30
MARESG
Pasha sipped his blovey wine, a brown, effervescent concoction fermented from the enormous mushrooms that grew at the bases of the mangrove trees in miniature forests. It was high in alcohol and mildly hallucinogenic, and tasted like mud and urine. Not that anyone drank it for the taste. Eyes closed, he listened to the sounds of Maresg—the incessant creaking of branch and rope, the lapping of waves at the base of the trees, and the sounds of humanity, which matched the sounds of every city, everywhere.
Ves sat down in the chair next to him with a dramatic groan and a thunk of his own misshapen glass on the flimsy wood table. Pasha opened his eyes. The pirate was looking away from him, off into the shadows of the mangroves, and after a moment, Pasha followed his gaze. It was ju
