Sasharia En Garde (11 page)

“We’ll call that a draw.” Owl lowered his point to the deck.
“Do you usually fight with gloves?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “And that’s something I’ll have to see to
right away. But that was a win. It was as fair as my hook kick, right? All’s
fair in war, but not in dueling? Is that true here?”

A silence fell, at first I thought because of my question,
but I saw that Zathdar had joined the circle. “More or less. Depends where you
are.” Zathdar swung his sword experimentally.

Someone returned my blade. Others made room for me to sit on
the deck in the first row.

Zathdar and Owl squared up, and began a long bout that was
sheer pleasure to watch.

As they traded feints, Elva slid up next to me. “I think you
should thump him.” She jerked her chin toward Zathdar. “Do him some good.”

“Nope,” I said, after a flurry so fast I nearly couldn’t
follow it. Zathdar staggered back, Owl’s sword flew, and he rolled on the deck.
The sword was caught in midair by the tall, blond young woman I’d seen below.
She had a strong face, with a Kirk Douglas chin. She returned Owl’s blade as
she said to Zathdar in an oddly shy manner, “That trick. How do you do it?”

“On your feet, Owl. Move through it slowly.”

Owl scrambled to his feet and took his sword in hand. “I
pressed inside like this.” He made a slo-mo lunge.

“And I blocked here, using my shoulder to blind him.”
Zathdar whipped his sword in a tight circle, shifting his weight as he came out
of the turn with his blade low.

“I saw it almost too late, blocked—”

The two reenacted the exchange, their method recalling good
bouts from my dojo days. Most of the crew intently watched each pass.

When they were done, people shifted about, and again Elva
said, “Go on.”

I shook my head. “He’s better.”

Elva made a noise of disgust.

Zathdar said in a quiet voice with considerable amusement,
“She’s right, you know. Not by much, though. It’s those upward blocks.”

So he’d heard. While I shut out everything when I engage in
a bout, he was aware of everything around him. This is the difference between a
lifetime of just dojo-floor practice and a lifetime of using what you learned,
I thought. But aloud I only said to Elva’s flushed face, “We don’t hit above
the collarbones in competition fencing, which is why I’m unused to blocking
upward.”

“Nor do you defend against a mounted attacker, is my guess,”
Zathdar observed.

“True enough. Plus he’s a tad taller, and definitely bigger
through the upper body than I, so he’s got a longer reach. That makes a
difference even when the training is the same, but his is better, I think.”

“Practical experience.” He gestured with a mocking air of
apology and flashed a grin. “However. As this is supposed to be learning, want
to show them some tricks of the trade from the other world?”

“All right.” I scrambled to my feet. “But I saw those hits
you scored on Owl. Anyone have a pair of gloves I can borrow?”

Several women offered, but their hands were all smaller than
mine. Only the blonde did not offer, though she was my size. A gangly fellow passed
me his, and they fit perfectly.

So Zathdar and I squared off, and the entire crew fell
silent, even those in the tops, who leaned out to watch.

We began by making a few passes to test reflexes and
strength. On the former we were roughly equal, but he had the edge on the
latter. Also, his drill hadn’t been confined to the rules, and while I’d seen
opportunities to use street-fighting techniques with slower fighters, he was
too well practiced high, low, behind—all the places sport fencing forbade. He seemed
to be holding back. He was demonstrating. Gradually we sped up, until my arm
felt like string and my eyes burned with sweat, and then came the inevitable
tap of the point lightly in the hollow of my collarbones.

The crew burst into cheers. “That was fantastic,” I
exclaimed and flourished a salute.

“Want another?” he offered.

“Nope. I can already tell I’m going to be sore and stiff by
nightfall. I haven’t had a workout that good in much too long.”

He turned away to select another volunteer as I returned the
gloves to their owner, apologizing for their dampness. At least there was a
cleaning frame below, I thought, sitting gratefully.

We observed two more sessions before the watch bell rang. In
the general movement Zathdar appeared at my side. “Come to the cabin?”

“All right.” I swung to my feet. “I have some questions.”

“I thought you might.” He twitched his eyebrows at me before
leading the way. I followed that silk, no less blinding for being sodden from
the increasing mist, as around us the day watches changed, people talking and
laughing, the armorer keeping up a running stream of insults if weapons were
not wiped down and put back in the racks to his exact specifications.

The other two captains had long since rowed back to their
own ships to oversee their own combat sessions. Zathdar waved me into the
cabin, and I ducked my head absently as I passed inside. This time I noticed
things I hadn’t before: the neatly made bunk, and the coverlet dyed various
shades of green from pale silver to deep forest. Green was green, but somehow
the thing radiated masculine vibes.

Above the bunk at the head end, someone had built shelves,
which were crammed with handmade books. Next to the shelves, a silverwork crane
taking flight rested on its own little shelf, jury rigged between a bulkhead
and the hull. Stacked next to that, in eye-pleasing array, a series of
maps—Khanerenth, Sartor, Colend. Chwahirsland. Some of the western lands that I
did not recognize.

Above the foot of the bunk, a shelf held an exquisitely
rendered tiny carving of a tree, the bark indicated by the grain of the wood,
each branch curving up into impossibly tiny and intricate twigs, attached to
which were tiny five-point leaves made of green silk.

“I didn’t steal that,” Zathdar said from right behind me.

I jumped and whirled around, unsettled, as if I’d been
caught prying through someone’s personal things.

Zathdar did not glance my way. He shifted around me, the
crimson silk of his shirt shimmering in the diffuse light from the stern
windows. The fabric shaped smoothly over the contours of shoulder and arm as he
reached up and carefully took the carved tree from its shelf. “There’s a spell
that goes with it. You say it, and the leaves rustle. You can listen to them.
Very pleasant, I assure you, if you happen to be caught windless out in the
deeps, the ship wallowing and no breath of air.”

He faced me, holding out the tree in both hands. I shook my
head. “It’s too delicate. I’m afraid I’ll break it.”

He turned away again and I whooshed out my breath, trying to
find the cause of my absurd reaction. This was a captain’s cabin, and little as
I knew of ship matters, I did know it hardly constituted personal space, not
unless the door was shut (it was not) and the scuttles all closed (they
weren’t).

He leaned a knee on the bunk and settled the tree just
right, the fringes of his bandana swinging against his cheekbone. The books,
the green coverlet, the precise slant of the handwriting on those maps, the
tree and the silver bird. I’d seen all these the day previous, but then they’d
been just things, scarcely noticeable. Now they were
personal
.

Rain began hissing on the deck overhead, which somehow made
the space feel even more cramped. Though the rain made a steady thrum, I could
hear the sound of his breathing. “Did you steal the ship?” I blushed
uncomfortably. I hadn’t meant to say that at all.

He grinned. “It’s tradition, how pirate ships change hands.
But pause and think. Where would you go if you wanted to purchase one? To a
kingdom shipyard, asking the yardmaster if he happens to have any pirate ships
for sale—very fast, preferably with at least one false hold? No. When navies
take pirates, they tend to work the ships into their fleet, captains squabbling
over who gets command. Then, er, they tend to be spotted and cut out again by
people like me.”

“You could have one built.”

“But it can take years. If one has enough money. Easier to
catch ’em, I’m afraid.”

“You said pirate ships. But you claim to be a privateer. How
do privateers get their ships?” I asked.

“Steal ’em from pirates.” He tapped the earring glinting
against his jawline. A ruby stone glittered on it. “You wear a hoop after
you’ve survived a battle, and rubies when you’ve defeated a real pirate. While
that won’t scare off other pirates—little does—the ruby tends to ward off the
would-bes. Saves effort.”

He twiddled his fingers, giving me a wry glance. I laughed,
as I was meant to. The moment made me feel slightly less unsettled, but far
more aware of
him
. Skilled
sword-swingers I had known in plenty during my fencing years, and they had come
and gone leaving me unmoved. But a guy with a sense of humor?

“So.” He thumped his elbows on the table, hands flicking
open. “Before I get to my suggestion, what do you wish to do?”

“I’d like to be set on land as soon as possible, thank you.”

“Even though by now there is a price on your head?”

“There is? But I didn’t do anything!”

“It’s not what you’ve done, it’s who you are.” He gave me an
apologetic smile. “I guess what follows is what they’re afraid you’ll do.”

Annoyance flushed through me; good, much better, much
safer
than interest. “Arrested for a
crime someone else premeditates on my behalf? That’s got to be a new one even
for the local Dark Lord.”

“Dark Lord? King Canardan is a king, not a lord. He also has
red hair. Or would the ‘dark’ refer to his clothing? Except that he is reputed
to dress well, and the mode, everyone tells me, is light colors. Not that I
follow the fashions, as you can see.”

Once again he made me laugh, and my annoyance vanished. I
couldn’t stay mad at him. Zathdar already knew my situation was unfair, and of
course he had a price on his head, too.

So I said, “There’s a reward offered for laying me by the
heels whether I’m on land or at sea, isn’t there?”

He spread his hands.

“Well, on land, I’m my own person, so to speak. I’d rather
call the shots
—” The words came out in
English. “I’d rather be on my own.”

“To find your father?” he asked gently.

I lifted my gaze—and met his blue eyes straight on.

What is it about the mirroring of gazes? Eyes are just eyes,
circles within circles. You meet people’s gazes all your life. Then, one moment
you look across the table out of surprise or question or maybe even a little
challenge, and there are
these
eyes.
Your nerves zing and prickle, leaving you intensely aware of your heartbeat,
your breathing, your toes crunched in your shoes, your damp palms. Distance is
so relative. Whether the other person is a foot away or across a crowded room,
you have fallen into intimate space.

I flicked my gaze up to the glittering gold embroidery on
his headband. No intimate space here, noooooo.

I said to the fringes, “I have no idea if my father’s even
alive. No one will tell me.”

“He vanished. That’s all anyone can tell you.” Zathdar
snapped his fingers. “The Ebans seem to think you know where he is.”

“I can’t help that.” I shrugged and studied the map of
Sartor just beyond his shoulder as if a professor was about to slap a final
exam before me.

“There’s another matter. Something many of my crew are in
favor of, by the way, as nearly all of them are exiles for one reason or
another. Far too many are new, as the unrest spreads. Sooner or later someone’s
going to ask your intentions, so it might as well be now, and by me.”

“I’m listening.” I moved away from the table and confronted
the map, poring over it.

“I thank you for that.” I could hear his smile in his voice.
“But I was hoping you’d take that as an invitation to talk.”

Now even his voice sent prickles through me. This was the
last thing I needed. Second to the last, I amended, backpedaling mentally.
Worst thing? Capture by Canary’s goons. But the second-to-the-last thing I
needed was any kind of chemistry with a pirate.
Especially
one who had the worst taste in colors I’d ever known,
even in the mega-geek world of graduate school.
That’s right, Sasha, make yourself laugh. Use laughter as a defense. If
you can keep laughing, it’s just a silly chemical thing, here today, gone
tomorrow.

“Rumors have to be crossing the country now, however
garbled. If you were to raise your family’s banner, many people would flock to
it.”

That surprised me enough to flick a sideways glance, but I
stopped at the bandana. “I don’t have a banner.”

“You do, too.”

“It’s just a
blanket
.
And anyway I have no legal standing.”

“You have, let us call it, a symbolic standing in the eyes
of many people who want the Zhavalieshins back on the throne.”

“So in place of my dad I serve as a figurehead for civil
war? No, I hate that, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like I’m casting any
aspersions here—blood and guts after all was your career choice—but if you’re
hinting you’d like me to join your fleet here under the Zhavalieshin banner,
well, in a word, no. I won’t stand by and let my family name be an excuse for
someone wanting power to draw brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and
kids, even, to go marching to their deaths. Or sailing to their deaths. Because
that’s what civil war
is
, when you
strip out the rhetoric about who’s right and who’s wrong.” I winced, suddenly
realizing that I was giving A-double-attitude to a pirate captain on his own
ship. One who could toss me in the brig, and who would stop him?

But he did not sound angry. “Fair enough. Then you must be
set down on land as soon as we can. First, though, there’s a little matter of a
blockade to run.”