Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Lunch! Koybur! Wow, everyone’s here!” She whirled in a circle, letting her robe flap in the wind, oblivious to the fact that the breeze pressed her thin nightgown to her skin, cutting a very fine outline of what lay beneath. She stopped when Feldrin’s huge hands clapped her shoulders tightly so that her robe blew back around her body. “What? Oh, nobody else is having lunch?”

  “You’re feeling fine, I see,” Koybur said, flipping the little table open and bracing the legs. Cook put the tray down and she could see there were thick slabs of mutton, spiced potatoes, greens and sliced apple all vying for space with two thick biscuits and a cup of the fruity concoction they drank to stave off scurvy.

  “Yeah. Hungry though. Wow, food! My favorite dish!” She sat right down on the deck in front of the low table, crossing her legs in a most unladylike fashion. Luckily, her long nightgown and robe covered her adequately. She speared a thick slab of mutton and bit off a corner. It was wonderfully tender, which either meant it was well-cooked or rotten. She hoped it was the former, but it tasted so good that she really didn’t care. Mouse fluttered down to the edge of her plate and tucked right in, scooping handfuls of potatoes into his face. She laughed at his antics, cutting a small piece of meat for him.

  “She’s really loopy, ain’t she?” Koybur asked Vulta.

  “Well, she asked me if she could go swimming, so I think that’s a yes. I think she’s okay, but she’s seeing things that aren’t there. She said there were things under the ship and wanted to go swimming with them.”

  “They are under there. They’re always under there, Koybur. Really.” Cynthia glared at Vulta’s skepticism and stuffed a forkful of potatoes into her mouth. They were spiced with garlic and swimming with butter. “They’re really fun to sail with. Their hands are so soft.” She gave a little full-body shiver and hugged herself with the remembered sensation of a thousand hands buoying her along under the water.

  “See what I mean?” Vulta shook her head and grinned. “Like she’s three sheets to the wind.”

  “Well, someone should watch over her until she’s back in bed.” The crippled man shrugged and looked at others. “I don’t think I could stop her if she decided to take a dip, and I wouldn’t put money on you right now, Master Brelak, so who gets the duty?”

  “I’ll stay with her, but I’d welcome an extra hand,” Brelak said, leaning casually against the bulwark. “Karek? You’re not on duty, are you?”

  “No, sir. Not ’til third watch. I was jist workin’ a new monkey’s fist into the bell rope. Be happy ta watch over her.”

  “Good! I’m overdue for a date with my hammock.” Vulta waved and descended the steps to the main deck.

  The others paid their respects and went below as well, leaving Karek and Feldrin to watch over Cynthia while she finished her meal.

  “You been here before, Feldrin?” she asked, spearing an apple slice and taking a bite.

  “Many times, Miss Cynthia. It’s the trade route from the north to the Southern Ocean, unless yer in a ship that’ll sail better than six points to the wind.”

  “That island. The one with the smoke.” She indicated the one she meant by pointing a forkful of potatoes. “Does it always smoke?”

  “Lots of the islands smoke, Mistress,” Karek put in before the big man could answer. “Some smoke more, some less. That’n’s lousy with cannibals. I been close on the windward side and with a glass you can see the skulls of their meals on sticks all up and down the beach. You won’t e’er catch me on that island, not fer all the gold in Odea’s private vaults.”

  “And does the smoke always have a face?” she asked, looking up at her two experts as she sliced and sampled another bite of mutton.

  “A face?” Karek and Feldrin exchanged skeptical glances then looked to the towering column of smoke trailing up from the caldera of Plume Island.

  “I don’t see it, Mistress,” Karek answered, keeping his face neutral. He cast a glance at Brelak. “Jist looks like smoke to me.”

  “What about you, Feldrin? Do you see anything in the smoke, or is the tea making me see things that aren’t there?”

  He looked to her, not expecting such lucidity.

  “There!” Her fork clattered to the plate as she lurched to her feet and then to the railing. Her finger pointed like a wind vane to the looming cloud. “There. Tell me you see it, Feldrin.”

  The two men were at her side in an instant, far more concerned with keeping her aboard than scrutinizing some sulfurous cloud. Once they each had a hand on her, however, they both let their eyes drift up to the billowing cloud.

  “No. No, I don’t see it, Miss Cynthia.” Brelak squinted hard, straining eyes that could spot a sail from the foretop at three leagues, but he saw no mysterious face in the smoke of the volcano.

  “There you are!” she said, snapping his attention. But now she stretched one hand down over the bulwark, down toward the water.

  Something large splashed, a broad tail flipping once before vanishing.

  “What the hell?” He pulled her back from the rail. “That’s enough, Mistress. Time fer yer next cup ’o tea, I think.”

  “But they want me to sail with them,” she argued, trying futilely to break his restraining grip.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress, but we’ll have ta keep our sailin’ aboard the ship. If they want to come up here and sail with us, I’ll make ’em a right nice splash pool to keep ’em comfortable, but you can’t go down there with the fishes unless you can grow some gills right quick.” He shouted for a crewman to take the platter and table back to the galley, then enlisted Karek’s aid in ushering Cynthia to her cabin.

  “Gills?” She felt along her ribcage for the long slits that the mer breathed through. “No. No gills. Damn, I knew there was something.”

  She stopped struggling and went with them to her cabin where Troilen waited with a cup of tepid tea. He handed it to her and left the cabin, nodding to the glowering Morrgrey in passing. Only after he watched her drink it down did Brelak relax and exit the room.

  “No gills,” Cynthia said to no one in particular, shrugging out of her robe and returning to her bunk. She lay back and watched the light on the cabin ceiling, then held up her hand. It was still wet where the mer had touched her. It had leapt high out of the water to reach her. She smiled. There were two tiny scales stuck to her palm. She touched her fingertips to her lips and tasted the salt.

  “So soft,” she said with a sigh as the drug took hold, spiraling her down into the realm of sleeping dreams. She thought it a shame; she rather enjoyed the waking ones.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Three

  Southaven

  The Winter Gale sailed into Southaven harbor without incident and without Cynthia seeing much of anything but the inside of her cabin for the remainder of the voyage. One day from their destination, Troilen gave her a much smaller dose of the bittersweet extract. As a result, she managed to be on deck as they sailed through the gap in the breakwater. She stood on the poop deck of the Winter Gale with Koybur and Captain Uben, watching the familiar buildings grow closer.

  Not such a bad little town, she thought, smiling at the children waving from the eastern jetty.

  “Looks like yer spars are here,” Koybur said, pointing at the long rough-cut spruce boles lying on the quay near the shipyard.

  “I’m dying to see how far the construction has gone.”

  “Don’t expect too much. It’s only been about six weeks we’ve been gone. They won’t have worked the kinks out of the plans for a month, so…” He squinted and chewed on the stem of his pipe. “I’ll bet a night’s bar tab they don’t have the keels finished yet.”

  She thought about it for a bit, calculating how long it would take to lay out the long mosaic of hardwood and lead, all dovetailed together, doweled and laminated with resin. She ran some numbers through her head and smiled.

  “I’ll take that bet, Koybur, and I’ll even go a step further. A bottle of Brulo’s best rum says they’ve got four frame
s up on each hull when we walk through the door.”

  “Done!” He laughed heartily. “You’ve got a lot of faith in Master Ghelfan.”

  “Yes, I do.” She gripped the railing hard as Uben shouted the order to ware ship and shorten sail; they were making their turn into the anchorage.

  *

  A reasonably short eternity later, she stepped from the launch onto the Southaven quay and turned to address her recently hired crew of two captains, two mates and one boatswain, as well as six stout seamen and Borell the cook.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you have two days shore leave starting right now.” The seamen grinned and clapped their hands in anticipation, whereas the officers shrugged or cocked eyebrows in surprise. “Please find a place to stay; there are several good boarding houses in town. Two days hence, report sober and whole to Master Keelson at Keelson’s Shipyard. I’d like to have the officers and boatswains up to the hill for dinner tomorrow evening. Tonight, I’m going to eat at the Starfish, and if good captain Uben will allow his crew ashore, I think I’m going to be buying some drinks.”

  “Ha! That’s right! You owe the crew a round, don’cha?” Koybur patted her shoulder and laughed as Mouse cheered and orbited her head. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Well, I’m sure they haven’t,” she said, dismissing the officers with a nod. “Koybur, shall we see about our little wager?”

  “O’course!”

  She walked at his pace toward the shipyard, though she wanted desperately to break into a run. A fat galleon sat up on the lift having her bottom scraped and caulked, a team of carpenters chiseling away a bit of rot around the rudder post.

  “They don’t look short of laborers,” she commented as they approached.

  “I imagine Keelson hired a few extra hands for the work. Carpenters aren’t hard to find. Besides, didn’t Ghelfan say he was bringin’ in his own crew?”

  “Yes, but only a few. He mentioned a foreman and a few specialists for the metalwork and the wire-rope rigging.” She had wondered about the wire-rope many times; would it be too heavy? Would it rust and crumble in a few months? So many questions rattled around in her head that she felt she might scream before they reached the shipyard building.

  Then the side door to the looming structure stood before them. Suddenly, she didn’t know what to do. Would she be disappointed? Would she find something wrong with the construction and not know how to confront the shipwrights?

  “Go ahead, lass,” Koybur said, and she realized that she’d been standing stock still, staring at the door handle. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Yes. By all the Gods, yes, I have earned it.” She reached for the bronze handle and turned it, pushing the door aside and stepping into a realm where the very air was tinged with the craft of the shipwright.

  Wood shavings crunched underfoot as she stepped over the lintel, the scents of fresh-cut timber and resin washing over her in a wave, sharp in her nostrils yet as familiar and welcoming as those of vinegar and yeast to a baker. The cacophony of dozens of hammers and saws all working at individual rhythms struck her ears, and the noise reminded her of waves crashing on a beach. But the sight she beheld—the stark lines of the looming frames, the graceful sweep of the keel timber as it arced up into the bows, the sensual curves of the bilges as they swept up from keel to chine—stopped her in her tracks and left her gaping like a gaffed grouper.

  “Oh, my…” She fell speechless. Even Mouse sat in stunned silence on her shoulder, his little mouth hanging open in awe.

  She had underestimated Master Ghelfan and his crew of specialists.

  The keels were long finished, and half a dozen frames stood in place on each of the two hulls. They stood bow to bow, each set off the centerline of the huge floor to best share the space and leave as much open area as possible. Less than skeletons of what they would be, she could still see their lines starting to take form.

  As she stood gaping, a cry of “Haul away!” rang out, and a newly finished frame lifted from the floor The crew heaved on the tackle and the heavy oak frame tilted to vertical and took flight. Chains rattled, turning the wheels that would move the overhead trolley down to the waiting keel timber of the nearest hull. Another team held guide ropes to keep the frame steady while a short and incredibly broad figure stood upon the keel just where the frame would be fitted. The figure raised its stubby arms to make hand signals to the crews, bringing the huge frame into line and down into the precut slot in the keel.

  Mallets pounded braces into place and several large copper bolts were threaded through pre-cut holes in the frame and keel, fitted with wide nuts and tightened down with wrenches as long as a man’s arm.

  “Mistress Flaxal!” a voice crowed above the din, and dozens of faces turned her direction. A ragged cheer went up, and Cynthia realized why. She was paying for all this. Her money, virtually all of her remaining family fortune, lay right here before her, transformed from numbers into gold and then into wood and nails and resin and labor. When these hulls finally touched water, she would have precious little real money left to her name.

  “This had better bloody work,” she said as Ghelfan and Keelson hurried up to her, both grinning broadly. This was all too much for Mouse; he hid behind her neck, peeking around from under her collar at the two men.

  Covered in sawdust and obviously pleased beyond measure to see her safe and sound, they pumped her hand, a dozen questions burbling out of their mouths before she had a chance to answer one. Finally she raised her hands in surrender.

  “Please, gentlemen! Please! One question from one of you at a time, and I daresay this is hardly the venue for meaningful discussion.” She pushed between them and advanced on the skeletal structure of the nearest ship. One hand rose to touch one broad oak frame as if drawn by some force within the primordial vessel. Unfinished and rough under her fingers, she still felt as if she could sense a heart barely beating within.

  “She’s beautiful,” she whispered, caressing the wood. Mouse came out from behind her collar and gazed up at the great wooden frame, then at the adoration on her features. He shook his head and shrugged, plopping down to sit with his chin in his hands as if convinced Cynthia’s hallucinations had returned.

  “So, as you can see, Mistress Flaxal, we’re a bit ahead of schedule.” Keelson grinned and clapped the slender half-elven shipwright on the shoulder. “I gotta say it’s all Master Ghelfan’s fault on that. His crew is right near amazin’, they are.”

  “Not at all, Mistress. Master Keelson’s people supply the skill with wood and the hearts of lions that have made our progress nothing but miraculous. My people but supply the organizational impetus to make sure everything is done in its proper sequence and in a timely fashion.”

  Cynthia started to turn to tell them both to shut up and let her enjoy this moment, when another, far rougher and slightly feminine voice entered the conversation.

  “The timely fashion part, that’s my responsibili’y.”

  She turned to find herself looking right over the head of the broad figure that had recently stood upon the keel and guided the new frame down into place. The woman, or more precisely, dwarvish woman, held out her broad hand for Cynthia to take. Mouse yelped and ducked behind her shoulder.

  “Y’u must be Cynthie Flaxal.” The hand engulfed Cynthia’s, and she could feel the strength in it. She grinned as wide as her broad shoulders, her round face and jutting brow framed by perfectly trimmed mutton chops which, oddly, made her features no less feminine. “Dura ShunTaren, and ’appy te make yur ’quaintance.”

  “Dura is my foreman, Mistr—”

  “Fore-what, Ghelfan?” The woman glared up at her employer with murder in her eyes, her eyebrows knitting together onto one broad brown brush of obstinacy.

  “My apologies, Dura; fore-dwarf. But call her what you will, she is the most—”

  “Y’u there, boyo!” the dwarf bellowed, loud enough to leave Cynthia’s ears ringing. “Yes, y’u. Y’u hammer that shim out
ta there afore that frame’s go’ a proper cross brace and I’ll be usin’ yer scro’um ta hold me pocket money!” She nodded to the others and advanced on the hapless worker, railing in even more colorful language as she approached.

  “She keeps everyone in line.” Keelson’s tone suggested that the list of those she kept in line included the two shipwrights.

  “So I see.” Cynthia tried to hide a smile at the demeanor of the man currently having the seat of his trousers soundly chewed. “She certainly is… uh…”

  “Abrasive,” the two men said in perfect unison.

  Cynthia stifled a laugh, but Koybur had less success.

  “Right useful with so many hands to watch at once, I’ll wager,” he said, nodding toward the unfortunate carpenter whom she had just finished chastising.

  “Indispensable,” Ghelfan said, his tone regrettable. “I learned long ago that laborers respond to a firm hand, one which my temperament does not accommodate. I hired Dura more than fifty years ago, and I have never missed a deadline since.”

  “Aye, she rides ’em hard, but she’s fair about it. Those hands you hired in Scarport and Rockport arrived well enough, by the way. That Finthie Tar is right talented with riggin’. She had every block in the shop runnin’ as smooth as a barmaid’s… uh… well, plenty smooth, by the time the keel planks were cut.”

  “Good.” She scanned the work crews, but couldn’t see the woman at the moment. “And laying the keels went well, I guess?”

  “Aye, well enough. O’course they’ve still got to be sheathed with red cedar, but that’ll wait for the hull plankin’.” Keelson pointed out a few challenges they’d had with the design, but nothing insurmountable. By the end of his explanation, Cynthia could see both men itching to get back to work.

  “Well, gentlemen, I see that I’m impeding progress, so I’ll say good afternoon. Please plan to come to dinner at my home tomorrow around sunset and relay the invitation to Finthie and Dura. I’m having all the officers up for a meal and some discussion.”