“I can feel them,” said Edwin. “The ships. Great Spirit, I can hear them!”
“Tell them what you want,” said Farran.
And then, Farran could hear what no mortal aboard the Laila, save for Edwin, would ever hear: the acquiescent, obedient moan of the ships ahead slowing their pace. They were nothing more than wooden dogs, bowing to a new and intriguing master.
Farran passed a whispered command to the nearest sailor, and heard it passed carefully down into the bowels of the ship. The Laila shuddered slightly as sliding hatches opened in her hull, making way for rows of great, long oars. The ship began to gather speed, silently and smoothly, as the rowers deep in the ship’s belly pulled in unison. And as they worked, an exhausted Edwin collapsed to the deck, pressing his sweating face to the cool of the polished wood.
“Tal?” he said, and Farran was immediately at his side again. “I could hear their voices. I could hear the planks and masts and figureheads. They were so loud ... why were they so loud, Tal? Why couldn’t anyone else hear them?” He was babbling like a confused child, and Farran put a cautious hand to the young man’s mouth to stop his speech before he began to speak too loudly. He could feel it when he touched Edwin’s skin: the spark of divine magic was gone, and had severely drained him in the process.
“You have some time,” whispered Farran. “Just be still, and gather yourself together again. The next part is easy.”
Farran stood once more, and gestured in the semi-dark. The pirates assigned to Edwin’s team that night gathered at once. “Don’t let him get up too soon,” advised Farran quietly. “But be sure he’s ready at my signal.”
“Aye, sir,” whispered one of the men.
And with that, Farran was gone. In one quick, fluid motion, he scrambled onto the ship railing and dove into the open sea. The water welcomed him like an old friend, and for a moment Farran reveled in the bite of cold salt water on his skin. He floated several feet beneath the surface, taking in the water as only gods and fishes might. He breathed deep, and smiled. This was beauty. This was his first love, always: the sea. Even in the midst of the most daring and adventurous acts of piracy, he couldn’t help but let himself drown in the beauty of the underwater world. The sea wrapped him in comforting arms like octopus tentacles, purring alluringly that he should stay. Bidding him to linger in the shimmering currents that, while they may have seemed black and foreboding to anyone else, were teeming with life and wonder.
But Farran had to shake himself free. There was a prize to take, and glory to be had. He began to swim, letting the ocean propel him along faster than any mortal man. Schools of fish darted about him as he went, nibbling curiously and affectionately at his hair and clothes. They escorted him all the way to the flagship, his target. He could hear many of them clamoring to help, and he assured them that there was nothing they might do, but that he was grateful in any case. And he cautioned them to stay back, or some of them might get hurt.
And warn the others, he thought to them. There will be bloodshed here tonight, and danger. All of the nearby Undersea should know to stay away. And with that message, the fish scattered, leaving Farran alone at the hull of a king’s warship.
Farran put his hand to the wood, feeling the ship’s inner soul. He did not have the carpenter’s magic like Edwin, but he was after all the pirate god. And all ships, whether piratical or law-abiding merchant or military, sailed through his realm. He could feel the ship’s heart stirring, confused by Edwin’s orders to slow and its own need to sail on. Farran could see the men on board, and hear every step they took. He could count every one of them, and tell how many were drunk or sleeping, how many were on deck or below. And he could trace their footsteps.
He waited for a moment. Waited for one of them to come near enough to the edge. And, as a tall and balding soldier made his normal watch rounds across the deck, Farran released his hold on the ship and let himself float limply to the water’s surface, looking for all the world like a body thrown overboard. It didn’t take long for the man to spot him and sound the alarm. Farran let himself be fished from the sea, and he felt the sea herself cling to him for a moment longer than she should have, before reluctantly surrendering his body to the king’s navy.
✽ ✽ ✽
Farran let himself lay in their medical hold for awhile, simply listening. He heard the men wondering at his appearance in the water, and swapping stories about where he might have come from. Several began to whisper that they should throw him back; clearly he was an unwanted fish in someone’s net, what business did they have taking him on board? These men were the same that began to circulate the rumor that he was cursed. He was a criminal. He was a plague-bearer. Renegade. Mutineer.
Still others claimed that even if it was bad luck to pull a drowned man out of the sea, surely their luck would be just as bad if they threw him back in. For just as an albatross was only a bad omen when a sailor slaughtered it, so would it be a curse to send a dying man back to his grave without so much as a helping hand.
And then, there was quiet. The sailors were called off to their duties, and even the medical officer had other things to attend to. Farran was left alone in the hold, his spine grating against the flat examination table every time the ship pitched and rolled with the waves. He could hear footsteps along the deck far above him, and the clanking of dishware as somebody cleaned up after the evening meal. But there was no one within reach. No one to see as Farran hoisted himself from the table and set his feet solidly on the floor.
He briefly took stock of the room around him. It was of middling size, as far as shipboard med quarters went. He could see no less than a half dozen hammocks hung around the room, as well as a handful of proper beds solidly bolted into place. Supplies hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the movement of the ship. Rags and buckets. String bags full of uncut splints and bandages. Dried medicinal herbs. The hanging things cast strange, amorphous shadows as they danced in the lanternlight.
But the medicine was not here. Farran had assumed as much, although he could never be quite sure. After pocketing several of the more wicked-looking surgical knives for his own amusement, Farran stole carefully from the med quarters and began to scurry down into the depths of the cargo hold. He might have been nothing more than an overgrown rat, lurking in the shadows and winding his way down into the ship’s underbelly, searching for something the sailors didn’t want him to find.
However, as with all the cleverest of rats, Farran found his prize with no trouble at all. It was there, as he ducked around an artificial corner made of stacks upon stacks of canvas bags labeled as chicken feed. In the heart of the cargo hold, surrounded by barrels of rum and sacks of potatoes, was a haphazard castle of medicine crates. Towers of boxes, ramparts of trunks, all spilling over one another as if eager to be picked and noticed and delighted in. And Farran obliged, going quickly to them in the darkness and running his hands lovingly along the wooden slats and rope bindings. As he pried open one small chest to look inside, he knew the captain’s mission had been worthwhile. The medicines lying in their bottles before him were of the highest quality. And there were so many, one small town could hardly use them all in a generation.
Farran took another quick glance around the cargo hold, taking in fine sugars and ales. Foreign spices. Imported silks. All the riches and finery a king could ask for. And it was theirs for the taking. A wicked smile stretched so broadly across his face that it almost hurt, and he had to stifle himself from letting loose a wild howl of triumph! But the job was not yet finished, and he raced silently back to the medical hold one level up. There, he stood in the corner shadows, listening once more to the footsteps over his head.
He could hear them running drills, and inwardly rolled his eyes at the naval discipline. All the ocean in the world at their rudders, and they chose to work over marching patterns in the middle of the night. Sometimes, mortal priorities astounded him. But Farran shook his head, put on his best half-drowned swagger, and stumbled up t
he stairs onto the main deck.
It took several moments for anyone to notice his appearance. They were so intent on their business, that it was finally one of the cabin boys who pointed and shouted that the drowned man was walking! All at once, swords were drawn and men stood ready to fight, the whole ship at attention in case Farran proved to be dangerous.
“Might I ask whose hospitality I am enjoying?” shouted Farran to the hesitant masses. As he’d lain below, listening to the talk around him, he’d caught a great bit of Marsenna dialect in the men’s voices. Now, he allowed himself to slip easily into their accent as though it were his own.
A ripple began at the heart of the gathered men, like a great wild cat passing through tall grass. The sailors were bowing out of the way, tipping their hats and saluting for the man making his way forward. A man who could only be the captain.
He was a highly decorated man, and he stood with the air of one believing he was much taller than he really was. He could not have been a stitch taller than Farran’s elbow, although he carried himself as though he were towering a solid foot above the god’s head.
“You are aboard the Merry Doll,” said the captain. “Location, King’s orders only. Mission, King’s orders only.”
He eyed Farran shrewdly and as he did, Farran was fascinated by the way the captain had mastered the art of staring someone much taller in the eye, without having to tilt his head back.
It was unnerving, even to Farran. But instead of dwelling on it, he bowed respectfully and said, “All hail the King’s Navy, then! Didn’t mean to be sticking my nose in. Promise I won’t be in anyone’s way.”
“How did you come to be half-drowned in our remote little piece of the sea?” asked the captain cooly.
“Remote?” asked Farran, feigning confusion. “No no, we’re just off the coast, isn’t that right?”
As the captain calmly raised one smooth, disbelieving eyebrow, Farran put on an air of confused panic, and scrambled to the nearest shipman. In an instant, he had the confused sailor’s spyglass in hand, and he’d trained it over the railing and out into the empty sea. For a moment, he let himself appear flustered and lost as he turned back to the captain and anxiously fiddled with the spyglass, although he did not return it to its owner. “But we were by land!” said Farran. “The last I remember ... it’s all gone a bit hazy ...”
The captain sighed. “So you were drunk, then.”
“No sir,” said Farran. And then, a bit more jovially, “Think I’d have a bit more of a headache, were that the case.”
A handful of the men laughed, and began to let their guard down, but the captain continued to scrutinize his ship’s newest man. Finally, after a moment of unbalanced quiet, the captain said, “Alright, then. Tell me your name, and how you came to be here. If your story agrees with me, I’ll drop you safely at the nearest port.”
“And if not?” asked Farran.
“Then I’ll drop you quite a bit sooner,” said the captain coldly. He folded his hands behind his back and settled into an expectant stance. And Farran, continuing to play the confused but endearing rescued man, began to spin a tale about his life aboard a merchant ship. And he smiled to himself, taking pride in the intricate beauty of Captain Worthright’s plan, like the polished wheels of a clock.
It was Farran’s job to draw attention. To keep the men listening, to keep them watching him. To keep the captain watching him. But across the waters he knew, other pirates were sneaking on board the enemy ships. Silently tampering with the steering or sails. Pilfering swords away from those sailors less attentive than they should have been. Making each and every ship in the small armada completely unfit for battle. And, hidden at the heart of it all, the Laila sailed, silent as an owl’s shadow across the snow. While Farran, planted aboard the flagship laden with riches and medicine, was their ringleader. They would be waiting for his cue.
“You know,” said Farran as he fiddled absently with the stolen spyglass, “the more recent times – the fuzzy parts of my story – they’re starting to come back to me now.”
Even the captain seemed grudgingly intrigued by the false tales Farran was expertly weaving. Every man and boy on board had gathered to listen to the drowned man’s stories, laughing when he told them of outrageous misadventures with the mayor’s daughter and cheering when he spoke of his ship’s loyalty to the king! But it wasn’t long before his fiddling wasn’t absent anymore. In fact, every twitch of the wrist was measured and deliberate. As he spoke, he angled the lens just so, catching the lanternlight and flashing it out across the water, to where the other ships sailed peacefully on.
“Yes,” continued Farran, almost dreamily. “I believe there was a ship. It followed us for awhile, then set upon us in the dead of night. A moonless night, in fact.” He glanced up at the shrouded sky, with the moon still tucked behind the clouds he’d drawn to dim its light. “A night not terribly far-off from this one.”
“What ship?” asked one of the sailors, in a hushed but excited tone, like a small child hearing his first ghost story.
“An evil ship,” answered Farran. And now, he was every bit the storyteller. Captain Worthright wanted a grand entrance for his lady, and Farran was giving her the perfect introduction. “Full of lawless men, who take what they wish and bathe in the riches and ruin of their conquests. Men with black hearts and a lust for adventure on the high seas.”
And then a whisper like the finest sea breeze shuddered across the decks, full of the word “Pirates.”
“She came and took us like a hurricane,” said Farran. “Like the wrath of the very gods rode at her helm!”
The captain of the Merry Doll was gazing cooly at him, but Farran sensed a glimmer of understanding beginning to flicker in the man’s eyes. “And how,” asked the captain, his words clipped short, “did you manage to survive?”
And, with a shrug that was all at once playful and dramatic, Farran twitched the spyglass once more, signaling the final cue to the waiting pirates. And in an instant, four simultaneous explosions rent the air, one from each of the other ships.
“Swords!” screamed the captain, drawing his own. To his crew’s credit, they recovered quickly from the shock and sprang readily into fighting stances. But Farran was already out of reach. He sprang easily up onto the railing at his back, held his arms out wide and whistled a sharp note. Two swords sprang up into his waiting hands, and by the time Farran had swung them into position, no less than thirty pirates were surging onto the decks from all angles.
“For our lady!” cried Farran. “For the Laila!” The pirates shouted back their war cries in thunderous appreciation and, with a wave of one blade, Farran released the moon once more, flooding the scene in cold light.
His men climbed over the railings and dropped from hiding places in the rigging, where they’d stowed away while all attention was on Farran. They swung in on grappling ropes and fought with a vigor that could only be wrung from a fierce loyalty and love for a woman. And in this case, that woman was a ship sailing at the heart of the battle, lit by moonlight and the harsh flare of the four blazing ships.
Edwin came scrambling over the railing last, and Farran reached out and grabbed the young man by the elbow just in time to keep him from falling back into the water. “Ready?” he asked once Edwin had steadied himself.
There was a devilish grin on Edwin’s face that Farran had never seen before. He looked, Farran was astounded to realize, very much like a pirate. “Let’s dance!” he replied.
They sprang from the railing, swords at the ready, and began to run for the helm. All around them, a savage battle was being fought. Despite the surprise attack, the men of the Merry Doll were well-equipped for battle and defending themselves beautifully. Every few lengths, Farran and Edwin were forced to fight their way through. But they always broke through quickly, though it was a tribute to Farran’s fine sword work rather than Edwin’s. By the time they reached the helm, their fellow pirates had cleared it of all enemy sailors, leavi
ng a bloodstained but empty deck for them.
Edwin sheathed his sword and flexed his fingers excitedly before taking the helm firmly in both hands. He closed his eyes, and Farran could see the transformation glowing on his face. The ship was responding to him, and the carpenter mage within. “She’s such a fine ship,” whispered Edwin, though Farran could hear him even over the din of the battle going on below.
And then, in a victorious purr, “And she’s mine now.”
Three of the Merry Doll’s men tried to breach the quarterdeck, but Farran fought them off effortlessly. And then, Edwin opened his eyes once more, and with a sly grin he said again, “Let’s dance.”
Something was happening on the deck. Ropes began to wriggle to life, like so many jungle snakes. They attacked enemy men seemingly of their own accord, often wrapping themselves into nooses and hanging their prey from the rigging. The sailors of the Merry Doll were screaming in horror as the ship itself began to turn on them. Planks of wood behaved as catapults, flinging men viciously out into the sea. Whaling harpoons buried themselves in chests and legs, and the pirates began to cheer as most of the surviving enemy sailors threw up their hands in surrender.
Farran sheathed his swords and grabbed Edwin by the shoulders and shook him excitedly, like an older brother might. “You’ve done it!” he said. “What a prize this ship is! What a beautiful prize!” He gazed out on the Merry Doll and caught a glimpse of Captain Worthright, laughing in triumph as his men began to bind the wrists and ankles of their captives. Grinning, Farran threw up a salute, and Worthright responded in kind. “Oh my fine young lad,” said Farran, the thrill of the hunt still coursing through him. “We’ll see you’re honored right when we make port. Drinks on me, and the finest women money can buy!”
“I’ll hold you to it,” said Edwin, laughing and releasing the helm. Farran could see the color beginning to drain from the young man’s face, and he kept one hand on Edwin’s shoulder just in case he needed steadying. “I suppose this whole magic thing will get easier, won’t it?” said Edwin as he let himself lean against the wheel, rather than holding onto it.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 32