“Surely, even a seamage can’t stand against such a force as we have here!” reiterated Captain Donnely, master of the frigate Cape Storm. Huffington rolled his eyes. Donnely, upholding his reputation as a bold warrior, had argued relentlessly for a swift attack on Plume Isle. Thankfully, cooler heads seemed to be prevailing.
“We must not make the same error of judgment as Commodore Twig. Our evidence is as follows.” Admiral Joslan held up a fist with one finger extended. “First, we know she has armed at least some of her fleet of schooners with incendiary weapons, since one was fired at the Clairissa. Second,”—another finger went up—”by her own admission, and confirmed by Count Norris, she is allied with the mer, who dragged the Fire Drake to the bottom of the sea and slaughtered everyone aboard. And finally,”—a third finger rose—”as evidenced by the burning of the Clairissa, we must surmise that she is in league with yet another mage. Such forces united would be a match for any fleet.”
“Do we know that it was a mage’s spell that destroyed the Clairissa?” asked Commodore Henkle, commander of the Resolute and Joslan’s second in command.
“Captain Veralyn,” Joslan said, pinning the lesser officer with red-rimmed eyes, “your opinion?”
The captain took a careful sip of wine. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from having given his account of the battle over and over. “I have told you all what I saw; the Clairissa didn’t simply catch fire, but was instantaneously immolated. I do not see how it could have been any other force but magic, Admiral, though I’m not well acquainted with the mystical arts.”
“But we have another witness here, don’t we?” asked Captain Donnely, casting his eyes around the crowded cabin. “Wasn’t there an aide or some such…”
“Mister Huffington.”
Huffington started when he heard his name spoken—he had begun to lose track of the discussion while watching the bustle of harbor traffic—and his skin crawled when he realized that Master Upton had been the one to name him. The master of security stepped forward from the shadows between two massive framing timbers and stared directly at Huffington, who found himself suddenly the center of everyone’s attention.
“You were secretary to Count Norris, and aboard the Lady Gwen during the attack, correct?” Upton asked.
“I am secretary to Count Norris, Master Upton,” Huffington said, straightening his posture as much as was possible in the confined space. “My master was on Plume Isle when the ships were attacked, and still is, as far as anyone knows.” The automatic response seemed flippant and he immediately regretted it, so he quickly continued. “And yes, I was aboard the Lady Gwen, sir.”
“And your opinion regarding the use of magic in the destruction of the Clairissa?”
It was the admiral who asked the question, but Huffington couldn’t look away from Upton’s eyes, so sharp and bright, staring into his own like they could gaze into his soul and see all the dark deeds that Huffington had carried out in his life. There were more than a few.
“Mister Huffington!” The admiral’s voice snapped Huffington’s attention away from the spymaster.
“I am somewhat acquainted with magic, Admiral, sir, but I’ve never seen anything like what happened to the Clairissa. If it was a spell, it was subtle.”
“Subtle!” spat the admiral amidst the murmurs that rumbled around the cabin. “How could the conflagration described by Captain Veralyn be called subtle?”
“Not the result, sir,” Huffington hastened to explain, “but the act. There was nothing blatant like when a mage throws a fire spell, sir; I’ve seen that. Nor did the schooner lob any more of their fire casks. The Clairissa, well, she just…smoldered for a bit, then went up in flames. Like when you toss a wad of parchment at a fire, and it lands close to the flames but not in them. The heat makes it smoke a bit, then it ignites all at once. That’s what happened to the Clairissa. She smoked, then kind of glowed for a second, then every bit of her, canvas, wood and men alike, went up in flames.”
Silence hung like a shroud over the cabin. Several officers glanced toward Huffington—some with skepticism, others looking rather ill—then looked away. Master Upton, however, gazed steadily at him, and the secretary’s heart hammered in his chest under the unwavering scrutiny. Finally the admiral spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“It is my judgment that this situation requires more thought before we blunder into a trap that could end with this entire armada in flames or at the bottom of the sea.” He rose to his feet, signifying the meeting’s end. “We will reconvene tomorrow at the same hour, gentlemen. Bring me strategies that do not involve a direct confrontation with the seamage’s forces.”
Huffington shuffled toward the door with the rest of the attendees.
“If it would please the admiral.” Though Upton was a head shorter than most of the military men in the room, when he stepped forward he drew everyone’s attention. Huffington, on his way to the door, slowed. “I would suggest that there is one additional matter that must be immediately addressed before we disband.”
“And what would that be, Master Upton?” Huffington noted the suspicion in the admiral’s voice.
“His Majesty must be informed of the loss of his flagship, and the means of its destruction; and he must be informed with all haste, Admiral.”
“Very well, Master Upton. I will put a messenger boat and crew at your disposal, and will prepare a dispatch of my own. Please see to the details.”
“Very good, Admiral,” Upton said smoothly. Huffington chanced a glance at the man and instantly regretted it. Not only was the master of security staring at him, but he crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture. Sighing, Huffington complied.
≈
“These bloody things itch!” Tipos complained, scratching at the long wool pants covering his legs. He had worn them since leaving Plume Isle yesterday, at Miss Camilla’s request, so that he would be presentable to the emperor in Tsing. He frowned and sat down in Flothrindel’s small cockpit, propping his legs up on the leeward seat so the breeze flapped the material, but it didn’t help. “How can anyone wear such things all day?”
“You could have worn one of the Shambata Daroo’s sarongs,” Keyloo said with a laugh. “They would look good on you. Maybe Paska would agree to bed you if you did.”
“Close your mouth, Keyloo, or I’ll close it for you,” Tipos warned, his ire rising. Paska’s repeated refusals, even when her husband was out sailing the seamage’s ships, was a sore spot with him.
“Don’t fret about it, Tipos,” Tawah, the third crewman, called from his hammock belowdecks where he was trying to sleep. “Paska says no to everyone. She will share her husband with other women, but has no interest in another man. Ask Chula why that is so, and he will show you!”
Tawah and Keyloo both laughed, and Tipos had to smile. It made him feel better that he was not the only man that Paska refused, though he silently committed himself to never quit trying. Another furious itch beset his leg and he jumped up in frustration.
“I am not going to wear these bloody things until I have to!” he declared, stripping off the trousers and throwing them below. “I will put them on when we reach Tsing, not before.”
“What is that?” Keyloo asked, pointing toward shore.
“What?” Tipos turned and squinted.
“There, in that cove on Middle Cay. Looks like a ship anchored.”
“Your eyes are better than mine. Hand me the glass, Tawah.” He raised the viewing tube and focused it. The sun was setting behind him, and the light was good for looking to the east. He immediately spotted the ship. “Big galleon, and she’s tucked in close to the island. Her captain must think he’s safe, now that the Shambata Daroo rules the Shattered Isles, ay?”
“Or he’s a pirate,” Keyloo said with a frown.
“Well, if he is, he’s g
ot bigger plums even than Chula to think he can escape Shambata Daroo’s notice!” Tipos said, earning a chuckle from the others. He handed the glass back down to Tawah. “We’re too far to read her name, and we don’t have time to tack in there and look. She’s just a lazy merchant who doesn’t want to sail at night. Get some sleep, Tawah. When the moon is up, so are you!”
≈
The mournful wail of a conch horn rose on the sultry evening air, snapping Captain Parek’s attention from his dinner of stewed bonefish.
“By the hells!” He looked up to the open deck hatch. A light mosquito net covered the opening to keep out the bloodthirsty beasts, but he could see through the gauzy material to the man on deck watch. He hated hiding out in this fetid swamp, waiting around while Farin and Sam were out pirating on the cool ocean with the wind in their sails. The horn sounded again. Parek called out to the man standing watch. “Kori! Who in the Nine Hells sounded that bloody horn?”
“Dunno, Cap’n!” the man said, peering into the fading light. “It came from downriver. Sounded close, though!”
“Rouse the men! Load the ballistae!” Even as Parek reached for his cutlass, the ship’s bell rang out and he heard the scuffle of feet running up to the deck. Too few men, since most of his crew had sailed with Farin to somewhere along the Sand Coast. The sound of someone falling, followed by a slurred curse, made him shake his head in frustration. Discipline had become lax without a proper first mate aboard, and more than a few of the crew wobbled unsteadily from too many tots of rum.
“You two, get that ballista loaded!” Parek snapped as he came on deck. Half of the dozen men who formed his skeleton crew stood at the transom, staring into the shadows cast by the massive mangroves, made deeper by the oncoming night. “What in the hells is—”
The horn sounded again, this time very close. Parek vaulted up to the poop deck and pushed his way to the taffrail. As his eyes adjusted to the twilight he made out a vessel rounding the bend in the inlet…and his mouth dropped open in shock. A bizarre craft—two narrow hulls joined to make a kind of sailing raft—ghosted up the channel under a close-sheeted gaff sail and a single jib. Sails and hull alike were painted as black as night. When the strange craft drew closer, he saw that her deck was crowded with dark figures, their white teeth and eyes flashing in the fading light.
“Cannibals!” Kori muttered, much to the consternation of his fellow crew members.
“Aye, they’ve got the look, don’t they,” Parek agreed, noting their bone jewelry, piercings and sharply filed teeth. “We’re in fer a fight, boys, but let’s see if we can thin ‘em out a bit first with a few ballista shots, ay? Aim that thing and we’ll—”
“Ahoy the Cutthroat!” a feminine voice called from the deck of the odd craft. “Ahoy, Captain Parek! It’s Sam!”
“Sam?” He peered more closely, raising a hand to forestall the ballista. “What in the Nine Hells? Sam! Come forward or I’ll put a shot right into that crazy-looking raft! Show yourself!”
A slim, tanned figure pushed through the crowd of taller, darker shapes, and he could see that it was, indeed, Sam. She brandished a cutlass and Parek released his breath; he had half-suspected that she might be a captive, the cannibals using her as a ruse to get close enough to attack. But he wouldn’t let his guard down yet, not until she explained what she was doing with such a ship, not to mention a crew of flesh-eaters.
“What in all the Nine Hells happened to you, Sam?” he asked, noting the wounds on her arms and the makeshift bandage around her leg. “And what kind of craft is that?”
“Don’t know what you call it, sir, but it’s named Manta. It’s the seamage’s own design, and the first of its kind! I stole it from her after the battle with the emperor’s ships!”
“Battle? What battle?”
“It’s a long story, sir, and it would be easier if I could sit down to tell it.” The nimble craft pulled alongside the Cutthroat, and Sam gestured and called out simple commands to her grim crew. With little fanfare, the sheets were slacked and the two booms swung to leeward. The small craft slowed even more as her jib was struck and furled.
“Tie that thing to the trees on the other side of the river, Sam, and come on over. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“That we do, Captain! And I brung you another present, too. We took the First Venture, a three-masted galleon that was westbound through the southern isles. She’s full to the scuppers with spices and copper!”
“By the hells…” he muttered, shaking his head. “With a raft and a crew of cannibals, she takes a three-masted galleon on a dead run downwind. Now that’s a bloody pirate, my boys! Break out the rum!”
Cheers went up on the deck of the Cutthroat, and a few tentative laughs and calls rose from the Manta as Sam directed her crew to tie off to the looming mangroves on the other side of the narrow channel. The craft was towing a skiff, and Sam and two of her crew rowed over. Parek himself reached a hand down to help her up the boarding ladder.
“By the hells, Sam! What in bloody blazes happened to you?” She was dressed in an ill-fitting shirt and breeches, and he could see livid cuts and scratches on her forearms and legs. Then she smiled at him; her teeth were filed to points.
“I ran into a bit of trouble, and had to find someplace to tuck in and lick my wounds.” She nodded toward her two dire companions. “I had to convince ‘em that I was one of ‘em, or they’d have cut me up for the pot right then and there. They may not be pretty, but they fight like devils. We took that galleon like they were sleepin’.”
Close up, Parek could see the ritual scars of the isle cannibals cut deeply in their flesh. Disconcertingly, the two natives were looking over his crew as if planning dinner. He repressed a shudder and turned back to Sam.
“Well, come on below and we’ll talk things over, but tell your friends here that we’re all on the same side, ay?”
“I already told ‘em, Captain, though I’m not completely sure they understand me sometimes.” She turned to the pirate crew and said, “Better watch yerselves while they’re aboard. They might get curious as to what pirate tastes like.” She laughed, and it drew nervous chuckles from the men. The two cannibals just stood there and grinned, their shark-like teeth glowing in the lantern light.
In the captain’s cabin, Parek poured rum into two cups and nodded toward the bench across the table. Sam picked up the cup and downed half its contents in a single swallow, sighing deeply.
“Gods, that’s good! Been a fortnight since I’ve had a proper drink.”
She sat and, in the span of half an hour and two refills from the bottle, she recounted her unbelievable tale. Parek stared at her as she spoke. She was so changed from the frightened girl he’d rescued the day that Bloodwind was killed and they barely escaped with their lives…so much harder…and those teeth! What, he wondered, has she had to do to survive? It disturbed him to think that it was likely more than he could have done in the same situation.
“So, the sea witch is running for it.” He sipped his rum and thought of the possibilities. “Hard to believe.”
“She’s gotta know that the emperor is gonna send a whole fleet down here,” she said, a gleam of avarice in her eye. That, at least, had not changed.
“But with that firemage on her side she could sink ‘em all. Why leave?”
“I don’t think she wants to fight the emperor,” Sam said. “She knows he’ll be after her, and she’s runnin’ away. Though I doubt they managed to pack up everything from Plume Isle on just them two schooners. There’s bound to be plenty left for us.”
“But what about the emperor? Like you said, he’ll send a fleet.”
“Aye, Captain, but it’s a long week’s sail to Tsing, and another week back, even if he’s got a fleet sittin’ in the harbor ready to sail.” She smacked her scarred fist into her palm with a grin of malice. “We
gotta strike now!”
Parek leaned back in his chair and frowned. “With a dozen pirates and thirty of your cannibal friends? I don’t know, Sam. Like you said, she couldn’t pack everyone up on just those two schooners. There’s bound to be a bunch of her own private army of natives still on Plume Isle, and they won’t just hand us the keys to the keep!”
“That’s why I’ve got to take the Venture south first and load her up with reinforcements. There are hundreds of cannibals in their tribe. I could only take crew to fit on the Manta to start, but the galleon will carry two or three hundred without even strainin’ her stores. She won’t beat up the channel into Blood Bay, but we can tow her in with the Cutthroat and the Manta. We’ll be on ‘em like seagulls on a bloated carcass.”
“Will you be able to control…them?” he asked, lowering his voice despite knowing that the cannibals on deck couldn’t understand him, and hating the quaver of fear that shaded his tone. “I mean, Sam, they’re cannibals!”
“We don’t need to control ‘em, Captain. All we need to do is turn ‘em loose!” She reached for the rum bottle and topped off first his cup, then her own; her old habit. “I’ve convinced them that we’re not food. Besides, they hate the tribe that befriended the sea witch; been fightin’ ‘em for years. And the best part: they’re not interested in gold. They just want to make war on their enemies…and keep all the prisoners.”
“And you’re sure the seamage is gone.”
“I watched her sailin’ straight south with my own eyes, Captain.”
“Straight south?” That didn’t make any sense at all; there was nothing straight south but the Fathomless Reaches, then a windless gyre of seaweed. Any other direction was feasible: north to Tsing, northeast to Southhaven or Scarport, southeast to Marathia or Fornice on the Sand Coast, or straight west with the trade winds at their backs to reach the far western continent. But south? “Where’s she going on that course?”
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