Sea of Thieves

by Chris Allcock

  A long-dead people, then, but not as primitive as their art—if art was what it was—might suggest. By venturing into the caves and ruins where the drawings were at the most numerous, the crew soon learned that, whoever the area’s original inhabitants were, they shared a love of precious metal that rivaled that of any pirate.

  More surprisingly, some among them had shaped the gold into fineries whose quality far exceeded most anything Ramsey had plundered back in his homeland. Bracelets, anklets, staffs, and scepters were further adorned with emeralds, rubies, and a few kinds of precious ore even Mercia couldn’t identify right away. There were coins, too, although Ramsey was rather less interested in these until Shan had pointed out that they were, by and large, made from solid gold.

  It all seemed too good to be true, though their voyage through these untamed waters was not without its share of risks. It was rare that they went ashore without laying eyes on some predator or other lurking in the undergrowth, and on one occasion, Rathbone attempted to tug a vine aside only to find it tugging back. Only splashes of scalding water from the campfire’s cooking pot was enough to convince the snake to uncoil from the man’s arm, fortunately before it had chosen to clamp its sizable fangs down and deliver a fatal dose of venom.

  Other animals, not used to being wary of humans, made a nuisance of themselves by trampling campfires and generally getting underfoot. Shan returned to the ship one evening to find a pair of plump piglets helping themselves to a pile of fruit he’d spent all morning gathering. The beasts charged at him when he shouted, bowling him over as they disembarked, squealing and slopping all the way down the gangplank and off toward the jungle.

  They spotted a few telltale fins in the water as they sailed, too, and so Ramsey sternly forbade anyone to venture into the sea alone, not even to bathe. Back home, he might have risked tussling with a shark if it meant retrieving the loot from some sunken wreck, but these were strange and fearless creatures that not even a pistol could deter. Better to keep their feet dry.

  Still, they persevered despite these dangers, and a glittering cargo was a testament to their success. Even more spoils now lay buried in boxes and casks, left beneath some of the more distinctive paintings and carvings that they’d found along the way. Mercia stored cryptic notes in the ship’s journal so that it could be easily found again in the future.

  Next time, Ramsey mused. He couldn’t say for sure when that would be, for the last few days had seen the Magpie’s Wing pick her way back through the Devil’s Shroud, and now they were on the last leg of their journey home.

  Independent and experienced a crew they might be, but there were certain supplies that not even Shan could re-create out in the wild. Grog, for example, was in short supply, as was oil for the lanterns. Mercia’s compass had shattered when she tumbled from a high ledge, and a spell of bad weather had scraped the ship’s hull against jagged rocks that no one spotted. Fixing the leaks used up many of the sturdy wooden planks they needed for repairs, and so they’d all reluctantly agreed it was time to head back to familiar territory.

  Standing at the helm with his face concealed by a collar to keep out the early morning chill, Ramsey permitted himself a yawn. He’d insisted someone take a turn in the crow’s nest once they’d emerged from the Shroud, and he himself had stayed awake and wary throughout their voyage. The prospect of losing any of their haul to rival pirates, let alone any of the local mercenaries who might fancy picking up a bounty or two, made his hands clamp so tightly on the wheel that his knuckles went white.

  That was why he’d insisted on the detour. Oh, they’d arrive in port with plenty to trade and brag about, but much of what hadn’t been buried behind the Shroud had now been transferred to Ramsey’s private cabin. He remained aboard, staring at the darkened windows of a distant house and furrowing his brow in thought. The others had swiftly and silently followed his directions and stowed the riches away, ready to be shared once the noise and excitement surrounding their return had died down. Ramsey considered this arrangement proof of how the crew had bonded; pirates who didn’t trust one another would never have agreed for a shared treasure to linger in the lap of any one person for too long.

  Mercia, who’d been lingering by the captain’s cabin, grunted as Shan’s concertina wheezed out the final few notes. “I suppose that’s one good thing about heading home,” she said dryly. “You’ll be able to learn a couple of new tunes. Maybe ones you can actually play.”

  Shan snorted. “That’s all you’re looking forward to, eh? What about a nice hot meal or a tankard of grog that doesn’t taste like something drowned in it?”

  “Did you carnivores not enjoy the captain’s snake stew?” Mercia asked sweetly, beginning to pin up her hair with obvious reluctance until every last strand was tucked away neatly under her hat. “Going home has its downsides, you know. For some of us, at least. All boys together,” she added sullenly.

  “Very rich boys,” Ramsey said matter-of-factly, which earned him a scowl, though Mercia accepted his assistance slipping back into the oversized coat that she’d dug out of the ship’s clothing chest earlier that day. “It’s not like we could have stayed out there forever.”

  “You would if you could, though,” Mercia replied softly, lowering her voice so that only Ramsey could hear her as she fumbled with stiff buttons. “I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s troubling you. You’ve seemed restless ever since we first decided to head home.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure we’ll all feel better once we’ve made it ashore,” said Ramsey, without an ounce of conviction in the words. Mercia spoke the truth; it felt like he’d left a part of his soul beyond the Devil’s Shroud, buried along with his treasures.

  “Land ho,” Rathbone cried, quite unnecessarily, for Ramsey’s keen eyes had long since fixed upon their destination. He scrambled nimbly down the ladder that led to the crow’s nest, dropping the final few feet with a thud. “Can someone explain what’s so special about this place? It looks a little shabby for my tastes.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Shan retorted. “This is where Ramsey and I first met. The traders are canny enough to take your haul in trade without asking too many questions, the food’s hardly ever still alive, and we’ll be able to repair and replenish the ship.”

  Though he continued to stare impassively at the distant buildings, Ramsey’s chest tightened slightly at Shan’s words. While it had been his suggestion that they head to the port where Rowenna’s tavern lay waiting, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the thought of seeing her again after so long, and of the question he’d have to ask. The answer he might hear.

  To their surprise, another ship sailed forth to meet them as they neared the port, white handkerchiefs waving in the air as the crew signaled its good intentions. Another followed in its wake soon after. The Magpie’s Wing weighed anchor, flanked on either side by well-wishers, some of whom they recognized but many of whom were simply curious strangers. It seemed that news of Ramsey’s journey into the Devil’s Shroud had spread shortly after his departure, and now his return was the talk of the town.

  From the moment they disembarked, they were surrounded by gawkers, admirers, and skeptics in equal measure, and the crowd only increased in size as more townsfolk roused themselves from their beds and came to see what all the fuss was about. The crew members were bombarded with questions wherever they turned, and before long, the dock was bustling with such ferocity that Ramsey knew he’d never be able to unload any of their riches, let alone carry them through town. Not without starting a riot. Enough, he decided, was most definitely enough.

  Ramsey was a tall man, and even more imposing once he’d climbed atop a sturdy crate, but it wasn’t until he fired a single shot from his pistol into the sky that he really got the crowd’s attention. He held his other palm outstretched to face the crowd.

  “My friends,” he began. That was probably a fair description of most of the crowd, he decided. It was amazing how kindly disposed you could fee
l to someone brandishing a gun. “My friends, I know you have questions. Doubtless you have heard plenty of idle gossip since we last sailed out from this port. But we have been a month at sea, and are in need of both rest and repair. That is why tonight, I shall be taking supper at my usual drinking den! Those of you who know me are welcome to stop by my table and hear all about our journey!”

  There was a great roar of approval at this, but it subsided quickly as Ramsey continued, a steel edge now present in his voice. “Those of you who know me, of course, can also guess what will happen to you if you continue to dog me throughout the day.” There was some laughter at this, but in quite a few cases it was tinged with nervousness, and before long most of the onlookers had cleared away.

  “Nice speech,” Shan commented, sagging slightly under the weight of a stack stuffed with gold and trinkets. “Mercia’s volunteered to stay and guard the ship for as long as there are valuables aboard.”

  Rathbone cocked his head. “And miss out on the drinking? It’s not every day a pirate gets a hero’s welcome.”

  “But no one’s going to give her a heroine’s welcome,” Shan replied. “At least we don’t have to celebrate in disguise.”

  Ramsey nodded at this, picking up a heavy trunk stuffed with valuables and moving briskly to the first of their engagements, for they had much to do before nightfall. There were still whispers and furtive glances as they made their way through town, but at least their path remained clear as they staggered down cobbled streets and through a rat run of dingy alleyways.

  At Shan’s behest, their first stop was an unassuming little business in the old part of town. “This is it!” Shan said, waving a hand at a poky little building smeared with faded paint and fronted by foggy windows of thick bubbled glass.

  “This? It’s as humble as a sweetshop and looks as popular as a plague,” Ramsey said skeptically.

  “Just go on,” Shan said, gesturing them toward the door.

  Once inside, Ramsey was astonished to find an immaculate little jewelers’ shop run by a fussy, white-haired man whose spyglasses dangled from a chain around his neck. He huffed and puffed at the pirates’ boisterous entrance and muddy footprints, but his high-and-mighty demeanor vanished the instant Ramsey flipped the lid of the chest he’d been carrying. By the time he’d examined a few of the stones by the light of a sputtering candle, the prim little owner was practically their new best friend.

  The crew traded their spoils for every coin in the jeweler’s safe—Ramsey magnanimously agreed to throw in the chest for free—and the three pirates each took a share of the money and went their separate ways, agreeing to meet at the tavern after sundown.

  Shan’s destination was the marketplace, and he stuck his hands in his pockets as he drifted from stall to stall, nodding amiably at a platoon of soldiers as they marched past with expressions set in stone. He would hang back from each merchant for a while, watching carefully to see which cuts of meat or bottles of wine were offered up to the elderly townsfolk or to unwitting errand boys and which were reserved for the stern-faced cooks and canny housemaids who demanded the best for their masters.

  Only then would he swoop forward and lay claim to the finest-quality items, rattling off a list of orders so quickly that the bewildered stallholders never even had a chance to try and swindle him before Shan was halfway down the street. In his wake, he left behind strict instructions to deliver any goods to the Magpie’s Wing by sunset and, on the counter, exact change.

  Rathbone, by contrast, had no need to hunt for bargains. On Ramsey’s say-so, he was to seek out the finest weapons and tools the town had to offer—a task that required an imperious air and no small amount of arrogant self-belief. It was a mantle that Rathbone was able to adopt with ease, especially here on land, for his youth had been spent amongst businessmen and bankers cut from a viciously ruthless cloth. Having received the finest education courtesy of his father’s fortune, his was a mind of debts and digits, of knowing precisely how much a person might owe you—not to mention remembering where they lived.

  A businessman he’d been raised, and a businessman Rathbone surely would have remained had his lust for wealth not blinded him to his peers’ growing dissatisfaction with his work habits. He had begun to snatch deals out from under his rivals’ noses, undercutting and cheating powerful people.

  When the governor’s men arrived at his door one fateful morning carrying a warrant for his arrest and some particularly tight shackles, Rathbone was already halfway across the rear lawn of his sizable estate and accelerating, nightshirt flapping in the breeze. Publicly disgraced, his assets seized, Rathbone soon found himself in the company of smugglers and mercenaries—the kind of criminals he’d previously employed for some of his more underhanded business ventures.

  For men of a certain background, walking into a thieves’ den and asking for work would have been tantamount to suicide, but Rathbone had two advantages that separated him from most of the area’s elite: Firstly, he was a large man who had always taken pains to keep himself fit and active. The regular fencing and hunting practice of his youth likewise lent themselves to skill with a cutlass and pistol.

  Secondly, his excellent memory meant that Rathbone knew the details not only of his own business, but of many others as well. He retained an intricate understanding of cargo-run schedules and trade routes, knowing where ships loaded with valuables had previously been lost—and where they might soon be lost again. He took no small amount of satisfaction in building his reputation as a pirate at the cost of his rivals’ people and profits, waging campaigns that sank their ships, their cargo, and ultimately their livelihoods.

  It was around this time that Rathbone and Ramsey had first been introduced, and while many would have considered them strange bedfellows, they each saw in one another qualities to admire—and ambitions to be wary of. When they worked in tandem, however, their unique combination of experience and intellect, instinct and intimidation, proved a formidable force indeed. Before long, they were sailing together as regular accomplices, and Rathbone had long presumed he’d take over Ramsey’s ship and its captaincy, sooner or later, when the man finally turned sufficient attention to his family and “settled down.” It was a turn of phrase that made him shudder.

  As Rathbone made his way around town, curling his lip and sniffing disdainfully until exasperated shopkeepers surrendered their truly premium wares for his inspection, he found himself wondering what this new turn of events might mean for his long-term prospects. There was no point in enquiring about Ramsey’s plans directly, that much was certain. While he was undoubtedly a boisterous and passionate individual, Ramsey kept his private life extremely private indeed, even during conversations with his crew.

  Even so, Rathbone had gotten the distinct impression that choosing to make the journey through the Shroud had cost Ramsey a great deal of domestic happiness. Could the man really continue to choose a life at sea over home and hearth? And what would happen to Rathbone’s prospects if he did?

  Rathbone couldn’t know it, but Ramsey had been asking himself those same questions all day, even as he’d argued over figureheads and sail trim with the shipwright and made sure the Magpie’s Wing was fit for its next voyage. Mercia’s charts were growing more detailed and precise with every crossing, and he had no doubt that the little vessel would be able to make it back and forth through the Shroud as often as necessary. The question was, would he be aboard her?

  It was a train of thought that took him up the winding hill to the tavern a little sooner than he’d intended, early enough that the stout double doors were still tightly locked. His mind elsewhere, he wandered around through the rear entrance and into the silent bar without really paying much heed to his actions. He settled back into his favorite chair, which creaked, startling the woman who was sweeping the upper balcony.

  “We’re closed,” she said crossly, her voice drifting down from above. “And if the sign and the locked door didn’t convince you of that, perhaps my fo
ot up your arse will give you the hint?”

  “I’d hope, since we’re such good friends, you’ll at least polish your boot first,” Ramsey replied, wryly. His voice caused a little gasp of recollection, and Rowenna took the stairs at speed, bunching up her thick leather apron so that she didn’t trip. She threw her arms around Ramsey’s bearlike frame as best she could, kissing his forehead fondly before pulling back to look at him. “You’ve lost weight,” she remarked. “That makes two miracles, what you sailing into that damn fog and coming back to tell me all about it.”

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Ramsey assured her. “You can expect a crowded house tonight, and plenty of merriment. You’ll need some extra sawdust for the floor, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Rowenna grimaced. “And here I was, thinking you might have dug up a few good manners on that voyage of yours.” She stared at him, for a moment, her stony-blue eyes boring into his, and they locked gazes for a long while before she sighed and patted the sleeve of his coat. “You haven’t been home yet, have you?”

  Ramsey felt his insides drain away, as if Rowenna had uncorked him with the same practiced ease with which she’d decant a bottle of rum. “I thought I should—” he began, uncharacteristically struggling to find the words. “That is to say, given the circumstances . . .”

  “She’s away.”

  The answer hit home like two physical slaps in quick succession, the first filling him with a profound remorse, the second, some measure of relief. “She’s away,” he repeated dully. “Where?”

  She shrugged. “Family or some such. The littl’uns too, I shouldn’t wonder. Of course, she wasn’t to know you’d be coming back.” It wasn’t delivered as an accusation, just a statement of fact, for Rowenna had made it clear long ago that she wasn’t interested in marriage—be it hers or anyone else’s. Ramsey had always admired that honesty about her, even when it was currently twisting words into him like a knife. He sat and stared blankly at the floor, not knowing how to put an end to the uncomfortable silence.