by J. S. Morin
“Andur, have you ever seen a frigate?” Denrik asked, and Andur shook his head; at least he was being honest. “Well, a frigate is to that worthless little wreck of a supply ship as a sword is to a spoon.”
With that, Denrik swept his cutlass, taken from the now dead guards aboard that same supply ship, from its scabbard. Shhhhinnng!
“Find yourself a spoon now, Andur, and defend yourself.”
Denrik waved the blade in front of Andur, who nevertheless looked suddenly very nervous.
“Um. Uh. That-That,” Andur stammered, “don’t seem all fair to me. I-I-I don’t know how to fight with a spoon!”
There was a general burst of laughter from all present.
“He don’t mean for real, ya stinker! Cap’n’s usin’ one o’ them word tricks to make a point,” Jimony said with a guffaw.
Even Denrik, who felt better than he had in years, broke out in a smile at Andur’s discomfiture. He sheathed his blade before he scared the poor fool senseless.
“With a ship like that, we would stand a chance against nearly any ship in the sea,” Denrik said. “I have no intention of shipping wheat or spices when I sail again. I do not plan to offer my services to travelers. I intend to take up my mantle as the most feared pirate in the Katamic!” Then Denrik lowered his voice somewhat: “And I will not get there captaining a creaky wooden barrel with a sail that poor bastard calls a ship.
“So, Mr. Stalyart,” Denrik said, purposely changing his demeanor to set a lighter tone, “what do you have for your captain to eat, and to drink?”
* * * * * * * *
Denrik’s work crew whiled away the hours and days. There was little enough to do, since they could not risk being spotted. That meant no swimming or fishing, no fires, and trying not to be too loud. That meant boring. Stalyart had brought them cards and dice to amuse themselves, but they had no money to gamble with and generally lost interest. None of them were great thinkers, but Captain had given them something that required a great deal of thought.
Denrik Zayne needed a crew. Stalyart had a few men picked out that had sailed with him on his little trading ship, Nyurissa, and was counting on his brother’s help, but he was still quite short on men. Grudgingly, he had given his Rellis Island companions the option: they could either join his crew and learn the trade as they went, or Denrik would drop them at the nearest port of questionable character, where they might lose themselves among the locals and start anew in a land where their criminal pasts were not known.
Conscripted crews were a great tradition among both pirates and the navy of old. It showed that if properly motivated—by the lash if necessary—any dullard could be made into a serviceable sailor. But the navy had abandoned the practice decades ago with good cause. Not only were they trying to cast themselves in a better light among the reformist government’s elites, but they had found that “any dullard” made an awful sailor, and a discontented and potentially mutinous one. None of Denrik’s charges was a thinker, and as best he could gather, only two had useful skills be might avail himself of.
First was Grosh—Grosh Mantlegard—who was a tailor by trade. He had been rather newly anointed into the Tailors Guild when he had gotten into a heated, drunken dispute with his employer and stabbed him to death with a pair of scissors. Denrik figured that sail repair ought to be something he could manage with little trouble. As a bonus, he was also a killer, and an unrepentant one, maintaining that his boss had it coming. Such men took better than most to a life of piracy.
Then there was Tawmund Reggelend. Tawmund was the quietest of Denrik’s fellow inmates, a kindness he was inclined to repay, but that was not the reason Denrik wanted him in his crew. Tawmund was built like the statue of Ptaw, the old Garnevian god of blacksmiths, that stood in Temple Square of Golis. Thick as an oak tree, and with no discernible neck, Tawmund was frighteningly strong. Years of hard labor had made him leaner, but his bulk was still considerable. He would be a natural for boarding actions and subduing captured vessels. He was also already a pirate of sorts; he was sent to Rellis Island for his part in a gang that ran a number of criminal rackets in Stollen—they were pirates on land.
Jimony was another story, however. He was a thief and a killer of the “knife you from behind” and “slit your throat in your sleep” variety. Denrik did not trust him. Sure, they were all on Rellis Island for good cause, but Denrik was a shrewd judge of character and was an expert on scoundrels in particular. There were criminals whom you could trust to do a job, take orders, and pull their weight because they knew you were good for a payoff in the end. They were the backbone of the pirate trade. Others could be hammered into that mold with the threat of violence hanging over their heads; a bosun with a scourge in hand had made many a poor sailor into an able one. This Jimony, though, was a viper if Denrik had ever seen one. He was not the sort to start a mutiny but rather the sort to try to make off with as much as he could carry after a big haul, probably leaving a few knives stuck in the poor souls stuck on watch the night he did it.
Trapped on Rellis Island, Jimony had thrown in with Denrik out of necessity. All the others in the cell had let him act as their leader, and Denrik’s own vile reputation offered a good reason to pause before acting against him. Now that there was a whole world to disappear into, Denrik would not trust the man with his back turned. Sooner or later, he would be rid of him; if he took the deal to be dropped off at some distant port, so be it. If he accepted Denrik’s offer to join his crew at sea, well, there would either be some convenient accident, or Denrik would have to find a good excuse to run him through. If it came to it, it might not be such a bad idea to let his new crew know who they were dealing with—and the price for crossing him.
Denrik sighed deeply and contemplated his hardest decision: Andur. Poor Andur was simpleminded, but in an earnest way that Denrik could not help taking a liking to. There was no artifice with Andur: he would say what he meant, whether it was a good idea or not, whether he grasped the situation or not. He took no offense from all the ridicule he bore; for of all the faults he had mentally, he was at least aware of the deficiency. He naturally gravitated to those who told him what to do and how to do it. He had practically been Denrik’s puppy on the island. He was not exactly certain of the crime Andur had been imprisoned for, but he gathered it was rape. From years observing the man, Denrik was fairly certain he had been a dupe for someone else’s crime, a brawny laborer who worked for a noble family and was too stupid to defend himself from the charge. Worse, he was the sort who could be convinced to confess without realizing the consequences.
He had no second thoughts to the man’s character. If nothing else, Andur practically worshiped him and obeyed him unquestioningly. The problem was what to do with him aboard ship. He was too gullible for a bodyguard, too easily confused to be a combatant. Best he could think of was cabin boy, a position usually held by a boy of ten or twelve years. Perhaps he could be taught knots?
Denrik turned his from his musing and surveyed them from where he sat, perched on a rock with the farthest trickles of the waves lapping around it. They were all a bit nervous about being away from the cliffs, where they were better hidden, but Denrik liked being by the water. He knew when the ships would be passing; another trade ship would be hauling anchor in an hour or so, then at dusk, the fishing vessels would make port with their day’s catch.
The rest amused themselves as they were able, safe in the shadows of the cliff face. Andur and Tawmund played at checkers, a painful sight to watch as the two men agonized over each move for minutes on end before making a completely pointless move. Grosh napped in the sand, with a sack for a pillow. Jimony whittled at a piece of driftwood with a knife Stalyart had left them along with a number of other basic supplies. Denrik narrowed his eyes. Particularly after his recent musings, the sight of Jimony with a knife in his hand sat ill with him.
Turning back to look out to sea, Denrik listened to the waves and sighed again. Men he might have, and few as they were, but h
e was even shorter on brains. Stalyart was as good a man as he had sailed with, and he had some hopes for the man’s half-brother; ties of blood and a history of naval service were good signs. The handpicked men from Stalyart’s merchant crew worried him only slightly. Normally he would be concerned that their loyalties to their former captain might be the ideal catalyst for a mutiny, but Stalyart would have none of that. A man who had gone to such lengths would not throw all his work away just to kill him and take his ship. Would he? Denrik shook his head. He was too far gone now to do this without Stalyart. If he played some deeper game and intended treachery, Denrik would deal with it when the time came—and in both worlds.
Denrik sat there until the time came to withdraw from sight of the shipping lanes, then got up and waded through the incoming tide to where the rest of them were sheltered. He said nothing to them and got nothing but a couple glances of mild interest from them in return. They were growing weary of each other’s company in the cramped beach hideaway. They were all so close to freedom, but for the time being, they felt more trapped and cornered than they had on Rellis Island. At least there they had the certainty of a long prison sentence and no thoughts of a new life right around the bend to tease them with its closeness.
Denrik went to his things and took up a pack that Stalyart had brought earlier in the day. Unbuckling the flap, he began removing the contents. There was a well-worn set of tunic and breeches in a drab greyish-brown, a pair of soft-soled boots, a long, heavy black coat with a high collar, and a knit woolen cap dyed dark grey. There was also a small purse. Denrik took a quick look inside and estimated it contained about two hundred eckles, enough for a quick bribe or a couple good meals; it was contingency money for unplanned expenses. The last item in the pack was a small empty sheath, with a strap for buckling it around a wrist or ankle.
Denrik strode across the campsite to where Jimony sat whittling.
“Give me that,” Denrik ordered as he snatched the knife from Jimony’s hand.
Jimony did not resist, just shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. Denrik shoved the knife in its sheath and secured it around his left wrist.
In front of everyone, for they had long gotten over embarrassment of such things in each other’s company, he changed into the clothing Stalyart had provided, save for the coat and hat.
“What’s all that for?” Grosh asked, obviously not as sound asleep as he appeared to be, and he sat up. One side of him was covered in sand that had stuck to him as he lay on the beach.
“I do not fancy sailing with men I have never met, let alone stealing a ship with them and risking our lives with them. I am heading in to Scar Harbor to meet with Stalyart’s men and his brother. I will take my measure of them and make sure they can be trusted.”
Denrik had no reason to keep this information from them. They were not going to meet anyone whom they could betray the plan to, even accidentally.
“Don’t that seem a bit dangerous?” Andur asked. “I mean, we’s hiding here, so them don’t find us. Won’t they find you if’n ya go right to ’em?”
“I will be disguised, and I am going after nightfall. Besides, people know me by name and reputation; few have seen me face-to-face. While I am gone, I am leaving Grosh in charge. Grosh, just … do not do anything, alright? Keep everyone tucked away here until I return.”
* * * * * * * *
Denrik left the camp shortly after dusk. The tide was low and he took the opportunity to skirt the shoreline rather than scrambling up the cliff wall. There were handholds aplenty, but Denrik was not as young as he once was and preferred the easier route. If the meeting lasted long enough, he might miss his chance to take the same route back before the tide came in, but he would sail that strait when he came to it.
He was dressed in the outfit left by Stalyart. Even in the late spring, nightfall by the water’s edge brought a chill, especially so far north. He would not look out of place dressed as warmly as he was, and the hat and coat did much to obscure him when the coat’s collar was turned up. The idea was for him to look like an old dock hand. He supposed from his long years of labor and sunburn, he probably looked the part better than if he had tried dressing up as a pirate captain. His cheekbones stood out against a more gaunt face than they had when he was living like a king out on the seas, and his stubble was half gone to grey, making him at once look both older and unkempt. He still had a hard, alert look about him, a slight forward lean, and a gaze that swept frequently out to the sides, which gave the impression of a predator. Old man or not, he was unlikely to be trifled with as he approached the roughest part of one of the tamest cities in the kingdom.
The shoreline was alternately rocky and sandy, with plenty of room to maneuver at low tide. Keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, Denrik made good time along the water’s edge as he approached Scar Harbor’s docks from the south end. Scar Harbor was not naturally a deep-draft port, but a ways out, the shelf dropped off drastically. The piers, therefore, had been built unusually long, and much of the dockside was actually built up on stilts, below the high-tide mark, so as to be closer to where the boats docked.
As Denrik grew nearer to the city itself, he could see plenty of activity. The fishing vessels had come in and were busily unloading their catch—plain fish that would be rendered into oil, made into stews, and sold in poor to fair restaurants. The finer establishments got their fish from some smaller ships that hauled earlier in the day, bringing fresh catches just in time to be prepared for midday and evening meals. The boats that were unloading now were the workhorses of the Katamic, filling the fishmongers’ stalls for the common folk to buy from.
Denrik approached the building nearest to the sand, a warehouse right on the edge of town. There was a short ladder up to dock level from the beach. It was good and solid, built from a pair of thick timbers running vertically, with thinner rungs poked through both and lashed into place with rope. The rungs looked newer than the rest of the ladder and the rest of the docks in general, which sported a weathered, grey look. It seemed that the rungs saw much use and spent high tide below the waterline, and so were made to be replaced as needed, and had been changed rather recently. The smell of fresh pitch wafted from the rungs as Denrik scampered up them and to the warehouse.
Men were all about, hefting large baskets of fish from the boats at anchor and hauling them to the front of the warehouse, where they would be picked up in the morning to be taken to market. They were a mix of locals and foreigners, with various accents heard as they shouted to one another while the foreman directed the flow of men and baskets within the warehouse and just outside it. There was a stink like a fishery about, but like many smells the past few days, Denrik found it nostalgic and welcome. He picked his way through the bustle, keeping out of the way as best he could as he made his way through, and then out onto the docks.
“Eh, watchyer!” one exclaimed as Denrik jostled him.
A quick glare was all he received in return, but the man—a pale, haggard, and stout man of middle years, a lower-class Hurlan by his accent—made eye contact with Denrik, and the one look was enough to shut the man up. One did not make a living on the outskirts of respectability by failing to identify truly dangerous men. There was a manner and look about them that weak men heeded instinctively as a warning sign, and that Denrik had from keel to crow’s nest.
Denrik made his way down the docks and glanced at the ships as he passed. Most were unremarkable—merchants, traders, fishermen, a pleasure yacht or two belonging to a nobleman—but there was one he had to see. He knew where it was berthed and could see its masts from farther down the dock, but he had to get a good look. There it was, Harbinger, the ship he would make his own. It had docked just that morning, and there were men all about it even at the late hour. Some made repairs to the rigging and to the sails that had been taken down and lay upon the deck. Crew came and went, mostly departing for shore leave to take advantage of the brothels and taverns in the vicinity of the waterfront. He wa
lked down the pier to have a better look, trying to look like he belonged among the workers.
It was a fine ship. The navy had taste and style, he would grant them that much. It was a long, sleek vessel with high masts sure to catch any wind it could find. The double gun decks particularly drew Denrik’s eye, since its firepower was one of the chief reasons he was so eager to have it. The new long guns would almost certainly not have been delivered yet; he would have to be certain of that delivery before he made his move. It would be a pity to capture the vessel before its latest armaments became available.
“You there, move along,” a voice called down from the deck. “This is an Acardian Navy vessel, not a statue.”
Denrik glanced up to see a figure in lieutenant’s regalia staring down at him from over the rail.
“Shur fine ship, sir.” Denrik faked a generic “foreign” accent. “Din’t mean nuttin’ by it.”
With that, he lifted his hand to his cap as if to tip it—though knitted caps were notoriously difficult to tip—and turned to walk away. Under his breath, he added, “Be back to collect her soon enough. You just finish patching her up.”
Denrik made his way to The Drunken Squid, a rough, rowdy watering hole favored among seafaring visitors to Acardia. Some locals favored it as well, but mostly due to the motley assortment of characters they met there. It was a place where friends were made over pints of ale barely a step above piss, and business was conducted by men who wanted lots of people around as witnesses, lest they catch a knife in the gut when negotiations went sour. The Squid had a fanciful carved sign hung out front, depicting a whimsically rendered squid hoisting several foaming tankards and sporting a look that could best be described as “lecherous.” There was no mistaking it for a high-class establishment, and neither the owner nor the patrons would have wanted it otherwise.