Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “A glass of port would suit nicely.” She did not miss the raised eyebrow from Brelak as Koybur ordered a rum.

  “I see you’ve got a little friend there,” Brelak said with a smile, indicating Mouse, who was peering over her shoulder. “Good luck to have a seasprite along.”

  “Mouse has been with my family for years. He sailed with my father before going into hiding for a time. He just came back to me, saved my life, in fact.” She chucked the little sprite under the chin and grinned at him. “If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is.”

  “A little worse for wear, I see. A run in with pirates, no doubt.”

  “A run in with a broom,” Cynthia said with a chuckle, ignoring Mouse’s snort of indignation. “A long story.” She took the last sip of her wine and changed the subject to business. “How much did Koybur tell you about my new ships, Master Brelak? Not everyone would be comfortable with a new design.”

  “He just said it was different; smaller than a galleon and faster than a corsair. Said you were planning on runnin’ lighter, more valuable cargoes. Perishables, or the like.”

  “That’s the gist of it. It’s a two-mast, fore-and-aft rig with main and foresail gaff rigged. Tops’ls are fore-and-aft tris’ls, and there’s one square rig tops’l forward when she’s not close to the wind. Thrice forestays, adjustable sprit for variable wind and running backstays to tension the masts to windward. She won’t haul a third what your Peerless will, but she’ll get there in half the time, a third if the course is close to the wind.”

  “Sounds interestin’,” he said with a raised eyebrow and a nod to the waitress as she arrived. The drinks were passed around; a very dark rum in a small glass for the Morrgrey, a lighter rum for Koybur and Cynthia’s port in a thin-stemmed glass. “How close will she sail?”

  “The keels are just being laid, so nothing’s been tested, but with the feel I get from similar, smaller vessels, I’d say two points higher than any galleon. They’ll hold a line as close as any dhow or lugger with less leeway.”

  “What crew?”

  “Captain and mate, bosun and six more able seamen, and a cook. The rig is simple in comparison to a galleon, and the profit margin should be higher with the smaller crew.”

  “That is a tidy crew. What’ll you be shippin’?”

  “Well, after they shake down and we see what they can do, I’m thinking of running perishables to the far north—pineapple, mango and the like to Fengotherond, maybe. In winter, we’d bring ice back south; in summer, spar timber and copper.”

  “How many?”

  “Two initially, but as they start to pay for themselves, as many as I can put to sea.” She lifted her port and sipped daintily. “And I’ll need experienced officers to captain them as they’re built.” The offer was implicit: Mate for a year or two, then a ship of his own. “Speaking of which, how long have you been mate of the Peerless?”

  “Three years, and second on Tommy’s Pride before that.” He let that stand, and she immediately picked up on the implication.

  Tommy’s Pride had gone down with all hands, a victim of piracy. He could not have survived without stories of it reaching her. Is he testing me to find out if I know the tale, she thought, or is he lying to puff up his reputation? She didn’t glance at Koybur, but phrased her next question very carefully.

  “So you were aboard when she was lost?”

  “No, Ma’am. I’d transferred to the Peerless a month before.” He looked into his drink and took a sip. “I didn’t find out fer almost four months. I lost a lot of friends to them bastards, and not just them aboard Tommy’s Pride. Seems half the ships I’ve sailed in met with trouble one way or another, either while I was aboard or after. I been on the sea near twenty years, man and boy, and I’ve n’er met a captain who sailed the Shattered Isles and hasn’t had at least one run-in with ’em.”

  “True enough,” she agreed, still wondering about his veracity. The story of the Flaxal family’s near destruction at the hands of Bloodwind had been told far and wide. Would a prospective officer try to sound sympathetic by telling of his similar loss? “And before Tommy’s Pride?”

  At her prompt he gave a business-like account of all the ships he’d sailed in, working backward to manning river barges up to Twailin as a boy. It seemed his uncle owned a barge, and recognized the value of a strong young man whom he wouldn’t have to pay because he was young and a relative.

  “Which was why I jumped ship at the first opportunity, and made crew on the Bonnie Belle. Then, at least I was getting’ paid to work.”

  “Well, Master Brelak, from what you’ve told me, I think you’ll do nicely as first mate in one of my ships. Would tomorrow evening suit for negotiating your pay and accommodations?”

  “That would suit nicely, Mistress Flaxal, very nicely, indeed. I’ll be here tomorrow evening.” He drained his glass and stood, shaking hands all around and wishing them good health.

  When he had gone, Koybur leaned in and asked her, “You think he’s lyin’ about the Tommy?”

  “Not really, but you should check it. Should be simple enough, no?”

  “Like fallin’ out of a second story window with your pants half down.” She snickered at his wit, but then he became more serious. “You think yer up to bargainin’ with that Morrgrey?”

  “By tomorrow evening, I should be. I couldn’t do it tonight, though. I’m already tired.”

  “You do know what Morrgrey bargainin’ means, don’t you, lass?”

  “Sure,” she said, standing and stretching her aching back. “It means I’m buying the rum.”

  “All right, then. But don’t get cheap on it, or you’ll have a hangover like a barrel of chatter vipers.”

  “Good advice.” She collected Mouse, who had taken an interest in the dregs of Brelak’s rum, and headed for the stairs. “Goodnight, Koybur. I’ll see you for breakfast.”

  *

  By the time they finished lunch the following day, Cynthia knew a great deal about Feldrin Brelak. His account had been as accurate as Koybur’s subtle questioning could verify. What had not been brought out by their short interview was Brelak’s reputation among his fellow sailors. Three of the ships he’d crewed aboard before the fateful Tommy’s Pride had been attacked in the Shattered Isles. Brelak had shown such determination, leadership and vicious fighting during two of those occasions that the corsairs had been beaten off. The third attacker, though the story may have grown with the telling, he had boarded with two other seamen. They had done such damage to her rigging and tiller that the corsair could not bear up into the wind and ran onto a reef. Brelak and the one other surviving sailor, both wounded, had escaped the wreck by diving overboard and swimming for their lives.

  “I want him, Koybur, and not just because he’s a damn fine mate. I want him because he hates pirates as much as I do.” Sipping her chilled tea, Cynthia glared out to sea.

  “You got a fire in your gut for that motherless bilge rat Bloodwind, Cyn, I understand that, but you gotta rethink just what you’re tryin’ to do.” He sipped his ale and nodded at her questioning stare. “If it’s vengeance you want, you should sell these plans to the Imperial Navy and let them clean up the scum. Yer not buildin’ warships, lass, you’re buildin’ merchantmen. There’s a vast difference.”

  “No, I’m not building warships,” she agreed, “but these new ships will give me my revenge, Koybur.” She forestalled his reply with a raised hand. “Not by fighting him, but by denying him prey. Do you think it coincidence that the Tommy wasn’t touched for three years, then a month after Brelak steps off the ship, it’s sunk?”

  “Actually, I do think it was coincidence. Why would they care about one man aboard one ship?”

  “Because there are so many without such men,” she countered, shrugging. “If you’re a wolf, do you attack a ewe or a ram? It’s that simple. But my ships will be immune to the bastards.”

  “Unless Bloodwind copies the design.”

  Cynthia’s ardor flag
ged at that, for the consequences of a pirate fleet of her design had not crossed her mind. That Bloodwind had eyes in every port was no secret; he could get as close a look at her ships as any competitor, closer if he managed to place someone in Master Keelson’s yard during construction.

  “Well, we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen, won’t we?”

  “Aye, lass. Ghelfan and Keelson’ll keep their mouths shut, and their crews are hand-picked. Problem is every crewman we hire and send back is a mystery.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted, biting her lip. “When I get back, I’ll tell Ghelfan to keep an eye on things. He’s a smart fellow.”

  “So is Captain Bloodwind, Cyn, or he wouldn’t still be alive.”

  *

  An hour after sunset, with a small crowd filling the inn, Cynthia and Koybur sat at a table with a case of fine spiced rum at her feet and two small glasses on the table. A single bottle from the case sat between the two glasses.

  The rules were simple: Cynthia would make an offer, and Brelak would make a counteroffer. If they did not agree, each would drink a measure of rum. They would continue until an offer was agreed upon. If one of them could not continue, the last offer made from the other party would stand.

  It would be in Cynthia’s interest to make an agreement as quickly as possible, since she was severely outweighed, but she also didn’t want to give too much away in haste. If he thought she couldn’t hold her liquor, she might surprise him.

  Feldrin Brelak entered the inn with two of his mates. He smiled and waved amiably as they approached the table. Koybur stood with Cynthia and they smiled and offered greetings.

  “This here’s Balik Tonkland, second of the Peerless, and Shmeeka Sanarro, bosun’s mate.”

  “Gentlemen, good to meet you. I believe you all know my man Koybur. It’s good that you brought two, Master Brelak. I’d hate to see one man try to carry you home after this.”

  “Ha! Very good, very good!” He smiled genuinely, as did she. The laughter around the inn told her that her bluster had been just right: sincere enough to raise an eyebrow but laughable enough to diffuse any tension. “Shall we begin?”

  Mouse whooped with glee and attacked the cork of the rum bottle, trying in vain to pull it free. That elicited another round of laughter. Cynthia coaxed Mouse to her shoulder and everyone save Koybur sat.

  “Very well, then,” Koybur said, nodding to Brelak and then to Cynthia. “It is the understanding of all present that Mistress Cynthia Flaxal has made an unspecified offer of employment to Master Feldrin Brelak, first mate of the Peerless. Have you, Master Brelak, been given leave by your captain to accept said employment?”

  “I have,” he said, licking his lips as he examined the bottle of aged rum. One dark eyebrow lifted in appreciation. “Bloody fine! I certainly have, indeed.”

  “Very well. Mistress Flaxal, would you please make your opening offer.”

  “The offer is for the position of first mate aboard a ship as yet to be built by the Keelson yard in Southaven. As mate you will receive one one-hundredth share of any profit from cargo sold, plus half a crown per month sea pay. You will supply your own clothing, food and water. You will be allotted one hammock in crew’s quarters, and half a standard sea chest for personal effects. There will be no pay for time spent ashore, and half pay for time spent aboard, but in port.”

  Brelak smiled thinly; new able seamen earned about that rate, more if the crew was small and the craft speedy.

  “Master Brelak, do you find these terms agreeable?”

  “I do not, Master Koybur.”

  “Your offer?”

  “As first mate aboard this as-yet-to-be-built ship, I’ll earn one-twentieth of gross earnings fer cargo sold. I’ll receive an additional ten crowns per month, with full sea pay fer every day I’m aboard, at sea or in port, and half pay fer days ashore. I’ll have my own stateroom, with a bunk built to accommodate my height and girth, and I’ll be provided food, clothing and one bottle of this fine rum fer every day I’m at sea. Money spent in negotiations with landsmen fer cargo will be fully reimbursed.”

  “Mistress Flaxal, do you find these terms agreeable?”

  “I do not, Master Koybur,” she stated flatly, trying not to smile at the big man.

  “Very well, then!” Koybur snatched up the bottle with his one good hand, wrenched the cork from its neck with his teeth and spat it onto the floor.

  He started to pour, but Mouse let out a whoop and dove right down the neck of the bottle. His shoulders wedged in the opening and he kicked his little feet, trying to reach the dark liquor. Laughter erupted around the table, with many suggestions how Koybur, with only one good hand, could extricate the little sprite from the bottle. He settled for slamming the butt end onto the table, sending the sprite and a geyser of rum skyward. Mouse managed to gobble up a good amount of it before he and the rum splashed onto the table. He kicked up his feet and rolled in the spilt liquor, giggling with mirth.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, yes.” He poured an equal measure in each of the two glasses and said, “Lady and gentleman, drink up.”

  And they did.

  The rum was remarkably smooth and lightly spiced, leaving a lovely warm glow down to Cynthia’s stomach. She placed her glass down and smiled at Brelak, who smiled back. This was going to be a tough negotiation.

  “Mistress Flaxal, your counteroffer?”

  And so it went.

  The hardest part for Cynthia, after a few rounds of offer-counteroffer, was remembering what she’d offered the previous round. That and getting the glass to her chin without spilling rum all over herself.

  In the end, she did remarkably well. One bottle lay empty by the board, and a second stood down by half. She lost the bout, of course, but Feldrin Brelak had indeed underestimated her capacity. When she finally slid down to the table top, face down in spilled rum, their offers had been quibbling over a few farthings a month, and how much of landside negotiating expenses would be reimbursed.

  “Congratulations, Master Brelak, you are hired as first mate of one vessel, as yet to be named, or built, by Mistress Flaxal. You will answer to none but yer captain and Mistress Flaxal in all matters, save in the buying and selling of cargo, for which you will answer to me when I am available for advice. Is this agreeable?”

  “This is agreeable, Master Koybur,” the big man said, pushing himself up from the table with only a slight wobble. “Would you be needin’ any ‘elp in takin’ the good Mishresh, er… Mistress Flaxal to bed?”

  The amassed group of onlookers roared with laughter, though Brelak remained oblivious to his own witticism.

  “I might ask your mates to lend a hand, Master Brelak, but only in taking Mistress Flaxal down to the Winter Gale. You may have your things brought aboard presently, for we sail with the morning tide.”

  “Aye, sir!” Brelak said, nodding and touching a knuckle to his forehead in the customary deference. “I’ll be aboard by midnight and ready for duties at dawn.”

  “Very good!” Koybur paid the innkeeper for his service. He was taking Cynthia aboard Winter Gale, and fully intended to be well out to sea before she woke. She would be madder than a crocodile with a toothache, but that was something he would deal with later. Right now, he needed Cynthia Flaxal on this expedition, and on it she would go.

  *

  Not everyone in the crowd found the exchange so amusing. One slim sailor who hung back near the door watched carefully as the men from the Peerless lifted the Flaxal girl, tucked her drunken seasprite in her cleavage as a joke, and carried her down to the Winter Gale. He seemed less interested in her than in the Morrgrey, however, and when the crowd thinned, he followed the big man down the street toward the docks.

  He belabored the merits of putting a knife in the man’s back. Surely Brelak was drunk enough to fall prey to a quick thrust before he started fighting back, and if placed well, there would be no fighting back. But would Captain Bloodwind praise him for his bol
d initiative, or would he find himself hanging from a yardarm, awaiting the jaws of the denizens of the deep? Or worse, would he find himself bound upon Hydra’s altar?

  His skin rose into gooseflesh despite the warm evening, and he decided that information would be more valuable to Captain Bloodwind, and himself, than any rash action.

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  Misery and Company

  Cynthia’s first thought as sleep eased into wakefulness was that she’d been cheated on that case of spiced rum. Nausea welled up in her gut, her head pounding to the beat of her heart. Then she opened her eyes and recognized her cabin aboard the Winter Gale. The motion beneath her confirmed it: she was at sea.

  “Koybur!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, forcing herself up from the bunk. A familiar bucket stood next to the head of her bunk, a towel and a cup of water in the little rack next to the wash basin. “Koybur, you son of a motherless pig! You’re fired, you bastard! You hear me? Fired!”

  She heard the pounding of running feet and a few shouts. One glance out of the port showed her the vast rolling swells of the deep Southern Ocean, and her stomach heaved in protest. Cynthia managed to reach the bucket before the little sustenance still in her stomach came up. A moan of misery escaped her lips as she worked her way out of the bunk to her customary position, bucket cradled between her knees.

  “Koybur!” she yelled between retches, cursing him with great volume and imagination. Finally, the latch rattled and two men entered, Koybur and Feldrin Brelak with Mouse perched on the Morrgrey’s shoulder, his quirky imp smile intact.

  “Cynthia! You’re awake!” Koybur limped forward and worked himself down onto his good knee. “How do you feel?”

  “Sick as a bilge rat, you son of a pox-ridden whore!” she spat, glaring from under her disheveled hair. Mouse made a face and flew crookedly to her shoulder, patting her on the head before returning to the Morrgrey’s broad shoulder. She ignored him, focusing all her ire upon Koybur.

  “Well, look at it this way; you’re not hung over.” He grinned his lopsided grin. “And you’re not on your way back to Southaven in a stinkin’ old wagon.”