Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  They both agreed, relieved that she had noticed their discomfort and taken the hint. She could have watched the workers all day, mesmerized by the sights, sounds and smells, but she knew her presence would slow the work. She and Koybur left the building and ambled up the street.

  “Come to the Starfish with me, Koybur. I’ll buy you lunch.” Mouse cheered in her ear at the mention of food.

  “But you won the bet.”

  “I did, and you’re going to pay up, but not just yet. I need to eat something and I hate to eat alone. Then I’m going to walk up the hill and see how Marta and Brolen are doing. I need the exercise.”

  Lunch evolved into an afternoon of tale telling with Brulo, Rowland and a good number of locals. She escaped before the ale started flowing, much to Mouse’s disapproval, but vowed to return for dinner. She had to pause several times on the way up the hill, the toll of her drug-induced inactivity. She felt well enough, but the profound weakness in her limbs and her lack of endurance were alarming.

  The old estate had not changed, aside from some additional repairs on the unburned portion of the house and the construction of a new foyer. The oleander was blooming, but the frangipani and honeysuckle had passed.

  She had sent word of her return, not wanting to surprise Marta and Brolan. Marta made a big fuss, just as she had expected, while Brolan hovered nearby, wringing his broad hands as if wanting something to do while his face remained fixed in a broad smile.

  It truly felt good to be home.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Four

  Dinner Among Friends

  True to Cynthia’s expectations, a meal at the Galloping Starfish and an evening among friends put her to rights. The entire crew of the Winter Gale came ashore for her promised round of drinks, and many stayed well into the night. Cynthia enjoyed herself thoroughly but, unlike Mouse, took care not to over-indulge. The following morning she woke early for a brisk walk around the grounds, but the sprite remained snugly huddled in her sock drawer, oblivious and unrousable.

  Marta rushed her through breakfast, claiming she had to make a trip to town to purchase stores for dinner. She couldn’t remember the last time guests had been invited, let alone such a number. Consequently, the woman verged on panic. Cynthia inspected the shopping list, started to say something about the expense, but then decided against intervening. One night’s revelry for her new officers would be worth the cost. She had things to tell them that were best said after a good meal and a few drinks. The thought of money did prompt another idea, however: aside from one essential visit on the other side of town, she would visit her banker, Master Fergus, to evaluate her financial status.

  After eggs, sausage, two of Marta’s scones and three cups of blackbrew, Cynthia felt ready to face the day. That was when Mouse finally fluttered into the room. He peeped miserably at Marta and received a scowl, half a sausage and the corner of a leftover scone.

  Cynthia refused a ride and thoroughly enjoyed the walk down the hill. Mouse wobbled alongside, investigating every blossom and leaf beside the road and terrorizing half a dozen squirrels along the way. Her financial concerns were minor, but being absent for six weeks during such a demanding project could have put a pinch in her funds. The last person she expected to bump into upon entering Fergus’ office was Koybur, but chance and inattention brought them together in a tangle of skirts, twisted limbs and screeching seasprite.

  “Koybur! I’m sorry. What are you doing here of all places?”

  “Where should I be, lass?” He extricated himself from her skirts, propped a slightly squashed Mouse onto her shoulder and explained. “Sunrise and Seven Sisters made landfall while we was out gallivantin’, both with tidy sums in their strongboxes.”

  “Oh? How much?” Perhaps her finances weren’t as depleted as she’d thought.

  “Well, as I said, tidy sums, but after Master Keelson dipped into the pot there weren’t much left to pay the piper.”

  “Keelson? Why would— Oh, I forgot.” She’d left orders for her other three ships to have whatever repairs were deemed necessary by their masters when they next made landfall in Southaven. Evidently both had needed extensive repairs. “Well, at least they’re both ship-shape. They’ll earn more in good condition than they would leaking like sieves and caked with growth.”

  “Aye, and as I said there was a bit left over. Seven Sisters made a good run on silks and spice.”

  “Good! That means I can pay you this month.” She clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “See you up the hill tonight. You don’t want to miss it; Marta’s all a twitter.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it fer all the ladies in Southaven, Cyn, though you might regret tellin’ Ghelfan to bring that acid-tongued little brick of a dwarf along. She’ll eat you out of hearth and home.”

  “No worries, Koybur. From the shopping list I read this morning, there’ll be enough to feed Winter Gale’s entire crew and still have leftovers.”

  “My kinda party.” He nodded and lurched out the door and down the steps, whistling and tapping the ashes out of his pipe as he made his way across the cobbled street.

  She watched him for a moment and shook her head in wonder; Koybur always managed a smile. Considering what he had to live with every day of his life, her trials seemed minuscule.

  With that thought she turned to Master Fergus to find out just how much money she had left. The result surprised her. She should have enough to outfit both ships nicely and have coin left to buy their first cargos.

  She exited the office and took a deep breath. One more errand awaited her, and it would require a considerable walk. Weary but steady legs carried her through town. At the far end, she looked up at the distant lighthouse and wondered if the old lightkeeper would indulge her strange request.

  *

  Dinner turned into an affair to be remembered.

  Part of Marta’s shopping expedition included hiring one of the serving girls from the Galloping Starfish for the evening. Kara was not the most comely of the girls Brulo employed, but her skills at seeing to the needs of her customers outshone the others’ by far.

  The guests arrived in pairs and small groups, Captains Ulbattaer and Troilen first, then Brelak and the boatswain Karek. Vulta had struck up an instant friendship with Finthie Tar. Two kindred spirits, Cynthia thought, as they arrived arm-in-arm, already singing sea chanties. The last were Ghelfan, Keelson, Koybur and the stout dwarven woman Dura ShunTaren, all piled into one of the shipyard’s wagons.

  Kara met the guests and ushered them to the sitting room, where Cynthia had been instructed by Marta to keep them all company and, at all costs, out of the kitchen. The estate’s extensive cellar had been broached, and all manner of rare liqueurs, whiskies, ports, rums, wines and ales lay arrayed for the guests.

  “Drinks, lady and gentlemen?” Kara asked the last four to arrive as Cynthia shook their hands and welcomed them to her home.

  “Bloody right, drinks!” Dura said, nodding to Cynthia and raising one bushy eyebrow at the expansive array of bottles. “Damned buckboard pu’ a permanent dent in me arse! Somethin’ ta kill the pain’d be much appreciated. The Nort’umberland single malt, neat.”

  When all had received drinks, Cynthia took them on a short tour of the house: from the cellar, which left Dura gaping in appreciation, to the top of the tower, where the night air refreshed their senses. Moonlight on a calm sea and an expansive view of the flickering lights of Southaven lay before them like a child’s glittering toy.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen,” Cynthia said with a wave of one hand, “is where I fell in love.”

  Several eyes cocked at her curiously, but more than a few looked on knowingly. Mouse simply sighed, fluttered to her shoulder and planted a resounding kiss on her cheek. Finally Brelak voiced what many of them knew.

  “With the sea. Aye, I can see it in yer eyes. But have a care, Miss Cynthia. She’s a harsh mistress. Don’t let her get her claws too deep in yer heart. She’ll break it sure.”

  “Too late
for that, Master Brelak,” she said, her voice cracking. She sipped her wine and pointed to the harbor. “But not too late to have at least some of my dreams come true. This is also where I got the idea for the ships you’re all working on so diligently. When I was ten years old, I watched a dhow cut a line for the channel that no galleon could match, but she was slipping downwind so badly that it did her no good. I thought, why not put a decent keel on her, or put her rig on a small galleon? The rest happened on paper.”

  “On paper?” Ghelfan asked, interest arching his brow.

  “Well, mostly. I took some measurements from Koybur’s little smack and there were some sketches in the library, things my father did when he was young. The rest I just drew because it felt right.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Aye, amazin’ that my drink’s empty again! Where’s that girl?”

  “Dura! We’re guests here!” Ghelfan swatted her shoulder, but only succeeded in injuring his hand.

  “Aye, an’ thirsty ones! Shall we retire to the parlor?” Mouse cheered, fluttering from Cynthia’s shoulder to Dura’s, drawing a raucous laugh as she led the way back down the stairs. “Now there be a bug after me own heart!”

  Kara awaited their arrival with a platter of tiny loaves of bread, each no larger than Brelak’s thumb and stuffed with spicy sausage and garlic. Kara replenished their drinks, then opened the two mahogany-paneled pocket doors that joined the sitting room with the main dining room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated.”

  Light flooded from two crystal chandeliers and eighteen polished bronze wall sconces. The silk embroidered tablecloth glittered in the light, along with a mismatched set of crystal, porcelain and silver. None of the guests noticed, for the rest of the décor captured their attention fully.

  A portrait of Benjamin Garrison dominated the far wall. This painting alone had hung there for as long as Cynthia could remember. Other portraits had been salvaged from closets and cellars after the fire and now hung on display.

  Orin Flaxal stood upon the south wall, his slim form clad in a white linen shirt and a vest of azure blue, his deep green eyes squinting and his mouth turned up in a mirthful quirk. On the opposite wall, Peggy Flaxal stood in a light green gown, her auburn hair drawn up into a complicated coiffure, tendrils curling down the graceful curve of her neck. The two looked across the ornately arranged table at one another as if oblivious to the rest of the room.

  Between the portraits hung paintings of every ship Ben Garrison had owned, from the greatest galleon to the lowliest barge.

  “I must apologize for the mismatched place settings,” Cynthia began, waving a hand for the others to follow her into the dining room, “but along with the entire north wing of the house, the dinnerware seems to have taken the greatest damage by the fire.” She took her seat at the head of the table beneath her grandfather’s portrait.

  “Not used ta such fin’ry,” Dura said, placing her glass of single malt whiskey beside the plate of alabaster porcelain edged in royal blue and gold. She tapped a crystal water goblet with a thick fingernail, smiling at the tone. “Somebody gimme a kick if I grab the wrong fork, ay?”

  “I don’t stand on ceremony, Dura. I was raised to all of this, but my parents and grandfather were sailors.” She raised her glass in a toast. “All I ask is that you enjoy my hospitality.”

  “To Mistress Cynthia Flaxal!” Troilen offered, raising his glass. “May her hospitality never run short.”

  “And her cellar never run dry!” Dura agreed as the others burst into laughter and raised their own glasses in toast.

  And enjoy they did.

  Through courses of soup, to fruit and cheeses, to fish, to fowl and culminating in a fabulous rack of lamb, each course accompanied by a carefully selected wine, they ate and toasted and laughed, complimenting Marta at every turn. Hours passed with the meal, and wine flowed like water until all, including the seemingly bottomless Dura, declared themselves sated.

  “I never knew food could taste like that,” Karek said, holding his outstretched hands over his stomach.

  “It usually doesn’t, unless it is created by the hands of a true master in the culinary art.” Ghelfan raised his glass to Marta as she helped Kara take away the plates. “My dear, if our ages were not separated by seventy years, I would ask you to wed.”

  “Why, Master Ghelfan!” Marta blushed and giggled like a girl. “If I were twenty years younger, I might accept!”

  Cynthia stood and raised her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I offer a toast to this evening’s benefactor. To my lady Marta. May her skills never wane and her eye never wander.”

  They all cheered and raised their glasses amid the laughter of friends well-plied with good food and drink.

  “Ah! But wait!” Marta raised a hand and favored them all with a sly smile. “You’ve forgotten… dessert!”

  A series of delighted groans circulated the table.

  “With the sweet I can offer you blackbrew, tea, brandy or port.”

  They all made their choices, some more than one, and Marta departed.

  “Well, I hope the repast has not so befuddled your senses that we can’t have a little conversation.” Cynthia gauged her guests and saw the quirk of amusement only in Koybur. The others, it seemed, remained oblivious to her intent. Just as well, she thought, bracing herself. “Tonight I would like to divulge to you my true intentions behind building these new ships.”

  “Intentions?” Ghelfan asked, his ears perking up visibly. “I was under the impression that your intentions were to rebuild your grandfather’s empire, to build a fleet of ships.”

  “That is only part of my intent, Master Ghelfan. But rest assured that is an integral part of my overall plan.”

  Marta and Kara entered bearing beverages and platters of tiny dishes. Each diner received a bowl containing a baked custard. On the surface of each an intricate silhouette of a ship lay rendered in spun sugar, the perfect profile of Cynthia’s new design under full sail.

  “As you may or may not know, my parents were murdered by the pirate who calls himself Bloodwind.”

  The table fell silent as Marta and Kara finished serving, all eyes on Cynthia. She took her spoon and sampled her dessert, signifying that they should all eat. Several sipped their beverages, and a few sampled the sweet custard.

  “I am no warrior, and no seamage like my father, much to my chagrin, but I will have my revenge against the man who murdered my parents.” A few eyes strayed to the portrait to Cynthia’s left, that of Orin Flaxal, and she saw some trepidation in those glances. “By building these new ships, ships that can sail faster and closer to the wind than any corsair on the sea, I intend to starve Bloodwind to death.”

  They stared at her, some in understanding, some in utter shock. Finally, one of them voiced his concerns.

  “Pardon me, Mistress, but with two ships, you can’t be serious.”

  Cynthia met Rafen Ulbattaer’s eyes squarely, and smiled. “No, not with just two ships. These two will be the first of many, and despite my own and Master Ghelfan’s best efforts, the design will be copied and other ship builders will soon be launching similar hulls. Additionally, I have started plans for larger versions of the same design, three and even four-masted versions that can haul as much as any galleon on the sea, and reach their destinations in half the time.”

  She paused and fixed them all with an even, steady stare.

  “I have patience, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this, and I can wait that many more if need be.”

  “Why not just hunt the bastard down and kill him?” Brelak asked with all the direct honesty of his Morrgrey heritage.

  “Two reasons, Master Brelak, the first of which I already stated: I’m not a warrior. The second is that war is very expensive, not only in money but in lives. I’m not prepared to spend anyone else’s lives on this.”

  “Why tell us?” Karek asked casually, sampling his custard and sipping his brand
y. “It’s not like you’re askin’ us to go to war.”

  “Actually, that is exactly what I’m asking, Mister Karek.” This brought everyone up short, even Koybur.

  “But you said—”

  “I said that I wasn’t going to ask anyone to hunt Bloodwind down and kill him. I’m not so naïve that I think he won’t be hunting me.”

  “What?” Troilen sat up like he’d been slapped.

  “Think for a moment, please,” she insisted. “These ships are faster, more maneuverable and sail closer to the wind than any ship on the sea. What would be their most profitable application?”

  “Piracy,” Rafen Ulbattaer’s flat tone hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

  “Exactly. These ships would make the perfect corsairs, and so, can never be allowed to be used for piracy.”

  They waited for her to finish that thought, knowing there had to be more. They could see it on her face. There were few ways to prevent a ship from being taken. Surprisingly, Brelak had the answer first.

  “So, if we’re boarded by pirates, the ships are to be scuttled,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone far too casual for his words.

  “No. Burned,” Cynthia countered, raising her cup and draining the last of her blackbrew. “Scuttling a ship is too slow and unsure. I’ve spoken to the lighthouse keeper here in Southaven, and he assures me he can prepare a device that will ignite an entire ship in any weather or conditions. He is an expert in the area.”

  “What about the crew?” Finthie’s voice sounded thin and somewhat strained.

  “Pirates don’t take prisoners,” Cynthia answered, her eyes flint hard as she met the boatswain’s gaze. “Abandoning ship and taking your chances in an open boat or even adrift is no worse a fate than the one Captain Bloodwind would offer, I think.”

  “True enough,” Brelak confirmed, his voice steady as stone.