The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel
Page 3
The man looked confused. “What? Why?”
Marko smiled in reply. “I understand that you’re married to it.” Without another word Marko turned and walked back toward Malara. Behind him there was a roar.
“You little turd! I’m gonna slice you up like fish-bait and take my time throwin’ you over the side, piece by piece.”
It was a frozen tableau; Tibor had released the wheel and drawn a knife as if by magic, slashing his tormentor’s arm; Marko turning back, going into a fighter’s crouch; Malara stepping between the enraged helmsman and the boy. A voice called out from the lower deck. It was the Captain.
“Tibor, you are relieved of duty. Put up that knife!”
Tibor advanced on Marko, knife held low, swinging it threateningly from side to side, ignoring the command. His eyes were fixed on the boy and filled with hate.
“Yer gonna die, boy. I’ve had about all o you I kin take.” He casually backhanded Malara out of the way and advanced. Marko crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet. Tibor’s teeth showed in a gaping, rictus grin.
“Tibor, no!” The Captain was running toward the stern now.
As he lunged at Marko, the ship lurched. Tibor stumbled, just for a second, and Marko, trained first in the rough back alleys of Bocktor and then by various members of the crew, caught the knife arm and pulled, propelling Tibor forward just a bit faster than the older man had expected. The helmsman stumbled into the stern railing and flipped over it. His hands gripped wildly, a look of horror on his face, and then he was gone. There was a thump as he hit the side of the ship, and then a splash. When Marko looked over the high stern the sea was empty. Not many seamen could swim.
He was still staring at the unbroken water when both Captain Svetla and Malara came up to him. They were talking together quietly.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Captain. I just didn’t want him to kill me.” Marko frowned. He felt tears in his eyes. He sniffed and wiped at them with the back of his hand. They kept right on flowing. “He fell and then he hit the ship and then...” He found Malara holding him.
“Get the doctor to put a couple of stitches in his arm and send him back to work.” The captain glanced up at the highest sails. Malara frowned at the captain, then smiled as she worked out the captain’s reasoning. Marko was staring openmouthed at the neat slice in his shirt sleeve. It was just starting to turn red from his blood.
Later, the breeze tugged at Marko’s shirt, and his arm felt stiff and sore. His stitches itched. The sea air was sharp and the sun so bright it was almost blinding. Far below him, on the slowly pitching deck, he saw the captain watching him. He knuckled his forehead in a quick salute.
The captain was waiting when his feet hit the deck. Marko looked up warily, but was met with an almost friendly look in reply.
“I have something to show you, Marko.” She pointed the way to her cabin.
On the small table in the center of the room were charts and maps. Marko could feel his eyes open wide in surprise. Did she know he had looked at them before? His hands trembled. Captain Svetla watched him intently. “I know you were sneaking looks at the maps in my room, Marko. That’s why I left them out.” His mouth hung open. “Shut your mouth, Marko. You look stupid like that.” Her comment was sharp. He shut his mouth with a snap. “Since we seem to need a new helmsman, I suppose that you will have to get that additional duty also.” Marko held his breath. “Now tell me everything you know about charts, maps and navigation.”
“Well, the major islands are named ...” He spread out a large map and started pointing. “Aion, Ischia, Prangli, Aethalia, Rakiura, Vaigach, Lasos, Xicocu, Little Wassaw, Greater Wassaw, Dewar, Urt, Elandia and finally Oki-retto.” He took a breath and didn’t notice the shocked look on the captain’s face. “We’ve been sailing south since we stopped at Prangli, so I figure that we’re headed for Ischia.”
Captain Svetla calmed her face to hide her surprise. “Very good, Marko.” She looked at the boy and wondered just what sort of a mind lay behind those piercing green eyes. “You will begin your navigation training tomorrow. Tonight I’d like you to read this. She picked up an old, battered book. The cover was a slick, tough looking material. She set it gingerly on the table. “No need to worry, boy.” She took out her boot knife in a flash and stabbed down at the small volume. The point of the blade hit dead center, then skittered off to one side before it buried itself in the table top. “Nothing you can do will hurt this book. Now, can you read it at all?”
Marko’s mother had taught him to read when he was younger, but he seldom had occasion to practice. He picked up the book and opened it reverently. His voice was halting. “Call me Ishmael.” He read from the old brown book with the fish on the cover. “Some years ago-never mind how long precisely-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore...”
“That’s enough for now, Marko. You run along and take your book with you. Be back here right after breakfast—my breakfast, that is.” She smiled. “Scoot.”
The boy left the cabin with a look of wonder on his face and the book clasped tightly to his chest. Captain Svelta crossed the small room to shut the door behind him. She turned and sat and stared at the door for a long time, saying nothing.
Marko knocked softly at the captain’s wooden door.
“Come!” Captain Svetla’s voice was muffled, soft.
Marko stuck his head into the cabin. “Uhh, good morning, Captain. Have you finished breakfast yet?” He looked around, eyes taking in her chipped china dishes.
She looked up from the charts spread on the table. “Yes, Marko. I finished some time ago.” The boy approached the table and set the book down on it shyly. “What’s this?” The captain blinked. “Couldn’t read the book?” Her hand reached out to take the slim, slippery volume.
“Oh no, that’s not it.” Marko beamed. “I finished it, that’s all. Good book! Really good.”
Her hand froze in mid-air and her face took on a wooden look. It had taken her a week to read Moby Dick, and she was considered a very fast reader.
Marko cursed himself. He knew he should have said he didn’t finish the book or that he couldn’t understand it. In actuality, he and his invisible companion had both read the book, the voice in his head explaining strange words and urging him to ever faster speeds. Medin, the white moon and the largest of Thalassium’s four satellites had just set and Elysium, the blue moon, half the size of Medin, had just risen when Marko finished the book.
“Well then...” The captain seemed at a loss for words. She picked up the brown book and set it back on a small shelf containing a few other slim volumes. She knew that if she were to sell those books, if anyone would buy them that is, she could buy a new ship, and have enough left over for a grand party, and he read it in a night. She put her hands on the table. “We will start with basic mechanics. A ship travels in a speed called a knot. One knot is one nautical mile per hour. For landlubbers,” she grinned. “One league is about three nautical miles. Now this ship travels at four to ten knots, depending on the wind. If the wind is astern we can go faster. If the wind is from in front of us we have to tack, because we can’t sail into the wind, and we go slower. It averages out about seven knots. Do you follow me so far?” The boy nodded, his brain whirling with new concepts and his eyes shining. “Good.” She looked down at the chart in front of her. Her finger touched a small square of writing at the bottom. “This is the key. This tells you how far, according to the scale of the map, it is from place to place. This line.” She pointed to a small line in the key. “This line equals 100 nautical miles on the map.” She took out a small, two legged wooden device with sharp thorns for ends, set the thorny ends to each end of the sm
all line, and then transferred the measurement to the map, showing Marko how to calculate distance. He sat entranced.
Four days later, four days of constantly battling the shifting, contrary winds, they pulled into the snug harbor of Suzdal on the roughly S-shaped island of Ischia. The Dagfred sailed calmly into the east facing harbor while Marko stared in wonder at the towering stone forts on either side of the entrance. At the top of one massive wall, cranes held a colossal catapult suspended over the cliff, lowering it with slow, jerky motions. Sitting at the base of the wall and waiting to be hoisted up were long thick green tubes. Marko’s sharp eyes could see they were hollow, at least at one end. Sails mostly up and furled, with the ship sliding up to a bustling pier, Marko slid to the deck. Navigation and cleaning took second fiddle to his primary duty as a foretop man. Hudak stood hands on hips, shouting directions into the chaos that swirled around him when the boy came up to him.
“Mister Hudak, sir, can you tell me what those green things are at the base of the wall?”
Hudak grunted and looked up. “Them there things be cannons. They be the newest device men have devised to kill their fellow men. Usin some sorta exploding powder, they say the cannons can throw a ball a full mile.”
“Ball?” Marko frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Round chunk o stone, boy, or better yet a Ghanna nut. Big n round n smooth. Splinters when it hits.” He studied the front of the ship and frowned. “Javor, make damn sure you seize up that cleat hitch on that tie-off whens we stop movin. We’re not gunna have me ship swinging round like a belle at some ball.” He glanced back at the cannons. “They say it takes a year to grow one of them things, and they’re worth a bloody fortune, I’ll tell ya. Still, if it beats off the Corsairs it ud be worth it.”
Under a heavy gray sky, the wide cobblestone streets of the city of Suzdal, the major port of the Island of Ischia, were bustling with frenzied activity when the cargo ship Dagfred tied off at the scarred wooden pier. At 145 feet long and 600 tons, riding low in the water with a full load of cargo, her elegantly raked stem and looming stern drew surprised stares from passersby. Screaming gulls vied with the shouting bakers hawking their goods along the length of the cobblestoned street, while seamen scurried to furl the remaining sails under the ever watchful eye of the First Mate. Hudak shouted blistering curses as the crewmen secured the ship with thick hemp lines, and still he had the time to help a young able seaman lash the flapping gaffsail in the stiff breeze. Captain Svetla, looking splendid in her black Captain’s coat, stood on the wide quarterdeck with her hands behind her back surveying the controlled mayhem.
Free for the moment, or until the cargo-master decided it was time to unload, Marko stared at the shore in something like wonder. Smells drifted to him; smells of the sea and tar, dead fish and manure. Weaving in out of those were the smells of pies and pastries, perfume of the few women that he could see, and pipe tobacco.
“Marko!” A voice bellowed from the hold. “Get over here. We have us a cargo to unload. First we unload, then we reload, THEN we drink. Don’t jus stand there moonin.”
The ceiling of the great room in the Lion Inn, there seemed to be a Lion Inn in every port Marko noted dryly, was low and supported by thick wooden beams. A huge poorly vented hearth graced one rough stone wall, and flames from the low fire cast flickering light off the soot-smudged walls. Marko blinked and rubbed his watering eyes. The thick smoke from the hearth and a dozen fat pipes, almost overwhelmed the smells of burning meat and roasting turnips. That might or might not have been a good thing.
Hudak, sitting next to him, banged down a large leather tankard. “I got me sumpthin to say.” Hudak was more than a little drunk—well, they all were more than a little drunk. Marko seemed to be having some problem focusing his eyes. “Jus wanta wish our lad here,” He thumped Marko on the back, almost driving his head down onto the table. “Jus wanna wish im happy b’rday.” He belched thunderously. “Thirteen an almosh a man.” Captain Svetla at the end of the table just rolled her eyes and took a small sip of her wine. Marko raised his mug of the bitter black ale, along with all the others. For some reason he just kept going—right over backward. There was the sound of raucous laughter and then ...
Someone was pushing an icepick very slowly through his temples. If they kept at it long enough the icepicks, one going in each temple, would meet in the center. Marko winced. Maybe then he would die. He sincerely hoped so. He licked his lips and noted that his mouth tasted as bad as the pigeon droppings smelled in the old dovecote. He shuddered. Maybe worse.
The voice in his head sounded smug.
It was somewhat later, and the ocean rolled by, serenely unaware of the desperately sick men who sailed on her. Marko held the tall ship’s wheel with a death grip, more to hold himself upright than anything else, while the captain watched from nearby. A hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth. Experience, she knew, was the cruelest of teachers. Marko would remember this day when he took another drink—if he took another drink. She looked around the deck and all she heard was the soft sigh of the wind and the slap of the waves. The members of the crew were strangely quiet, for some reason. Her smile widened. It was refreshing, she thought. The leagues slipped past.
Marko’s head had cleared, finally, and the brisk cool wind blowing on his face felt good. He stood in the fo’c’s’le and stared out over the pitching asparagus-green water. The wind had risen and, in the distance, dark clouds loomed ominously.
Chapter 3
His whole world, everything he knew, came crashing down, and his reply was uncertain, almost timid.
The voice in his mind seemed to sigh.
;
“Stand by to reef sails!” Hudak bellowed from the main deck. “Foretop men up!” Marko put his disturbing conversation aside as he scrambled up the swaying shrouds to his post high above the deck. He blinked. During his talk with Anya the whole sky had darkened to inky black, and swells tossed the ship like she was riding up and down the sides of a watery mountain. The wind rose to a shriek and spray lashed his face with the force of a whip. Hudak was using a cone-shaped speaking trumpet to relay the captain’s orders.
“Belay that!” The voice was faint. “Reef in all but the fore lower t’gallant sail, and be quick about it!” A wave slammed the side of the ship and Marko hung on for dear life as the Dagfred heeled and the whole mast seemed to dip toward the frothing water. The ship struggled up. Six times in the next four hours Marko had to climb the swaying, slippery shrouds to readjust sails.
Just after midnight the mainmast broke with a sound like the stroke of doom. As fate would have it, the top half of the mast fell straight down, shrugging off rigging and punching through the main deck to crush the galley beneath. The ship staggered. Marko saw a crewman thrown from the mainmast. Luckily the man hit the deck first, killing him instantly, before he fell into the churning water. It was every sailor’s fear to fall overboard and watch your ship sail off without you.
The storm blew itself out as first light seeped through the leaden sky. Marko shook his head to try and keep himself awake at the ship’s wheel. The clack of the pumps were loud, and had been continuous since the start of the storm, but the rhythmic sound was hypnotizing and he found himself nodding where he stood. He stretched and blinked as another man came up on deck and from his post Marko watched the exhausted carpenter report to the captain.