At first she fought to clear her name, but then she remembered an old saying of her father’s: It was better to be hung as a wolf than as a lamb. From that day onward, Larinna embraced the epithet of pirate. She would indulge herself in acts of larceny and vandalism from time to time, particularly if she spotted one of the governor’s ships on the horizon. His goods always fetched a pretty penny.
This had all been fine for a while. But little by little, the world was getting smaller. It was more crowded, too. Once-untamed islands were becoming homesteads, safe havens were hard to come by, and many proud pirates had given up their galleons for a life on land. The navy was everywhere, pitiless in its pursuit of people who just wanted to peek and prod underneath what few stones remained unturned.
Larinna had been clambering across the rocky shoreline of a deserted cove when she’d spotted the bottle gleaming in the sunlight. To her amusement there was an actual message inside, and she spent the afternoon carefully extracting the cork. To simply smash her way inside had seemed wrong, somehow, though she couldn’t fathom why. Thanks to the map that had been safely sealed away through the bottle’s long journey, she read the term Sea of Thieves for the first time and grew determined to learn what it might mean.
They—and “they,” Larinna told the barkeeper, meant the grizzled old salts she’d been drinking under the table in some game or other—said there was no law on those strange seas. They spoke of lost civilizations sprawled across the bottom of the sea, of ancient cave drawings pointing the way to hidden treasures that could transform a person, body and soul. Above all, they spoke of entire regions that barely had a name, let alone charts that pinned everything down and drained the life out of the world.
For Larinna, the Sea of Thieves represented a solution to her wanderlust—and yet, it might as well have been a million miles away. As she was a lone wolf more concerned with exploration than extortion, her name and face were relatively unknown, her talents unproven. She could be captain to nobody bar a crew of novices, the sort whose inexperience would see them sunk before they were two days out of harbor.
In desperation, she’d taken to roaming every port in search of an open position on a ship that might be heading for the Sea of Thieves, but despite the map in her hand, many captains called her a gullible fool for believing such a place might even exist, and all denied her passage.
Finally, having eavesdropped on a pair of pirates whose tongues had been loosened all too easily by the contents of their glasses, Larinna followed them back to their vessel and accosted its captain, a squat merchant dripping with rings and gemstones who’d used his considerable influence to secure a map that matched Larinna’s own. He stoutly refused her a position on his crew, and while he grudgingly offered a position as a passenger, the price—even if she traded away her trusty sloop—was far beyond what she could afford.
Frustrated and unwanted, she stormed out of the captain’s cabin and was almost to the gangplank when she spotted the stack of barrels being lowered, one by one, into the hold. It was the work of a moment to tip several hundred pickled onions into the water below, though she began to regret her choice of hiding place the minute she sealed the lid back over her head. The smell was almost overwhelming.
After ten minutes of waiting on the dock, crouched in a vinegar-soaked cask with her eyes and lungs stinging, she was about ready to give up. Suddenly, Larinna found herself slung over a brawny deckhand’s shoulder and thrown down unceremoniously atop a cargo pile, left to bounce around in the pitch-black mustiness, at which point a bad smell became the least of her problems as she now had to keep herself hidden for the duration of the voyage. (The barkeeper laughed so heartily at this part that he began to choke on his bacon, and Larinna had to thump him on the back until he calmed down.)
Only when she felt the gentle bobbing of a port’s waters give way to the rougher waves of the open sea did Larinna dare to explode from her barrel, gasping, into the comparative bliss of the ship’s damp lower decks. She spent the next three days lurking out of sight behind a dwindling cargo pile, barely daring to sleep and holding her breath whenever the crew approached to take more rations upstairs, desperate not to make so much as a squeak. She dared to sneak morsels of food and drink only when the ship’s crew was eating, so that their commotion covered hers.
On one particularly windy night, she came within seconds of being discovered, as a pair of ham-sized hands reached for the crate she was crouching inside. Luckily, the ship struck a sandbar with a particularly violent lurch that sent everyone stumbling and slid the box clean across the room, giving her a chance to scramble to safety in the confusion. Another evening, she was pinned, furious and immobile, beneath a pile of sacks and a stupefied sailor who’d unwittingly passed out on top of her hiding place.
The indignities continued to pile up, one after another, and Larinna had increasingly frequent daydreams about storming up above deck and simply seizing the vessel single-handedly. Finally, there was a raucous cheer from overhead and she guessed that the ship had made it through to the Sea of Thieves. To her surprise and delight, she felt the ship weigh anchor shortly after with an unmistakable clatter, then heard the crew disembarking, chattering excitedly about the next leg of their journey as they ambled off to drink themselves into oblivion.
Sore and exhausted, Larinna finally clambered into the sunlight. She washed her face and hair in a basin she spotted in the captain’s cabin, finally shedding the smell of onions, and briefly considered making off with the galleon. It would have been the sweetest revenge to do so, but deep down she knew that she was in no condition to sail a ship alone, particularly not one this size. Besides, she was incredibly thirsty.
Leaving the vessel alone, she swaggered into the same tavern as her unwitting shipmates, smirked as the squat merchant did a double take that resolved itself into a suspicious glare, and ordered what would be the first of many drinks. She raised a glass, silently toasting her newfound freedom, and another, and another until the moon was high in the sky. By then the air was full of song, but Larinna did not hear it, for she was asleep before her head even struck the bench.
“A tale worth every last rasher, as I’m any judge of them,” said the barkeeper warmly as Larinna finished her tale. “Truth be told, I’ve seen a few young whippersnappers like yourself turn up with a mysterious map in their hand, but you’re the first I’ve ever heard of who made it as a stowaway. And no,” he added, chuckling as Larinna opened her mouth to interrupt, “I’ve no idea who wrote the note, but I’d like to thank ’em one of these days. They keep sending me customers!”
Larinna left her mouth open long enough to give a satisfied burp, then placed both her palms on the table as if to stand. “And what do these customers of yours do once they’ve sobered up?” she challenged. “This is a nice place to drink, but I don’t want to be marooned here.”
Cheeks flushed with the heat of a large breakfast, the barkeeper lumbered to his feet and began to clear away the crockery. “Crewing up, mostly,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Least, that’s what they likes to call it. Finding people to sail with. Paying a visit to the shipwright for a vessel if they’ve got the gold.” He tipped soapy water over the plates and began to scrub. “And you? Where might you be headed next?”
“Oh, wherever the wind carries me,” Larinna said airily. “Somewhere fresh.” Truth be told the question made her slightly uncomfortable, for her thoughts kept drifting back to the gold she didn’t have. It had been a hearty breakfast, but she was well aware that her purse still needed filling as badly as her stomach had.
Having bidden the barkeeper farewell, Larinna took a brisk walk around the island, though it yielded nothing of interest beyond the outpost, which was apparently named Sanctuary Outpost—nothing, at least, until she spotted some laden banana plants high overhead, their fruit already beginning to drop and burst on the rocks below.
Staring first at the splattered mess and then at all the detritus the sea had washed up on th
e shore, Larinna saw the beginnings of a scheme. If she was successful, she hoped, she’d make some coin and orchestrate an encounter with a crew willing to take her out on an adventure.
Having gathered as many intact bananas as she could find, she selected the battered remains of a small rowboat that seemed to suit her purposes and began to dig it out of the sand, freeing it from the seaweed and other rubbish that had half buried it over the years. Dragging its husk back across the beach to a carefully scouted location at the dock was no mean feat, and while the other stallholders looked on intently, they made no attempt to assist her.
By the time the rowboat was in place, upended to stand proudly on the sands, Larinna was rasping her tongue across dry lips, beads of sweat tumbling and getting in her eyes. Visions of grog swam through her mind, and she gazed longingly back up at the distant tavern—but she had a plan to complete. Next, she placed the bananas in what she hoped was an eye-catching arrangement, though she’d be the first to admit she had no eye for aesthetics, and settled back to choose her first target.
So it was that an elderly mariner who wanted nothing more than to limp his way up the hill for a grog or two found his path blocked by an imposing figure who thrust a piece of fruit under his nose and demanded, “Buy these bananas!” with the tone of one committing a highway robbery.
The mariner moved to protest, but Larinna scowled at him so fiercely that he soon found himself sat morosely outside the tavern feeling altogether fuller, more sober, and less wealthy than he would have liked. In the distance, he could see Larinna hoisting her wares on yet more unsuspecting arrivals.
While the coins felt welcome jingling in her pocket, Larinna was less interested in a career as a grocer than in using her prime vantage point to keep watch for suitable crews. Had she been back home, she might well have approached each docked vessel one by one and attempted to talk her way aboard. She was all too aware, however, that despite their crumpled clothing and blemished faces, these were pirates who sailed the Sea of Thieves on a daily basis and had experience she lacked. She had to be careful not to bite off more than she could chew, even if that was normally part of the fun.
Instead, Larinna elected to bide her time, gauging the personalities and the proficiency of the pirates that surrounded her and making coin wherever she could. Sure enough, her patience was finally rewarded.
She heard the two men before she saw them, their banter carrying down the hillside at a volume that meant she’d have been hard-pressed to ignore them. Larinna was quiet by nature, preferring to let her actions speak for her, and the vivaciousness and volume of their quarrel nearly made her think twice about approaching them.
“Ned, my friend, you know I speak only with the utmost respect and concern for your reputation. So I know that you will forgive me when I tell you, again, that this fool’s errand will see us all drowned! You think we’ll get our fair share from the Gold Hoarders? Hah! I say to you, hah!” one man scoffed.
“S’gud voyage, Faizel,” the other responded. “S’better than yours, anyway. Cargo runs always make the ship stink of pigs an’ I’m the one who always has to slop out afterward. You’re just scared.”
“We all have our talents, you know? Mine happens to be picking the jobs that will keep us all in one very wealthy piece. Your talents, on the other hand, are most certainly as varied as they are numerous. One day we may even discover what they are.”
The bickering duo stepped onto the boardwalk as they rounded the corner, providing Larinna with her first chance at a proper inspection. While they were obviously close friends, the two could hardly have been more mismatched.
The one who appeared to be winning the verbal fencing match, presumably Faizel, was short and shaped like an egg. He possessed a great belly protruding over his belt that shook when he laughed, which was often. Most of his face was obscured by a curly beard that ran up the entire length of his face and framed twinkling, mischievous eyes. He might have been five years older than Larinna or perhaps fifteen—the sort of man for whom gray hair and wrinkles will never have meaning—and he was dressed smartly in long trousers and an emerald shirt that struggled to contain him.
The other, who had to be Ned, was a lumbering, craggy cliff of a man whom Larinna immediately decided was not to be pressured into buying fruit against his will, for he stood two full heads taller than she. He looked young and his skin was fair, though he was already sweating in the heat of the day. He was, Larinna was forced to notice, completely hairless save for his eyebrows, which were so blond as to be almost invisible. He wore no shirt, possibly because no tailor had sufficient stamina to sew something in his size, or perhaps just so he could appear even more terrifying. The drawn blade in his right hand only added to his intimidating countenance, and Larinna took a deep breath before stepping out in front of them, making sure to keep out of swiping distance.
“Gentlemen,” she said, trying desperately to remember how to be personable after a day in the hot sun. “You appear to be at an impasse, but I can offer you a simple solution.”
Faizel’s patter silenced immediately as Larinna addressed them, dark eyes gleaming as he slowly, nonchalantly laid one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’d accuse you of eavesdropping, but I suppose we were hardly inconspicuous,” he replied, mildly. “And it would be ungracious of me to ignore free advice, even if we should choose not to follow it.”
“Good,” Larinna said flatly. “Show me both of these voyages you’re considering, and I’ll decide which one we should sail on.” She glanced at Ned, who seemed content to let Faizel handle proceedings, and arched an eyebrow expectantly.
A flicker of recognition passed across Faizel’s face, as if he knew the game he was being invited to play. “But stranger, there is no impasse, you see, for we are a crew of three. When the time comes to choose our next voyage, our captain shall break any deadlock. Your services are simply not required, I am sorry to say.”
They’re shorthanded, Larinna thought to herself. That could be a good thing, if I play my card right. She adopted a supercilious air, and sniffed. “You choose to sail as a crew of merely three, and you tell me I’m not needed? You should be sat with the rest of my wares!”
It took only a second before Faizel got the joke, and grinned. “Ah, because we must be bananas, yes? Very good! I think I like you. But even so—”
There was a low rumble, and Ned said, thoughtfully, “We’re not supposed to be three, though. Always hadda crew of four, only we had to leave Kyrie behind.”
Larinna felt her lip curl, as she did not like the sound of that. “You left her behind? Why?”
“We couldn’t get the shark up the ladder.”
Larinna glared up at him, but Ned’s face was impassive, and it was impossible to read any trace of insincerity in his expression. It was like trying to out-bluff a rock.
“Kyrie,” Faizel mused. “Most regrettable, indeed, and I suppose now that you put me to it, we are somewhat underhanded. In more ways than one, hah!” He studied the bananas for a moment. “You’re quite sure you’re a good pirate? A strong pirate? You can handle yourself in a fight?”
“If you want me to prove it,” Larinna offered, “I could throw you into the sea.”
Ned twitched, but Faizel laid a placating hand on his arm, breaking into a warm laugh Larinna couldn’t help but find endearing. “I think I must tell our captain all about you. If she agrees, we will be back for you and your bananas. In the meantime, you will need a weapon, and I am certain our friend Wilbur will have something within your means.”
Faizel’s proclamation was accompanied by a grand gesture toward one of the larger buildings farther up the hill, where a faded sign depicting two crossed pistols was just about visible. “Shall we say an hour, then?”
Larinna nodded her assent and watched them stroll away along the dock before turning back to her makeshift stall. Whoever this Wilbur was, she hoped he didn’t mind taking payment in fruit.
It was then she noticed there was som
ething sticking out of the rowboat’s hull—something that she was sure hadn’t been there before. It was a knife, the blade of which had been stabbed through the moldy planks halfway up to its hilt. When she moved to pull it out, irritably, she saw the note it was pinning in place.
Seek Athena’s Fortune, Larinna. I mean it.
Larinna’s hand flew to her sword until she remembered she didn’t have one, and a low growl of frustration escaped her throat as she forced herself not to tear off in search of the culprit. Whoever was following her was clearly angling to end their days as an oversized pincushion, but she wasn’t about to let some cowardly prankster ruin her chances of joining a halfway competent crew.
Gathering up the last of her bananas, she squared her shoulders and began to travel the long and winding path back to the outpost. Behind her, several scraps of viciously shredded paper were picked up by the wind and began their long journey out to sea.
RAMSEY
The Magpie’s Wing sailed low in the water, her innards glittering with the spoils of a month beyond the Shroud. She plowed across the ocean at a merry pace, with echoes of a concertina tune and raucous, atonal attempts at song dancing upon the waves. What a month, Ramsey thought, tapping his foot in time as Shan dredged up yet another shanty from the depths of his memory. We’ve lived like lords. He glanced down at his fingers, which were laden with three new gemstones set in fine silver rings, and chuckled contentedly.
As Ramsey had always suspected, the sea they’d been sailing was utterly devoid of human civilization—an unclaimed paradise without as much as a campfire on the horizon. Well . . . currently unclaimed, he corrected himself. Exploration of certain islands had revealed crude paintings and sigils dotted here and there, barely more complex than a child’s scrawl and clearly ancient in their origins. Mercia had explained how similar relics had been found back home and were not always simple cave paintings of hunts and beasts, but ways of expressing complicated ideas and even stories.
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