Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

Vel’s ardor rose. No one should come into the galley at this hour, and the stew would attend to itself. The tight ache in his britches warred with the exhilaration of almost having Chaylene. He was certain this was his chance. In two hours, he’d find Chaylene and have her.

  “I’m not afraid of that brute,” he said.

  “I would be.” Aychene let out a breathy sigh. “He’s so strong. His arms are bigger than my legs.”

  Vel frowned, his stomach twisting. Does she like Ary? Vel strode out around the counter and seized her arms. He yanked her close to him, staring into her fiery eyes. “Don’t you think I can take him?”

  “I don’t know.” She arched her eyebrows as she licked her lips.

  “Cook Tloay!” the Bosun growled.

  Aychene froze. Vel jumped back a full rope as the she-boar Bosun stalked into the galley. Her gaze struck Aychene. The sailor squeaked and fled. A sour grimace crossed the Bosun’s lips as she loomed over the trembling Vel.

  “Yes, Bosun?” Vel asked, fighting a swallow. He didn’t report to the Bosun; Chief Hurhen ran the galley, but Vel wasn’t downyheaded enough to point that out.

  “I know you’re behind the latest round of rumors ‘bout Warrant Officer Jayne.” The Bosun’s finger jabbed into his stained white shirt. Her face leaned in, her one whole eye ripping through Vel. “I hear any more of your lies bandied ‘bout the ship, I’ll have you whipped. Cap’n’s tired of this dung being thrown about her ship. Do you understand me, Cook?”

  Vel swallowed, sweat running down the back of his neck. “Yes, Bosun.”

  “Prisoner needs to be fed. Get a bowl and take it down to the brig.” The Bosun withdrew to inflict her presence on someone else.

  Vel’s breath exploded out of him. He shook, heart screaming beneath his chest. And then, through the fog of smothering fright, he realized what her orders meant. His hand squeezed the pouch through his pocket. A violent shiver wracked his body, ice beating through his veins. He drew out the felt bag, his hands shaking.

  He glanced at the stew.

  The powdered poison shifted beneath his clenched fingers as he marched to the pot, every step heavy. I need to do this. Once Ary’s free of the cage, he’ll come for me. He’s already beaten one man half to death for claiming to be with her.

  He’ll kill me.

  Vel seized a carved wooden bowl and ladled out a large helping of stew, the thick, brown gravy brimming with mushy chunks of potatoes, carrots, turnips, and fish. He scooped a second ladle, filling the bowl to the brim. He trembled for long moments, his stomach twisting tighter and tighter. Nauseating acids churned in his stomach. Blood howled in his ears.

  Vel attacked the knots on the pouch with numb fingers.

  “Come on,” he hissed while fumbling with the drawstring. The knot, meant for the distal feathers of a Luastria, should be easy for dexterous Human digits to open. Vel dug his fingernail into the knot, prying harder.

  He grunted and pulled. The knot came free.

  A black powder filled the pouch as fine as milled pepper. Holding his breath, Vel tilted the pouch over Ary’s stew; the powder shifted to the opening, hovering on the verge of trickling out. Vel’s hand froze.

  He warred against the assault of boyhood memories: fishing, Ary’s boisterous shouts, racing down the Bluesnake. Joy, friendship, and warmth slashed at Vel’s fear. He defended his resolve with memories of Chaylene’s smiling face, her ebony skin, the roundness of her assests, and the heat that burned within him for the woman. He raised his ardor as a shield against the past.

  Vel tilted his hand.

  The powder formed a mound of black atop the gravy before sinking into the viscous fluid. Disbelief gripped him. His hand shook, the ties of the bag swaying. He stared at Ary’s death. For her. She’ll be so happy once he’s gone. She’ll finally have me. Vel plunged a spoon into the stew and stirred with vigor. The black powder spiraled across the surface. Every stroke mixed it into the brown, diffusing it until not a speck remained.

  A great weight lifted from Vel’s shoulders. A big smile crossed his lips. “She’s all mine now.”

  He stuffed the empty pouch back into his pocket.

  With the bowl clutched in one hand, Vel exited the suffocation of the galley into cooler air. Unwilling to spill Ary’s last meal as he descended the steep stairs to the lower hold, he took each step with care. He navigated through the hammocks and snoring sailors on his way towards the bow. He passed down the narrow corridor lined with storerooms and the privies. It ended at the brig.

  He entered and—

  Vel gaped. Chaylene lay on the floor before the cell, her hair spread out like a field of harvest-ripe barley upon the decking. She held Ary’s hand through the bars as she wiped something off his palm with a stained rag. She looked over her shoulder and saw Vel.

  Her brows tightened.

  “Vel,” Ary growled. He sat up in his cell, his ropes groaning. Death flashed across his face.

  Terror seized Vel’s heart. The bars . . . he can’t get to me.

  “What are you doing here?” snapped Chaylene. She bounded to her feet and glared at him.

  Vel withered beneath her expression. “I . . . uh . . . his food.”

  Chaylene snatched the bowl out of Vel’s hand and sat down cross-legged before the bars. She stirred the spoon through the stew. Vel didn’t know what to do, what to say. She . . . she hated him. That look on her face . . .

  Kicked Vel in the guts. How can she . . . hate me?

  “I don’t know about you, Ary, but I’m starving,” Chaylene said, speaking loud. She scooped up a spoonful of stew and held it out to Ary like . . .

  She’s feeding him? Another blow. Vel swayed, dazed.

  “I’m not hungry,” Ary muttered.

  “You sure?” she asked, then brought the spoon to her lips.

  The cold claws of fear squeezed Vel’s heart. “Don’t!”

  She pulled the spoon away from her open mouth and shot Vel a withering look. “Are you still here? Haven’t you caused enough problems?”

  “The food’s for the prisoner!” Vel said, his mind racing. “Not you.”

  With deliberation, Chaylene raised the spoon to her lips. Vel’s mouth began to form words, about to blurt out his warning. He couldn’t let her eat the poison. She’d die. He had to stop her, but . . .

  The words died. Selfish terror seized his tongue, gripped it. If anyone learned what he’d planned . . .

  Clammy sweat broke across Vel’s skin as the spoon entered Chaylene’s mouth. Her lips sealed tight about it as she withdrew it, clean of the poisoned stew. Jaw chewed. Throat swallowed.

  The Dauntless reeled around Vel. He stumbled back into the narrow corridor, grabbing the wall to keep from falling over. His stomach lurched. His chest crushed down on his lungs as he labored to breathe.

  What did I do? Riasruo Above, what did I do?

  His stomach churned as he lurched down the passageway, stumbling like he had a belly full of whiskey and ale. Nausea boiled in his guts. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt. He burst into the hammocks, passing the sleeping forms.

  He felt their eyes watching him through closed eyelids, staring at him, accusing him.

  You poisoned her! they screamed.

  The pouch burned in his pocket, searing his thigh through the linen. Vel sucked in great gasps of hot, stuffy air. He couldn’t breathe down here. The sleeping eyes assaulted him. He rushed through the hold, squeezing past the slumbering forms.

  How could you let her eat it? the eyes demanded.

  Coward!

  You love her?

  Vel scrambled up the stairs from the lower hold to the upper, bursting into the small area before the galley. A group of sailors sat on piled crates of boxes, each holding a bowl of stew in their hands. They smirked at him.

  They know,Vel thought as he flinched beneath their gaze.

  “We’re taking bets, Vel,” Charlim said. “Interested in staking a wager?”

  Vel shook his head. He couldn
’t speak.

  “You sure? We’re betting how long it’ll be before the sergeant beats you like he did Sharthamen.” Charlim laughed. “Since you’ve been claiming the same thing. I say it’s the moment he’s out of the brig.”

  I poisoned his wife. Ary will kill me. If he doesn’t, the Navy will execute me!

  Vel dashed up the steep stairs to the deck. He had to escape the stuffy hold. How long before Chaylene begins convulsing? How long before she . . . dies?

  Bile burned at his throat as he stumbled onto the deck. He crashed onto the planks, the wind whipping cool around him, dragging away the heat. Kneeling, he gulped in air, finally able to breathe, to think, to—

  She’s going to die.

  His stomach contorted. He darted for the gunwale, feet scrabbling on the deck, struggling to stay upright. He fought against the rising contents of his guts. He reached the railing, bent over, and emptied his dinner with a violent heave. Sick splattered the side of the hull and fell down into the Storm Below.

  He groaned, his abdomen contorting again. More foul vomit poured out of him, lost to Theisseg’s tempest. He swayed, his face flushed, dripping with sweat. A third convulsion wracked his stomach, forcing up yellow-green bile to burn his mouth.

  A thought slapped him. There can’t be any evidence remaining that I poisoned her. Why did Wriavia have to give me this Theisseg-damned pouch?

  Vel ripped the felt bag from his pocket and dropped it off the ship. The pouch twirled in the wind, dancing and fluttering. His Blessing let him see the eddies and currents that twisted the bag, lines streaking white that spun it about before it dropped into the Storm Below.

  Lost to Theisseg. Vanished. It never happened.

  “You all right, Vel?” asked the gruff voice of the chief cook.

  “I’m fine, Chief,” Vel muttered. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve then forced himself to look normal as he turned around.

  Chief Hurhen’s double chins waggled as he looked Vel up and down. “You sick?”

  “Maybe a touch of the bad vapors,” Vel said, rubbing his stomach.

  “Have an extra ration of grog,” the chief said, clapping Vel on the shoulder. “And get back down to the galley. I bet you left the Storming fire unattended.”

  “Aye, Chief,” Vel nodded and stumbled back below deck, away from the accusatory eyes of the crew. He fled into the galley.

  Why did that Theisseg-cursed Wriavia give me poison? Vel asked as he shook. It’s his fault. Chaylene would be fine if it wasn’t for him! He poisoned her. Not me. HIM!

  Sweat drenched his shirt as he waited for her death.

  *

  Chaylene nodded her head in satisfaction as Vel stumbled away from the brig.

  “Sow’s dung,” she muttered, stirring the spoon through the bowl of stew.

  Ary gave a snort of laughter.

  She glanced at her husband. “I can’t believe I almost ruined everything because of that man and his pretty smile.” Her skin writhed. She felt soiled as she remembered Vel’s stolen kisses. “I was a Storming fool.”

  “We all are sometimes,” Ary sighed, flexing his fist.

  “Here’s your food,” she said, handing him the bowl.

  Ary shook his head. “I’m really not hungry. My stomach’s tied up in too many knots.”

  “You sure?” she asked; a low rumble growled from her stomach.

  He nodded his head.

  Chaylene took another bite. She usually hated the stew on the Dauntless, but this bowl had something different in it. Something . . . spicy. “It’s not bad. Considering that it was made by that loathsome mudguppy.” She gave her husband a look. “A mudguppy wallowing in the pig sty. No, the midden heap! With all the griffin dung and nightsoil. That’s where he belongs. His little twig and both tiny berries can rot off. They’re probably poxed from all those friendly maids he pokes!”

  She attacked the stew, scooping up an angry bite and shoveling it into her mouth.

  Ary arched an eyebrow. “You’re talking like a sailor.”

  Chaylene shrugged and took another bite. “It expresses how I feel about that Storm-cursed bastard.”

  Ary snagged her knife she’d dropped before him and held it awkwardly in his bound, right hand. He slit open his left palm as she took another bite of the stew. Red blood stained the off-white bone of the blade. He let more crimson well across his palm and drip down on the floor. Chaylene studied the flow. It slowed as the blood grew dark and clumpy, but the cut flesh didn’t knit back together.

  “Are you doing anything?” Chaylene asked. I can’t believe seeing him bleed isn’t ruining my appetite. She took another bite.

  “I’m making the bleeding stop faster but not healing the skin,” Ary shrugged. His eyebrows furrowed. The flesh knit together and dried blood flaked away. He rubbed it with his thumb, revealing pale-beige flesh. No scar. “I think this will work. I’ll recover faster, but not too fast.”

  “Good.” The wooden spoon rasped along the side of the bowl as she scooped up the last dregs.

  Ary laughed. “You were hungry.”

  It was wonderful to hear his mirth. “It had an extra . . . spiciness about it. I rather liked it.”

  “Vel probably dumped too much pepper in to annoy me.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised he failed.” She sat the bowl beside her as Ary handed her knife back through the bars.

  Heavy steps thumped nearer, not the bare feet of a sailor or a scout, but the boots of marines. Chaylene stood up as Lieutenant Ompfeich, Guts, and Vay entered the cramped brig. She snapped a salute to them and said, “Lieutenant.”

  “Warrant Officer.” Lieutenant Ompfeich saluted back. He was half-Agerzak, though only his slanted brown eyes kept him from looking like a light-skinned Vionese. Despite his rank, his face still held traces of boyishness. Before the Cyclone, he’d served as an ensign and was only a year older than Chaylene. “Cap’n wants to see you and the prisoner.”

  Chaylene nodded. She bent down and scooped up the bowl, gave Ary a supportive smile, and slipped past Guts and Vay. Guts’s broad hand squeezed her shoulder. She nodded and strode to the galley to drop off the bowl.

  Vel jumped in surprise when she slammed the bowl down on the counter. His eyes widened like he’d never seen her before. That handsome, disgusting smile crossed his lips, his eyes roaming her body with such . . . familiarity. A nauseating wave of disgust washed through her.

  “Wipe that smile off your face, Cook!” she barked. “If I catch you trying to be that familiar with me again, I’ll have words with Chief Hurhen.”

  Vel’s smile went crooked.

  “I know the foul things you’ve been claiming about me. I tried to be nice. I tried to preserve our friendship, but you just couldn’t understand. It didn’t penetrate the down stuffed between your ears! Let me make this clear. I. Despise. You. You are nothing but sow’s dung to me!”

  “Chaylene, I—”

  “Did I say you could speak, Cook?” Chaylene wanted to bathe. “I know the truth about you. I should’ve told Ary that you were the one lurking outside our window. Instead of being a woman, I acted like a silly girl drunk on romantic tales! Seeing you at night was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet! It is your fault my husband is in trouble! Those degenerates tried to bed me because of your Storming lies! Then they tried to outmatch your pathetic tales about me!”

  Vel looked down at his feet like a little boy.

  Chaylene’s fingers flexed. She wanted to punch his face. Even more, she ached to march into the past and scream at that stupid, weak version of herself not to be blinded by his smile. What it hid was so ugly. With a disgusted huff, she stalked away.

  “I . . . I’m sorry . . .” Vel called after her.

  Chaylene didn’t believe him. She would never be that stupid, naive girl again.

  *

  Ary straightened as Lieutenant Ompfeich produced a set of keys from his dark-blue coat. He found one, t
he porcelain keys clinking against each other, and inserted it into the brig’s lock. He twisted it, the ceramic mechanism clicked, then he yanked the cell door open.

  “Will the restraints be necessary, Sergeant?” Ompfeich asked, his voice a light tenor but holding an edge of sharpened bone.

  “No, Lieutenant,” Ary answered.

  The lieutenant nodded. “I didn’t think they would be. The Storming fool brought it on himself.”

  Guts and Vay entered, the bigger marine producing a bone knife. He sawed at the bonds; the tar sealing the knots made them impossible to undo. “Sharthamen was lucky I weren’t there,” Guts muttered as he worked. “Woulda helped you pummel his face. I’m tired of all the talk ‘bout Chaylene. Weren’t right.”

  Vay laughed. “I doubt there will be any more. You scared the piss out of Voasin when he heard what happened. He wet his britches right there on the deck.”

  Ary grimaced against the flush of shame. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Course you should have. A man’s gotta stand up for his wife.” Guts extended a hand to help Ary stand. “Cap’n will understand.”

  Ary took it.

  Lieutenant Ompfeich nodded. “Can’t have the crew saying such foul things about a warrant officer. The Bosun came down hard on Voasin after he pissed himself. Both for soiling her deck and spreading lies.”

  Their words only made him feel worse. He surrendered his control. Not even fighting the Stormriders made him that angry. He’d kept his head during the Cyclone, but after hearing Sharthamen’s words, he’d lost himself in a fog of crimson fury.

  “What I did was wrong,” Ary muttered. “I almost killed him.”

  “Come on,” Guts said. “Stop bein’ a mudguppy wallowin’ in the pigpen. Let’s go get this straightened out. Estan told everyone what that piece of dung said. There’s not a member of the crew that don’t think you were in the right.”

  Ary only nodded.

  Lieutenant Ompfeich led the way, followed by Guts, Ary, and then Vay. Sailors in hammocks stirred, sitting up and watching them pass, their eyes on Ary. He swallowed, feeling their gazes boring into him. Some nodded their approval, others looked away in fear. They marched topside, passing more sailors. On the deck, his marines crowded around the entrance to the officer cabins beneath the stern deck. All of them, even Zeirie, nodded to him.