Scimitar Sun

by Chris A. Jackson

  “No, I know that, but…” Camilla sighed and smiled at her friends. “I’m sorry I fell to pieces like I did. He scared me, and all my sense seemed to take flight; I didn’t know what to do. But I still think it would be best if I moved to Southaven. The change would do me good.”

  “When we get back from the boy’s trials, I’ll take you in the Pride,” Feldrin said, taking two more sandwiches and refilling his cup. “Best that way.” He nodded to Cynthia, who smiled and agreed.

  “Yes, if that’s okay with you, Cammy. Both Feldrin and I need to go to Fire Isle with Edan, and I’d like to have someone here in my stead while we’re gone.”

  “That’s fine,” Camilla said, sampling another sandwich and smiling, clearly relaxing from the ordeal. “It’ll take me a few days to get everything together anyway. The ledgers alone will take up several crates, and there’re all my things…”

  “Don’t you worry about yer things, Cammy. The Pride’s got enough cargo space to haul all of yer dresses without so much as wrinklin’ a single one.” He grinned widely, then went back to feasting on the sandwiches. Cynthia gazed at him and smiled, once again thanking Odea that he was back.

  ≈

  “So, this here’s the cordage room. I rigged a hammock in there fer ya.” Dura waved a meaty hand through the narrow door into the small room crowded with stacks of coiled line and braided wire. “It ain’t much, but it’s dry.”

  “I see,” Sam said, barely glancing into the room. Her gaze kept flicking toward the bizarre craft that filled the lofting shed. “I’m sorry ta interrupt, Miss Dura, but I never seen nothin’ like this afore,” she said truthfully, struggling to keep her voice properly pitched and maintain the rustic accent as she pointed at the narrow hulls and the sturdy laminated beams that arched between them. “What do ya call it?”

  “I call it a bloody pain in me arse, most days,” she said, walking over to the nearest of the two hulls. “We’ll be movin’ it outside tomorrow to step her masts and rig her. She’s ready fer sea after that, though I dunno if the contraption’ll float, let alone sail.”

  “It will sail, Dura,” said a voice behind them, a hint of amusement and music in the speech. “And who might this be?”

  They both turned toward the voice, and Sam had to fight the impulse to bolt. She immediately recognized the half-elf shipwright, Ghelfan, from his time as Bloodwind’s captive. Her first thought was that he would easily see through her thin disguise. She tensed, but managed to keep her hand away from the dagger hidden under her shirt.

  “This here’s Billy,” Dura said, nodding to Sam and then indicating the tall shipwright. “This here’s Master Ghelfan, the shipwright. You just call him ‘sir.’” Then to Ghelfan, “Billy here stowed away on the Pride and jumped ship here, so I put ‘im to work. Make a rigger out of ‘im, I think, skinny as he is.”

  “Stowed away?” the half-elf asked, one graceful eyebrow arching like a gull in flight. “You’re not wanted for some offense, are you?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” Sam said, realizing with a flood of relief that he did not recognize her. Thinking back, he had probably been under much strain from Bloodwind’s attempts to break him, and she had only seen him from a distance. She doubted that he remembered much at all from that experience, other than pain. “I just wanted ta get away from me paw, and I always wanted ta be a sailor, so…”

  “So now you are working in a shipyard, eh? Well, it is nice to meet you, Billy. Just follow Dura’s orders, and I’m sure you will learn a great deal.” He smiled and extended a slim hand, which she shook carefully.

  “Thank’e, sir!” She smiled and nodded, watching as he exited the shed. A stream of dwarvish curses focused her attention back on Dura, who was scowling and brushing errant wood dust from the side of the odd vessel’s nearest hull. She waved Sam over.

  “Okay, now, here ya are. This here’s a bucket o’ creosote, and this here’s yer brush. Try not to get any on ya, as it stings a bit. It’s been cookin’ all mornin’.” She pointed at the wooden hull. “This stripe here’s the waterline. Ever-thin’ below the stripe needs two coats o’ creosote. Don’t slop it all over, and don’t get any above the waterline. Understand?”

  “Oh, aye, Miss Dura!” Sam said, brimming with false enthusiasm. Other workers in the shed were applying resin to the hull sides above the waterline; the rich woodgrain showed beautifully through the clear preservative coating. She was the only one with the dirty creosote job. “I understand right enough.”

  She picked up the wide brush and dipped it in the bucket; the thick black liquid steamed. She applied the brush to the wood carefully, keeping the bucket beneath to catch the drips, aware of Dura’s appraising gaze. After the first couple of strokes, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that the dwarf had walked off to inspect some bit of joinery around the bows. She dipped the brush again and smiled to herself, satisfied that she had remained anonymous and intrigued with this unique, two-hulled ship.

  “Make a hell of a corsair,” she muttered to herself as she slopped the heavy creosote onto the hull.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Preparations

  “Okay, then. Grab the other end of this and we’ll be done with it,” Horace said, scowling profoundly as the tall boatswain hefted the far end of his sea chest. “At least I’m only giving up my cabin for a few days; the whole trip won’t take but three.”

  “Can’t believe the cap’n’s takin’ the Pride so close to Fire Isle,” the boatswain said, backing carefully through the hatch. “An’ fer what? Ya t’ink that kid’s master paid the mistress fer this?”

  “Not one thin copper, my friend,” Horace said, negotiating his broad shoulders through the door. “The kid’s master is the lightkeeper up in Southaven. He’s the one that supplied Capt’n Brelak with the fire casks fer our catapult. Without them, Bloodwind might still be sailin’ the Shattered Isles. I guess Mistress Flaxal figures she owes the old coot a tidy bit.”

  “They say that boy’s gonna valk right into that volcano,” Johansen said, pausing to negotiate another corner and line up the chest with the steps down into the hold. “They say he’s gonna be a firemage.”

  “Well, the capt’n said he’s either gonna become a firemage or burn up tryin’.” Horace nodded to the mate and they began working their way down the steps. “That’s gotta take some plums.”

  They reached the narrow walkway that ran lengthwise down the main hold. The ship’s frames were visible here, every tenth timber slotted to fit specially-made boards. When in place, the boards divided the hold into bins, and when removed, the hold was a single open space. Only a few boards were in place now, and only one of the bins was in use, packed with extra galley supplies. Horace nodded to the space opposite the full bin. They lowered the trunk and he eyed his temporary quarters dubiously.

  “The captain wanted me to rig the hold for a dozen extra water butts, and we’re to have Dura make up a dozen buckets, just in case that bloody mountain throws any burnin’ bits down at us.”

  “That don’t sound so good!” Johansen said, worry knitting his blond brows. “Ve really goin’ that close to the thing?”

  “Close enough to spit, from what I hear, but with the mistress along, we should be safe enough. I reckon she could drown that whole bloody mountain if she wanted to. We’re slippin’ dock lines mornin’ after next.”

  “Aye, ve’ll be ready.” The boatswain nodded to the mate and headed back through the hatch to his own quarters. “I’ll go see if Dura’s still up, and tell her about the buckets.”

  “Good idea. She’s probably had her toddy by now, so she’ll be mellow as cheese!”

  Laughter echoed around the hold of Orin’s Pride as the boatswain closed the hatch and Horace began unpacking his sea chest and rigging a hammock. He whistled a chantey out of habit, oblivious to the two eyes peering out from the darkness of the supply bin across the hold, and the two attentive ears that had heard every word of their conversation.

  As quiet as a w
raith on the wind, the slim figure worked her way over the bundles and bags and eased down onto the deck, listening to the off-key whistling of the first mate. She sidled over to the ladder out of the main hold and climbed until she could peek over the hatch combing. As usual, the deck watch was watching the dock, not the rest of the ship. The boatswain leaving the ship distracted him further, and Sam crept out and across the deck to the stern dock lines. She slipped over the rail into the deeper shadow and shimmied her way along the lines to the pier as the boatswain’s comparatively loud footfalls faded toward the shore.

  She waited until the deck watch was looking the other way, then slipped up onto the pier and padded silently after Johansen. If he was going to talk to Dura, she would have to make sure that she, or rather, Billy, did not become the topic of discussion.

  ≈

  “Seems like a bloody waste of good grog, ta me,” Feldrin said, wrapping an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders as the newly dedicated vessel slid into the water.

  “Don’t worry, Feldrin. I used a bottle of that bilious Twailin red.” She smiled up at him. “Cook said it wasn’t even worthy of a marinade.”

  “Well, I guess it’ll do for smashin’ over a cranse iron, then.” The two-hulled ship eased into the bay, riding a little high, but floating proudly. The line tenders checked her progress and worked her around toward the yard dock.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! The bloody thing does float!” The small crowd of dock workers and sailors laughed at Dura’s remark as the stout dwarf stumped back toward the lofting shed, shaking her head.

  “Personally, I never had a doubt,” Ghelfan said with a smile and a nod to Cynthia. “It will be very interesting to see how she sails.”

  “I think she’ll sail like a dream!” Tim shouted from beside them. The osprey on his arm screeched as if in agreement, drawing another chuckle from the crowd.

  “Which reminds me, we’re leaving for Fire Isle tomorrow morning, Ghelfan. We shouldn’t be gone more than three days. Get together with Paska about tuning Manta’s rig, and we’ll take her out for a sea trial when we get back.” Then to Tim, “You can help her with that, can’t you, Tim?”

  “But…” Tim’s enthusiasm faded suddenly. “I thought I might come with you on the Pride.”

  “Not this time, Tim. Help Paska with the rigging and sails for Manta, and then you can come on the shakedown jaunt with us, okay?”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said, mollified by the thought of sailing on the new ship.

  “Good man.” Cynthia turned back to Ghelfan and nodded to the lofting shed. “Are all the sails done?”

  “Nearly, mistress. A few leech lines, reef points and tell-tales remain to be finished. We should have her rigged for sea upon your return, easily enough.”

  “By the by, what made ya pick that name?” Feldrin asked, nodding to the broad lettering on the vessel’s bows.

  “Oh, don’t you think she looks like a manta ray?” Cynthia smiled and looked up at him, proud of her choice. “She’s wide and flat, and I don’t think naming her ‘Flounder’ would have been appropriate.”

  “Oh, aye, she might look like a devil fish at that!” Feldrin squinted sidelong at the craft and made a grumbling noise in his throat. The crowd began to break up around them and individuals headed off to their tasks. “Still don’t know how the bloody thing’s supposed to sail with two hulls and her masts set midline. Why not rig her with masts for each hull?”

  Cynthia cocked one eyebrow.

  “Can you imagine trying to trim sails on a ship with side-by-side rigs?” she asked. “If they weren’t perfectly balanced, you’d sail in circles!” She and Ghelfan looked up at the tall Morrgrey, then at each other and burst into laughter. Feldrin muttered a sailor’s oath at their mirth and helped Cynthia back to the keep, his dark features flushing even darker.

  ≈

  Sam glared at the sea witch from the back of the throng of workers. She had little doubt that Tim would see through her disguise, and he was always at the Flaxal witch’s side. She maneuvered carefully, keeping the tallest people in the group between them.

  She had been amazed how easy it was to blend into the little community once she had been accepted by a few key people, like Dura and now Johansen. Last night she had beaten him to the shed and intercepted him, explaining that Dura was well into her cups and probably wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed. Sam had made certain that he saw her little abode in the cordage room, and he had readily believed her claim to be Dura’s assistant. And it’s not a lie, she thought. I do assist Dura by doing the slop work she gives me, right? I can always beg a misunderstanding if it comes to hard tacks. She had promised the boatswain that she would give his request for a dozen buckets to Dura in the morning, and he had gone away happy that he didn’t have to confront the potentially tipsy and always surly dwarf.

  Now, after proving to herself that she could sneak aboard Orin’s Pride and stow away without detection, she knew what her plan would be. With the sea witch and Feldrin Brelak on the same ship, along with the young man with the firesprite, the stage was set. All she needed was a spark, and Orin’s Pride, her captain, crew and the seamage would all burn together.

  She glared at their backs as they strode so confidently to the keep, wondering again what spell the witch had put on her brother to make him a traitor. She turned away as they entered the fortress that had been the stronghold of Captain Bloodwind, the man who made her what she was.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  All Aboard

  The sun was several hands into the sky when Cynthia finally returned from her morning council with the mer. Feldrin was champing at the bit to be off, pacing the Pride’s afterdeck with a profound scowl on his dark features. That scowl melted utterly when the water of Scimitar Bay roiled, then rose in a column, depositing the woman he loved onto the deck of his ship.

  “About bloody time, woman!” he said, his words softened by his broad smile. “The ebb’s near gone, and you know how I feel about that channel at low water.” Mouse flew in from high in the rigging, circled Feldrin’s head twice, landed on his shoulder and danced a jig, obviously in high spirits.

  “Feldrin Brelak, you are so full of seagull crap that you’re starting to squawk.” She jabbed him in the stomach with a stiff finger, only managing to hurt her finger. The chuckles from his crew had more impact than her poke, as did Mouse’s peal of high-pitched laughter right in his ear. “With a seamage aboard, you worry about running into a reef?”

  “Yer fishy friends leave a bad taste in yer mouth again?” he asked, flicking the mirthful seasprite off his shoulder and nodding to Horace, who was also impatient to be away from the dock. Orders rang out across the ship, and the dock lines were slipped from their cleats and thrown to the crew on the pier. It would take most of the day to sail to Fire Isle, and approaching the unfamiliar shore in the dark, seamage aboard or no, was nothing that any sane sailor would relish.

  “No more than usual,” she said, looking up to see Camilla, Chula, Paska and Tim standing on the pier, waving farewell. She waved back, then accepted Feldrin’s help to the little cabin that sheltered the hatch. He had rigged a small bench on each side so that she could sit comfortably whichever way they heeled. She sat and sighed, shaking her head as Mouse landed on her shoulder, twittering with mirth and mischief. “Sometimes I wonder if they truly understand a single word I say.”

  “Different culture, different rules,” he replied, then barked an order to the helmsman. Immediately, the forestaysail burst aloft and the ship pulled away from the pier. Four crewmen hauled madly at the mainsail halyard, and the ponderous gaff rose slowly. Mouse shrieked in glee and shot aloft, perching on the gaff as it rose, chirping unintelligible orders down to the crew. “Merchant sailors run into it all the time. If you haggle on a price in one place they think you’re cheating them, but if you don’t haggle in another, they think you’re a coward.”

  “I understand that, but the mer are so different that it gives me nightm
ares. They make decisions differently than us, almost like facts mean less than their gut feelings. I think they suspect me of betraying them in some way by helping Edan, just because he’ll be a pyromage.” She looked around the deck suddenly. “He is aboard, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, aye. He made it across the gangplank without fallin’ in the bay, though he turned pale as a sheet doin’ it.” Feldrin barked another order and the ship rounded up into the light breeze and the main luff came taut. Orin’s Pride bore off the wind and they slacked the main sheet as they pointed toward the channel. “He went straight to his cabin without a word.”

  “I should go see him, make sure he’s settled in.” She craned her neck to see their progress. “Do you really want some help out of the channel? It is near low water.”

  “Nah. I was just spoutin’, and you know it. The day this crew can’t take the Pride through a cut a boat-length wide without divine intervention is the day I need a new crew, ay, Horace?”

  “Aye, Capt’n.” The mate barked commands at the boatswain and the helmsman without letting his eyes stray from the trim of the sails and the heading they were making. “All’s well, sir!”

  “See?”

  “Well, I’ll just go check on Edan, then.” She accepted Feldrin’s aid to stand, and again to descend the narrow companionway down into the ship. Once below, she said, “Go on back up. I know how you feel about her, Feldrin. She’s your baby, go take care of her.”

  “No, you’re my baby, and this,” he put a hand on her bulging tummy, “is my baby. The Pride’s just a ship, Cyn. But yeah,” he admitted, “I’d feel better on deck.” He kissed her and smiled. “Take a rest. We’ll need you most come evening.”

  “I will. Thanks.” She watched him go, smiled to herself, then proceeded aft to the mate’s cabin and rapped on the door.

  “Yes?” replied Edan’s mild tone from within.

  “It’s Cynthia, Edan. I just wanted to check on you, make sure you had everything you needed.”