by A Van Wyck
“I’m surprised you can smell anything.”
Meris was slow on the uptake. It had taken a moment before those piggy eyes bulged in outrage.Face swiftly purpling, the fat man had made a grab for him. He’d made no effort to duck. The large Meris had pulled him easily off his feet, fat hands tangled in his collar. He’d been careful not to let his faint smile slip even as he anticipated the coming beating. He’d have had a tough time beating Meris in an unarmed fight even under the best of circumstances. With him swathed in bandages and out of breath just from climbing the stairs to the deck, the best he’d been able to do was concentrate on not embarrassing himself.
That was fine, though. Winning hadn’t been the point. Meris was undoubtedly a bad apple but he’d only been saying what the rest of the crew had been thinking. Their silent presence had been evidence enough of that. They’d all been waiting to see how he’d handle Meris’s baiting and, furthermore, his beating. If he could only have taken the punishment with a smile, his standing with the crew would have changed for the better.
“What did ye say?!” Meris had screamed apoplectically, shaking him. “Did ye hear what ‘e said?!”
“Ye do smell, Meris, ye lardass!” Someone had dared from the circle of onlookers.
“What!” Meris had bellowed into the crowd, spraying spittle. “Who said tha’?”
A round of muted guffaws had run through the audience. Seeing his chance, Jiminy had expanded on the joke.
“Not so loud,” he’d implored, wrinkling his nose. Meris’s blunt head had whipped back to him, eyes ablaze. “You’re attracting flies,” he’d explained to the trembling man.
He’d had worse.
The backhanded slap had rung through his head, makings spots dance before his eyes. Then he’d been rolling across the deck.
Sighting blood, the crew had turned rowdy, cursing or encouraging one or the other of them seemingly at random. Through his tearing eyes, he’d seen Meris close quickly, bare foot drawn back for a kick. His bruised ribs had ached at the mere thought.
But the blow hadn’t landed.
“What’s goin’ on here?”
The roar had cut easily across the confusion. Absolute silence had settled, bar the nervous shuffling of bare feet.
“Master Meris?” the first mate’s steely voice had inquired.
“Just helpin’ our new cabin boy up, sir!” Meris had declaimed innocently. Fat fingers had yanked him to his feet by the collar. He’d caught a glimpse of the muscled first mate, marching slowly down the steps from the command deck.
“Is that so?” the first mate had questioned, eyeing the trickle of blood from his split lip.
“Just so, sir!” Meris had gone on ingratiatingly, dusting at Jiminy’s clothes with one beefy hand. “Tripped he did on this ‘ere spilled gruel, sir. Terrible accident, sir. Still, no ‘arm done, eh?”
The first mate had stood frozen, expression closed, thumbs hooked in his wide belt as he stared at Meris. The fat man’s unctuous smile had wavered slightly in the face of that steely regard. The first mate had turned to Jiminy.
“Master Noname.”
“Yessir!” he’d answered through swelling lips.
“What happened here?”
He’d taken a deep breath, aware of the rest of the crew’s eyes on him. And aware also that, if he played it right, he could gain their respect without exacerbating his beating.
“As Master Meris said, sir,” he’d lied smoothly, knowing the first mate saw through him and banking on the man to let it lie. “Took a bad spill, sir.”
The first mate had treated the both of them to a long, studied stare before finally turning to the onlookers.
“As ye were!” he’d barked.
The crew had dispersed eagerly, grateful to be away from the first mate’s stare. The muscled man had turned back to the command deck.
“Next time, cabin boy,” Meris had promised, the whisper hidden by the hurried thump of feet. The man’s farewell pat on his back had added to his bruises. And that had been that.
When he’d finally managed to clean up the mess – difficult because he kept dripping blood onto the planks – and made it back to the galley with the oversized pot, Squint had already heard about everything. The irascible cook had sort-of adopted him. It had been Squint who’d taught him all the proper names, knots and knowhow to crew the ship. On the whole, the man was incredibly quiet, choosing to communicate in grunts and nods rather than words. Some of the crew swore the man was mute but he appreciated Squint’s reticence. Squint never pried. He’d said nothing about his run-in with Meris, merely stepping up to help Squint with the washing up. But the stooped man had radiated quiet approval. And things hadn’t gone at all bad with the crew from there on.
Spar beneath his feet, he felt eyes on him and looked down to see the fat mass of Meris, staring venomously up at him. Well, most of the crew. Smiling his defiant smile and making sure Meris saw it, he continued on his way, clambering from the beam to the easy avenue offered by the rigging.
His one major concern remained his missing lock pick set. It had not resurfaced. Yet. It was a certainty one of the crew had it. And that person, whoever they were, had him by the shorthairs and were silently and anonymously threatening to haul him over the side by them.
On its own, the only connection the lock pick set had to him was that it was found around the same time and place as him. Although that was not clear evidence, the lock pick pouch also contained a couple of Oaragh suns, sewn into the lining. The two together pointed an unerring finger at him. If the person who had it came forward with it. He secretly held the hope that, whoever had found it and the desert currency hidden in the lining had realized that giving up the kit would mean giving up the gold. If that were the case, greed might save him.
As it was he was constantly scrutinizing the crew, looking for telltale signs or significant glances, trying to identify his potential ouster. Or, perhaps, potential blackmailer. He’d found plenty that was suspicious. But then, the crew was as suspicious a lot as he’d ever met. He was no nearer discovering his nemesis’ identity. He glanced down at the waddling form of Meris and snorted. At least he could be sure Meris didn’t have it. Meris didn’t have the patience to bide his time like this. To sit on the evidence until it could be used to greatest effect. He felt about the missing lock pick set like he would a sword suspended above his head.
He’d considered jumping ship when next they docked. After all, the pick set was no danger to him if he wasn’t here. But they hadn’t docked, instead anchoring out in the bay and rowing in – thanks to the Spear’s deep keel and the small ports the captain had anchored at. And when he’d asked to help row the longboats they’d just laughed at him. He was not allowed off the ship and whenever they came within sight of land he was always closely watched. They needn’t have bothered. He didn’t swim nearly well enough to make it from the ship to the shallows. He had sand in his veins, not salt.
Thoughts of deep, deathly blue water closing above his head, he clambered down the rigging.
His shift was up and he was looking forward to something to eat and then his hammock. The turns aboard ship were long, especially after the pirate attack had reduced the number of crew. It left everyone mostly too exhausted for troublemaking, something he was grateful for. And there’d been no one in the port towns they’d docked at willing to replace the lost hands. The captain had been frustrated but unsurprised at the news.
Squint said they were two weeks away from Genla, the second biggest trading harbor in the Heli Empire. He didn’t know much about the Empire, save that it was filled to the brim with religious fanatics and wall-eyed zealots, judging by the handful of Heli missionaries that’d found their unfortunate way to the desert cities. Those normally didn’t last long. The desert had no mercy for those as couldn’t provide for themselves and the Heli god’s reach apparently did not extend over the mountain ranges.
His bare feet touched deck and he was already angling towards
the galley to see if he could help Squint with the evening meal and perhaps scrounge some food in the process when someone called to him. He looked up to see Corg, one of the less surly crewmembers, walking his way.
“Cap’n wants tae see ye,” the man said in passing. And winked at him. Corg ducked down the hatch and was gone. He stood frozen. Corg had not been on his list of possible ousters but he now suddenly saw the man’s ease with him in a new light: you needn’t fear the sandcat if you held the key to its cage. He looked in the direction of the captain’s stateroom, weighing his options. If the captain now held the evidence that would clinch his fate, his options were simple. Run or hide, which were not options at all. That left jumping over the side and drowning or being thrown over the side and drowning. Neither of which appealed. His only hope was to confront the captain and plead for his life. He’d seen the brig now and would be able to pick its lock even without his tools. If it meant taking a beating in the process, he was sure he had taken worse. He could jump ship the moment they were within sight of land and take his chances swimming ashore.
He found himself before the familiar wooden portal and rapped at it with his knuckles.
“Come,” came the brusque reply.
He stepped inside. The cabin was slightly different, though he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly had changed.
“Captain,” he said, moving into the center of the small room, “you wanted to see me?”
“Aye, I did,” the captain said, setting aside another of the nameless and vaguely disturbing devices he used to plot the Spear’s course.
“Sit ye down, Master Noname,” the man invited.
Ah. That was what was different. A small folding chair had been added in front of the desk.
“Thank you, sir,” he returned politely. The chair creaked alarmingly beneath him and he settled his weight gingerly, waiting for the spindly contraption to snap apart. Or snap him apart. Simple things like chairs shouldn’t have moving bits.
He waited for the captain to start but the man just sat there, openly appraising him. After an uncomfortable and lengthy study, the seafarer’s head cocked to one side, a half-smile setting the curled moustache at a jaunty angle. The shrewd narrowing of the man’s eyes made him shift nervously until his chair creaked a warning. He couldn’t help but wonder whether the first mate were waiting outside, ready to storm in at the captain’s word and truss him hand and foot.
“Well,” the captain said at long last, “we be little less than two weeks away frae’ Genla.”
He seemed to expect a response.
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
“Ye recall, Master Noname, our accord when first w’ found ye on m’ship?”
Inwardly, he squirmed. Of course he remembered. He considered a disturbing possibility. That the captain would have him locked in the brig whenever they came within sight of land, a ship’s slave for the rest of his life or until they replenished their ranks. The possibility existed. But he was healed now. If they were planning on keeping him, they’d have a hard time of it.
“Ye recall, also, Master Noname,” the captain continued, “me tellin’ ye tha’ I take on only the best hands tae crew the Spear and that they be well paid?”
“Yes, sir.”
Get to the point, you salty bastard. Are we going to end up trying to slit each other’s throats or not?
“Well,” the captain went on smoothly, “I be a man o’ m’word, Master Noname. An’ true tae m’word, I’ll put you off me ship at Genla.”
Yes, you shark, he thought, but into the drink or onto the dock?
“However,” the captain drawled – he couldn’t help tensing, “I hav’ me a further proposal I’d like tae put tae ye.”
Perhaps it was merely the golden incisors that made the man’s smile seem so feral.
“Ye know,” the captain interrupted himself, “many kinds o’ men take tae the sea. An’ f’r all kinds o’ reasons. Me, f’r’instance, I was born tae it. Sailed wi’ me father afore I could put two words together. I could swim a’fore I could walk. The salt is in me blood, ye could say. Other men, they come seekin’ the sea, lookin’ f’r adventure. Sometimes they find it, sometimes they don’t. Still others hav’ nothin’ else and nowhere else tae go. F’r such men, the sea becomes either a prison they come to hate but can ne’er leave, or it becomes the mother they ne’er had and ne’er want tae leave again. Then,” the captain said, “ye get the men on the run.”
He was careful to control his features but he’d heard the slight emphasis. The man knew.
“All kinds o’ things they run fra’. Wives tha’ beat them. Fathers tha’ want them tae become pig farmers. Armies tha’ want them f’r conscripts. Moneylenders that want tae break ‘em. Religions tha’ want tae fix ‘em. Jealous lovers. Fathers wi’ despoiled daughters. Bad men tha’ hold grudges. Their own demons they’ll run fra’ sometimes.”
The captain watched him carefully as if waiting for some twitch to confirm one guess or the other.
“And?” he returned, calves aching with the effort of keeping still. “What do these men find on the sea?”
The captain gave up the intense study, though the golden smile glinted even broader.
“They find, Master Noname, tha’ the law o’ the land, ain’t the law o’ the sea.”
He reminded himself to keep breathing. There was more than one way to interpret the captains words. And he had no faith in laws, be they of the land or the sea.
“I been jawin’ some w’ me first mate. I hav’ it fra’ him tha’ ye be a hard work’n lad. Quick, says he. True an’ steady. Makin’s o’ a fine sailor. His words no’ mine,” the seafarer was careful to clarify.
“Now, ye might no’ know this, Master Noname, new as ye be tae me ship, but Master Squint has b’n wi’ the Spear since her maiden voyage. Crew’d f’me father he did, same as he crews f’r me. An’ I’ve been known, on occasion,” the man allowed generously, “tae take his words as weighted. An’ he concurs wi’ me first mate.”
The captain was studying him intensely again. He forced his hands to lie still on his thighs. “And I’m no’ one to be wastin’ commodities…”
Ship’s slave it is then, he thought.
“So me proposal tae ye is the following, Master Noname. Take ye freedom at Genla an’ part as friends,” the captain sat back in his chair, indicating they’d come to the crux of the matter, “or stay on. As proper crew.”
He blinked. He didn’t need to act surprised. When he said nothing, busy as he was trying not to fall from his chair in relief, the captain continued.
“In need I am o’ good hands an’ apparently ye are one such. We could use ye, Davin. Ye’d be formally inducted intae the crew and receive yer ship’s ticket. I’d e’en be persuaded tae reckon yer first pay from t’date we set sail, instead o’ startin’ at Genla.” The man steepled be-ringed fingers below a mustachioed lip, letting him think it over.
The offer was certainly unexpected. But it changed nothing. They would simply allow him to walk off the ship instead of having to break out of the brig to do so. He couldn’t stay on when his missing lock picks threatened to haunt him indefinitely.
It was his turn to study the captain closely. If the man didn’t know, then this was a genuine extension of… sanctuary? It was a fine offer but ultimately worthless to him and not just because of the missing lock picks – he’d left his pursuers behind in Oaragh and didn’t need a safe haven. But it would not do to seem ungrateful at this point. And, if he played along, he’d have an easier time getting off the ship when the time came.
“Thank you, sir,” he told the captain earnestly, “I’d like that.” He even meant it. A little. A shame it could never be.
The captain flashed gold teeth, looking distinctly predatory.
“Excellent!” the man enthused. “Carry on, Master Noname.”
And with that, the seafarer turned back to his instruments as if Jiminy had ceased to exist.
He saluted
anyway, as he’d seen the sailors do, and shut the door on his way out.
* * *
His head throbbed. At least the shaking had stopped, fading as his body struggled to metabolize the last of the adrenaline. His nausea had passed – taking the shortcut up his throat. He’d emptied his stomach all over the cell floor. The realization of how monumentally stupid he’d been had turned his already upset stomach where his physical over-exertion and ebbing excitement had not.
Chasing headlong after an assassin – an assassin for pity’s sake! And not only a killer but an unsanctioned magic user! That buzzing smoke confirmed it. Possibly a necromancer! Chased across an unfamiliar roof in the dark of night! That he was still alive was a testament to the goddess’ infinite mercy.
He shivered more violently than the cold of the cell could account for. No one had thought to move him to a clean cell and he crouched in the smell of his own vomit, as far away from the viscous pool of embarrassment as the walls allowed. Not that he wasn’t ripe enough as it was. He could smell himself: the rank aftermath of fear-sweat and sour hormones, clinging to his skin and robes. A thin blanket, reeking of urine, proved insufficient against the chill of the dank stones. As his body cooled, his muscles seized until he felt like a clenched fist. He could hardly walk.
Neither had anyone bothered to replace the torches, guttering in their sconces outside his cell. It didn’t matter now. Faint light had started to filter down from the barred window, bringing the stained stones and rotten straw into sharper focus. He’d spent a fitful night, alternating between huddling beneath his stinking rag and shouting at the bars. He knew there were guards outside, though he couldn’t see them. He’d bruised his cheek on the pitted iron, trying to peer along the wall. He could hear them, though. Faint breathing and, every now and again, a whisper as one fidgeted or shifted from foot to foot. He could only assume they were under orders not to speak to him. Not even to tell him why he was locked up. Had he not saved the princess? Granted, he’d done little enough, besides almost getting himself killed half a dozen times. He harbored no illusions: he hadn’t cornered the assassin. The assassin had committed a planned suicide and would probably have been happy enough to take him along. Helia’s infinite grace had saved him from trying to close with the dark figure, there on the lip of that chasm.