“Well,” Rowenna said after a moment. “If you really have invited half the town to come and hang on your every word tonight, I’d best get the place in order. You still owe me that present, mind you.” With that, she resumed her chores, giving Ramsey some time alone to put his thoughts in order. He sat, brooding, until Rowenna finally unlocked the doors and the first of the pirates spilled in, Shan among their number. By the time she turned around, Ramsey’s facade was back in place, and he was once again the avuncular pirate she remembered.
True to Ramsey’s word, the tavern soon was packed fit to burst, with townsfolk hanging over the balcony railings and crowding onto benches to hear all about passage through the Devil’s Shroud and what lay beyond it. Shan had brought a small sack of the most eye-catching and exotic valuables, including a jeweled horn that he claimed to have tugged from the dusty grip of a long-dead priest—a strange way of explaining that he’d really just stubbed his toe on it in the dark.
They told the story about the piglets, and after a few drinks, Rathbone was even persuaded to talk about the snake, but as the candles burned low and the hours passed, Ramsey refused to be drawn on two subjects: how he’d made the crossing, and how others might do the same.
Strong drink and heavy fumes of pipe smoke, coupled with seeing such fortune waved under their noses only to be snatched away, turned many pirates’ moods sour at this point. A particularly devious rat of a man—known around town as Stitcher Jim—climbed unsteadily to his feet, roughly pushed his way toward Ramsey’s table with the crimson of his cheeks matched only by his bulbous nose.
“Liar!” He meant the shout as a bellow, but it emerged as a belch. “Yer a liar, Ramsey, that’s what I say! If as much as you say lies behind that bloody fog, then what harm is there in letting us all take our share? I say you just got lucky, found some old wreck or something, and now you’re feeding us this . . . this . . .” Stitcher Jim’s eyes unfocused momentarily. “This! You ain’t been nowhere special!” Several of the man’s friends grumbled in agreement at this, striking their mugs loudly upon the table and obliviously spilling their beer.
“Every man has his secrets,” Ramsey growled, “and I’ll not have you prying into mine! Are you telling us all, here and now, that you’ve no way to make a living, honest or otherwise, without my help? Perhaps,” he added with his face twisted in a sneer, “you’d like me to wipe your backside, too, whelp that you are!”
Had the tavern not been so overcrowded, the bottle that Jim’s crony aimed for Ramsey’s head might actually have struck its target. As it was, a luckless deckhand who’d decided that now was a good moment to stand in search of the privy took the full force of the blow. The deckhand leapt up in one smooth motion, knocking two more pirates into a tangle of flailing limbs and plunging the entire tavern into a drunken brawl.
It was a messy, aimless tussle of pent-up aggression and too much grog, and no one made it home that night without extremely soggy clothing and a few bruises. It marked the only time regulars could remember soldiers needing to set foot inside Rowenna’s establishment to round up the most persistent rabble-rousers, though both Ramsey’s crew and the man he’d insulted were long gone by then. It never paid to be rounded up by the town guards, as pirates carted off for a night in the cells rarely made it to trial.
So it was that Stitcher Jim and his friends fled the scene and staggered home to the most disreputable part of town, nursing their wounds and clutching at their sore heads. Only Jim was in a state to speak, and he was busy ranting, so distracted that he almost collided with the cloaked figure as it stepped smartly out of a doorway into their path. Jim cursed, stumbled, and would have fallen were it not for the figure, who caught his arm in an iron grip.
Squirming, Jim made to deliver a threat, but it died on his lips as he caught a peek under the cowl. “You!” he spat. “You’re one of Ramsey’s lot! I ought to cut your tongue clean out!”
“If you do that,” Rathbone replied amiably, apparently oblivious to the other two men closing in behind him, “then I won’t be able to tell you where you can find yourself a map. Assuming you’re still interested in crossing the Devil’s Shroud yourselves, that is. I can only offer a copy, but I assure you I have an excellent eye for detail.”
Jim eyed the taller man, warily, and yanked his arm free. He made no move for his sword, however. Not yet, at least. “Why would you help the likes of us, eh? Why betray your captain?” he asked, warily.
“Because I think he’s wrong to hoard the knowledge,” Rathbone replied, curtly. “The more of us there are out there, the more we can accomplish. Everyone needs to know they’ve got friends to rely on.” He leaned closer. “We could be good friends, Jim.”
Jim looked uncertain, his eyes almost crossed, but he shook his head. “This is a trick! Revenge for tonight, that’s what this is. You’re trying to get me to sail straight into that damn fog and sink the lot of us!”
“If that’s what you believe, then copy the map yourself and send someone else through first,” Rathbone scoffed. “If I were you, I’d make copies anyway. You can sell them to pirates who are actually brave enough to make the trip.”
Stitcher Jim narrowed his eyes, annoyed at the insult, but if Rathbone was deceiving them, he couldn’t work out how or why. “And how much will you ask for this precious map, exactly?”
“Noth—” Rathbone paused, because some part of him still churned at the idea of giving something for free. “Whatever’s left in your coin purse will do, but what I really want is your loyalty.” He was so close now, their noses were practically touching. “I want to know that the next time we see each other, you’ll do as I say.”
Jim could have refused. Had he been clear-headed, he might have done so and left Rathbone in a heap for the guards to find. But something about the intensity of the man’s gaze was hypnotic. He heard himself say yes, and felt his fingers handing over coin.
“Excellent.” Rathbone pulled back sharply, brusquely shoving Jim’s companions aside and stepping between them. “You’ll find the parchment in a bottle,” he called, striding toward the dock without so much as glancing back at the bewildered group. “It’s in the water barrel outside that dismal tavern. I look forward to our next encounter, friends.”
Stitcher Jim watched silently until Rathbone was well out of earshot. “Friends, huh. He’s cracked, giving away a map like that,” he said finally.
“Definitely,” the others nodded.
“Probably just a bunch of nonsense anyway. Probably doesn’t even lead anywhere.”
“Course not.”
“Although,” Jim mused, “even if it was a fake, it’d still fetch a pretty penny.”
“Could be so, could be,” the others agreed. One by one, they reached the same conclusion and stood for a moment, considering their options.
And then, scrambling and shoving at one another in their bid to get there first, each of the pirates ran back toward the tavern as fast as their legs would carry them.
LARINNA
A weapon within my means, he says. Larinna stood outside Wilbur’s Weapon Emporium with her hands on her hips and scowled up at what could only charitably be called a building. More accurately, it looked like someone had taken two enormous piles of driftwood, pushed them up against one another, and hung a sign on the resultant mess.
Still, even getting her hands on a sharpened stick would be preferable to setting out on the open water unarmed. The shop’s door grated against the uneven planks of the bare wooden floor as she entered, and Larinna had to apply the sole of her boot and force it backward before there was enough space for her to squeeze inside the little hut. Much as she’d expected, the place was as much of a shambles inside as out, with piles of rusting firearms half-disassembled and then abandoned. A selection of notched cutlasses hung haphazardly from an old hat stand, and a barrel had been stuffed full of what appeared to be cannon fuses, all different lengths and tangled together in a knot that might take lifetimes to unravel.
/> Wilbur, or at least who she presumed to be Wilbur, was a rotund, middle-aged man with a balding pate and an enormous moustache that drooped far down past his chin. Similarly impressive tufts of hair protruded from his ears. The overall impression was that someone had stuffed a walrus into an apron and left it in charge of their junk room while they were out.
He was pacing back and forth behind the counter in full theatrical flow, gloved hands gesturing at the various dubious weapons that had somehow earned pride of place as display models. The target of Wilbur’s patter was a young pirate with a shaved head and an impressive collection of piercings. Her glassy-eyed expression suggested that she’d been here for some time and might continue to be so, for the dealer’s grandiose showmanship showed no signs of dying down. Larinna folded her arms impatiently and leaned against the doorframe to wait her turn—gingerly, in case her weight was enough to bring the entire place crashing down around their ears.
“On the other hand,” Wilbur was saying, “there will come a time in every pirate’s life when the odds are stacked against her and the situation is grim, a moment when she realizes that her beloved pistol—up until that point her constant companion and her most faithful friend—simply lacks the pure punch to deal with the ravening hordes she’s pitted against! Granted, yes, you’re quite correct to say that the humble pistol can accurately pluck the pips from an apple from fifty feet away when in skilled hands, but when your back’s against the wall, it’s sheer stopping power that you need, make no mistake about it!”
Wilbur reached up and took hold of a beaten and tarnished blunderbuss, placing it on the counter with as much reverence as one might show a family heirloom. “It was the stopping power that saved the life of the notorious brigand known to his friends and enemies alike as Clumsy George, yes, the very same, when he found himself outmanned and outgunned by a crew of vicious villains with murder in their hearts! Oh yes, old George would have found himself in quite the sore spot had he not had this beautiful piece of craftsmanship clutched behind his back—for, like any good blunderbuss should, this fine firearm has the kick of a mule on mayday when you’re nice and close.” Here he gave a cheeky wink, as if imparting some great trade secret.
“If it’s such a wonderful weapon,” Larinna challenged, “why did this Clumsy George get rid of it?” She stepped up to the counter as the last of her patience ebbed away.
Wilbur merely shrugged and responded, “He tripped and lost it overboard.” Pushing the blunderbuss to one side for a moment, he leaned forward on the counter. “Am I to take it from your unfamiliar countenance and sunny disposition that you’re a new arrival to our little pirate paradise?”
“You are,” said Larinna curtly. “And I have an appointment to keep. Faizel sent me,” she added, as an afterthought.
Wilbur beamed. “Did he, indeed! Well I must say you’ve found yourself in some delightfully dishonorable company, so that’s a good start. Faizel’s been a regular customer of mine since I was back at the old place, before I went upmarket.” He patted a nearby beam affectionately, dislodging a couple of woodworms. “I’m sure you’re just as eager as our mutual friend here to learn more about the wondrous weaponry you see all around you. Such as this rifle, for instance, which has a long and surprising history in the hands of Gr—”
“Just a sword,” Larinna interrupted. “And I don’t need to know its life story, or which way you’re supposed to hold it, or that the previous owner was a little old lady who only used it once a week to kill sharks. I just need it to be sharp, and well oiled, and for the blade not to fall off in the middle of a fight. Clear?”
“Ah,” said Wilbur, thoughtfully. “One of our deluxe models.” He reached underneath the counter and heaved a dusty crate into what passed for the daylight inside the little shop, wiping it theatrically. “Now, these don’t come cheaply, of course . . .”
“I have five pieces in my purse,” Larinna said, refusing to let the blustering swindler take control of the conversation. “By the time I walk out of here, they could be your five pieces.” She wrenched the box around to face her, and rifled through its contents, ignoring flashes of golden hilts or finally detailed blades that she almost certainly wouldn’t be able to afford.
Finally, buried near the bottom of the selection, she found what she was looking for—a simple steel blade with a gentle curve to it and a handle wrapped with cloth to provide a sturdy grip. She swished it once or twice through the air, checking its balance. There were a couple of notches in the blade, but it’d do.
Wilbur could contain himself no longer. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Now that sword—”
“—is worth five pieces.” Larinna allowed the coins to tumble from her palm one by one onto the counter with a series of satisfying thunk noises, tilting her palm so that the final coin went into a spiraling roll before clattering to a halt. Wilbur’s eyes followed it all the way. “My time here is over.”
The weapon dealer let out a theatrical sigh, but Larinna could tell by the look in his eyes that the deal was already done. “Five it is,” he agreed, “and you make sure you come back and trade it in just as soon as you’re ready for the next model up, you hear me?”
“If your sword doesn’t snap and get me killed, I just might,” said Larinna reasonably, sliding the blade carefully into her belt and making for the door without another word. It was nice to be out in the sunlight again—but not as nice, she had to admit, as feeling the weight of a weapon at her side once more. Now it was time to meet her new crew.
As Larinna left for the docks, she could still hear Wilbur’s booming rhetoric carried on the breeze. “Sometimes, young lady, you meet one of those customers who you simply have to get rid of as quickly as you can, or they’ll talk your ear off all day. Now, as to that blunderbuss . . .”
The sun was brushing against the distant horizon by the time Larinna made it to the dock, bathing the handful of ships there in the orange glow of twilight. Deckhands busied themselves about them like bees around a hive, patching and repairing, loading and unloading supplies, and making ready to set sail by the light of the moon. Darkness could be a pirate’s best friend, if the night was kind.
Even in a crowd, Ned was easy to spot. Currently he was hefting one lumpy object in each hand—to begin with, Larinna assumed they were casks or sacks of some kind. It was only as she drew closer that she realized she was looking at two struggling figures, a man and a woman. Neither seemed dressed for a life at sea, clad as they were in heavy leather tunics topped with purple robes made from some expensive fabric. Some sort of uniform, perhaps? Intrigued, she sidled a little closer so that she could hear what was being said.
Naturally, Faizel was doing more of the talking, and were it not for the way Ned was manhandling the strangely garbed pair, Larinna might have assumed they were all lifelong friends. “I am in my heart a gentle soul,” he was saying, sorrowfully, “with a profound sense of love and respect for all things, for we are all the same deep down, yes? If you prick us, do we not bleed, swear, and hit you? That is why it fills me with such sorrow to see my companion here upset in any way.” At this, Ned tightened his grip, hefting the two cloaked figures even farther from the floor.
“Since we are so alike, I am sure you both can imagine my despair when Ned tells me that we have intruders aboard our vessel, our pride and joy! Trespassers! Interlopers! Saboteurs! Had we not happened upon you scuttling around below decks, who knows what terrible fate might have awaited us, hmm? Now I find myself at a loss as to what should be done with you. I could have you locked in the brig, I suppose, but it really is only designed for one person . . .”
“Yeah,” Ned cut in with a gravelly chuckle. “We’d have to squeeze really hard.”
“We had a contract!” one of the figures managed to choke out.
“Ah, this is very true,” Faizel agreed. “A contract upon which, I admit, we sadly could not deliver. Even as we speak, our good captain is away explaining all of this to your superiors, who I’m sure are
also gentle souls.” He paused, moving around to stand disconcertingly behind the two prisoners, and lowered his voice. “But I think perhaps we are not so trusted, yes? You suspect that maybe we did indeed acquire what you sent us to find, and assuming that we were planning to hold it for ransom or perhaps make use of it ourselves in some way, you crept aboard our fine vessel to take it for yourselves. Ah, my heart is heavy again. You would rob us of the very clothes off our backs!”
Faizel rocked back and forth for a moment on his heels, frowning, then his face split into a delighted grin. “Then we must deliver payment in kind, I think! Ned, if you would be so kind as to bring our guests aboard for a moment,” Faizel said with a sweeping gesture.
Larinna watched curiously as the two flailing captives were hauled effortlessly aboard and taken into the captain’s cabin. She wasn’t entirely sure how much of what Faizel had said was true, but she was eager to see how the intruders were about to be dealt with. These were people she might well need to entrust her life to one day, after all. How ruthless would they prove to be?
Her curiosity was sated a moment later when those same two figures—momentarily unrecognizable, as they were now clad only in their undergarments—were ejected from the back of the ship and fell, bellowing, into the muddy waters of the docks. They surfaced a moment later, red-faced and spluttering, and a chorus of jeers and jokes from bystanders on the dock floated after them as they sprinted shamefacedly out of sight.
When she’d finished chuckling, Larinna left her hiding place and approached the ship, noting the figure of a short-haired woman holding two crossed pistols. It would be wiser not to mention that she’d borne witness to the dispute just now, she decided, and she prepared to board and knock upon the door of the captain’s cabin as if she’d just arrived.
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