“Well, I don’t usually—”
“Atta girl!” His wrist bent and a measure of dark rum topped off her steaming cup. “That’ll set a fire in you, by the forge of Phekkar.” He poured a considerably larger measure of liquor into his own cup and sat, sipping noisily and smacking his lips. “Now, about this book of your father’s; I’d be a liar twice over if I told you I had no interest in what he had written in those pages, but I’d be thrice a dolt if I tried to read any of it.”
“You mean you can’t read it either?” Mouse bounded down to the table and sniffed her cup inquisitively. “But I thought—”
“You thought magic’s magic, and since I’ve got a bit flowin’ through my veins, I might be able to help you with your father’s log.” He sipped again and took a deep breath. “Well, let me tell you about magic.”
He snapped his gnarled old fingers and a ball of flame erupted from his hand for an instant, then vanished. Mouse let out an “EEP!” and scuttled down her collar again.
“Just because I can do that, doesn’t mean I can read another mage’s incantations. There are as many different types of mage as there are gods in the Seven Heavens and Nine Hells, not to mention the ones that lurk about the middle ground. Your father was a seamage, and though I knew him and called him friend, his and my magics were very different. If I tried to read a single word of that book, my mind would be fried like an oyster on a bed of coals.”
“Then can you teach me how to read it? I’ve tried, but all I ever get is a headache.”
“Well, now, you’re alive and sane, which tells me that your ol’ dad was right thinking that you had enough of his blood in your veins to make a seamage, but headaches are the only thing you’re ever gonna get from that book Miss Cynthia. Unless, by some tragedy, you’re still a virgin?”
“Well, I usually don’t—”
“Of course you don’t. Of course you don’t. Not that it would really matter much, not with you having nigh on a score of summers behind you.”
“Oh, you mean I’m too old?” Cynthia’s knuckles blanched with her grip on her father’s log. “His journal mentioned that seamages usually didn’t get their powers past the age of twelve or so. There was something about Odea’s requirements, how they become more dangerous as you grow older.”
“That they do, Miss Cynthia. That they do. And let me tell you that the requirements of Phekkar are no picnic. I could show you some of my scars, but then I’d have to— But that’s neither here nor there.”
“Phekkar? But isn’t he one of the evil gods?”
“Evil, schmeevil, boll weevil,” he scoffed with a wave of his hand. “He’s the God of Fire, the Flaming One, just like Odea’s the Goddess of Sea and Storms. I daresay a sailor caught in a hurricane has called Odea evil once or twice. Are you sure you won’t have one of these? I made them myself!” He lifted one of the little cookies and nibbled.
“Uh, no thank you. But I don’t understand what Odea has to do with it. My father was a mage, not a priest.”
“Well, now that’s where the lines between magic and faith get a little blurry, Miss Cynthia. And that’s where your father’s and my magic were more alike than not. We were both what you would call elementalists, mages that focus on a particular element. Orin’s element was the sea, and mine’s fire. Other elementalists direct their energies toward earth or air—or life and death, for that matter. Now, there’s mages that dabble in magic that’s not directly tied to any element, and they can do tricks that no elementalist can. They learn all they need to know straight from books and have a more diverse skill, though less powerful in some regards. Elementalists get their power straight from the Gods themselves, but not like priests. We don’t heal, curse or bless people, for instance. Well, most of us don’t. We do have the ability to bend our elements to our own will, to shape them, you might say.” He took another deep draught from his cup and sighed gustily.
“But your old dad was right about one thing, Miss Cynthia: Once a boy is a man—or a girl a woman, as is your case—there is about the same chance of them becoming an elementalist as there is of pigs taking up knitting.”
The words stabbed like a lance through her heart. She’d expected this, but even so, the final refusal of her dream cut deeply. Reading her father’s journal, Cynthia had hoped that maybe, just maybe, she might yet inherit her father’s powers. She reached for her cup with shaky hands and gulped down the fiery liquid. She coughed against the scalding heat and stood.
“Thank you for the blackbrew, Master Lightkeeper,” she said, grateful that the drink helped to burn away the persistent lump in her throat. “I’m sorry I disturbed you for nothing.”
“Nothing? Oh, I wouldn’t call this nothing, Miss Cynthia!” He stood and smiled at her amiably, oblivious to the fact that she fought back tears. “As I said, I knew your father, and called him friend. I’d be more than happy to sit and talk with you about him any time. I don’t get many visitors, and my hospitality is probably a little rusty, but mayhap I know a few things about him that your grandmother never told you, rest her soul.”
“Perhaps another time, Master Lightkeeper. I—” She turned away and moved toward the door, the light from a hundred lanterns blurring in her misted vision. “I really should be going now.”
“Oh, very well then. Let me show you out.” He moved to the door.
Mouse flittered from her shoulder to the table, nabbed a cookie and returned, his little features confused at all the talk about gods and magic. Cynthia patted the little sprite, envious despite his tattered wings; as a magical creature, he would never know why not having magic of her own would make her cry.
*
“Haul away!” Bloodwind bellowed, raising a tankard of dark rum in toast as the man in front of him left the deck with a strangled gasp. “Send the brave captain up to join his crew!”
The crowd of drunken pirates cheered their approval as the captain of the captured galleon kicked and struggled vainly, finally stilling to an occasional twitch. He hung beside eleven of his crew from the main yard of his own ship, all dead, all captured in their sleep and paying the ultimate price for their lack of vigilance.
“And now to see to our guests!” That brought another roar from the crowd and a bustle of activity as four figures were ushered forward. Two were women, one in expensive clothes, and another less extravagantly dressed, who clung to two young children, a girl and a boy. The finely dressed woman glared at him, obviously afraid but covering it well; attractive enough, if somewhat severe, laced tightly into her finery as if it were armor.
Bloodwind ignored her and knelt before the children, grinning broadly. “And who might you two be?”
“My husband, Count Norris, will pay whatever you ask for our safe return.”
“If she speaks again without being told to, cut out her tongue.” Bloodwind said without looking at her. Her gasp of horror told him that someone had produced a knife and a pair of pliers. He grinned at the children, but was again interrupted, this time by the distant call of a horn giving three long blasts. He stood and looked up at the peak of Plume Isle and saw the flag signal; a vessel approached, a friendly one.
“Find out who approaches,” he told a cabin boy, who ran off as fast as he could.
“So, where were we?” he began again with the children. “What’s your names, then?
“I’m Samantha,” the girl said through her tears, “that’s Timmy.”
“Timothy!” the boy corrected with a glare at his sister. “My name’s Timothy!”
“Well, there you are! Well said, Timothy.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder.
“Please, sir! They’re just children!” The maid knelt, bowing her head and clutching the children with white-knuckled fists. “Please don’t kill them!”
“Kill them? Why would I do such a thing?” He tousled the boy’s hair and grinned. “Why I’d sooner pluck out my own eye than harm a hair on their heads. This boy’s got potential, and the girl’s got more fire than a volc
ano. They’ll make fine additions to our family.”
“Your family? But I…”
“You’re a servant, I’ll wager.” he said to the woman, his tone neutral.
“Yes.”
“Hired or indentured?”
“I’ve served Count Norris all my life, as my father and mother did before me,” she said, as if it were something to be proud about.
“You’re a slave, then. Well, let me tell you something that might just surprise you: as soon as this ship entered Blood Bay, your slavery ended. You’re a free woman now, free to seek employment anywhere on my island, and let me assure you that there is much work to be done.” He wouldn’t elaborate on exactly what kind of work could be had, but she’d find out soon enough. He grinned down at the two kids as the servant woman stared in shock. “The children are ours now, and they’ll grow up under our protection and learn our ways. What do you say to that Tim? How would you like to be a real pirate? And you, too, Samantha, though we’ll be callin’ you Sam, I’m sure. I’ve many a woman crew on my ships, and even an officer or two.”
The two children stared at him in shock. “A pirate?” the boy squeaked, eyes as big as hen’s eggs.
“What choice do they have?” the servant woman put in, her face unreadable. “You won’t let any of us leave here, ever.”
“Aye, and that’s the rub, ain’t it?” He turned once again to the finely dressed woman who stood now crying in silence. “And that’s why I don’t ever ransom out prisoners. You’ll spend the rest of your days here, or die. That’s the choice you’ve got to make,” he turned back to the servant woman, “all of you.”
Silence reigned for several breaths before the servant woman said, “If I’m truly free, then I choose to live, Captain. And if you’re a man of your word, I’ll be free to walk off this ship and into that town and look for honest work.”
“Well said! Well spoken!” He nodded to his men. “She’s free to go, so long as she stays on the island.”
With that, and to no one’s surprise—except, of course, her noble-born mistress and the two stunned children—the servant woman released her grip on her charges and walked off the ship. The young girl whimpered a plea as her fingers were torn free from the woman’s skirts, but the servant never looked back.
“Captain Rufio!”
“Aye, Captain!” The captain of the Black Cloud ambled forward, a tankard in one hand, the other resting on the saber at his hip.
“As part of your bonus, if you want her, I give you this woman.” He nodded toward the glowering captive. “She’s got fire in her, that’s plain to see, but enough brains to keep her mouth shut when needs be. Keep her, sell her or give her away, I don’t care. Just don’t let her leave the island.”
“Aye, sir!” He stepped forward and hoisted the struggling woman over his broad shoulder amid the cheers of the crowd. “Mayhap I’ll see if she’s got any more like these two yet in her!”
“A fine plan!” Bloodwind commended, clapping the woman on the rump as Rufio hauled her off.
He turned to the children once again, and he could see in their eyes that he had already won. They had nobody left. Only Captain Bloodwind remained, and he had promised to care for them. He’d done this hundreds of times, and the result of his successes surrounded him, for fully half of his pirate nation had once been lost children, and he their only parent left in the world. They were his family, his blood and his strength.
“So now we’ve got two new members of our family to welcome properly, my mates!” He hoisted the dumbstruck children into his arms and thrust them up for everyone to see. “These here are Tim and Sam. They are ours, and we are theirs. Welcome them properly.”
The crowd roared, and he felt the surge of excitement, fear and wonder shudder through the children. He handed them over to two able men, knowing they would be treated properly. In three or four days, with no sleep and nothing but alcohol in them, they would be ready to swear their lives to him.
Now to business, he thought, leaving the roaring throng by way of the gangplank. As his boots clacked up the stonework quay, the boy he’d sent to scout out the approaching ship ran down to meet him.
“It’s a catboat, sir!” He panted and grabbed his cramping stomach; running to the top of the south point and back so quickly had left him gasping for breath. “A messenger boat. Looks like the one what works the south coast.”
“Well done, Raff!” He tossed the boy a copper, which vanished before it reached the apex of its arc. “Off with you then!”
“Aye, sir!” The boy disappeared into the throng aboard the galleon.
Bloodwind stepped out onto the long pier and strode casually to its end. He let himself wonder what news the boat might bring. His plans in Southaven were tenuous, like picking a pup from a litter of wild dogs: If you picked the right pup, it might serve you well. The wrong one could become a danger, and would have to be killed before it killed you first. But that was something at which Bloodwind was expert—killing first.
The crack of canvas snapped his musing, bringing his eyes up to the small craft as it emerged from the giant mangroves.
The catboat tacked cleanly, cutting through the turquoise water like a saber through yielding flesh. She beat a line straight for the pier, slipping downwind slightly at a perfectly calculated angle. He truly loved to watch these small boats in action—so nimble, so fast and responsive to every adjustment of the tiller. If only he could have a corsair with such responsive agility, there would not be a safe galleon on the Southern Ocean.
When the catboat was three lengths away, he extended his hand, smiling thinly at the man at the tiller. The boat was single handed, her master manning the tiller and sheeting lines simultaneously.
At the last possible moment, the tiller snapped across the cockpit and the man let go the two sheeting lines. The craft rounded up in a heartbeat and, for an instant, stood perfectly still. The helmsman took skilled advantage of that instant of calm, snatching up a small tube and stepping up onto the gunwale of the boat to hand over the scroll case. He was seated again before the craft began to drift, and he sheeted in the sail and darted off downwind.
Bloodwind stared after the small boat, marveling once again at its agility. Finally he noticed the heavy scroll case in his hand. Belaying his usual caution, he cracked the wax seal with his thumbnail, his mind still half occupied with the beauty and grace of the small catboat. His first glance at the parchment made him wonder if he was hallucinating, or if some bewitchment had been cast on the scroll in his hand. He blinked and shook his head, then he focused more closely, and he saw that he held the plans of a ship, a ship like none he had ever seen. For an instant he saw the nimble catboat jibe before the wind, agile and quick, then saw the ship in his hands jibe the same way, her great mainsail sweeping across the deck, the sheeting lines taking the strain of the huge gaff sail as she filled.
“Odea’s scaly hide,” he muttered beneath his breath, staring at the rough sketches. They were not proper plans, nothing he could use to build a ship, but he could see the power in the design. Any true sailor could. It was as if a smaller boat had grown, gaining the power and strength of a galleon while keeping the agility and grace of the tiny catboat.
“This is it!” he proclaimed to no one in particular. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.” He looked at the plans more thoroughly, fighting the stiff breeze for possession of the priceless parchment. “This is the ship that will bring me the entire Southern Ocean!”
CHAPTER Ten
Flotsam and Dreams
Wind tore at the shutters of the Galloping Starfish as if all the demons of the Nine Hells were trying to rip them free. The hiss of rain rose and fell with the gusts of the last storm of the season, a storm proving to be more than just a late squall. Old Kurian, the local priest of Odea, had warned of its arrival, so Southaven was lashed down tighter than a spinster’s corset. There was nothing left to do but sit in the Starfish and drink spiced rum.
Cynthia cho
se to ride the storm out here rather than up on the hill. Good company, good liquor and good conversation were helping the storm pass quickly, while Mouse did his best to enliven the room with impromptu merriment. He wobbled around, perching on tankards and glasses, stealing sips of rum, ale or spiced wine. The more he drank the straighter he flew, and the better he danced when the sailors joined in and struck up their pipes and fiddles. The music and lively tales were distracting her from her woes, for it had been more than three weeks since the messenger left to fetch the half elven shipwright, and still no word had arrived.
When the door of the tavern slammed open everyone jumped, thinking that the storm had finally won its fight with Brulo’s shutters. The gust sent Mouse right into a serving girl’s tray of tankards, but she just plucked him from a pot of ale and handed him over to Cynthia.
A tall figure in a sodden slicker stepped into the light, braced himself against the door and pushed it closed against the driving wind. When the latch clicked home, he turned and stopped, every eye in the tavern on him. Only the foolish or insane ventured out in a hurricane; everyone was interested to know whether an idiot or a lunatic stood before them. Several began formulating opinions as he dropped a huge waxed canvas satchel, doffed his hat and bowed gracefully.
“My apologies for the mistreatment of your door, Master Innkeeper,” the man said, divesting himself of his dripping outer garments and hanging them on pegs. He shook his head, his long, flaxen hair shedding water in a halo of tiny droplets. “I but touched the latch and the wind snatched the handle from my grasp like an eagle plucking a trout from a stream.” He bent to pick up his satchel, but stopped when he realized everyone was still staring at him. “If the wood was damaged by my lapse, I will happily pay for its repair.”
“Yer pardon, sir,” Brulo said, rounding the bar to greet the newcomer. “We rarely get visitors in weather such as this. Come in and have a seat by the fire. Why, the roads must be a bog in this rain.” He ushered the stranger to the hearth, calling for one of the maids to fetch a towel.
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