Winds of Marque

by Bennett R. Coles

  “And scales, and claws, and walking on two feet,” Flatrock added.

  “Yeah, yeah—so just like big dogs.”

  “Except nothing like them.”

  “Shut up.”

  Amelia laughed. She’d been in the Navy long enough to see a few worlds beyond Passagia, but she’d never met one of the other races. They mostly kept to themselves, except for the odd brute looking to make easy money. And with Renaissance in the shape she was in after that storm, Amelia doubted there would be much travel in her near future.

  “So what’s this I hear about your captain dashing his own ship against the maelstrom?” the old coot suddenly asked, eyeing Amelia and her two shipmates.

  Amelia heard Flatrock snort in disdain. As much as she might want to, though, she was under orders not to discuss the details of the incident. “Yes,” she opined, thinking quickly. “When ship captains decide to do dangerous things, do they really understand the true implications of their actions?”

  “What?”

  “Consider syrup,” Amelia continued, pausing for a quick sip of ale. “It might not sound like much, but it’s a crew favorite. And as the section head of food storage, I have a lot of it.”

  “That’s true.” Hedge sighed, remembering.

  “And when heavy weather causes the storage units to buckle, syrup escapes.” Amelia smirked at the confused looks around the table.

  “So, you’re saying,” Hedge said, “that Captain Silverhawk should have considered the syrup before taking us into that storm?”

  “Don’t underestimate it. That stuff is slow, but relentless.”

  “I hear you and Hedgie spent twelve hours scraping that stuff off the deck this morning,” Flatrock scoffed.

  “It was a slow onslaught of leaking, seeping sweetness.” She was rewarded with smiles and a few guffaws.

  “Stupid is what it was!” Hedge snapped. “Nearly got us all killed, and just so his majestic captain lordness could dance with a princess!”

  Scoffs of disapproval sounded from around the table.

  “Come on,” challenged the young lad, high with drunken courage. “There had to be a better reason than that. No captain would be that dumb.”

  “Virts,” Hedge said, elbowing Amelia, “tell ’em.”

  “It’s true,” she admitted, realizing that at least that part of the incident was already widely known. “The captain wanted to beat Celebration back so that he could have the first dance with some princess who’s visiting.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!” shouted the lad, rising to his feet in indignation.

  “Are you insulting my captain?” Flatrock roared, bursting upward and sending his stool flying backward.

  The lad started, obviously unsure how to respond. Amelia could see the amused gleam in Flatrock’s eye, but she kept quiet, watching to see if the kid would take the bait. Finally, he sat down again.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Oh, come on!” Flatrock guffawed. “I was looking for a reason to fight.”

  “Say”—Hedge leaned on Amelia and pointed past her to another table—“aren’t those folks from Celebration?”

  “Yeah,” said one of the other sailors at the table, “I think they are.”

  Amelia felt Hedge’s body tense.

  “Hedgie . . . ,” she warned, “you’re wearing a dress.”

  “Gives me more mobility in my arms.” She pushed up and climbed onto the table.

  Amelia sighed; she was too tired for this tonight. Flatrock was still on his feet, motioning the lad to stand up and glare at the other table.

  “Hey, Celebration,” Hedge screeched, loud enough to be heard across the entire tavern. “Nice to see you finally sneak into port!”

  Some of the sailors looked up. One of them threw a vague cuss back at her. Flatrock stepped forward, calling him out for the insult. A few Celebration sailors rose to their feet.

  “Oh,” Amelia said, slipping down off the stool to crawl under the table, “for the love of . . .”

  “All of us from Renaissance have been here for hours,” Hedge continued, “and I bet our captain’s already in bed with the princess. Your captain’s probably in the royal kitchens, scrubbing dishes!”

  It was a lame insult, but in the powder keg of the first night ashore, it was all that was needed. Amelia saw boots scrambling and stools tumbling as sailors charged each other. The roar of a brawl erupted. Amelia heard three quick thumps above her, then heard Hedge’s battle cry as she launched herself into the fray.

  Amelia gave it a few moments, then grabbed her cloak and crawled out from under the now-empty side of the table. More sailors were running to join the fray, but no one noticed her as she kept low and headed for the door. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she glanced back once at the melee. Flatrock was still on his feet, huge fists swinging, and Hedge was momentarily visible in a tussle across one of the tables. Whether she was fighting her opponent or kissing him wasn’t clear from this distance. Amelia couldn’t help but laugh. Flipping her hood up, she stepped out into the cold.

  The roar of the tavern was silenced as the heavy door slammed behind her, and the quiet stillness of the foggy street was a shock. Amelia stood for a moment, watching as a few townsfolk shuffled or strode past, the last of the common workers heading home. The cold surrounded her in moments. The tiny room she rented above one of the shops was far enough away from Tavern Row to give her some peace, but on a night like this she wished it was just next door.

  Dark forms huddled against the building fronts, curled up against the chill.

  “Spare a copper?” one of them called to her. The deepness of his voice caught her attention.

  Her eyes flicked down. The man was hidden under his ragged cloak, but his lean form was obvious beneath the sodden wool. He was probably starving, and with winter coming, he’d suffer terribly. She paused long enough to pull out a coin and drop it in the cup at his curled-up feet.

  “Bless you, milady,” he whispered.

  She stepped away, not wanting to loiter too long as the streets were starting to empty. It would be a few hours before the hordes of drunken sailors spilled forth from the taverns, and she knew from long experience that it was this depth of the quiet night when single travelers were most at risk. Hearing a soft shuffle of movement behind her, she quickened her pace.

  The beggars she passed were mostly lying down, curled up to sleep as best they could. She passed a few townsfolk without meeting their eyes, not wanting to invite or provoke any trouble. She noticed that a man was walking in the same direction as her on the far side of the street, a heavy cloak obscuring his features. He didn’t look up, and she eventually overtook him, but she kept an eye on him the entire time. Something told her that he was keeping an eye on her too.

  She splashed through a rising trickle of water draining down the street, quickening her pace. The fog seemed to muffle sounds, but she could make out at least two other sets of footfalls behind her. They were neither quick nor close, but she tracked them carefully.

  The fog was getting thicker, with several blocks still to go. Normally when she was being followed she’d take a random route and lose any pursuers in order to avoid revealing where she lived. But all she wanted right now was to get back into the warm and dry. She glanced over her left shoulder at the man across the street, wondering if she should just dash back to the Laughing Boar and ask one of her shipmates to walk her home.

  Suddenly hands grabbed her from the other side. She was pulled into the entrance of a narrow alley, and felt the hard slam of stone against her back as she was pushed up against a wall. An angry-looking youth filled her vision, his forearm pressing her back as he brandished a dagger.

  “If you have money for beggars,” he hissed, “then you have money for me. Give me your purse.”

  She fought down the shock and anger of getting caught out, and reached under her cloak. Her hand closed on her sailor’s knife.

  “Come on,” the
thief snapped, “or I’ll cut your face.”

  She wrenched her arm out, slashing the blade of her knife across his chest. He cried out in pain, stumbling backward and clutching at the wound. She lunged forward, punching him square in the face and sidestepping his desperate stab with the dagger. Her kick crashed down into the side of his knee, sending him staggering to the ground. His weapon skittered away across the cobblestones, coming to rest at a pair of boots.

  She looked up, and saw the tall, thin form of the beggar she’d given the copper to. His ragged cloak looked ready to fall apart, but his stance was guarded and steady. One of his hands was reaching for what Amelia could now clearly see was a sword, but he froze as he met Amelia’s eyes, and for a moment Amelia and the figure simply stared at each other over the groaning form of the thief. Then the man she’d spotted from across the street appeared out of the shadows, pausing next to the beggar. Glancing between the two of them, Amelia lowered into a fighting stance and raised her knife. “I want no trouble,” she warned. “But I will defend myself.”

  The two cloaked figures stood in silence as Amelia’s words were swallowed by the silence of the fog.

  Then the beggar dropped the hood of his cloak.

  “Master Rating Virtue,” he said in his deep voice, “stand down, if you please.”

  She blinked, looking closer even as she kept the knife ready. The voice did sound familiar, but his face was shadowed . . . but as she studied him, she slowly recognized the elegant cut of his dark hair, short on the back and sides in the military way with a bit of stylish length at the top. The beggar wasn’t thin, she suddenly realized as he stood up to his full height, but lean with muscle.

  “Lord Blackwood,” she said, unsure if it was appropriate to either curtsy or knuckle her forehead, considering the situation.

  “You’re clearly capable of defending yourself,” he said. His tone was mild, and difficult to interpret. “Lieutenant Swift and I were moving to your aid, but I see now our efforts weren’t required.”

  The other cloaked figure dropped his hood, and she recognized the shaved head of Renaissance’s propulsion officer. He collected the dagger at their feet, then manhandled the thief out into the street. Blackwood didn’t move, his gaze staying on her the entire time.

  “Yes, sir,” she said finally, moving closer so that she could see his expression in the dim light. His high cheekbones shone in the streetlights and above his sharp, smooth chin his smile was easy and confident, just as she remembered from Renaissance’s propulsion room. She felt her cheeks flush as his eyes held hers, but she quickly brushed it off as simply the adrenaline after the fight. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he said, reaching under his cloak and offering her back her coin. “Not many passersby are so generous to beggars.”

  She took the coin instinctively, still trying to process the fact that she was standing in a dark alley with two officers, one of whom was a lord.

  “How may I serve you, sir?” she asked.

  “First,” he said with a bit of a smirk, “I request that you stop pointing that knife at me.”

  She glanced down and saw that she still hadn’t relaxed from her defensive posture. Cheeks flushing, she pocketed the knife and squared her shoulders.

  “Do you have a few minutes to chat with us privately?” he asked.

  “Of course, sir.”

  He gestured for her to accompany him back onto the street and he fell in beside her as they walked, Swift following a few paces behind.

  “You didn’t stay long at the Laughing Boar,” he commented. “I understand it’s usually a lot of fun.”

  “I wasn’t in the mood for brawling this evening,” she answered, then remembered she was addressing a noble. “I mean—there was a fight and I wanted no part of it, my lord.”

  “I find it’s often a good way to release stress after a long deployment, especially after what we’ve been through, lately.”

  She kept her eyes on the street, not sure how to answer. The soft thud of their boots against the cobblestones was the only sound. He seemed content to simply walk beside her.

  “Do you often pose as a beggar on a damp street at night, my lord?” she finally asked.

  “I’ve discovered that beggars are the people no one notices, present company excluded,” he said with a hand on her shoulder, “and it gives me a reason to wait outside a building without drawing suspicion.”

  “Why were you waiting outside the Laughing Boar?”

  “To meet you.” She stopped dead at this, turning to face him. His expression was friendly and serene, as if this sort of thing was commonplace. “Thank you for leaving early—it was getting a bit cold.”

  Lord Blackwood was looking for her? Amelia’s pulse quickened, and she wasn’t sure if it was in interest or fear.

  “Am I in trouble, sir?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  Her gaze drifted down his tall, lean form. A grin tugged at her lips. “So why are you looking for me in the middle of the night?”

  “I’ve been assigned to a new vessel,” he said quietly, “and since she’s just coming back into commission we’re assembling an entirely new crew. I’ve been thinking about who from Renaissance I might like to keep serving with, and I thought of you.”

  Her eyes shot up to meet his. His rugged features were softened by an easy smile.

  “You’d like me to go to a new ship?” she asked.

  “As part of my crew. No doubt we’ll be drawing from the manning lists to make up the balance, but the captain and I certainly have some choice in who we bring aboard.”

  “Is Captain Silverhawk taking this new ship?”

  “No,” he scoffed, just a bit too openly. His features settled back into a carefully neutral expression, polite smile returning. “We will have the honor of serving under Commander Sophia Riverton.”

  Amelia had never heard of Riverton, but she couldn’t be any worse than Silverhawk. Her name suggested that she was nobility, but pretty much any ship captain had blue blood in His Majesty’s Navy.

  “May I ask what ship, sir?”

  “The frigate Daring. She’s an older vessel but she’s just come out of refit with some new gear. I think it will be a very rewarding commission, and I need top people to join me. Are you interested, Master Rating Virtue?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said immediately, realizing that she’d done nothing but ask questions so far. “Thank you for thinking of me—I’m honored.”

  “You did tremendous work during that storm, far beyond what you were required to do.”

  He gave her an appraising look, and she was suddenly very aware of her matted hair, old cloak, and bloody knuckles. But his expression was still maddeningly polite, with no hint of any trickery.

  “Thank you, sir,” she finally said. “You’re too kind.”

  “So do you feel up to running a department on your own?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I’m offering you the position of quartermaster aboard Daring.” His smile finally turned into a genuine grin. He offered her a crisp, folded parchment. “And with that comes a promotion to petty officer. Are you interested?”

  She opened the parchment, and saw to her amazement that it was a letter of promotion signed by Blackwood himself. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop her own matching grin from bursting forth. A ticket off Renaissance, a promotion, and the chance to get away from this damp chill?

  “Count me in, sir.”

  The next morning, Amelia threw on her uniform and went straight to the Navy base. Fortified, stone walls ringed the entire facility, brick buildings emerging through the fog as she followed the morning gaggle of sailors reporting for duty. Her first stop was at the uniform shop, where she presented her parchment and was rewarded with the rank of petty officer. Then she headed for the sky-ladder.

  The ladder cars trundled along their tracks at regular intervals, and with few sailors milling about this morning she was able to quickl
y secure a seat in the next utilitarian car. The doors hissed shut behind her and the car rattled along horizontally as it lined up for the ascent. Her stomach lurched, as it always did, when the car first lifted off the ground, but she took slow, deep breaths and adjusted to the strange feeling of flying. For the first minute the fog obscured any view. Then came the moment she loved most, when the car pierced the fog and broke free into the clear sky. The bank of clouds glowed pink in the morning sunlight and in the far distance she could see mountain peaks rising high above the lowlands. The car continued to accelerate, the view revealing more and more of Passagia even as details shrank away from sight. It was a blue and gray world, rarely noted in Imperial literature for its beauty, but it was Amelia’s home and she felt a fondness in her heart for it—even if she was glad to escape it for a while.

  The sky-ladder reached far above the life-sustaining blanket of air around Passagia, up into the cold vacuum of orbit and the Navy’s dockyard. The car slowed, then jerked to a stop before sliding onto horizontal rails and shunting into position on the docks.

  Amelia sprang out onto the hard surface of the broad jetty; all around her was the bustle of a busy port. Giant cranes trundled slowly past, ferrying huge nets filled with crates. Lampposts sprouted every twenty paces or so, illuminating the jetty to the equivalent of midmorning light, but high above the naked stars shone brightly.

  Amelia always liked this time of year, when the blackness of the Abyss was visible between the suns, and the sky wasn’t always awash with light. It wouldn’t take long for Passagia II to rotate through its orbit and bring back into view the sky-filling brilliance of the Hub, the core of the cluster where all known intelligent life made its home—but Amelia was happy to enjoy the dark skies when she could.

  She spotted the battered Renaissance tied up along one side of the jetty, and another cruiser astern of her, likely Inspiration getting ready to sail. But her prize this morning was a frigate. Across the jetty was a smaller vessel, her hull a mottled gray, and bulky, external storage containers jutting from the lower half of her hull. The bow was quite snub, and there were none of the flowing lines about her that defined modern Navy ships. The bridge was high and aft—almost too far aft, like a merchant ship’s.