Sasharia En Garde (10 page)

“Everyone knows that. Everyone from the old days,” Silvag
scrupulously amended. “But they watch her place day and night. Especially since
spring.”

“Well, good to know.” Sun forced herself to be cheerful.
“Then we’ll have some time on the walk to figure a way in, won’t we?”

“We?” Silvag said, and Sun saw the wary hope in his face,
and heard it in his gruff voice.

“Unless you’d rather stay around here and rob people. I want
to find my daughter, and then find Math. It looks like he’s needed.”

When I saw Zathdar the next morning, I actually stopped
right in my tracks. Poor Elva thumped into me from behind.

She peered around my arm, then snorted. “Ugh. Talk about
swagger.”

Zathdar flicked his crimson silk shirt, turning this way and
that. That shirt was so gaudy it was barbaric with its black and gold
embroidery in highly stylized patterns of raptors on the wing. “Handsome, isn’t
it?” He preened, grinning at Elva. “Bought it in an old pirate cove on the
other side of the world. Couldn’t resist.”

“But . . . couldn’t you have found a bandana
to match?” I pointed at the glorious green and gold silk tied round his head.
This one had even longer fringes than his last. His trousers were sturdy black
cotton-wool, but he made up for that lapse into sobriety with a purple sash.
“And . . . purple with crimson? Wait, I’m asking that of a guy
who wore orange and green together yesterday, with a crimson vest. Never mind.”

He spread his hands. “My captains on the other ships have to
be able to see me.”

I turned to Elva. “That does kind of make sense.”

“Signal flags make more sense.” She eyed the grinning
privateer.

“Not in the middle of battle when everyone is too busy to
hoist flags. Speaking of which, since the winds are contrary, we’re about to
conduct morning drill. If you’d like to watch, feel free, but I must warn you
that the gangways here will be busy.” He indicated the deck running along the
rail on either side of the masts, curving in toward the bow.

I pointed at an elegant rowboat on two hoists. “Shall we
watch from there?”

He extended a hand and we clambered up into it.

Someone rang the ship’s bell in a fast pattern—
ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting
—and the
crew stampeded to battle stations, some with smoking firepots, others carrying
arrows dipped in oil, and bows, and the youngsters with buckets of sand,
presumably to put out any fires the enemy started.

There were no cannons, of course. I remembered that from
childhood. My mother had explained that gunpowder did not work on this world,
whether because of the cooler, wetter climate or because of some magical
influence, she wasn’t clear. But no cannon meant longer, lighter, faster ships
than those of the Earth age of sail—and completely different fighting tactics.

The crew hauled expertly on steel-edged booms—like long
knives on poles—to be swung out to cut enemy rigging, and sweep along the rail
of the enemy to lethal effect. Archery parties in the tops went through the
motions of shooting arrows, and the sail crews practiced snapping sails out,
up, around as the captain called orders. The people at the helm caused the ship
to veer and yaw.

“Not bad,” Zathdar called out when at last the ship rocked
in the water, sails reefed, crew watching him expectantly.

He flicked up his eyeglass and trained it on the closest of
the consorts, the
Jumping Bug
. Their
crew was still running about the deck.

“But not good, either. Again.”

The first mate drowned mutters and groans with a high,
tweeting whistle. Once again they ran to their stations.

Next he had the other two of his ships attack. This time the
bow crews shot blunted arrows with what looked like paper twists of jelly or
some red, sticky substance at the tips, which scored hits on crew and ship
alike. The ships yawed and slanted even faster, each trying to board the
others, to be vigorously beaten back with wooden practice weapons. By noon they
were all red-faced and sweaty, but their motions had tightened to a smoother
speed. They had shifted from thinking about what to do to automatic reaction.
That’s the point of drills, I’d learned during my years at the dojo, and on the
fencing floor.

The bells rang a slower pattern, and everyone relaxed,
talking as they put away their practice weapons and lined up for water. The
captains of the two other ships rowed over and climbed up, then vanished into
Zathdar’s cabin for a conference. Zathdar kept the door shut, and the helmsman
made certain no one walked about on the little half-deck where his scuttles
opened to the air.

We climbed out of the lifeboat as the crew returned to their
regular duties, the night crew going below to their rest.

Elva scowled and prowled the deck. When the sounds from
below the open shuttles indicated the crew had all been served their midday
meal, I asked Elva to join me in the cramped wardroom. I was starving.

The cook, a woman my own age, cheerfully provided us with
two lipped wooden plates and a helping of what the crew had had. The way Elva
dug in, I suspected that these biscuits stuffed with cabbage, savory beans, and
cheese were common fare on ships, along with the orange wedges. We ate with our
fingers.

“We need to get you safely to land,” Elva murmured, after
the cook vanished back into her galley.

The mates’ wardroom was empty. Everyone had gone to their
watch duties or else to rest for a later watch. But I was aware of the canvas
doors running down the sides, dividing off the mates’ cubbies. (The rest of the
crew slept forward and some below.)

“You don’t think we’re safe now?”

“Oh, I am. I think. I hope.” She lowered her voice, glancing
at those canvas doors. “But what’s to stop
him
from ransoming you for a smacking sum from the king? Or for a pardon and other
concessions?”

Ransom! I hadn’t thought of that. Uneasily I considered it.
Then I said low-voiced, hoping the slap-thump of water against the hull and the
creak of mast and deck would cover our conversation, “He has a price on his
head, right?”

“That’s true.”

“So he risked his life to come inland to help you out, ahead
of the king’s men, and he’s against Canary. Those are two points in his favor.”

She knuckled the sides of her forehead. “That’s what my
brother says, too. But I think something’s missing. I feel like, oh I don’t
know, we’re on the coast with a strange chart. The big landmarks are all there,
but what about the little ones?”

I looked at her puckered brow, her unhappy posture, and
wondered if Elva was a math mind. The navigation career sure pointed that way.

“Listen, if you find any reason to distrust Captain
Hurricane, I’ll listen. But I do feel obliged to tell you that I’m going to
make my own plans as soon as we reach land. That doesn’t include your brother’s
mages or magisters, or whoever sent him.”

Elva flushed. “That’s fair.”

We finished our meal and dipped our dishes in the bucket set
aside for them. I watched the brief flare of magic cleaning my plate as it hit
the water, and I remembered the cleaning buckets from my childhood. It had
actually been such homely little magics, and no grand and spectacular spells,
that had caused me to ask my father to teach me. On this world no one had to
wash and rinse dishes—or clothes, if you had a cleaning bucket or frame. And
the cleaning frame not only cleaned your clothes, but your body as well, right
to your teeth, when you stepped through. It felt like the snap of electricity
all over you, leaving you feeling as if you’d scrubbed with a loofa and rubbed
all over with a thick towel.

I stacked my dish on the waiting pile a moment before I
heard a step behind me. A young woman as tall as me appeared from one of the
little cabins. I ducked out of her way, murmuring a word of pardon.

She bent her head, giving me a quick, almost furtive look
without meeting my eyes, and climbed with practiced speed up the ladder to the
deck. I followed more slowly, trying to get the feel of climbing a ladder when
the ship swings you out, then back, and bucks suddenly from side to side.

On deck I discovered yet more drills going on among those
not on duty. This time it was personal combat.

The weather had changed dramatically while Elva and I were
below. A heavy mist grayed the masts and the sails overhead, turning the blue
sea to gray-green. It made the deck slippery, but that did not stop the
practice on the forecastle, directly outside of our cabin, where most of the
crew gathered round a clear space.

Devli sat on the rail along with several other young men.
He’d accepted a bunk below in the crew’s quarters, and these were his
messmates. That is, the fellows he shared a table with. The pirates seemed like
sailors to me. Nobody was cursing and spitting, or teaching parrots naughty
songs. In fact, I wasn’t sure if this world even had parrots, though I knew
that many Earth animals, birds and other fauna as well as flora had come, or
been brought, through.

Devli beckoned to his sister, who walked to the rail where
he sat, her arms crossed. Next to the sailors, her uneasiness made her seem out
of place.

A short girl with bright red hair tapped her sword point on
Elva’s shoulder. “Want to join in?”

Elva jumped, and shook her head warily.

Her attitude seemed to puzzle the redhead, and I wondered if
her feelings were hurt by Elva’s attitude. But she turned my way and said more
tentatively, “Would you like to get in some practice?”

After years of dojos full of strangers, I was used to this
situation. Thinking that rest, food, and a workout were the three things I
needed most, and I’d gotten the first two, I said, “Sure, thanks.”

A big grin was my reward. “I’m Robin, second mate. Why don’t
you grab yourself a weapon. You’ll get a turn anon.”

She indicated the weapons locker. It was an admirably neat
arrangement that rolled back against one side of the half-deck wall and lashed
into place. The locker held three rows of neatly stored steel weapons, ranging
from light rapiers to very heavy flat swords of the sort infantry carry. There
was one curve-tipped cavalry sword marked off with a red tie.

I picked out a dueling saber, buttoned on the end, and began
warm-ups as I watched the two in the center.

It was immediately apparent that they were more enthusiastic
than trained. The bout only last a few seconds. One dropped his sword. The
watchers crowed and catcalled with good nature, then the pair recommenced. This
bout lasted longer only because they circled two or three times, watching one
another—but not well enough to actually spot openings.

The winner of that bout turned around. His eyes briefly met
mine, and the fellow flushed. I wondered if I’d managed to come unbuttoned or
unzipped anywhere. No, the sturdy shirt I’d borrowed was laced up to my collarbones,
sashed with a plain berry-brown-dye sash. The drawstring of the deck trousers
remained securely tied, so I wasn’t flashing underwear. My feet were bare, as
I’d kicked off my sandals almost first thing on coming aboard.

An older, gray-haired man said, “You keep pickin’ the easy
ones. Come on, let’s see you work up a bit of a sweat.” And he stepped up,
swinging his sword from hand to hand.

More catcalls, and the gray-haired fellow promptly and
gleefully trounced the younger, taller fellow. Then it was his turn to pick a
partner, and he pointed straight at me. “Let’s see what your father taught
you.”

“Well, he started teaching me, anyway.” I stepped into the
ring of watchers. “I got most of my training elsewhere.” I felt self-conscious,
but no more than one did during a sparring match for a belt test.

I didn’t say, because I thought it would sound arrogant,
that I’d seen his own weaknesses when he fought the tall, young fellow from
Devli’s mess, and so I knew where to get inside his guard as soon as he lunged
at me in a feint.

I tapped the button against his chest, and he looked down,
blue eyes wide in surprise. “Well! Try it again?”

I swept my sword up in salute. The second bout lasted
longer. He had the edge on me with strength, but I had it on footwork, speed,
and far-better training. Once again I tapped him, this time just above the
collarbones, and a whoop went up from the watchers.

“Pick me! Pick me!”

“Hoo, how would you like to die?”

Laughter and more catcalls surrounded me as Zathdar and his
two captains on the half-deck aft watched. A short, wiry man with waving dark
red hair leaped over someone and confronted me, his slanty eyes slitted with
laughter and his grin wicked. Like Zathdar, he wore a golden hoop in one ear.
“Try me, Prin—ah—”

I’d forgotten the princess business. Was that why some of
them stared at me so much? “Sasha will do.”

“Owl. First mate.” I saw a sort of family resemblance to
Robin, and later found out they were cousins, though almost a generation apart
in age.

“All right, Owl, bring it on!”

“Bring?” He looked around. “It? On?”

“Slang for have at it!”

As we squared up, whispers of
bring it on
went through the watchers. Owl attacked me and I closed
out everything else.

I won that first one, only because I whipped a hook kick up
and nailed his wrist after I dodged a lunge. The crew sent up an appreciative
cheer, Owl flashed a grin, and we went at it again, this time faster and
harder. I was soon drenched with sweat, several times nearly losing. I
recovered a heartbeat ahead of defeat, and then returning an attack which he
parried, almost too late.

But finally he launched a complicated strike that I couldn’t
deflect without straining my wrist. I was just enough off-balance to take the
brunt of the hit in my hand and arm. I dropped my blade, wringing my stinging
fingers. “Yi! Yi! Yi!”