Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  Visions of a flaming sail falling to the deck as a frothy mixture of blood and seawater stained her white stockings flashed into her mind. The high-pitched scream of a girl, the nightmare laughter as two figures fell to the bloody deck…

  “Cyn?”

  “Oh, sorry. Just woolgathering.” She banished the vision with a dismissive shrug. That day had claimed more than her parents’ lives; the burning sail had pinned Koybur to the deck like a cockroach under a boot, and damaged him only slightly less.

  By the time Koybur was able to walk again, Cynthia’s grandfather had been lost in a hurricane, hunting for the pirate Bloodwind, and Julia Garrison needed someone to manage the shipping business, so she offered him continued employment. Koybur had proved himself more valuable than any whole man on the payroll, and had been running the shipping portion of the family business ever since. Her grandmother didn’t give him much to work with, but the four vessels that remained were managed as smartly as his meager funds allowed, and Cynthia knew he often used his own salary to replace worn items that might risk a sailor’s life.

  She respected him a great deal and enjoyed his company besides. It was Koybur who had finally lured her from her rebellious phase, and he’d done it by giving her the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world. He’d taught her everything he knew about ships, sailing and the sea. Not that she ever got to actually go to sea, but his lessons were the next best thing.

  “More luck than skill, from what one of the mates told me,” she said, referring to his remark about the Latharnia. “The corsair captain was an idiot, or maybe just unlucky. He tried to sail his ship over a sandbar without enough water to float a skiff.”

  “Hmm, the one off Brighton’s Reef, or so the capt’n told me.” He puffed his pipe and squinted at her through the smoke. Her mouth closed before the obscenity escaped, barely. “Don’t try to teach yer mammy how ta soak beans, girl. I was plyin’ sailors for information when you was only hip high on a Horoway harlot.”

  “Humph,” she said studiously, ignoring his claim. Koybur had a snappy quip for every occasion, most far more inventive or obscene than this one. She’d stopped trying to memorize them years ago, convinced that he made them up on the fly and never used the same one twice.

  “It’d be interesting to compare our stories, since you got yours from the horse’s mouth, and I got mine from the other end.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good. “Could be Captain Jellis told you more than really happened.”

  “Could be, but I wouldn’t go callin’ Kathlan a horse’s arse if you expect to go on breathin’ long.”

  “Now how in the Nine Hells did you find out who I spoke with?” she said, whirling on him, her hands firmly on her hips.

  “Girl, you’re too predictable.” He tapped his pipe out and turned away, limping along while talking and refilling it. “Come along and I’ll teach you a thing or two about close-wind sailin’ while I tell ya how I found you out.”

  Cynthia followed dutifully, thinking that one of Koybur’s lessons might be exactly what she needed to forget the unpleasantries of the day.

  *

  “It really weren’t that hard, Cyn,” Koybur admitted, shifting the tiller of his little sloop into the crook of his ruined left arm and sheeting in the mainsail a touch. He could, and often did, sail the little smack alone, but it was nice to have Cynthia on the jib sheets. “I mean, you practically live at the Gallopin’ Starfish. I knew you’d want to know what happened to the Latharnia, so I just asked Brulo who you’d been talkin’ to all night like I knew you’d been there all along. You never told him to keep his mouth shut, so—”

  “So he opened it,” she finished for him, glaring back at him. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in this damned town.”

  “Only when you don’t make an effort, lass.”

  He pushed the tiller hard and hauled on the sheet without warning, tacking the little boat in the span of a half dozen heartbeats. The boom came across with a lurch, and would have cracked Cynthia smartly on the head if she hadn’t been paying attention. She cursed appropriately, ducked under and moved to the other side of the small cockpit. She cursed again as her skirts fouled her legs while tending the jib sheets.

  “See what happens when someone does somethin’ yer not expectin’? If you wanted to be secretive, you shouldn’ta gone to your favorite inn, talked to all your friends there and left through the main room grinnin’ like you’d just sold a mule for the price of a warhorse.” He tended his sheet again, squinting up at the sail critically. “Now where’s that ship there from?” he continued with a nod toward a low-hulled galley with brightly painted bulwark shields.

  “Fornice, from the paint, but it could be Marathian.” She squinted against the afternoon sun and nodded. This was a common game they played, he pointing out a ship, and she answering his questions about it. “Lateen rig with oarsmen for upwind work. This is probably the farthest north she’s ever been.”

  “And why don’t they travel farther north?”

  “She’s a coastal sailor, made for the southern oceans. She’d be hard pressed in the North Sea with her low profile.”

  “Why use them at all then? Why not just use a bigger ship like a galleon in the Southern Ocean?”

  “Well, the galley draws less water, and there’re lots of shallow, sandy bays in the Southern Ocean. She can also do river work, and she can make good time in calm weather, which they get a lot of in the dry seasons.”

  “Good. Now tend yer sheets, we’re comin’ ’round.” They slipped off the wind, and passed quickly around the galley’s carved bowsprit. “Now, are them round things just for show, or what?” he asked, nodding to the row of large round shields bound to the side of the ship.

  “No, not just for show, though every ship has different colors. The oarsmen sit behind them, which makes them less likely to catch an arrow from a corsair.” She waved to the swarthy bowman glaring at them from between two of the colorful shields. “They also make good cover for guys like him.”

  “Ontoay!” Koybur shouted to the man, smiling and nodding to Cynthia. “Ola ke batna! Umbeyo!” The swarthy man laughed and waved before he put down the bow and vanished behind one of the shields.

  “What’d you say?” she asked, squinting back at Koybur suspiciously.

  “I told him you wanted ta bed him. What’d you think?”

  “So long as you don’t offer me up for sale again. The last time you did that they took you seriously and I couldn’t show my face in town until the ship left port.”

  “I was serious,” he joked, laughing at her openly. “I could’a got two hundred kopeks fer ya!”

  “That’s not even the price of a camel, you...” She turned and kicked halfheartedly at him, then said, “I’m worth three times that!”

  This was their usual banter between lessons, and it continued for two more crossings of the harbor before Cynthia changed the subject.

  “Been a while since I’ve seen one of our flags in Southaven. What’d you do, sell all four ships and not tell anyone?” He was silent for a few breaths, and when she turned to look, his head jerked back from some distant point that had drawn his attention.

  “Oh, sorry. No. Two of ’em’s in the north, tradin’ copra for wool. One’s in the west tryin’ to find a load of silks.” He nodded to the south. “Winter Gale’s due in a fortnight or so, up from Baklanar, hopefully with some good steel. She’s due for a bit of caulking and a host of new runnin’ riggin’. I just hope this sale makes enough to pay for it, otherwise yer gram’ll likely sell her off.”

  “Tell me that’s a joke,” she said, her jaw set in a knot.

  “I wish it was, Cyn, but you know how she is. If I don’t have the cash in hand to pay fer what I need, she’s likely to take the highest bid and hand the money over to one of them fish-eyed bankers of hers.” He cleated the sheet, pulled the pipe from his mouth and spat overboard. “Them types might just as well fly a black flag and sail the Shattere
d Isles as call themselves honest.”

  “I won’t let her do it!” Cynthia said, pounding the cabin top. “Not this time. She’s not going to be running things forever, Koybur, and when she’s not, this family’s going to be a shipping family again. She’s damn near ruined every dream I ever had, but I’m not going to let her take this one from me. Not anymore!”

  “Sounds like you two had a row,” the old sailor said, the unscarred side of his face scrinching into a smile.

  “More than just a row, Koybur. She went too far this time. She can’t plan my life for me anymore. If she won’t let me keep the shipping end of things alive until… well, until it’s all my responsibility anyway, then I’ll tell her to take the whole business and stick it up her arse!”

  “Now, Cyn, don’t be takin’ that tack with her. She’s been through a lot, ya know. Lucky the old gal didn’t just let the whole thing flap in the breeze when the old man was lost.” He tapped out his pipe and peered past the jib, eying the course he was taking. He let the little boat fall off the wind a bit and adjusted the mainsail so they would miss a three-masted galleon moored ahead. “It’ll be yours soon enough, then you’ll see it ain’t so easy as all that.”

  “I don’t expect it to be easy, just focused!” She watched the mooring ball as they passed it by and waved absently at the sailors on the bowsprit looking almost straight down on them. They made some predictable suggestions as to the cut of her blouse, but she just smiled and ignored them. Sailors were all alike. “I’d put every copper I could scrape together into new hulls and put them to sea. With you telling them where to go and what to trade for, we’d be sailin’ downwind inside two years.”

  “Aye, and I suppose you’d want to captain one of ’em, too, eh?” He eyed her sidelong, grinning at her misty eyed stare.

  “Well, maybe not right away, but eventually.” She glared at him openly. “Why not? Other women captain ships!”

  “Aye, that they do, Cyn. That they do.”

  He changed the subject by rattling off a dozen more questions about a lugsail junk that had arrived in port that very morning. She let herself be immersed in the details of rigs, cargos, languages and customs, and tried to forget her anger with her grandmother.

  CHAPTER Five

  Plans for the Future

  Camilla stood at her master’s side, trying to keep her new jewelry from jingling every time she moved. Wide golden bracelets encircled her wrists, each linked to her golden collar by three feet of burnished chain. Another longer golden chain led from her collar to drape over the arm of Bloodwind’s chair; her gilded leash.

  She swallowed and clenched her teeth, ignoring the delicious aromas of the feast and the stares men leveled at her with every jingle of the chains. She kept her eyes focused on the flickering candles and her ears attuned to the ill-played music. Bloodwind never let her partake of the feasts; she would eat her single daily meal alone in her chambers later, unless she displeased him.

  Any interruption from this torment would normally have been welcome, but when the candles flickered with a sudden draft and a shout rang out from the entry hall, Camilla felt a flutter of tribulation instead of relief. The shouts heralded one of Bloodwind’s messengers, and the news they brought was never good.

  “Captain! Captain Bloodwind!” A scurrying servant ushered the man into the dining hall. “Word from Southaven, Captain!”

  Soaked clothing clung to the messenger’s gaunt frame as he stumbled forward, exhausted from his three-day trip from Southaven in one of the fast little fishing smacks the pirates used for sending messages. He fell to his knees before the table, reaching inside his sodden tunic to withdraw a waxed scroll tube.

  “Probably just news about the Latharnia,” Bloodwind said with a shrug. He rose from his seat and stepped up to the kneeling man. “Is that right? The message is news about the damaged galleon that arrived there three nights ago?”

  “I know not, Captain!” the messenger insisted, his hand wavering with worry. “I deliver the message, sir. By your orders, I never break the seal on the tube! I swear!”

  Bloodwind’s cruel eyes narrowed for a moment before he let a thin smile lift a corner of his crimson beard. Hydra ensured the loyalty of his messengers, casting magics that would reduce them to ashes if they ever broke their vows of secrecy. None of them had ever been coerced or spelled into an assassination attempt, but one could transport a spell-trapped case in ignorance easily enough, and Bloodwind had many powerful enemies.

  “Broiful!” he snapped over his shoulder at the table. “Come here, if you please.”

  “Yes, Captain!” The newest of his captains lurched out of his chair and strode confidently to his commander’s side.

  “Take the case and open it for me, would you?” His voice was strangely sweet, and it sent a shiver up Camilla’s spine that made her chains jingle faintly.

  “Yes, Captain!” Broiful snatched the messenger’s burden without pause and cracked open the seal. He removed the cork and extended the open tube to Bloodwind.

  “Thank you,” he said evenly, taking the opened tube with another sly smile. “You can go back to your dinner now, Broiful. And take your pick of the wenches for tonight.”

  “Thank you, Captain!” the man said with a broad grin to his peers and a leer to several of the shy girls removing the remains of the meal.

  Bloodwind waved the messenger away and unrolled the parchment to read. The pirate commander’s bushy red eyebrows arched as he sank back to his chair, an amused expression stretching his bearded visage into a mask of intrigue.

  “Well, well! Not about the Latharnia after all, but the bud of an opportunity.” He shifted the pages and continued reading, leaving his captains staring at him expectantly. Camilla’s eyes drifted over to the parchment, widening slightly as she recognized the sturdy block script.

  “It would appear that a once-powerful shipping family could soon fall into young and inexperienced hands.” He grinned over the pages then let his gaze slide toward Camilla. She caught him watching her and returned her attention to the candles, refusing to show the emotions she knew he was trying to provoke. “Our spy in Southaven says this young woman’s enthusiasm for reestablishing her family’s fleet is only held in check by her aging grandmother.”

  “Sounds like the ol’ bird needs ta meet with an accident,” Ethrain, the captain of the Scarnose, said, grabbing a clay jug and refilling his cup.

  “Exactly what I was thinking, good captain,” Bloodwind agreed, running his thick, scarred fingers through his beard as his eyes mirrored the murderous thoughts whirling through his mind. “If she were out of the way, the girl would put everything they had into new hulls, which could only improve our hunting. Seems like a small investment for a possibly good return, but just who would be best at this sort of thing?”

  “Send me, Captain!” Broiful said with a ravenous grin. “I’ll cut the old woman’s throat and be back here before Blackheart’s back in the water!”

  “Your enthusiasm does you credit, Broiful, but I really think we need someone who will be a bit more subtle.” He continued finger-combing his beard, saying, “Let’s see, killing old ladies. Hmmm. I think we should call on Yodrin for this. It definitely sounds like his cup of tea.”

  Mumbles of agreement swept around the table, and Bloodwind nodded for the musicians to continue the night’s entertainment. He picked up the message again and scanned it, an amused smile returning to his lips.

  “Oh, and remind me to send my spy in Southaven a special bonus this month.” He fingered the golden chain that lay draped over the arm of his chair, tugging on it lightly until the links jingled. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t pay that spy anything at all, do I?”

  His laughter raked across Camilla’s nerves. She clenched her teeth against the words that she knew would only earn her bruises and glared at the flickering candles.

  “That’s the best kind of spy, you know,” he told his men, “the kind that works for free. Or, more precisely, beca
use you hold something dear to them.” He rattled her chain again, laughing louder and longer this time.

  “It’s almost like having a slave. Isn’t that right, my dear Camilla?” He wound the golden chain around his hand, forcing her to lean over almost into his lap, his rum-scented breath warm against her ear. “Just like having a slave.”

  The men laughed at her misery, which affected Bloodwind like a drug. He ran his fingers into Camilla’s hair and closed his fist, pulling her face close to his own before he said, “Now, dance for us, my dear. Show us that your new ornaments don’t interfere with your grace.”

  She straightened as he released her and began to move to the music. The chains jingled and pulled at her wrists and neck with every turn and dip, but she danced anyway. She ignored the laughter and the rude calls and danced, because she knew exactly what would happen if she did not.

  *

  “Gramma?” Cynthia’s knuckles tapped the door of her grandmother’s study. The woman sat hunched over her ancient roll-top desk, engrossed in her unending and self-imposed toil. She hadn’t heard Cynthia, so the young woman bit her lip and knocked louder, saying, “Gramma, can I talk with you?”

  “Oh, Cynthia!” She turned stiffly and put her quill down, adjusting her reading glasses to look over them at her granddaughter. “I’m sorry. Sometimes these numbers take up so much of my attention that the house could fall down around me and I’d never know. Please, sit. Would you like some tea? I’ll call for Marta.”

  Cynthia knew the woman’s twittering was only eagerness to mend the injuries she had dealt a week before. Cynthia’s own temper had taken that long to simmer down to a level where she felt she could open her mouth without screaming.