by Rob J. Hayes
“Aye, now.” Smithe sidestepped into Keelin’s way and planted his feet.
Keelin stared up at the bigger man, who looked more than ready for another fight. In fact, despite the recent battle they’d been involved in, Smithe looked wholly uninjured. Keelin wished he could make the same claim.
Smithe balled his hands into fists. “We vote. Now.”
With a resigned sigh, Keelin nodded his acceptance. “Morley,” he said, perching upon a nearby railing. “As previous quartermaster, it’s your show now.”
Morley looked anything but happy about the affair, but stepped forward nonetheless. “Captan made me first mate,” he said loudly to the pirates. “Can’t be quartermaster too, so looks like we need a new man for the job.” A low grumble went through the gathered crowd, and Keelin saw Feather trying to manoeuvre his way to his captain. Only problem was the boy was too small to get past the bigger men. Keelin focused his attention back on the vote.
“You all know the way this goes,” Morley continued. “Candidates need to be recommended, and no, you can’t recommend yourself. Nor can myself or the captain recommend anyone.”
“I recommend Smithe,” shouted a young man called Fiefel Wash. Keelin made a note of the name, as he did with all Smithe’s supporters. The recommendation was expected, and if Fiefel hadn’t made it, there were others who would have. The unfortunate truth was that Smithe was well liked among the crew.
Keelin sat and watched, waiting for the next recommendation as the pirates talked quietly and some even started jostling others to put names forward. Keelin idly wondered where Kebble Salt had got to. He hadn’t seen the man during the battle, but he’d definitely felt his presence. An expert marksman seemed to be a useful crew member to have. Now Kebble appeared to be missing, and Keelin hoped he wasn’t among the dead.
“Is there no one else?” Morley said. “Last chance.”
Keelin had thought it unlikely that anyone else would attain enough votes to beat Smithe, but he’d hoped it might happen. Dealing with the irritating pirate day in and out as quartermaster of the ship was right up there in the list of things Keelin would prefer not to experience, along with hanging and ever seeing Tanner Black again. Without another candidate, there wouldn’t even be a vote; Smithe would simply take up the position unopposed.
“Really?” Morley sounded sceptical. “No one else?”
“Call it, Morley,” Smithe said, wearing a victorious grin that said he’d planned such a victory all along. No doubt he and his supporters had been visiting other members of the crew and making certain none would recommend anyone else.
“Alright,” Morley said with a heavy sigh. “Smithe is our new quartermaster.” He shot Keelin a sympathetic look.
“Congratulations,” Keelin growled. “Now if you will all excuse me.”
Keelin pushed past the crew and made for his cabin. Smithe caught up with him easily. “Where are we headin’? Crew deserve to know.”
“Right now I’m heading to my cabin. After that we’re following the Fortune.”
“Where? Crew want to get paid. Can’t pay nobody if we don’t have nothin’ to pay them with. We need to find a ship to take, not cling to Morrass’ skirts.”
Keelin stopped outside the cabin door. Behind Smithe, Feather was still waiting, but Keelin didn’t have the patience for any of them right now.
“Smithe,” Keelin said slowly. “Fuck off.” He turned, opened the door to his cabin, and stepped through, quickly locking it behind him. He was immediately hit by the silence. It wasn’t a true silence; on board a ship it never was. No matter how calm the ocean, or how empty of crew a boat might be, there was always the creaking of planks, the slap of waves against the hull, and the murmur of voices through the walls and deck. It wasn’t real silence, but there were no more sounds of battle, of the dying screaming out their last breaths, or men wanting orders, or a hundred other intrusions.
“Is it over?” A woman’s voice, behind him.
Keelin spun around, his left hand instinctively moving towards a weapon. The woman from Sev’relain, the one he’d been watching and obsessing over, was sitting on Keelin’s bed with her knees gathered up into her arms and a look of fear plain upon her face. It took Keelin a few moments to remember that he’d ordered her brought to his cabin when they left Sev’relain.
“Aye,” he said with a tired smile. “For now. We killed them.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes stayed locked onto the bed. “Did you have to?”
Keelin laughed as he walked over to his wardrobe. “Well, they were trying to kill us, so it seemed prudent.”
“Prudent?”
“A good idea.”
“Oh.”
Keelin glanced back at the woman. There was something beautiful and delicate about her that didn’t belong in the Pirate Isles. Her eyes were wide and looked almost vacant; it was a type of shock Keelin had seen a hundred times.
“I’m going to change now.” Keelin wished he had time to wash as well. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s just, I’m covered in blood.”
The woman made a non-committal noise.
“Don’t worry. Only some of it is mine.” Keelin opened the wardrobe and selected a new shirt and britches, and a jacket that he hoped would make him look very much like a swashbuckling hero, even though in reality swashbuckling heroes only appeared in children’s stories. He’d learned the hard way that most swashbucklers are actually murderous pirates, and he was very much one of them.
As he changed, Keelin watched the woman in the mirror attached to the wardrobe door. She never moved, not an inch; not even her eyes shifted from their fixed position.
“What’s your name?” he said as he pulled his new shirt on over the bandages.
“Aimi.” Her voice was soft and warm.
“I’m Keelin…”
“Captain Stillwater. We’re required to know all the important people.”
Keelin felt his pride swell a little. Not usually one to indulge in his ego, a little flattery was always nice. He pulled on his jacket. “Required for what?”
“Work. Important people get served first. Keeps the captains happy.”
Keelin nodded and started arranging his dirty clothes. He gathered them all into a neat pile and briefly considered throwing them overboard, but good jackets and shirts were difficult to come by in the isles, so he decided he’d clean them the next time he found a spare moment. He noticed that his boots were soaked in blood as well – and he desperately needed to not be wearing any more bloody attire.
“There should be a spare pair of boots under the cot. Would you mind fetching them for me?”
“I’m not a whore,” the woman said with venom, lifting her eyes for the first time and gazing furiously at Keelin.
“Uh…” Keelin attempted to think of a reply. He failed, and settled on staring at her as though she were a wolf about to attack. She stared back, and for a long time silence held between the two. “I’ll, um… fetch my own boots then.”
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the sheer exhaustion from recent events, or perhaps it was Keelin’s strange fascination with the woman, but too late he noticed the shards of his little clay rum mug swept underneath the bed. As he drew close the woman uncoiled and pounced in one fluid movement, her body crashing into his. They both went down. The world turned as Keelin fell, and he reached out, grabbed hold of the woman’s arms, and held her above him so that he wouldn’t land on her. Then he hit the wooden deck, his head bouncing, and white spots twinkled in and out of existence. The world seemed muggy and slow. Distantly he heard the sound of a woman crying.
With effort, Keelin pushed the woman up off him. That was when he noticed the shard of baked clay sticking out of his chest.
“What the fuck?” Keelin all but shouted, more than a little shocked by his recent, if rather unorthodox, stabbing. He was also a little worried that the pain hadn’t yet kicked in.
“I told you, I’m not a whore!” the woman shouted back, re
treating to the cot and resuming her curled-up position.
“I wasn’t trying to screw you, woman. I was trying to get dressed.” Keelin gripped the shard and, with a grimace that was all pain, pulled it out of his flesh. Luckily the fragment was small and hadn’t gone in too deep, but it was starting to hurt like all the watery Hells.
“Please don’t do that again.” Keelin got to his feet and debated changing his shirt again – there was already a deep red patch on it that would likely get bigger – but he needed to get the wound seen to first.
“Then why did you bring me here? Why am I the only one in your cabin?”
Despite her recent attack and accusations against Keelin’s moral character, he still found himself inexplicably attracted to the woman, and it didn’t put him in the best of moods.
“To protect you,” he growled. “From people who actually might be trying to fuck you.”
“What?”
“There’s a lot of men on this ship. Some haven’t been ashore in a while, and that means they haven’t seen a cunt in a while. Not to mention those that have recently lost their homes, families, and livelihoods, and may be looking for a little fun to make things seem a bit less worse. Not all men care about whether or not the woman feels the same way.” Keelin looked at himself in the mirror; the shirt was ruined and the wound was still bleeding.
“Are you saying you can’t control your crew?” The woman stared at Keelin over her knees.
“What? Of course I can… most of them. Look, if you’d rather take your chances out there with them…” Keelin stormed over to the cabin door, unlocked it, and threw it open. Feather was waiting on the other side, and he jumped to attention. “Then go ahead.”
“Captain?”
“Shut up, Feather,” Keelin growled, still waiting for Aimi’s response.
“You promise you won’t try to fuck me?”
“I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather do less,” Keelin lied.
“Then I’ll stay.”
“Wonderful,” Keelin shouted. He stepped over the threshold and slammed the door behind him, only then realising that he still wasn’t wearing any boots.
“Captain?” said Feather.
Keelin buried his head in his hands. “What is it?”
“Just thought ya should know that woman ya ordered put in ya cabin is still there.”
Chapter 20 - Fortune
The man let out a groan, and his eyelids fluttered. His mouth worked open and closed, and he tasted the wooden deck he was lying on. A moment later, a confused expression graced his previously peaceful face. His eyes slowly opened and blinked away the blurry confusion.
“Good morning,” Drake said with cheer. “I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna wake up.”
“What…” the man started. He coughed.
“Probably a little thirsty, eh?” Drake placed a water skin in front of him. “Go on, have a drink.”
The man reached out for the skin, but stopped short when the shackles around his wrists clattered on the deck. He looked down at the cold iron for a moment, before Drake saw realisation light in his eyes.
“You…” He coughed again.
“Go on, Admiral.” Drake pointed towards the water skin with his good hand. “Just water. You’ll feel better after a slurp, and then you can insult and threaten me as much as you please.”
The man hesitated for a moment before the needs of the body won out. He reached forwards, grabbing the water skin and squeezing mouthful after mouthful down his throat.
“I hear you’re supposed to sip when dehydrated,” Drake said, earning a glare from the admiral. “Isn’t that right?” Drake looked at Beck, who was leaning against the wall next to the door.
Beck shrugged and went back to cleaning one of her little pistols. Drake had no idea how she could do such delicate work in the dim light of the little cabin, but there were many things about Arbiters he didn’t entirely understand.
“My men?” The admiral pulled himself up into a more gentlemanly sitting position, placed his back against the wall, and smoothed down his naval jacket – which, Drake had to admit, had seen better days.
“Dead,” Drake replied with an easy grin. “Most of ’em, anyway. Couple of them are going to live, I’ll see to that.”
Having smoothed down his jacket as well as he could manage, the admiral set about running his fingers through his moustache and bedraggled hair.
“I like that,” Drake said to Beck. “Even in chains and certain peril, he takes the time to smarten up his appearance.”
“That’s the difference between gentlemen and rogues.” The admiral sneered. “No matter what you do to me, I will always be a gentlemen. No matter how high you might rise, you will always be a rogue.”
Drake mulled the statement over for a moment. “I think I prefer being a rogue.” He glanced at Beck. “Think she does too.” Beck snorted.
“So let’s get down to business, Admiral. You’re done. Ship captured, crew killed, and ain’t nobody expecting you back home for a while at least. Ain’t nobody going to come rescue you. It would be… sensible for you to answer my questions.”
“You will get nothing from me, pirate.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Aboard your ship?”
“Aye, a small, dark cell on board the Fortune. Right at the bottom, so when we get sailing seawater will slosh in and out and in and out. Do you know who I am?”
Drake saw the man hesitate before nodding.
“Good. This lady behind me is Arbiter Beck.”
The man’s face twisted in disgust. “No Arbiter would ever work for a pirate.”
“He’s not wrong,” Beck said sweetly. Drake turned to find her grinning at him. She may have saved his life more than once already, but Drake truly wished she’d be a little more cooperative. Just once, he would like people to do as he wanted with being manipulated, coerced, or threatened into it. Of course, he had to admit, that would remove the pleasure of bending them to his will.
“We got three ways of doing this,” Drake continued. “You can either answer my questions willingly – that’d be the gentlemanly way of doing things – or you can answer her questions.” He nodded towards Beck. “Or we can do this the old-fashioned way.”
“I won’t be asking him any of your questions,” Beck said. “I’m not a member of your crew, Drake. And I don’t take orders from you.” She pulled the door open and stepped outside.
The admiral let out a very noble-sounding laugh that made Drake want to punch the man – and he might have if his right arm hadn’t been hanging in a sling.
“I don’t know why you have an Arbiter on your ship, Morrass, but as you can see, the servants of Volmar are not easily corrupted.”
Drake cracked the admiral a golden-toothed grin over his shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”
Beck wasn’t angry; she was indifferent. It was the curse of being a beautiful woman; all of her life, men had been trying to take advantage of her. After she’d earned her coat, things had been a little different. No matter how much the average fool might be attracted to her, most would pale at the prospect of spending prolonged periods of time with an Arbiter. Of course, that had angered her at first. The only thing worse than the attention of men had been losing that attention, but she’d got used to it mostly because she’d realised it didn’t truly matter. Their desire for her and knowledge that they could never have her gave her power over them and, whether they ignored her or not, she retained that power.
Drake was different. He wanted her – any fool with eyes could see that – but he didn’t pursue her, and neither did he act like a man who knew he would never have her. It was all frustrating to the point of murder, an act Beck was not beneath, but she had given Hironous Vance her word that she would protect Drake Morrass.
With a frustrated growl, Beck stopped and levelled a punch at the door to her cabin. The wood neither gave an inch nor cared at the unsolicited violence.
“You got an issue, take it out on me, not the ship,” came Drake’s voice from behind. That he’d followed her, after she’d quite clearly stormed away, only served to make Beck angrier. She turned, and as soon as the pirate captain was within reach, she grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall. Beck was smaller than Drake, but with a whispered blessing of strength, and his back pressed firmly against the wooden wall, it was an easy thing to lift the pirate off his feet with just her left arm. With her right, she sent a punch into his stomach before stepping away and letting him collapse onto the floor.
“Fuck,” Drake wheezed out between coughs and splutters. “You hit… hard.”
In truth Beck had pulled her punch significantly. With her blessing of strength she could likely kill a normal man with one strike, but she wouldn’t break her promise to Inquisitor Vance. She pulled open the door to her cabin.
“Obviously I touched a nerve,” Drake said from the floor.
Beck stopped. “My magic is not some tool to facilitate your torture of a man. It is not a plaything, and it is to be used only in the service of Volmar.” Beck might have imagined it, but it almost felt as if the ship shook at the mention of her god’s name.
Drake slowly pushed himself to his feet with his one good arm. “But it’s alright for you to use that magic to beat up unsuspecting pirates, especially one obviously too injured to protect himself?”
Beck glared at the man. “Sometimes it serves Volmar to remind people that…” Again the ship seemed to shake a little at the name of the god, and this time even Drake seemed to notice it. The man looked truly worried, far from his usual arrogance.
“You say that name again, Arbiter,” he said, more earnest than Beck had ever heard him, “and I swear to Rin, I will throw you to her. I’ll not risk my ship, my crew, and my life because you don’t understand the rules here. There’s power in names, Arbiter Beck. Things greater than us hear them when spoken, and not all of those things like that name you keep throwing about. There’s a reason folk refer to their gods as he and she and her and him. It’s not always wise to gain the attention of a creature powerful enough to name itself a god.”