Five Fingers: The Exeter
I left Hembly’s office thinking about sea air. After a week asking questions along the docks on the Dragon’s Tongue, I finally got lucky. A riverboat captain had hired a big Sinari man with a limp who offered to cook in exchange for passage downriver. It took me a month to follow his trail all the way to Five Fingers. Once there, I followed my nose.
What a stomach-turning experience.
I’d never seen squalor like that in all the cities, rail yards, or backwater burgs of Cygnar. It’s a wonder anyone can live that way, but people do. And where people live, they eat. I started with the butcher shops, then moved on to the eateries. I tried not to think about what was in the stew those places served up. Most just kept a big pot bubbling all the time, adding new ingredients throughout the day. Asking questions in Five Fingers is about as healthy as eating that stew too soon after they’ve added the meat. I kept my hand near my gun and ignored the stares. Finally, I talked to an old woman in a Hospice Island hash house—barely a shed, with a coal fire under a huge cauldron.
“Creb? Yeah, I knew Creb.” She ladled a portion of the bubbling mess into a bowl and handed it to me. “You’re too skinny. Eat that while we talk.”
“All right.” I took up one of the wooden spoons and poked at the bowl’s contents. I just about dropped it when a rat skull floated up, but the old woman just grinned.
“Don’t let that worry ya none. Meat’s meat. Creb taught me that. Made the best meat stew I ever tasted.” She leaned over the bubbling pot and whispered, “Trick’s to use cheap wine or rotgut rum for the liquid, not the water from ’round here. That’ll kill ya faster than a bite from a rabid dog!” She cackled and started smashing whole heads of garlic with the flat of a cleaver.
I took a bite and spat out a piece of bone. Still, I’d tasted worse in places with white linen tablecloths and porcelain dishes. “Tell me about Creb.”
“Handy with a knife, he was, and knew a bit about cookin’.” She ladled out more stew and accepted a copper coin from one of her patrons. “Plus, he was big enough that nobody gave me trouble. Thought he might stay, but some woman come by about a month ago and stopped to sniff my pot. She wore two swords and looked meaner’n rat spit. Not the usual kind we get down here, but damned if she didn’t order up a bowl of Creb’s stew. Looked surprised, just like you did, and asked who cooked it. I should’ve known better than to tell her. She hired Creb right there, but he gave me his recipe, and I been doin’ okay.” The old woman ladled out another bowl and pocketed another coin. “Not the same without him, though.”
“Do you know the woman who hired him?”
“Name’s Hawk. Some kind of sailor, I think. Works for the Mercarian League.” She wrinkled her nose.
That was bad. If Worthy had taken a job on a ship, he might be long gone. “Do you know which ship?”
“Nope.” She frowned. “And if you go askin’ questions to them Mercarians, you be careful. They don’t like questions.”
“Thanks.” I took a few more bites of stew and handed the bowl back along with a silver coin.
She nodded, pocketed the coin, and poured the leftovers back into the pot.
I’d not been down to the docks, and I was surprised by the amount of shipping. Five Fingers had a reputation as more of a pirates’ haunt than a commercial port, but it seemed the Mercarian League didn’t fear pirates. I’d been around ships enough to know who to talk to. It didn’t take long to find out which ship Hawk belonged to; she had quite a reputation.
“The Exeter,” a sly-eyed youngster said as I handed over a copper. “That’s the League’s flagship. She’s berthed right over there. Hawk is her armsmaster. If you want to sign on, you’ll have to talk to Mister Walls. Just look for the one-eyed codger with a monkey on his shoulder.” The boy grinned and vanished into the crowd.
The Exeter was impressive.
A three-decker and sporting more cannon than a frigate, she lay at the crowded pier like a queen among peasants. Sailors swarmed over her, laborjacks and huge derrick cranes loading tons of cargo. At her main gangway, Mister Walls sat behind a table, unmistakable by the scowling monkey on his shoulder. A line of scraggly looking men and women moved slowly forward as he scrutinized them one at a time. He either had them sign in a thick book and directed them up the gangway, or he sent them packing. Clearly, the Exeter was hiring.
I watched for a while, looking for Worthy among the bustling sailors, but there was no way I would be able to find him without going aboard, and to do that, I had to be part of the crew. I was no sailor, but I’d been aboard plenty of ships and could bluff my way through most cursory assessments of my abilities. I joined the line and waited my turn.
Master Walls took one look at me and curled his lip in a derisive sneer. “You don’t look like a sailor.”
“No, I don’t.” I knew what I looked like, and there was no denying that my duster and wide-brimmed hat looked more like what you’d see in a rail yard than aboard a ship. “I do a little of everything, but I’ve been aboard enough ships to know my way around.”
“You do, do you?” He looked over his shoulder at the towering masts. “You afraid of heights?”
“No.”
“If I told you to go to the foretops’l brace, where would that be?”
“The foremast, two yards up at the end of the yard. You didn’t say which one, port or starboard.”
“Fair enough. Can you splice?”
“Yes.” I could.
“Reef a sail?”
“Yes.” I knew what reefing meant, but I had never done it. For that matter, I’d never been out on the yard of a square-rigged ship either, though I’d been aloft as far as the crow’s nest, if only to shoot from it.
“Good enough for an able seaman, then.” He turned a page in his ledger. “Pay’s four crowns a month and a bonus for any fighting we have to do. If we take a pirate or raider, you get your share. Three meals, a hammock, and grog once a day. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Name?”
I’d been thinking about that, and I answered, “Worthington.”
He jotted it down and turned the book around. “Make your mark there.”
That I scrawled my name in florid script seemed to surprise him. “You write?”
“Yes.” I tried to look sly. “Does that get me a raise?”
“Not likely.” He took the book back. “Report to Bosun Grogspar for your duties and billet. You best wrap that repeater of yours up in oilcloth and stow it in your locker. Salt air’ll eat a fine firearm like that right up. You salute anyone wearing a uniform. Dinner’s at six bells.”
“Thank you.” I started up the gangway.
“Thank me after you’ve tasted it.”
I didn’t bother to tell him what I had for lunch. With any luck, I’d see Worthy when dinner was served out.
I found the bosun easily enough. As one of the few trollkin among the crew, he was hard to miss. Grogspar assigned me a billet and a locker and told me to stow my gear before reporting to the captain of the foremast. I’d been assigned as one of the foremast reefers, and I would be spending my time up in the rigging. Glad that I hadn’t lied about not being bothered by heights, I got to work. It’s harder than it looks, scrambling along a rope, one hand managing the heavy canvas while the other hangs on for dear life, but I didn’t fall, and I only got yelled at twice for doing something wrong. That was less than most of the newcomers, of which there were more than a few. When I asked why there were so many new hands, I was told to shut up and mind my work.
When six bells struck, we were called to dinner, and my hopes of seeing Worthy soared. I joined the line, picked up my clean bowl and spoon, and shuffled forward with the rest of the foremast seamen. The man serving out the stew looked nothing like me. His left arm and right leg ended in a hook and a peg, respectively. He filled my bowl and topped it with a wedge of dark bread that probably had more meat in it than the stew, if you counted the weight o
f weevils.
“You the cook?” I asked as I shuffled past.
“Cook’s mate, if it’s your business. Why?”
“Thought I might know him. His name’s Creb, isn’t it?” I sampled the stew and instantly knew it was the same recipe as I’d had for lunch.
“Maybe you know him, maybe you don’t, but you best not mess with him.”
“Why not?”
“Because Creb don’t have any friends. He’d sooner chop you up and stuff you in a pot as say good morning to you.”
I shuffled on and found a spot to sit and eat, considering what the cook’s mate had said. I made some acquaintances among the crew while we ate, asked a few more questions, and got more warnings about Creb. Evidently, he was not to be trifled with. That, I already knew. I finished my dinner, went back to my job, and tried to contrive a way to get to the galley. Wandering around the ship, I discovered, was frowned upon. With no way to find Worthy, my hopes flagged. I didn’t know what I expected when I met him—I supposed I hoped to simply let him know he had a daughter. I didn’t want anything from him, but he was the closest relative I had left. Later, when I was roused from my hammock for my next watch, I found that we had left Five Fingers and were steaming out to open sea.
Open Water: Flesh And Bone
I was working my way down from the foretop at the end of my watch, taking my time to place my feet carefully on the ratlines. The sway of the ship made everything aloft move, and a misstep from seventy feet would almost certainly be deadly. There are a lot of ways to get hurt aboard a ship, and from what the crew had said about the drunkard of a ship’s doctor, lying down on his table was one of them. What I didn’t know was there were far more ways to get killed than I’d thought.
“Sails! Sails off the port bow!”
Every head on the ship came up to scan the horizon. The Exeter had been threading her way around the cape, bound for Ceryl, and even though we were in the company of two smaller merchants and one privateer contracted for protection, three corsairs rounded the cape of Gharlghast Island and bore down on us under full sail, smoke billowing from their stacks. A bell I’d never heard before sounded, and Grogspar bellowed for us to man our battle stations. I had to be told where to go. By the time I got to the forward-most starboard-side deck gun, the cannon’s crew was ready to fire, so they told me to stand aside.
I was only too happy to comply. I’d never been near such a huge weapon before.
At some unknown signal, the Exeter turned hard over; the privateer and the two merchantmen turned also. Thunder sounded from ahead as the privateer fired her cannons at the enemy ships, and I peered over the gunwale to see what effect they had. Several shots plunged into the sea, sending spray over the bows of the pirate ships, but others struck true, tearing holes in the iron-reinforced hulls or holing sails. Then it was the Exeter’s turn to fire. The gun’s captain aimed the heavy piece and touched its hole with a glowing ember on a stick. The massive weapon leapt back on her tackles a full six feet. We hurried to swab and reload, but even as we pushed the heavy cannon forward again, something smashed into the gunwale. The man beside me flew apart in a spray of meat and bone. Something hit me in the neck hard enough to throw me to the deck. My ears were ringing so badly that I couldn’t hear anything but my pounding heart.
Then the pain came.
I tried to gasp, but something was blocking my throat. When I reached up, I felt a huge splinter buried in my neck. As long as my forearm, it pierced my flesh just to the right of my windpipe; it had punched right through to emerge on the other side. I could breathe, barely, but when I coughed, a good amount of blood came out. I reached up to pull the thing free, but a crewman grabbed my wrist and shouted in my face.
“Don’t touch it! You’re bleedin’, but it’s not that bad. Let the doc do it. Just hold fast, and we’ll get you aft!”
Remembering what I’d heard about the doctor, I didn’t know if I should let him treat me or if I should try to remove the splinter myself. The decision was taken out of my hands as two burly sailors lifted me up and hauled me below. Something bumped the splinter, and I tried to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth except more blood. When I was brought to the sickbay, I was fighting to breathe. It was just as well—there was enough screaming going on there already.
They put me down with my back to a wall. A man bent over me, his gray beard bristling. He stank of rum. The doctor, no doubt.
“Can you breathe?”
I nodded as much as I could and tried to speak but coughed blood again.
“You’ll keep. Just don’t touch that splinter. It’s in a bad spot. You pull it out, it might kill you. Just hold fast.” He turned away, and my vision seemed to clear.
The doctor checked two more new arrivals, pronounced one dead—the man still seemed to be breathing despite the huge wound in the side of his head—and told the other to shut up his screaming. He tightened a ligature around the man’s leg and went to a canvas-covered table where two big men were holding down a third. The patient’s leg looked crushed; bone stuck out below the knee in several places. I recognized one man helping the doctor as the cook’s assistant by his peg leg and hook hand. The other loomed in the dim light, his dark skin glistening with sweat, his grimy shirt and apron spattered with blood. When they shifted to bear down on the wounded man, I saw a bandolier of knives and an immense cleaver hanging from the dark man’s belt.
Worthy.
“Hold him now.” The doctor tightened a leather strap around his patient’s leg and started cutting.
The screams rose in pitch as steel sliced through the tortured flesh. Blood pulsed from the wound, and the doctor reached for a pair of pliers and a piece of twine.
He was dead before he picked them up.
A huge harpoon smashed through the wall, showering us with debris. The harpoon’s barbed head transfixed the doctor from back to front, pinning him like one of the bugs in Professor Hembly’s office. A chain attached to the harpoon wrenched tight, pulling the screaming man back to the gaping hole in the wall. The hole wasn’t big enough for him, but the harpoon pulled him through anyway, tearing meat and bone against the ragged edges of the blasted hull. His screaming stopped, and he was gone.
The cook’s mate backed away from the table, his face white as foam, but Worthy’s huge hand reached out to snag his shirt.
“You hold him down.” Evidently the mate feared Worthy more than he feared the pirates—he leaned down on the struggling man. Worthy grasped the belt strapped around the injured man’s leg and cinched it two notches tighter. The flow of blood from the wound eased from a pulsing spray to a trickle.
“Hold still or die!” Worthy bellowed at the patient, and the man’s thrashing immediately reduced to mere trembling. I stared, amazement easing my terror and pain as I watched Worthy go to work on the maimed leg.
His big hands moved with dexterity I never would have guessed possible, tying lengths of twine around the bleeding vessels. His grimy knives, a different blade for every purpose, sliced and trimmed flesh until the ragged bone was exposed. Then the big cleaver suddenly chopped down, slicing bone as cleanly as if he were cutting cheese. In another minute, the wound was doused with rotgut rum and stitched closed. Worthy wrapped a rag around the stump and tied it tightly then removed the tourniquet.
“He’ll do.” Worthy’s eyes came up from his patient and surveyed the other wounded. When he looked at me, he hesitated, and squinted. “Her next.”
He lifted the injured sailor as easily as I might pick up a child and laid him aside with surprising care, and then he turned to me. I opened my mouth to speak, but he waved me silent.
“Here, now, you stop that. You’ll only make it worse.” Those huge hands lifted me and laid me down on the table still slick with the previous patient’s blood. “You gotta hold still now. Hear me? That stick’s in a real bad spot. You go jerkin’ around, and you’re dead. Got me?”
I nodded and tried to smile. Something about his voice, his co
nfidence, made me want to follow his lead. Even if I hadn’t known him, even if he wasn’t my father, I would have trusted him.
Worthy pulled one of his knives from his bandolier and brought the razor edge down to part the flesh of my throat.
My trust never wavered.
I won’t even try to describe the pain. I tried to listen to his voice, to let that calm tone wash away my agony. Mostly, though, I tried to hold still as he sliced me open from jaw to collarbone and eased the deadly length of hardwood out of my neck. When it finally came free, and he doused the wound with rum, the fire of the alcohol on my raw flesh made me catch my breath to scream.
But I could breathe. Knowing that was enough to suppress my scream. I swallowed blood and tried to talk, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.
“You must have some purpose in this world yet,” Worthy said as he closed the wound with deft passes of his sail needle. “You won’t be talkin’ soon—prob’ly not ever. Tore up your windpipe bad, but it could have killed you easy as spittin’.” Cinching the last knot tight, he looked down at me, and a curious expression passed his features. “Wait. You look like—”
“What the hell happened to Doc?”
Worthy turned toward the newcomer, a tall woman with a sword in one hand and supporting an injured sailor with her free arm. Both the sword and the man dripped blood onto the deck.
“Dead.” Worthy lifted me and set me aside as easily as putting a book on a shelf.
“Well, do what you can, Creb. We’re not out of this yet.”
“Aye, Hawk.” He took the wounded man from her, and she hurried out.
I lay there and watched my father work. There was a methodical grace to his use of a blade and a brutal efficiency that served him well. He worked on fifteen of us over the next two hours, and all but the head-wound survived. I waited to catch his eye again, to get his attention even if only for a minute, but in time I sensed he was avoiding me—as if he knew.
As Worthy tied the last stitch and reached for a length of bandage to bind the wound, I noticed the cannons had fallen silent. Hawk and Walls came into the sickbay and looked around.
Called to Battle: Volume Two Page 12