Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Flaxal?”

  Bloodwind’s attention snapped from the young woman’s image to the wide eyes of his slave. He jerked the chain savagely, snapping her attention away from the pool.

  “You will keep silent, Camilla,” he said, pulling her close enough that Hydra could taste the girl’s delectable scent on her tongue. “And you will keep that name a secret, or I will feed you to Hydra one piece at a time!”

  Hydra licked her lips, but knew the threat was empty. He prized the girl too much to sacrifice her for such a transgression, but he could not let the name of Flaxal become known to the rank and file of his pirate nation. No emperor’s navy had sunk more corsairs than Orin Flaxal. Only a select few knew that the line of Flaxal had not been completely destroyed.

  The girl averted her eyes, submissive and silent, but her gaze slid back to the wavering image of the woman on the ship as Bloodwind’s attention was diverted.

  “Which direction will they sail, Hydra?” he asked the sorceress.

  “They will sail to the north, my captain. The hold is loaded with teakwood and spices; these cargos hold no value south of the Shattered Isles.”

  “Why would she leave when the keels of her ships are just being laid?” Bloodwind stepped back from the pool, tugging absently at both his beard and the golden chain. “What does she seek from the north?”

  “I know not, my captain.” Hydra slumped against the edge of the scrying pool, her breath coming in a rattling hiss. “I can follow the progress of the Winter Gale, but I will require sustenance before I wield such power.”

  “Keep your eyes on that ship, Hydra. I’ll bring you what you need.” Golden chains rattled as he pulled his slave out of her domain. “But fail me, and I’ll lock you down here to starve.”

  “I will not fail you,” she said as the thick oaken door slammed closed. Her black nails raked furrows in the stone of the pool’s pedestal as her rattling breath evolved into a wet-throated hiss. “My captain.”

  *

  Cynthia gripped the taffrail with bridled exhilaration as the rocks of Southaven’s breakwater passed abeam of the Winter Gale. The heavily laden galleon rounded the point and began her rolling, roaring way, splitting the great swells of the Southern Ocean. This felt nothing like cutting through the tiny chop of the harbor in Koybur’s little boat.

  She looked up at the rig, at the men scrambling over the yards. The entire vessel heeled sharply as canvas cracked, filled and was sheeted home. Cynthia clenched the rail with renewed vigor, this time to keep herself from falling. She had watched ships at sea since she was old enough to hold up a spyglass, but never realized just how much everything moved.

  Mouse wasn’t helping matters by flitting and fluttering around her like a moth about a flame. He had not been to sea since the day of his tragic encounter with the business end of a broom. With his damaged wings he had to be careful not to get blown away, but he could not resist flitting around his mistress, doing tricks and hanging onto her hair.

  “How are ya likin’ it?”

  She turned her attention to Koybur, and then back to her surroundings as a great swell grasped the ship like a toy, pushing it forward in a rolling, pitching, corkscrew motion.

  “I don’t know yet, Koybur.” She stared at him in wonder, standing with his one good hand on the aft stay, puffing on his pipe. He looked so relaxed, as if part of the ship. She tried to emulate his easy stance, grateful that her skirts covered her shaking knees. “Trying to get my sea legs, I guess.”

  “Takes longer with some than others. Don’t worry if you don’t feel quite right. It’ll pass.”

  “I hope it passes sooner rather than later.” She tried to look beyond the rolling deck, away from the men scrambling up and down the rigging, piling on even more sail. “If it doesn’t, I’m not going to be much of a—”

  “Mistress Flaxal!”

  Her eyes jerked from the horizon to the burly captain of the Winter Gale as he strode across the poop deck without even bracing himself. If Koybur looked to be part of the ship, then Captain Uben surely was the ship. He stood before her, hands on hips, swaying perfectly with the motion of the vessel.

  “Yes, Captain Uben?” She concentrated on meeting his steely gaze, pushing down the rising discomfort in her stomach with a forceful swallow.

  “I’ll have a word with ye, if I may, regarding this little excursion.”

  “Of course.” She turned to face him more fully, bracing her backside against the rail, her back to the rolling swells. “There’s no problem, I hope.”

  “Meanin’ no insult, Mistress, but you bein’ here’s already a problem. My officers have been displaced to crew’s quarters, which are overcrowded; we left port early, which didn’t give the crew time to spend their pay properly; and, well, I’m nary too comfortable in havin’ the owner of the Winter Gale aboard.”

  “Let me assure you, Captain, I have no intention of—”

  “What you intend is of little import, Mistress,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing at her. “And while I respect what you are tryin’ to do, I’ve got to clear up a sore point. The Winter Gale is my ship, Mistress Flaxal. She may belong to you when she’s inshore, and I appreciate the money you put into her this last fortnight, but when she’s on the sea, she’s my ship, hull and sticks. If you can’t agree to that, then you better just fire me now and find yerself a new captain.”

  “As I was saying, Captain, I have no intention of telling you how to run your ship while she’s at sea. I have no experience, and it would be ludicrous for me to advise you.” She tried to smile disarmingly, but was worried that she only achieved a grimace. “In fact, I would appreciate very much if you would advise me. Our trip will take weeks, if not months. In that time I need to learn as much as I can about how my business is really run. I know we’ll lose time by ducking into harbors where we will not be trading goods, but the loss on the cargo is mine. You and your crew will receive full sea pay for every day we are ashore trying to hire crew for my new ships.”

  “Well!” His stern mien suddenly split into a grin. “That’ll keep the grumblin’ down to a mumble. Thank’e fer yer time, Mistress.” He tipped the brim of his cap and returned to the quarterdeck with an easy rolling gait.

  “That was well done,” Koybur said, his tone low as he joined her at the rail. “He’ll give you no trouble from now on, but pickin’ up the crew’s tickets while we’re ashore could cost you a pretty penny.”

  “No choice,” she said, turning back to fix her gaze on the horizon. “If I didn’t, we’d have a mutiny on our hands in a month.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’d happen, but you’ll have a happier crew for it.” He looked at her sidelong, squinting at her pale face and white-knuckled grip. “You feeling okay, lass?”

  “No, Koybur. I’m feeling like— like I’m going to—”

  The sea finally had its way, and Cynthia retched unceremoniously over the rail. Koybur kept a hand on her back, steadying her, and offered what encouragement he could while Mouse peeked over her shoulder and made a face. When she was finished, Koybur offered her a handkerchief.

  “I think I should go below,” she said, steadying herself on shaky knees.

  “That’ll only make it worse, lass. You’d best stay up on deck, maybe amidships where the motion’s less, or take a turn at the wheel. That usually helps ship’s sickness more than anything.”

  “And have the whole crew laughing at me? No, thank you. I’d rather be sick than have them all watch me try not to be sick.” Mouse flitted to Koybur’s shoulder, frowning at her condition. He clearly didn’t want to go below, but he didn’t want to leave her either. “Stay up on deck, Mouse, but have a care. Don’t get blown away.”

  “Well, suit yourself. It should pass in a day or two, anyway.” Koybur offered his good arm for support. “Here, let me help you down the steps.”

  She managed to get to her cabin without retching again, but it wasn’t long before she sat heaving into a pail between her knees
, wondering how fulfilling a dream could feel so awful.

  *

  The sun had just passed its zenith when a small fishing smack rounded the last turn into Blood Bay and cut a line straight for the stone quay. The lookouts had done their job, and Bloodwind stood waiting, a scowl creasing his features. He had no idea why the Flaxal wench had left Southaven, which left him impotent to respond to the unexpected move. Everyone knew Bloodwind’s foul moods, and avoided him like they would a hungry shark.

  The slave girl Camilla would have been a convenient outlet for his temper, but she was the only person on his island at least partially immune to his rages. Bloodwind valued her in ways that had nothing to do with slavery, or even his unbridled lust. He had long practice in breaking the psyches of children he recruited into his pirate nation, but Camilla had never broken, had never been seduced by his promises of riches or comfort. He valued that strength above all else, so his temper found other targets.

  Bloodwind watched the boat’s approach, too preoccupied with his own fuming anger to appreciate the pilot’s skill. The little craft rounded up into the wind, and drifted right up to the dock. The pilot threw a loose mooring line over the rusty iron bollard and stepped ashore.

  “From Southaven, Captain,” he said, extending a wax-sealed tube to Bloodwind with a flourish.

  Bloodwind stood looking at the scroll case with trepidation and a tight smile. His desire to read the contents tempered by his usual caution, he told the messenger, “Open it.”

  The man’s smile faded, but he cracked the seal with a thumbnail and handed it over. A single rolled parchment fell into Bloodwind’s open hand as he up-ended the tube. The pirate captain ignored the messenger’s discomfort as he unrolled the scroll to read.

  Bloodwind:

  The Flaxal girl leaves on the Winter Gale by the time you receive this note. She is bound west and then north in search of crew and officers to man the two new vessels that are being constructed. Her first port of call will be Scarport, then Snake Harbor, before crossing the Shattered Isles and rounding the peninsula. Their final destination is Tsing, where they will sell their cargo and search for more crew, though they may stop at any of the smaller harbors on the way north. I know not when she will return to Southaven, but will contact you via messenger when she does.

  The note was not signed, but that was usual. What was not divulged on paper could not be used in retaliation. He reread the note once, and a slow smile spread across his thin lips.

  “A hiring expedition,” he said to no one, crumpling the scroll and stuffing it into a pocket of his doublet. “Excellent!”

  He turned and strode back up the stone pier, shouting for one of the idle cabin boys to fetch a messenger, quill and scroll. It was too late to get anyone to Snake Harbor or Scarport, but he would have men waiting in every port from there to Tsing, posing as able seamen, officers and even captains, all ready to hire. Then a deliciously devious thought struck him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  “Yodrin…” he thought aloud, his thin smile turning to a feral grin. “He would make a fine captain for one of those new ships, I think.”

  He shouted again to have another messenger brought. With Yodrin and a few others aboard the two new ships, Bloodwind might very well be able to add them both to his fleet without risking a single vessel. With surprise on their side, taking the ships and delivering them to Blood Bay with half-crews should be easy. And what a delicious victory it would be over the last of the Flaxal line.

  “And I get the two fastest, most maneuverable corsairs in the Southern Ocean!” he said with a laugh. He strode into his palace, his mood much-improved, itching to draft the messages that would set the trap.

  *

  The stink of sickness hit Koybur like a wall as he edged through the door into Cynthia’s cabin bearing a steaming pitcher and a mug in his one good hand. He frowned at the noisome odor, the thick air and the low moaning that emanated from the disheveled lump of skirts in the corner.

  “Cyn?” Receiving no answer, he put the pitcher down on a recessed shelf made for charts and worked himself down to one knee; no mean task, since his maimed leg barely bent at all. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m bloody not bloody all right,” she croaked from beneath a head of matted hair. “I’m sick as a dog!”

  She looked up at him and he knew immediately that this was not a simple case of sea sickness. She sat with a bucket propped between her knees, her head bent over it. He didn’t have to look inside to know she’d emptied every last drop from her stomach and then some. Her skin shone pale, her cheeks and eyes were sunken, and utter exhaustion lay upon her like a blanket. He felt her forehead, and his hand came away coated with chill sweat. Even the small movement of looking up sent her into another bout of heaving.

  “We gotta get somethin’ in ya, lass. Even if it comes right back up, it’ll soothe yer throat.”

  “I can’t,” she moaned, shaking her head without raising her face from the bucket.

  “Come on now, you’ve got to try. The cook’s made some nice beef broth. You lose a lot a salt when yer sick like that, and whatever ya may think now, it’ll taste good.”

  He helped her to sit upright and placed the empty cup in her shaking hands. The pitcher held warm broth, and he poured half a measure into her cup. Her tremors set the liquid dancing.

  “Sip slowly. If you get sick, use the broth to rinse and spit. It helps to get the taste out of your mouth. I’ll see about getting you a clean bucket and a washcloth.”

  “How long, Koybur?” she asked weakly as she sipped from the cup.

  “How long what?”

  “How long until we reach Scarport? I can’t remember if I slept or not.”

  “We’ve only been on the sea about twelve hours, Cyn. We’ve got another day and a half to Scarport. Now shut up and drink some of that broth. You need it.”

  He took a moment to open one of the ports in an attempt to freshen the fetid air before he left the cabin in search of a clean bucket and a wash rag. It was going to be a very long first voyage for Cynthia Flaxal.

  CHAPTER Twelve

  Dashed Dreams and Appetites Unsated

  Cynthia’s knuckles shone white as bleached whalebone on the companionway railing as she forced herself up the steps. With nothing passing her lips for two days except water and a bit of broth, her strength equaled that of any stout cobweb on the ship. She climbed grimly, knees quaking with every step, grateful that there were only seven. The hatchway onto the deck stood at the top of those steps; a gateway to fresh air, sunshine and a flat sea.

  “A flat sea,” she mumbled. Those words had become her litany, wishful thinking until they rounded Scar Point early that morning. She had felt the change in the motion of the Winter Gale, and her nausea slowly subsided. Two cups of broth had finally stayed down, and she had begun to think she would survive, at least in body, until they reached Scarport.

  The ornate bronze latch felt cool in her hand as she grasped it and stood for a moment, catching her breath and collecting her courage. She opened the hatch and stepped onto the deck without pitching flat onto her face, which was quite an accomplishment, all things considered.

  Around the deck, the crew bustled about their tasks, cleaning and polishing, swabbing and oiling. A few glanced her way, smiled politely and nodded or tipped their caps. She knew what they were thinking. They all knew she’d been sick. Here stood the Mistress of House Flaxal, daughter of a seamage, and she couldn’t manage a two-day sail in good weather without puking up her guts. Mistress in name only, they would say. Mistress, but no sailor.

  No captain.

  Not ever.

  She walked carefully to the starboard railing and gripped it with all her strength. Mouse landed on her shoulder with a cry of glee, dancing a jig and pulling on her ear, all smiles and sunshine. She tried to smile back, but couldn’t. At least some happiness had come from this trip; Mouse had gotten to go to sea again. She hoped he would stay aboard when she w
ent ashore… and didn’t return.

  Cynthia gripped the rail and stared out at the coastline: green bluffs dotted with fig plantations, the swaying sentinels of coconut palms lining the shore. The water shone a sparkling azure, shallow compared to the depths of the open ocean. Scar Point sheltered the wide bay of Scarport from the prevailing easterlies, but it boasted only a small port, and had little protection in a southerly blow. She knew it all. She’d studied the charts and imagined it from the diatribes of a thousand sailors, but she’d never seen it until now.

  And she never would again.

  “You feelin’ all right now, Cyn?” Koybur asked from the foot of the steps. She’d heard him descend, but didn’t want to turn around to face him.

  With naught but her misery to occupy her thoughts for the past two days, she had dwelled on her own misgivings, her weaknesses and her losses. Who was she to think she could do this thing she’d set out to do? A strip of a girl, barely a woman, and suddenly a mistress of ships. What had she ever done to earn the respect of these men and women who had spent their lives on the sea?

  Who was she?

  Nobody.

  What was she?

  Nothing.

  “You still look a little pale, but we’ll get some food in you soon enough. You got a lot of eatin’ to make up for, and not but today and tomorrow to do it. We’re sailin’ fer Snake Harbor with the mornin’ tide day after tomorrow.”

  “Without me,” she said.

  “What?” Koybur’s voice was flat and hard. “Whaddya mean, without you? This whole expedition’s fer you, lass. You can’t leave it!”

  “Sure I can, Koybur,” she said with a shrug. “You know more about who and what we need than I do. You can do the hiring, and I’ll take a caravan overland back to Southaven. You don’t need me.”

  “Don’t need you! What are you thinkin’, lass?” He grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him. Mouse flipped from her shoulder and flittered to a nearby ratline, staring at the two in shock. “You givin’ up after two stinkin’ days of pukin’ yer guts into a bucket? You want to go back to your big house on the hill and rot away in your tight-laced finery like yer gram?”