by Mike Shel
Another hearty cheer, the faces of the crew and marines lighting up at the mention of this unexpected bounty.
“For Queen Geneviva! Long may she reign!” the captain yelled.
“Long may she reign!”
“Mr. Polor,” ordered Hraea, his victory speech at an end, “see to it that this mangy lot of cutthroats is secured in cells below. Mr. Couri and Mr. Larso, police the bodies of friend and foe alike and see that our fallen comrades are respectfully stowed for a burial service after we’ve left Kalimander and are back on course for Barrow Sound. Mr. Hobesson, you may dismiss the men.”
There was an awkward silence. Not well liked by crew nor officers, Hobesson was nonetheless a brother-in-arms.
“Captain…” began Polor, who stood three feet from Hobesson’s body, the arrow’s shaft still protruding from an eye socket.
“Of course, of course. Mr. Polor, dismiss the men.”
The two female pyromancers, twin-like Asaio and Harmielle, took the opportunity to close in on the pile of soot and bone shards that was once their comrade. They scooped casual handfuls of his ashy remains into a red leather pouch, along with the intact ruby formerly set in the man’s forehead. They chatted while they gathered their cremated colleague, as though the task was nothing more than tidying up after a particularly raucous party.
“What was his name?” Belech called out to the pair.
“Fenro,” they said in unsettling unison, smiles pleasant. One of them scratched an itch, leaving a black stain of Fenro smeared on her face. The two finished their task, pulled a drawstring on the pouch, and resumed their cordial chat as they retreated for the stern of the Duke Yaryx.
Hraea, who had been watching the pyromancers with an upturned nose and scowl, turned toward Auric. Auric sat propped against the ship’s port railing, exhausted from both the battle and the ordeal of his healing. His companions were gathered near him. Hraea’s expression was equal parts sour and severe.
“Sir Auric, your priest disobeyed a direct order from me. A captain’s word is law aboard his vessel. This is not just a casual metaphor, sir.”
“Yes, sir. I directed Miss Edjani to heal the sorcerers, believing—correctly, I must say—that their skills might be essential in the battle that loomed before us. With respect, Captain Hraea, Mr. Carrick prevented the Yaryx from burning and Miss Mercele assisted in the capture of the Discord. I assumed that you yourself would have approved the action were you not distracted by more pressing aspects of the fight. I accept full responsibility for Miss Edjani’s actions and whatever consequences that might entail.”
“A penalty of death is not out of bounds for such an offense,” the florid captain growled.
“Yes,” Auric responded, his exhaustion allowing him to appear calmer than he felt. “I understand that is within your legal authority, should you judge it proper.”
Hraea’s lips pursed and unpursed, thick muttonchops fluttering as if preparing to fly away. Frowning, the captain finally spoke in a condescending, patrician tone. “Sir Auric…I am not an unreasonable man. I recognize the contributions of my spell-sellers to our happy outcome, including those of Carrick and Mercele. However, the authority of a ship’s commander cannot be flouted with impunity.”
“Might I suggest, captain, sir,” said Sira, a compliant lilt in her voice, “that your order was not ‘flouted.’ Rather, the circumstances had changed and, acting in the heat of the moment, we took unauthorized actions that resulted in your ‘happy outcome.’ I would also add, respectfully, that your Syraeic passengers were also instrumental in this proud victory. I ask that this fact weigh in your judgment as well.”
“I will not be mocked,” snarled Hraea, his red visage alarming.
“Captain,” Auric said with grave intensity, “your belief that we acted insolently fills me with greater regret than fear of just punishment. We owe our lives to your seamanship, which saw us through last night’s storm unaided by sorcery. And I must say, your noble mien on the quarterdeck was an inspiration to us all, fighting as we were against such terrible odds. I beg your mercy for any transgressions, considering how well-intentioned those transgressions were.”
Auric did his best to affect a formal bow from his awkward position, allowing the bite of pain from his wounds to color his expression. Hraea stared for a moment, hands locked behind his back, then began nodding his head, quick and vigorous.
“Granted, Sir Auric, granted. You and Miss Edjani will forfeit your portion of our prize as chastisement for your insubordination—with a clear understanding that future failure to obey my directives will not be met with such generous leniency.”
“A wise decision,” said Lumari in an exaggerated whisper.
Captain Hraea offered a brief, officious smile and strolled away, observing the efforts of his crew to mop up blood, clear bodies, and begin repairs to the sails.
“Sweet Lalu’s kisses,” said Gnaeus with an admiring whistle as he cleaned blood from his rapier and returned it to its sheath. “That was masterful flattery, Sir Auric. I nearly believed it myself. Lumari, something for Sir Auric’s chapped lips, if you please.”
Auric let out a weak laugh. “There was some truth to it, Gnaeus, just as there’s truth to Hraea’s need for obedience. Let’s just see to it we avoid anything that could be mistaken for mutiny during the remainder of our voyage. I don’t think we can count on my sycophancy a second time.”
17
The Hermit of Kalimander
All eyes followed the Duke Yaryx as she sailed into port, towing the vanquished Discord behind her. The harbor of Kalimander was broad, running along a two-mile waterfront crescent. Dozens of large warehouses lined the shore, built to store exports and imports, especially lumber cut from the vast Forest of Kelse, which carpeted most of the duchy. Thousands of pallets of milled hardwoods awaited sale to merchants willing to brave the Corsair’s Run, or with sufficient purse to pay more entrepreneurial pirates for safe passage. Like all harbors across the empire, Kalimander had docks designated solely for ships of the Royal Navy. The Indefatigable and the Leatham Lass were already tied up when the Duke Yaryx arrived. Idle seamen crowded the dock, vying for first opportunity to hear the tale the Yaryx had to tell. By the time Auric and his Syraeic companions were walking down the ship’s ramp, merchants and local businesspeople had joined the curious sailors, jingling purses stuffed with coin, anxious to place bids on the Discord.
At dockside, the throng swamped the vessel’s officers, inundating them with questions and proposals. At least one was already profiting nicely: Lieutenant Couri jotted down the names of bidders and amounts they were willing to pay for the pirate ship in a ledger, pocketing small bribes and inducements from those seeking special favor with poor concealment. Lieutenant Polor, freshly christened first mate following Hobesson’s death, chatted with a representative of Kalimander’s Royal Navy post captain, who wanted details of the battle.
“Did you capture Black Erin?” asked a plump merchant, weighted down with gaudy jewelry and a voluminous pale beard in oiled ringlets. “She’s been plaguing these waters for over a decade!”
Midshipman Larso, at a loss for what to do with all the attention, threw up his hands theatrically. “Dunno, sir. Is she a ship or a woman?”
“Captain of the Discord,” he replied, applying a pinch of blue powder to a nostril. “There’s a bounty of seven thousand sovereigns on her head. The Hermit himself will pay it.”
“The Hermit?” queried Larso, but the merchant had already moved on to Lieutenant Couri, seeing an opening to post his own bid for the captured vessel. Auric tugged on the lad’s sleeve.
“Mr. Larso, my colleagues and I are going to find an inn where we might have a meal that isn’t swaying to and fro. Would you please let the captain know we’ll be back by nightfall?”
Larso nodded, but was soon accosted by a pair of young women in saucy attire, begging for a kis
s from a “pirate killer.” Auric decided odds were slim his message would be delivered.
“We’ll return soon enough, Sir Auric,” consoled Del, rubbing the opal in her forehead. “If I don’t have a meal on dry land soon you’ll have to shut me away in a sanitarium.”
“Somewhere away from the docks, by Lalu’s honeypot,” whined Gnaeus. “I’m sick and tired of that blasted salt tang in the air.”
The Royal Navy docks were directly in front of the main thoroughfare to the harbor. After navigating their way through an endless fish market, eliciting additional curses from Gnaeus about odors, they located a road deeper into the city of Kalimander. They soon came upon a long quadrangle, framed by government buildings constructed of the duchy’s hardwood, all flying flags of the empire as well as the green tree crest of House Montcalme, the family that had held ducal power in Kelse for the last four hundred years. At the center of the square was a large bronze statue of a man riding a horse, reins in one hand and a fluttering banner in the other. Pigeons and seagulls had demonstrated their contempt, painting nearly every square inch of the statue gray-white with excrement. In contrast to the bustle and excitement of the waterfront, citizens in the square walked with their heads down, expressionless and withdrawn into themselves. A few sellers hawked wares from wooden carts, but otherwise the quadrangle was as quiet as a grave.
“Not a friendly place, from the look of it,” said Belech.
“Not a lively place,” Gnaeus muttered.
“No,” answered Auric. “Less so than last I was here. But that’s nearly fifteen years past.”
“Perhaps news of our glorious victory hasn’t spread this far,” suggested Lumari.
“The pirate Discord for a prize!” Del called out, imitating a town crier. “And three others put to bed in the Cradle!”
A man with a careless growth of black-and-gray stubble, wearing a tricorn hat and tan suitcoat that was once fine but now showed signs of age, stopped at Del’s impromptu proclamation.
“D-discord a prize?” he stammered, putting a palm on Auric’s chest to arrest the group’s progress. “Royal Navy? Tell me the Crown has finally seen fit to send a proper fleet to clean up these waters!”
“We know some of the story,” announced Gnaeus, pushing past his cohorts.
“What?” the man asked, eyes wide. “Is Black Erin in irons?”
“Aye, and she gave me a kiss,” the swordsman answered with a knowing smile. “We were pressed for time, else I’m sure she would have surrendered the rest to me as well.”
Lumari scoffed.
The man glowered at Gnaeus. “Like ‘em old and crusty, eh? Black Erin is near seventy, and meaner than a serpent. She’d just as soon snap off your pecker and feed it to her dogs than give you a kiss, pretty lad. Now, can you tell me anything or not?”
“Yes, sir, it’s true,” interjected Auric, looking forward to a quiet meal in a private room at some local inn. “The Discord was captured by a navy warship yesterday, which sunk the Sea Witch with two others, but there’s no fleet coming to the rescue, alas.”
“Wait…the Sea Witch and two others? Calamity and Dark Promise? The four of them have been raiding up and down the coast together for six months! The word was they’d a pyromancer with them—broke his Royal Binding, they did, and aeromancers and aquamancers on each as well! A single warship did this? Marcator be praised!”
“If you can direct us to a good inn that serves something roasted and rents a private dining room,” said Del, “we’ll regale you with the entire exciting tale. And I’ll pay for your dinner as well, provided you continue insulting my friend Gnaeus that way.”
“Egon Rafeling, senior clerk to the ducal administration, at your service,” said the man, doffing his hat to the sorcerer and showing a smile comprised of too many teeth. “The Azkayan’s Daughter serves fine roasted meats with gravy, potatoes and carrots, fresh baked bread and butter, and isn’t but a stone’s throw from here.”
“That sounds ideal, Mr. Rafeling,” said Auric. “Lead the way.”
Before they could set out, two sailors Auric recognized from the Yaryx approached them from the crowd, hats in hand. “’Scuse, us, Sir Auric, sir. Captain’s been invited to dine with the duke an’ he’s asked you and Miss Sira to accompany him. Seems word’s gotten round ‘bout our exploits! We’re to escort the two of you back to the Duke Yaryx.”
Auric sighed. There was no getting out of it. The man had just pardoned the two of them for their insubordination. He looked to his comrades with a frail smile. “Duty calls. Please be back on board by nightfall. And avoid causing any incidents requiring armed intervention, hmmm?”
Belech grinned. Gnaeus, hands on hips, looked up at the sky.
“We’ll ration their intake of spirits, Auric,” Lumari reassured.
“A suggestion, sir,” said Rafeling, rubbing nervously at the stubble on his face. He glanced about the square, as though he was being watched. “Take the Boulevard of Monuments to the duke’s palace. It’ll provide you with a cautionary introduction to where you’re headed.”
With another doff of his hat, Rafeling led the rest of the party to their meal, while Auric, Sira, and the sailors returned to the ship, Auric’s heart full of foreboding.
An ornate carriage, four horses harnessed, arrived to transport Hraea, Auric, and Sira to the ducal palace. Uniformed drivers rode up top, and a pair of weary footmen held on at the rear. The captain wore his dress uniform and a powdered wig, and had applied a touch of rouge to his cheeks. The man apparently knew something of aristocratic protocol.
“Have you been at court, Captain Hraea?” asked Sira in polite inquiry.
“I have had that privilege on two occasions, Miss Edjani,” answered Hraea with a proud smile. “Once when I was elevated to the rank of captain, and the second time following the Night Battle of Blue Straits, where the Duke Yaryx assisted in putting down the Sea Revolt. But that’s been nearly twenty years. Things must have changed in all that time, eh?”
“Aye,” said Auric.
“Thank you for taking us along with you, Captain Hraea,” said Sira, changing the subject. “A local man suggested we take something called the Boulevard of Monuments to the duke’s home. Could you ask our driver to go by that route?”
“Of course, my dear.” Hraea banged on the ceiling of the carriage and passed the request on to the driver, who muttered his assent.
“I must confess, Miss Edjani,” said Hraea as the carriage lurched, correcting its course, “Sir Auric is in attendance as a knight of the realm and my senior passenger aboard the Yaryx, but your presence is at the specific request of Duke Emberto.”
That sense of foreboding wormed its way up Auric’s throat. “He asked for her by name, Captain?”
“No, nothing like that, though I suppose the man has informants and spies across the city, as any prudent ruler would in our turbulent times. No, he was aware that a priest of Belu was aboard the Yaryx and his invitation specified that she should attend as well. Perhaps he is entertained by theological discussions, Miss Edjani.”
Hraea nodded at Sira with an indulgent smile, but the smile evaporated as his eye caught sight of something outside the window of the carriage. Auric and Sira, seated at the front of the carriage with their backs to driver and horses, turned their heads to see what it was that had so altered Hraea’s mood. The broad boulevard was lined with hardwood statuary, flanked by artfully carved lampposts burning whale oil for light. Dangling from each post was a body, rope taut around the neck, carrion birds nibbling at decomposing flesh. Sira kissed two fingers and pressed them to her forehead.
“Perhaps some of our navy brothers recently brought other corsair criminals to justice,” offered Captain Hraea, though his voice was uncertain.
“When have you seen pirates hung in the streets like this, Captain?” answered Auric, impatient with the man’s attempt to explain
away the spectacle. “Not in any seaside town I’ve ever been to. Public executions take place in a city square, on scaffolding erected for the purpose. And look at their clothing—hardly what you’d find a buccaneer wearing.”
The attire of the hanging corpses varied widely, though all bore signs of violence and exposure to the elements. Some wore the homespun work shirts of farmers and peasants; others were dressed like middle-class businessmen and artisans, while others still wore the finery of aristocrats or wealthy merchants. Several more had been stripped naked and flogged, presumably before their hanging.
“A recent uprising?” ventured the captain, doubting his own suggestion.
Soon the carriage halted at the gates of the ducal palace, the first structure they had seen in Kalimander made of stone rather than the local timber. Ten men manned the gate, clad in breastplates and helms and bearing polearms. Additional guards with heavy crossbows patrolled the walls surrounding the palace. The carriage finally passed the gates and made its way through once-fine gardens, now overgrown and wild. The horses turned on a broad cobblestone drive before the imposing edifice of the palace and came to a halt. A footman opened the carriage door and another placed a set of steps for its passengers, which the three descended with trepidation.
Another dozen armed men stood at the palace entrance, two tall doors of cherry masterfully carved with woodland scenes. To the right of these portals was a scaffold where a servant applied whitewash to the wall, covering graffiti written across its surface. Beneath the scaffolding was an unconscious man who had suffered a brutal beating. His feet and arms were bound painfully in a set of stocks, though his hands were missing, blood-drenched rags tied to the stumps poking through the stock’s holes.