Tantamount

by Thomas J. Radford

  Bloody Cauldron, Nel thought.

  “You keep papers on every gambling debt?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Only the ones owed to our members. You won't be able to commission materials or labour until the debt is settled.”

  Who expected a smuggler's nest to keep detailed records? That was the thing about mercenaries though; they were meticulous about who owed them money. Nel winced when she saw the other name next to Horatio's. Brawn hadn't been kidding—the captain really did owe him money.

  “How much is the debt?” Nel grimaced.

  The clerk told her. She started swearing. Loudly.

  “Skipper?” Piper stuck his head in the door, looking round the room carefully.

  Nel took a breath. “It's fine, Piper,” she said. “Go wait outside.”

  The clerk scribbled out a note, handed it to her. “The interest on the debt will be added to your docking fees. I suggest you settle it quickly.”

  “I already paid my docking fee,” Nel objected.

  “You'll pay this before you're allowed to leave.”

  Nel took the paper reluctantly. She managed to resist the urge to crumple it until she was outside the office. She and Horatio were going to have words when she next laid eyes on him.

  “Problems?” Piper asked when she emerged. He and Violet looked up from some discussion.

  “We need to go somewhere else,” Nel said. “Some place without a damned web over the door.”

  Piper glanced up at the mercenary logo. “The captain is going to be needing a big win, yes?” he guessed. Piper had been with the captain almost as long as Nel had.

  “The captain has done enough, Piper. Find me a salvage shop. Next to a bar, one that serves beer. Cheap beer. In fact, forget the salvage shop.”

  Ebon stared at the cards on the table. It was a favourable hand. A very favourable hand in fact. The problem was that it wasn't his. The hand belonged to the man opposite him, a battered middle aged man sporting a just as battered captain's hat. The two of them were the only ones left in the game. In fact the other man, the captain, had been taking all the other players for whatever they were worth for the past few bells. A good run, the sort that made management suspicious. The captain was being watched closely, but as far as Ebon could tell he was playing it straight. The man was just lucky. It didn't make any sense. Nobody was that lucky. Not on Cauldron.

  “Out.” Ebon threw down his cards in disgust. The captain chortled gleefully, raking in his winnings. Ebon retired to the bar, ordering a drink with a wave of his hand. It was embarrassing, getting fleeced by a visitor on his home grounds.

  “Losing your touch, Ebon,” his server chuckled.

  Ebon glared up at the man, recognising him. He'd just lost a considerable amount of coin and wasn't in the mood to be ribbed about it. “You tend bar now?” he muttered. “Thought you had better things to do. Last I saw you were running jobs for the Web.”

  “The bar was empty and I couldn't miss a chance to chat with an old friend.” The bartender chuckled again. “Seems Captain Phelps took you for a ride, Ebon.”

  Ebon snorted, reaching for his drink. “You said he was a lousy player. He's taken me and everyone else here for all we own.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Guess he was due, but you were the one who wanted a ship. The Tantamount was bound for Vice before she had to stop here. She can run cold cargo and that's what you need.”

  “What I need is a way to get my money back,” Ebon growled.

  “Suppose I staked you in the next round. And suppose I confide to you some of Captain Phelps’ tells.”

  Ebon glared at the man. “Now you mention his tells?”

  The bartender leaned down, grinning. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Ebon, this ship is perfect for your run. The crew as well.”

  “You remember what'll happen at the end of this run, right? Why this ship? What'd Captain Phelps ever do to you?”

  “Ain't Phelps so much as his first officer.”

  Ebon stared, then chuckled, remembering the table talk. “Phelps’ first officer is a woman.”

  “And a hard one at that,” the bartender muttered, running a hand through short hair. “So, are we doing this or not?”

  Ebon took a long look at Captain Phelps. The man was busy ordering another drink and poring over his winnings. A fair amount of that coin had been Ebon's until recently. The skinny, frail looking old human looked out of place amongst Cauldron's motley inhabitants. Don’t see too many like him out in the Free Lanes, Ebon thought.

  “All right,” he said, “tell me everything you know about Captain Phelps.”

  “Who's got my spendings?” Gabbi asked, looking round at her party. Jack didn't answer, looking round at Cauldron's milling populace. They'd come to the markets, a place where if it could be moved, it was for sale. That included anything and everyone, so it was not a place Gabbi would have come alone. That was why Jack and the other two crew heavies were with her.

  Aldy and Orim were Free Lanes muscle, no other words for it. If it was a dangerous job or heavy lifting then they were the first in line. Like most sailors they got antsy staying in one place too long so were always volunteering, if volunteering would get the ship underway any quicker. Aldy didn't have the sense to string more than two sentences together, but he knew ships and sailing well enough. Given his ropes and a heading, he was happy. Everything a trader wanted in a sailor. Orim was a lousy hand at poker and dice which made him a favourite amongst the rest of the crew.

  She wouldn't have trusted either with cold coin which was why Jack was holding onto the ship's slush fund. She had money for the provisions—that came from the ship's running costs, which was worked out between the officers. But the slush fund was gravy, so to speak, for all those extra luxuries that kept the crew happy and in line.

  Jack had insisted on carrying it.

  “This is hardly bulk.” The bearded Domovoi grocer she'd been buying from seemed bored by the lot. “Goods are in back, you can take ’em when you pay me up front. No discount.”

  “You don't have much,” Gabbi said. “For once in my life I've money to spend and naught to spend it on.”

  The shelves in this store and many others were thin. Not bare, but the bulk produce was mostly gone. The stuff that remained wasn't as good as Gabbi would have liked, the perishables looking older and wilted more than what she herself would have put on display.

  “Just what you've seen.”

  “And no liquor?”

  “Not to be had here.”

  And that wasn't going to sit well with the crew. Wasn't even going to be able to keep that from them neither, not once Aldy and Orim got back and started running their mouths. Only thing worse than sailors with liquor was sailors without it. Worse than crying babes they became.

  “Jack, what's this then?” Aldy was asking her assistant. They were over at the meat racks. Jack didn't do greens; it was a wonder he had any teeth left at all. Meat was all her assistant desired out of the galley.

  “Furred trout,” Jack responded after careful consideration.

  “Looks like what we had for mess the other week,” Aldy complained. “Where'd you go getting furred trout?”

  “Didn't.”

  “So what was we eating the other week then?”

  “Loompa.”

  “Loompa? Couldn't have been, saw Bandit when we left the ship, with Piper like always. Ain't no other loompas on the Tantamount, Jack.”

  “Looked like a loompa,” Jack grunted, tugging at his topknot. “Only smaller.”

  “Smaller?” Aldy sounded disturbed.

  “Yeah, smaller. Not as big.”

  “Jack,” Gabbi called. “Found anything we need?”

  Jack waved over at her. “They got furred trout, Gabbi.”

  “We don't need no trout, Jack. Furred nor otherwise.”

  “That's what they got.”

  “In some places that would be a delicacy,” the grocer said.

  “Ain't no
delicacies on Cauldron,” Jack told him.

  “We'll take the dry goods,” Gabbi said. “Meat and perishables can be shipped to the docks, right? Cold storage?”

  “Aye,” the grocer shrugged, “we can manage that well enough. Gonna be trail mix, though.”

  “Don't like trail mix,” Jack grumbled.

  “Can't do anything else,” he was told. “We've been cleaned out as you can plainly see.”

  “Cleaned out?” Gabbi narrowed her eyes. “Why's everyone so short?”

  The grocer leaned over his counter, smirking down at her. Gabbi resolved that if he made a joke about her height she'd brain the lout.

  “Alliance group came through a few weeks ago, bought everything they could buy up, then took off again.”

  “Alliance? Here?” Gabbi thought to the blasted ship they'd been holed by. But that had been a single ship, not a group. They were well clear of the High Lanes, but Alliance ships wouldn't have left one of their own in such a state. “What's that lot doing out this way?”

  “War, or like as such,” the grocer shrugged. “Not here, not even Alliance. Thatch is brewing, they say, bit of a hotspot. And there's always Vice. Someone in the Alliance wants to play hero, I figure, sail around putting out fires.”

  “Ain't nothing wrong with Vice,” Gabbi asserted. “We was on a run to there, we would have heard if there was.”

  “Must be Thatch then.” The grocer shrugged again.

  Gabbi snorted. “Figures, bloody Alliance, always putting their end in.”

  “Aye,” the grocer agreed. “Here, I'll show you how they paid for their goods, seeing as you'll be seeing them yourself shortly. Follow me.”

  Curious, Gabbi followed the man, getting Jack to come with them as well. It was safer and he would have like as done it anyway. The grocer led them back into the meat locker, where hoarfrost covered the walls and cuts of meat hung on hooks along the room. It wasn't empty. There were two men there, but they weren't working. They just stood at one end against the wall, not so different from the other meat.

  “Best workers I've ever had,” the grocer proclaimed. “Don't eat, don't slack, don't complain, just do as they told until you tell ’em not too. Good lads, really.”

  Gabbi couldn't suppress a shudder at the grocer's “good lads.” They were Draugr, grey skinned and unmoving, with that empty, dead look they all had.

  “That's how they paid you?” she asked quietly.

  “Aye,” the man chuckled. “Didn't have no trading coins, just that Alliance chit. Can you believe it? I was a bit sceptical myself, but they wouldn't give me no choice. Thought I was getting shafted by the uniformed prats but these boys,” he nodded towards the Draugr, “worth their weight, they are. Work day in and day out, don't have to feed ’em, don't have to do nothing but tell ’em what to do.”

  “That's it?” Gabbi shivered. “They just do what they're told?”

  “Yeah, simple stuff. Can't do the books, though I wish they could, least they'd be honest about it. Loading and carrying and fetching stuff, can't beat them. Couple of times someone tried to make off with one or the other, put ’em to work in their own business. But the Kelpie who handed them over fixed it so they just end up back here. Brilliant, ain't it?”

  “Guess so,” Gabbi agreed. She had to look away from the Draugr. She'd seen them before, but never so close. They were like anybody else, anybody who'd been dead a couple of days. Draugr were . . . hells nobody was quite sure what they were. She hadn't had a good answer when Violet asked her and she didn't have one now. Some said they were golems, flesh and blood or clay made to look like people, though supposedly their skin felt like carved hardwood to the touch. Gabbi couldn't bring herself to find out, even given the chance. Some people said they were what happened to Alliance sailors after they died, that they signed a contract to come back and keep serving. Witched up to keep on going, come hells or void water. Gabbi couldn't imagine anyone ever agreeing to something like that. Maybe that was why people like the skipper left the Alliance.

  “These two'll bring your cold goods over,” the grocer grinned. “Don't worry. Like I said, they're reliable.”

  Looking at the pair, Gabbi could only shudder.

  “Let's go,” Jack rumbled, putting one hand on her shoulder and steering her out. His hand felt warm in the chilled room and she clasped it, scars and all. Jack let her.

  “Keep them coming,” Nel said, staring at the counter top. She didn't look up as a pint of foaming beer was pushed under her nose, just dropped a handful of coins off to the side.

  “Where's mine?” Violet complained. The girl leaned with her back against the bar, eyeing the other patrons unhappily. She held her tail in one hand, keeping it clear of the floorboards. Despite that the appendage was covered in dust and cobwebs.

  “You get yours when you can pay for it yourself,” Nel said.

  “When do I get paid then?” Violet asked indignantly.

  “When you start pulling your weight.”

  That sent Violet into another sulk.

  “Hate Cauldron,” Nel muttered. “Hate it. Sooner we're out of here the better. Bloody Cauldron.”

  “Hey.”

  Someone pushed their way to the bar, shoving Violet out of the way, drawing an indignant squawk out of her. Nel did her best to ignore the newcomer. Vodyanoy, she noted out of the corner of her eye. This one was like a walrus crossed with a skin. The flat, whiskered face and bulging eyes were out of place on Cauldron. Normally they stuck to wet planets. Smoke filled holes like Cauldron dried them out.

  “You're Horatio Phelps’ first mate. Nel Vaughn, if I'm not mistaken,” the Vodyanoy said, showing an impressive grasp of the trader's tongue. Not easy with that mouth.

  Nel took a deep drink. She hadn't heard anything that warranted her attention yet.

  “I'm Ebon Masaius.” He held out a hand. Nel ignored it.

  “Do I know you?” she conceded the words grudgingly.

  Ebon withdrew the unshaken hand, whiskers twitching with annoyance. “No, but I know your captain.”

  Nel shrugged. “Good for you.”

  “Former master of the Tantamount.”

  Nel's hand automatically went to her side, but she stopped herself, fingers just curling under the guard of her weapon.

  “Why former?” she asked, pushing her beer away. Eyes narrowing she took a closer look at the Vodyanoy; there was no sign of a spider's web tattoo or sigil. Nor had the Tantamount's debt been anywhere near enough to have it seized, even with the interest.

  What was this Ebon on about then? Did Horatio have other debts she didn't know about? Stupid question, of course he did. Most of the time Nel was happier not knowing.

  Ebon smiled, a broad smile that nearly split his face in half. Nel figured this wasn't going to be one of those times. “Because he lost it to me.”

  Nel turned away from the Vodyanoy. “You're full of it.”

  “Recognise this?” Ebon held up something. Nel glanced at the deed of property. It was familiar all right, official looking with the Tantamount's name embossed large in the header. A deed of title that appeared for all the world to be genuine. Nel knew for a fact that Horatio always carried those papers on his person.

  Violet gasped. “Hells, Skipper.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Nel warned her. To the man with the deed, “How'd you get that?”

  “Won it, fair and legal.” Ebon turned the deed over in his hands, admiring it.

  “I doubt that,” Nel retorted. “Horatio's never played fair in his life. He wouldn't put up the ship if he thought he could lose.”

  That grin again. “He didn't have much of a choice.”

  “You threatened my captain then?” Nel asked quietly.

  “He was on a good run,” Ebon told her, redirecting the question. “A very good run. And then it went bad and he was in deep. The ship was his last card.”

  “Am I supposed to care about any of this?” Nel went back to her beer. Next time she told Piper to
find a bar that sold cheap beer she'd have to leave out the cheap part. That could have gone without saying on Cauldron. The stuff she was downing was more head than the swill it claimed to be, which was saying something.

  And Ebon wasn't even letting her enjoy that much. “You're supposed to tell me where the Tantamount is berthed. Phelps ran out on us last time before we could collect.”

  “Sounds like your problem is with my captain.” Nel shrugged. “Go bother him. You're not even the first person who's been asking about him.”

  “You're here. He's not.”

  “I'm drinking, you're distracting me. Get lost.”

  Ebon leaned back. “Not the best attitude for someone in your position.”

  “I said I'm drinking,” Nel growled. “Go away.”

  “Nothing in this charter that says I have to let the current crew stay. You should be nicer.”

  “The hells I should.”

  “Fine.” Ebon folded up the deed and put it away carefully. “I'll find Phelps without you then. And then I'll find your ship.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  Ebon smiled, scaly lips pressed into a thin line, but left without another word.

  Nel waited a minute, counting silently. She finished her drink as well. She could feel the watered down liquid sloshing in the pit of her stomach, churned up into its own little swell. No smooth sailing tonight.

  “Violet,” she said, just loud enough to be heard in the bar.

  “What're we gonna do, Skipper?” Violet asked anxiously. The girl had heard every word of the exchange with Ebon and except for that one outburst had kept her quiet. She was learning. If they were lucky, all of the Tantamount's new majority shareholder's attention had been focused on Nel.

  “In a minute we're going to walk out of here. Once we're out I'm going to go find Piper,” Nel explained.

  She'd sent Piper off to the salvage yards by himself. Himself and Bandit. Piper had seemed happy enough with the arrangement and Nel hadn't been in the mood to do any more negotiating. As long as Piper kept names, both the ship and captain's, out of the equation he should have been fine.