by Brad C Baker
“In hard you say?” the man mused. “There be a story there, I say!”
“True enough,” Vlados agreed, “But not one I’ll be yelling across the harbor.”
“To be sure of that! Well then, come ashore and we’ll discuss your needs,” concluded the harbormaster.
Turning to Crallick and Mr. Drake, Vlados asked, “Will you accompany me?”
“Sure” and “Aye” marked the two men’s assent.
Wallace came up to them. “With your permission, ser,” and he waited.
“With my permission, what?” Vlados vainly hid his confusion.
Chuckling to himself, Mr. Drake said, “He’s asking permission to talk to you, ser!”
“Oh.” Vlados looked a little sheepish at that. “Sure then. Fine. Go ahead. Talk.”
To his credit, Wallace didn’t do a thing that could have embarrassed Vlados any further, even keeping a straight face when he spoke. “Permission to come ashore with the landing party, ser. I can be valuable in assisting with the acquisition of the new crew. Also, might I suggest running up the absentee pennant. You might also want to check with the ship’s surgeon to find out what her immediate needs are, and what accommodations need to be made for the injured. Several of these duties are out of the purview of the quartermaster, though I’m sure he’d do an admirable job in his efforts. As for me, I’m an old hand at these tasks. Having had to do it for several voyages as a first mate, and several as a second mate. What say you, Captain?”
Vlados couldn’t help but fluster and puff up a bit with pride at the title being addressed directly to him. “Soundly put, Mr. Pallan. Go find the surgeon’s needs, and have the pennant run up, then come along and join us on the wharf.”
“Aye ser,” came the smart reply.
Crallick felt an unexpected joy at having his feet on solid ground… or at least on solid jetty… again. He tried not to chuckle as his stalwart friend took a few wobbly steps before finding his feet solidly again. The three men were deep in their tale to the harbormaster, for as assumed, that was what he was; when Mr. Pallan joined them. After the conclusion of their tale, the harbormaster asked what did the Flamerunner need and what was her length of stay.
Crallick was the first to respond. “I need a money house to make change for payments. We plan to have a short stay to get our chores done, no longer. We are chasing an unknown vessel which carries nefarious villains with intents on sacrificing virginal maids…”
“I could use some virginal maids,” the harbormaster good-naturedly joked before he swiftly became puzzled at the lack of laughter that usually accompanied a bawdy joke like that.
“His and my daughter are among them,” said Vlados quietly.
“Oh,” humbled the harbormaster. “I’m sorry.”
“Also,” Crallick growled, “they don’t intend to sacrifice their virginity that you inferred, ser, but their lives. Thirteen girls, I believe.”
“Well that’s a terrible waste of virtue,” the harbormaster said before he could clamp his hand over his mouth. “My God, I’m sorry. I talk when I’m nervous. I just don’t think sometimes. I’m so sorry.”
“Well to make up for it, you can save your skin, and our time,” Crallick’s grin was more intimidating than friendly. “Any of the ships pass through here with a female Nekomin wearing Chessintran robes, and accompanied by some scary-assed lizardmen, and other men at arms? We need their ship’s name and bearing if possible.”
“Heading,” Vlados corrected for the benefit of the harbormaster.
“Aye, good sers,” the harbormaster said. “I can take care of that for you. Moneyhouse is…” he gently took Crallick by the elbow and pointed to a stone building to the immediate left of the main street that ran inland from the dock street. “Just there.” Then, he turned to Mr. Drake who, through the tales, he garnered to be the quartermaster of the ship. “Stock stores and ordering is in my office, there.” He pointed to a light timbered, open fronted shack in front of a massive wood warehouse. To Mr. Pallan and Vlados he concluded, “The apothecary is just up the road on the main street there. It will be on the left-hand side. The hospice is the next building beside that. Hotels and bars are closer to the docks.”
Confused, Vlados asked, “Well, you handled everyone’s needs well enough, even where to get meals, but I need replacement crew. Where is your guild hall?”
Laughing, Wallace grabbed Vlados by the arm, not unkindly, “Ah my Captain, you jest so well!” Then to the now chuckling harbormaster, he said, “Thanks mate, we’ll be back for the information in a bit. Please look into it swiftly.”
“Of course.” The harbormaster ran a chain to the anchor-chain and padlocked it. “I’ll have it for when you pay for your berth and supplies.”
***
Crallick entered the low, stone brick structure. There was a dim glow provided by a single candle on a candelabra that rested upon a clerk’s podium that faced the door. There was a stool upon which rested a gnarled little lizardman, of a variety Crallick hadn’t encountered before. The little fellow looked up as Crallick entered, the scratching from his plume ceasing.
“Evening, ser,” the squeaky voice said. “How may I be of service to you tonight?”
“I need some local currency,” Crallick said.
“Well, all three main currencies are handled on the Carib Archipelago. Any in particular? What merchant said you couldn’t purvey your coin?” a confused clerk asked.
Laughing, Crallick clarified, “You misunderstand me. No one has denied my coin, as I have none to give.” Crallick held up a few glinting gems between his thumb and forefinger.
Drawing in a breath that came as a squeak of surprise, joy, lust, or greed – maybe a little of each – the clerk jumped from his seat, ran over, slammed and locked the door behind Crallick, pulled him urgently by the arm to a seat, and then rushed into the back room squeaking furiously all the while.
Crallick tried not to smile as he thought of a reptilian mouse.
Heavier footfalls sounded from the back room. The door swung open to reveal a half-ogre that loomed over the little three and a half foot clerk by the span of a tall dwarf.
“Critchure here tells me you have some gems that need my attention. I am Horace Dandywine.” He extended a head-sized slab of a hand towards Crallick in greeting.
Unflinching, Crallick shook the hand, “Ser Crallick Oakentree, of Brannathyr.”
A deep guffaw shook up from his lard ringed torso. “My old home country. You, like me, seem not to be of pure Vitani stock. Human for your other half then?”
“That’d be about right,” Crallick conceded. “Look, I am in a bit of a hurry, not to be rude, but I need an appraisal and currency exchange for these gems; some, or all, depending on their worth in this part of the world.” Crallick gave a predatory smile, “I trust you are as good at your job as I am at mine. Consider what you see as a small amount of my earned savings.”
Bellowing a great guffaw, Horace turned the three gems in his hands and said, “While ser, I grant you these are fine specimens, they are by no means anything to brag so about.”
Crallick grinned, “I just gave the trinkets to the clerk.” He opened the strings of his pouch, “These are the goods.”
It was the half ogre’s turn to draw in a breath, “Aarison, man! Do you intend to buy the whole island?”
“Impressed?” Crallick put.
“I’ll say. That is more than enough to buy the entire archipelago.” Putting a more serious expression on his countenance, Horace continued, “Ser, if you are travelling at sea, let me advise you on several things. First, the average able-bodied seaman gets one crown per tenday, and are thrilled with it.”
Crallick was happy that Horace was using currencies familiar to him.
“This stone,” Horace pulled a small one from the pile, “Will keep a company of forty souls paid for a year. This one,” he pulled a smaller one from the pile, “will keep the ship supplied for that same time. All these, you should
leave with me for safe keeping. Take this for incidental expenditures,” he added a few gem chips to the now five stone pile that represented Crallick’s expenses. A full thirty-five gems laid on the side.
“All right, Horace, if I take your advice, what is to stop you from running off with my wealth?” Crallick not too delicately put to the large man.
“Fair question,” Horace smiled, choosing not to be offended by the blunt challenge of his honour. “Firstly, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. You strike me as someone who is not easily quailed and holds a grudge. Second, I’d rather earn ten percent of this magnificent trove legitimately, and have you on my side if I’m ever robbed.” He laughed, “Not that that ever happens anymore.”
“Oh?” Crallick asked.
“Not since I impaled the last three who tried on pikes up their arses as a punishment. One screamed for a day and a half before he finally died.” Horace grinned, “Never had a problem like that again.”
Crallick felt his anus pucker sympathetically from the idea of such a cruel crucifixion. “All right then. At five percent we have an accord.”
“Aww, come now, seven percent?” Horace patted his opulent tummy, “I’m Part Ogre, and Critchen has twelve mouths to feed.”
“Seventeen, master Horace,” the diminutive lizardman corrected. “Etchen had another clutch of five eggs that survived.”
“Really? Congratulations.” Horace turned to Crallick, “Sorry, seventeen mouths to feed.”
Laughing and shaking his head, Crallick said, “Fine, seven percent it is then, and you make my payments for what I need. My ship is the Flamerunner, in the third mooring.”
“I shall, ser Oakentree. You take this, and have a splendid night.” Horace took a pair of large pouches and gave them to Crallick, “This one is crowns for larger purchases.” The other he hefted, “this one is scepters for smaller purchases.”
“Thank you, I’ll see you when I return,” Crallick concluded.
“Safe faring!” said Horace. Then to Critchin, whom he told, “Take the list of supplies and the roles for Mr. Oakentree to his quartermaster.”
***
Mr. Drake had walked purposely over to the massive wood structure and began wandering the rows of stacked crates, making mental notes as he went of what they would likely need. Damn, their ship’s captain was greener than any officer he had ever sailed with. Hell, he wasn’t even an officer. Second, the backer was some psychotic knight, looking for a bunch of virgin girls. Other than the fact that one was his daughter, there was something creepy about that. He sighed. He should never have agreed to quartermaster for a woman. He supposed he got what he deserved.
After a few hours itemizing a list of things, he took it to the warehouse manager. The manager gave him the change from what had been preauthorized by his charter. Then Eric told him the berth to have the supplies delivered to.
Vlados and Wallace headed up the street towards the apothecary. The street was rich with smells, noise and colour. Smoking dens, brothels and taverns ran up the righthand side of the southbound street, while markets and more reputable shops lined the left side. At this time of night, however, there was very little in the way of reputable trade going on in the street. Courtesans plied their wares, wearing next to nothing in the balmy tropical evening. Pushers of opiates and other mind-altering substances brazenly strolled the main fare, often offering free samples of quality. Callers of both genders advertised gambling houses, brothels, and taverns, both on and off the main street.
Wallace advised Vlados, “Don’t let them take you anywhere off the main drag unless you’re tougher than the toughest cats in port. Also, tonight we’re in a bit of a rush, so I suggest we leave the sightseeing for the return trip perhaps?”
“Agreed,” Vlados concurred. Then, upon finding the apothecary and hospice, they went into the yard of the ajoined buildings.
“Here we are then,” Vlados said, then proceeded to knock loudly on the door.
“Just a minute!” Hollered a sleep dulled voice, laden with the gravel of age. “If you all would stop yer shenanigans and keep regular hours like, you’d not be wakin’ poor old Betsy up and ye’d might be livin’ as old as she too!” The voice was accompanied by thudding footfalls down wooden stairs. The door then opened to a bleary-eyed woman in her late sixties, silver-white hair akimbo from the pillow, and care-worn face trying to take in the people at her door. In a softer voice, she said, “Now, ye look worried. What can I do for you?”
Vlados bowed deeply. “I’m afraid I have two errands that I’m here about. The first is that I need accommodations for four crew who range from moderately to gravely injured. Second, I need this list of reagents,” he proffered the scrawled list of ingredients from Syllethra.
Taking the paper, the woman squinted down at it, then exclaimed, “My, are you a chichurgeon? These are a rather comprehensive stock. With the number of coagulants, I expect you suspect to see battle?”
Shrugging, Vlados replied, “I’m no chichugeon, but yes, we expect to see battle at least once more only, the gods willing.”
Nodding slowly, Betsy shrugged off the last fetters of sleep and said, “Well, let me get dressed. It’ll take me about an hour to get these together for you. Have some of your shipmates bring me your casualties next door there. I’ll get them set up right proper.”
Vlados said “Thank you” to the closing door. Then to Wallace, “Is she always that… ummm…. rude?”
“She says she’s efficient,” Wallace grinned. “Not rude. C’mon, there are men to gather in the meantime. Let’s go to the ‘Carib Pride’!”
“All right, lead on,” Vlados grumbled.
The Carib Pride was a two-story building that was back towards the docks. Light poured out of two open windows to pool on the inky street. There was a symphony of sound cascading out of the windows and the double doorway. There were the sounds of clinking glassware, belching and other gaseous exchanges, laughter, and voices. All backlit by a steel drum band.
The wooden planks on the exterior were worn by weather, but still retained a bluish-grey tinge barely discernable in the ambient light. No door, just a curtain of beads impeded entry to the place. With a rustle of those beads, the pair of men strode into the place.
There was a long bar along the left side of the room, being the north wall, with several tables and booths arranged opposite. On the other side of the door rose a small stage, upon which four chocolate coloured vitani – or were they mortani? Vlados wasn’t sure – played a stringed instrument, a couple of sets of steel drums that had been cut and hammered into pleasing sounding plates, and a wood pipe of sorts.
The tables had been fashioned out of cogs that had held spools of anchor chains. The stools that surrounded them and lined the bar were all old kegs of black powder or other dry goods. Vlados nodded appreciatively at the sensibility of the tavern’s décor. He suddenly missed his own wayside tavern very much.
“Wait over there,” Wallace said, indicating a corner table. “You need to be both visible, and defensible. I’ll be back shortly.”
“All right.” Vlados took the seat closest to the joint of the walls. From there he watched Wallace walk over to the bar, indicate towards him, smack a serving girl’s ass, then wander over to the stage. There, Wallace got the attention of the singing elf, who was also playing the stringed instrument. When the group finished their song, Wallace had the elf bend low, and he whispered something into his ear. The elf nodded, then got back to his spot and started into a lively song. Wallace made his way back to Vlados, arriving at the same time the serving girl brought up a pitcher and three mugs.
“All right. That’s taken care of,” said Wallace, pouring a drink for Vlados, then himself. “The band will announce…” He was cut off by a raucous clamor on the stage.
“Yo, yo, yo! Me mates and hearties! Any of ye lookin’ to catch yerself a billet of a ship huntin’ some dogs, then getcher self o’er to the dorf inna’ corner ‘d
er. Vlados be ‘is name an’ he bein’ a pers’nal friend o’ mine. So you make shoor ye’ chat nice. Or’n I’ll shove me banjo up yer rassclott batty hole! Ye savvy, elfe?”
There was much laughter, some applause, and several heads turned to look at Vlados’s table.
“Showtime,” Wallace said, as the next song was struck up and the first sailors began to make their way over to line up by Vlados’s table.
It took the better part of three hours, from the first ‘hello’ to the last ‘better luck next time, mate’, to hire the thirteen souls that would round out his crew. Vlados was very tired at the end of it and wanted nothing more than to find his way back to his bed. With a start, he suddenly realized that he had considered the Flamerunner’s captain’s bed as his. Poor Raquel. Being left behind on her own. Granted, he was sure that Crallick would see that she was set up nicely, but there seemed little comfort in that. His daughter needed him. With that simple thought at the fore of his mind, Vlados steeled his courage to do the unthinkable. He would leave the wounded here and leave with Raquel’s ship. His daughter needed him.
Morning broke with the injured having been relocated to the Port’s hospice. The existing crew were gathered on deck, and the newly pressed crew were aligned on the dock. The minor repairs had been serviced, the supplies had been stowed in the holds, and extra rum had been stored, although Vlados swore he had nothing to do with that order.
Standing on the aftcastle cabin’s roof, Vlados called in a resonating voice so all could clearly hear him. “Ahoy, all! To the old crew and the new blood alike, we come together under one purpose! We seek to bring justice and right a tragic wrong! This is a hunting expedition, make no mistake, there will be harrowing danger! We will make your service worthwhile! Your souls will know they are on the side of right this time, regardless of what happens! You will each get more of a share than what you would otherwise earn, as we have little guarantee of lavish wealth! But as a thank you for your dedication, an extra ration of rum to set sail on!”
