Sea Queen

by Michael James Ploof

  “Shut up Thorg,” said Tyson. He turned back to Talon. “Listen Brother, we gotta stick together, and we have to bathe. The lot of you are starting to stink.”

  Talon couldn’t help but laugh. Tyson patted him on the back.

  “What can go wrong? I got a sword, you got the wolf.” Tyson glanced at the ring as he spoke. “Shyte, man. There are five of us, and we’re bigger than most of them.”

  “Fine, but you ain’t gonna convince anyone Marcus is our master when he’s wearing them rags.”

  Tyson regarded the outfit and nodded. “Very true. I like your thinking.”

  “Yeah Tyson, we can’t wear rags and make like Mar—“

  “Shut up, Thorg,” said Tyson. “We gotta go in and steal some clothes first. I’ll do it. You four stay here with the wolf—don’t want him setting off the dogs.”

  Talon and the others watched him go, and then waited in silence behind a stone wall, which seemed to wrap around the entirety of the neighboring farm. After an hour or so, Tyson returned carrying an armful of clothes and a wide grin, and the others ran to meet him.

  Marcus was tall, and the clothes were a little too small for him. However, once he had dressed in the white shirt, brown trousers and jacket, Tyson slapped him on the shoulder in celebration and said, “It’s perfect.”

  “He looks like he stole somebody’s clothes,” Windy mumbled.

  Tyson sighed. “Talon, lend me your knife.”

  Talon complied, wondering what he had in mind, but was soon confused when Tyson made a few small cuts and proceeded to tear them into larger holes. He even tore off a sleeve. Handing the knife back to Talon, he stepped back and eyed his work with a nod.

  “There…maybe that will take the notice off the fit. Here’s the story: We all work for Marcus, and we was hit by a group of thieves out on the road—barely escaped with our lives, and they got off with our wagon and horses… Savvy?”

  They marched down the road toward the fishing village and Talon’s apprehension grew. Why had he agreed to this? He didn’t have to be reminded to put his head down as the eyes of the fishermen fell upon the group—it was second nature. He twisted his hands making sure he could still get out of his bonds if need be. The ring on his finger gave him courage, and the thought of Chief watching their backs gave him the resolution to go on. He thought himself a coward then—the others had no magic rings, no spirit wolf, yet they followed Tyson’s plan without much complaint. Only Windy objected, but her misgivings were put to rest by Tyson’s reassurances.

  The sun was high in the sky, slowly being overtaken from the east by dark, grey clouds. The trees showed the bottoms of their leaves as the wind picked up, and soon the rain would start.

  The village seemed almost deserted, which was fine with Talon. Likely most of the men were out on the fishing boats, trying to check all the nets before the rains came. In the distance the tops of the tallest trees swayed in a wind unfelt on the ground. The clouds began to overtake the sun then—fat, churning clouds, lumbering slowly but menacingly across the sky. Talon was glad he had decided to come—a night spent huddled next to a rock in a downpour would be a miserable and sleepless one. He just hoped a worse fate didn’t await them.

  “Alright, Marcus. You’re a slaver from…Anybody know the name of a town ‘round here?” Tyson said, as they approached the village.

  Talon’s mind raced to remember one of the towns from his amma’s old maps.

  “Brysten,” said Windy. “I heard of the place on the slaver. Some of the elders talk ‘bout it being in southern Shierdon.”

  “Right,” said Tyson. “Marcus, you are a wealthy slaver from Brysten. You bought this lot in that last town and were headed home when we were attacked by bandits. Your horses, wagon, and all your possessions were stolen. Got it?”

  “What about—”

  “Ain’t no what about—that’s it!”

  It was fairly quiet when they entered the village proper. To the right was an inn, and Talon dared a quick glance at the sign hanging above the door—The Mermaid’s Teet.

  “That there looks like a good enough place to get a drink,” said Marcus.

  “Keep dreaming, Blondie,” Windy hissed under her breath.

  Tyson pointed toward the ocean. “Nah, lead us to the inn up ahead.”

  The inn was called the Sleepy Sailor, and as they followed Marcus through the heavy door and into the common room Talon couldn’t help but gawk—the place was beautiful. The furniture was plush, with leather cushions and frills adorning the ornately carved wood. A number of naval paintings lined the long walls on both sides. Rows and islands of tables were scattered throughout, and a stage took up a good portion of the south wall. On the opposite side stood a huge fireplace glowing with a low flame, just enough to dry out the damp air.

  Marcus and Tyson strode up to the empty bar as if they had been there before. The others meekly followed behind, pulled along by the rope in Tyson’s hand.

  Marcus banged on the long counter and yelled, “Whiskey!”

  Tyson eyed a bell set atop the bar and jingled it repeatedly. Soon a disheveled man with drooping spectacles erupted from the kitchen, and nearly tripped on a mop and bucket as he came to the call. He was lanky and shorter than Talon, with a thick red mustache and balding head.

  “Hello, hello, what can I get for y—” He stopped and tilted his head back as he nearly slammed into the bar. Pushing his spectacles up proper, he eyed the group.

  Marcus sat wearily. “Whiskey, damnit! Or I’ll find a bar that ain’t got a deaf keep!”

  “Oh…I mean, of course, coming right up.”

  “And water for the Skomm here—don’t want my investment dying on me.”

  “Of course not, my good sir.”

  The keep went into a fluid routine—it seemed to Talon, the only thing the man was probably graceful about was his craft. He handled bottle and glass like a juggler might, and had a tall shot of whiskey, four mugs, and a pitcher of water on the bar in no time at all. Marcus threw back the whiskey like it was water, slammed down the glass, and ordered another. Tyson poured out four glasses of water and put three of them on the table closest. “Drink up, you turds. You never know when Master Marcus will be so generous.”

  Talon, Windy, and Thorg took their cups up with bound hands and drank greedily—playing their part of ill-treated Skomm slaves.

  “Come, Ty, share a drink with me. You deserve as much, saving my arse from them bandits,” said Marcus, and waited for their mark to take the bait.

  “Two more whiskeys coming up.” The barkeep returned with the fresh whiskeys, and leaned in as he absently polished a clean spot on the bar. “Bandits, you say?”

  Talon didn’t miss Tyson’s small grin. He got the distinct feeling they had done this before—they were good together.

  “Gods damned right, bandits! They done took my cargo, wagon, horses…bah!” Marcus banged on the bar again.

  “And to think…‘round these parts…” The barkeep leaned in closer, inspecting Talon and the others at the table. “Why, just this mornin’, word came of a man bein’ killed by some Skomm slaves in the next town over.”

  Talon gulped and clenched his ring hand.

  “You don’t say. Was just in that area, we were,” said Marcus, without missing a beat. He leaned in closer as well. Being well over six feet tall, even sitting down he towered over the fidgety barkeep. “You always got these sorts of problems ‘round here? Makes for bad business, it does.”

  The man’s eyes went wide and he frantically shook his head. “Heavens no. This is good country up here. We ain’t had a disturbance like this in…well…I couldn’t remember to say.”

  “Hmm,” said Marcus. He gave the man a judgmental glare, somehow putting him on the defensive.

  Marcus put the dead guard’s coin purse down on the bar. “Well if it ain’t no trouble for you good country folk, I’ll be needing two rooms for the night. I would leave this lot of Skomm garbage tied to a horse post outside
, if I didn’t think the storm coming would spoil my stock afore I got the worth out of their hides.”

  Talon noted that Marcus was good at mimicking the Agoran accent. Seeing him perform reminded Talon of the storytellers and play actors around the fires in the commons.

  “Two rooms, of course, of course. Heavens, where are my manners? My name’s Peters.” He hastily wiped his right hand and held it out.

  Marcus shook it. “Honored. Now how ‘bout some grub for me and them Draugr. Nothing too fancy for ‘em—your godsdamned scraps if need be. But I want something hot and steaming.”

  “Right away, right away,” said Peters, and he disappeared through the kitchen doors.

  “Scraps if need be? I’ll take something steaming?” said Windy, angrily.

  “Shut up!” Tyson snapped. His eyes grew wide and moved around the room at the few patrons, and then scowled at her. “Mind your place, Skomm.”

  Windy understood, and so did Talon. They had acted it perfectly so far, thanks mostly to Marcus. Talon hadn’t heard much from the big man up until now, and he was surprised by his acting skills. He did notice, however, the beads of sweat gathering about his hairline.

  Peters returned with a steaming bowl of something that smelled of ocean and herbs—to which Talon’s mouth watered—then lifted a small section of bar, and came out to toss a big bowl of scraps on the table where the three acting the part of slaves sat.

  Before them was a mix of potato peels, carrot shavings, and cucumber skins, along with a badly risen bread loaf and a pile of cooked sausage, which must have been leftover from the breakfast crowd. It would do.

  Marcus ordered a second bowl for Tyson, chastising Peters for leaving out his most trusted Skomm servant. The barkeep brought the food right away with a loaf of steaming bread. When they were done, Peters put two keys on the bar and said, “That’ll be twenty five a piece for the rooms, and five for the food and drink.”

  Marcus and Tyson stared at him. The others stopped eating and watched the scene. Talon wondered if they knew how to add.

  “Fifty five copper?” said Tyson. He was glancing at Marcus as if asking permission.

  “Pay the man—I’m weary.” Markus turned to Peters as he got up. “Do you have a hot bath perhaps?”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll have the water drawn right away.”

  Marcus nodded and turned to Talon and the others. “Come on, you useless Draugr!”

  “Just up the stairs and to the right, down the hall a bit—rooms seven and eight,” Peters called after them.

  Rooms seven and eight weren’t spacious by any means, but the size didn’t matter as much as the roof over their heads. They found two beds in each, and while barely long enough for the others’ tall frames, for Talon they were just right.

  “You and Marcus get whiskey, hot soup, and bread, while we eat kitchen scraps and water? That’s some dragon shyte!” said Windy.

  Tyson closed the door to room seven. “Quit your complaining, we got beds don’t we? We ain’t drawn no suspicions.” He threw Windy a piece of the fresh bread he’d hidden under his shirt, sat down at the small table and took a small deck of playing cards from his pocket.

  Outside, thunder shook and the clouds burst. Thorg opened the window to the downpour, cupping the rainwater in his hands and washing off his face.

  Tyson looked at Talon as he shuffled the cards. “You play cards?”

  “Depends on the game. We used to play in the commons once in a while. My amma had cards too, but they weren’t for games. She used hers for fortune telling and such.”

  Tyson cut the deck with one hand. “Who’s we?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said, we used to play in the commons.”

  “Oh, just me and Akkeri and Jahsin.”

  Marcus took the chair opposite and Tyson began dealing out cards between them.

  “Akkeri is the one you’re looking for—where is your friend Jahsin? Still back on Volnoss?”

  Talon shook his head. “No. What are you playing?” He wanted to change the subject, but Tyson didn’t miss the aversion.

  “Keep-‘em, you ever play it before?”

  “No.” He sat down at the table with them. “I’ll watch for a bit.”

  “Found these cards in the guard’s coin purse. They ain’t the same as Volnoss cards, what with their kings and queens instead of Vald and Gods, but they’ll do—there’s still fifty two cards to the deck.”

  He fronted Marcus some of his coins and they played a few hands. Windy went into the other room to sleep, and Thorg sat down on the bed to watch. The deck of thin leather consisted of nine numbered cards, along with a Priest, King, Queen, and Knight for each of the four seasons. Talon got the hang of the game fairly quickly.

  Marcus won three of the four hands they played, and when a servant knocked on the door and said his bath was ready, he scooped up his winnings and gave back Tyson what he had fronted. Before leaving the room, he stopped and turned. “I’ll be back with a bottle. Hey, Talon, why don’t you keep my seat warm?”

  “Wanna play?” Tyson asked, practicing his shuffle.

  Talon was apprehensive. “For money?”

  “Well, we could play for fun…but what fun is that? Real stakes make the game.”

  “What the hells, why not?” He could play a few copper—it would be fun.

  “Ante up,” said Tyson, flipping a coin onto the table.

  Tyson won the first hand, and Talon won the second and third.

  “With what I lost to Marcus, plus the cost of the food and drink, I’ll be in the poorhouse before the night is out,” said Tyson.

  “You can have them back—we can play for fun.”

  “Dragon shyte, I can have ‘em back. Ain’t no give-back in Keep-em. You lose, you lose like a man. Go on and deal.”

  Talon dealt a hand and won again, though he stuck with single coin bets.

  Tyson still had the silver, and said they were worth twenty five copper a piece. His fortune seemed to turn after the fifth hand when he finally won again. As his coins started to return, Tyson’s mood shifted with them. He began to joke again, and even hummed as he shuffled.

  Talon didn’t mind. The only thing worse than losing was playing against a sore loser.

  “Mind if I play?” Thorg asked. He was still watching from the bed.

  “You don’t have any money,” said Tyson dismissively.

  “You could loan me some to start, like you did Marcus.”

  “I’m down as it is—I got nothing to loan just yet.”

  “I’ll loan you some copper,” said Talon.

  “Thanks, Talon. Be right back.” Thorg left and came back shortly with two chairs from the other room.

  Talon fronted him some coins and Tyson dealt the cards.

  They played for the better part of an hour. Thorg won a few lucky hands and was soon up triple what he borrowed. He paid back Talon with a wide-grinned thanks. The copper circulated around the table, but the betting never got too big. The highest bet was three copper raised to six.

  The door opened. Marcus came in wearing a towel and carrying his clothes under one arm. His hair was still wet, and he smelled like summer flowers. In his right hand he held a big bottle of amber liquor, and in his left, a smoke pouch. He lifted the wares up to the others victoriously.

  “Am I a good master or neinn? All my winnings I spend on my slaves.”

  Tyson laughed. “Pass ‘em here.”

  Marcus passed the bottle and tossed the smoke pouch on the table, scattering coins and cards.

  “Hey!” Talon protested—he was holding a strong hand.

  “Pack me a pipe, would you, Thorg?” Marcus asked as he began to dress. “And deal me in.”

  “You got no money,” said Thorg. He began to stuff loose tobacco leaf in a corn cob pipe.

  “Fine, you three owe me five copper each for the drink and smoke…and this.” He produced a loaf of bread from under his folded shirt.

  The three
eyed each other, and coughed up the coins with a laugh. Tyson passed the bottle to Talon, who took a long pull. Soon he wished he hadn’t. He coughed violently and nearly vomited. Marcus laughed and took a seat next to him, slapping him on the back.

  “That there’ll put hair on your—“

  “What you four idiots doing in here?” Windy asked. She stood bleary eyed in the doorway. “You’re making a feikin racket.”

  Marcus lit a striking stick and puffed up his pipe, filling the room with smoke.

  “Playing cards. You want in?” said Thorg.

  “No, but I’ll take some bread and rum.”

  “Its whiskey,” Marcus said, the pipe clenched between his teeth.

  “Yeah, Windy,” said Thorg, “it’s whiskey. Marcus says it’ll put hair on your—“

  “Shut up! The bet’s on you. In or out?” said Tyson.

  Thorg folded and took a swig of the whiskey. Talon folded his cards as well and ate some bread. Marcus bet all his coins, or ‘went to war,’ as he put it. Tyson thought about it for a long time, but finally folded.

  “Nice hand,” he said, and passed the deck off to Talon for the next deal.

  “Where’d you learn how to act like that? I mean, downstairs, with the barkeep.” Talon asked Marcus.

  “Me and Tyson used to act out stories in the commons. Never thought it would come in so handy,” said Marcus.

  Talon tried to remember if he had ever seen them. He had never hung out in the commons too often, what with his apothecary duties each night. “I wish I could’ve seen you,” he said.

  “You saw his best performance downstairs,” said Tyson. He took a puff and passed the pipe.

  Marcus grinned as he scooped up another pot. “I must say, I outdid myself.”

  The sun had set, and the rain that poured all day had disappeared with the daylight. Sweet, fresh air blew in through the open window to mingle with the hovering pipe smoke.

  They played for a few hours, passing the bottle around and laughing at each other’s stories. The betting remained pretty mild until Tyson ‘went to war’ again, and Talon, it so happened, found himself with one of the most powerful hands there was—Four of the Same.