Scimitar's Heir

by Chris A. Jackson

  Tim removed the dagger from his teeth and inched forward, his free hand held low before him, feeling his way across the cabin. His hand brushed a large sea chest and he stepped around it, slowly sliding his feet over the cool wood of the deck. The pirate’s breathing was louder now, and Tim stopped, remembering a trick an old pirate had taught him for seeing in the dark. It took all his nerve to do it, but he closed his eyes for a slow count of twenty, then opened them wide to stare in the direction of the sound. The faint glow of white sheets and the dark silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders resolved out of the blackness.

  He crouched and moved to the side of the bunk, knowing what he would have to do if the man struggled or tried to cry out. Tim didn’t relish the thought of cutting a man’s throat, but the memory of what had befallen his friends at Plume Isle steadied his hand; he would do it if he had to. He lowered the blade of his dagger to within an inch of the sleeping man’s throat, then laid the flat of the blade onto the warm skin.

  When the man’s eyes flashed open, Tim clapped his hand over the pirate’s mouth and whispered, “One sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

  His whisper sounded like a shout in his own ears, but no alarm sounded from the deck above. Behind him, he heard the creak of wood as his father climbed through the window, then the hiss of a blade being drawn. Emil crept up beside him, and rested the tip of his cutlass against the pirate’s chest.

  “We’re here for one reason,” Emil said, his voice pitched so low that it barely reached even Tim’s ears. “We want Camilla. If you hand her over to us, you have a chance, a slim chance, of survival. If you refuse or try to summon help, you die.”

  Tim was proud; there was enough malice in his father’s voice to send shivers down his spine, and he could feel tremors of terror coursing through the man beneath him. Tim felt Emil tap his back twice with his free hand, the signal for their next move.

  “My friend will remove his hand from your mouth,” Emil whispered, “and you will tell us where Camilla is. Remember my warning. If you shout, you will not live to hear the echo.”

  Tim eased his hand from the man’s mouth, but kept the dagger in place at his throat. He had no doubt that he could silence a scream before it went far.

  “Camilla’s not here.” The pirate captain’s voice was low, but louder than theirs. Tim pressed the blade of his dagger harder as warning.

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed in the man’s ear, “and don’t lie to us.”

  “I’m not lying,” the man said, his voice quieter this time. “She’s on Plume Isle.”

  “We were on Plume Isle,” Emil said through clenched teeth. He pressed the tip of his cutlass down hard enough to prick the man’s skin, and Tim felt him twitch. “No one was left alive, and you would not have left her there.”

  “I didn’t leave her there. She tricked me.” Though there was still fear in the man’s voice, Tim detected something else, too, the low, harsh tones of anger and bitterness. Tim didn’t like the sound of it. “She said she wanted to come with me, that she wanted to share Bloodwind’s treasure, but she lied. She locked herself in the damned dungeon, and I had no time to break the door down before the imperials got there.”

  “The dungeon?” Tim heard the uncertainty in his father’s voice, the faltering of his tone. Apparently the pirate captain had, too, and he tensed. Tim felt the man’s bridled fury, and twitched his blade hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

  “Don’t think for a moment that I won’t cut your throat, Captain,” he hissed, and was relieved to feel the man stiffen. To his father, he said, “There is a dungeon, but it’s always kept locked. I didn’t even know there was a key.”

  “She had a key,” the man said, unprompted. “She barred the door from inside, so I locked her in and took the key. It’s in the pocket of my trousers, over the back of the settee. Look for yourself.”

  Tim tapped his father’s leg twice, hoping he’d understand. He did. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sword lift from the pirate’s chest, then heard the whisper of his father’s feet as Emil crossed the cabin. A moment later, he returned.

  “There is a key. I have it.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Tim asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. He felt cold. If Miss Cammy had been trapped down there, the chance that she was still alive was not good.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Emil said, “and that’s to return to Plume Isle.”

  “But if he’s lying…”

  Silence reigned for several beats of the pirate captain’s heart; Tim felt each one pulse under the edge of his dagger. He was not so young that he was ignorant of what this man must have done to Miss Cammy, the woman who had been more like a mother to him than his real mother had been. And he knew how his father felt about her. For a moment, he considered drawing his dagger across the pirate’s throat just to feel the warm gush of blood, listen to the gurgle of the man’s last scream, still that beating pulse…

  “We cannot murder him, Tim,” Emil said, as if he had read his son’s thoughts. Tim felt the pirate captain relax, and the thought that the man would get away with his deeds, was perhaps laughing at him, at them both, suddenly made him furious.

  “After what he did?” he whispered harshly, gripping the man’s hair with his free hand. “You know what he did, Father.” The pirate captain tensed again. Good! Tim thought. I want him to be afraid.

  “No, Tim. It wouldn’t be right.” Emil Norris’ voice was calm, though it carried an undercurrent of loathing and regret. “We’re not pirates, and we won’t stoop so low as to act like them. We’ll leave him bound and gagged, and let him explain his condition to his crew.”

  Tim clenched his jaw. His hand trembled, and he knew the blade drew blood, but he wanted more; he wanted to end this bastard’s life. It would be a service to Miss Cammy, he thought, or…or her spirit... He looked toward his father, but his face was merely a shadow in shadow. He looked back at his dagger, and it blurred as hot tears of anger filled his eyes. Then he felt the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the sympathetic grip, and Tim knew that Emil was right. He was not a pirate.

  He was his father’s son.

  They cut the sheet into strips, and bound and gagged the pirate captain with hard knots. Before they left, however, Tim leaned close and whispered into the man’s ear.

  “My name is Timothy Norris. Perhaps you know my sister, Samantha.” He felt the man nod. “If I find out that you lied to me, I want you to remember something: of the two of us, Mother always said that Sam was the nice one.”

  Tim joined his father at the window, and they slipped out as silently as they’d entered. They boarded the catboat undetected, and Tim used his dagger to sever the tether that bound it to Cutthroat. They lay low in the cockpit of the little boat and drifted down current, invisible in the darkness.

  Chapter 28

  Rescue

  “By all the fires in the Nine Hells, I’ll kill you if I ever…” Parek cursed through the taste of blood in his mouth and the pain in his wrists. He’d been cursing nonstop since freeing the gag from his mouth, and chewing at the bloody linen that bound his wrists to the bunk frame wasn’t improving his mood. The thought of yelling for help never entered his mind. He knew his crew was loyal and would never attempt mutiny; it defied their oath. But if he was found bound and helpless, that would be considered a failure on his part. And the punishment for failure among pirates was death.

  Blood is a poor lubricant, but eventually he managed to loosen the knots enough to free his hands. Grabbing the dagger he kept at his bedside, he sliced the bonds on his ankles and lurched from his bunk. It took him some time to dress—his feet had gone numb with the tightness of his bonds—but he was just buckling the golden-hilted cutlass to his hip when Kori knocked urgently at his door, then ope
ned it.

  “Captain! The catboat’s gone miss—” Kori gaped at the bloody linen, the livid marks on his captain’s wrists and the crusted blood from the cut the boy’s dagger had left on his neck.

  Parek stared the man down with a glare as dark as death itself, grabbed a bottle from the drawer of his chart table and gulped down a deep draught of rum. “Wake everyone! We’ve important matters to discuss.” He pushed past his stunned mate and strode up to the deck.

  Less than five minutes later, the crew was assembled, still blinking away sleep and muttering at being rousted so early. A few eyed him speculatively, but before anyone could question him, Parek seized the initiative.

  “We’ve a discipline problem,” he said, then thrust his arms forward. The white lace cuffs of his shirt emphasized the raw skin on his wrists. “We had visitors last night, lads, during the midwatch.” He let his statement sink in, watched them murmur amongst themselves for a moment. He saw Kori whispering, and the news of the missing catboat swept through them like fire. Finally, the man who had been on the midwatch, Toffin, was dragged forward. Parek drew Bloodwind’s sword and leveled it at the man’s chest.

  “I’d have your head on a pike, Mister Toffin, if I didn’t need every man jack aboard this ship just to sail her.” He lowered the sword, resisting the urge to run it right through the man’s quivering belly. “You’re lucky they weren’t here to steal back the sea witch’s treasure. If they had been, I’m sure your crew mates would have been less forgiving than me.” Angry shouts and accusations rose, but he raised his hand for quiet. “As it turns out, they were looking for that red-haired trollop who locked herself in the dungeon back on Plume Isle. When they didn’t find her, they were kind enough to leave me—and the rest of you—alive. The important thing is, they’re headed back to Plume as I speak, so in a matter of hours, the Imperial Navy will know exactly where we are. We’ve been found out, lads, and we’ve got no choice but to flee.”

  Murmurs and questions started quietly, and increased in volume until Kori, his temporary first mate, stepped forward.

  “What about Farin and King Gull, sir?” Kori asked, silencing the others with a curt chop of his hand. “Don’t we need King Gull ta make port and not be recognized?”

  “There’s nothing for it, Kori. If Farin’s still alive and King Gull’s still afloat, mayhap we’ll meet up with them later. If we stay here and wait for them, we’re dead men.”

  He waited, again letting his statement sink in. At first some of the crew looked angry at the thought of deserting their mates—share and share alike was a tenant that Bloodwind had instilled deeply in them all—and annoyed by having to assume the extra risk by going ashore with Cutthroat. But one by one, they realized that this also meant larger shares of Bloodwind’s treasure for themselves. It wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t wait for King Gull and her crew, making it a totally different situation from being disloyal and running off with all the loot from the start. Soon they were all murmuring and nodding with approval. Parek smiled grimly.

  “All right then! We’ll sail north along the coast and look for a little harbor where we can duck in. Someplace where we can buy silence and disguise our ship as something other than a corsair. That’ll mean stripping off the ballistae, new paint, and new rigging. She was a merchantman once, and we’ve got to make her look like one again if we’re going to sail her into Tsing Harbor.”

  Wide smiles were breaking out among the men. They were a small crew, and Bloodwind’s cache was substantial. With a little hard work, they could win free and be rich men. Once ashore in a city like Tsing, they could vanish among the populace and live like kings for the rest of their days.

  “We’re with you, sir!” Kori shouted, and the crew roared in agreement.

  “Excellent!” Parek smiled and raised the tip of his sword again. “Now, there’s only one more issue to address before we go, and that’s the lapse in discipline.”

  Parek lunged, lightning quick, and with a deft twist of his wrist, plucked Toffin’s left eye out of its socket with the tip of the golden-hilted sword. The man cried out and fell to his knees, cupping his hands to the ruined and bloody socket as his eyeball rolled across the deck.

  “Mayhap that’ll remind you to keep an eye out next time you’re on night watch!” Parek shouted, as he wiped the tip of the wonderful blade clean and sheathed it. The crew roared their approval, and laughed hard at the captain’s quip. “Now, help him up and fit him with a patch; we’ve got work to do! Kori, prepare to cast off! We’ll ease her out under topsails and jib, and set the mains when we clear the reef. Put Toffin on the helm; perhaps he can keep his one good eye on the compass card.”

  “Aye, sir!” Kori shouted orders and the crew got to work.

  In moments they were free of their moorings. Parek glanced behind as they cleared the creek; he wouldn’t miss the bug-infested mangrove swamp, though it had provided them with safe harbor for a time. The crew was loud and boisterous, in a hyperactive good humor, now joking about the surprise King Gull’s crew was in for when they finally returned to find Cutthroat gone.

  Interesting, he thought, that no one mentioned Sam. He shuddered at the memory of her filed teeth and her new friends. He certainly wouldn’t miss her; like Middle Cay, she had served her purpose, and he bid her good riddance.

  “North!” Parek shouted once they had cleared the treacherous coral reef surrounding the island, earning another cheer from the crew. “North toward Tsing and freedom!”

  ≈

  “Admiral Joslan, sir?” A lieutenant approached the paper-littered table with a nervous salute. “Sir, there’s a message from the fleet commander.”

  “From Commodore Henkle? Put it down right there,” the admiral said without looking up, jerking his thumb at the only clear spot on the table. He was in a foul mood, having spent the entire day in this very chair attending to the innumerable details of managing a fleet on station.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it was sent as signal only. ‘Small vessel intercepted sailing south. Count Norris aboard. Will conduct to you soonest.’”

  “Norris? Bloody incompetence… That scrub Veralyn can’t even keep a pasty-faced diplomat aboard until he reaches Tsing?” Joslan cast his pen in the vague direction of the inkwell and surged to his feet. He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair and jerked it on, brushing aside his clerk’s clumsy attempts to help. “Assemble a detachment of marines immediately, Lieutenant, and have them meet me at the pier.”

  “Aye, sir!” The lieutenant turned to go, but Joslan stopped him as he clipped his sword to his belt.

  “And, Lieutenant, have them bring a set of manacles along.” He snapped up his hat and tucked it under his arm, jerked his waistcoat straight and adjusted his neck cloth. “And leg irons as well.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The lieutenant hurried off, and Joslan glared at his back. Before he followed, he turned to his clerk. “Make a note in the log; Count Norris is to be placed under arrest for desertion.”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk’s pen scratched in the thick ledger. He blew the ink dry and closed the journal.

  “Very good. Now, come along, and bring the log; I’m sure the good count will have something to say, and I want his unvarnished words recorded for the emperor to read.” He fixed the clerk with a level stare. “Every word. Is that clear?”

  “Every word, sir,” the clerk said, tucking the ledger under his arm.

  “Good.”

  Joslan strode out of the keep and down to the pier where the squad of marines already stood in formation. He shoved his hands into his belt and waited, a single thought running through his mind over and over again: how much he would like to see Count Emil Norris swinging from a yardarm. He knew that he was not likely to get his wish, but he wished it, nonetheless. He waited a good half hour for the detachment from Commodore
Henkle to arrive. The afternoon sun baked him in his dark blue uniform, sweat soaking his neck cloth and dampening his hair beneath his hat. Consequently, when the launch bearing Count Norris, as well as his son and his secretary, pulled alongside the pier, Joslan’s mood had not improved in the least.

  ≈

  “Admiral Joslan.” Count Norris bowed deeply, wobbling a bit on the uneven stone of the pier. He was still shaky from the arduous night in the little catboat, the long day’s sail with no food or water, and the grilling by Commodore Henkle. He was, however, washed, fed, shaved and dressed in clean—if not his own—clothes. He was also reasonably well informed of the events of the last few days, thanks to his man Huffington, who had hustled over from the Mary Celeste as soon as he heard of Count Norris’ arrival. Consequently, Norris hoped to expedite this exchange with minimal confrontation.

  “My apologies, Admiral, for my unannounced return, but I came by information with regard to—”

  “Lieutenant, clap Count Norris in irons,” the admiral said in a tone as deadly as a full broadside of ballistae from a first-rate warship. “Milord Count, you are under arrest for desertion. You will be held in the brig of the Indomitable until you are conveyed to Tsing for sentencing and, if I have my way, execution.”

  The lieutenant stepped up, and his squad of marines surged forward.

  “Admiral, I must protest,” Norris said, spreading his arms wide to prevent Tim and Huffington from doing anything rash. “I protest on the grounds that I am not your subordinate, and not under your command. I did not desert my post, because I had no post to desert. Also, I protest on the grounds that I do not wish to deprive His Majesty of your expertise and experience as his fleet admiral.”