“Thank you,” Drasio replies. “But please, don’t discredit yourself. Where would a captain be without his quartermaster?”
“Temporary quartermaster,” she chides, shaking her head so that blonde curls accented with sea glass and shells fall over her shoulders. She is only his ship’s quartermaster for this one trip, to aid him in navigating the Barrier between Ardán and the Maghreb, but he considers her far more than a temporary fixture to his crew. “But you—” she pushes him forward with both of her hands. “—should be addressing your ship.”
Drasio stumbles forward with a grin; Larza is stronger than she looks and has never been afraid to show it. He turns to his men, gathered on the upper decks. There are orbs of light floating where lanterns should be, illuminating the Rose Star in the midst of darkness. He reaches out a hand and summons another light, larger and brighter than the others. It floats upward, coming to a rest above his head. He raises his arms with a warm smile as his men turn their attention to him, the captain addressing his crew.
He thanks them, wholeheartedly, arms wide as if he could embrace them from where he stood. “A captain could not ask for a better crew,” he continues, lowering his hands to rest on the wooden railing before him. “For so few can safely navigate the seas of the Barrier. I pray we remain successful in future voyages even without our expert and beautiful quartermaster.”
Larza, behind him, laughs. “You flatter me, Drasio,” she says with a grin.
A voice from below calls from the crowd. “He flatters everyone!” the sailor exclaims, hands cupped around his mouth.
“Are you jealous, Almet?” asks Larza.
“Hardly! Even in Ardán, I wouldn’t dare sleep with my superiors.”
Drasio shrugs off the implication and smiles away the conversation. He turns it back to matters at hand, reaching out to rein in the lights that float overhead. They dim as they drift toward him in a sea of fading stars. “I would also like to issue a reminder to everyone on this ship that our voyage is not one of trade. Our profits on this trip will be far greater with the acquisition of the Ottoman war ship, with its gold and its guns, so that we may return another day for trade or conquest.” He raises his hand above his head, drawing the light of the orb back into him. “At dawn, we raise the black.” A chorus of cheers erupts from his crew, eager for a good hunt and a hearty fight. Drasio raises his voice for the first time this evening amid the roar below, projecting each word with increasing volume. “There will be no prisoners.”
The air itself smells different over the Mediterranean. Where Drasio finds the Karreanan smells sweetly of fruit and musk, the Mediterranean smells murkier and saline. He resists the urge to reach past the hull of his ship, to touch the water and taste it once more. The ship sways with the waves, though his men have dropped anchor. They await the dawn in not-so-hushed tones as they settle for the night. He, too, retires to his captain’s chambers. There, he finds his quartermaster with a book in her hands and an amused look on her face. By now, he’s used to her unannounced visits, and while they are so often unexpected, rarely are they unwelcome. She flips through the pages before waving it in front of him.
“A collection of Arabic poetry,” she says.
“I have many,” he replies simply.
“I thought you didn’t miss Algiers.” She closes the book, placing it neatly on his desk. “These are hard to find in Ardán.”
“I don’t, but the beauty of the poetry was hard to leave behind.” He sits at his desk and runs a finger across the spine. “This one was given to me by Ariyl; the rest I found on my own.”
Larza pulls up a chair and sits adjacent to him. She has toned down her dress for the expedition to neutral-coloured trousers and a thin, white blouse. But she still wears orange pigments in dots around her eyes, a jewelled ring pierced through a delicate nose, and her pierced nipples poke through the fabric of her shirt. “Does Ariyl know your given name?” she asks, curiosity glinting in her eyes.
“No,” says Drasio as he reaches for the bottle at the corner of his desk. He swallows that memory with a swig of the seaweed liquor, coating his throat with sugar and salt. The alcohol settles in a burn in his stomach. “As far as anyone is aware, I am no less Ardani than you are. Or perhaps even more than you, given your mother’s heritage.”
Larza nods. A northerner by blood, she was born and raised in the south. But her blonde hair and grey eyes accent her pale olive skin, and on any given day, she walks as a ghost amongst the darker-skinned and darker-haired natives of Ardán. “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me?”
Drasio downs more liquor and chases it with mango juice, grimacing at the thought of a name he no longer felt was his own. He looks over at his best friend, shrugs off the notion. “That name doesn’t belong to me, although I wish I could say it no longer holds a bearing to my being.” He opens the book before him, runs his fingers along the words printed on the page. “Surely you understand that. Ardán is no stranger a land than Béallic to the north; is it not a country where people choose to set aside past identities? In Ardán, we are all Ardani.” He thinks of the Ardani he has met, the countless men and women whose ancestors were born in lands familiar to him but strange to them: Turkey, Greece, Morocco, Tripoli, Tunis, Algiers. Echoes of a world he had left behind.
“Those who manage to cross the Barrier and find themselves on land, yes.” Larza reaches for the liquor and pours some into a glass, swirling it with her fingers as she adds some mango juice. “But still, there are some who grow melancholic for their homelands or cannot adjust to their new lives. You, on the other hand, hardly miss Algiers.” A ghost of a smile grows on her face. “You’ve never told me why.”
“The government that controls Algiers has sought to keep my people down for centuries. They would rather see us enslaved or killed than free.” Drasio grins bitterly. He remembers receiving news of executions of his loved ones while he was at sea. He remembers the stories of Berbers pulled from their homes and forced into slavery. He skims the poetry on the page, the language here soft and kind and almost foreign to the hatred spat at his people. “They took my parents when I was young. They almost killed me and my crew when we refused to back down. And while I nearly died when crossing the Barrier, I would surely have died had I stayed in Algiers.” He pauses and closes the book, hiding away its words between the covers.
Larza looks at him sympathetically in the dim light. “Are you not proud of your people? Do you feel shame for your given name?”
Drasio shakes his head. “I was not given a Berber name,” he replies. “In Ardán, all are welcome in the new land. But in the Maghreb—in Algiers—despite my people having been there before, we are enslaved and suppressed.” He glances outside through the windows, over the horizon where he knows there will be land; to a country he once called his own. And he speaks, with a level voice and determination. “I want to see it burn.”
When dawn breaks over the Rose Star, Larza is already barking orders at the crew. Drasio hears her from his quarters and suspects she slept poorly. Rarely does she jump straight into the thrall of what would otherwise be a quiet morning. He pulls a map from the shelf and carries it with him onto the upper decks, where his crew is raising the anchor and letting fly the sheets. He meets Larza at the rear of the ship, climbing onto the railing above the stern. She smiles and waves and wishes him good morning. Slowly, she raises her right arm and the ship lurches forward; the calm waters below kicking up waves as she pushes and pulls until they’re moving at sailing speeds.
Drasio watches the sails, strained from the wind. He smiles. Larza, who breathes life into the tides, he had once called her. He remembers her laugh when he was first granted his powers by the mages of Béallic, when light came to him in clusters of stars around his body. Drasio, she had said, who brings light into the darkness.
Larza jumps down from the rail, tugs the map from under his arm, and unfurls it before them. On it are the routes they had secured weeks ago, of war ships and galleons moving a
cross the Mediterranean, marked in red. In green, dotted sparely across the waters, are the entry and exit points into the Barrier. “We should be crossing paths with the Two Lions if our schedule is to be believed,” she says, tapping a tailored nail to their current location. “But given that we’re on a trade route, we may be more likely to run into a galleon. I hope you’re all right with a potential cargo ship. There will be guns, though not quite as many.”
“I want the Two Lions,” mutters Drasio. “Ardán will be in need of an updated fleet if we are to continue patrolling the waters of the Barrier. Our fleet is falling gravely behind the technology of this realm and if we are to continue trading in the Maghreb, we should at least look like the ships we are pretending to be. Besides, if I can weaken the Ottomans by even one ship, I would consider this voyage a success.”
Larza rolls the map tightly, pressing her lips together in a smirk. “But you’ll be back for more.”
“Of course.” He offers a hand to take the map, but she shakes her head and slides it under her arm.
“I’ll take this back in,” she says. “I refuse to let you hole yourself back into your cabin until the first signs of contact.” There is amusement in her voice, and her tone is light-hearted, but he knows she is serious. He opens his mouth to object but thinks himself better. She’s right, of course, and he would likely just let his anger fester away if he did.
“Are you like this on your own ship too?” he asks with a smile.
“As in, do I act like a captain? Of course I do.” She grins. “Although I do have a very competent quartermaster.”
“I should hope your wife is as competent as you are. Things must run smoothly between the two of you.”
Larza’s face lights up, an idea on her tongue. “There’s your answer!” she exclaims. “What about Nyralt? I’ve heard he’s an excellent sailor.”
Drasio smiles at the mention of his lover but knows, in his heart, it wouldn’t be a good decision. “He’s more of a fisherman,” he replies. “Life as a pirate would not suit him well.”
She nods, considering his words. “You will find someone.”
They sail for hours, circling the waters, before the sails of another ship peek over the horizon. He hears Almet call from above, “Dutch galleon! Two hours north!”
The mood on the Rose Star shifts. Drasio swears the wind’s picked up, leaving his crew now bristling with anticipation. Their calls to each other grow louder and more eager as they scramble to turn their ship north. Drasio stands by the wheel, contemplating whether he should raise the black now, to signal their presence as a pirate’s ship. He thinks to the flags they have brought on this trip—of the colours of Tripoli, of Morocco, of Tunis, of Spain—and he decides that they should be Tunis. He calls for the flag to be drawn, and the blue, green, and red stripes fly high on the ensign post behind him.
Larza, at his side, hands him a spyglass and mutters an “I told you” before sauntering off to join the rest of their crew. Drasio raises the lens to his eye and spots the masts over the horizon, the red stripe of the Dutch flag just bright enough to stand out against the sky and sea. He mutters to himself, remembering that they used to be orange. He preferred the orange. It stood out from the colours of the British and French fleets.
Drasio lowers the spyglass and collapses it. They are still at least an hour away from any combat, but he is as anxious as his crew and itching for a fight. It only dawns on him then—as he watches the horizon where the Dutch ship sails—that, for the first time in too many years, he has returned as a pirate to the Mediterranean. He glances over his crew and realizes, too, that he is the only man here returning and that for his crew, these are foreign waters. And while it had been decades since he had left Algiers, he has hardly aged beyond his thirty years—kept young by the magic granted to him by the mages. He watches Larza as she climbs the mainmast with an ease his men lack; there’s a grace to her movements and a hidden strength in her stride that she gained with her training with the mages. And while he had done the same training, he never quite thought he had the same grace.
It takes an hour before they begin their hunt. The tension he feels only grows heavier when he sees the Dutch galleon turn toward them rather than away, picking up in speed. He extends the spyglass, raises it to his eye, and frowns. Not Dutch, perhaps. Not anymore.
“Be prepared for a fight!” he calls, running to find Larza. “Those below—ready the guns! All above—ready your eyepieces!” He hands Larza the telescope.
“You’re not scared, are you?” she asks as she raises the spyglass to her eye.
“Not scared,” Drasio replies. “I’m surprised.”
She hums. “I suspect they’re doing exactly what we’re doing. This should be interesting.” She shoves the spyglass back in Drasio’s hands. “But for a career pirate like you, this shouldn’t be a problem.”
Drasio lets loose a chuckle. “By Ardani standards, I’m more of a privateer,” he says. “The crown pays us—it’s hardly illegal.”
“Former career pirate then,” she replies, jabbing a finger at his chest and grinning. “Happy?”
“Captain!” Ilario this time, on lookout. Drasio cranes his neck to face him. “There’s been a change in their flag.”
Through the telescope, Drasio sees the red half-moon of the Ottomans replace the stripes of the Dutch. They are close enough now that he can see the men on board, and he wonders whether it would be wise to remove their flags altogether or to signal that they are a pirate ship. He watches the Ottoman ship sail closer with growing displeasure. He worries about what exactly may be on board that ship. Larza, next to him, glances at him hesitantly. “Strike our colours,” he says. “And raise the black. Let them know we aren’t some merchant ship to be taken.”
Larza smiles and calls out the orders to the rest of their crew. His men scramble to switch out their flags, the anticipation of action buzzing through the air. Larza stands at the bow, readying herself to climb onto the rail at a moment’s notice.
Drasio watches the galleon anxiously. They are close enough for cannon fire, but no guns are trained in their direction. The galleon begins its slow turn towards them, coming in as close as it can, and though they are still several hundred meters away, he can see their captain. He waits at the quarterdeck, hands behind his back. Drasio grimaces. He suspects they both have the same intentions: to board the other ship.
Drasio surveys the Rose Star and its crew, ensuring they’re all wearing their eyepieces – wooden coverings with thin slits that were designed for his crew and his crew alone. They were made specially to withstand his style of combat.
The galleon approaches. Four hundred meters now. Three hundred. He grips his sword with his left hand, raises his right above his head. He watches the men of the galleon prepare their ropes and weapons, watches Larza out of the corner of his eye as she drops to the water below and shakes the sea beneath them. He smiles as the Ottomans back away out of surprise, and he stands his ground while some shoot their guns as they retreat. Both ships lurch back and forth and Larza slides across the water with a grin on her face, a dancer among the waves.
The crew of the Rose Star readies themselves and fires their guns at the Ottomans across from them. They throw their ropes, preparing to board, calling to each other in a mix of Ardani and Arabic. Drasio sees their captain walk to the side of the ship, shielding his eyes with his hand as the light above him grows in intensity.
His men have taken ships like this countless times before in the Karranean. They know when to board: right before the light blinds their victims and right before Larza pulls a wave between the ships, taking as many of the enemy crew as possible.
Drasio watches their captain raise his gun, still shielding his eyes, and he calls out —in Arabic, not Ardani—to his crew, “Their captain’s mine!” He wants him to know. Drasio’s lip curls in a snarl. He wants their captain afraid.
He lowers his arm as the light slowly reaches its peak intensity; his men run and
climb aboard the other ship, their swords unsheathed, their guns cocked. And then, light engulfs both ships, drowns them in white. The sound of swords clashing, and the cries of combat and slaughter fill the air.
Drasio unsheathes his sword, climbs aboard, and holds tightly to the rails as the water below him explodes. The waves rock both ships, a wall of water between them. His men hold steady while the others fall off the sides. The ship rocks back again, crashing down to its upright position and Drasio slides to regain his footing. By now, the light has receded.
The Ottoman captain, brandishing his sword, runs toward him and brings his blade down, but Drasio is faster. He leaps out of the way, parrying his blade, and manages a closer look at the man before him. Not an Ottoman by birth, no. He is blonde and blue-eyed, though he wears the clothes of the Ottomans and carries an Ottoman sabre. Drasio grimaces as he slashes at the captain, managing to tear into his jacket, but no more. He parries another attack, taking the blade and pulling it out of the captain’s hand.
His opponent simply stares at him, teeth barred. “Devil,” he sneers in accented Arabic. “Demon.”
“You must be Dutch.” Drasio moves closer to the Ottoman captain. He lowers his sword but keeps it ready. “Following the likes of Suleiman Reis, Murat Reis, Zymen Danseker, hm?”
The other captain raises his gun, cocking it and aiming with shaky hands. “You blinded us,” he stammers. “You moved these waters—what black magic do you possess?” He shoots, but the bullet breezes past Drasio’s shoulder. The man’s hands still shake. Drasio glances around briefly and finds that the fighting around them seems to have calmed, with only a few of the Ottoman men remaining on their feet.
Drasio pushes aside the gun with the tip of his sword, looks at the captain with contempt. “What is it about you Dutch and the Ottomans? You’re one of countless other corsairs who’ve left behind your countrymen because it’s more profitable with the Turkish,” he says as he takes the gun from the captain’s grip. He throws the gun aside, picks up a discarded sword from the ground, and offers it to him. “Either way,” he continues, “I don’t give a shit who you work for, this encounter’s outcome would have hardly changed. But seeing that you’ve joined the Ottomans makes this all the more sweet.” The other captain keeps silent, eyeing the sword being extended to him, hilt-first. By now, a crowd has gathered around them. “Should you defeat me in combat, I will leave you your ship and its goods. My men and I will retreat without further conflict.”
Scourge of the Seas of Time (and Space) Page 3