by Ree Soesbee
Yet as idyllic as Port Stalwart was, neither the buildings nor the jewel-like waters held Cobiah Marriner’s attention. At the end of the busy wharf, past galleons and trade sloops, far from the bustle of the guide dinghies, his eye was fixed on a ship still docked in the shipyard. The shipwrights of Port Stalwart worked on the beach at the far end of the harbor, where the water rippled low against pale sand. When the Pride had left Port Stalwart several months ago, their newest construction entailed little more than a few long curve-ended keel ribs rising against an exterior frame in the center of the beach. Now she was a thing of beauty.
A great black-hulled clipper ship rested in the far cove of Port Stalwart’s bay, sheltered by the protective shipyard docks. Three great masts rose above her, with crossbars six high on the main. The black ship was square-sailed, with massive triangular jibs reaching out to the end of her long bowsprit, and small rectangular canvases hung on the top yardarms. If there was even a faint breath of wind, this ship would catch it and use it for her own. Her stem was sharply raked, and her narrow body would surely cut through the waves like a knife through warm butter. The black ship’s figurehead took the unique form of a sea goat, horns curling and legs striking out as it coiled a long fish tail beneath the bowsprit. In golden letters on the ship’s stern shone her name: Capricorn.
“She’s too long in the belly.” Sykox had come up behind Cobiah while he stared at the clipper. Sighing, the charr leaned on the gunwale of the Pride and looked across the bay at the newly crafted vessel. “I like them with a wider berth, myself.”
“Her narrowness makes her fast. Twice as fast as a caravel, they say. Faster than our pinnace—even with her engine running full bore.” Cobiah pounded a fist on the rail of the deck. “I have to have that ship.”
Long accustomed to this argument, Sykox put his chin in his hands and stared morosely out at the ship. “There’s nothing wrong with the Pride. She’s solid. Every inch of her . . . except maybe that rotting boom on the foresail, but we were going to replace that in port. Oh, and the torn topsails, but they’ll get by on a few more patches. Maybe the rudder, too, after that last crack in her wood . . .”
“They say the Capricorn’s magical,” Cobiah went on, ignoring Sykox’s complaints. “They say her shipwright freed an Istani djinn from captivity, and in return, it cast powerful enchantments on the ship.”
Before Sykox could pooh-pooh Cobiah’s excitement, Macha interrupted. “I’ve heard that as well.” She strutted past them, treading lightly on the rail, lifting her feet delicately to step over their hands. Cobiah dodged her, unwilling to lose even a few seconds of gazing at the Capricorn, but Sykox sighed and allowed the asura to take her time as she meandered past. Smugly, Macha continued. “A Maelstrom djinn, in fact, one of the most powerful kinds. They say she’ll make three times any other ship’s speed, with or without the wind. She’ll be keener, hardier, and sweeter-sailing than anything crafted by mortal hands. No ship will ever defeat her in battle. None will outsail her. They say the Capricorn’s a spirit of the waves.”
“Yeah, yeah, even better than an enchanted Orrian xebec, and for the record, those are fairy tales, too.” Sykox yawned. “Why do I always get outvoted on these ideas?”
“Maybe because I always agree with him.” Macha grinned at Cobiah.
Cobiah took his eyes from the Capricorn. “Don’t say that word.”
“What, ‘Orrian’?” Sykox raised a lazy eyebrow. “Cobiah, how many times have I told you? You’re too bound to superstition. We’re at harbor! There’s no ghost, specter, or phantom ship can hear us at port, right? They’re out there.” He waved a tawny paw toward the south. “Even if there are Dead Ships, they don’t venture beyond Malchor’s Fingers. We’re safe here at Stalwart.”
Still uneasy, Cobiah turned back toward the Capricorn. The sight of the black clipper eased him, and he gazed upon her hungrily, taking in the magnificence of the ship’s tall masts and perfect sail. Even the sea goat decorating her bow was a work of art. “The captain of that ship will go down in legend,” he murmured. “It’s done, then. We’ll have her for our own.” Cobiah grinned, clapping Sykox on the back. “We’re going to board her, we’re going to steal her, and we’re going to keep her. I’ve already got a plan. She’s set to sail in three days, on the morning tide. I just think a ship that lovely should be set free a little earlier. Don’t you?”
“Do you even have a plan?” Sykox groaned.
“Do I ever have a plan?” Cobiah laughed. “The plan will come with the doing. Just like it always does.”
“He’s obsessed.” Macha’s high-pitched chortle warbled like some kind of seabird. “You know we can’t talk Cobiah out of anything once he’s fallen in love with the idea.”
“And we’ll help him, of course. Rot you both to Hell’s Precipice.” Sykox put his forehead to the deck rail and pressed giant paws to either side of his furred forehead. “It’s not possible. The security alone’s going to be massive, plus spells, getting the ship out of harbor, and doing it all without anyone on the docks raising a fuss. Impossible! I should never have pulled you out of the sea, you stubborn, codswalloped, storm-tossed . . . human!”
Cobiah knew better than anyone that beneath those rusty paws, Sykox was already turning his mind to the task. There was nothing his friend loved more than a puzzle.
The thin streets of Port Stalwart twisted in serpentine coils beneath the pale night sky. Moonlight shone brilliantly over the lagoon, the straight line of its gaze far wider and clearer than any roadway in the village. Macha was all but invisible in the darkness, her tiny figure hiding easily against every wall and behind every rain barrel. Cobiah had to struggle more, darting from shadow to shadow and freezing whenever the city guard passed too close to the back alleys.
Sykox, however, had a different problem. Though he could be as silent as a cat, his bulk was a hindrance. Unless there was a building between the burly charr and the light of the street torches, it would be fairly obvious he was wandering through the town. Especially if he was trying to look inconspicuous. Therefore, he didn’t bother to try.
“Oh, broadside, hey, broadsi-i-i-de,” the tawny-furred engineer yowled at the top of his lungs. Alone on the main street of the port, Sykox wandered aimlessly, as if he were a drunken sailor on shore leave. He rolled, he staggered, he sung, and he swung a bottle of Black Citadel whiskey in wild curves, lifting it to punctuate particularly ribald lines. “I heard the first mate cry!”
The charr’s yowling quickly drew the attention of the watchmen, but they were used to such displays. So long as Sykox wasn’t causing any trouble or breaking into any of the shops, he could wander to his heart’s content. And while the guards kept an eye on Sykox, Cobiah and Macha crept past them, into the shipyard.
“You’re certain it wouldn’t have been better for me to make him look like something that wouldn’t attract attention?” Macha grumped. “A beached whale, maybe?”
“Save your magic, my friend. We’ll be needing it soon enough.” Cobiah winked at the mesmer as they crept toward the mooring lines. Cobiah’s heart pounded in his chest as they grew ever closer to the clipper ship docked close against the shore. At last, he paused, ankle-deep in soft, wet sand. “There she is.”
The Capricorn’s tall, slender masts rose over the water, her sleek hull riding so close to the waves that a man could almost reach up and pull himself inside. She was even more beautiful than she’d seemed from the harbor. Cobiah ran his hand along her boards, feeling the smooth, even grain. His hand shook, a tingle creeping up his fingers. The hair on the back of his arm stood up straight, but whether from excitement or some legendary magic, he wasn’t sure.
“Magnificent. Can we sail her alone?” For once, Macha’s voice was soft.
“Three of us? No, but we won’t have to. We can rig and set her lower sails to catch the breeze and then drift with the last of the outgoing tide. The Pride is stationed at the mouth of the lagoon, ready to cast lines and tow the clipper out to s
ea. Once the Capricorn is free,” Cobiah murmured eagerly, “she’s ours.”
“Yup,” Macha teased. “And as soon as ol’ Baede shows up and hands over his pointy crown, I’ll be queen of Kryta.”
Cobiah ignored the jibe. He waded into the water, reaching out to grip one of the mooring lines that held the Capricorn still. With a few quick saws of his broad-bladed knife, Cobiah cut through the hemp. Macha shimmied up one of the others, slipping aboard the Capricorn with an easy vault. “She’s perfect.” Cobiah ran his hand over her smooth black hull. “Not a mark, not a splinter out of place.” It was now or never, and Cobiah had always hated the word never.
Sykox’s singing echoed with gusto across the harbor. “Oh, broadside, broadsi-i-i-ide! Haul ’em high and let ’em dry!”
“I think that gear-brained charr pretends a little too well.” The asura wrinkled her nose.
“Uh . . . at this point, I’m not entirely sure he’s pretending.” Cobiah frowned. “Sykox’d better hurry and lose whoever’s following him, or we’ll miss the tide.”
“Don’t worry. Any minute now, Watch Commander Pierandra will rally a pile of guards and toss him tail-first into the puddle! She’s tough as an ettin, that one. Never gives anyone a second chance. If she gets hold of us, we’re as good as dead.”
“Shhh. Don’t tempt fate.” Cobiah made the sign of Dwayna in the air.
“Fate can’t be tempted. It’s part of the Eternal Alchemy, just like everything else. Days pass, the cogs turn, the future comes.” Macha chuckled at his superstition. “Don’t worry. Everything’s in place. Sykox will sneak back, and we’ll cut the last of the stays and use the mooring poles to push off from the sand. After that, the breeze and the tide will sweep us out to meet the Pride. I’ll even use an illusion to darken the Capricorn. She’ll be nearly invisible against the water at night. Once Sykox gets here, that is.”
“Catch ’em at sea, set them alight, burn ’em all the day and night, we’ll give ’em a broadsi-i-i-i-de . . .”
“If Sykox gets here, that is.”
“He’ll be here.” Macha pushed a sandbag over the side, letting it sink into the water with a soft flumph of the waves.
“That fur-brain didn’t like this idea,” Cobiah fretted. “Maybe he’s changed his mind.”
“He hasn’t. Sykox’d never abandon you,” Macha said. When Cobiah raised an eyebrow inquisitively, the asura pinned him with a glare, the way one might fix a bug to a piece of corkboard. “Sykox considers you part of his warband.”
A warm feeling swelled in Cobiah’s chest at the asura’s words. Part of a warband? That was like being a member of a charr’s family. With a wide grin, he slashed all but the last few tethers and pulled himself aboard the dark shadow of the ship. Cobiah wrung the water from his clothing onto the smooth boards of the deck, shivering in the chilly night. Wriggling up the central mast, Cobiah began to untie the sail lacings. The bowlines spun out in his hand, dropping stealthily to the ground as the canvas began to unfurl. It wouldn’t take much to start the ship moving once the sails could catch the soft night breeze. Already, he could feel the Capricorn tugging gently against her last moorings. Amid the sound of the ship moving . . .
“Did you hear that?” His hands froze on the mast lines. “That sounded like music.”
Macha pushed another sandbag over the side. “Sykox bellows like a foghorn. I’d hardly call it music.”
“No, not that. Listen.” Wind rippled the Capricorn’s sails. In the quiet, Cobiah could hear water lapping against the hull, echoing as it rolled onto the sandy shore. Laughter trickled across the water from Port Stalwart’s bars and inns, lights drifting over the water as late-night patrons and sailors moved about on the dock. The sound of violins and drums pulsed in some distant tavern, and farther along the city streets, Cobiah could hear faint shouts, as if from some mild argument or fight.
None of that had caught his attention. There was something beneath the noise of Port Stalwart and the sea. He could hear a soft chiming, like a string of silver bells twisting about a slender ankle. “There it is again. Did you hear it?”
“You don’t have to repeat yourself, Coby. Asura have far better hearing than humans, you know.” Macha’s oversized ears rose slightly. “You’re right. I do hear something. But who would be playing an asuran xaphoon in Kryta?”
“A what?”
Before she could answer, something splashed against the side of the ship. Cobiah spun, fingers leaping to the hilt of his sword. To his relief, the hand that clambered over the gunwale was covered in orangey fur, the claws neatly trimmed and shortened. In a moment, Sykox’s bushy head poked up between the railings. “Help,” he whimpered, water dripping in rivulets down his shoulders. “Had to . . . swim . . . from the docks.” Sykox shuddered. “I almost drowned.”
Macha and Cobiah grabbed the big charr’s arms and pulled him aboard.
“Did the watch see you?” Macha whispered. “Do they know we’re here?”
“Nope. The watch commander and her guard were up on Docker’s Row, handling some kind of disturbance there. It looked like someone set fire to a row of black-powder bangers inside a rain barrel. The whole pub was in an uproar.” Sykox pulled himself into a crouch on the deck. Instinctively and without warning, the charr shuddered, twisting from side to side in animalistic joy before Cobiah and Macha could react. Water flew everywhere, his leopard-marked fur fluffed out, and Sykox let out a long, low moan of joy. “By the Claw of the Khan-Ur, I hate water.”
“You crazy . . . shortsighted . . . half-witted . . .” Macha spluttered. She and Cobiah stood in shock on either side of Sykox, drenched from head to toe in the cast-off water from the sodden charr.
“It’s not my fault!” the burly charr whispered sheepishly. “I can’t help it. When a charr gets wet, we have to shake it off. It’s an involuntary reflex. Like human sneezing.”
“I’ll involuntary you, you ridiculous hairball!”
While they laughed, a shadow swept up behind Cobiah, taking advantage of their distraction. A hand grabbed his neck as a warm body pressed against him from behind. In an instant, a bright blade flashed to his throat. A voice cut through their amusement with icy command. “Freeze. All of you. One move, and I swear by Balthazar’s twin hounds, I’ll leave you dead.”
They had been surrounded, albeit by a small group. A second black-garbed figure stood warily behind Macha, the point of a short spear blade crowded against her ribs. A third readied himself a few feet away, pistol aloft, pointed at Sykox’s furry head.
“I thought you said you ditched the watch!” Macha protested fiercely.
“I did! I swear I did!” Quick as lightning, the charr shifted out of his crouch and launched onto Macha’s opponent. Their attackers thought the threat of a fight would deter them; they’d clearly never fought charr. The gunman missed his shot by a mile.
Cobiah saw his opponent’s hand loosen a fraction of an inch on the hilt of the dagger. Seizing the opportunity, Cobiah drove his elbow into the ribs behind him with all of his might and felt the body behind him buckle. As the knife blade fell away from his throat, Cobiah spun eagerly and drove his fist into the belly of his foe. He turned to crack his fist against his foe’s skull—
It was a woman. Cobiah froze.
He’d punched women before; there were as many female pirates as there were males, and plenty of the roughest sailors in his crew were women. But this one . . . this one was glorious. Almost as tall as he, and willowy, her hair was a dark mahogany and pulled into a thick ponytail that poured over her shoulder like a banner. She wore leather pants, a gray blouse, and a vest that buckled tightly beneath her breasts. Dark boots, soft and flexible, gripped the deck of the Capricorn with a sailor’s easy grace. Her face was strong featured, with wide lips and a long aquiline nose, and her full lips were curled into a snarl of pain and fury.
Nevertheless, she was definitely not a member of the watch.
“I’m sor—” Cobiah started to say, reaching instin
ctively to help her up. She repaid his kindness with an uppercut that sent Cobiah spinning.
On the far side of the ship, the man with the spear tried to impale Macha, but she caught his weapon in a fold of her thick blue robe. Eyes flashing with anger, the asura turned and whispered a few words of magic through gritted teeth. Purple sparks erupted across his face and eyes. Before he could regain his sight, Sykox was upon him, and the man found himself flung over the side of the vessel and into the sea.
“Isaye! Are you all right?” Dropping his pistol, the gunman drew two long blades from his belt and strode toward them. He was a rough-looking sort, with greasy black hair and old scars crisscrossing his forearms and shoulders. Claw scars.
“I’m fine, Henst,” the woman declared. “Throw them overboard and cut the last of the stays. These goons were trying to do our work for us—but we’ll finish the job.”
“You—you’re not watchmen!” Cobiah stammered. “You’re trying to steal the Capricorn!”
“What we’re doing is none of your business.” Henst’s eyes moved to Sykox with a twisted delight as he readied his swords. “How exciting. A charr. Hey, mongrel! My grandfather was a member of the Ascalonian nobility. He taught me how to deal with flea-bitten strays like you.”
The woman—Isaye—made a quick gesture toward the shadows of the ship’s quarterdeck, and more figures stepped out of them, all tough-looking sailors carrying knives, bosun’s pins, and other short weapons. Cobiah counted seven in all, including the one swimming for his life in the tide. The man with two swords faced off against Sykox, but with a flick of his tail, the charr leapt up to the spar over the deck, cutting the stays with his claws. Unbound, the sail fell from the yardarm and poured down over the black-haired man in a massive tangle of canvas. “Anyone who says they know how to fight charr,” Sykox said scathingly, “doesn’t deserve the chance to prove it.”
Cobiah and the woman spun in circles, striking back and forth to test each other’s resolve. “Just the three of you?” the woman laughed. She flicked back her dark ponytail and tossed the dagger back and forth between her hands. “By the king’s shaggy red beard, how were you expecting to get the ship away?”
