by Rob J. Hayes
Dense forest occupied much of the island, along with a small range of mountains and an inland lake that never seemed to run dry. Rumour had it the lake had no bottom, and if the waters were ever to run clear one would be able to see all the way into the realm of the dead, and might even catch a glimpse of lost loved ones staring right back.
It took a full three days to sail around the Isle of Goats, even if the wind was with a ship, and if its captain didn’t know the coast too well, there were very real risks of the vessel being gutting on the jagged rocks hidden just below the surface of the murky waters. Luckily for The Phoenix and her crew, she not only had a captain who knew the local waters intimately, but also a first mate who had indeed drawn the charts of those same waters.
“Is it too late to turn tail and run?” asked Yanic. “Port Sev’relain is barely a week away and Black Sands ain’t out of distance neither.”
“We’re here now, Yanic,” Captain Stillwater said with grim determination.
“More’s the pity.”
“It could be worse.”
Yanic cocked an eyebrow at his captain. “How?”
Keelin Stillwater drew in a deep breath and let it out as a ragged sigh. “You could be me.”
Yanic could find no argument with the statement so decided to keep quiet. “Ain’t nothing ya didn’t bring on yaself,” he then said in direct opposition to his decision.
The captain glared at Yanic, then shrugged. With a sigh he moved to the wheel and took it from Freman.
“We’ll head around to south port and dock there. I want to be in and out in two days.”
Yanic drifted away from the railing and stood behind his captain. “Two days is a long time, and the island ain’t that big. She’ll soon find out about ya, Cap’n.”
Chapter 4 - Fortune
“This here is Lady Beck. She’ll be taking your cabin so long as she’s aboard,” Drake said to Princess as he stormed up the gangplank onto his ship.
Princess spared a long-suffering glance towards the woman and sighed. “Aye.”
That there, Drake decided, was why he would never give Princess a ship of his own. The man was an excellent first mate, able to shout orders and knock heads with the best of them. He was competent with a sword and no coward in battle either. He was as loyal to Drake as folk came, but the man had no conviction; Zothus would never have given away his cabin so easily. Unfortunately Zothus was true captain material, and Drake needed as many friendly captains as he could find, so he’d been near forced to give the man a ship of his own. In one unfortunate but necessary decision Drake had given away the best first mate he’d ever known and the most terrifying ship-board pest-hunter any pirate had ever heard of. Drake would never admit it, but he actually missed Zothus’ giant spider at times.
“Beck, this is Princess.” Drake paused, waiting for the comment about the man’s name. The Arbiter kept her mind to herself. “You need anything, I reckon you should just go see him.”
“If I need anything I’ll bring it straight to your personal attention, Drake,” Arbiter Beck said. There was cold iron as well as honey in the woman’s voice, and ordinarily Drake would have found that appealing, and more than a little so, but she was on his ship now – and nobody gave Drake Morrass orders on his own ship. He rounded on the woman, grabbed hold of the collar of her tunic with one hand, and, with more effort than he liked to admit, sent her stumbling down the deck. She collided with the main mast shoulder first, yelping in what was either surprise or pain. Drake sincerely hoped it was both.
Beck pulled a pistol from its place on her jerkin, pointing it at Drake. Her hat had fallen from her head, and for the first time Drake saw something other than disapproval in her eyes: he saw fear. To the Arbiter’s credit, her aim was steady in spite of it. Drake stopped just in front of Beck, her pistol barrel poking him in the chest.
“Now, might be you think ya safe on account of the Oracle sending you to me. You ain’t. Or maybe you reckon those little pistols’ll protect you. Thing is, I counted ’em and you got seven. One word from me and my crew’ll descend on you like particularly hungry laughing dogs, and there’s a few more than seven of ’em. So no matter how safe or protected you think you are – you ain’t.
“Captain’s word is law on board a ship and I just happen to be captain on this one, so you live and die by my leave.” Drake leaned in closer and stared directly into the Arbiter’s icy blue eyes. “You wanna fuck off, be my guest. Something tells me you’ll be staying though. You follow my orders to the fucking letter, or I swear to your god and mine that I will put one of those little pistol bullets of yours through your chest and throw you overboard for whatever fucking denizen of the deep’ll have ya.”
Drake didn’t bother waiting to see if the woman agreed; he turned away and raised his voice so all his gathered crew could hear. “This here is Arbiter Beck. Our friendly Oracle sent her to look after me.” That earned a chuckle from the pirates. “She’s off-fucking-limits. Good?”
There was hurried assent from the crew in general. “Good,” Drake continued. “Now get the fuck back to work before I decide to make an example out of one of ya.”
Drake turned back to Princess and Arbiter Beck with a smile. “Pirates – sometimes they just need a good threatening to keep ’em in line.” As the Arbiter lowered her pistol, Drake laughed and shook his head. “How are we looking with the repairs, Princess?”
Princess took a step backwards and winced, his long hair falling in front of his face, and that face looking like it really wanted to be elsewhere. “About that, Cap’n. We need to beach the ship.”
There was far too much at stake and far too much to do, and Drake was not about to lose weeks to beaching the ship. “No,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.
“Aye, Cap’n. Only thing is…” Princess sighed and pointed at an unassuming bucket sitting by the mast. It appeared to be filled with murky water.
“Shit,” said Drake, staring into the bucket and seeing that it wasn’t water, but rubbery, grey flesh.
“Ying noticed it on the starboard bow, Cap’n,” Princess continued. “Got it off pretty quick, but there’s at least one plank that’s gonna need some repair if not replacing.”
“Any more of them on my ship?”
“Won’t know for sure ’til we get her beached. Get a good look at her belly.”
“What is it?” Arbiter Beck asked quietly from beside Drake. He felt her compulsion tug at his mind, but as before his will slipped away from her magic.
“A gipple,” Princess answered immediately. “Fuck me, that felt odd.” No doubt it was his first encounter with an Arbiter’s compulsion.
“A pain in my arse,” Drake said testily. “One part seal and one part demon.”
“Demon?”
“Maybe. Attach themselves to the hull and… here.” Drake reached into the bucket and grabbed hold of the creature’s oily skin, turning it around in the bucket to reveal its head. “See the mouth? That circle of teeth there moves back and forth in a rasping motion. Fucking things chew right through the hull all slow like. Can take weeks, but once they do – well, ships don’t do so well when they’re full of holes.
He turned to Princess. “Get her beached. We’re gonna need to slap another coat of lime tar on her as well. Can’t afford to have these little bastards putting holes in my ship.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” said Princess as he moved away to begin preparations.
“You found me a replacement for the spider yet?” Drake called after him.
“Depends, Cap’n. You still dead set against a cat?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll keep looking.”
Drake looked at Arbiter Beck; the woman seemed to have backed down a little after his earlier threats, but she was in no way cowed. “Might not wanna move aboard just yet, Arbiter. Reckon we might be here a while.”
Chapter 5 - The Phoenix
Only one ship occupied the berth at south port, a sloop by the name of
North Wind. Keelin had never seen the little ship before and, more importantly, had no idea who captained the vessel. What Keelin did know for certain was that it wasn’t The Black Death, and it was therefore not captained by Tanner Black.
No sooner had Keelin set his boots onto the decking of the jetty than the harbour master – a truly superficial title as he was master of nothing, but more accurately a caretaker of the jetties – was beside him, bowing and offering “sincere” opportunities for monetary advancement. The man obviously didn’t remember Keelin, but Keelin remembered him, and not fondly. Even ten years ago the harbour master had seemed ancient, with thin greying hair hanging lank about his face, a mouth dotted with decaying brown teeth, and breath that could kill a shark at fifty paces. Keelin was ashamed to admit he’d been young and naive, and the man had swindled him out of nearly a month’s pay. These days he was neither.
“Good fortunes an’ fair weather, Captain.” The man’s voice had an annoying habit of whistling through his teeth when he spoke certain sounds – it did very little to endear him to Keelin. “S’nice ship ya got there. Very nice. Plenty o’ ruffians round these parts though, real bad eggs, some would say. Might be they see ya nice ship there as a bit o’ fun. Of course, I could look out fer it for ya, make sure those ruffians don’t touch it, nor none o’ yer men either. Keep it safe. Fer a small fee…” The man’s voice rose annoyingly high at the end of the offer, and a greedy glint lit his eyes.
In a fit of what could only be described as compassion, Keelin didn’t run the man through, but instead gave him a shove that sent the old fool careening off the jetty into the murky waters of south port. He spent a moment flailing about before paddling to shore, all the while attempting to both keep his head above water and shout insults Keelin’s way – all of which seemed to revolve around his mother’s profession and how she most certainly went about it on her back.
Keelin stopped, turned back to his ship, and shouted up to one of his crew. “Anyone ain’t one of our boys comes anywhere near the The Phoenix, Olly, and you show them a real warm greeting.”
Olly laughed and gave a mock salute from his perch on the railing. He was a small lad, ever jovial and never without a quip or a story, but never had Keelin met someone so eager to get to the stabbing when there was stabbing to be done.
South port barely deserved the name, Keelin decided, and not for the first time, as he set foot on dry land. It was little more than a collection of rotting wooden huts held together by rusting nails and the tenacity of their inhabitants. North port was big, loud, heavily populated, and bordered on being considered a town in its own right. South port was small, run down, populated only by the dregs of humanity, and left discarded and forgotten by all those with better sense. Or, Keelin decided, all those who weren’t trying to hide from their past.
An old dirt road led out of south port into the looming forest, which Keelin knew from past experience was hot, close, and insect ridden, filled with dangers both mundane and beyond explanation. He also knew that the old dirt road led to Fango.
Yanic coughed, and Keelin noticed his first mate was standing beside him with a knowing smile on his face. “Boys are unloading the loot. All is left is ta haggle with Quartermain, Cap’n.”
“Suppose we best go see the old bastard then,” Keelin said. “Watch my back, Yan. Hostile waters and all that.”
With a last glance back towards his ship and one last glare at the harbour master, who was still preoccupied with insulting, threatening, and cursing Keelin all at once, they walked into the jungle.
Fango was by no means a normal town even by a pirate’s definition, and Keelin well knew piratical definitions were broad, meandering, and colourful at the best of times. The jungle on the Isle of Goats seemed to resist almost all efforts at deforestation with something approaching intelligent aggression. The more trees the residents cut down, the more sprang up from seemingly nowhere. An old sailor might fell a tree and build a house in its spot, and within a few months hundreds of new saplings would tear through the building, slowly turning it into an uninhabitable wreckage. The inhabitants of the town had, therefore, after many years of war with the jungle, learned to live with their giant wooden neighbours. Buildings were constructed around trees, some of which were the only reason said buildings were still standing. Keelin knew all too well that the town’s brothel had a giant of a redwood standing tall and straight in the main common area, and the owner had actually built cushioned seats onto the trunk upon which to display his wares.
Many industrious residents of Fango had even taken to building their houses halfway up the trees, so that a ladder was needed to reach their homes. Just how they’d managed to accomplish such a feat was a mystery to Keelin, but he suspected it took time, effort, and a lack of acrophobia. The result was clear though; the inhabitants had not only compensated for a lack of space by building upwards as well as outwards, but had learned to live with and even take advantage of an aggressive forest that resisted most normal attempts at habitation. Unfortunately, the entire town was under the sway of Tanner Black, and that cast a dirty shadow on what should have been world-renowned innovation.
“Place has grown some since we were here last, Cap’n,” said Yanic, staring in wonder at a building that was constructed around five separate tree trunks. It was at least three storeys high, and judging by the sign hanging outside it was a new tavern that had sprung up in their years of absence. “Prospered, ya might say.”
Keelin caught himself nodding along absently. “Let’s just go see Quartermain and get this over with.”
Their arrival went anything but unnoticed, and more than a few sets of eyes followed Keelin and his first mate as they entered Fango. One child, wearing dirty rags for clothing and no shoes, spotted them and ran off, scaling a tree without the use of the ladder set into its trunk and disappearing into a building at least thirty feet from the ground. A moment later an older face, female and wizened, leaned out of a window and watched them pass.
One giant of a man – Keelin guessed he stood at over seven feet – made no attempt to hide his interest in the newcomers. He watched them with a smile and pointed them out to his companions. Keelin noticed all three were armed, and all three looked as though they knew how to use those arms. He found himself thankful for the comforting presence of his twin cutlasses hanging from his belt, but wished he’d possessed the sense to instruct Yanic to come similarly prepared.
“Do folk seem a little… hostile ta you, Cap’n?” Yanic said as they approached the area of Fango that Quartermain called his own.
“Wary, I think is more appropriate, Yanic.” Keelin felt a distinct lack of confidence in his own words. “You would be too if you lived under Tanner’s rule.”
Yanic cleared his throat. “I did live under Tanner’s rule, and I was not wary – I was hostile.”
Keelin stopped outside a door he remembered well, a door with a sign nailed to it that read “Quartermain’s”. He looked at his first mate. “You were very hostile.” With that he pounded on the door three times and waited for a reply.
It wasn’t long before a muffled “Come in” drifted back, and Keelin pushed open the door to find the place much as he remembered. A burly oaf of a man, shorter than Keelin but with arms as thick as the trees that sprouted through the building, stood to the side to allow the pirates to pass. He nodded his thanks to Quartermain Junior and stepped through the doorway.
Quartermain Senior was standing behind a wooden counter, frowning down at one of numerous scrolls haphazardly sprawling its surface. “Sorry about the mess. Busy time and all that.” he said, indicating the immaculately kept front of his business. He looked up, squinting. “That you, Stillwater?”
Keelin grinned at the reaction; it had been many years since he’d last been back to Fango, and it was good to know those in charge still remembered his face. “Aye, ’tis me, Quartermain. How is…”
“Very sorry about this,” Quartermain interrupted just as the door slammed sh
ut behind Keelin.
Keelin spun around, both hands going to the hilts of his cutlasses and both cutlasses unhooking smoothly from his belt. The first thing he noticed was Yanic looking anything but comfortable with a knife to his throat and a Quartermain attached to its hilt. The second thing he noticed was the person rated second highest on his “never wanting to see again” list.
“Stillwater,” Elaina Black said in a voice that fair dripped with smug satisfaction.
“Elaina,” Keelin replied in a voice that left no one in the room under any illusion that he didn’t regret making the decision to come to Fango.
Yanic cleared his throat. He looked panicked.
“Yanic,” Elaina said by way of greeting.
“Long time no see, Elaina. Ya mind telling this fool to drop his knife?” Yanic said, his voice rising with every word.
“Of course, Yanic, just as soon as your captain drops his, eh. So how about it, Stillwater?”
Keelin considered his options and decided they were camping on the bleak side of hope. He had no doubt that in a fair fight he could take both Elaina and Quartermain Junior, but he also had no doubt that Elaina never fought fair – and the first proof of that was the knife currently pressed to his first mate’s throat. With a heavy sigh he dropped both cutlasses to the floor and took a step backwards.
“Excellent,” Elaina said with a smile that made her plain features seem both vicious and beautiful at the same time. “Now, I had to run all the way here to beat you after seeing ya ship sail right on past north port, an’ I’m feeling a little bit sticky, so what say me an’ you continue this after a bath, eh?”
