Sacrifice

by A. C. Cobble

  The men nodded.

  “I’ll double your pay if by the end of the week, I haven’t heard rumblings about what we were doing out here.”

  “That’s not fair!” complained one of the men, gesturing to Giles and Quimby. “What if they talk?”

  “If you hear about them talking, then I suggest you come to me,” advised Oliver. “Now take us back in. I want to see those maps.”

  “And I need a colder drink,” complained Giles, hefting his jug in one hand, pointing to his sweating face with the other.

  That evening back at Company House, Oliver stood and stretched, his back aching fiercely now. A few winters past twenty, he agreed with Factor Giles, he was too young to hurt like that. When his eyes fell to the maps spread out in front of him, though, he smiled.

  Maps, drawn by the Company’s cartographers, and others purchased in Durban’s dusty, overcrowded markets. The Company’s were drawn boldly, outlining what the sailors and mapmakers had experienced, but there were vast stretches of empty space where no vessels had yet sailed, or no one had survived to ink it on the page. The maps purchased locally were filled with rich detail, but he saw now, they were inaccurate. Not, he suspected, because of the lack of skill in the local Cartographer’s Guild, but because the city of Durban thrived with the heartbeat of piracy.

  The maps were drawn to funnel tempting targets into narrow lanes where they’d be easy pickings for the pirates. For centuries, perhaps, the ocean lanes were sailed, and the false knowledge of what was safe was embedded in the collective experience of countless crews.

  It was quite a clever maneuver, Oliver thought, to subvert the knowledge and skill of the cartographers, but he was wise to the game now. In time, the Company’s knowledge of what lay underneath the sea would be as complete as anyone’s.

  He stoppered his ink jar and closed his leather-bound notebook. He stuffed the mapmaking supplies in his weathered satchel, a gift from his brothers when he’d joined the Company. He strapped the brass buckles closed and looked over the desk.

  He’d left his sextant and a few maps depicting both the sea and air currents between Enhover and the Southlands lying on the table. If someone snooped on what he was working on, the hasty notes and musings that he’d jotted directly onto the maps would allay any suspicion. It was known he was a cartographer, and it was natural to assume a cartographer from Enhover would be hard at work understanding the breezes, and how they could propel the nation’s airships far above the sea.

  Let the pirates worry about that, how to adjust to vessels hanging a thousand yards above their heads, and they’d never suspect that he was really plotting how to maneuver the bulk of the Company’s cargo on the ocean freighters through the very breaks in the reef that he was sure the pirates used and obscured.

  Grinning, he stopped by his room, tucking his satchel away and locking the door as he exited. It was late in the evening, and he needed a drink. Luckily, he knew he’d have a man ready to share one with him. If his time in the port of Durban had taught him anything, it was where to find Factor Giles.

  The Prancing Pig was one of the largest buildings in Durban, behind only the recently erected governor’s mansion, and the sorely underused tribunal where legal matters were supposed to be settled. In that regard, the Prancing Pig had an argument to be supreme. The Company was still adjusting to the fact that in Durban, disputes were rarely handled in front of the judges, and were instead settled with an edge of steel.

  It was an environment that Factor Ethan Giles thrived in. The man talked as much as three men and was constantly careening between causing terrible offense and offering effusive apologies. Somehow, in the emotional tumult, he found a way to make profitable trading agreements. In the rough and dangerous climate of Durban, he’d done what few other Company factors had achieved, and had made himself a trusted ally of the local merchants who dealt with the seasonal caravans from the south, the occasional foray from the Darklands, and the dubious goods brought in by the private shippers, as the pirates had taken to calling themselves.

  Oliver was certain the board of directors would be aghast at how often their business was conducted around a gambling table instead of a counting room in Company House, but as far as Oliver was concerned, Giles was the one getting the work done, and when they finally found him with a neat slit across his throat or a puncture in his back, the Company now knew the type of man they would need to replace him.

  Enhover had no shortage of sharp-witted adventurers wanting to fill their coffers with Company sterling. At the moment, though, Giles seemed to be emptying his own coffer.

  “Spirit-forsaken bones,” growled the factor, throwing down a handful of cards in disgust.

  Across the table from him, a bald-headed man, shirtless underneath a piebald-furred vest, his arm tinkling with silver bangles, reached across the table and scooped a clinking pile of sterling. He picked up one of the coins and bit it, frowning at the Enhoverian piece.

  “It’s proper silver,” snapped Giles. “Backed by the king himself. King of Enhover, king of here as well. Why, if you think to question— ha! Here he is now. Duke Oliver—”

  Oliver stepped forward and slapped a hand down on the factor’s shoulder, hard enough he hoped the man felt a painful sting.

  “Duke,” he affirmed, nodding at the man across the table from Giles. The bald man blinked at him, then nodded his head, coins sliding through his fingers as he counted them into an open purse. Oliver asked, “You don’t speak the king’s tongue, do you?”

  The man didn’t respond, and Giles glared at the man.

  Shaking his head and noting that the factor appeared to be out of funds, Oliver gestured to the bar in the back of the room. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “A drink and a woman,” muttered the factor, standing, then wobbling. “That’s what I need.”

  “I’ll buy you the drink,” offered Oliver, “but if you want the woman, you’ll have to figure out a way to get her yourself.”

  Giles grunted and they weaved their way through the Prancing Pig’s debauchery. There were dozens of gambling tables, drunks stumbling between them, tripping over those slumped on the floor. There were glassy-eyed victims of poppy syrup addition, cursing, shouting, spilling drinks. They edged around a fight, which was quickly hidden as a ring of backs formed, watching and betting on the action. And of course, there was the usual singing and dancing, men linking arms, stomping across tables, shouting hoarse sea shanties to the ceiling. They were rarely all singing the same one.

  At the bar, Oliver opened his mouth to order two ales, but then he saw the open beer barrel behind the barman. He asked, “What do you have that comes in a sealed bottle?”

  Smirking, the man lifted a jug of spirits from behind the counter. A bright red wax seal was fixed around the top of it.

  “If you want me to open it, you’ll have to buy the whole jug.”

  Oliver rolled his eyes but slapped down the coins on the counter. Getting fleeced by some barman in a Durban dive wouldn’t be nearly as expensive as catching something from the drowned rat he thought he’d seen floating in the beer. Besides, if the barman saw the price on a bottle of first quality wine in Enhover’s social clubs, he’d be joining the rat and drowning himself in that barrel.

  Giles produced a belt knife and expertly stripped the wax seal around the mouth of the jug. He glanced around the counter, looking for cups, but Oliver snatched the jug out of his hands and turned it up. Any cups in the place weren’t going to be any cleaner than Giles’ lips, so they might as well save the trouble and share straight from the bottle.

  Feeling a harsh burn course down his neck and into his body, Oliver handed the jug back to Giles who took his own swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and claimed, “That desert trader knew the king’s tongue, by the way, he was just pretending he didn’t.”

  “Pretending?” wondered Oliver. “Why?”

  “Gives him an excuse to ignore us,” explained the factor. “We see it p
retty often. When they get an offer they don’t like, or think we’re trying to cheat them, they clam up like that.”

  “Desert trader, huh?” asked Oliver. “A desert down south of here?”

  “Aye,” agreed Giles, taking another swig.

  “The man had silver bangles on his arm and looked like his clothing was in good enough repair. A prosperous trader, unless he earns all his coins at the table from the likes of you. He was wearing more wealth than I imagine one might scrounge up in a desert.”

  “Always thinking, you are,” muttered Giles. “There are cities down there, probably. Truth is, no one knows. Or if they do, they aren’t talking.”

  Oliver collected the jug and drank again, pushing down a sudden desire to explore to the south. “It’s not the only thing they keep their mouths shut about.”

  “Thinking of your maps again?” questioned the factor. “Man like you, surely you’ve got better options than inking a piece of paper and sitting on that boat all day. Galas, hunts, noble ladies, horse races, that kind of thing?”

  Oliver winked at the older man and gestured around them. “And miss this?”

  “You are missing the best parts,” suggested Giles, nodding toward a riser that took up a third of the Prancing Pig’s expansive floor space.

  Behind a thin bannister, couches and carpets were scattered in comfortable clusters. Unlike the side they were on, there was no fighting near the couches. In fact, if anyone became surly at all, a dozen giant bouncers were standing ready to pounce and haul the offender straight out of the building and pitch them into the streets, likely emptying their purse on the way.

  On that side of the bannister was the Prancing Pig’s real trade. Scores of women, some scantily clad, some covered from head to toe with only their eyes visible. Some the same nationality as the desert trader Giles lost all his coin to, while others could have fit right in on Enhover’s damp, cobblestoned streets. They were as diverse a group as Oliver could imagine, but they all shared one thing in common, they could be had for a price.

  If the factor had won big at the tables, he still wouldn’t have walked out of the Prancing Pig with two coins to rub together. He would have spent every bit he could on the fallen women on the other side of the bannister.

  “Tempting, aren’t they?” asked Giles.

  Oliver sipped at the jug and handed it to the factor. “It’s not what I came to Durban for.”

  Giles snorted. “Well, it is what I came for. Here, the tropics, anywhere they grow the women hot and fiery. Enhoverian girls, they don’t do it for me any longer. They’re too cold, too reserved. They’re too civilized.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right one?”

  The factor passed the jug back. “Drink up. I’ve been here three turns of the clock. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

  Knowing the factor was trying to get him drunk enough to fund an expedition to the other side of the bannister, Oliver tilted back the drink and gulped the harsh liquid inside. He wasn’t opposed to the type of fun Giles enjoyed, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the charts he’d been looking at earlier. Finding new ocean routes, marking the coast, wondering what lay south of it, it all swirled through his mind as the liquor swirled through his body. The factor had left Enhover to find the kind of trouble that was only possible in the colonies, but that’s not why Oliver was there. No, he sought a different kind of adventure.

  Watching the crowd, the two men drank.

  In front of them, the room churned with gamblers winning and losing, arguing and fighting, and if they were successful at both the game and the aftermath, heading toward the unfriendly looking giant who guarded the opening in the bannister. Coins in fat purses, at least for a little while, the winners enjoyed the spoils.

  “There is Drake,” remarked Giles. “Your biggest rival.”

  “Drake?” wondered Oliver, not understanding, glancing around the room and not seeing anyone he knew.

  “Leader of the Cartographer’s Guild,” explained the factor. “At least, that’s what he tells everyone. He’s a rogue, always splashing coin on the tables, gathering the girls around him three or four at a time. It’s unseemly.”

  “I’m surprised a mapmaker has those kinds of funds,” murmured Oliver, watching the new arrival.

  Drake didn’t appear to be some squint-eyed cartographer. He had long black hair, oiled and curled into ringlets. A thin mustache oversaw a small patch of hair jabbing down from his chin. He was otherwise clean-shaven, which showed off a pale, puckered scar on his jaw. He wore a linen shirt and a bright crimson jacket. Oliver wondered if it was in mockery of the style of Enhover, as it was sorely impractical in the warm climate of the Southlands. The gold buttons, though, made Oliver consider whether the man was setting his own style At his hip, he carried a thin-bladed rapier on one side and a dagger on the other, the slightly curved hilt capped with a bright green stone.

  The man was greeting a handful of girls who’d poured out of their side of the room to fawn around him, and slowly, Drake made his way toward the bar.

  “Great,” muttered Giles, turning, crouching slightly, and sipping at their jug like he hoped Drake wouldn’t see them.

  “He can see you,” advised Oliver.

  Slouching further down, Giles continued to drink, and Oliver rescued their jug before the contents disappeared. He took his own swallow, and when he lowered the vessel, the smarmy looking Drake was standing half a dozen paces away, smiling at him.

  Oliver raised an eyebrow at the man.

  “Don’t see a lot of Company men in this place,” drawled Drake, his voice as oily as his hair. “Well, aside from that one.”

  He nodded at Giles, and the factor turned, his lips pursed like he’d just swallowed a lemon.

  “Company House stocks better wine,” remarked Oliver, tapping the jug at his side.

  “Not any gambling, though, I was told,” said Drake, leaning against the bar counter. “Though, I suppose you could argue there is, just not for the stakes we play at in here. There’s definitely not enough women to go around, ey?”

  “There aren’t many,” admitted Oliver.

  “Ah,” said Drake, glancing over toward where the small army of whores lounged on the other side of the room. “We do have those here, if you can afford them.”

  “He can afford them,” slurred Giles. “He’s the spirit-forsaken duke of—”

  Oliver reached back and clutched the man’s arm. Smiling at Drake, Oliver said, “Perhaps I’ll venture over there later. Just wetting my throat at the moment.”

  “New here, aren’t you?” asked Drake, signaling the barman. “What is it they call the young ones? Writers?”

  “Writers are the Company’s lowest tier of merchant partner,” explained Oliver. “They are usually young.”

  “Thought you might be one, or a clerk,” said Drake, his gaze falling Oliver’s ink-stained hands.

  An uneasy feeling curling around his gut, Oliver hefted the jug again.

  “Care to gamble?” asked Drake when the barman settled a full mug of ale in front of him.

  “Not tonight,” replied Oliver.

  “That’s too bad,” responded Drake. “I must admit, I’m a bit of a gambler.”

  “A good one, I can only imagine,” replied Oliver, letting his gaze rove over the man’s attire. “Giles tells me you are a mapmaker as well.”

  “The right map can be worth a fortune,” advised Drake, winking.

  “The right map,” said Oliver. “You sell a lot of those maps in Durban?”

  “I do. Even sold a few to the Company, I’ve been told,” claimed Drake. “I have an agent who handles the placements of the special maps, of course. I can give you his name, if you’d like to save yourself some time. You are the Company’s cartographer, are you not?”

  “You don’t think I’m a writer any longer?” asked Oliver. Drake smoothed his little mustache and Oliver was hit with a sudden realization. There was a new writer in Durban, Quimby.
Was Drake merely feeling him out, trying to decide who he was? He asked him, “These maps of yours, what makes them so special?”

  “Local knowledge,” replied the Durban native, his ale still sitting untouched at his elbow.

  “Local knowledge like clearly marked shipping channels?” questioned Oliver.

  Drake grinned and stood up straight, a hand dropping to the dagger at his waist. “I suspected you were the one out on the ketch all day east of here. Taking some soundings, were you?”

  Oliver offered the man a tight smile.

  “It can be dangerous, looking into things where you don’t belong,” warned Drake. “Perhaps you’d best tell your superiors at Company House to forget whatever you showed them this evening. Tell them you made a mistake, or you might not be making the next ship out of here.”

  “You’re threatening me…” stammered Oliver, less afraid than surprised. Though, when Drake took a step closer, his hand gripped tightly on his dagger, Oliver realized perhaps he should be afraid.

  “His superior!” snapped Giles, peering around Oliver’s shoulder at Drake. “He’s a shareholder, man. He doesn’t have a superior.”

  Drake blinked at him.

  “Once knowledge is discovered, it’s impossible to keep contained,” remarked Oliver, thinking both of the ship channel and Giles’ flapping mouth.

  “Unless you’re the only one who knows what you know,” replied Drake.

  Oliver stared at Drake, his jaw clenching inadvertently. He glanced down at the man’s hands then back to his face. The other man’s hand, clenched around the hilt of his dagger, was weathered and scarred. There wasn’t a trace of ink on those fingers.

  “You’re no cartographer,” guessed Oliver. “You’re a pirate.”

  Drake winked at him and then drew his dagger.

  Oliver was ready and chopped down with his left hand. He swung his other fist, catching the corsair on the side of the head.

  Drake stumbled back, but he was a born brawler, and a single punch wasn’t going to put him down.