“He’s more than just a pirate, Daddy. He’s building a whole empire here. He wants me to share it with him, really share it.” Camilla paused, and Bloodwind felt the tension melt away from her. She had accepted it; she had accepted him. “I… I do want it.”
As Koybur stared at her, disbelief plain on his scarred features, Bloodwind allowed himself a smile and a sigh of relief. With her simple commitment all their futures congealed into one: his future, his vision. It all unfolded in his mind, an immutable truth of what would be.
“So, you see,” he said, dispelling the gravity of the moment with a wry wit, “we are about to become in-laws. Rather ironic, considering I’ve always been known as an outlaw.” Everyone laughed dutifully—everyone except Koybur and Camilla.
“Then it was all fer nothin’,” Koybur said as the laughter died, his stare boring into her like an auger. “All the blood on my hands, all the lives, and when I finally come to take you away from him, you want to stay. Do you know…do you have any idea…what I’ve done to get you back?”
His raspy old voice cracked at the last, his shoulders slumping as all the fortitude that held the pain at bay melted away, leaving nothing but a husk of agony and scars. He turned away, all confidence, all strength gone from his ungainly gait as he limped back to the hatchway and descended the companionway steps into Hippotrin.
Bloodwind turned to Yodrin. “I want no foolishness with him, Yodrin. No one harms him. Understood?” Camilla would love him all the more for keeping her father from harm.
“Aye, sir.” He didn’t sound happy about the order, but Bloodwind didn’t particularly care.
“Good. When everyone’s ashore, tell Koybur I want to see him. Bring the ship over to the yard dock and have them fit her with a new topmast and clean her up. We’ll gut her and fit her for crew instead of cargo. I’ve had two ballistae built for her. I want her ready to hunt in a week.”
“Aye, sir!” Yodrin’s mood improved instantly with the orders. “She’ll be ready!”
“See that she is. And have Master Ghelfan brought to the great hall. I’d like to talk with him.” Bloodwind took one more look around the deck of his newest prize. With a smile of satisfaction, he gathered up his entourage and disembarked, his spirits soaring. That confidence might have been shaken had he known the malice burning behind the tiny pair of eyes that followed his departure from high atop the mainmast.
CHAPTER Thirty-Five
Unexpected Feasts
Little moans of pleasure escaped Cynthia’s lips as strong fingers kneaded her soapy scalp, massaged her shoulders and rubbed the soles of her feet. Water just short of scalding and smelling faintly of sulfur lapped at her chin. She smiled as bowl after bowl cascaded over her head, rinsing her hair free of the lather.
She leaned back and half floated, utterly relaxed.
Apprehension had given way to embarrassment when the throng of natives brought her to the hot springs and started stripping away her filthy clothing. At first she wondered if they intended to make soup, but when she saw one of them readying soaproot and sponges she stopped fighting. A bath was just what she needed.
Their amusement with her undergarments, especially the corset, broke some of the tension, but with half of the crowd men, she couldn’t quite relax. When she was down to only her scanties and chemise, she opted to simply climb into the spring. This brought even more laughter from the crowd, but that was not the end of Cynthia’s discomfort, for two men and two women waded in after her and began bathing her head to foot. That took some getting used to.
The crowd drifted away, taking her clothes. They returned bearing only a mat of plaited grasses woven with flowers, and a few wreaths of blossoms. The mat fit around her hips, but exposed a wide swath of thigh, while the wreaths covered the front of her torso, but left her back and midriff completely bare.
“If Grandma could see me now, she’d faint,” she muttered, securing the wreaths with a strand of plaited grass tied behind her back.
As they escorted her back to the village, the aromas of wood smoke and cooking meat reminded her that she had not eaten in two days. Woven mats lay around a huge fire pit, over which slabs of meat, fish and even a few skewered fowl roasted on spits. Her escorts seated her as others brought bowls of fruit, dates and figs, as well as wooden cups filled with some type of fruit juice that bit her tongue as if spiked.
Whuafa hobbled over, grinning widely. “You see, Cynthie Flaxal? You in no danja. You is oua guest. Dis feast fa you!” He waved one skinny arm and would have toppled over if not for his stout helper.
“Please! Sit with me. I would like to talk, and if you could translate it would be much easier.”
“My plesha!” He eased himself down onto the mat with considerable help.
“You must forgive me for the way I acted earlier. I was scared.”
“I undastan,” he said, accepting a cup from a passing girl and drinking deeply.
“There are stories about cannibals that live on these islands.”
“Oh, aye, dere be many stories. Some true. Some not so true.” He popped a fig in his mouth and gummed it into submission. “We do no eat da long pig, da man meat, but de oddas do. We say why, when dere is fish an pig an bird to eat what don fight back so much. Sometimes de oddas come an’ try to take some of oua people, but we fight dem and kill dem. Make head on stick to tell dem not come back. You lucky we fine you fust.” He reached out and pinched her arm, laughing. “You be tasty!”
Even a day before, such an inference would have revolted her, but now she somehow saw the humor, though the thought of cannibals did still elicit concern. “They’re here? On this island?”
“Oh, shua, but you don’ worry. Dey come, we kill dem and put head on stick. Dey know dat.”
“You seem confident,” she said, accepting a piece of cooked meat from a passerby. She sniffed it hesitantly to ensure it was really pork, not something else.
“Oh, aye. Between de oddas an dem pirates, we get good at fightin’. We no let ’em take nobody!”
“Pirates? You know about Bloodwind?”
“Dunno no Bloodwin’, but we know about dem pirates. Hard not to. Dey come an’ try to take da young ’uns. Dunno why. Maybe day eats ’em. Ha! We chase ’em back all da way to dere islan’ once, but dey got lotta ship dere. Lotta men wit’ steel sward. We can’t fight ’em dere.”
“You know which island they use as a base?” Excitement gripped her. “Where? Which one?”
“Oh, it de one wit de big smoke all de time. Not de one on fire, but de one what smoke.”
“Plume Island.” Cynthia mulled over the revelation. Bloodwind would be in for one big surprise when she managed to get home, raise an armada, return and ram the whole thing right down his throat. She lost herself in that fantasy for a moment, but realized that her plan might fail before it started if she did not get home. For that matter, she didn’t even know where she was. “And how far is the pirate’s island?”
“Why? You planning on goin’ dere? Ha!” Whuafa downed his cup of juice and took two more, handing her one. “It be seven islan’s up de chain. We be most sout’. De merchant men call dis Vulture Isle cause o’ de big birds what make dere nests on de mountain.”
“Seven islands,” she muttered, sipping the juice and nibbling at the roast pork while trying to remember her charts. “About sixty sea miles. Now all I need is a boat.” She reached for a passing bowl of fruit, but almost pitched over. Her wreaths slipped, and she had to tuck herself back into place to avoid indecency. She shook her head and laughed, finding it utterly hilarious. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”
“Wrong? Ha! Notin’ wrong, Cynthie Flaxal. It’s da drink! It got you!”
She looked at her cup and sniffed it. “So that’s it. It is spiked! Where did you get the alcohol?”
“Oh, we make it. Put de juice in de cocoanut an’ let it bake in de sun two day, you gotta good drink!” He drank again and laughed long and hard. “Oh, here come de chief man. He g
ot big presen’ for you! Big presen’!”
“A present? What…” One glance at the presents and Cynthia knew this would be a very long day indeed.
*
“Gentlemen, thanks for comin’. Please have a seat.” Six captains took seats around a table laden with food and pitchers of ale surrounding a large-scale chart of the Shattered Isles. “Brulo’s put out some food fer us, not ta mention crackin’ open his larder to help us provision.” He raised his tankard to the innkeeper, but the rotund fellow waved the gratitude away.
“Least I could do for little Cynthia,” Brulo said as they all began filling their plates.
The company nodded and murmured agreement around mouthfuls of welcome food. They had been working all day, and would be throughout the night. They all knew Cynthia one way or another, most having sailed under the Garrison flag at one point in their careers.
Feldrin broke the uncomfortable silence by smacking his palm down on the chart. “So here we got our problem. More’n a hundred isles, many wi’ reefs and coves not well charted, and any one of ’em could hide a fleet of corsairs.”
“More’n one’s my bet,” Dulky Tak of the Syren Song said, stuffing half of a gravy-soaked potato into his mouth.
“I spoke to Master Kurian, and he said the storm swept right over Vulture Isle on a west-nor’west course. Our course when we parted ways with Hippotrin was sou’-sou’west, and headin’ right fer the Fathomless Reaches. When we turned back, the wind had clocked to sou’-sou’east. We might’ve made our course, but we’d’ve been sailin’ right into the teeth of it.”
“And you think that’s what Troilen, er, I mean Yodrin, did?” asked Henri Farr, captain of the Independent. “You turned north; why wouldn’t he?”
“No port’d take ’im if the storm turned north, and he’d have nowhere ta go but through the shallows.”
“That’d be suicide in a hurricane,” Dorrin Clearwater added, agreeing with Feldrin. “He’d’ve made for deep water.”
“Which would’ve put him right in the middle of it. The ship must have been lost.”
Feldrin shook his head at Brulo’s comment. “Not if he’s much of a sailor. The schooners handle weather well, though they’re wet. If he made deep water, he could run before it, or turn back north on the other side o’ the islands.”
“Which could’ve put him several hundred miles out to sea.”
“Exactly!” Feldrin agreed, nodding his thanks to Uben. “So here’s what we do to catch him when he limps home.” He drew seven diverging lines from Southaven toward the southern third of the island chain. “Each ship takes a different course, the slower on the more northerly shorter courses, and the faster on the longer southerly courses. Once we’re there, we take up station on the leeward side and run patrol patterns, meetin’ at scheduled times to keep a line of communication.”
He drew seven zig-zag lines back and forth along the west side of the island chain, their ends almost touching. “We communicate by flag signal.”
“How long do we patrol?”
“Until we find the bastard.” Feldrin nodded to Brulo. “Each of us is layin’ in more’n a month’s stores. If we miss him, we search as long as it takes.”
“And what about Bloodwind?” Julian Ventis of the Southwind asked. “He could pounce on us like a cat on a mouse.”
“The galleons should keep a safe distance from the islands. Stay close enough to see sails on the horizon, but far enough out to make a run up or down the chain for help if you come under attack.” Brelak leaned onto the table, his broad fists pressing down until the stout oak creaked in complaint. “But make no mistake, gentlemen, I mean to fight him. We’ll all be loaded to the gun’als with men and weapons. If it’s a lone corsair, make to flee, lure him in, grapple, board and cut ’em to pieces. If it’s two or three of ’em, run toward yer nearest ally and we’ll crush ’em together.”
“And what do we do about them damn ballista they use?” Ventis asked pointedly.
“We’ve got somethin’ better.” Brelak pushed his chair back, reached under the table and pulled up a small rum cask. It was labeled with a single character, nothing any of them could read.
“What’re we gonna do, get ’em drunk and take advantage of ’em?” Several dry laughs broke out at Ventis’ comment, but Feldrin was not deterred.
“This here’s a present from the lightkeeper.” The laughter died as their eyes widened; the old mage had earned their respect, and more than a little fear.
Brelak placed the small keg on the table, rotating it until they could see the waxed cord sticking out from one side, a bronze hook spliced into its end. “Dura’s buildin’ six small catapults to throw these. We should be able to pitch ’em about a hundred yards.”
“What’s in ’em?” Captain Farr asked, eying the thing dubiously.
“Hell.” Feldrin fingered the clip at the end of the pull cord. “Pull this hard, an’ the barrel erupts like a volcano. Clip it to a length of line long enough to get the thing away from yer ship ’afore it goes off. Just one of these is a corsair killer.”
“Bloody hell,” Farr said in a hoarse whisper.
“How many do we have?” Uben asked.
“Right now only six, but he’s workin’ through the night; tells me he should have more’n a dozen by mornin’.”
“Two per ship? That’s not much.”
“Should be enough. Remember, just one is enough to catch a whole ship afire. If there’s one thing I’d trust him with, it’s how to set things burnin’.”
“And what about Hippotrin? Do we burn her, too?” Uben’s question brought everyone’s eyes back to Feldrin.
“You won’t be able to catch her,” he said with a wry smile. “But no; if Cynthia or Ghelfan might be aboard, I don’t want to risk it. If she’s sighted, we’ll chase her down, board her and get ’em back.”
*
“May I be excused, my captain?” Camilla asked, suppressing a wave of nausea at the display of cruelty she’d been forced to witness. The shipwright Ghelfan sat tied to a chair at the other end of the feasting table, near starvation and unable to take a single bite. The taunts of Bloodwind’s men were not gentle. She knew first hand what Ghelfan was going through, and it disgusted her. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. Of course.” He made a dismissive gesture. “You need not be here while Master Ghelfan learns his place.”
“I’m sure he will learn quickly, my captain.” She rose, bowed to him graciously and left the room.
Guards and servants bowed as Camilla hurried along the corridor in a swirl of multihued silks. Bloodwind had given her freedom to roam the palace and even the town, and she found the autonomy enjoyable.
Not such a bad bargain, she thought, justifying to herself once again that her decision had been the right one.
The shock of meeting her father after so long, seeing for the first time the twisted remnant of the man she’d known, had worn off. That shock had evolved into a sharp annoyance. He assumed she knew nothing of what he had gone through, not taking into account what the past fifteen years had been for her. After so much torment, when she had finally been given a means to end the torture, how could she not take the opportunity?
But he’s still my father, she reminded herself. She had to confront him, but she had to do it alone, without Bloodwind looming over them.
Reaching her rooms, she quickly changed into a simpler dress and comfortable shoes, added a cloak with a hood, and hurried out. At the entrance to the keep the night guards barred the doors. Although she had her freedom, she was still subject to Bloodwind’s curfew.
“Let me through,” Camilla ordered them. “I am going to fetch my father. Captain Bloodwind wishes to speak with him.” Both statements were technically true, although their implied meaning might not be.
“He sent you without a guard?” one of them asked skeptically.
“Of course not.” Once again, her statement was true, her haughty demeanor a
dding just the right air of command. She knew if she were caught, there would be questions. Questions were always attended by Bloodwind’s sorceress, and Hydra could tell if she had lied. “So which of you is going to accompany me?”
“We can’t leave our post, Miss Camilla. You know that.”
“Then summon someone to go with me, but be quick about it. I don’t want to keep the captain waiting.”
“Very well.” One of them stepped into the guardhouse only a few strides from the keep’s looming entrance and emerged a moment later with a rumpled and slightly drunk member of the day watch.
“I’m sorry, Miss Camilla, but I can’t—”
“You can’t protect your captain’s fiancé? Is that what you were about to say?”
He stared at her, surprised at her tone. Until very recently she had been nothing but a slave, albeit a most vaunted slave; now she snapped orders like a boatswain.
“Oh, come now! It won’t take long. You’ll be back in an hour, and you can return to your rum and your trollop. I’m sure she’ll forgive you your absence more than Captain Bloodwind would forgive you for letting me leave the keep unguarded. Let’s go!”
“Very well, Miss. Just hang on while I get a… Hey, slow down!”
Camilla didn’t slow and didn’t look back as the guard scrambled to the guardhouse, retrieved a cutlass and rushed down the steps behind her. She had very little time before Bloodwind tired of Ghelfan and came looking for her.
In the third pub she visited, if the ramshackle shack could even be called a pub, she found Koybur in a corner, a bottle clutched in his one good hand, his chin resting on his chest.
“Damn,” she swore, hoping he hadn’t been knocked on the head and robbed. She knelt and lifted his chin, whispering, “Daddy? Daddy, wake up. It’s me, Cammy. Come on. Wake up!”
He mumbled incoherently and tried to lift the bottle to his lips. She blocked it and shook him gently.
Scimitar Moon Page 35