by J. S. Morin
Denrik entered through the wide-open door, which despite the chill outside, was left ajar to vent the heat and smell of many men crowded into tight quarters inside. The din inside was typical of any place where many congregated to socialize, though perhaps a bit louder. The decor was nautical, with unfinished wood weathered to a grey-brown and cargo netting hung up in the rafters, and fish mounted along the walls on plaques. The tables and chairs were of an extremely simple and sturdy design, meant to survive the occasional brawl or at least be easily replaced afterward.
Among the tables of men waded a handful of battle-hardened barmaids. No fairy-tale princesses among them, the women who served drinks in the Squid were sturdy, no-nonsense sorts. Though they dressed with skirts and low-cut bodices, they were as ready to deliver a tankard upside the head as they were to serve it, should the need arise. Men starved for feminine attention tipped well, even when they were not wealthy, but those seeking such tips earned them many times over with the mischief they had to put up with to get them.
Denrik picked his way among the tables to a back corner where he saw Stalyart seated with a number of men he had never met. There was an empty chair—no small feat itself on a busy night—and it was the one directly in the corner of the taproom where its occupant could not be approached from behind. Denrik squeezed his way around the wall and to the seat that had been saved for him.
“Mr. Stalyart,” Denrik said with a simple nod of acknowledgment.
“Captain,” Stalyart leaned across and whispered, “I believe for tonight, we should be careful with names.” Then, adopting a normal volume, “It is good for you to join us tonight, friend. It had been so, so long.” Stalyart smiled and held his hands wide.
Stalyart reached into his vest and drew out a small wooden box, slightly larger than the palm of his hand. It was stained a deep brown that had worn away at the edges and had copper hinges. Stalyart undid the simple clasp that held it shut. It contained a deck of cards. Stalyart gave the deck a few perfunctory shuffles as everyone at the table watched, and then set the deck on the table. He reached then for his purse and pulled out a fistful of coins, depositing them in front of him in a pile. As everyone else did quick math to estimate the worth of the pile, Denrik knew almost immediately: it was the same amount he had been left in his own purse. “Contingency funds,” indeed.
“Tonight we play Crackle, and drink,” Stalyart said.
But Denrik was already ahead of him, pulling out his own purse and dumping its contents in front of him on the table. The others did similarly, scrounging on their own persons for loose cash and forming a ring of seven piles of eckles around a deck of Talis cards at roughly the center of the table.
“Since I know for fact you all are fully aware the rules, I dispense with repeating them,” Stalyart said, picking up the deck again.
He began swiftly dealing out the cards, three to each player. Talis was a gentleman’s game, played mostly by stuffy old men, their idle wives, and whip-smart young men aiming to impress their way to a better career in the employ of stuffy old men. It was a game of subtlety, guile, and planning, to make the best of good hands and cut your losses on the bad, with an intricate scoring system that would leave one player the winner after an evening’s amusement.
Crackle used the same cards as Talis but was seldom played by gentlemen. It was a game children played with their parents’ Talis cards—and that grown men played for money. Crackle was not a simplified version of Talis so much as it was a version gone feral. It was a game of opportunity and ruthlessness, seized chances and steel-eyed nerves. It was scored each hand, and the score was paid up in cash. Fortunes swung wildly during a night of Crackle as luck, and often drink, took hold of the players. Most men who played regularly were the poorer for it, but there were savvy players who made tidy profits at the game.
The finest of players had to watch their backs, for even a drunkard could usually tell which way all his money had gone, and a properly presented knife later in an alley could quickly undo hours of properly presented cards on the table. Many of the truly good players were hard, cold men, used to the prospect of violence directed at their persons. Stalyart was one of those. He had taught Denrik the game years ago, when he had first joined the crew of The Honest Merchant. Denrik had gotten quite proficient at the game but had never approached Stalyart’s mastery of it.
Denrik took a quick look at his cards once they were all dealt, but turned his attention quickly to his fellow players. A Crackle game was more often won by mistakes than gambits, and watching your opponents’ reactions to see if they let any hint slip about their cards was half the game. But his opponents this night were inscrutable for the most part. Crackle was not so much a game for thinkers as it was for those with nerve and resolve. Your wits kept you from making truly glaring mistakes, but it did not take a sharp mind to play. These men seated with him might have had the minds of astronomers or stable muckers, but they had the nerve of gamblers.
The game began with a few terse hands as everyone settled into the game. Little was said except what was needful to keep the game apace. But the barmaids came with rounds of ale, paid for by Stalyart, and the tongues at the table loosened gradually. And though Stalyart had warned against using names, he was mostly sensitive to anyone giving Captain Zayne away, and quietly Denrik was able to learn the identities of his would-be crew.
First to his left was Nimrul Scradd, a wiry, thin man with dark hair and a prominent Adam’s apple. His eyes flicked about like houseflies trapped in jars, never lighting long in one place. He was apparently a quartermaster aboard Stalyart’s trading ship. He had been one of the first that Stalyart had taken on when he began his run of playing at captain.
Next to Scradd sat Jon Marshfield. Marshfield was Golish, a broad, thick fellow with a big round face and a tousle of blond hair above bright green eyes. His easy smile and guileless manner suggested a farm-boy’s upbringing, but his shrewd play with the cards told another story.
Next to Marshfield was Mr. Stalyart’s half-brother, Rogur Crispin. While he had his Acardian mother’s name, Crispin was in all other ways his father’s son. He and Stalyart might have passed for twins if Stalyart was not nearly a decade his senior and darker of complexion. They had the same dark hair, the same build, even their noses sported a similar hooked downturn. Crispin was dressed in a navy sailor’s work clothes: a simple sweat-stained white tunic, loose grey slacks, and deck shoes. He had thankfully left behind the silly little white hat the navy’s noncommissioned officers wore on duty. He was not half the player his elder brother was, but he held his own and, in conversation over the table, gave tidbits of information about the ship and crew they were planning to confront.
Across from Denrik sat their host, and the mastermind of Denrik’s escape, Robbono Stalyart. Denrik’s admiration for the man had only grown since his escape plan’s success. Stalyart had flourished out on his own, free from Denrik’s service. Yet here he was, willingly throwing back the yoke onto his own back to haul his captain back up to his rightful place on the seas. Denrik Zayne had not made his mark in piracy by naïveté, but it was clearly touching how much Stalyart looked up to him. Denrik had come to realize during their planning of his escape that his former mate wanted his place in the history books as Denrik’s indispensable right hand, rather than as a captain in some thick tome entitled Katamic Sea Pirates of the Zayne Era: An Alphabetical Listing. It was Denrik’s sincere hope that the man was not becoming too competent and charismatic to be left alive.
After Stalyart sat Dorin Kelgart, a stout older man with a grey beard streaked through with bits of the original dark brown. He was Stalyart’s carpenter—and the worst player of Crackle at the table. His short, stubby fingers held the cards awkwardly, as if the game was possibly somewhat newer to him than to his compatriots. His play was steady and safe, and too conservative to win against experienced opponents. His face, though, was a mask of granite. His expression barely changed through the night, and even when he spoke, his mouth moved
little and was further obscured behind his beard. He may have also been the only one not having fun with the encounter. Denrik took an immediate liking to him—all business and almost certainly not a troublemaker.
Past Kelgart was Stevin. Stevin gave no family name; he was an orphan who had never adopted one. His skin was pale with an orange-yellow tinge to it, suggesting he had been born in Khesh, or perhaps Feru Maru. Denrik judged he might be as old as twenty, but he would not have been surprised to learn he was younger. He was just a sailor in Stalyart’s service, but he was conditioned to survive and scavenge, having been on his own for most of his life. Stalyart vouched for him as a hard worker, and he seemed eager and amiable.
Lastly, just to Denrik’s right, was Marfin Holyoake. Denrik was ashamed to admit he had not recognized the man at first, though that was plainly to Holyoake’s advantage. Anonymity had its privileges. Holyoake was one of Denrik’s crew on The Honest Merchant, and his inclusion in the hijacking was a great comfort to Denrik. He had been worried about all the men involved who were loyal first and foremost to Stalyart, and who may eventually prefer him as captain over Denrik. But Holyoake had gotten out of prison not long after being convicted of piracy, in a tale he swore he would give in full and glorious detail once they were at sea. Holyoake was Captain Zayne’s boatswain and as reliable as a pirate could be. Older even than Denrik, he was showing his years physically. He had thinned since Denrik last saw him, and his hair was nearly all gone, but he was feisty as ever. He took his pipe from his mouth only long enough to drink, and resumed smoking before his tankard even hit the table.
The game and the drinking lasted for hours. Money changed hands, but mostly came out even, though Stalyart’s pile seemed to have grown a bit. Denrik had gleaned useful information about the minutiae of the Harbinger and had a rough outline of the life stories of the men he was taking on as a crew, but he needed to start battening down a plan.
“So you take night watches, do you?” Denrik asked Crispin, who nodded by way of reply. “When will you be on deck?”
“Tomorrow night, midnight to predawn. Then four days hence, dusk to midnight,” Crispin answered, speaking low so that no one at the other tables might hear him. He was a navy officer and seemed concerned that someone from his ship might overhear him giving away information that was of use only for nefarious purposes.
“Tomorrow night is too soon,” Denrik said. “The new long guns will not be aboard yet, and we won’t have much time to make arrangements. We will move four nights from now, on the first night watch.”
He looked slowly around the table and met the gaze of each man. This was the one thing he had to know for sure: whether he had their full attention. Each gaze was met, and every man passed one other test: Denrik could see the fire in their eyes. These men were not nervous; they seemed determined and hungry.
He turned his attention back solely to Crispin. “How many will be aboard, and where will they be?”
“A few men will end up waking in the brothels in the morning, and two have family in Acardia that they will stay with. Most will spend the night drinking ashore, though, or taking their pleasures and returning later to the ship. If we move before ten bells, most of the crew will be ashore. The ones still on board will be the ones who take their bed early, or prefer to drink and gamble belowdecks. Perhaps twenty men.”
“Hmm,” Denrik said, pondering. “And is it a single watch while in port, or do you keep double?”
“Double most nights.”
“All right. The plan is simple enough,” Denrik said even as he thought it through. “Stalyart, get your own ship loaded with whatever valuables you have. The night we attack, have it set out to sea and anchor a few miles out. Make sure you have at least one loyal man aboard to make sure they surrender when we board. They will be our first mark once we are back in business.
“Crispin, you will be in charge of keeping things quiet until we are aboard. If it is a two-man watch, your job will be to make sure the other sentry does not take note of us. Upon your signal, we will rush the gangplank and make our way aboard. I do not care how you dispose of the other man on watch —get him dead drunk, wait until he is in the head, knife in the gut—just make sure that when you signal us, we can make it to the deck before anyone is the wiser.”
Crispin nodded once in reply, his expression mirroring the seriousness of the task he was just set.
“Stalyart, you are going to need to get a hold of any weapons you are able. I have two cutlasses stolen from the Bringer of Hope, but that is it. We will need more blades at the least, and as many pistols as you are able to gather in four days. Mind you, I will have four more of my own men along, so have something for them as well. Oh, and an axe or two ought to get us free from the moorings quickly. If we raise a general alarm in the port, we will need to be off quickly.”
Stalyart nodded. “Of course. I have six pistols already, and I shall see if I can manage more in time.”
He seemed like he was about to expound, but Denrik started right up again: “If Crispin does his part, we shall be on deck unnoticed. I need two men to start getting the ship ready to sail. That will mean cutting the ropes mooring us, then seeing to the anchor and sails. If things go badly, I will give the order to cut the anchor and start immediately on the sails.
“The rest will go below deck and run through anyone who does not surrender quick enough. We shall take prisoners, and maybe Crispin can pick out a few that we might make use of.”
“What of the captain?” Stalyart asked. “Surely he must be aboard. Old man, eh? Not so young to be taking drink with sailors.”
Crispin pondered briefly. “Well, Captain Rannison has dinner with various councilors and lords when he’s in port. He’s from an old family and has got connections. Still, I’d plan for him being in his cabin. You know, just in case.”
“I shall deal with the captain myself, if he is aboard,” Denrik said. “If there are no objections, this is our plan. If there are changes to be made, I shall send word with Stalyart.”
With that, Denrik rose from the table, scooping his winnings into his purse. With a minimum of fuss, he made his way through the crowded taproom and out into the night.
* * * * * * * *
Elsewhere in Scar Harbor that night …
“Just wait! It has been like this three nights running now,” whispered a timid-looking man crouched by the corner of an unassuming building. The building bore an indecipherable sign with no picture to indicate whose shop it was or what they sold.
“Mister Lierson, you are trying me. What is this all about anyway?” The figure next to the timid-looking man was less timid by far, going perhaps as far from timid as “stern,” “annoyed,” or “put upon and about to give someone an impolite haranguing.” That type of expression came naturally to constables, and they were quick to put it on when they felt their time was being wasted.
“Sorry, Constable, but you won’t believe me telling you. Just wait, it can’t be long now, I promise,” Lierson said.
Constable Darren let out an impatient sigh but said nothing.
They waited nearly twenty minutes, and the good constable was very nearly ready to dress down Lierson for wasting his valuable time, but there was a stirring inside. A light came on, bright enough that it peeked through the shutters of the storefront.
“Haru bedaessi leoki kwatuan gelora,” came a muffled voice from within.
Constable Darren turned to Lierson, who widened his eyes and gestured with his head back toward the window in an unmistakable “Yes, this is what I was talking about” manner. Constable Darren then moved closer to the window to try and see in. The shutters did not fit quite perfectly, and he was able to catch an edge with a fingernail and pull them outward until the latch caught and stopped them. It was enough.
The room inside was lit with an unnatural glow, tinged slightly blue, and seemed to fill the room with no shadowed corners the way a lamp would. Hovering in the air were a number of quills, no hand tou
ching them, that the constable saw dip themselves in an ink pot one at a time and move out of the narrow view the shutters afforded. He heard scribbling, though, as if the quills had begun to work on their own.
“Haru bedaessi leoki kwatuan gelora.” The voice was somewhat clearer this time.
Then Constable Darren saw a teacup float past his view. A moment later, a youngish man walked into view, sipping tea and looking down, presumably overseeing the quills at their work.
Constable Darren ducked down and crept as quietly as he could back to where Lierson crouched. He took Lierson by the arm and led him to the building next door, a building sporting a shoe and boot for a sign. It was Lierson’s shop, Mr. Lierson being a cobbler and the neighbor of one Kyrus Hinterdale: scrivener and, it would seen, amateur wizard. Lierson’s bedroom was also above his shop and happened to be directly across from Kyrus’s bedroom.
“For three nights now, Constable. He makes these awful chants, and things glow and float and whatnot. I do not consider myself a superstitious man, sir, but that is witchcraft!” Lierson said. “I do not feel safe living next door to someone using black magic.”
“Well, I did not think I was superstitious, either, until now. What I saw, though, just is not natural, and I cannot abide that sort of thing going on unchecked. If he’s at it again tomorrow night, we shall catch him in the act, and I’ll have more men with me to apprehend him.”
“Thank you, Constable Darren. I shall put in a very good word with your superiors after this mess is sorted out. My name may not carry much weight, but I am a law-abiding citizen and concerned for the safety of the city.
“I believe the penalty for witchcraft is burning, is it not?” Lierson added.
“Well, um, no, sir. Before they stopped executing criminals, I believe it was hanging,” Constable Darren replied. “Never saw a real case of it before, though.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll make an exception this time. We won’t be safe so long as that Mr. Hinterdale lives.”