“Right. And since they still had it, and it was locked, means they couldn’t open it either,” said Valgur.
“Maybe we should just break it open,” said Atrocius, balling his hands into fists and grinning.
“Belay that, we can't have it. We might accidentally hurt the treasure inside. Besides, 'tis a beautiful piece. Can't go wasting something as precious as that. We could just as easily sell the box. Eh, but let's see, they said it was an expedition ship. That means there must be something good in there, there has to be,” said Valgur as he paced.
"What's the best approach for something like this? Have ye made any headway?" asked Grit.
"There's multiple tumblers, more than I've ever seen," said Scuttle, long beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his temples, as they had for a while now, from the mental strain the work required. He gingerly eased a pick into the lock opening. The lock pick quivered for a moment and then broke from the effort.
"Guess yer not as good as ye thought," said Atrocius, jutting out his chin in challenge.
Scuttle's hands were trembling from lack of sleep, and now the stress of having the captain and his highest ranking officers breathing down his neck made matters all the worse. Sharply, Scuttle put down his tools. “I need a bit o' peace for this, not opinions. If y’please, give me an hour to meself and I’ll have a better idea for you cap’n.”
“Right. As y’will,” said Valgur, and they left the thief to his work. Scuttle needed an hour and many more, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t open the device. Ye Ol’ Marigold was in view of the Barrier Isles that hugged the eastern coast of Karobos when Valgur called up to Picaro as he perched in the crow’s nest.
“Oi. Got somethin’ interesting for ye, boy,” called the captain.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a lock needs picking,” said Valgur, grinning. A light was in his eyes, one like a father anticipating watching his son perform a talent that he was quite proud of him for. Intrigued by an inkling of what the task might be, Picaro came down from his roost. He was well satisfied to hear that Scuttle had been unable to budge the lock. When he asked what progress had been made, Valgur kind of shrugged and said. “He got through three tumblers. Says there’s more.”
Picaro whistled. More than three tumblers, he thought, that’s new. Valgur presented the small chest to him, and it was immediately one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. It was meticulously crafted, the flowing brass shimmering in the candlelight, and a vein of gold running about its sides like a trail on a map leading to hidden treasure. Someone had taken great care to make such a device, and indeed it held a hidden treasure, one he was determined to reach. His heart rose with the elation of expectation. It was like getting a new toy; an intricately beautiful puzzlebox. The art of its making would in the end reveal to him the mechanism to which it was shaped.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
A delicate sort of poetry took over Picaro’s movements. He did not make a decision hastily. He examined the lock, looking for any clues. He turned the chest over in his hands, and the more he did so the heavier it became. There was no definite direction in which all the waves flowed. He followed the golden vein. Did it have a starting point, an end? Picaro pondered such questions for quite a while with a precision beyond his years.
The chest had small angles welded into its shape. He inspected the sides and corners of the box, looking for any pressure plates or trigger buttons that if he didn’t press could deny its opening. After many minutes, he concluded there was none. It seemed to be an incredibly ornate chest, but nothing mechanically more. He painstakingly worked the lock. He got through the first three tumblers, and then the fourth. The candle had burned low and night had drawn on when he finally got through the fifth tumbler. As he did so, he felt a sudden snap within the chest’s mechanism. It jolted in his hands, spitting out his tools and resetting the tumblers. It was like the chest had slammed the door in his face. Exhausted, Picaro slept.
In the morning, Grit came to check on him. “Not yet,” said Picaro.
“Right, well let us know if y’get anywhere soon, otherwise cap’n said to let Scuttle have another crack at it,” said Grit. Picaro nodded.
Not if I can help it, he thought. He stared down at the ornate chest, letting go of his frustration from the night before. He turned it over in his hands, looking over the golden vein that wound across its sides. One side had three waves of brass, another five. He began to count the sides. In total, the waves across the surface counted thirty seven. He divided that by six for the number of sides, it didn’t help.
The chest felt heavy again. Picaro put it down and stood up, staring at it from different angles. For a moment, he saw an outline of where the golden vein wound across the sides of the chest in a misshapen square. Picaro blinked. There was one place, just one small place on one side of the box where the lines did not meet no matter what angle he looked at them from. No optical illusion could make the lines of gold visually meet at that particular point to complete the square.
He leaned in close to examine the side of the chest. There, on the surface of a brass wave, seemed to be chip in the metal, a small imperfection devoid of color. A scuff? Picaro rubbed it, but the blemish did not go away, almost as if the metal had been blemished purposefully. He felt across the space with his fingers. It seemed, ever so slightly, that there was a space there, an indent, like a sliver of the metal had indeed been chipped away. Intently, Picaro peered closer. He was still unsure. This chest must have passed many hands. Yet from what Picaro could tell, no other such blemish was on chest’s surface.
Curious, Picaro fumbled with his tools. With the finest tip, he pried into the space. After a few long moments, he heard a very satisfying click. Shaking with eagerness, he licked his lips and collected himself before working through the tumblers again. The first three tumblers were already routine. After the fourth tumbler, his heart began to race and his cheeks grew hot. He made the final, deft motion to release the fifth tumbler, and a lone bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Then came a final click and the chest opened.
Laughing, Picaro sprang from his quarters. He passed Scuttle on the main deck, who stared daggers at him as he passed. Valgur echoed the boy’s laughter when he heard the news. “I knew ye could do it, lad.”
The captain was quite enamored with what was inside. For there was only one item in the chest, a key. Though, the key itself was its own a treasure, crafted from whalebone and gilded with gold. Its teeth resembled shark’s fangs outlined in gold. In its handle was carved a scene Picaro could not quite make out. Valgur took a magnifying glass to it. The end of the key was carved into a skull with eyes made of gemstones and teeth fashioned from gold. “It’s scrimshaw, lad,” said Valgur wondrously. “Never have I seen anything like it.”
“What do you think it’ll sell for?” asked Picaro.
“Sell it?” Valgur laughed heartily. “Lad, I’m trying to see what it’s for. And I think I know just the man who can help us.”
How it started:
- Samuel O. Ludescher