“No. Come on, Daddy. Wake up!” When he still didn’t respond, she cracked him smartly on the cheek with her open hand. His one eye snapped open, and he raised the bottle to fend her off. Then his vision cleared and he stared at her in shock.
“Wha’ the… What’re you doin’ here? Why don’ you go back to yer fancy captain an’ be his fancy whore, an’ leave me alone.”
The words stung her more deeply than she thought any could, but her anger also flared. She gripped the front of his grimy shirt and pulled him close, whispering harshly into his face.
“Listen to me! I don’t have much time! I need to talk to you, or you’re as good as dead. Do you understand me?”
“You want to be his wife? After what he’s done?”
“You have no idea what he’s done.” Her tone became sharp, her grip on his arm quivering with the memories of his torments. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through here. So many years; I couldn’t take it any more. Being his wife is better than being his slave, or dead. Those were my only choices. Do you understand?”
His good eye focused on her, blinking repeatedly, tears of either drunkenness or sorrow wetting his cheek. Camilla looked over the mass of shiny tight scar tissue and remembered the man she had known as a child. She saw the pain there, both physical and emotional, and her anger seeped away. He had been through a hell of his own, perhaps not as a slave, but living every day as Bloodwind’s spy, betraying his friends to their deaths… all for her.
“I’m sorry, Daddy, I…”
“No, Cammy, I’m sorry. I thought… I thought you… needed me.” Koybur lowered his gaze and tried to turn away.
“No!” She cupped his ravaged face gently in her hands and said the one thing she hoped would bring him back to her. “I love you, Daddy. I know what you did for me. I can take care of you, but you have to come with me now.”
“No, Cammy. He won’t let me up there in that palace of his.”
“He will. He knows I want you here. You don’t need to take anything from him, and he won’t hurt you. I’ll make sure of that.”
“I… I don’t…” He sagged and shook his head, and let the bottle fall from his hand. “Okay, Cammy, but you’ll have to help me up.”
She smiled and pulled at his arms, but could not pull him to his feet. With the guard’s help, she managed to lift the sodden sailor and help him from the pub. Outside, he managed with only her help, which was fine with her. She was with her daddy again, for the first time since the day she’d watched a burning sail fall upon him while an unknown pirate dragged her kicking and screaming aboard the Guillotine. Now that they were back together, they’d never be separated again.
CHAPTER Thirty-Six
Plans for Vengeance
Dappled sunlight played across Cynthia’s face, warm and comforting until a sunbeam drifted slowly across her eyelids. The dull ache that had haunted her dreams exploded into a roaring hangover, wrenching her from the depths of sleep.
“Bloody hell,” she mumbled, stretching carefully. Stiff muscles protested as she rolled over, opened her eyes—and stopped short.
A dark-skinned man slept next to her, his features relaxed and remote. Across his chest rested the slim arm of an equally dark-skinned girl, her hand clutched in his, their fingers intertwined. Cynthia sat up and saw that they wore nothing at all, lying like two dark wooden spoons in a drawer. She remembered that this was how they had been presented to her, mother-naked. Whuafa’s words echoed in her hazy memory.
“Dey be yoas, Cynthie Flaxal. Dey belong to you now.”
“Holy Gods of Light, what did I do last night?” Memories of feasting, and dancing, then more than dancing flashed through her mind. She hadn’t participated in the latter, though in her state of inebriation being a spectator had seemed perfectly all right. And she had no recollection of retiring to this hut and whatever had happened after that.
“With any luck, I passed out.”
Cynthia felt fine, aside from a raging hangover. Her flower skirt and halter were intact, minus a few blossoms, and she felt no soreness that would have hinted that she partook in their lovemaking. She stretched her aching back and looked around the dim hut. The trunk of a single banyan tree formed two walls, while the remaining two were woven from the same type of mat she had slept on. An overhead framework of driftwood hung with what looked like the flotsam of a hundred shipwrecks, including some familiar personal items.
“My clothes!”
She wasted no time getting dressed. A few items were missing, including her corset, but she didn’t care. She looked at the discarded flower-garments, smiled, picked one garland out of the improvised halter and put it over her head. From the others she plucked all the remaining blossoms and cast them over the sleeping couple before padding out of the little hut into the daylight.
“Shambata daroo!”
The roar from the massed throng of natives ripped through her hangover like a shower of broken glass. Cynthia pressed her hands to her exploding head and tried to hush them, but they surged forward and escorted her to the center of the clearing where breakfast lie waiting.
“Whuafa!” she shouted, hoping her translator was within hearing. She sat and accepted a coconut cup from someone, astounded when it scorched her palm. Then she caught a familiar aroma and thought she just might survive.
“How did they get blackbrew?” she asked rhetorically, sipping the strong beverage and sighing blissfully. Of course there was no milk to go with it, but just the aroma cleared some of the cobwebs from her mind.
“Cynthie Flaxal!” a reedy voice called over the murmur of the crowd. Whuafa had a hard time making his way through the crowd. Cynthia’s two “gifts” followed, now thankfully clad in the customary scraps of matted reeds and animal hides that at least covered their loins. For the first time, she realized she didn’t even know their names.
“Whuafa. Please tell me what this is all about. These,” she gestured toward the couple as they sat, “uh, these two. Why give me people? Who are they? Can I say ‘no thank you’ and not insult the chief?”
“Please, one question only fer me achin’ ’ead, Cynthie Flaxal.” He accepted a cup of blackbrew from someone and sipped, sighing expansively. “Dey are Chula and Paska,” he gestured toward the man and woman in turn. “Dey are gifts to you. Dey will protec ya an’ help ya.” He sipped his brew and wrinkled his already wrinkly brow. “I dona t’ink you can say ‘no tanke’ to da chief. His pride is vera big but get hurt easy, an’ you no wanna see dat!”
“Great,” she said, sipping her blackbrew. Someone put a platter of sizzling meats and roasted plantain before her and she sampled it, chewing and thinking with equal energy.
“Well, I guess I could use some guides if I’m going to make my way to Snake Harbor. It’ll probably take a couple weeks to get there, if you have a boat I can take.”
“Oh, we got plenty boat. Why you wanna boat, anyway? You stay hea’, make baby wit’ Chula! Make baby wi’ anybody you like!”
“Babies!” She just about lost her grip on her coconut cup. “Oh, no. No babies. Not for a while yet. I just need to get to the mainland.”
“Why de rush, Cynthie Flaxal? You stay wit’ us. We treat you nice. Eat plenty meat, swim in de sea wi’ de fishy folk, make babies wi’ all de men!”
“I’m sorry, Whuafa. I’ve really got to go. People are out risking their lives looking for me. I’ve got to get back and tell them what I’ve learned about Bloodwind. When that’s taken care of, I promise I’ll come back here and visit you for a month!”
“Only a month? Ah, dat be no good. You come, you stay as long as you like. Month, year, whole life. We get you boat and you an’ Chula an’ Paska go to mainlan’. Dey show you de way. Dey help you and protec’. Okay?”
“Yes! Oh, that would be wonderful, Whuafa! Thank you!”
After a hangover-quenching breakfast, the whole village followed them down to a small cove where a dozen outrigger canoes rested on the sand. The craft looked stur
dy enough, but Cynthia had her doubts about their seaworthiness the open ocean.
“You take these from island to island?”
“Oh, no’ me, Cynthie Flaxal. Me too old for dat. But Chula here, he good wi’ de paddle, and you a seamage!”
“Oh. Uh, right.” With all that had happened, Cynthia had almost forgotten her newly acquired talent. “Say, Whuafa, have you ever put a sail on one of these?”
“Oh, no, Cynthe Flaxal. We got no sails, and de wind, she is wrong for sailin’ to de nort’ or sout’ from islan’ to islan’. We only paddle.”
“Well, I think I’d like to try it. I’ll just ask the wind to blow the right direction, and we’ll give it a go, okay?”
“Okay! Where you gonna get de sail?”
“Uh, yeah. Hmmm.” She looked around at the crowd, spied two men with long fishing spears, and had an idea.
*
With the first light of dawn, three ships emerged from Southaven harbor: Orin’s Pride, followed by Syren Song and Winter Gale. The others were finishing their provisioning, crewing and last-minute modifications. They promised to be ready the following morning, but Brelak could not wait. These three ships would lead the way, meeting the rest at predetermined times and places to the west of the Shattered Isles.
A thin smile of satisfaction creased Feldrin’s lips at the sound of hammering and Dura’s coarse brogue. Thanks largely to the dwarf’s ceaseless efforts, they were on their way right on time. Fifty new sailors struggled to stow their gear while Horace, his new first mate, barked out orders. Most of the new people knew less about sailing than Brelak knew about baking a cake, but they were all willing to learn, and they were all willing to fight.
“She’s handlin’ well!” he said to no one in particular as he felt the trade winds take hold of Orin’s Pride. “The extra weight’s keepin’ her keel down. Set yer course three points west of south, Mister Rowland. Horace, get the tops’ls on her.”
“We’re already leaving the others behind, Captain,” Horace said, cocking an eyebrow at him that made the statement a question.
“Aye, and they know we will. We’ll patrol alone until the rest of ’em catch up. Tops’ls, Horace.”
“Aye, sir. Rig tops’ls! Topmen to the foremast! Man the braces!” As new canvas billowed and filled, Orin’s Pride surged forward, heeling with the added thrust.
“Now we’re crackin’ on!” Rowland shouted, eliciting a cheer from the deck. Spray rose from the bow as the ship clove a swell and raced down the backside, the bow wake roaring in a wave of white.
With the necessary shuffle of crew positions, Brelak had appointed Rowland helmsman of the watch—a position he had earned by sailing the ship through a hurricane short handed. He would also be cooking for sixty, having retained his position through popular assent, but he now had help in that department, since Cynthia’s housemaid Marta had insisted on accompanying them. Even her man Brolan, aged though he was, had presented himself as ship’s steward, a serviceable cutlass riding on his hip.
“We’ll be holdin’ this tack for more’n a day, Horace. Have the off-watch shift cargo to the windward side. That’ll stiffen her up.”
“Aye, sir!”
More orders rang out, but Brelak didn’t hear them as his mind swept into his calculations of course, speed, current and wind. He glanced aft, noting Winter Gale and Syren Song making more sail. They were making good headway, but Orin’s Pride was leaving them quickly behind. He shifted his gaze forward, squinting into the distance. In his mind’s eye he saw Hippotrin clawing back upwind from her long run with the storm. He gritted his teeth as he considered what might be happening to Cynthia among a crew of pirates.
“I’m comin’, lass,” he mumbled beneath his breath. “Just hold fast, I’m comin’.”
*
Koybur’s head pounded as he limped down the steps to the great hall of Bloodwind’s palace, ignoring the churlish glares that followed him. His memories of the previous evening were hazy at best, but one element stood out in stark relief: Cammy still loved him and needed him. All the blood on his hands, Cynthia’s death, the ships and sailors he’d betrayed had not been for nothing. He might not be free to take her away, but they could at least be together.
Entering the feasting hall, Koybur thought the room looked as if it had been under siege. Men, women, servants and slaves lay sprawled on chairs, rugs and even along the length of the great oaken table. Only one person in the entire room looked as if he had not eaten and drank himself into a stupor, but Ghelfan looked even worse than the revelers. Bloodwind was absent, so Koybur went to the half-elf’s side, bending to inspect the damage.
“Hell and high tide, man, what’d they do to ya?” Koybur lifted the half-elf’s head carefully where it sagged onto his food-spattered chest. Ghelfan’s face had been smeared with gravy and his ears stuffed with bits of potato. His eyes fluttered open and his mouth gaped, trying to form words through parched lips.
“Wa— water,” he managed, his voice a bare whisper.
“Hang on, lad. Le’me find somethin’ here for ya.” He cast about the mayhem of the leftover feast, but every ewer and pitcher held rum, wine or ale. He settled for a fruity concoction that didn’t smell too polluted with alcohol, tried a sip, and nodded. Sure, there was rum in it, but that’d probably do the lad good, in his state.
“Here ya go. Drink slow.” He pressed the rim of the pitcher to the half-elf’s lips and watched him drink greedily. After four swallows, Koybur tilted the pitcher back.
“Easy now. Don’t want ya gettin’ sick. Best have somethin’ ta ballast that load. Here.” He plucked a slab of roast pork from a platter and fed it to Ghelfan a bite at a time. “Better?”
“Yes. More to drink, please.”
“Sure, lad. Looks like you could use it.”
“My, my. What a shambles this is.”
Bloodwind’s smooth baritone startled Koybur, but he refused to let it show, continuing to feed Ghelfan.
“And Mister Koybur has come up from town to help us attend to our guest. How very thoughtful.”
“You let him die of thirst and you’ll have no more ships like Hippotrin.” He fed the last bite of pork to Ghelfan and let the half-elf drink deeply of the pitcher. He glanced over his shoulder and, having prepared himself for what he might see, did not gape at the gossamer finery Cammy wore. It was a far cry from the gingham and pigtails she wore the day Orin and Peggy Flaxal met their end, the day she had been stolen away by Bloodwind. Now she was clad in a gown that displayed her as an object of desire. Dressed like a sultan’s whore, he thought.
“Oh, I don’t think any permanent damage has befallen Master Ghelfan,” Bloodwind said, escorting Cammy to the head of the table and taking the one unoccupied seat. Camilla stood at his shoulder. “He simply had to learn a lesson last night, one that I’m sure he has taken to heart. But you, Master Koybur, why are you here? It was my understanding that you did not want to be part of the family I plan to create here.”
“I don’t,” he stated flatly, knowing Bloodwind would be shrewd enough to detect an outright lie, “but I want to be near Cammy, and she’s chosen to be part of this. I don’t like it, but I’m not gonna leave her.”
“Well said.” The pirate captain reached for a small brass bell and rang it.
A flood of servants swept into the room, rousing the sleepers and carrying away those who could not be stirred. They cleared away the partially eaten feast, and brought in a silver blackbrew service and a platter of toasted cheese, fresh bread, butter and mango preserves. In moments three place settings of fine white porcelain had been set. Bloodwind beckoned Camilla and Koybur to sit.
“Please, Mister Koybur, join us for breakfast,” he said as Camilla settled into the chair to his left, as graceful and serene as a tropical bird coming to roost.
“What about him?” Koybur asked, indicating Ghelfan with a nod.
“Master Ghelfan has but to say one simple phrase and the ropes will be forever removed from his
wrists. He knows the words that will free him. It is his choice to remain a prisoner.”
“You’d best rethink yer options here, lad,” Koybur told the half-elf, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ll get no ballads sung fer yer noble defiance here.” He rounded the table and limped toward the other end where Bloodwind and Cammy sat. He stopped briefly, regarding the empty chair for a moment as if it were more dangerous than an entire island full of pirates—which, of course, it was.
Koybur sat down and dropped the white linen napkin into his lap.
“Blackbrew, Master Koybur?” his host asked, lifting the silver pot.
“Don’t mind if I do, Captain. Don’t mind if I do.”
CHAPTER Thirty-Seven
Ships in the Night
“Some bloody seamage I am,” Cynthia muttered, helping Chula and Paska pull the swamped outrigger up onto a broad beach.
She had discovered that the orchestra of wind and water was not to be conducted by a neophyte. Wind, chop, current, tide and swell all struck at once, and every time she tried to concentrate on one element of the mix, the others played havoc with her makeshift sail or the small craft’s low freeboard. After losing their improvised sail, masts and all, to an errant gust, she concentrated on the sea alone. This was easier, until they approached the next island.
As they passed through a narrow cut in the reef, a breaker appeared from nowhere to dash them hard from astern. She never even felt it coming. If not for the craft’s remarkable stability, they might have capsized, but Chula simply laughed and dug his spade-shaped paddle into the water, driving them forward on the next wave.
With the boat safe, Chula grabbed their possessions and tossed them on the sand. Paska started bailing the water out of the craft, chattering away at him in an admonishing tone, obviously blaming him for their whole predicament. Chula only grinned, nodded, and continued drying out their equipment.
Cynthia stripped out of her sodden garments and hung them on a driftwood log to dry. She thought it strange how quickly her ideals of modesty had changed. She still couldn’t imagine stripping down to her scanties in front of someone like Feldrin, but with Chula and Paska it seemed natural. When she turned back Chula was trotting away down the beach, his bow and club in hand, while Paska continued complaining to no one in particular.
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