by Richard Nell
The pilot had come down from his perch on the prow to watch the exchange, looking no more concerned than the captain.
"And the ship?" Chang met his strange eyes. "Is that another lie, ashman?"
"No, Chang. The pirate lies, but I do not. This ship is yours, as promised, as soon as we reach the Batonian monastery."
"We're supposed to be rich!" almost squeaked the Steerman, a kind of panic threatening his nerve. "We've lost men, and there's no damn money!" he yelled, close to begging as he looked at Chang. "Old Mata never told us where the silver was. He never told us!"
Chang knew, of course, that it had been spent long ago, bribing a dozen kingsmen corsairs to spare old captain Mata's crew. They'd tortured him anyway, and near broken him as they'd broken so many. But he'd held on long enough, until the kingsmen tired and gave in, and for the location he'd bought mercy for Chang and his men.
His reverie broke as sparks flared from the pilot's hand. A square, metal chest formed from nothing as if forged from air before all their eyes. The men all stared in wonder, and the pilot flipped the lid to reveal at least a hundred silver coins of the highest weight and worth.
"For your oaths, both this ship, and its cargo, are yours," he said, and Chang managed to tear his eyes away from the small fortune in coin.
"What oaths, pilot?"
"First," the giant's eyes seemed to dig into Chang's skull. "You will not speak of the new world. Nothing but this ship could yet reach it with any safety, and the men of both continents are not ready." The giant did not pause to see if they agreed. "Second, aboard my ship you are not pirates." He turned his golden eyes to The Prince, inspecting the hull and sails. "You have the fastest, safest ship in the world, and enough coin to purchase whatever goods you wish. That should give you enough advantage to thrive as merchants. That is my bargain."
Chang said nothing, still angry at the captain's lies and now at being told what he could or couldn't do on his own ship. In any case what exactly a pirate was remained unclear, full of contradiction and hypocrisy from noble lords. He felt the moment linger too long, and the giant's eyes watched, and watched.
"When I have left Bato," the pilot continued, "I give you my word, the captain and I will go to Sri Kon and speak to the king about your pardon. But I wouldn't worry. The isles are in turmoil since the death of the old king. With so many problems, the new one is not going to worry much about you and your impossible ship."
There was truth in this, at least. Chang knew he should agree and let that be the end of it. He glanced at his men and saw his mood reflected in their eyes, a kind of petulance he wasn't yet willing to dismiss.
"Every man has a choice," the pilot's deep voice increased in volume, and perhaps menace. "Do as you wish, islanders, as you always have. I promise only that one day your ship will not be uncatchable. Use your power with cruelty, and one day you will find a greater thing on the sea than yourselves, and on that day The Prince will be your funeral pyre."
The threat was clear enough, and Chang nodded as he smiled politely at the strange, and terrifying man. "As you say, pilot. You have my oath."
"Then we part as friends." The ashman turned back to his cabin, the hint of violence gone from his face. The crew's stares all turned to Eka, who shrugged with his infuriating, endless apathy.
"I don't care what you do. Just hold course and maintain sail, you can dock directly at Bato."
For the last time, they did what they were told. The journey to the island monastery was short—a small island just off the coast of Sri Kon, a patch of land ringed with mountains, the famous monastery and hotsprings at its center. The men dropped anchor near a small, rocky beach, and stuffed the transport with the shaman's things. Chang stood on the beach feeling as vulnerable as he always did on land, looking from Ruka to Zaya to the captain, unsure how or whether to say his farewells.
"Goodbye," the pilot announced and lifted a disturbingly large collection of crates full of plants and contraptions, walking away without a glance behind. The foreign boy was similarly loaded, struggling behind to keep up. Chang shook his head and grinned, but lost it when he saw Zaya staring at the man's back.
"Shaman!" she called, her face surprisingly torn, "what should I do?"
The giant turned with a furrowed brow. "What do you want to do, Zaya, daughter of Juchi? Or shall I pretend you'd listen?"
The woman suppressed her obvious pleasure as she looked at the horizon, then The Prince, and finally at Chang. "I think I'd like to see the isles," she said, allowing the grin. "Perhaps I'll learn the merchant's trade for a time. No doubt that would please my mother."
Ruka nodded and walked on, and the boy set down his boxes and returned with a sheepish glance before embracing Zaya's waist. "Thank you," he said in the island tongue. "Thank you for saving me."
She returned it, and called again to the pilot. "How will you return to the new world without your ship?"
The giant only snorted in response.
"Come, boy," he grumbled. "You too pirate. We have monks to question. They won't be pleased to see me."
Chang returned to the ship on the transport, Zaya quiet at his side. They hadn't discussed her coming with the crew—in fact it hadn't even entered Chang's mind as a possibility. They reached the ship and climbed the netting aboard, suddenly all standing on the deck and alone, the captain and pilot gone, the ship truly theirs. The crew glanced at each other without smiles, some unsure what to do with their hands.
They weren't sure about her presence, he knew. Old habits died hard for men of the sea, though things would be much different now if they truly became merchants. A pirate had to know the trade of the sea to know when and where to sail, so the prospect wasn't ridiculous.
"Well you can't keep your name," Chang announced in the silence, then frowned at Zaya. "And your hair's too bright and pretty, so wear a damn cloth or the sky god will kill us before Roa does. You hardly know anything so you're a Swabbie now, pay is three quarters share for the first year."
Zaya nodded without expression. "As you like. You superstitious pack of fools."
Chang grinned, and the men with him.
"Where to, Captain?" The Steerman took his place at the rudder now that the pilot was gone.
Chang made a show of thinking, but he already knew. The answer was simple: anywhere we damn well please.
"The wind is Northerly. Let's follow that."
"Sri Kon is North, Chiefy," Basko said without concern.
"Aye it is. So let's pass the royal port, and perhaps they'll chase us. Good to show 'em early just how useless that'd be."
The crew's grins broke into wide smiles, and the Pitman climbed a mast to make more sail as the Steerman turned into the wind. Chang took the helm and ran his hands along the rail.
"Swabbies don't stand near the captain, nor on the helm," he said softly when Zaya came to his side.
"As you say," she said without moving, and Chang repressed his smile. The woman's presence brought him a kind of pleasure he couldn't describe, and didn't care to anyway. He would still belong to Roa, of course, and one day go down to sleep amongst the fish. But not yet.
"Are you not the pilot's 'skald'?" he teased. "Will you not need to sing of his heroics?"
She shrugged. "If so, the gods will bring us together again."
"The gods, and my ship," Chang answered, and Zaya patted his arm.
"We're not so different, you and I," she said, watching him until he turned. "We both have our faith."
Chang nodded, no desire to argue and anyway a good pirate ignored philosophy. And a good merchant, too, he decided.
He knew then he would keep his promise to the pilot. But then, if things went well, he might soon have other ships. And he never said he wouldn't hunt pirates. These days on the king's sea, there were a great deal of arrogant kingsmen who called themselves such. Very well, Chang thought, maybe he'd see how they liked to be hunted by a power they couldn't escape.
The thought vanished just as qu
ick, blown away like smoke in the breeze. The future was wide, and open, and tomorrow everything or nothing might change, just as the sea god intended. Chang closed his eyes to the cool spray as the incredible vessel cut a deadly swath through the waves. The wind was always perfect if you went where it blew.
"But it's a shit name," he whispered, and ignored Zaya's questioning brow. All seamen knew ships were feminine and not masculine, and to call this magnificent creature Prince was so insulting Chang had hardly endured it. He yelled so his voice would cover the ship. "The next man who calls my beauty Prince gets a damn flogging!"
A few yelled 'Aye, Captain.'
Chang didn't need to see the crew to know they'd be relieved. Islanders didn't name their ships for the same reason they didn't name themselves. But Chang wasn't concerned, and a piss cutting she-devil like this one shouldn't be nameless. One day he'd tell them, but not today. Chang's ship needn't fear the waves anymore than him because she was his, and he was Roa's, and together they'd cross the seas without rules or purpose save for their own. Chang smiled as he clutched her metal rail, so strong and perfect like her lines and hull and sail.
Sometimes a good pirate had to be sentimental, so he whispered for her and her alone.
"Not to worry, beauty. You'll have your name. Lucky Chang will call you Freedom."
THE END
Epilogue
Yacat, son of Mar, waded through the burnt rubble of his ancestors' city. The 'holy' festival of stars was supposed to bring Copanoch good fortune, blessings from the pantheon of gods, and especially the Devourer. Instead, it had brought destruction.
As he'd left the jungle and the tribesmen behind, the 'shaman' Pacal had warned him the countryside was in chaos and filled with men who would kill him if they could. "You should stay with us. There are many tribes," he'd warned, "none will see you as anything but their enemy."
I have not feared death for many years now, Yacat had thought, but did not say. Instead he had forced himself to extend an arm in a friendly gesture, the warriors all tense as they put hands to their spears.
"Thank you for helping my son to the coast," he said honestly. The older man nodded and took his arm.
"What will you do?" he asked, with a concerned tone he failed to hide.
"I'll find my family." Yacat shrugged. "I'll do what I can to help."
Pacal had called to his back as he walked away.
"This land will need men who know what it is to rule, and win battles, Lord General. A son of Mar can never be king again, but you could help us crown our own. The name Mahala still strikes respect and fear across this valley."
Yacat had turned, scanning the line of tribesmen who watched him, feeling nothing for them but pity and regret, no desire to ever serve a king again.
"You were right before, Pacal. The House of Mar is gone, and Mahala with it. May the gods watch over you, men of the mists, and men of the mountains. I can promise you only this: despite what you have done, I am not your enemy. Goodbye."
With that he had trekked through leagues of jungle, sweating in the strange armor summoned by a foreign spirit-man. He had drunk and washed in clean rivers forgotten by his people, floating as he stared through a window in the canopy, mind clear and humming with a quiet numbness. That false peace had gone when he left the jungle.
Smoke rose across the horizon, mixed so deeply with the gray sky it was as if the heavens themselves invaded the earth. Yacat crossed trampled, looted, and neglected farmland, empty villages and corpse-ridden roads. Distant wails of sorrow, the hum of insects, and the songs of the birds, were the only sounds.
As Yacat neared Copanoch, the stone walls and distant temples gave the illusion that all was well. The gates, however, were open, corpses piled on either side. Yacat stood for a long time at the gate, feet for a moment refusing to step inside. He'd taken a thin cloak to try and cover his armor, but he knew he might be challenged and forced to kill within the walls. Still, he had to see.
Buildings everywhere had been reduced to stone pillars and ash. A thousand years and more the city had stood and weathered plague and storm, war and famine. But in two nights and days of oil and fire, it had burned to the ground.
The dead lay everywhere, many burnt to cinders, like the blackened leavings of a raging forest fire. Yacat walked on, eyes locked on the untouched stone beyond. Because of the rampant fires, there was little enough left to plunder in the city. Some few tribesmen and citizens moved about the wreckage, some perhaps looking for survivors, others for metal trinkets, or anything of value they could take. Fires continued to burn, waves of heat and smoke washing over Yacat in the wind as he pulled the cloak against his face.
"You there! Who are you?" yelled a young voice, the accent from some far-flung jungle tribe. Yacat turned and pulled back his hood, letting the iron armor show. Every muscle in his body trembled with the need to kill for the fall of his city, and only will and practicality kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. The tribesmen who'd challenged him was no more than a boy. He stood wide-eyed in the rubble as he inspected his intended victim, then turned and ran.
Yacat walked on.
He knew the hastily cobbled, amateur army of the tribes would have no plan in success. With the loss of their mutual enemy they would scatter, every chief with his own mind on how to proceed. Yacat had fought in too many wars not to know what was coming: endless civil strife; starvation; and chaos none alive had ever known. There was no stopping any of that now.
The palace gates were shut and barred, and for a moment Yacat felt a hope that perhaps his family had taken refuge in the inner walls. Then he saw the sidegates—their bronze bars bent and broken, sagging useless from their catches. With a deep breath, he carried on.
Dead tribesmen, and the looted corpses of palace guard cluttered the halls—scenes of violence following the newly decorated corridors like another form of morbid art. None had been spared. Yacat stepped over as many women and servants as he did soldiers, all with a stone heart, his mind turned to the royal halls ahead.
King Etzil Mar's throne was destroyed. Several hammers still lay near the limestone, rock, wood, and papers strewn about the hall. Anything that looked valuable had been taken, including all the pottery and even the furniture. A few pages blew against Yacat's leg in a breeze from the hall, and he lifted them up. When he realized what they were he sought others, and soon held a collection of land deeds and titles, including his own.
'Lord Yacat Mar,' it read, followed by the king's seal, 'Baron of the Eastern ricelands running from the Swift South River to the King's road.'
If his heart had not been stone, he might have laughed. Three days before the world had been shaped by such words—soil or slaves claimed by the swipe of a royal quill. Even this was backed by men with spears and swords—men like Yacat, who spattered and sealed such paper with blood. Now the thin veneer of civilization was gone.
Yacat forced himself towards the harem. He expected it too would be looted—the royal children slaughtered, the women taken. He could only pray Maretzi and his children had somehow escaped the festival and the city. His stone heart helped him onward, but it beat faster when he heard voices and then crashing sounds from the end of the corridor.
He ran to the turn to find the harem gates were barred, several men that looked like a mix of tribesmen and just bandits trying to get in. They were hammering at the wall and the gates and looked as if they'd been at it for some time. When Yacat rounded the corner, clanging his armor against the wall, they turned.
"Well now," said the closest. "Who the hell are you?"
Yacat drew his sword, trembling with a thing like lust but darker, a need to punish men like these for all the horror he had seen.
"Death."
He raced forward before the men realized their peril. The man who'd spoken scrambled for a nearby spear, fumbling a jab at nothing as Yacat cut him down and stepped past without pause. He swept his blade once, twice, and again into the men with hammers, growling as
he hacked off a hand then took the wielder's throats. He stabbed through the heart of the last man, who tried to run. Then there was only the sound of his ragged breaths, and the last, gurgling gasps of the dying hammerers, their eyes wide and frantic as they bled out.
"Mahala? Is that you?"
Yacat blinked and returned from the killing trance. He saw eyes watched him from a hole in the gate.
"It is," he managed to say as the heat of violence cooled. "The men are gone. Have no fear."
Wooden latches and metal locks clicked and released until the gates opened. Beyond, a group of Eagle and Panther warriors waited by a table filled with dice—as if they'd been almost bored until they saw Yacat. All stood at attention and saluted.
"Cuexta." Yacat could hardly believe any soldiers were alive and still here—let alone one of the army's heroes—still guarding the harem. He stepped forward and took the big man's arm. "Where is my family?"
Cuexta's lips tightened, his eyes roaming Yacat's sword and armor before pulling back. "I'm sorry, Mahala, I do not know. Most of your house fled North to the other great cities. We stayed at our posts, hoping reinforcements would come." The warrior's eyes unfocused and looked far away. "For two days and nights we have smelled the smoke, and heard the screams."
"Who is still here, Cuexta? What families?"
"Mostly the wives, concubines, and young children of the king, Mahala. Most of your brothers took their families. They told us little."
Yacat ground his teeth, thinking of his brothers leaving their father's children and the men who guarded them. "The king is dead, Cuexta. I watched him fall."
The big man's face drooped with the exhaustion he clearly fought. Yacat felt like a liar not telling the man the truth of what he had done at the festival of stars—that he would be seen as a traitor by any of his kin. But the spirit-man Ruka had been right, such things made no difference now.
"Do you yet serve the House of Mar?" Yacat said, looking to all the warriors, and not just Cuexta. As one their backs straightened with the promise of purpose.