Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Cast off!” Brelak barked. “Smartly now. Not a drop comes inboard from them oars, or I’ll personally stick ’em where the sun don’t shine.”

  The shrill whistling stopped as Mouse realized that Cynthia had left the ship. He dropped the whistle and fluttered like a drunken butterfly down to the launch, landing on her shoulder. The launch pitched with the first thrust of the oars, forcing the seasprite to grab Cynthia’s collar to keep from toppling over backward.

  Minutes later, Cynthia, Brelak and Koybur stood on the small stone quay, two seamen armed and ready behind them. Cynthia wasn’t armed, of course, not knowing the first thing about how to use a cutlass or even a dagger, and Koybur wore only his rigging knife. Brelak bore two heavy boarding axes tucked into his belt instead of the more traditional cutlass of a sea officer. Rockport didn’t really have that bad a reputation, but they saw no point in taking chances. Unlike Scarport, which had a steady traffic of goods and services changing hands locally, Rockport did not support much more than a transition station for caravans and ships.

  “Which inn, Koybur?” she asked, trying to ignore the tickle of Mouse as he cowered behind her collar, shy in the unfamiliar surroundings.

  “No idea.” She gaped at him, but he just grinned his horrible maimed grin. “I ain’t been here in twenty years, Cyn. Might ask Master Brelak. He’s probably been through these parts recently.”

  At her questioning stare the big Morrgrey said, “About a year ago. The Flying Monkey is right up the road, and about the best in town.”

  “The Flying Monkey?” Cynthia’s features faded from questioning to skeptical.

  “Aye. The feller who bought the place some years back said he’d seen one. He blamed a witch for conjuring the things and runnin’ off the whole populace of his home town. Never said nothin’ ’bout ’zactly where he was from, but he’ll tell ya there’s no place like it.” He paused and scratched his chin. “He’s a strange bird, sure enough, but he runs a tight ship.”

  “As long as the food’s good and the bed’s soft, I’m in.”

  An hour later, as she polished her plate with the last crust of bread, Cynthia began to feel more like herself. Mouse had eaten so much he could no longer fly, and lounged with his back propped against a gravy boat, eyes closed in bliss and his hands spread over his distended tummy.

  “Passable. Right passable,” Koybur announced as the maid took the dishes.

  “Any more passable and you would have licked your plate,” Cynthia said.

  “I think our Mistress is feeling som’at better,” said Brelak, waving for the barmaid to bring another round of ale.

  “Better, but still not very good,” she said, frowning with memory of her unforgivable display on the deck of the Winter Gale. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage six or seven more days to Tsing.”

  “Mayhap we should take an extra day here to let you recover some. Captain Uben said there was—”

  “Captain Uben is not in charge of the timetable. I am.”

  “Sorry, Mistress Cynthia. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Never mind, Master Brelak. I know you didn’t mean anything, but with the whole crew laughing at me behind their hats, I don’t want to delay the trip any longer than necessary.”

  “Laughin’?” Brelak barked incredulously, his dark features flushing. “Not a single sailor aboard the Winter Gale is laughin’ at you, Mistress Cynthia. There ain’t naught in ’em but concern for you.”

  “You don’t have to lie to save my feelings, Feldrin.”

  “Now Cyn, don’t—”

  “I am not lyin’, Mistress,” Brelak said through clenched teeth, straining to hold his temper in check.

  “Oh, come on. I know they’re all chuckling about the mistress of ships who can’t even sail in one without voiding her guts all the way across the Southern Ocean.”

  The big man stood abruptly as the second round of ale arrived. “You might know some o’ the banter sailors pass around about lubbers, but not a word o’ that applies to you, Mistress Flaxal. They were turned out this afternoon to pay you their respects and wish you well. You might have seen that if you’d’ve taken the time to hear ’em out.”

  The barmaid cringed and moved away, while several other patrons looked nervously at the big man. Mouse vanished behind the bread basket, peeking around the wicker frame in terror.

  “Brelak, please. Sit down.”

  “My pardon, Mistress, but I feel the need for a breath of air.” He snatched up one of the three tankards and turned on his heel, striding out of the common room without another word.

  “He does have a temper,” Cynthia said worriedly, thanking the barmaid and sipping her ale.

  “He’s a Morrgrey, Cyn, and that weren’t nothin’.” He drank deeply and struggled to his feet with a grimace of pain. “Callin’ a Morrgrey a liar’s usually worth a busted jaw. He was tellin’ you the truth, by the way.”

  “So now you’re angry with me, too.”

  “Na, I’m not angry. I just think you need to open yer eyes wide enough ta see past yer own pride.” He took another deep draught of his tankard and put it down. “I gotta do some business tonight if yer gonna have anyone to talk to tomorrow. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up.”

  She watched him leave, wondering whether either of them were telling her the truth. As she sat lost in her thoughts, Mouse emerged from hiding, waddled over to Koybur’s abandoned tankard and peered over the rim, obviously wondering if he could get at the ale without drowning.

  Cynthia watched the seasprite absently, thinking about the actions of her two companions. She couldn’t imagine the crew of the Winter Gale harboring any measure of respect for her after her display on the poop deck, but Brelak didn’t seem the type to lie about something like that. She sipped and thought, wondering about Koybur’s comment concerning her pride. Was she being a spoiled brat, letting her pride blind her?

  A tiny splash brought her out of her reverie as Mouse toppled headfirst into the tankard. The sprite’s feet kicked frantically from the top of the cup before he managed to curl up and stand. Drenched in ale, his thistledown hair plastered flat and his pointed little ears drooping, he smacked his lips and grinned.

  She fished him out and sat him on the table, offering her napkin. Mouse scoffed at the cloth, stripped out of his shirt and held it over his head, wringing the ale from it into his upturned mouth. He burped, the sound like the chirp of a tree frog, which drew a smile from Cynthia. She poured some of Koybur’s ale into a saucer and watched the little sprite drink himself into a happily sodden slumber.

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  Baiting the Hook

  “Very well, then,” Cynthia said, shaking the hands of the four sailors she’d just hired, three men and a woman who had worked together on a timber hauler. The negotiations had been simple enough. They were eager for work and intrigued by the new ships. Mouse lounged on her shoulder throughout and drew only curious mirth from them.

  “Master Brelak will give you enough for passage to Southaven, and half of your first month’s pay. I’ll draft a letter to the shipwright there, Master Keelson. You’ll be working under his supervision until the ships are afloat.”

  “Scuse me, Mistress Flaxal, but I ain’t no carpenter. Ain’t ne’r claimed to be one. We hauled timber, we never built nothin’ out of it.”

  “Well, I daresay you’ll learn a bit of carpentry before we’re afloat. I’m sure there will be plenty of splicing, hauling and general labor to be done.”

  They thanked her, saluted in deference and turned to Brelak for their pay. They certainly looked like they’d been working on a timber hauler; two of the four were missing fingers, and all bore scars on hands, wrists and even faces. Working under an overzealous boatswain could earn a sailor a few scars, but they bore more than average.

  After they’d gone, she asked him, “What do you think of them?”

  “Seem capable enough, Mistress, though a bit rough.” He’d not called her by nam
e all morning. His temper from the previous evening still simmered, but he only acted aloof, not straining to hold his anger as he had before. “Don’t know about them comin’ down from the Northlands, though. They seem a bit tan fer this time of year.”

  “You think they’re lying? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Not my place, Mistress.”

  “Not your place?” Now it was Cynthia’s turn to be angry. She placed one hand flat on the table, turning her full wrath on him as Mouse bolted for cover. “It is exactly your place, Master Brelak, and you very well know it! If you spy something odd about anyone I intend to hire, and do not say something, I’ll have your contract in the fire faster than you can spit. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mistress. I hear you,” he said, his tone flat and his dark eyes never leaving hers. She could see the temper smoldering in them.

  “You’re angry with me,” she said, turning back to her papers, “and rightfully so. I had no right to question your word. I apologize for assuming that you would lie to save my feelings.”

  “I would lie to save your feelin’s,” he said with a hint of a smile as Mouse poked his head from around the water pitcher to see if it was safe. “No need to apologize. I just didn’t lie about yesterday on the ship.”

  “Yes, there is a need for me to apologize, Feldrin. Aside from Koybur, there’s not a soul on this expedition I can trust to tell me when I’m making a mistake. I need your help.”

  Cynthia stared intently into his dark eyes. Unlike their earlier exchange as they passed the Shattered Isles, when she had had no choice but to accept his help, now she was asking for it. He fidgeted, uncomfortable with that trust; and bowed his head in assent.

  “Very well, then, Miss Cynthia. I’ll be as honest as I can, and to the Nine Hells with yer feelin’s.” He stood. “I better go find Koybur. He said he had a prospect, but that it might turn out to be nothin’. It’s past mid-mornin’. He should-a been here by now.”

  “And about these four we just signed on?” she asked as Mouse fluttered back to her shoulder.

  “Do I think they’re lyin’?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “About somethin’ maybe, but not about bein’ stout sailors, and that’s all what really matters. My guess is they might have had somethin’ to do with the Blakely Boy goin’ aground and are uncomfortable about it.”

  “And about their tans?”

  “They could’ve had a bright and sunny fall up north for all I know. Rest easy, Miss Cynthia. They ain’t saints, that’s fer sure, but none of us are.”

  “That’s all I needed to know. Send word to Captain Uben that we’ll be hauling anchor in the morning.” He turned to go, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “And thank you, Feldrin. I value your honesty very much.”

  He smiled uncomfortably, knuckling his forehead. “’Tain’t nothin’, Mistress Flaxal.”

  She watched him leave, and then said to herself, “You’re wrong, Master Brelak. It’s everything.”

  *

  “Haul away!” Karek shouted from the bow of the little fishing smack, bracing himself as the shore crew hauled the vessel up onto the beach atop a row of long planks. Karek gripped the forestay and braced his foot against the short bulwarks as she careened, riding her up the beach like a man guiding a madly rampaging elephant. When her transom cleared the high tide line he called, “Belay haul!” and leapt down to the sandy shore.

  “Chock her up and scrape her clean, boys,” he said, tossing a silver half-crown to the master of the beach crew.

  The smack would be ready for sea by the time the Morrgrey was just another corpse lying in one of the gutters of the Dreggar’s Quarter. Karek had three or four days until the Winter Gale made port; plenty of time to set up a nice thorough trap.

  “Come along, boys. We got money to spend!”

  Vash and Berl cheered, joking about the age-old fisherman’s trade of fish for gold, gold for rum, rum for women, and then being driven back to sea by a woman’s scorn. Wopek just followed along, his dark face impassive, his palms resting on the long knives at his sash. They climbed the steps from the beach to the quay and were immediately confronted by a city constable. Karek smiled; he had counted on this, knowing it would work to their advantage.

  “Hold there a moment, gentlemen,” the officer said, tipping the iron helm that earned the constables of Tsing their nickname of ‘caps’. “You just landed, yes?”

  “Aye, sir. That we did.” Karek stuck his thumbs in his belt and grinned proudly. “Sold four hundred weight ‘o fresh-caught grouper, we did, and we’re aimin’ to spend about half of it afore we put back out fer home.”

  “Not from here then?”

  “No, sir. We be up from Moorington. Been here once or twice, but never had so much money in our pockets afore.”

  “Well, be careful what you flash about for people to see. There’ve been cutpurses workin’ the inns around the wharves lately. If it’s female companionship you’re lookin’ for, you might try one of the houses on Bright Street, just up five blocks. They cost a bit more, but the girls are clean and won’t knife ya for your purse.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but I thinks we’re just in for a drink first.” He started to lead his men past, but stopped at the constable’s raised hand.

  “Not but daggers in the city now, right? No swords or axes on you.” This was the law Karek knew would help even the odds against the Morrgrey.

  “What would a poor fisherman do with a sword, sir?” Karek asked, grinning and showing the poor-looking rigging knife at his belt. He had two long stilettos hidden under his tunic, but even those would not get him in trouble; but the cap was ignoring Karek and looking at the oddly shaped hilts of Wopek’s knives.

  “And what are those?” the cap asked, pointing at the other man’s belt.

  “These?” Wopek asked, drawing one slowly from his wide sash. “Surely you have seen the kukri before, good sir constable.” He flipped the angled blade and handed it to the cap hilt first. “They are the knives of my desert folk people, the Shinthraha. They are made for fighting and for skinning the chohethra, the great desert cats.”

  “Damned heavy,” the cap said, hefting the blade. It measured almost as long as a short sword, but still qualified as a knife. “You be careful with them things, mister.”

  “Oh, aye, sir,” he agreed.

  They left the cap at his post and worked their way into the city.

  “Now, the first thing we need,” Karek said when they were safely out of earshot, “is some proper bait.”

  “Bright Street?” Vash asked, grinning and rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “I don’t think so.” Karek glanced around carefully and said, “I think we need someone who’ll work the game for us. A whore won’t do for that.”

  “You want us to snatch some girl for the job, like?” Berl’s kept his tone low, his grin sly. “Maybe follow someone home from the bazaar, find out where her family lives?”

  “That sounds more to my likin’.” Karek grinned and clapped Berl on the shoulder. “Good thinkin’. We’ll split up into pairs and have a look ’round. Berl, you and Vash work the bazaar. Wopek and I’ll check the inns along the waterfront. Meet back here round dusk. Right?”

  They agreed and split up, Vash and Berl heading up the street to the wide city square that held the open-air market. Karek turned and headed back toward the waterfront, Wopek close at his heel. There had to be at least one poor barmaid with a vulnerable mother or child they could use as leverage. The best performances were well-motivated, after all.

  *

  “And so the pieces move into place,” Yodrin murmured, sipping a glass of spiced rum and gazing out the window of the waterfront inn. He’d recognized the tall, dark-skinned pirate with the strange-looking knives as one of Bloodwind’s men. A real killer, that one, he thought, smiling thinly. If all went well, there would be more pirates than regular crew aboard the ships.

  “Wha’d you say, dearie?” the woman
asked, raising her tousled mop of red hair from the rumpled pillow.

  “Nothing, my dear. You just rest your pretty head a moment and let me enjoy the view.”

  “All right, my captain,” she said, lolling back on the bed, rolling over tantalizingly for him, “but don’t forget I’m here.”

  “I won’t forget,” he told her, turning back to the view of the quay. He’d arrived only yesterday, the Black Guard easing into port under a Northlands flag and bright white sails, her transom covered by a cunningly fitted false one bearing another name. He’d started spreading stories of a lazy crew, a thieving paymaster and a ship full of rotten framing timbers; a captain looking for a ship.

  The act came easily, as did the women, and the money he spent helped both. By the time Winter Gale made port, he’d be low on his funds and looking in earnest for a permanent billet.

  Now more of Bloodwind’s thugs were arriving, undoubtedly intent on taking crew berths. It would be quite a waiting game, playing the dutiful crew, the honorable captain, but it would be worth it.

  *

  Exhaustion vied with vigilance in Marci’s mind as she made her way home from the Hairy Parrot. The hour was late, but she’d earned a good number of tips, enough for a trip to the market tomorrow with some left over for rent. She didn’t really like working on the waterfront, but the sailors had money. Most were nice enough, just hard working men and women spending their money on a little fun. Some even seemed to care about her plight—a mother without a husband, whose parents had refused to support her. Those who weren’t so kind... Gringle, the bouncer, would talk to them.

  She smiled at the thought of the big man suggesting that a sailor be nice to her, because she was a nice girl, and only nice men got to stay in the inn and talk to nice girls. The bouncer might be a little slow of wit, but Gringle was truly gentle and kind, and made sure nothing happened to the girls. The walk home was usually the most dangerous part of her job.