Sea of Thieves

by Chris Allcock

  Larinna stared in astonishment as Faizel pushed back the hood of the cloak he’d donned and stepped forward, abandoning his disguise and drawing a thin blade. Adelheid, who’d been concealed in the other robe, did the same. Occulia flinched as the scroll was tugged roughly from her hands, well aware she was surrounded.

  “Now we will part ways,” Faizel continued. “But to show you our good intentions, we will not be charging for our services today. Enjoy your evening, please!”

  The three pirates backed toward the flap that served as the tent’s exit with Faizel’s blade still flashing menacingly in the firelight. Only when they were outside did they discard the Order’s robes and sprint toward the ship.

  “Ned’s ready to cast off,” Faizel explained breathlessly as they pounded through the busy streets, back toward the dock where the Unforgiven was waiting. “I think that perhaps we have worn out our welcome here at Sanctuary, at least for a while.”

  “Sure you want me aboard?” Larinna vaulted over a wandering cockerel who was too slow or too stupid to get out of her way. “I mean, I didn’t exactly get the parchment.”

  “You were willing to die trying,” Adelheid pointed out, shunting a startled stallholder out of her path. “That’s the mixture of courage and crazy I’m looking for in a new crewmember. We can shake on it when nobody’s trying to kill us.”

  Larinna laughed at that, then reached out to catch Faizel’s arm, steadying him even as his feet struck a patch of loose gravel and he started to stumble. Shouting and bantering, they tore along the newly patched-up boardwalk, piled up the gangplank, and sailed back out to sea before anyone could stop them.

  On the cliffs high above, an unseen figure watched them go.

  RAMSEY

  Mercia headed to the crow’s nest immediately upon her return to the Magpie’s Wing, for her head was spinning both with the night’s revelations and with the dying refrain of the music she’d heard. She desperately wanted to clear her brain, to try and make sense of everything that had happened. She’d been staring blankly out at the horizon for less than an hour before the creaking of the ladder roused her from her thoughts.

  She expected to see Rathbone, whose face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl these days, hauling himself up into the little wooden basket atop the mast. In fact, it was Shan who plopped down beside her, seemingly content to say nothing and just stare placidly at the horizon. Mercia would have indulged him, but the crow’s nest was scarcely big enough for two. “Is my shift over already?” she asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice and only partly succeeding.

  “I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a tinkerer,” Shan said conversationally, as if Mercia hadn’t spoken. “Happy to let the ebbs and flows carry me through life. Never really needed a long-term plan as long as I’ve had something to keep me busy, content to go along with my crew. But it’s just the four of us out here now, see. We need to be sure we’re all dancing to the same tune or we won’t survive, and right now it feels like you and the captain are dancing a waltz while the rest of us are standing around the maypole.”

  “That was some metaphor,” Mercia said dryly.

  “Well, let me put it another way. . . . What the hell is going on, Mercia? What did you find down in a soggy hole that’s got us racing out to the middle of nowhere at full speed? The captain must know that Rathbone’s angrier than a wasp in a wine bottle.”

  Mercia let out a deep sigh. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me—and I know that sounds like an excuse, Shan, but I’m not sure I believe me. Ramsey thinks you need to see for yourselves, like we did. If we just told you, there’s every chance you’d think us both cracked, and we’re going to need all of us dancing, as you put it, together tonight.”

  Shan looked more pensive than she’d ever seen him. “Well, we’ve got a full hold and a fair wind,” he said, finally. “It’s trust we’re running low on. Hopefully there’s some to be found wherever it is we’re heading.”

  “There is, I promise. Or do I have to swear an oath?”

  “No oaths,” said Shan. “But the next round is definitely yours.” Mercia gave a nod and a small smile, and Shan swung nimbly back onto the ladder, dropping the last few feet to the deck. Rathbone, who was at the helm and grudgingly following Ramsey’s directions, gave him an inquiring glance, but Shan merely shrugged and turned his attention to the sails. He could feel a cold glare boring into the back of his skull for the rest of their journey.

  They sailed until their maps and charts could guide them no farther, and Ramsey came above deck to stand moodily at the front of the ship, one hand on his compass and the other resting on the railing as if urging the Magpie’s Wing to move faster. When Mercia gave a curt whistle from on high, he began to move rapidly about the ship, extinguishing the lanterns one by one and half furling the sails to slow their approach.

  It was easy to see why he wished to approach as covertly as they could, for three distinctive shapes were visible even at this distance—a trio of galleons at rest, moored in a line that bent to follow the curve of a sandy beach. Ramsey bade them weigh anchor, lurking out of sight behind a smaller atoll that disguised their profile. He led them down to the map room and unfurled a crude map he’d sketched so recently that the ink had barely had time to dry.

  “I’ll keep this short, for we’ve not much night left. This island’s a hideout for a group who’ve laid claim to these waters,” he explained. “As you’ve seen, we’re outnumbered, but no one knows we’re here yet. If we’re shrewd, we can get the drop on them. Their camp is deep within a cave system at the heart of the jungle, and if you follow the river from here to here you’ll spy it soon enough.” He jabbed his thumb twice at the map.

  “Now, there could be a dozen pirates here, perhaps more, but they’ll likely not all be together. Some’ll be asleep, some’ll be on watch, and others . . . well, Shan and Rathbone, that’s where you come in. Use the river, head downstream into the cave, and keep as quiet as mice. You’ll get to see how many are still at the camp. If I’m right, you’ll also come to understand why we’ve come all this way, but you’re not to pick a fight you can’t win, you hear me? Count heads and come home.”

  “You make us sound like a group of reckless thugs,” Shan said dryly, tracing the outline of the river with his finger as if he was trying to commit every bend to memory. “And where will you be?”

  Ramsey grinned in the moonlight. “Baiting traps.”

  To Rathbone’s continued annoyance, Shan insisted on total silence as they crouched and crawled their way through a dense and tangled mass of vines and undergrowth. Once or twice they spotted drawings of the sort that always drew Mercia’s attention on their travels: strange, runic depictions of what seemed to be swimmers praying to the sun—or was it a pig? Something else entirely? They had more pressing concerns, Rathbone decided, and put it from his mind.

  They found the river easily enough, the babbling spring at its source guiding them by sound rather than sight. They traced its bank carefully as it wound its way through the disorienting labyrinth of trees and plants, though the thick jungle made it increasingly difficult to follow. Before long, they were forced to wade into the water, trying not to slip on sharp stones or lose their boots to the cloying mud.

  Eventually, the river itself delved underground, plunging into a gap between two rocks and down into darkness. It was deeper here, and the two men were forced to swim a short way, carefully holding their lanterns high over their heads so that they could still see. Luckily, the subterranean tunnel through which they moved opened out shortly after, and they were able to clamber out onto a broad ledge that ran parallel to the river. The lamplight revealed yet more painted swimmers adorning the walls, suggesting that this passageway had once been used regularly, though to what end was anyone’s guess.

  They spent another hour crawling their way across slimy rocks, seeking out every safe handhold and foothold with painstaking care, for the river was flowing faster and more da
ngerously as they descended. They could hear the distant sound of a fiddle echoing in the distance and reluctantly snuffed out their lights. Both men inched forward in the inky blackness, guided now only by the music and the susurration of the ever-rushing water.

  Finally, the path began to brighten with the flickering orange of a distant campfire, and they could hear the raucous laughter of people enjoying themselves. Here they paused, for moving any closer would risk stepping into view of a dozen unwelcoming pirates. Somehow, they needed to see without being seen.

  As Rathbone chewed his lip in thought, his eyes came to rest on another of the faded cave paintings. Like the others, this one seemed to make little sense: two rows of stick figures, one above the other, with a zigzag of dots between the groupings and a boar’s head in the center. It seemed a strange place to have left such a doodle, and he stared at it for a moment before an idea struck him. What if it was more than just a piece of primitive art?

  Reaching out to caress the wall around the drawing, Rathbone’s questing fingers found the first foothold carved crudely into the rock. As he suspected, the image was instructional, guiding him toward a series of alcoves that would allow him to reach the hideout’s upper level.

  He began to haul himself higher and higher, moving each of his limbs in turn to find the next niche until he was eventually splayed out on a high ledge. He helped Shan climb up alongside him, and together, the two men wriggled forward on their bellies, peering down from the darkness.

  The high shelf onto which they’d climbed acted almost as a gallery, surrounding and overlooking a large central cavern into which they could peek without being spotted. It was here that the pirates had made their home, and just as the drawing depicted, there was an enormous boar skull dominating the scene. It was huge, larger than any living beast Shan had seen, and it had been placed reverentially atop an ornate plinth carved out of the rock itself, with several smaller skulls and miscellaneous bones scattered around it.

  The cackling revelers below paid it no heed, however. There were eight that Shan could see in total, though two were snoring loudly. Those who were still awake were focused on jeering and cavorting around a large wooden construction, and Rathbone eased himself out over thin air so that he could get a better look at it.

  It’s a cage, he thought in surprise. Stretching forward as far as he dared, he could just about make out two figures huddled within the stout bars. Prisoners, and mistreated ones, for those pirates who hadn’t collapsed into a drunken stupor were poking at them with sticks and issuing mocking threats. For a moment, Rathbone feared that it might be Ramsey and Mercia—that they’d been captured and that the Magpie’s Wing was now either seized or scuttled at the enemy’s hands. Ramsey would never sit that quietly, he considered. And he mentioned something about friends. Who could he have meant? Well, if he couldn’t see, he’d just have to listen.

  “Oi, Douglas!” one of the pirates belched. “How comes I ’as to go on watch next, eh? ’S not like anyone even knows we’re ’ere!” He blew his nose noisily on the hem of his coat and, upon discovering his bottle was empty, tossed it in a lazy arc into the river.

  The largest man, whose ruddy face was framed by a lion’s mane of bright red hair, growled. “You’ll go because I said so, Gripper, an’ because you don’t want my blade in your belly! This is the biggest catch of our lives, and if I learn anyone’s put our plunder at risk because they were too lazy or too stupid to stick to the plan, I’ll personally feed ’em to the sharks one piece at a time, and I’ll save the eyes till last so’s they can watch!”

  A bully, Rathbone thought. But an effective one, if he’s got three ships at his command. Once he’s cut down, however. . . . It was tempting, here in the darkness, to simply draw his pistol and put a shot between those piggy little eyes, but it would also likely be the last thing Rathbone ever did.

  Gripper, it seemed, was either too daft or too drunk to know when not to push his luck. “Yeah, well, that one won’t eat what we gives anyway,” he complained, delivering a savage kick to the cage. “If you ask me—”

  Douglas moved so quickly that Rathbone never even saw the shot. He heard the bang, though, and felt it echo around the cavern with a deafening boom that silenced every pirate instantly. They, along with Rathbone and Shan high above, stared wordlessly at Gripper as he toppled forward. His limp form tumbled down the rocky slopes and into the river to bob away along with his bottle.

  The scene was a frozen tableau, for no one dared to be the first to speak, at least until a rumpled-looking young pirate tore into the room. She was breathless, and looked to have sprinted for some distance. “Fire!” she yelled. “Ship afire!” That was enough to snap the assembled pirates from their horrified trance, and they began to clamor in confusion.

  “Zounds!” Douglas bellowed. “Is it treachery? Or just another fool who wants to dance with the cat o’ nine tails? Never mind!” he added, immediately answering his own question. Hauling the two sleeping pirates to their feet, he dragged them to the river and dunked their heads under for several seconds, assuring he had their full attention when he finally dropped them back on dry land. “Take Norris, Smiley, and Bo, and make sure every single ship is as it should be. And if you find the ones who’ve tried to scupper us, you’re to leave ’em alive ’til I get there, you understand?”

  “Smiley? But we can’t find—” the pirate whimpered, then thought better of arguing. Wordlessly, she and her dripping comrades fled from Douglas’s fury and out of the caves as fast as their unsteady legs could carry them.

  “You two!” Douglas growled, rounding on two startled young men who were trying to linger at the back of the crowd. “Stay here and guard the prisoners! Everyone else, form search parties.” He lumbered toward the cave’s main entrance. “There’s no one who knows this island better than us! Whoever’s out there will be shark bait by morning!” Cursing and muttering, he and his crew filed out of the cave and out of sight.

  That left just two bewildered pirates staring blankly at one another, so confused by the sudden turn of events that they were completely unprepared when Rathbone and Shan dropped from overhead and felled them like two sacks of potatoes. Once he was satisfied both men were out cold, Rathbone stepped out of the shadows and holstered his weapon. “Don’t worry,” he called out to the occupants of the cage. “We’re friends. We’re here to help.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll understand you.” Shan had already moved to the bars of the cage, which was half submerged in a deep pool, and gotten a clear look at its occupants. Now the older man looked as pale as a fresh sheet, the first time Rathbone could remember seeing him visibly shaken.

  With some trepidation, Rathbone stepped and stared into the cage. From within its confines, their yellow eyes blazing in the firelight, two merfolk stared back.

  Smiley the pirate was having the worst night of his life.

  He’d been given first watch, which was bad enough. That meant that while he was out patrolling the rough pathways and passages that crisscrossed their island hideaway, the others were back at camp with the best of the evening meal and, more likely than not, a fresh cask of grog to accompany it. By the time Smiley got back, he was lucky to find a plate of cold leftovers to call his own.

  Then there was the snake, which began coiling its way around his leg as he stopped for a quiet smoke out of the wind. Smiley hated snakes, and though he’d managed to slip out of his boot just in time, he hadn’t dared approach the wretched creature to reclaim it. Now he was hobbling around the island with one stockinged foot feeling foolish.

  To make matters worse, his arm seemed to be getting worse. He’d snuck another look at it earlier when no one was around. Four days had passed since he defied Douglas’s orders and snaffled a golden idol for himself while exploring one of the island’s many shrines. Now shadowy flecks of amber were visible in the veins of his hand and wrist, as if the little totem had been under some protective magic or other. His little finger was almost completely im
mobile now, but he didn’t dare tell the others, in case they decided a solid gold arm was worth more than Smiley himself.

  Finally, as Smiley trudged along his route feeling immensely sorry for himself, a man the size of a small bear had plummeted out of the treetops and landed on his head. Now Smiley was hanging upside down from a sturdy branch, bound and gagged. The terrifying figure and his accomplice made Smiley spill his guts about everything Douglas’s gang had been up to, how many of them were on the island, and the plan for their two prisoners.

  When Smiley mentioned the bit about taking the merfolk far from the Sea of Thieves to sell, the woman struck him with a blow that he felt sure ought to have taken his head clean off. Even so, he begged her to take him prisoner, lock him in the brig, or even make him walk the plank out at sea. Anything seemed better than being found by Douglas and made to explain himself.

  He’d been left to swing regardless. High in the branches and too ashamed to even call for help, Smiley was forced to watch as one of their three ships was set ablaze, lamp oil burning brightly across her deck and flames bubbling the paint of the hull. Three of his shipmates raced aboard, buckets in hand to extinguish the blaze, only to be blasted into the ocean by cannon fire from their sister ship, which was now under control of the trespassers.

  Douglas and his search party located Smiley shortly after, and he hung forlornly, confessing everything. He begged to be cut down, to be allowed to rejoin the fight and take revenge, but Douglas spat on the ground below him and declared that Smiley could be left there to rot, as far as he was concerned. An example to the others.

  Now Smiley was swinging, trying to get enough momentum to hack his sword into the bindings that held his feet. His wild swipes were missing by mere inches as he rocked back and forth. Finally, by curling his stomach as tight as it could go, he managed to land a blow that struck, more by luck than judgment. It was only enough to fray the stout rope, but it spurred Smiley into landing a second blow, then a third.