Blood Captain

by Justin Somper

  “Great stuff,” she said, tapping the grid she had laid out in front of her. “I’m just allocating the final pairings now,” she said, pen in hand. “And I’ve decided to pair you up with Moonshine Wrathe.”

  Connor immediately groaned.

  “I know it isn’t what you’d choose, but you must have seen this coming. You’ve been partnered with him all these weeks. In his way, he’s comfortable with you. And you, better than any of us, know his strengths and his weaknesses. You can protect him if push comes to shove.”

  “Protect him?” Connor said. “I thought this was a raid for profit. Isn’t that the goal we should all be working toward? Not protecting the weaklings!”

  Cate shook her head. “Connor, I’m going to level with you. You’re a highly valued colleague — and a good friend. Yes, of course, the overall aim of our operation is to get in and out of the fort as cleanly as possible, and return with as much of the Emperor’s treasure as we can. But make no mistake about this, your role is to ensure that, if we move into a combat scenario, nothing happens to Moonshine.”

  Connor shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “Because I’d have had you on my case day in, day out, imploring me to rethink,” Cate said. “But surely you must have guessed. Why else would I pair one of my strongest swordsmen with my weakest?”

  Connor frowned. “So all that guff about Barbarro expressly asking for me . . .”

  “Not guff — charming expression, by the way. Not guff at all. He did say that. I don’t think he’s under any illusions about his son’s martial abilities. I can’t quite say the same for Trofie. Who knows what goes on in her head?”

  “Let me get this straight,” Connor said. “You’re telling me that my prime role in this attack is to look after Moonshine?”

  Cate shook her head. “Not your prime role, Connor. Your only role. You can let the others take care of the main business. Just bring Moonshine Wrathe back to this ship alive and in one piece. Or it will play very badly for all of us.” With that, she picked up her sandwich and took another bite.

  “Now,” she said, chomping down a mouthful of gorgonzola and seaweed, “if you don’t have any further questions, I’d better get on with finalizing this strategy document. I have to have it ratified by both captains tonight.”

  Connor shook his head. As he walked out of her cabin, her words kept swimming around his head. Just bring Moonshine Wrathe back to this ship alive and in one piece. He couldn’t believe the injustice of this mission.

  As he began descending the stairs to the mess room, who should he bump into but Moonshine himself? He looked even paler than usual — a ghostly white tinged with just a hint of pale lime.

  “Are you all right?” Connor asked. As he spoke, the ship lurched dramatically to one side. Moonshine slipped on the stairs, his arms flailing.

  Connor reached out and grabbed him firmly by the arm. “It’s okay,” Connor said. “I’ve got you.”

  Moonshine looked at Connor strangely then opened his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth again. Then, he opened it once more and threw up all over Connor.

  Connor stood there, frozen in disbelief, as the semi-masticated remains of Moonshine’s dinner — curry, if he wasn’t mistaken — slowly dripped down his head and chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Moonshine mumbled, and for once, he did seem to mean it. Then he lurched forward again and a fresh spray of vomit hit Connor square across the face.

  33

  THE BERRY PICKERS

  The door to Olivier’s rooms was ajar. As Grace stepped inside, he looked up and smiled. “I got your message,” she said. “What’s this urgent business? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, Grace,” he said. “I just had this idea. I have to go on an errand and I thought you might like to come.”

  Grace shook her head and sighed lightly. “An errand? That was the urgent business you interrupted my precious sleep for?”

  Apparently oblivious to the note of sarcasm in her voice, Olivier pointed to the pile of panniers on the counter. “We’re going berry picking! Now grab a basket in each hand and follow me! Oh, you might want to take one of those jackets too. It can get very cold out there.”

  After ferreting around in one of the storerooms on the edge of the external courtyard, Olivier emerged with a small pushcart. “You can put the baskets on this,” he said. “They’re light enough now, but once we’re done, you’ll be very glad of it!”

  “Exactly how many berries are we planning on picking?” Grace asked.

  “Quite a lot!” Olivier said, as they waited for the heavy gates of Sanctuary to be opened for them.

  “Do you go out every day?” Grace asked.

  He nodded. “I have to. The vampires get through a lot of our berry tea. But you know what? It’s no hardship. I’m still mortal, after all. Just as you are. As much as we might accustom ourselves to the darkness, we still have need of occasional forays into the light.”

  Grace noticed that the early afternoon sun was high and the mountainside was bright and pretty warm, though there were still clumps of snow on the grass. It was lovely to be out in the air and to see the countryside surrounding Sanctuary in the light of day. The mountain looked so different from how she remembered it from the arduous climb that had brought her here. She tried to work out the route they had taken.

  “Come on, slowcoach!” Olivier chided her. “If you’re running out of puff already, you won’t be much use to me at all.”

  Grace shook her head and ran over to catch him up. “I’m not out of puff,” she said. “I was just trying to work out the route we took to get up here from the shore.”

  Olivier laughed. “I really wouldn’t give that too much thought.”

  “Why not?” she said, not liking the edge in her voice.

  “It’s a very changable mountain,” he said. “It never looks quite the same from one day to the next.”

  “How can that be?” Grace said.

  “It just is,” Olivier said. “Everyone finds their own way up here. For some, the journey is intensely grueling. For others, it’s a simple hike.”

  Grace pondered these words as they continued along the snaking path, Olivier trundling the pushcart loaded with their panniers. They were approaching an area closed in by dense bushes. When they reached it, Olivier brought the cart to a standstill. “This is our first stop,” he said.

  Grace could see that the dark, green black bushes were heavy with fruit.

  “Now,” said Olivier. “There are seven panniers. One for each kind of berry. It’s very important that we don’t mix them up.”

  Grace nodded. “I understand,” she said. “But how do I make sure?”

  Olivier lifted the lid of the first pannier. Attached to the inside of the basket was a detailed picture of one of the berry plants. It looked like something you’d see in a naturalist’s book. It was a beautifully detailed and precise pen and ink illustration.

  “Did you do this?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I thought it might make it easier for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “You’re very talented. I had no idea.”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes Sanctuary is a lonely place for us in-betweens. When I can’t sleep or when time just weighs heavily on me, I like to draw.”

  He began opening up the other panniers. She could see that he’d attached an equally detailed drawing to each of them.

  Olivier sighed but smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Stop admiring my doodles and let’s get these berries picked. Otherwise we’ll be here until sundown.”

  In any event, they were on the mountainside until sundown. Not because of Grace’s slowness but because they were having such an agreeable time. Grace didn’t find Olivier the easiest of people to talk to, which puzzled her when — as in-betweens — they seemed to have so much in common. But as the sun warmed their backs, he gently thawed and they chatted away agreeably abo
ut Sanctuary, about Mosh Zu and The Nocturne, and about drawing, all the time moving from one bush to the next, trundling the cart along and filling the panniers.

  “Let’s just fill this last basket and then we’ll head back,” Olivier said at last.

  “All right,” Grace said, nodding. She was tired and a little hungry but nevertheless it had been lovely to spend the afternoon out on the mountain, and she was sad in a way to have to head back.

  “Don’t look so down in the mouth,” he said. “You’ve been a real help to me. You can come and help with the berry-picking whenever you like.”

  It was a cheering thought and, smiling, she set about the final batch of picking. As she did so, Olivier brushed past her. “There’s someone on the mountain,” he said, his voice suddenly businesslike once more.

  “Where?” She stood up but couldn’t see anyone.

  “He was over there,” Olivier said, pointing, “but he’s hidden behind that cluster of trees now. I’ll go and have a word with him. We’re not expecting anyone new tonight.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Grace said, setting down the basket.

  “No, no, you finish up here. It won’t take a moment.” He began walking away.

  “I thought you said you let people find their own way up the mountain?” she called after him. “I don’t understand!”

  “You don’t need to understand,” Olivier said, a little sharply. “Just finish packing the basket!” He strode off across the path.

  The view down the mountain always intrigues him. Each time he comes here, it summons so many memories. Memories that take him back, all the way back, to the beginning of his story. But the mountains of his beginnings were not cloaked in grass and heather or dusted with snow. The Taurus Mountains were parched by the sun — so high, with a climate so extreme, that nothing good could survive there.

  Cilicia Tracheia — “Craggy Cilicia” — they called it. He remembers taking his first, wobbly steps to the very edge of his father’s lands — his steely ambition constrained only by the limited capability of his two-year-old limbs. Even then, he was more ambitious than anyone had a right to be. Some things never change. Still, he managed to get there — half-walking, half-crawling to the cliff edge — hands caked in the red dust of the dead earth. Even now, he remembers that first glance down the cliff, to the turquoise ocean far below. He was drawn to the water instinctively, like a jackdaw glimpsing a glittering jewel. He remembers reaching out with pudgy arms, almost falling but caught — just in the nick of time — by his father’s strong, encircling hands.

  One memory triggers the next. No longer a boy now, but six feet tall and then some, in the first flush of early manhood. Standing firmly, determinedly, on the same rocky edge. Now he knows something of the cruelty of the world. Knows that if he stays, the harshness of this land will wring every last drop of life from him and drive him to join his mother and father in their dry, hot graves. Now, as he looks down to the shimmering sea below, it seems to him like a much-needed drink of water. He is parched from this desiccated land. He has a desperate thirst . . .

  “Hello! Hello!”

  He turns. Someone is scurrying down the slope toward him, waving. He recognizes the figure and grins to himself. The first time he saw him, he mistook him for a young woman on account of his robes. Now, he knows the man’s face. And his name.

  “Good evening,” Olivier says, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you again!”

  Sidorio shakes the hand but says nothing in return.

  “How are you this night? Have you thought any more about my proposal?”

  “Remind me,” Sidorio says. They have played this game before.

  Olivier smiles and glances up at the peak. “Why, for you to come to Sanctuary, of course. We could do so much for you there.”

  “So you say.” Sidorio shakes his head. “So you keep saying.”

  Olivier pauses. “I want to help you,” he says. “And I think you want to be helped.” He pauses, more daring than usual. “Else why would you climb this mountain each night?”

  Sidorio grins, his twin gold teeth exposed in the moonlight for a moment. “Maybe I just like the view from here.”

  “The view’s even better up there.” Olivier points. “It gets better the higher you climb.”

  Sidorio shrugs. “This view’s good enough.”

  “Come on,” Olivier urges. “What have you got to lose?”

  “Nothing to lose, nothing to win,” Sidorio says.

  “I hear you, friend. But why not follow me? You’re halfway up the mountain already.”

  Sidorio smiles, but his eyes are dead. “Am I halfway up, or halfway down?”

  Olivier returns the smile. Are they destined to play this game every night? He glances over his shoulder. Then Sidorio sees that tonight he is not alone. A little farther up the mountain, the man’s companion is busy packing up baskets. Sidorio sees it is a girl. Not just any girl. That girl! How is it that they seem to cross paths wherever he goes?

  “Grace!” Olivier calls over his shoulder. Grace! That was her name. The girl who has no fear of him. The one who only asks him questions. Sidorio turns away. It will be better if she doesn’t see him.

  “Take the cart and start walking back!” Olivier calls to her. “I’ll follow you shortly.”

  “All right!” she answers. There is no question now. It is her voice.

  After she has gone, Sidorio asks. “Who is that girl?”

  “Her?” Olivier says. “Her name is Grace. Why do you ask?”

  “What is she doing here?”

  “She’s like me,” Olivier says. “An assistant to Mosh Zu Kamal, the great Vampirate guru.”

  “Really?” Sidorio’s eyes widen. “She’s young for such a job.”

  “Yes,” Olivier says, unable to remove a certain bitterness from his voice. “Yes, she’s young. But she has a talent for healing.” He pauses. “So my master says.”

  “You disagree?” Sidorio looks deep into Olivier’s eyes.

  Olivier gazes back, suddenly needing to articulate his feelings and sensing this is someone he can trust. “Have you ever felt like you were being replaced?” he asks.

  Sidorio nods. “Go on,” he says. “Tell me.”

  And Olivier tells him. It feels good to let these words out — like lancing a boil. There is no one he can confide in at Sanctuary, no one to tell dark thoughts like these. But here, on the mountainside, he is free to speak his mind. The stranger — for, in truth, this man is no more than a stranger to him — is a good listener. He might even be a healer of some kind. He seems able to draw out the darkness from deep within you. When Olivier finishes, the stranger nods and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “If I were you,” says Sidorio. “I’d do something about this.”

  “You would?” Olivier says. A flicker of something — instinct? — tells him that this is wrong. But once more, he looks into the stranger’s eyes and that fragile instinct disappears. Replaced by a deep hunger for the stranger’s advice.

  “You must do something about this,” Sidorio says. “Before it gets out of control.”

  He’s right. Olivier nods. Of course, he’s absolutely right. “What do you suggest?” Once more, he eagerly searches the man’s face.

  Sidorio appears to ponder the matter. “Give me time to think,” he says. “Meet me here tomorrow night. We’ll talk some more.”

  Olivier is bereft. Must he wait until tomorrow?

  Sidorio begins walking off into the darkness.

  “Wait!” Olivier calls. “What’s your name? I don’t know your name.”

  Sidorio turns, gazing back at him. “Until tomorrow, my friend.”

  Olivier is left hungry by these words, both spoken and unspoken. “Just one more thing before you go . . .” he calls.

  Sidorio stops in his tracks once more, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

  “It’s just that I hope you’ll consider my proposition,” Olivier says. “That o
ne night you will come to Sanctuary.”

  “Oh yes,” Sidorio says, reassuringly. “One night, I shall. And that night is drawing ever closer.”

  Olivier smiles at this. At last, a breakthrough! After all their meetings on the mountainside. He feels better than he has in a long time, as he strides back up the path to catch up with Grace.

  Olivier has withdrawn into himself again, thought Grace, as they made their way back to Sanctuary. He had grown affable out on the mountainside, as if mellowed by the sunshine. But now, as they approached the gates, he was closing down again. No, she thought. No, it had started when he’d seen the stranger.

  “Who was he?” she asked.

  “Just a traveler,” Olivier said.

  “A vampire?” Grace asked. “Someone seeking help? Why didn’t you bring him along with us?”

  “You ask too many questions,” said Olivier, frowning.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I say. I’ve tried to be patient about this, I really have. But you know what? If you’re so gifted that you’re going to be Mosh Zu’s first assistant, then you’re going to have to work some of this out for yourself!”

  “His first assistant?” Grace was dumbfounded. “What do you mean? You’re his first assistant.”

  “For now,” Olivier said. “But that will change soon. You must be blind if you can’t see it. Mosh Zu is training you to take over from me. Or rather, he’s having me train you. And once I’ve done my job, I’ll go back to being a regular assistant and you’ll take my place.”

  “No,” Grace said. “No, that’s not fair. It’s not what I want.”

  Olivier gave a hollow laugh. “It hardly matters whether it’s fair or what you or I think about it,” he said. “It boils down to this. You have been chosen.”

  They had reached the gates. Olivier gave the signal for them to be opened. Grace walked on ahead, dumbstruck by what he’d told her.

  34

  NO HEROES

  On the morning of the raid, the fifty-strong attack crew gathered on the deck of The Diablo. Connor looked from side to side. They were all dressed alike, in fake uniforms — boiler suits and baseball caps bearing the ORC logo. The suits cleverly concealed the weaponry beneath. With one easy tear, each pirate would have access to his standard armory of cutlass, rapier, épée, or dagger. No trouble or expense seemed to have been spared in this operation. But then, as Cate had said, “You have to speculate to accumulate. If all goes to plan, we’re going to be very rich after this mission. Very rich indeed!” However, it hadn’t yet been explained how the riches would be divided among the captains, their deputies, and the crews.