The Princess Beard

by Kevin Hearne

  “Enough about toilets,” Morgan said. “We’ve just finished our meal—well, I have—and we’re all paid up. So let’s go talk to Luc and see if he needs more crew.” She gave a very girly hair toss, and Tempest supposed she’d only recently cut much-longer hair. “To tell the truth, it’ll be so nice to have another girl on the ship, you know? I’ve been really lonely—I mean, it’s been so long since I had girlfriends.”

  Tempest thought about the sisters she’d left behind and struggled to smile. “I’d like that too.”

  They stood, and Morgan led Tempest over to a round table full of rough, pirate-looking types. Tempest picked out the biggest, meanest one of all, assuming he was the captain, and smiled at him in an expectant and competent way, then added on a yarrrr for good measure, just to seem like a joiner.

  “Yarrrr?” the big man said back, looking perplexed and a little dumb.

  “Overrrr this-a-way, miss.”

  Tempest turned to focus on a colorful yellow-and-red parrot that was giving her a beady eye.

  “That’s a mighty fine shoulderrrr you have there, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Tempest froze. “I’ve had quite enough sexist compliments for one night, thanks.”

  The parrot fluffed up in annoyance. “I don’t mean it in a human way, aye? No featherrrrs, no netherrrrs, that’s my policy. I mean your shoulderrrr looks woody and solid and I’d like to perrrrch on it. If you don’t mind? I’ve never met a drrrryad beforrrre.”

  The bird cocked its head, and Morgan said, “It doesn’t hurt,” and Morvin added, “It’s pretty nice, actually, aside from the dollops.”

  “Okay,” Tempest said, and the bird fluttered to her shoulder and settled down, making little grunts as it scooched from side to side.

  “A decent-enough perrrrch, but not the perrrrfect one. Why have ye come to see me, Lady Willow?”

  “My name is Tempest, and I need passage to Bustardo.”

  “Bustarrrrrdo.” The bird lingered on the Rs more than usual, in a wistful sort of way. “Aye, and I can take ye therrrre, if you’rrrre willing to learrrrn a bit about sailing.”

  Tempest finally smiled. “I’d like that.”

  The quartermaster—an old woman with rough dimpled skin like beef jerky, whom the parrot introduced as Milly Dread—passed around a piece of parchment and a quill, as everyone had to sign a release form as well as a contract before they could set foot on the ship. From what Tempest could tell, the contract was a solid one that respected the rights of both parties, which was heartening. She should’ve been more surprised that the captain was a parrot, but honestly, when your father was a carnivorous tree who’d sold you to a demigod, you couldn’t really complain about unusual arrangements. Morgan signed first, then passed the quill to Tempest, who noticed that Morgan’s signature was both very ornate and very unsure, as if she had aced calligraphy class but had never actually signed her name before.

  The parrot fluttered off her shoulder and landed in the center of the table.

  “Therrrre we arrrre, then. A full crrrrew. We’rrrre almost rrrready to go. Just waiting on the last new rrrrecruit.”

  Tempest looked around the restaurant, trying to figure out who their final companion might be.

  “Ah! Therrrre he be,” the parrot said, pointing with a wing.

  And Tempest was somehow not surprised to see Vic the centaur swaggering toward them and flexing his pecs.

  As the daughter of the Willowmuck, it was just her luck. There was, after all, a reason they were called weeping willows.

  It was good, Filthy Lucre mused, that parrot expressions weren’t as readable as the elastic, taffy-like faces of humans and the other wingless bipeds that made up his crew. Otherwise they would know how deeply disappointed he was in them. They might be able to note the signs he broadcast through the fluffing or preening of his plumage, but they probably couldn’t understand nuance there. He needed a crew of very salty dogs that could (with time and the absence of fresh vegetables) someday become scurvy dogs, but instead all he’d been able to scrounge up was a crew of rubbery, land-lubbery—in one case, almost shrubbery—well-nourished, low-sodium dogs.

  None of whom were actual dogs, but it was customary for pirate captains to call their crews dogs, as it was a far more convenient catchall term than Get to work, you humans and dwarves and also you, centaur swoleboy with the unfortunate name, and you, Pell’s first pirate dryad!

  Luc tootled a small hoot of derision. Centaurs didn’t belong on ships! Vic couldn’t navigate the ladder that led belowdecks, so he stayed up top and had a bit of sail canvas to drape over himself when it rained. He slept with his legs folded underneath him and his body leaned forward like a lightning-struck tree stump, and he often drooled, a line of it descending slowly and swinging like a pendulum with the rocking of the ship before it finally broke and splatted on the deck. The captain knew this because the crew had watched and quietly made bets on whether the rope of drool would make it all the way down without breaking. Luc had lost a fickel on that once. But the centaur had privately claimed he was a wizard of some kind, although he wouldn’t prove it, suggesting his magic was far too powerful to waste on parlor tricks. Still, Luc felt the low-grade hum of magic deep in his pinfeathers and promised he’d find a place for this swoleboy called Pissing Victorious. He would take all the magic he could get for this venture. He’d long ago decided that acceptance meant acceptance of everyone, even those of very strange physiognomy.

  And he had to admit he’d taken on the dryad for the goofy novelty of it, even though she claimed she would never heal anyone, knew nothing about sailing, and had no experience fighting. He was mostly hoping she’d get cold enough at some point to set her teeth chattering and say, Shiver me timbers, since she was basically a walking, talking tree.

  The girl he’d found in Dinny’s, Morgan, had a solid knowledge of knots and had already proved that she was an able fighter—perhaps a very fine one—when some stevedore at the docks made a lewd comment within her hearing. Morgan had pulled out a mace from her gunnysack, administered two swift blows, and left him unconscious in a pile of crabs.

  “I could’ve done that,” the centaur said, and both Morgan and the dryad had rolled their eyes but made no comment. The women, Luc noted, did their best to avoid the centaur. Ah, well. Luc knew plenty about whether a biped would follow his orders or not, but in other matters he had never fully understood the ways of people with opposable thumbs.

  Luc deeply regretted that Morgan’s companion, Morvin, had not elected to join them. His shoulder would have made a very fine perch, and Luc felt instinctively that Morvin was trustworthy.

  The same could not be said for the first mate he’d had to settle on, Feng Zhu Ye. Not that he thought Feng was plotting against him yet; nor were any of the other lads who’d signed on with him. They were all foine sailors and would serve The Puffy Peach admirably; Luc had a sort of avian sixth sense about such things and had never once had to suppress a mutiny, as long as one didn’t count the occasional loudmouth he made an example of. It was simply that Feng’s shoulder was not quite so luxurious and expansive as Morvin’s or as—well, certain shoulders from Luc’s past that he didn’t really want to think about. Feng was guarded and kept his cards close to his chest. He rarely smiled but rarely frowned. His black hair was neatly trimmed and styled and possessed the remarkable ability to stay still in the wind. His nose was broad and flat, his skin a cool beige, and a golden hoop earring dangled from his left lobe. All of which didn’t matter so much as whether he’d be loyal to his captain or not.

  It pointed to an utterly mercenary heart, Luc decided, which was a different kind of dependable: trustworthy only so long as he felt certain he’d be paid, and almost certainly mutinous the moment he felt there was no treasure to be had. There would never be any personal loyalty from Feng—unless Luc could contrive some way to put him in debt. He�
��d have to ponder that soon while working his slow, luxurious way through a ration of roasted sunflower seeds. In the meantime, Feng inspired instant respect from the crew—an important quality in a first mate but not the salty attitude a pirate needed to survive.

  Fortunately, Luc trusted his more seasoned sailors to get the new crew properly salty. Two people, in particular, had sailed with him forever: his quartermaster and cook, Milly Dread, and his notable boatswain from Qul, Qurt Qobayne.

  Qobayne was the silent, brooding sort except when he had to shout orders, but he had his mercenary side too. It was not abstract riches he was after, and unlike most humans, he was willing to wait for his dream to come true, which Luc appreciated. Qobayne truly loved the sea and seemed to relish a life of rum and poor nutrition. He’d confided in Luc a few adventures ago after a little too much grog that someday he hoped to save enough money to buy the rare set of Waolphware porcelain dishes featuring scenes of frolicsome llamataurs—a deeply disturbing contradiction—painted by the renowned Waolphish artist, Knob Ross, and when that day came, why, he’d leave the life of piracy and join a legitimate mercantile concern with lower but steady paydays and a fully stocked larder. Until then, Luc knew, Qobayne would be utterly competent and reliable, even when he’d poured flagons of grog down his throat the night before and shed a few tears over the beauty of painted llamataurs.

  From his perch on Feng’s shoulder, Luc watched the brown-skinned Qobayne holler at the crew, trying to get them into shape as they crossed Dorf Bay from Sullenne to the dwarvelish city of Lårpendrånk. They would take on some dwarvelish crew there to help them fight off the monsters that lurked in the south, but even with the added help, they’d stand a poor chance of survival if they couldn’t learn their roles.

  Qobayne instructed the new folk how to raise and lower sails and how to man battle stations on the gun deck. He covered the delicate etiquette of the poop deck and the concomitant communal reading material. Theft of the vintage Rolling Bone collection or the back issues of Playgnome, Reader’s Digestive, or Spurts Illustrated would earn them a long walk off a short piece of lumber. He also took the time to demonstrate how to properly swab the deck, because few people realized that there was a huge difference between scrubbing and swabbing, and The Puffy Peach required a thorough swabbing, by Pellanus.

  Thanks to his years of piracy and keen observation of the human body, Luc knew the exact moment when his crew began to question whether any of Qobayne’s instruction was worthwhile. He ruffled his feathers and cleared his throat, and Feng stepped forward on his cue.

  “Rrrright now, some of you arrre thinking,” Luc called out, “Do I rrrreally need to pay attention to this or trrrry to become a competent sailorrrr? What’s the point of swabbing? Well, the point is, when boarrrrded by another ship, you don’t want slipperrrry footing in the midst of a battle! You need to know each aspect of a functioning ship to defend it and to attack others like it prrrroperrrrly! And after we sail south of dwarrrrvelish lands, the Dolorrrrous Ocean becomes quite dangerrrrous! Many seas full of many monsterrrrs with too many teeth! Not to mention elvish warrrrships arrrrmed with heinous glitterrrr bombs! So I need you to pay attention to the boatswain! What Qobayne is teaching you will save yourrrr lives!”

  For a while, anyway, that focused them. But it was not even an hour before the centaur slipped on the deck during a yardarm exercise and slid into the dryad, bowling her over with his flanks. She cried out, “Watch it, horsemeat!”—perhaps not the most diplomatic reaction—but then he reacted poorly. He flexed at her.

  “Can’t help being this swole. You should learn to stay out of my way. And be grateful I’m here too, because when it comes time to clobber some noggins, I’ll keep yours from being clobbered.”

  Morgan smoothly stepped in front of Tempest, brandishing that mace she’d used so well at the docks. “No, Vic, it’s you who needs to stay out of our way, or else the clobbering will begin with your own noggin. Or whatever I can reach.”

  “Get in therrrre,” Luc told Feng, and the first mate waved to his three human friends, who’d been recruited at the same time. They were a strange trio of pale men who probably only had a trio of good teeth between them, but they moved forward on command to insert themselves between the centaur and the affronted women. They faced Vic together, backs to Tempest and Morgan, and as a unit they must have looked more swole than Vic liked. He shifted nervously, his hooves clopping on the deck, almost as if he were tap-dancing, yet another human custom Luc didn’t understand.

  “ ’Sup, bros? Who are you?”

  Luc paid attention to the answers, because they were quite new and he was a still little unclear on which was which.

  “I’m Frij,” the first one said. He had yellow hair, a golden sprout of whiskers on his chin, and eyes like a dead fish.

  “I’m Mort,” the second one said. His clothing appeared to be a collection of brown stains, and he had eyes and a mustache to match.

  “And I’m Queefqueg.” This last one was orange-haired and freckled and wore a green waistcoat with no shirt underneath it. His arms were turning red in the sun.

  “They’re all mates of mine,” Feng said. “Frij and Mort sailed with me in Teabring. Spent a lot of time raiding in the Seven Toes. Queefqueg grew up in Burdell, but he’s been afloat with us for years.”

  Vic shrugged. “So?”

  “So this is obviously your first trip and we’re all concerned about your behavior. Aren’t we, Captain?”

  “That’s rrrrright, Feng. We can all see that you arrrre swole, Vic. But we cannot see that you know how to sail. Just now I watched you slip on the deck, slam into Tempest, and fail to execute the maneuverrrr you werrrre instrrrructed to perform by the boatswain. Rrrrather than apologize, you claimed that it was Tempest’s fault for getting knocked down. You will own yourrrr mistakes and be civil to the crrrrew orrrr I will dismiss you when we get to Lårrrrpendrrrrånk—and I seem to rrrrecall that dwarrrrves and centaurrrrs do not get along. Which will it be?”

  Vic blinked and looked around at the assembled crew, all staring at him with hard expressions. Luc watched Vic’s eyes and mouth carefully as the centaur tallied up the score against him. He clenched his fists, and Luc wondered if they might all be subjected to some sort of magical attack in the next moment, but then the swoleboy let his hands hang loose as his shoulders fell.

  He sighed, lips spluttering like a horse, and his eyes found Tempest. “Sorry for my clumsiness. I hope you weren’t hurt by my muscles.”

  Filthy Lucre swiveled his head around to see how the dryad responded. She searched the centaur’s face for sincerity and nodded once when she found it. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m sorry for calling you a name.”

  “Good good good good good,” Luc declared, bobbing his head. “Now back to trrrraining with the boatswain! Qobayne, prrrroceed.”

  No blood spilled, no hard feelings. It was a good start. They threw themselves back into the work and Luc ordered Feng to walk him to his quarters, for the episode did throw into sharp relief—for Luc, at least—where the true power dynamic of this new crew was centered: on Feng. Any mutiny against him would require Feng’s approval, and that was what all captains, to say nothing of this salty parrot, needed to know. This first visit to his cabin was therefore vital to the success of the entire voyage. Feng needed to understand why Luc was running this ship and why he couldn’t simply take over for himself.

  Luc always enjoyed the moment when new crew members first experienced his cabin. Instead of the usual desk, there was only the captain’s log—a tall piece of driftwood affixed firmly to the floor and furnished with many wooden perches in a variety of diameters. He had no bunk, but there was a chair—nailed in place, of course, for ships were slippery places—so that a guest might sit and enjoy a glass of port or a crew member might get screeched at for disobedience. The walls were lined with shelves, the shelves crowded with b
ooks and scrolls and bric-a-brac from Luc’s many years of travels, not to mention a few ornate perches. Luc flew to a perch on the shelf that was just to the right of the chair’s line of sight, and then he pointed with a wing tip at a wine cabinet next to the chair.

  “You’ll find rrrrum in there, and plenty of otherrrr fine liquorrrrs, if you like. I just thought we might have a chat.”

  Feng grinned. “Ah, excellent! Thank you.”

  Yes, human, take the drink, relax a bit, let the informality seep into your bones, then let’s get the inevitable interview over with, Luc thought. He waited while Feng poured himself a glass of dwarvelish honey mead and babbled about rare drinks he’d enjoyed in his travels, and it didn’t take long for the man to wind down, conclude he’d been polite enough, and begin to probe for information.

  “So, Captain, if I may ask,” Feng said, “which of the Several Macks contains this treasure? I’ve visited a few of them and never suspected there were any riches buried there.”

  Luc whistled in amusement. “Awww, it’s a Mack that doesn’t appearrrr on many maps. It’s little morrrre than a rrrreef. At high tide you can’t even see it. It’s a verrrry cunning little island called Mack…well. I must keep some secrrrrets, mustn’t I?”

  Feng nodded along, as he was intended to. “And what will we find in this mysterious place?”

  “Enough trrrreasurrrre to let us all rrrretirrrre in luxurrrry,” Luc assured him.

  Feng blinked and briefly looked irritated but then smiled. “Of course. But at least tell me who buried this treasure, and why haven’t they come back for it?”

  “The perrrrson who burrrried the trrrreasurrrre is dead,” Filthy Lucre said. “And I know that because I killed him. He asked too many questions.”

  This was another moment Luc enjoyed. If Feng asked how Luc had killed someone—or, indeed, anything else—Luc would have to demonstrate, because at that point Feng would have proved he was too stupid to live. But his first mate instead scanned the room, took the hint, and thanked Luc for the drink before excusing himself from the cabin. Perhaps he’d seen the weapons hidden on the shelves and trained on the chair, all of which Luc could trigger from his perch with a squeeze of his talons; perhaps he hadn’t. But Feng was observant, Luc was glad to note, and now at least mildly afraid of his captain, which was good. When it came down to it, a parrot couldn’t make a human walk the plank, so Luc had to think of other ways to make sure he remained in charge.