by C. Vandyke
Leaving Marie to deal with the horses, Katharine settled herself down opposite Drea, separated from her by a bowl of water, and removed her mask. Drea caught her eye, acknowledging her with the merest lift of her head. There was something different in her expression this time; a look of anticipation.
“Tonight’s the night,” she said.
Katharine’s stomach clenched. “How can you know?” She leaned forward despite herself. She didn’t dare hope . . . and yet she still let herself fall into the trap.
“I got a sighting,” Drea said, still swaying, her mousey brown hair washing over her shoulders.
“What does that prove?” Katharine let out a dispirited sigh. Just because someone somewhere thought they might have seen her quarry, didn’t mean they actually had.
“Means I can narrow things down. Think about it. If you’re standing on a beach and you drop a grain of sand onto a map at your feet; well, you’re unlikely to ever find that grain of sand again, as chances are it’s bounced off back onto the beach. But,” she raised a finger, “imagine you are crouched over the map, focussing on one particular island, and you very carefully drop the grain of sand from a handspan off the map. You’re likely to be able to see the grain drop and follow where it lands.”
“But how do we know the sighting was genuine?” Katharine hated the complaint in her voice, but she had been in this position so many times before. Each occasion had proven a disappointment, and she didn’t think she could cope with another.
“This sighting was by my . . . contact.” Drea’s eyes shifted away, and a strange crawling sensation ran up Katharine’s spine and neck.
She knew, of course, of whom—or what—Drea spoke; indeed, the whole premise of her seeking the girl out in the first place had been predicated on the strange relationship that she was part of. But Katharine tried to not allow the terrifying images to flash into her mind as she pictured Drea. Of average height and probably less than average strength, harvesting the non-viable eggs of the immense creature that had borne them. That allowed Drea to carry out her work unharmed. Others had foolishly followed in Drea’s path, trying to steal the precious commodities. Not one of them had survived the mass of writhing tentacles that had sought them out in punishment; not one of them had escaped that massive beak...
Katharine had never seen Rua’Shoth, of course. She sometimes believed that made her imaginings all the worse, but truly, of all things in this world, the Kraken terrified her more than any other.
She gave herself a little shake. To the business at hand.
Drea took a long, pallid egg from a small hessian bag, placed it in her mouth, and chewed slowly. The girl’s hands were back on the compass and timepiece, and she gazed intently into the bowl of water. All the while she swayed in that eerie fashion, hair following in her wake.
She stopped, utterly still, staring fixedly at the water in the bowl. In a voice somehow multi-layered, as though supplemented by stranger, less human sounds, she rasped out, “I’ve found him.”
As they prepared to leave, Katharine felt that the payment given, even though it was only the latest in a long line of such payments, was not enough. She sensed a strange kinship between herself and Drea, as well as the ties of obligation.
“I am grateful to you, Drea. I cannot tell you how much. Please, if you ever have need of my assistance, call on me and let me know what I can do.”
Drea’s distracted smile gave Katharine the impression she wasn’t really listening.
Marie interrupted. “Kate, your husband-to-be loves to travel, I hear. I suspect that after your nuptials you’ll be expected to attend him on his journeys. Drea won’t know where to find you unless you give her some token by which she can pinpoint you in one of her searches.”
Seeing the logic in this, particularly since Drea brightened at the suggestion, Katharine looked about her person, unsure of what she might give. Her weapons were unthinkable; nothing of her clothing was expendable. She looked at her sole piece of jewellery—the ring from her mother—and discounted it immediately. She could not.
Marie suggested, “Perhaps a lock of hair? I believe it should be something suitably personal?”
Katharine borrowed one of Marie’s daggers, removing a length from the end of her braid, and, bundling it up, passed it to Drea. The harvester took it with a nod, stuffing it into her bag. She turned, walking away from them to stand at the edge of the tide. Effectively dismissed, Katharine and Marie took their leave. Their dealings always ended this way, and they had a fair distance to cover, with little time to do it in.
The island where Ivarr Bloodyhand would be found, according to Drea and her contact, was the first island to the north of Los Torcidos. Known as El Asilo Pequeño, or 'Little Sanctuary', it was far enough away that it would be difficult to get there and back home by morning. But Katharine and Marie were confident it could be done, and so rode their horses hard along the Jag to the waters’ edge, where there were always fishermen and other less-legal traders who would be happy to earn extra coin by transporting them to their destination.
Before boarding, they met up with their two associates, ‘Crafty Rod’ Cressey, and Dylan ‘Dil’ Krift, who had gone on their own jaunt earlier that night. Back-up was necessary, in case things went against them with Ivarr.
“How were the takings?” Katharine enquired, not really caring.
Crafty Rod hefted a small purse in his hand. “Better than expected. Less well-guarded, too. I’ll divvy it up after this business tonight.”
An air of melancholy descended as the four contemplated what the night might bring.
“Into three, if you please. After tomorrow, I’ll not be able to join you anymore. I don’t even know where I’ll be most of the time.” Katharine swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. “Marie, I still want you to have your share; I know you haven’t decided yet if you’ll accompany me or stay in St Nicholas.”
“We should get going,” was all Marie said in return.
Katharine left that alone. Time enough yet, she supposed.
It was a couple of hours before dawn when they beached, and only with the most extravagant promises of payment that the fisherman who had brought them could be persuaded to await their return.
The four of them crouched on the south shore of El Asilo Pequeño, strategizing.
“It shouldn’t take long to reach the north side,” said Dil. “We’ll need to exercise great care, though. This island’s so small, we could trip over any of them at any time. We can’t afford to give any warning.”
Katharine estimated how many of the nearer vessels on the water were mere fishers, and how many might be pirate ships. All flew flags; but she couldn’t quite make out in the dawning light what they represented. Except for the Midnight Scythe, of course; instantly recognisable, she loomed over the others. The most feared ship in these waters—she was the pride and joy of the infamous Captain Braddock.
“The Scythe.” Katharine pointed out the ship for the others. “I guess we have to hope Ivarr Bloodyhand isn’t a friend.” She really hoped that to be the case. Challenging one pirate captain was risky. Challenging two was . . . rather more suicidal.
“Ready?” she asked. “Remember, don’t engage unless absolutely necessary. Leave me to deal with Ivarr; only get involved if you think it essential. I need to do this. If you ask me if I’m willing to die to achieve it, yes, I am. But equally, there’s no point in a needless death. You two, follow Marie’s guide. Marie—use your judgement.”
In silence, they approached their quarry with practiced ease. The grasses, noisy in the gentle breeze, helped to cover the scraping and scratching of the rough stones and scree slipping underfoot.
Singing and cheering gradually became audible, along with the sounds of heavy objects dragging over sand. Katharine held up a hand for them to stop. She made a quick survey of the water nearby. In the burgeoning dawn, she identified the boat moored in closest to the island, its flag flying the red motif of a jawles
s skull over a disembodied hand.
The Black Raven.
At last.
Adrenalin pumping, Katharine indicated a turn to the right. The four made for the final outcropping of rocks that would shield them from the view of the crew of the Black Raven.
Straightening up, Kate tweaked nervously at her coat, checking for her weapons. She took a deep breath, and rounding the outcropping, strode into the light of the campfire.
There was only one person not engaged in some sort of work or other. That individual sat leaning against a large rock, contemplating the contents of his mug. At Katharine’s approach, he looked up and snorted.
“And who might you be?” His Nordic accent forced its way through his thick, blond beard, as though he battled the syllables on their way out.
Katharine took in his frame and mass, assessing how the upcoming fight might go.
“My fellows there call me Cut-lass Kate.” She indicated her three companions. They hung back, waiting to see how things played out. Crafty Rod gave a sardonic wave.
“Hah! Cutlass Kate? Cut-less Kate, more like. I doubt you’ve ever lifted a blade in your life.”
At Ivarr’s raised voice, his crew meandered over to see what was going on, curiosity piqued by the new arrivals.
Katharine unfastened her coat.
“Steady!” Ivarr looked back at his crewmates with mock incredulity. One of them sang out, “What shall we do with the pretty wench? Lay-ho, lay-ho!” to the tune of A Gentleman of Fortune. Katharine threw a disparaging glance in his direction. He fell silent.
“You misunderstand.” Katharine slid her coat off her shoulders. Ivarr’s look of lechery shifted into one of disgust.
“If you’re trying to get my attention, you’d better put that back on.”
“I think you misconstrue my intentions,” replied Katharine calmly. “I’m here to challenge you to a duel.”
Ivarr burst out laughing. “Apart from the fact I don’t fight girls, you have obviously lost too many fights in your life for me to add another to the list.”
“Again, understanding does not seem to be one of your talents.” Kate shifted her feet in the sand, settling herself, and threw her coat over towards Marie. “Each one of these scars is years old, each one represents a lesson learned. And as you can see, I have learned a lot of lessons.”
“I don’t care! I don’t fight women. What is all this about, anyway?” Ivarr’s expression had hardened, and he finally stood up, his tense stance belying his casual tone.
“I’m here for my sister.”
Ivarr rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m terribly sorry. Did I bed her and leave her distraught when I left? She won’t be the first, nor the last.” He spat on the sand, more relaxed again. “Or did she tell you how great I was, and you thought you’d get your own taste of it?” His men laughed at that. Ivarr slapped his knee, revelling in the response.
“You bedded her and left her with child. To escape the shame, she took her own life.” Katharine’s voice had not risen nor altered in tone, but it cut through the laughter, bringing abrupt silence. She smiled at Ivarr, who had visibly straightened. She knew she had his full attention.
“So, you see, I am in deadly earnest. I am here to challenge you. Now we see how serious you are in defending yourself.” She rolled her shoulders, limbering up. “Unless you’re scared, of course.”
Anger flashed across his face. “If you’re determined to be made a fool of, who am I to argue? Fine. Choose your weapon.”
She gave a quick bow. “I fight with either rapier or cutlass, but I challenged you. You decide.”
“I am more proficient with the cutlass, therefore I choose rapier. It would be unfair to take advantage.”
Katharine shrugged. “Today is as good a day to die as any other.”
“Who said anything about dying? I won’t kill you, just teach you another lesson. Then you can go back home, and, if you’re lucky, I might come and visit you some time on the way to something important.” Ivarr drew two diagonal lines in the sand, showing the crossing point. “X marks the spot. If you can push me back past this point, you can claim victory.”
“Very generous.”
“What can I say? I am a gentleman at heart. I play by gentlemen’s rules.”
Katharine sniffed. “In my experience, gentlemen play by gentlemen’s rules until they believe the rules go against them.”
Ivarr gave a sardonic grin. “I doubt you understand much at all about men.”
Katharine rolled her eyes. “Shall we begin?”
As Ivarr gave a sharp bow, iridescence sparkled on his hand; a ring caught in the sunlight.
Katharine inhaled sharply, frowning, but with a nod in return. The duel began.
At first, they merely danced around each other with their blades, attempting to get a feel of the other’s strengths, weaknesses, and potential Achilles’ heels.
Katharine assessed Ivarr as far stronger, but a life of relative inactivity hampered him, likely brought about by being fonder of rum than exercise. She kept stealing glances at his sword hand, considering the ring adorning his finger. She didn’t know yet if it was significant, but anything she could divine about him would surely only help her.
Ivarr had his own plans. “Your sister,” he said, thrusting his rapier towards her right shoulder. "Did she look like you? Brown-haired, brown-eyed, scarred?”
She moved out of reach. “As much like me as any sibling might. She never learned to fence. I only did when she died. It was a good way to keep my mind occupied.” Her rapier glanced off his arm, slicing through the material of his shirt, but leaving him unharmed.
He grunted, moving further away. “Your parents must have hated that. Girls fighting is such an ugly thing.” He sneered at her.
“Actually, it was my mother who suggested it; my father hired my tutor.” Katharine advanced on him, noting that his feet were a little slower than before. She flashed the tip of her blade towards his face, noting his flinch with grim satisfaction.
“Maybe you were the less-favoured daughter? They didn’t mind you becoming damaged goods? Though, I suppose at that point they knew she was damaged goods, too, huh?” Ivarr grunted as he tried to step forward into her defence.
She evaded him with practised ease, her feet dancing over the sand with a speed he could not match. “You’re trying to make me angry. It won’t work.” Katharine moistened her lips, conscious that she was tiring a little, her legs aching with the constant resistance of the sand. The early morning was heating with the rising sun. Sweat had formed along her hairline and between her shoulder blades.
“And why’s that? Not such an adoring sister after all?”
“She died six years ago. I stopped being angry about it when I realised it wouldn’t bring her back.” Katharine spun, whipping his leg just above the knee. He stumbled, but recovered.
“What is this all about, then?”
Kate thought she detected some irritation. “Pure. Cold. Revenge.” Three slashes of her blade in a particular pattern. He fended them off with a practised feint that caught her breath. Her suspicions were solidifying. She tried a different tack, hoping he might betray himself. “What about your family?”
“What?”
It worked. She had taken him by surprise and almost heard in his voice the thing she sought. She pushed further, taunting him with things she’d never dream of carrying out.
“Well, I assume there are people who care about you somewhere,” she said. “How would you feel if someone treated your sister like that?”
“Don’t talk about my sister!” And there it was. In a moment of tiredness and sudden wrath, his accent slipped.
Katharine gave a satisfied smile. “There we are. I wondered, when I saw your ring there, but it could have been stolen. Knowing the Cordovan defence made it more likely, given Cordova has only ever lived and taught in St. Nicholas; but it’s your accent that really gives it away. You’re not a Dane at all, are you? You’re from St. Ni
cholas, like me. Do your crew know that you’re just a spoilt little rich boy playing pirates?”
Katharine circled him as he worked himself into a greater and greater rage. His men were out of earshot, and Ivarr kept sending them glances to make sure they stayed that way.
“Given there are only a few blond families . . . well, it wouldn’t take me long to work out which one you come from, and then I might just tell your men, and they might go give your sister a little visit. There’s more than just her virtue they’d get from your home, I’d wager.”
Ivarr let out a bellow of anger and rushed for her. Adrenalin had refreshed her responses, though, and she neatly sidestepped him and drew her foot under his legs. He crashed to the ground. His rapier bounced away over the sand, out of reach.
Ivarr struggled to get up, but Katharine had her blade at his throat.
“You didn’t get past the line. . . you haven’t won,” Ivarr said thickly, the blade moving with his Adam’s apple. All pretence at an accent was gone.
“I don’t agree.”
“You’re no gentleman.” Ivarr tried to spit, but Katharine added the tiniest bit of pressure to his throat.
“No indeed, for I am a gentlewoman, and that’s an entirely different thing.”
Ivarr frowned.
“X marks the spot,” said Katharine softly, making two intersecting diagonal lines over Ivarr’s chest, and his eyes widened in understanding just before she ran him through.
Katharine withdrew the blade. She watched the blood bubble to Ivarr’s lips; watched the light leave his eyes. Looking to the sky, she said, “That’s for you, Isabel.”
She felt nothing, but that was what she had expected. No relief. No victory. No remorse. But his crime had been paid for, and that was enough.
Muscles shaking from exertion, she turned her face to the breeze, looking out over the sea where the scudding clouds chased away the red glow of morning.