Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Headin’ nor’west. Looks like a fishin’ smack. She’s leavin’ us behind.”

  “Well, that settles it. She’s no threat, at least not to us.”

  “Meaning exactly what, Captain?” Cynthia asked, concentrating on not succumbing to another bout of nausea after watching Brelak’s breathtaking climb.

  “Meaning she’s either not a pirate or she’s deliverin’ what they’ve already taken from some poor merchant.” He nodded up the coast. “Many’s the small harbor where they won’t ask questions if a small boat delivers a load of silks or teakwood. They just pay ’em about half the market value, then sell it again to another merchant captain.”

  “There’s a story of a cask of Nort’amber whiskey that was pirated and resold and repirated so many times, that it started out a ten-year old, and was finally sold at market as an eighteen!”

  “Not bloody likely, Koybur,” Brelak said, his feet back firmly on the poop deck. He handed the glass back to the captain and grinned at the old joke. “Bloodwind would’a drunk it himself if it ever made it past a twelve-year-old.”

  “As much as I’d like to listen to tales, gentlemen, I think I need to get back to my cabin.” Cynthia tried to smile, but her knees quaked so badly she could only manage a grimace. “I need to lie down.”

  “Oh, come on, Cyn. The air’s doin’ ya good! Let me get you a cuppa tea and a biscuit. It’ll settle yer stomach.”

  “Koybur, I don’t think I can stand—”

  “Oh, the biscuits ain’t that bad. I’ll put a dollop o’ honey on it and it’ll go down like Marta’s scones.”

  “No, Koybur. I mean… I really don’t… think I can…” Cynthia tried to force her words out, tried to focus on Koybur’s face, but the bright sunlight dimmed, and the blue water went gray. What little strength remained in her limbs melted away, and it felt as if the waves beneath the keel came up her legs and engulfed her. She felt herself falling, and heard a stream of curses before her senses finally fled.

  CHAPTER Fifteen

  The Jaws of the Trap

  A swarthy man stood abaft of the main sheets of the small fishing smack, leaning against the creaking boom and chewing a piece of sun-dried fish. The little vessel heeled on a broad reach, making his perch quite comfortable, the boom resting firmly against the seat of his ragged trousers. He looked forward, then aft, eying the angle on the headland and the distant speck of white on the horizon, the topsails of the Winter Gale.

  “Looks like we’re leavin’ ’em, sure enough.” The short man at the tiller grinned up at him, showing the gaps in his broken and yellowed teeth.

  The swarthy man made a noncommittal noise and took another bite of the salty fish.

  “Wha’d you ’spect, Vash?” a third man said from his position within the boat’s tiny cabin. “Nothin’ but a man-o-war could catch this li’l smack.” He patted the hatch combing affectionately. “Fastest li’l boats e’r made, like.”

  “Nix on the talk o’ warships, Berl,” the man on the boom said around his mouthful of fish. He spat a bone overboard and glared at both of them. “Your flappin’ mouth brings one down on us and I’ll have your liver on a stick for fish bait.” He shook his head in disgust, thinking, Why can’t these two tongue-wagging old women be more like Wopek?

  Wopek just lay in his hammock snoring, swinging with the sharp motions of the smack. Granted, the man was a desert savage, but he didn’t yammer on like a fishwife either, and he had some skill with those two funny-looking, backward-bent knives of his.

  “Aye, Capt’n Karek,” Berl said, his tone less than subordinate.

  “I am captain, Berl, so don’t forget it!” Karek held no true rank, but he was in command. That didn’t mean they had to like it, only that they had to obey. “Now get some sleep. You’re on the tiller for the next watch.” Vash laughed at the other man’s scowl, but cut it short as the toe of Karek’s boot prodded him from behind. “Tend your sheets, Vash! I wanna pass close enough to Point Haze to wet it with a stream o’ piss.”

  “Pissin’ distance it is, Capt’n,” Vash said cheerfully, hauling in a hand’s breadth of the main sheet and steering half a point to windward without a fault. Karek grunted with satisfaction; at least the scupper dog’s good for somethin’.

  The rocks off Point Haze induced larger ships into giving the headland a wide berth, but a small boat could cut inside the reef and use the profound cape effect to dash up the coast at a reckless pace for five leagues. Not that they were really in a hurry, but time ashore beat time on a small boat with two men who wouldn’t shut up.

  Karek looked astern again, but the sails of Winter Gale had vanished over the horizon. “Wish we was huntin’ instead of settin’ a trap for that Gods-damned Morrgrey,” he muttered, spitting the last few fish bones over the side.

  “Aye, Capt’n. Huntin’. That’s what I’d rather be doin’!” The helmsman chuckled to himself, but Karek just glared at the man’s back.

  Damned chattermouth, he thought. Eight more days on this damned little smack before we’re in Tsing, and I gotta listen to that mouth the whole way.

  But four men did seem overkill for one fat Morrgrey. He glared harder. Maybe Vash would get clumsy tending his jib sheets and fall overboard… by accident… at night... with a knife in his ribs.

  *

  As evening faded into night, an unlit ship with her hull and sails painted the color of midnight sailed past Rockport harbor two hundred leagues north of Point Haze. The ship passed the harbor’s mouth, rounded the great rock that earned the harbor its name and turned toward shore. The huge promontory sheltered the ship in its lee; a perfect anchorage for delivering a dangerous or illicit cargo.

  Sails were furled as the anchor splashed into the inky depths, all without a shout or call. The anchor bit into the sand, but even before the ship settled on her rode, a launch swung outboard and lowered into the gently rolling swell. The creek and groan of wood against wood and the rattle of metal buckles and scabbards were the only sounds as the boat shoved off and the oarsmen pulled for the beach. The rhythmic hiss of the surf masked the rasp of the boat’s keel grinding upon the sand and the splashes of a dozen sailors pulling the boat ashore.

  A man strode forward flanked by several others; tall, dark and powerfully built, he had a self-assured bearing. This was Tyhoon, boatswain of the Black Guard. He stopped a few yards up the beach and listened for a moment, but nothing reached his ears except the hiss of the surf.

  “Good,” Tyhoon said, turning back to his crew. “Fala, Brudie and Jeb with me. The rest of you stay with the launch. Anyone comes down the beach without whistlin’ a boarding pipe’s ditty gets a bolt in ’im. A’right?”

  A quiet course of aye’s confirmed the orders.

  “A’right. With me, then.” He strode into the night, three shapes following closely.

  He found the beach trail easily, and started up the sandy path over the hill. As the trail crested the hill and started down the other side, the thrill of a whippoorwill stopped them in their tracks. He whistled a boarding pipe’s three note call into the night and waited.

  A cloaked figure stepped from the shadows and moved toward the group, his steps as silent as the night breeze. He stopped two strides from Tyhoon.

  “Well?”

  “Bloodwind’s got work for ya, Yodrin. Two, maybe three days, the Winter Gale’ll sail into Rockport. The owner, some rich girl, has got plans to build a couple-a new ships. A new kind-a ship. Bloodwind wants people here and in Tsing to get hired on as crew and officers so we can take these new ships for corsairs. He wants you to get picked as a captain or mate.”

  The man paused, but Yodrin didn’t respond. The silence grew oppressive, and Tyhoon shifted uncomfortably.

  “Is that all?” Yodrin finally asked.

  “Aye, sir, that’s all. We’re to leave four men here to pose as crew for hire, and you’re to pick up an officer’s slot.”

  “Good.” Yodrin took a step forward and plunged a knife into Tyho
on’s stomach, just below the sternum. He silenced the gasp with his other hand, supporting the larger man’s weight with the blade as his victim’s knees buckled.

  “This is the price for using my name outside Blood Bay,” he said to the dying man, just loud enough for the others to hear.

  As Tyhoon’s last breath escaped between Yodrin’s fingers, the assassin let the corpse drop to the sandy trail. The others backed away a step, shocked at the incident but not willing to confront Yodrin for the murder of their boatswain. After all, one of them might be promoted as a consequence. The assassin stooped to clean his blade on the dead man’s tunic before addressing the others.

  “Pick him up.” It was not a request. When two of them had him by the arms and one held his legs, Yodrin said, “Good. Now back to the ship.”

  “You… you’re comin’ wi’ us, sir?” one of the men asked as they started forward.

  “I will go to Tsing. Four are enough to hire here. More will cause suspicion.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  The grim procession followed him up over the crest of the hill and down to the beach where the others waited. Without being told to do so, Yodrin whistled a boarding call as they neared the men waiting beside the boat.

  “How’d he know to do that?” Fala whispered to Jeb.

  “Because your bosun was as subtle as he was secretive,” Yodrin said without turning. “I was not twenty paces away when he barked out his orders. It’s a wonder the entire Rockport militia didn’t hear. Put his body in the launch.”

  He paused to survey the others.

  “Which of you were told they would stay here to pose as crew to be hired?” Four sailors stepped forward, one of them a woman. “Fine. Now, Rockport is too small to have four sailors just walk in without an explanation, so here is your story. You were all crew on the timber hauler Blakely Boy. She was run aground near Bird Bay five days ago and lost on the rocks. The captain’s name was Thorn, and he was drunk when the ship grounded. He’d put an inexperienced hand on watch and gone to his bunk. The Iron Point Timber Company sent a man who fired the captain on the spot, and gave you all your walking notices and your back pay. Now you’re looking for work. Got it?”

  “Where was the ship comin’ from?” one of the men asked.

  “Good.” Yodrin nodded, obviously appreciating the man’s willingness to take on the part. “She was outbound from Beriknor with spruce spars, bound for Fornice. Some prince down there’s building warships. The cargo was lost, as were the ship’s papers. No lives lost. Any more questions?”

  “Who was the mate?”

  “A woman named Kali Drin. She caught a caravan northward, and may be in Tsing when I get there.”

  “You mean she’s a real person?” the same man asked. “This ain’t a made-up story?”

  “Of course it’s real. What kind of idiot would believe it if it weren’t?”

  “What if one of the real crew shows up in Rockport?”

  “That shouldn’t happen, but if it does, cut his throat before he can smoke you out. There’s a nice deep sinkhole just west of town. I’ve used it before. Make sure the body stays sunk if you have to use it. Anything else?”

  There were no other questions.

  “Good. Now, play yourselves as mates. You’ve sailed before and you know your business and each others’ as well. That’ll make you more likely to all get hired together. Got it?”

  They all said yes, though some puzzled looks passed between them. Yodrin eyed them dubiously; if they failed to get hired there would be no big problem, but if they were smoked out as imposters, the Flaxal woman would be wary when she arrived in Tsing.

  “You’ve got two days to blend in and get your stories straight. Make up some names of other crewmen, and talk a lot. Spend some money in the pubs, like a sailor would if he’d been set ashore with all his back pay. By the time the Winter Gale gets here, you’ll be solid citizens. All right?”

  They all agreed, a bit more confidently this time.

  “Good. Now, off with you. Don’t go into town until midmorning.”

  They all nodded and vanished into the darkness. Yodrin hissed orders at the skiff’s crew, and the boat pushed through the gentle surf, its oars biting into the deep black water. The assassin crouched in the stern of the launch, eyes forward, his agile mind racing far ahead to his landfall in Tsing, the greatest city on the south coast, and the seat of the Empire. Yes, a fertile hunting ground indeed…

  His thoughts were so focused that he did not notice the dull red glow emanating from the eye sockets of the magically animated water construct lurking beside the dark hull of the Black Guard. The translucent reptilian head turned lazily in the water, its gaze taking in the image of the approaching skiff and the tall man kneeling in the stern.

  *

  “Miss Cynthia!” Brelak’s broad knuckles rapped on the cabin door smartly. “Miss Cynthia, we’re comin’ into Rockport. We’ll be passin’ the outer mark any moment.” He tried the handle again, but it would not yield. She had been locked in her cabin for more than three days now, allowing no one but Koybur inside.

  “Miss Cynthia, you’ve gotta answer me! Everyone’s a mite worried ’bout you. Lockin’ yer door ain’t doin’ nobody no good.” Still she would not answer. He gnawed his thumbnail nervously. Koybur said she was in no danger, that she was keeping some water down, but losing weight. Still, he worried. She did not have much weight to lose, and she’d been so weak at the Shattered Isles.

  She had been mortified at her fainting spell, and though there were rumors, they were not the kind she feared. They were all concerned for her, from the captain to the lowest cabin boy.

  “Miss Cynthia, if you don’t open this door to me, I’ll break it down. I swear, I will.”

  “No, you will not, Master Brelak,” came a weak reply from within. “I told Koybur to bring me soap and water. Where is he?”

  “Probably tryin’ to talk that skinflint of a steward out of a whole bucket of fresh water.” The ship’s motion changed, and Brelak knew they had passed the breakwater. “There, Miss Cynthia, we’re in the harbor. Can you feel the change? You’ll be feelin’ right as rain in no time.”

  “After Koybur returns, bring me something to eat, something mild, like porridge and tea. But not until after Koybur returns. Do you understand, Master Brelak? Not until after.”

  “Aye, Mistress. I understand.”

  He walked away, wondering why Cynthia wouldn’t let him help her, and feeling about as useful as an anchor on a sinking ship. If he could just talk to her, maybe read to her, he could distract her from her misery…

  He heard the bump-thud of someone coming down the corridor, then another thud, the splash of water hitting the deck and a stream of curses that could only have come from Koybur. His lopsided form lurched down the companionway and stopped, his one good eye fixing upon Brelak in surprise.

  “What’re you doin’ down here?”

  “I just figgered since we was near shore, she might be feelin’ up to some comp’ny.”

  “Not with her pride, my friend.” Koybur edged past the big man, slopping some water on Brelak’s boots. “Until she’s feelin’ herself and set to rights with a judicious application of soap an’ water, she’d not let the emperor himself come in that cabin.”

  “She said to bring some food once you’d seen her, so I’ll roust the cook and see what he can make up quick-like. Her pride’s gonna be the death of her if she ain’t careful,” he said, turning for the companionway steps.

  “Just knock when you bring the food,” Koybur said. “I’ll wager it’ll take longer to scrub five days of seasickness off her than it’ll take to make breakfast.”

  Brelak nodded, wondering how anyone as young as Cynthia could have built up such a store of stubbornness.

  *

  When evening found the Winter Gale swinging gently on her mooring, and Cynthia had scrubbed, eaten two meals, and dressed in clean clothes, she finally made an appearance on deck. It would be a
brief appearance, for she’d already ordered Captain Uben to prepare the launch and a shore party to escort her into town. To her surprise, the entire ship’s company had turned out for her departure. She would rather have taken a dozen lashes than face them after her disgraceful fainting episode; she knew what sailors thought of weakness, and what they thought of landsmen.

  “Mistress Flaxal,” Uben said with a tip of his cap, “the launch is at your disposal, and the crew wishes to pay their respects.” Mouse chose that moment to flutter down from the rigging, tooting a shrill note on a pilfered boatswain’s whistle. He landed on her shoulder and danced a jig, tooting his whistle again and again.

  Laughter and comments rang out from the crew.

  “That little rascal”

  “That’s where me whistle went!”

  Cynthia shushed the little sprite and tried to snatch the whistle, but he ducked and wobbled away on his tattered wings, continuing his shrill tune. She took a breath and turned back to Captain Uben.

  “Thank you, Captain, and please relay my regrets to the crew. I’m in a rush. Their respects are appreciated.” She moved to the boarding ladder, oblivious to the crestfallen faces in her wake. A low murmur swept the deck, silenced immediately by the boatswain. The only sound she could hear as she stood looking down at the waiting launch was the incessant two-tone toot of Mouse with his whistle. Koybur and Brelak sat in the boat with half a dozen oarsmen and a boy to tend the lines.

  “Please send a messenger around midmorning tomorrow, Captain. I should have an estimate of our departure time by then.” She looked dubiously at the haphazard cluster of pale stone structures lining the waterfront of Rockport. “I don’t suspect we’ll have much to choose from, so my guess is that we may sail morning after tomorrow.”

  “We’ve made good time so far, Mistress. If you’d like to take an extra day to—”

  “Morning after tomorrow will be fine, thank you, Captain.” She swung out on the chains and made her way down without pausing or accepting a hand to aid her descent. She sat stone-faced and staring forward, knees shaking under her skirt, her cheeks glowing in the waning evening light.