Chapter 398: The Prize Boat Had Previously Been a Crime Scene

The race organizer told us the prize boat had been seized from criminals, which was the first advertisement all week that understood its audience.

Five days after the harpoon incident, the coast grazer reached the sheltered channel outside Saltsink. We’d spent the journey eating the market host’s food, checking my wing, and learning which streets became stairs whenever our accommodation scratched its side.

Lukas had repaired the strap on his bag, sent the girls photographs, and developed a deep personal dislike of one market chair. It folded whenever the creature turned, usually while he was explaining something important. I considered it an excellent listener.

The grazer’s yearly visit brought traders, bored crews and a race promoting the boat club. This year’s winner got a confiscated skiff, which finally made a community event worth attending.

Forty credits bought entry and a loan boat. I asked which boat, then immediately wanted to know whether their refund policy covered taking one look at it.

Lukas stepped into the least battered hull and tested the seat. It held, which apparently counted as luxury in competitive boating.

[System: Get in, mate. You can spend forty credits or swim there with the luggage up your arse, and only one comes with a trophy.]

*Let me read the rules. Somebody needs to check whether the prize is another miserable fucking boat like this one.*

Two entrants, one approved hull, muscle power only. The rules banned engines, weapons, flight and interference, but allowed each species its ordinary swimming ability.

I asked whether a swimmer could push the hull. The organizer pointed at a broad-tailed competitor warming up in the water and asked whether I thought she’d brought that backside for decoration. Lukas forgot the entry form for a moment.

*"Put your name on the paper before you volunteer to follow her into a different event,"* I told him.

We paid, borrowed the least depressing hull, and tested it in the shallow practice lane. Lukas sat forward with a paddle while I held the rear bracket from the water, leaving my wings folded close.

I packed the part of my body gripping the rear bracket and pushed while the organizer watched for jet use. He squinted at my folded wings too, as though I planned to hide an entire takeoff behind Lukas.

*"Do you want to check under the seat as well, or can I start being naturally magnificent?"*

[System: Give him a minute, mate. He’s never had to check the boat’s arse for a smug bastard before.]

Four anchored buoys marked a straight, a wide turn and a narrow return along the grazer’s shell before the finish opened out.

I wanted to start before anyone inspected another part of me. Lukas made me watch the grazer’s leg instead. Each shift rolled water along its side and sent a patch of weed racing ahead of us.

Galaxy Brain helped me work through the timing, but Lukas was already pointing at the weed. Annoyingly, he could have a good idea without buying a brain upgrade.

"If we’re there when it lowers that leg, we can ride the push without cutting the marker."

*"So we get the giant animal to shove us while everyone cheers for me. I love sport already."*

[System: Try moving your own arse too, mate. The beast’s doing the work, but I doubt it’ll accept the trophy on your behalf.]

Six boats scraped away at the bell, and two immediately left us behind. Lukas yelled for me to push harder. I yelled that this would go better if he paddled with something other than his mouth.

I pushed hard against the bracket with my wing folded. Our practice began paying off, and the hull gained speed.

At the first turn, the leading crew went wide to protect its advantage. Lukas held our angle tightly without touching their hull, then used his paddle to keep our bow from swinging across the return marker.

We were still behind when the grazer’s limb began to rise.

I started pushing harder to catch the leaders, but Lukas thumped the back of his seat and told me to wait for the leg. I hated waiting. I hated losing more, so I swallowed the complaint and watched the water.

The limb lowered. Water gathered against the shell and rolled along the narrow return, carrying the strip of weed we’d watched before the race.

Lukas turned into the rolling water and shouted, so I shoved hard enough to forget the argument.

Our miserable little hull surged forward with such sudden enthusiasm that he swore at the bow. I held the bracket, braced my contact point, and kept us from twisting while the current did exactly what we’d hoped.

We passed the leader without touching her boat. She shouted something filthy after us, and Lukas nearly turned to answer until I threatened to drop him off with her.

The final stretch belonged to our remaining effort. Lukas paddled, I pushed, and we crossed beneath the finish rope with less than half a hull to spare.

I got my head onto the recovery dock before trying to look smug. The breathing ruined it anyway, and Old Mate helpfully supplied panting noises while I tried to tell him to get fucked.

The judge cleared our run and declared us winners. I asked him to say it again because Lukas had been coughing, although we both knew that was rubbish.

[System: You’ve won a boat without stabbing its owner, mate. Don’t panic; there’s plenty of time to disappoint your family on the drive home.]

The prize skiff had a working engine, a small locked hold, and enough old scratches to suggest it had previously enjoyed a busy social life. Its registered name was Wet Regret, which Lukas refused to let me change.

We signed for Wet Regret and its repair list. I tried reading the faults aloud in a cheerful voice, but Lukas said that didn’t make the seal any less worn. Some people simply didn’t know how to enjoy victory.

While I rested on the dock, Lukas opened the concealed compartment identified in the inspection sheet. Most of it was empty, but a metal docking token had lodged behind a loose panel.

He cleaned the salt from its stamped number and compared the emblem with our captured chart.

The token belonged to Saltsink’s restricted marina, and the supply boat we wanted was due there the following evening.