

Not that the elderly avoral paid much attention. He enjoyed focussing his attention on each new project. The limitation of his facilities and the materials at his disposal forced him to be sharp, creative, and economical beyond what other, certainly more reputable squibs could manage.

Today brought someone new with a story he’d heard all to many times. Clement wrapped his grease-stained wings around him and reclined in his office, listening the the young capatain describe his troubles.

“I don’t know what happened. We weren’t a week out of Aryl and we ran up against a swarm of ribbon snakes. They slammed us pretty good, near punched out our hull.” The young man—they all looked young to Clement’s scrutinizing gaze—crumpled and twisted his cap in his hand. “Took us out in a big way.”

Clement let out a low whistle, soft and strong as a rain-tacked cable. The note drifted around his office like a loop of lazy pipe smoke. The wizened shipwright peered out his window at the newest airship to settle into his docks.

Tethered to the basket cutter his youngest apprentice was rebuilding in his spare time sat a pock-marked gunship, barely hanging together. Its spread forward masts, as was common for gull style ships, were cracked and about to split. Its hull had been pounded by cannon fire, scratched and smeared with several different paints, no doubt traded during boarding and other collisions. Its sails were shredded, darned, ripped apart, patched other, shorn, and quilted enough to fly. The avoral clucked under his breath, cutting his whistle short.

“A knot,” Clement said, turning back to the anxious captain fretting in front of him.

“What?”

“A knot of ribbon snakes, not a swarm. If you’re going to be sticking with that story.“

The captain went still, his hand slowly sliding to the pistol on his waist. “Just what d’you think you think you’re implying?”

Clement raised a single talon. “Before you do anything more monumentally foolish, you should know.”

The young captain’s eyes narrowed to slits. His thumb rested on his pistol’s hammer. “Should know what?”

“I don’t care.” Clement smiled and reclined in his chair, folding his wings around himself once more.

“You what?”

“I don’t care. Ribbon snakes, cannon fire, settlement artillery, ravenous monsters—whatever’s hit your ship, I don’t care. You need fixing, we can see you right and back up in the sky within the week, no questions asked. We only ask a few conditions be upheld.”

“Yeah? What are those.”

Clement smiled and clasped his hands together. “Simple rules, really. We’ll assess damage and quote. You pay up front before we start to work. If we take longer than we say, our work is free. If you cause trouble in our docks or raise a fuss in our tavern, you forfeit your ship.” Clement shot the new captain his sharpest, hungriest look, carefully curated over years of negotiating. “We can always use more materials.”

There was a silence. The captain blinked and sagged in his chair, relenting. “That all seems fair.”

“Good.” Clement clapped his hands and turned to his window. Tilting the grimy pane open a crack, he let out a shrill whistle followed by a sequence of five rising tones.

“What was that?” asked the captain, jumping to his feet.

“Calling hands to your ship.” Clement squinted out his window. “The Iarval, is it?”

The captain wrung his hands in embarrassment. “The Jarvhal. A few letters must of been knocked loose during...when the knot ribbon snakes hit us.”

Clement gave the captain a slow nod and a soft smile. “Good, Captain. Not to worry, we’ll fix those up too. Now, let’s go take a look.”