Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Koybur, I—” she started, but he would have none of her argument.

  “I take that back! Your gram at least had the spunk to fight fer what she wanted. Why, I never thought I’d meet a Flaxal who was so bent on failure!”

  “I’m not bent on failure!” she snapped, a little of the accustomed fire in her voice. “I still want to build ships. Hell, I want to build a whole fleet of ships! I just can’t sail in them. That much is obvious.”

  “Obvious? After two days?” He laughed a bark of derision and spat into the water. “I’ve known sailors, real sailors, who spent four years so sick they couldn’t get from their hammock to the rail without pukin’. Here you think you can give up after two days?” He glared at her openly, his one eye livid with challenge. Then his voice lowered to a hoarse whisper as he said, “Don’t you dare, lass. Don’t you dare quit now.”

  She stared at him in wonder as he wheeled away and limped up the steps to the quarterdeck, one leg doing all the work, the other a fused, maimed lump that gave him pain with every step. She felt a wash of guilt, but then a similar one of resolve. Koybur quit sailing after his injury. For her, whole and hale of body, and knowing what sailors thought of those who were chronically seasick, things were different. She couldn’t stand that kind of behind-the-hand ridicule, not if she was going to be who she wanted to be. Not if she was to be a Flaxal, or a mistress of ships.

  And she wanted to be a mistress of ships, even more than she wanted to sail in them.

  *

  The sweet scent of blood tickled Hydra’s senses as she approached the feasting hall in search of Captain Bloodwind. Having recently fed, she resembled an alluring young woman, but even sated, the smell of human blood kindled her hunger.

  Not now, she admonished the ever-ravenous creature within her. Later… Later we will feed.

  The hunger eased, receding into the depths of her tainted soul like a great coiled serpent laying in wait for its next meal. But it would not wait forever. The power she stole from it had kept her alive longer than any mortal human, but to keep that power, to keep the beast imprisoned, she had to feed it. She no longer remembered her former life, no longer recalled the reason she had enslaved the beast. They were one now, and they had to feed. But feeding had driven her out of the lands of civilized men. So began her association with Captain Bloodwind. It had not been difficult to seduce him with this body, and he had accepted her unusual…habits. He saw the value of her soul-purchased powers. In payment, he fed her well. Now, knowing something of what truly dwelt within her, he loathed and feared her, as any sane man would.

  A perfect relationship.

  The clash of weapons greeted her as she opened the door to the great hall. He was here, and so was the source of the scent that tickled her appetite. She swaggered forward, oozing sensuality, her clothing altered with a simple illusion to make her even more alluring.

  The scent of blood became strong now.

  The feasting table had been moved aside, and two young men barely beyond boyhood fought with blunted cutlasses in the middle of the room. Bloodwind sat upon his gilded chair, looking much the monarch upon a throne, calling out encouragement indiscriminately to each of the youths, his prize slave standing obediently at his elbow.

  The young men fought for position; a pirate crew only took those who proved themselves capable. There was no room for dead weight aboard a corsair. Both young men coveted a single berth aboard the Hellraker, one of Bloodwind’s leanest and fastest corsairs. They each bled from half a dozen shallow cuts and contusions where the blunted swords had struck. She walked past them, drinking in the scents of sweat and blood. Hydra forced her hunger down once again, focusing upon her captain.

  “Captain Bloodwind,” she said, her voice husky and sensual, “the Winter Gale has reached Scarport. The one you seek will be ashore shortly.”

  “Good,” Bloodwind said, not even looking at her, his attention trained upon the two young fighters. He opened his mouth and took a peeled fig from the fingers of his gilded slave.

  Hydra watched him chew and swallow, annoyed at his disinterest in her. Once it had taken only a twitch of her finger to get his attention, and he would satisfy her hunger eagerly. Now he only paid her attention when he needed information.

  Bloodwind turned and cocked an eyebrow at her, as if realizing she still stood there. “Was there something else?”

  “I wish to know where you want me to direct my efforts, Captain,” she said, smiling with all the warmth of a serpent.

  “Just watch for now, Hydra. Keep an eye on Southaven and another on the Winter Gale. I want to know when the framing timbers and planking arrive for those ships.” He accepted another fig and shouted encouragement to one of the young men who’d just scored a touch. “Oh, and watch Rockport harbor. I want to make sure my message gets to Yodrin.”

  “You will send me something tonight to sate my hunger?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the two young men. “The loser of this match, perhaps?”

  “You look well fed. I’ll send you something tomorrow, but not one of these two. They’re too valuable. I’ve got fodder aplenty for you.”

  “Then send me one tonight, my captain. My appetite grows, and I cannot watch without rest unless I feed.”

  “In the morning, Hydra,” he countered, his voice hard. “Now leave us. Your yammering is distracting me from more important matters.” He sat up in his chair as the youth who had been winning the bout suddenly slipped in a puddle of sweat or blood and received a resounding crack to the skull for his inattention. The boy fell like a steer in a slaughterhouse, landing on the floor in a boneless heap.

  “Enough!” he shouted, clapping his hands and striding forward past Hydra. “Well done, Judin! Well done! The berth on the Hellraker is yours!”

  “Thank you, Captain!” The youth knelt and bowed his head to Bloodwind.

  “Don’t thank me, Judin. You earned it. Now, go fetch a couple of slaves to take Belek here to the healer. If he wakes up, you can tell him he’ll have to wait for the next open berth. Now, off with you!”

  The young man raced out of the room. Bloodwind turned to his slave girl; when he noticed Hydra still standing there, his eyes narrowed.

  “Why are you still here, Hydra? I told you to leave us.”

  “The boy is beyond your healer, my captain,” she said, her gaze slipping past him to the crumpled form on the floor. “Give him to me, while he still breathes.”

  “No. Now back to your hole, you bloodthirsty crone.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  “You waste this,” she hissed, moving to step around him to the young man’s prone form. Blood flowed sluggishly from his nose and mouth to pool on the flagstones. She licked her lips. “He will die. Give him to me!”

  “I said no!” Bloodwind growled, jerking the golden-hilted cutlass from his hip and bringing the tip to her throat in a flash of steel. “He fought well enough to deserve a better end than at your hands. Now, off with you!”

  Hydra looked down at the razor-edged steel at her throat and smiled. Any other man would have trembled to see that smile directed at him, but Bloodwind’s hand remained steady.

  “As you wish, my captain.” She bowed low and left the room, reining in her hunger and her temper. She knew his threat was an empty one; she was more valuable to him than any two of his captains, let alone this slip of a boy. But there was no profit in a confrontation now. Her hunger would have to remain unsated until morning.

  But one day Bloodwind would push her too far, and she would slip the rein on the beast within her long enough for him to learn the true meaning of horror.

  *

  Cynthia mopped up the last of the hearty stew with a heel of bread and popped the bite into her mouth. She chased the bite with a final swallow of ale and stifled a belch, her stomach stretched as taut as a drum. Mouse sat with his back to the breadbasket, snoozing happily, his stomach bulging visibly, too. One of the maids came by to take her empty bowl, and asked if she want
ed another ale.

  “No, thank you. Any more and I’ll be asleep in half an hour. I’ll have tea, if it’s not too much trouble. That stew was delicious.”

  “Be just a moment.” The woman hurried off.

  Cynthia took the opportunity to examine her surroundings in detail for the first time since leaving Winter Gale. Beside herself with misery and set on leaving for Southaven by the first available caravan, she hadn’t taken time to notice much. Granted, this was just Scarport, but she’d never been here, and probably never would be again.

  The inn sat perched up on a hill overlooking the wharf, and was the cleanest of the four the town sported. She’d not wanted to walk so far, her hunger outweighing her taste, but Koybur had insisted. “Won’t do fer a mistress of ships to spend the night in one of them fleabag dives,” he’d said. He left her here with firm instructions to eat and drink as much as she could, and relax. He was going to “just do some pokin’ ’round.”

  Her tea arrived, a porcelain pot snug in a quilted cozy with a small chilled pitcher of goat’s milk, bowls of sugar and lemon wedges, a saucer and cup, and a tiny plate of dainty cookies. Mouse opened one eye at the cookies and licked his lips.

  “Will there be anything else, Miss?”

  “Nothing for now, thank you.”

  She was halfway through the pot—Mouse halfway through a cookie—when Koybur entered the room. He limped toward her and took in her condition with a sidelong glance.

  “You look better.” He snatched a cookie from the plate and popped it into his mouth. “Got some food in you, I see. Your color’s back.”

  “Right as rain,” she assured him, sipping her tea. “You could’ve walked this town end to end and visited every inn and shop in the time you were out. Find anything interesting?”

  “Did visit every inn and shop, and talked myself hoarse!” He waved to the serving woman and asked for ale. “Aye, and there’s a few men lazin’ about who might do for crew. One woman who you’ll want to talk to, name of Finthie Tar. She’d make a fine boatswain, without a doubt.”

  “Didn’t figure you’d find that much. Did you tell them to come by? I know you picked good sailors, but I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Figured you would.” He accepted his ale with a nod and his usual crooked smile. “They’ll be comin’ by later this afternoon. There’s two fellers from up north, tall as trees and used to them northerly storms that put ice on the riggin’, the Tar woman, and another fella who claims to have sailed with the Royal Navy, though I don’t know about that. On top of that, Finthie said she’d heard that a mate of one of the ships moored in port might be interested in a new employer.” His grin grew, and he squinted with mirth. “The feller’s not happy with the deal his captain’s makin’ with some southern prince. Runnin’ sword steel to some group in the desert that’s stirrin’ up trouble.”

  “Principles, from a merchant officer?” She laughed shortly. A merchant unwilling to run a cargo simply because it might be used in an unsavory endeavor would limit the ability to profit. Then another thought came to her, and she asked, “Or does he think his tender skin is being put to too great a risk?”

  “Well, not the latter, I’m sure. The feller’s name is Feldrin Brelak. You heard of him?”

  “Not that I remember, but the name’s enough to tell me he’s a Morrgrey.”

  “Aye, that he is, and everything that bein’ a Morrgrey implies.” Koybur took a pull at his ale and sighed. What he meant by the comment, Cynthia knew, was that the man exemplified the typical Morrgrey mixture of quick temper, hardiness, a certain stubbornness, and as much salt-water as blood running through his veins. “Never met him, but he’s got a reputation as an honest man, and never walked away from a fight.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Cynthia decided aloud, liking the sound of the man already. “Can you arrange for him to join me for a drink after dinner?”

  “Aye, yer name alone’ll get his attention. And I ain’t never known a Morrgrey to turn down a drink.” He chuckled.

  “I think you overestimate the weight my name carries, Koybur.” She sipped her tea and gazed out the window to the swaying palms and turquoise waters beyond the streets of Scarport. “It’s been fifteen years since a Flaxal’s been to sea.”

  “And I think you underestimate yer old dad, lass,” he said with a scowl. He finished his ale with a single swallow and pushed himself up, taking another cookie from the plate. “His name carries as much weight around the Southern Ocean as any sea god you can name.”

  Before she could comment, he whirled on his bad leg and limped out of the inn. She watched him go, wondering about his quick shift in mood.

  He’s probably still sore about my decision to take a caravan back to Southaven, she thought, sitting back and sipping her tea, thinking about events that had propelled her into this situation. It was almost as if they’d been orchestrated by some beneficent deity.

  “Well, if some god is doing it,” she mumbled, “whichever one it is should have thought to bless my queasy stomach instead of my fortune.”

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  Tactics of Negotiation

  Cynthia sat back and sighed, satisfied with the events of the afternoon and the wonderful plate of roast lamb and new potatoes she’d just finished.

  Four interviews with prospective sailors had filled the afternoon. The two northerners had raised their eyebrows that a woman so young would be their employer, and flinched again when Mouse landed on her shoulder. She’d told them flatly that if they had a problem with her or the company she kept, the door and the street beyond were theirs to explore. They shrugged and agreed to her terms. Finthie Tar turned out to be a diamond in the rough. She’d been sailing the Southern Ocean since she was a girl, had been boatswain on half a dozen ships, and could speak as many languages. Cynthia offered her a boatswain’s billet with the implication that she might be in the running for an officer slot if Koybur found nobody with more experience. The other southerner, a man from Rockport, arrived half drunk. She sent him packing without another word. To the three she found acceptable, she gave enough money for passage to Southaven, and told them they would be working as laborers for Master Keelson until the new hulls were in the water. They grumbled at this, but the prospect of earning a seaman’s wage while ashore had its lure, and they agreed.

  Koybur had shared the meal with her, but left to meet the Morrgrey mate and escort him back as soon as the last bite passed his lips. Cynthia was unused to such pretenses, but knew it was best to play along with Koybur’s lead. It frightened her slightly, the degree to which she relied on him, on his judgment, his expertise and his razor wit. He alone would put her in her place when she made an ass of herself. She thought of him as her home, her one infallible reliance. Let the rest of it burn, sink, or blow away; as long as Koybur stayed with her, she would be fine.

  When the two men finally came through the door, Cynthia thought for a moment that the wine she’d had with lunch had been stronger than she thought. Koybur looked to have shrunk, for the top of his head barely reached the Morrgrey’s shoulder.

  She blinked. It wasn’t just Koybur—the entire room seemed to have gotten smaller the moment Feldrin Brelak ducked under the lintel. The man towered a head taller than Koybur, and sported a chest and arms fully twice as broad. He was not particularly muscular, and certainly not fat, but Cynthia thought he looked more solid than any man she’d ever seen.

  Mouse let out an “Eep!” of alarm and dove down her collar, peeking out nervously. She stood as the two men approached, trying not to feel intimidated. Several people cast glances at Brelak as he passed, and a few even greeted him by name or raised a hand in welcome. He nodded and smiled in passing, his dark eyes glinting in the dim lamplight. He seemed friendly enough, and well known by the locals, which made Cynthia wonder why she had never met him. Both Southaven and Scarport were common stop-overs for merchant ships; if he’d been sailing the Southern Ocean long, he would have passed through both. He e
xemplified the typical Morrgrey from head to toe: wavy hair the color of midnight, a close-trimmed beard, olive skin and an easy rolling gait that bespoke of countless hours aboard ship. Finally he loomed before her, still smiling, his eyes crinkled with deep lines of pleasure or mirth.

  “Feldrin Brelak, first mate of the Peerless, this is Mistress Cynthia Flaxal,” Koybur said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Cynthia said, matching his smile as she held out a hand.

  “Likewise, Mistress Flaxal.” His voice did not shake the room, as she might have guessed, and his grip was only firm and friendly, not crushing as she’d expected. “Master Koybur here tells me yer buildin’ new ships, and are lookin’ fer crew and officers to man ’em.”

  “That is true enough.” He released her hand and she gestured to a chair, wondering idly if it would take the strain. “Would you join me? We can discuss the matter over a drink, if you like.”

  “Oh, that would suit, that would suit,” the big man said.

  He sat carefully, Cynthia noticed, as Koybur joined them and gestured to the serving woman.

  “Well, Master Brelak!” the woman said with a laugh as she approached the table. “It’s been far too long since you passed our door. Where have you been, you great behemoth?”

  “Away north, Beatrice, and far to the south. We’ve been takin’ the long run with silks and steel, but not fer much longer. There’s trouble brewin’ down the desert.”

  “Aye, that explains a lot. Your usual?”

  “Why, yes, now that you mention it, if you’ve still got a bit of yer private stock.”

  “Never run out as long as there’s sailors plyin’ the trades.” The woman looked to Cynthia. “And you, Mistress?”