The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel

by Patrick McClafferty

  After he had thrown four young girls, aged six to fifteen, and two young boys out of his room, Jorse finally felt comfortable enough to unbutton his shirt. Dinner had been a strained affair. At his request, the silent young slave girl had brought him a large bowl of spicy fish soup and a small loaf of bread, which Anya declared safe to eat. The butter which came with the bread was laced with a strange drug, and he followed her advice not to eat it.

  The suite of rooms the girl led him to after dinner was opulent; walls draped with real silk in iridescent greens and blues and, much to his surprise, an exquisitely etched vase of real silver, set by itself on a small marble table in the sitting room. That alone would have been worth the price of a palace back home. The bed could have slept the crew of the Donner-kind. Both bedroom and sitting room had glass doors that opened out onto a balcony, three floors up and overlooking, in the distance, the strange dark river.

 

  He kicked off his boots and they thumped to the floor. The stelwood knife he slipped under his pillow.

  He stretched his back and it cracked.

  Anya agreed in a tired sounding voice.

  Jorse grinned. < If you can touch me then I can touch you.>

 

  The disappointment was plain in her voice and Jorse felt his anger flare, briefly.

  There was a moment of silence. Her presence faded from his mind and was gone. The words ‘Why Me’ rolled through his mind for a while, but he knew that he didn’t have anything to gripe about. Anya had it as tough as him. The rays of the blue moon swept through the open doors of the bedchamber, carried in on jasmine breezes, and both Jorse and Anya slept deeply, without dreams.

  “And these,” Chancellor Nungpah lisped, with a smile as fake as his two inch long blue lacquered fingernails. “are called Vampire Pines.” The tree that the Chancellor rested his hand on looked like any other mature pine tree Jorse had ever seen; two feet in diameter and sixty to eighty feet tall. The dark green needles looked thin and extremely sharp. “The tree can feed as do other trees, but it prefers something ahhh, richer.” The fat man clapped his hand and a servant ran up, bearing a little cage made of thin ceramic strips. The Chancellor reached in and removed a small squirming white mouse. “Observe, please.” With one blue nail the man deftly scratched the flank of the mouse, drawing a small drop of blood to darken the white fur. He set the mouse at the base of the tree and quickly backed away. The mouse stood in the grass and fallen needles beneath the tree for a moment, looking dazed, then shot away, heading for a nearby bush. As fast as the mouse was, the tree was faster. A low limb shot down and pierced the white mouse, with no less than six sharp needles. The creature squeaked—once. The tree needles grew fat and the mouse seemed to wither, as it was sucked dry. When it was done, the branch quivered, shaking off the desiccated body of the mouse, and raised itself back to its former position. Already the needles were shrinking back to normal. A sense of horror filled Jorse. “A fascinating creature, do you not think?” The Chancellor was smiling more widely. “They only respond when they sense blood. If you have no wound you are perfectly safe. Shall we continue on?”

  Chancellor Nungpah, wearing iridescent blue robes, had arrived at Jorse’s rooms as he finished breaking his fast with strong black tea, toast and freshly cooked eggs—all of which Anya declared safe for him to eat. He thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t chosen anything heavier. Now, it seemed, the fat Chancellor was intent on dragging him across the entire ten mile garden.

  The strange river was just as dark and mysterious close up as it had been from a distance the previous night.

  “I noticed this river last night.” Jorse said conversationally, bending toward the fast-moving waters. “What is the name?”

  “Ahhh.” The Chancellor was looking at Jorse through half lidded eyes. “This is the river Lethe. They say that the merest touch will bring forgetfulness, but a brave sailor like yourself won’t believe silly rumors, surely. Touch the river, bold captain. Prove us wrong.” His dark eyes gleamed with anticipation. It was the same look the fat man had had on his face when he set the mouse down.

 

  There was silence in his mind. Did she know he was thinking of her, only her? No, not quite silence. It was the first time he had ever heard Anya cry.

  “Not today, Chancellor. Perhaps you?” Jorse glanced at the strange dark river and raised an eyebrow.

  “Thank you, no.” The hooded eyes held...disappointment.

  Lunch was a strange affair. The more exotic the dishes that were brought to his attention, the more Jorse asked for plain items like soup or crackers. At one point he grimaced as a smiling girl wearing a sheer pink bit of nothing, presented him with a plate of fried roaches. He was informed, quite seriously, that these insects were considered delicacies. The one that he had eaten, in order not to offend his hosts, had tasted like fried phlegm. Nungpah had looked at him strangely—it must have been because of his greenish pallor at the moment. When the silent, dark eyed girl from the night before brought him a steaming bowl of clear, lightly spiced broth, he could have kissed her.

  Later, when the dishes had been cleared, Chancellor Nungpah brought out the Emperor’s magician. Ludzil was a skinny, emaciated man of ancient years. Like the Chancellor, Ludzil bore elaborate tattoos on every inch of his body, including his thin bony legs that stuck out from the bottom of a lavishly trimmed black robe. A sparse white beard hung down to his chest, and Jorse vowed never to grow a beard if it was going to look THAT bad. The little man uttered a strange sounding chant and waved his arms about. The palm that he placed in front of Jorse had a small blue flame dancing in the palm. The old man’s face registered smug satisfaction.

  Jorse grinned to himself. He had worried, just for a moment, about the possibility of meeting a real magician. The magician poured the small flame out of his withered palm, and into Jorse’s wine glass where it danced happily, flickering on top of the blood colored wine.

  “That’s very impressive, Mister Ludzil.” Jorse said in a condescending tone. Aren’t you afraid of getting burned?”

  “I am a great magician.” The magician crowed. “Fire doesn’t affect me.”

  “Why then are there burn scars on the palm of your hand, Mister Ludzil?” Jorse gave the man a sad look. “I’m afraid that the lowliest street thief in the city of Boktor could do better magic than you.”

  “Prove it, you liar!” Ludzil almost screamed.

  Jorse stood, brushing by Ludzil to stand before the table, and began waving his hands in the air while muttering incomprehensible noises. With a flourish he presented a small black orb of crystal to Chancellor Nungpah.

  “Ta da!” He said quietly.

  “That’s mine you thief!” Ludzil lunged for the orb, but Nungpah was faster, snatching it off the table with his beclawed hand. He held up the orb and smiled.

  “Ahhh, that was not true magic, Captain Schwendau.” The Chancellor seemed amused at his magician’s discomfiture.

  “I never said true magic, Chancellor. I just said better magic.”

  Chancellor Nungpah nodded, as if to himself, glanced at one of the surrounding guards, then at the fuming magician, then back to the guard. He slowly drew his forefinger across his throat. The guard nodded
and took a swift step forward, clamping a massive hand around the magician’s arm, lifted him into the air. The charlatan squeaked like a certain white mouse.

  “Please do it out of sight. It disturbs my digestion.” The guard nodded and turned, taking the airborne magician with him. Nungpah tossed the black orb to Jorse, who snagged it deftly out of the air. “To the victor, Captain.”

  “Go the spoils.” Jorse finished, sitting back at the table with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had just wanted to show the man for a charlatan. Not get him killed.

  The Chancellor was looking at Jorse shrewdly. “You are bold, you are quick and you have a good mind, Captain Schwendau. We could use a man like you in our - organization. The rewards would be, ahhh, many.” He smiled again, and Jorse felt the urge to run, screaming.

  “How do I know that you mean what you are saying, or implying?” Jorse’s mind went into high gear.

  “Perhaps as a, ahhh, present, to show my sincerity?” Nungpah reached across the table to touch Jorse’s hand. Jorse cringed inside. “I’ve seen that the little mute servant girl pleases you.” He clapped his hands in the air. “You shall have her. I will have her delivered to your ship. Her name, by the way, is Jasmina. Keep her if you wish, or throw her overboard. It doesn’t matter.”

  Jorse stood and bowed. “Very good, Chancellor Nungpah. I will certainly think over your generous offer. The girl will be—useful.” He winked at the fat man. “The crew, you understand.”

  “Ahhh.” There was a wicked, understanding smile on the fat face. “I understand completely. You plan well. I like that.”

  “I think that perhaps I should get back to my vessels. There is the unloading and re-loading of certain fragile merchandise to oversee, and good help is so hard to get.”

  The fat man stood, smoothing his blue robes. “Very good. When would you like to go?”

  Jorse made an elaborate gesture of stretching. His mind was screaming. “I think I will clean up, Chancellor. After that I will be ready.”

  “Will you take the slave with you, or shall I have her sent ahead?”

  “Oh, with me will be all right.” He tried to sound bored, but he pictured the poor slave girl bound naked in a box to be delivered to her new owner. He couldn’t stand it.

  “Evening Bird?” Jorse said softly, once he was in the privacy of his room. There was a pause.

  “Evening Bird.” Lin sounded flustered. She must be “training” the new cabin boy, again.

  “How is the unloading and loading going?”

  “Just finished. Why?”

  “How about your merchantman heading east?”

  “There is one heading out tonight, and one more in three days. The one tonight goes all the way to Dewar. The one in three days to Xicocu and back.”

  “Take the merchantman heading out tonight. You had better make sure that you have plenty of water and fruit. Tell that to the other ships too. I only ask one thing of you, Lin. Any ships that you capture will fly my house flag, as will any ship that those craft should capture in the future. They will all be subject to my needs. The profits from said ships I will let you divide as you see fit, holding back only ten percent as my portion. We’ll all be weighing anchor tonight—just as soon as I can get on board and make a few changes in accommodations.”

  “Accommodations?”

  “I’ll be bringing a young slave girl on board. She was... given to me.”

  “Oh, I see.” Lin’s voice couldn’t get any colder.

  “Lin, I have to get her out of this cesspool. I’ve got to get all of us out of this cesspool. Oh Gods, Lin... they cut her tongue out. I didn’t touch her. I’m sending her with you. Take care of her. Get her to the Temple of Selene in Dewar. I’ll find her there. If I don’t survive—well, she’ll be safe there anyway. Please, Lin. Take her, please.”

  The voice that Jorse heard was subdued. “I’ll take her, Jorse. I shouldn’t have thought... Oh, hells. Jorse, you had better come back. Do you hear me?” It sounded, for a moment, like she was crying.

  “I hear you, Lin, and thank you.”

  ~~~

  The spring sun was warm, and the swells long and rolling in the waters around the small islands south of Little Wassaw. Dolphins cavorted ahead of the plunging ship, and myriad sea birds swooped to pluck tiny fish from the frothing wake. Jorse stood in the fo’c’s’le of the Donner-kind and let the feel of the chill water splashing on his face wash away the corruption of the island fifty leagues behind. The ships seemed to be creeping through the ocean, but that was only because the Dagfred was loaded to the gunwales with cargo, while the Donner-kind rode empty; empty for the moment. A month of warm summer breezes would bring them to the port of Baruun-Urt, on the island of Greater Wassaw. Baruun-Urt, the greatest and only manufacturer of cannons in the world.

  “Sail ho!” The lookout called.

  “Where away?”

  “Fine on the port bow, Cap’n.”

  “What sort of vessel?”

  “I dunno, sir. She be a might strange. Big ship, really big. She looks like a mountain wi sails, sir.”

  Jorse took out his telescope and trained it on the approaching ship.

 

 

 

  Jorse snapped the telescope closed.

  Mister Idzy was standing calmly behind the helmsman, hands behind his back, tanned face impassive.

  “Do we fight, sir?” He asked simply.

  “Yes, Mister Idzy, we fight.”

  The big First Mate looked down at his helmsman and winked. “Yer owe me ten rappen.”

  “You bet on me?” Jorse asked, shocked.

  “Yep.” Idzy smiled. “Knew yer was itchin fer a fight. Knew it when I seen that poor little girl ye brought aboard. I know the story, sir. Ye saved her ye did, and the whole crew’ll stand beside ye. Cut er bloody tongue out they did, the bloody bastards. We’ll show em!”

  It was the most Mister Idzy had ever said to him in one breath. The man MUST be upset. “Very good, Mister Idzy. Prepare the ship for battle. Have Mister Radoslaw ready the cannon.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jorse ducked into the narrow companionway and headed for his cabin. He had to talk with someone right now.

  “Captain Svetla?” Only the captain of the Dagfred and the captain of the Evening Bird knew of Jorse’s little “ability.” There was a long pause, and then a whispered reply.

  “Yes, Jorse?”

  “We have company. It looks as though Chancellor Nungpah sent out his ship killer to waylay us. If it’s the one I think it is, she has a crew of 180 and thirty cannon. I want you to cut and run, Captain. Head for the horizon with every stitch of sail you can tack on that ship. If you can stay out of her reach till nightfall, you may escape.”

  “But, but what about you? What are you...”

  “We’re going to attack, Captain.” Jorse cut her off.

  “You know you don’t have a chance against that ship killer, don’t you?”

  “Don’t give up on us yet, Captain. We may yet surprise you. Now, head for the horizon, as fast as you can. If we survive, then we will find you.”

  There was silence for a long time. “May the Gods protect you, Jorse.” She was gone.

  Anya commented before he was even able to leave the cabin.

 

/>   An image appeared in his mind of a stately three-masted sailing vessel, gun ports raised and cannons run out. It was the Dreadnought.

 

  Sail plans, and deck plans flashed through his mind. Jorse studied the plan carefully.

 

  “Mister Idzy!” Jorse shouted as he made his way back to the fo’c’s’le. “Steer just to the starboard of the Dreadnought, if you please.” The two ships seemed to be headed toward mutual self-destruction. A cannon fired from the Dreadnought; the dull boom echoing hollowly across the waves, and a ball splashed a cable length to their right.

  “Mister Radoslaw.” Jorse spoke quietly to the gunner. “Load with powder and wadding only. I want a LOT of smoke. Do you understand?”

  “No cannonball, sir? None at all?” Clearly the gunner did not understand, and Jorse didn’t blame him.

  “None at all, Mister Radoslaw.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man sounded dubious, and the Dreadnought was drawing closer.

  “Cannon ready, sir.” Radoslaw clearly refused to call the gun loaded, since it didn’t have a ball.

  Jorse held his breath as another shot screamed overhead, punching a hole through the mainmast before removing the top of the mizzen. The Donner-kind shuddered.

  “Fire, Mister Radoslaw.”

  The fuse hissed for a moment, and then the big gun bellowed, belching an enormous cloud of smoke. Jorse released the fireball at the same instant, and he stood back and watched as it arched gracefully, like a real ball of stone or wood, down to the waiting warship below. The flaming ball struck the juncture of the mainmast and the main yard—and burst into a million flaming pieces. What had been a terrifying ship of war bearing down on them was now a funeral pyre for 180 sailors.