Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Our contracts are—”

  “Your contracts were with my grandmother, gentlemen. I’ve read them. Carefully. Only her signature is on the documents. I was not consulted on these contracts when I came of age, so, with her death, they are meaningless.” She balled her fists and leaned onto the table, narrowing her eyes at them. “I can consult the magistrate on this, but I think he may find that I am violating the law by allowing you to earn additional fees beyond the term of the contracts.”

  They glared at her for a moment, but she could see the realization in their eyes: they could not fight this. If they tried, she would revoke the fees they would earn in the restructuring. Before any of them could say anything further, the door opened and Koybur limped into the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Ma’am,” he said, nodding to the men. “I can come back if yer still busy here.”

  “No, Koybur, our business here is finished. These gentlemen were just leaving.”

  “Where would you like the money to be deposited, Mistress Flaxal?” one of the creditors asked. “Our accounts will be voided with the termination of our contracts.”

  “I will need to draw on the funds immediately. Deposit it in my name with Master Fergus; he holds a small account that we use to maintain the estate. I’ll inform him of the changes.”

  They filed out of the room as if they were on their way to the gallows. When the door closed, Cynthia sat down and reached for her cup. The porcelain clattered with the tremors in her hand, but she felt good, as if a great wheel had finally started to turn within her. Mouse swooped down and landed on her wrist, blowing her a kiss before jumping off to attack her scone in earnest.

  “Well, that was a dour bunch,” Koybur said, taking one of the vacated seats and rescuing a scone and a cup before they could be removed by the serving girl.

  “Leave that, Marcia,” Cynthia said, “and bring up another cup and some more blackbrew. I’ve asked Master Keelson to meet us. He should be here shortly.”

  “So what’s this you got brewin’, lass? Them banker types were scowlin’ like a bridegroom that finds out the in-laws are comin’ to stay.”

  “Well, I can’t blame them for scowling; I just fired them.” Cynthia laughed at Koybur’s expression. “Do me a favor and swallow before you leave your mouth hanging open like that, huh?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He washed down the bite with a mouthful of blackbrew. “Why’d you go and fire them fellas, Cyn? They been keepin’ your family’s books fer longer than I can remember.”

  “I don’t need them anymore, Koybur. I’m dumping everything they used to manage and putting it into the household account.” She pulled the largest roll of parchment out of her satchel and laid it out for Koybur to see. “I’m going to need the money if I’m going to build four or five of these.”

  Mouse let out a whoop and danced a jig on the table.

  “By Odea’s scaly hide!” Koybur’s one good eye widened until Cynthia feared it would pop out and roll across the table. His fingers brushed the drawings as if they were sacred. “Where did you get these, girl? They must-a cost you a perty penny, contractin’ a draftsman and a naval architect.”

  “I didn’t contract anyone, and they didn’t cost me anything but the paper and ink. I drew these, Koybur. I know they’re not that good, so don’t try to flatter me with that bilgewater about an architect.”

  “They’re not that good, eh?” Koybur took some quick measurements with a quill and twine and jotted down numbers. After a few minutes he looked at Cynthia with one narrowed eye and said, “Damn finest set of draft plans I’ve ever seen! I can’t say as I’ve ever seen a ship quite like her. The rake of the masts is, well… Damn, but the strain would be taken up by the stays, so…” He foundered a bit, speechless for the first time Cynthia could remember. “If everything’s as tight as these lines say, she’ll be a fine vessel.”

  “We’ll see what Master Keelson says,” she replied, still suspicious that Koybur might be blowing sunshine up her skirts just to make her feel good. In truth, she hated to admit just how good his praise did make her feel.

  “You really plan to do it then?”

  “You thought I was kidding?”

  “No, I—”

  The door opened and three men entered: Brulo brought with him a large blackbrew service. Rowland bore a huge tray of scones, rolls and other delicacies. Master Keelson, the burly shipwright, brought with him only the aromas of sawdust, oil and creosote.

  “What’s all this?” Cynthia asked, eying Brulo suspiciously.

  “Well, I never seen them four leave so early or so sour lookin’, so I figured I’d come up and see if everything was a-right.”

  “And I figured the good Master Keelson might want a bit more to munch on.” Rowland placed the huge tray on the table, and helped Brulo pour the blackbrew.

  “And I,” rumbled Keelson, drawn immediately to the detailed renderings of the new ship, “see exactly why I was called here.” He ran his hands over the drawings carefully, fetching a pair of dividers from a pocket and taking measurements, muttering words like, “Interesting. Amazing. Why, I never thought to…”

  “Actually, Master Keelson,” Cynthia began, laying more paper onto the table, these covered with blank columns, “I need you and Koybur to advise me as to the seaworthiness of this design, and lay down some estimates on just how much building one will cost me. We should also go over what materials would be best, where to get them, and anything else you can think of.”

  “Well, don’t go looking for a cook!” Rowland grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. “At least for one of ’em.”

  “Damn, girl, I’ve never even seen a design like this. I wouldn’t know what to call it, let alone if it’d stand up to a gale!” Keelson leaned back, scratching his chin. “It looks stout enough, and would probably be a might faster than most cargo ships. But only one square rig? The main and fores’l are right huge, but I guess they’d reef down well enough. And that bowsprit, why it’s half the length of the deck!”

  “Oh, that’s with it all the way out for medium to light winds.” She pointed out the pins that would allow it to be retracted incrementally. “The forestays and bobstays are adjustable.”

  “Well, Holy Mother of Storms, they are!” Keelson scratched his chin some more, then shook his head. “I’d be happy to build it for ya, lass, but I think you need to bring in someone else to work out the specifics.”

  “But I thought you could—”

  “Oh, I just build ’em, lass. I could work up some estimates as to how much it’d cost ya, but I don’t design ’em. And this, like I said, is nothin’ like I ever seen before. I know a feller who’d be tickled pink to have a look at these plans, though. He’s half elvish, and he’s been designin’ and buildin’ ships since before I was born.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “I’ll send for him if you like. He lives up north, a little place called Dog Bay. Ain’t even on most charts, ’cause there ain’t no town, just him and his crew. His name’s Ghelfan. He’s the best there is ’round these parts, but the best don’t come cheap.”

  “If you think he’s the one we need, send for him.” Cynthia recovered her pen and dipped it into the inkwell. “For now, let’s work out how much this monstrosity is going to cost me.”

  “Now that I can help ya with!”

  They started firing numbers at her so fast that she was hard pressed to keep up, and Rowland had brought them lunch and afternoon tea before all was said and done.

  That evening a fast courier boat left Southaven and struck out up the coast. Two experienced sailors were the only crew, and they’d already been paid well for the trip they were making. If they returned in less than a fortnight with the man they sought, one half-elven shipwright named Ghelfan, they would earn a tidy bonus.

  When the courier boat had cleared the breakwater and turned west, and the sun dipped below the horizon, another boat left Southaven. The little fishing smack had only one man aboard, b
ore no hooks, no line and no bait. His only cargo resided inside a tightly sealed scroll tube.

  *

  “Messenger, Captain Bloodwind!”

  The servant blundered into his master’s private bath with no more preamble than those three words. He knew the intrusion would be forgiven under the circumstances, but the scene that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks. The jingle of golden chains and the low groaning of his master’s voice should have been warning enough, but his hurry was such that he stood only feet away before he thought to avert his eyes.

  “Who is it from?” Bloodwind mumbled between grunts of pleasure, his face pressed against a rolled-up towel on the floor.

  “Yodrin, Master.” The servant tried not to look at the slave girl perched on his master’s backside, kneading the heels of her hands into his back while another servant drizzled high-quality whale oil over him. The filmy gauze draped over the slave girl was soaked through with oil, sweat and the humidity of the steaming bath. “Do you wish me to break the seal, sir?”

  “Yes, but stand over there to do it. Stop for a moment, Camilla, I want to watch this.”

  The golden-chained slave girl pushed herself up and stood there panting from exertion, her eyes carefully elsewhere. Bloodwind rolled up onto one elbow, his narrowed eyes centering on his servant.

  The servant moved to the corner and twisted open the sealed tube, knowing that he was being used like a sacrificial goat, but preferring the relatively quick death of a trapped message to the agonizingly slow one that awaited him if he disobeyed.

  “Fine, now bring it here.”

  The servant complied, handing over the scroll and risking one more glance at the slave girl while Bloodwind read.

  “Efficient as ever, Master Yodrin. You earned your pay this fortnight.” He handed the scroll back to the servant and said, “Burn it and crush the ashes.”

  As the servant’s hand grasped the door latch, his master’s parting comment stopped him.

  “And if I ever catch you ogling my possessions again, I’ll have you eating your own liver for supper.”

  “Yes, Master,” he croaked miserably, knowing that the threat was not idle. He knew it because he’d seen worse first hand. Despite that, he thought it worth the risk and stole one more glance as he closed the door.

  CHAPTER Nine

  Guests and Conversation

  “This is stupid!” Cynthia muttered as she shuffled up the steps to the lightkeeper’s tower. She had been up these steps before, years ago, when she was thirteen years old and terrorizing every inn, dock and merchant in Southaven. She had climbed the stairs on a dare, knocked on the old lightkeeper’s door and run away before the ill-tempered wizard could set her britches afire.

  She doubted if the last nine years had improved his temper, or his opinion of the scurrilous girl who had knocked on his door so long ago, but here she stood ready to knock on that door once again. This time, however, there would be no running away. She was here because the lightkeeper was the only person within a seven-day sail who knew anything at all about magic.

  As she raised her hand to knock, Mouse leapt off of her shoulder and flittered in front of her face waving his arms and shaking his head so fast that his face was a blur. He knew the old wizard’s temper as well as any, and the lightkeeper was a firemage; nothing scared a seasprite like fire.

  “Oh, so you don’t want me to, huh?” She chuckled at the little sprite’s mien of horror. He pushed against her chest, flapping his tattered wings madly, but Cynthia remained determined. “Don’t worry, Mouse,” she said with more conviction than she felt. “He won’t hurt us.”

  She took a deep breath, and knocked firmly three times. At the third rap, however, her knuckles barely touched the wood as the door jerked open and a gnarled old hand grabbed her by the wrist.

  “Gotcha! Now, you little rapscallion, you’re gonna pay fer…”

  “Ahhh!” Her scream escaped before she could control her voice.

  Mouse let out a piercing “EEP!” of alarm and vanished down her collar.

  “Why, you’re not—” The old man’s eyes flung wide in astonishment at what he had caught. The white wisps of his hair stuck out at all angles, as if he’d been sleeping or actively trying to pull it out. His lips were thin, and his skin a ruddy hue. He wore a leather jerkin over a once-white shirt and dark crimson pantaloons.

  “Please, Master Lightkeeper,” she pleaded, her wrist throbbing in his astonishing grip. “I mean no disrespect, but simply seek your advice. I’m willing to pay you for your time.”

  “You’re not one of those blasted children who keep knocking on my door at all hours and running away!” he snapped accusatively, not releasing his grip. “Where are they? Where are you hiding them?”

  “I’m not hiding anyone, sir,” she said, regaining some of her composure and trying to ignore the tickle of Mouse wiggling around between her shoulder blades. “I’ve come seeking your advice about a magical book, but if all you’re going to do is accuse me and hurt my wrist, I’ll take my questions and my money elsewhere!” She jerked her wrist against his grip, to no avail.

  “Oh, my goodness!” the wizened old man exclaimed, releasing her wrist as if her skin was on fire. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! I thought you were one of those pestering little rascals from town up here to bother me. They’ve been doing it for years, you know, knocking and running away in the middle of the day or night, waking me or disturbing my work. It’s all I can do to get one wink of sleep with all my aches and pains, you know, and with all their interruptions… Well, I’m quite beside myself, let me tell you.”

  “I’m sorry I startled you, Master Lightkeeper,” she said, rubbing her bruised wrist. “But as I said, I’m not here playing pranks, at least not for the past eight or nine years. I’m here to ask you some questions about this book.” She brought her father’s log out of her satchel and showed him the ornate tome. “It was my father’s, and it’s got some kind of magical writing in it that gives me a headache whenever I try to read it.”

  “Oh, my goodness gracious!” His wrinkled old fingers reached out to within an inch of the volume, then drew back. “That’s a seamage’s log! Where ever did you come by that? Why, there hasn’t been a seamage ’round these parts for fifteen years!”

  “Well, nearly that. My father, Orin Flaxal, died at sea fourteen years ago in summer’s second month, and my mother Peggy with him.” She held the book up again for him to see. “This is one of the few things he left for me, and I’ve only just discovered it. I can’t read a word of it, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  “Oh, my goodness indeed,” he uttered in a much subdued voice, his eyes flickering from her face to the tome and back several times. “You must be little Cynthia, then! Well, you better come up. Discussing such weighty matters on the stoop is hardly appropriate.”

  The lightkeeper ushered her through the door, his manner much friendlier if somewhat cautious, especially of the book she held. He shied away from it as if it would burn him.

  The interior of the light tower proved somewhat less wondrous than she imagined in all her childhood fantasies. They wound their way to a stair through a maze of barrels, crates, boxes and thick clay jars marked with dwarvish script, and began to climb. Past two more levels similarly festooned with unidentifiable containers, her legs burning from the climb, they came to a door that opened into a room sweltering with heat and cluttered with so many books, candles, lanterns and lamps that Cynthia thought she had stumbled into a cross between a library and a chandlery.

  “Sit, sit, sit,” the lightkeeper babbled, fluttering his wrinkled old hands. “There’s a chair right over there, just put those old scrolls on the floor. Let me get something on the stove. Would you like blackbrew, tea, spiced cider, or maybe something a bit stronger? We’ve serious matters to discuss, Miss Cynthia. A spot of spiced rum in blackbrew’s the best nerve tonic I know.”

  “It’s barely mid morning,” she said, shifting a stack of
scrolls to the floor and sitting gently on the musty old chair. Mouse ventured out to her shoulder, his eyes wide with wonder at the room. This place had enough to keep him entertained for a month, but most of it had flame attached to it, which made him uncharacteristically cautious.

  “What’s the time of day got to do with anything?” The lightkeeper’s blank stare caught Cynthia off guard once again. “And what’s that thing on your shoulder, some kind of moth? I asked you if you wanted something to drink. I’ve got a swatter around here somewhere.”

  “Uh, no. That’s Mouse, and he’s a seasprite, not a moth. Sorry. Plain blackbrew’s fine.” His changes of subject were so quick she found it hard to keep up.

  “Blackbrew it is, then!”

  While pots and kettles clanked and clattered around the old iron stove, Cynthia took in her surroundings more fully, astounded at the variety of flame-producing implements cluttering the walls, shelves and floor. Some were quite beyond her comprehension, and most were alight, casting a hundred shades of light and waves of stifling heat through the room. She mopped the sweat from her neck and was wondering what a hand crank on the side of a lantern could be for, when a heavy tray clattered down in front of her bearing a silver blackbrew service, two porcelain cups and a small plate of lumpy little cookies.

  “Shall I pour?”

  “Uh, sure.” Nothing out of his mouth seemed to make sense with the surroundings or her thoughts at the time, leaving her feeling a bit doltish. Mouse started flapping his wings at her neck, and the breeze felt refreshingly cool.

  “Now, that book you bear’s no common log book, I’m sure you’re aware,” he said, pouring blackbrew as dark as a moonless night first into her cup, then his. “That you’ve looked into it and still have a mind to think with is proof enough that you’re his daughter, Cynthia.” A silver flask materialized in his hand and stood poised over the lip of her cup. “Sure you won’t have a touch of the cane squeezin’s with that? You look a little flustered. It’ll set you to rights, I guarantee.”