Dragonfang (10 page)
‘Good ladies, fine gentlemen!’ called Zimak. ‘You may have heard of him. Is he a man? Is he a demon? Is he a machine? I give you the mighty Daretor, the strongest warrior in the world!’
People hurried over, eager to witness feats of strengh from the demon-powered machine. Daretor knelt and held out his arms. Zimak selected four pretty girls from the crowd and had them sit on Daretor’s arms. Then Daretor got to his feet. Zimak tied a rope around Daretor’s waist, and tied the other end to a beer wagon. Even with the four girls on his arms, Daretor still managed to pull the beer wagon in a wide circle while Zimak steered.
Zimak went around collecting coins while Daretor put the girls down and untied himself. Next Zimak challenged all comers to fight Daretor – as many at once that dared. A dozen warriors accepted the challenge, and Daretor fought with only a quarter-staff. In no time at all, two of the challengers had managed to kill each other; the other ten were lying dazed and bleeding on the ground, and Daretor’s quarterstaff was splintered. When the dead and injured had been dragged away, Zimak went around taking bets that Daretor could not lift a cart on his shoulders. Of course, Daretor rose to the challenge with very little effort. With the show over, Zimak and Daretor retired to a tavern, where they stood counting the money on top of a barrel.
‘The takings are down two parts in ten on last market day. We need to move to another city,’ remarked Zimak. ‘It feels like we’ve been here for years.’
‘We now have the money to journey to the Green Mountains, where there is a stone roundel that can return us home, or so I have been told.’
‘The pox take that, Daretor. No. Never!’
‘Then I go alone.’
‘Good! Go! I have been saving a few coins here and there; I shall survive alone. Besides, I have been courting a certain nobleman’s daughter, and my prospects for advancement are good –’
Daretor scooped up the coins and took his leave.
Zimak waited a full ten seconds before chasing after him. ‘Hie, Daretor, you don’t need me back in our world. I mean, I could help you get to the stone roundel, then remain here. I like this world.’
‘Then our friendship is at an end. I wish you well doing tricks like a gypsy.’
‘It gets us by,’ Zimak said. ‘Look, I promise to get you to the roundel, and to help arrange whatever is needed to return you to Q’zar.’
Daretor stopped and folded his arms. ‘What’s in it for you, Zimak?’
‘You’re always so suspicious, Daretor. I can see that you’re determined to go home, and after all we’ve been through, I’d like to see you succeed.’
Later that night Daretor and Zimak left the city. They were riding good horses, and had plenty of gold and silver for the trip. Little did he know it then, but Daretor could have saved himself the trouble and effort by not accepting Zimak’s offer of help.
T
he first five days of the voyage were nothing out of the ordinary, and by the end of the week Hargav was being sick only once or twice a day. He turned out to be very good with meal presentation, washing dishes, cleaning the cabins, and even cooking. And he was slowly learning about life aboard a ship. He had spent most of one morning looking for the starboard, having been ordered to polish the star, had been ducked in the bilge water, and had learned the hard way not to empty the officers’ chamber pots into the wind.
A lot of what had been in his rollpack was now missing, but he had also discovered that most of what he had brought with him was of no use on a ship. Jelindel had also been giving him lessons in self-defence. He had a black eye from one of the young deckhands, but had retaliated by hitting him over the head with a wooden pail. Both had then spent a day in the forecastle stocks, with the bowspray breaking over them twice every minute.
Jelindel had just passed the navigator’s latest headings to
the steersman when she noticed one of the passengers leaning against the gunwale and looking out to sea. This particular man was dressed well, yet he walked as if he was well used to rolling decks. During meals he displayed refined manners and his accent was polished without being foppish. Even more interesting, his sword was a practical type, with nicks in the hilt and wear on the leather binding of the handle. Jelindel kept the ship’s register for the purser, so she checked the details of the passengers. The man’s name was Larachel, and he was supposed to be a trade envoy for one of the D’loom merchant families.
She sat tapping at his name in the register. Such a man would have to be accomplished in many areas, else he would soon be out of business. It would not be unreasonable for Larachel to be a proficient swordsman, a man of words, and an accomplished seaman. Why then did his presence unnerve her? Did he remind her of someone? She snapped the register shut. Time enough for him to reveal his past. And she could help that along easily enough.
The mist-dulled coast was barely visible on the north-western horizon, a ragged line of low hills. Jelindel walked to the rail and stood beside Larachel. The sun was low in the sky, the chopping wave-tops drowning in reddish shadow.
Jelindel waited for Larachel to acknowledge her, but he seemed oblivious to her presence. The wind whipped at his hair, throwing it back. For a moment, Jelindel thought she recognised something about his hairline, the way it was shaped like a breaking wave. It was a game she used to play with her siblings, not all that long ago. Each player would describe what another player’s hairline reminded them of, just like making pictures from clouds. A silly game, she thought, and brushed the memory aside.
‘Zaria is not far off,’ she commented.
As though continuing a conversation, and without glancing at her, he said, ‘And you are in a position to know?’
Jelindel hid her surprise. ‘I am the navigator’s mate. It is my place to know.’
‘Ah, quite so.’ Now he turned his full attention on her. ‘Our first port of call. We are to unload a hundred jars of olive oil, five dozen barrels of mead, and ten boxes of crockery. I am a merchant’s trade envoy. It is my place to know.’
Larachel’s iron-hard eyes bored into her, yet his tone was friendly enough. Lesser recipients of his attention might have been unnerved, yet Jelindel remained detached.
‘All of it in your care?’ she asked, wide-eyed.
Larachel’s mouth twitched. ‘None of it is my concern. A load of expensive spices is to come aboard at Zaria. It belongs to the merchant house that employs me.’ He returned his attention to the red-hued sea. The sun was fast sinking on the horizon.
Now he
was
unsettling her. If they were laden with a valuable cargo they would need to be part of a convoy, and there was nothing in the logbook to suggest they were accompanying other ships after Zaria. ‘So, the
Dark Empress
is to be part of a convoy?’ she persisted.
‘No.’
This news did not cheer Jelindel. One of the ship’s few redeeming features was that it carried goods that privateers would not bother with. But a cargo of spices! Something was wrong here. Spices took up little space, and were of great value. Small loads of spices were carried on sleek, fast caravels, while large loads made do with convoys that could fight off privateer squadrons.
Water slapped at the prow and Larachel brushed back his
raven hair. Had he once worn it in a ponytail? It was too short now, of course, but the shape of his fringe haunted Jelindel.
‘So,’ she said, focusing, ‘the spices will be in crates with PLEASE STEAL ME stencilled on the sides?’ She could barely control her incredulity.
He glanced at her as though she were a troublesome pest. ‘That is not usual practice with my merchant house.’
Still that unflinching look. Jelindel had seen that expressionless veneer somewhere before. But where? Looks could be disguised, albeit at a price beyond most people’s means. Nonetheless, it was possible.
Jelindel filed away her unease for future investigation. ‘Then why move a highly valued cargo on a slow, defenceless ship?’
Larachel looked the length and breadth of the
Dark Empress
. ‘I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I feel quite secure. The crew is renowned in a dozen towns for their ferocity in tavern brawls.’
‘That would be really helpful if we were attacked by a tavern. But a squadron of privateers is more likely to come after us in fast caravels. Is there any reasoning behind what we are about to do?’
Larachel considered Jelindel, his face impassive. ‘The
Dark Empress
has a reputation for travelling slowly and carrying heavy cargoes of low worth. Privateers will not expect a large, expensive cargo to be aboard.’
‘And as soon as we have discharged our large and highly valued cargo every privateer on the water will add us to his list of ships to be given close attention.’
Larachel’s voice hardened. ‘That is not my business. I suggest you seek employment on another vessel after this voyage.’ He smiled but it was without mirth.
‘How very –’ Something caught Jelindel’s eye. Her suddenly
alarmed face made Larachel turn to follow her gaze. ‘What is that?’ she said in disbelief.
Jelindel pointed into the glare of the setting sun. There were shapes visible, and they seemed like ships with high masts carrying a lot of sail. Without another word Jelindel heaved herself into the ratlines and scrambled up to the crow’s nest. The lookout was snoring. She stared out to sea, where six privateer caravels were now distinctly visible and on an interception course. Taking the lookout’s whistle, she blew three short blasts, then backed down the ratlines again, leaving the lookout to work out what had just happened.
Minutes later, the alarmed captain and officers were gathered on the sterncastle, staring at the approaching caravels.
‘They are at least twice as fast as we are,’ observed the first mate, Henrik Ju’shron.
‘Don’t know why they’re bothering with us,’ said the purser. ‘Our cargo is bulky, and would be little more than beer money to them.’
‘The
Dragonfang
,’ the captain said flatly, fixing one rheumy eye on the fast approaching vessel. He passed his farsight to the first mate. ‘That does it for us. It’s the fastest three-master there is. Navigator, what is your opinion?’
‘I think we should have a nice jar of Maldera ’25,’ managed the navigator, who was being held up by two sailors.
‘Why do I bother?’ muttered the captain. ‘Master Jaelin, what are your estimates, lad?’
‘We are about twelve hours from Zaria, and we are about twelve minutes from being boarded –’
An arrow swished past Jelindel and thudded into the
navigator’s chest, killing him instantly. Everyone immediately dropped to the deck.
‘– but we are already within bowshot,’ Jelindel finished.
A flurry of arrows then landed among them.
Jelindel got up. ‘The initial volley is always meant as a warning.’
Captain Porterby floundered between indecision and certainty. ‘Open the weapons racks. All hands to the deck,’ he shouted. ‘Someone run up that confounded white flag!’
It took another two or three minutes before his orders were obeyed and every seaman and officer was armed with swords and bows.
‘Now, at my word,’ the captain began. ‘All hands, fling your swords and bows overboard and make sure that the privateers see you do it.’
A murmur of dissent swept the seamen. But the veterans among them knew that to resist was certain death. Privateers often spared those who surrendered – it was bad for business to kill merchant seamen. As for those who retaliated, few were ever seen again.
When the crew had flung overboard everything that even vaguely resembled a weapon, they began to chant, ‘We surrender.’ All joined in, except those who were sent aloft to take in the sails. The flagman on the
Dragonfang
signalled that they should reef the sails, and the
Dark Empress
signalled that it was being done. Then the signal to be boarded was given.
‘I was told that we would be in savage, exciting battles,’ muttered Hargav miserably, as he helped Jelindel haul on a line.
‘Well, the navigator was killed,’ she pointed out.
‘That was only because we did not surrender fast enough. We should have … you know …’
‘Fought?’ Jelindel said.
‘That’s right,’ Hargav said, bunching his hands into fists.
‘Down to the last man, no doubt,’ Jelindel said. ‘Personally, I’d rather live to fight another day. Now keep close to me, Hargav.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘And keep your mutinous thoughts to yourself. They’ll like as not have you tossed overboard for shark bait.’
Grapples were thrown aboard, the
Dragonfang
was made fast to the
Dark Empress
, then a couple of dozen sailors came aboard and tied up the entire ship’s company. Only then did the captain of the
Dragonfang
climb over the rail from the smaller but faster ship.
‘I am Captain Learder,’ he said, pacing before the officers of the
Dark Empress
.
‘And I am Captain Porterby,’ the
Dark Empress
captain said. ‘Under the terms and conditions of –’
