by Jason Denzel
Wondering what the captain could want, Sim considered asking Rochella if he should go. But all he’d done since he’d left Moth was follow other people’s orders. This time, he would do it on his own terms.
“Aye,” he said, and deliberately did not look at Rochella as he followed Mizzka.
He knocked on the small door leading to the captain’s cabin, and ducked through when he was called in. Captain Zeph peered over a map while swirling a bottle of amber liquid.
“Ah, Sim. Come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to a chair along the wall. A small window—which Sim had learned was called a port—stood near the spot Zeph indicated. Sim moved to the chair but didn’t sit.
It had surprised Sim to see that the Eyestrom’s captain was a lean, muscular man with wavy hair not much older than himself. He wore a vest over his otherwise deeply tanned bare chest, along with loose trousers tucked into shiny boots. An embroidered yellow sash, which Sim had learned was a sign of rank among seafaring people, hung off his waist.
“How do you like it aboard the Eyestrom so far?” Zeph asked.
Sim scratched his forearm before clasping his hands behind his back, trying to hide the unsightly rashes. “I prefer being on land, uh, sir.”
Zeph waved a hand at him. “Call me Zeph.”
“Thank you, but it wouldn’t be proper. You’re a merchant, the captain of our ship.”
“Whatever you prefer. I understand we all have our own unique tastes and ways of doing things. Drink?” He indicated the bottle.
“No. But thank you,” Sim said.
Zeph splashed a bit of the alcohol into a glass cup anyway, and walked it over to Sim. His offer plainly left Sim with no choice. Sim accepted the glass, marveling at its weight and craftsmanship. He’d never actually seen a real glass cup before. He’d rarely seen real glass at all. Supposedly, crafting something like this took great skill. As a former blacksmith, Sim suddenly felt clumsy and brutal compared to the craftsman who had created this item.
“I can see you’re a good lad. Your mathir raised you properly. Mizzka tells me you work hard with the others. That you don’t mind breaking a sweat. Hoom! If I’m not careful, I’ll end up having to pay you, or take you on for our next voyage?”
There was a slight questioning tone to that last statement.
“I’d be very lucky if you did, Captain. But I’m committed to learning from Rochella right now.”
“So young, and already you have commitments. Careful with those, Sim; when you commit young, you may learn to regret it later.” He lifted his glass. “To the voyage,” he said, and drank. Sim saluted in return and drained his glass. He coughed, and nearly spit the drink out. It tasted like shite. How could anybody like this?
Zeph clapped him on the back. “I had my first shot of chi-uy when I was fourteen. Ol’ Captain Byrnlox insisted I take one when we landed on the shores of Qin. By the ancestors, that was a good night! Took my first tumble with a woman that night, too. A local girl, about my age. She was just a common field girl.…” He paused to wave his hand. “You know what I mean, and she was supposedly chosen specifically for me. Ah, Sim. I’m sure you remember your first. She was shy, naturally, and I hardly knew what to do with my snake, but we got by.” He grinned as he poured himself another drink.
Sim stared into his empty glass. “May I ask why you called me in?”
Zeph nodded. “Ah, of course. You don’t want to hear me ramble about my old conquests! I want to hear about you. You intrigue me. Tell me, how did you come to be with that pretty ranger?”
“Rochella?” Sim said before he could help himself. He supposed she was pretty, even though she was nearly twice his age. He’d just never thought of her in that way. Often, anyway. “She helped me when I was sick,” Sim said.
Zeph nodded with a knowing smile. “No need to say more, I understand.” He leaned across his desk. “I’ve never had a virga. Are they as good as their reputation? I hear they can be … primal … once aroused.”
Sim set his glass down. He wanted to leap across the table, break every glass bottle, and smash his fist into this boyish captain’s pretty face. But that wouldn’t be a good idea not simply because Zeph was the captain of the ship, but because the man was a merchant-scholar. There’d be severe punishments if Sim lifted a hand toward him.
“I wouldn’t know,” Sim said. “It’s not like that. She’s my mentor.”
“I meant no offense,” Zeph said, raising his glass in an apologetic salute. “Teachers provide a variety of lessons in their own ways. Where are you traveling to?”
“To the Baronies,” Sim said. “The High Mystic ordered us to escort Lord Saijar home safely. After that, I’m uncertain. Rochella has a contact there she needs to find afterward.” As soon as he said it, though, he remembered one of Rochella’s “first lessons”: to keep his mouth shut and not reveal too much about himself. Enemies lurked everywhere, and every snap of information, no matter how innocent seeming, could be used against you.
Zeph nodded. “Well, if you change your mind, or fancy more … profitable … ventures, then I believe I could find work for you here. I’ve recently taken on a new contract through Port Morrush, and your knowledge of the island would be useful to me. But in the meantime, you are always welcome aboard the Eyestrom.”
Sim set the glass onto the desk. He wanted to ask more about this offer, but Rochella’s advice to stay out of trouble kept him quiet. He settled on another topic in order to not let the silence stretch. “Why do you call it that? The ship.”
“Ah, I named it after my mentor, Captain Byrnlox Eyestrom. The finest sailor of our era, regardless of what his jealous rivals would say. He was like a father to me. So much so that after he died I took his last name as well. Like you, I, too, came from humble origins. Perhaps we are not unalike, you and I. This is another reason why I like you.”
Something about the captain’s tone didn’t sit well with Sim. “Thank you for the drink, Captain.”
He made for the door, but Zeph stopped him. “Oh, and Sim?”
Sim turned back.
“Do put in a good word for me with Rochella?” The captain’s smile sent chills down Sim’s spine.
* * *
About a week later, as sunlight yawned into the below-deck quarters, Sim awoke to the sound of a man coughing. Sim groaned and rolled away from the sound. It was coming from Hilash, one of the other swabs Sim had been matched with to work.
He tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but the rolling, endless movement of the ship churned his stomach. He hoped he didn’t have to vomit again. He’d finally stopped three days ago, but his stomach never quite settled right. He hoped this first sea voyage would be his last.
Hilash’s coughing continued. Sim peered across the narrow aisle to the other set of bunks. Rochella lay with her back to him, a single ratty blanket pulled up over her shoulders. Because her hair was short, Sim could see the exposed nape of her neck. Her skin was a deep brown, darker than Pomella’s. He could see the white-edged line of a black stripe running across the back of her neck. Sim knew very little about the virga people, but he had to admit that her skin was alluring in its own way. He found himself wondering what the stripe pattern looked like farther down her back, and across the rest of her body.
Those thoughts brought forth his recent conversation with Zeph. He shook his head. No. Rochella was a mentor, and was old anyway. She was probably in her mid-thirties.
His thoughts drifted again to Pomella. He closed his eyes and remembered her lips on his. The way she’d melted into his arms when they were alone.
Sim groaned and sat up. Rochella was right. Thinking of her just made it harder. But he couldn’t stop.
He reached over to his small pack and opened it up. He kept a needle and some thread, a few clean cloths, a waterskin, and a bit of food in there, stashed away at Rochella’s suggestion. Also inside was The Book of Songs, given to him by Pomella. He could only read the fragments that used the common runes, but that
was fine. Inside was a wealth of imagery and other things he didn’t understand. But it reminded him of her.
The last item in his bag was a vial. Zeph’s glass cups couldn’t compare to this vial in terms of elegance and craftsmanship. It was about the size of his palm, rounded at the bottom, and smoothly curved to a tapered top. A silvery-green liquid was sealed within by a wax seal. It was another gift from Pomella. She hadn’t told him where she’d gotten it, but she’d told him what it was.
Poison.
Sim hadn’t been comfortable accepting the gift, but Pomella had insisted he take it. It repulsed her for some reason. He wasn’t sure when he would need—
Suddenly Hilash sat up in his bunk, just two beds down from Rochella. The older, sun-baked man leaned over the edge of his bunk, legs spread wide, bent double as he hacked. He coughed again and again, his face turning different shades as he did. Two other sailors peered at him from their bunks. One of them mumbled, “Shut’m up.”
Hilash keep coughing. Seeing nobody else offering to help, Sim moved toward him. “Hilash?”
The man lifted his bone-tight face, and a sudden pang of fear charged through Sim. Bloodshot red cracks lined Hilash’s eyes. His lips were bright red from coughing up blood. Upon seeing him, the other crew members scrambled over the bunks and raced up the ladder to the deck above.
Sim slipped his feet onto the cold floor planks and stood. As he approached the ill sailor, Hilash scratched at his arms and coughed some more. Blood splattered across the floorboards. He lifted his eyes to Sim.
“Gett’way!” Hilash rasped.
Sim stared, the fear raging in his chest. Red rashes covered Hilash’s face. Rashes like Sim’s. A hand touched his shoulder.
“We need to go,” Rochella said. Sim hadn’t seen her wake up or get out of the bunk. She dragged him toward the ladder and practically shoved him up through the portal. Once on deck, Rochella slammed the hatch and placed her foot on it as if to lock Hilash away and anyone else still in there.
“On your guard,” she murmured to Sim.
He was about to ask why, but then he saw the crowd gathered around them. A silent crew of men encircled them. Most covered their mouths and noses with their hand or an old scarf. Some brandished makeshift cudgels in a threatening manner. Behind the sailors, a line of armed soldiers stood with their arms on forearm-length swords. They stood in front of a young man with blond hair, who Sim understood to be Saijar, one of the candidates who had competed against Pomella in the apprentice Trials. Sim hadn’t seem him at all during the voyage until now. They’d mostly stayed belowdecks, as far from the rest of the crew as possible.
Mizzka pushed past the sailors, her forked tongue zipping out in furious jabs. “What issss happening?”
Saijar mumbled something to one of his soldiers. Sim only caught the word “laghart,” but his sneer made it clear what he thought of the Eyestrom’s first mate.
One of the regular sailors, Eshan, a lanky red-haired man with a Mothic accent, jabbed his finger at the hatch Rochella stood on top of. “There’s a scuttlin’ nasty down there, Mistress. This boy has the red rash!”
Sim crossed his arms, trying to hide his blotchy forearms.
Mizzka’s slitted eyes slithered toward him. “Lettt me sssee, boy.”
Wilting beneath the hard look of the Eyestrom’s first mate, Sim held out his arms.
Mizzka’s long tongue whipped the air. “Ttttake your ssshhirt offfff.”
“He’s under my protection, Mizzka,” Rochella said.
“He’ssss a thhhreat to our ssshhip!”
Rochella was about to respond, but Sim put his hand on her shoulder. “We can’t hide it,” Sim whispered to her.
She glared at him, eyes blazing anger that he hadn’t let her handle the situation. Or perhaps anger because he hadn’t told her sooner. But it was too late. She nodded.
Sim set his jaw, and lifted his shirt over his head. The cool air pebbled his skin.
A collective mumble of fear passed through the sailors. Every man shuffled a step back. Sim wasn’t sure who, but somewhere in the gathered crowd somebody whispered, “Plague.”
The word sent a chill down Sim’s spine. He looked down at his skin, and this time he couldn’t deny what he saw. His entire torso was covered in angry red blotches. He’d seen them before. As a child, he’d watched his brother break out with the rash, followed by the more extreme symptoms, like Hilash suffered from down in the hold. Everyone from Moth, and most people not from the island, knew what those red rashes meant.
The Coughing Plague. The rotting disease that supposedly no Mystic could heal.
“Get him off my ship,” came a voice from behind Sim. They all turned and saw Captain Zeph standing at the rail outside his upper hold. He glared down at the gathering, his face set in stone.
Nobody moved to apprehend Sim. Each sailor looked away, unwilling to be the one to touch him unless ordered to.
Sim attempted to appeal to Zeph. “I have the rashes, but nothing else. I can still work fine.”
Rochella shoved him aside. “May the Saints spare me from loudmouth dunders. Zeph—”
“Mizzka,” Zeph said, his eyes cold. The laghart darted forward, quicker than most humans could move. Before Sim could react, her clawed hand snatched his wrist and twisted it backward and toward the sky. Sim cried out as pain shot up his arm and into his spine. He bent over double, trying to ease the arm twist.
“Stop!” Rochella said. “Release us both peacefully, Zeph, and we will leave now.”
“I intend to let you step foot off this ship peacefully right now, actually.”
“Give us a raft.”
Zeph shook his head. “If you think I’ll part with one of my—”
“You were paid handsomely to deliver us safely to the Continent. If word reaches any Mystic that you threw a ranger and her apprentice overboard, you’ll never be welcome in a respectable city again. At the least, our fare covers the cost of a tiny raft.”
“Hoom! You are a danger to my ship and my crew, and I won’t part with anything. You can swim to the Continent.”
“Then he and I will fight, and bleed, and bite every one of your men until this ship becomes a walking infestation. Let us go now, and we’ll walk to your raft and not touch anybody.”
“It may already be a plague den!” Zeph shot back.
“Or it may not, but are you willing to risk it?” Rochella said.
Zeph considered her.
“And let me be clear,” Rochella said, her eyes narrowing. “There will be much blood if you try to throw us overboard.”
Zeph held her gaze, then nodded to Mizzka. The laghart’s grip on Sim relaxed. He straightened, and looked to Rochella.
“Ready a raft,” Zeph said to the crew. “Quickly.”
Mizzka leaped into action, hustling several sailors ahead of her.
“Our gear,” Sim said.
Zeph glared at him, and Rochella put her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
They moved aft and portside toward the place where Mizzka’s sailors were lowering one of the small rafts. They stepped away so that Rochella and Sim could climb aboard.
The crew on the ship was silent as they were lowered down. As they neared the water, Zeph appeared at the side rail and motioned over the edge with his hand. One of the sailors threw two bags, containing Sim’s and Rochella’s travel provisions as well as a single canteen of water.
Just as the small vessel touched the water, a figure leaped over the edge and splashed into the water.
“Jagged shite,” Rochella grumbled.
The figure flailed in the water, clearly unable to swim. He screamed, his words indecipherable, but clearly begging for assistance.
“We have to help him,” Sim said. He stood and balanced himself, ready to jump in.
“Sit down!” Rochella roared.
“He’ll die!” Sim yelled back.
Rochella cursed under her breath but grabbed an oar and shoved it into his a
rms. “This is on you, Thudfoot. Get us closer and I’ll grab him. Knowing you, you’ll get dragged in and you’ll both drown. It would be what you jagged deserve, though.”
Sim snatched the oar and fumbled with it enough until they were a bit closer to the panicked man. Rochella leaned over to grab him, but the man clawed at her arm, throwing her off-balance.
“Stop floundering, you blind culk!” she yelled.
The man didn’t stop his mad scrabble.
Rochella lifted her fist and smashed him across the temple. The man’s desperate flailing stopped. Rochella dragged him onto the boat, which immediately made Sim realize there would barely be enough room for all three of them. Sim looked at him. It was Hormin, the boy who had been traveling with Saijar but had spent time with Sim and Hilash. He was awake but unfocused. Already a large lump was forming on his head.
Rochella was breathing hard from her efforts. She glared at Sim, then pulled Hormin’s shirt open. Across the boy’s chest was a cluster of festering red rashes.
“I hope you’re happy,” Rochella said to him.
They drifted away from the Eyestrom until the ship grew distant, and they saw from far away that somebody was thrown overboard. Hilash.
Sim looked away from the ship, unable to think of what he’d left behind. “I don’t understand how I became infected,” he said.
Rochella turned away from him and stared eastward, toward the Continent. “Get rowing.”
A lump formed in Sim’s throat. There was a more immediate concern. “Won’t you be infected?” he asked.
Rochella kept her eyes on the horizon. “Virgas are immune to the plague.”
A wave of relief spread through him. He’d never heard of anybody being immune. “So now what?”
Rochella stood up, naturally finding her balance in the rocking boat. The ocean wind caught her short hair, tousling it behind her like dark flames. Her eyes were locked on the eastern horizon, perhaps seeing more than Sim could understand. “We are rangers. We do what we always do. We move, and we survive.”
