The Return of Nightfall (38 page)

The captain laughed. “They can get slapdash on the cleanliness, but they’re not afraid of hard work. They’ll keep us afloat.”

“Nevertheless, Captain . . .” Nightfall headed toward the door.

The captain seized Nightfall’s shoulder. “Wait.”

Nightfall froze, uncertain what to expect. The command could not be ignored. Slowly, he turned to face the captain, freeing himself from the other man’s grip. “Yes, sir?”

“How . . . did he look?”

Uncertain of the subject, Nightfall shook his head. “Who, sir?”

“Sudian. Did he seem well?”

Nightfall considered the wisest response without creating a suspicious pause. “Well enough to beat me at darts,” he said.

The answer clearly did not suit the captain, who arched his brows over steely eyes and waited for more.

“Definitely tired. Somewhat bedraggled.” Nightfall shrugged. “I’m not sure what he normally looks like, so it’s hard to compare.” He stuck with plausible truth, intended to mislead. A pirate captain might sell information to anyone willing to pay. “He wore long clothes, but I still noticed quite a few healing cuts and bruises. And I think he might have injured his left shoulder seriously at some point.” He smiled. “Didn’t stop him from . . .”

The captain finished, “Beating you at darts. Yes, I know. He’s quick. Got good hands.” He returned the grin. “Like you.”

Though intended as a compliment, it sent a shiver through Nightfall. In twenty years, he had never crossed an alias. Now, desperation had made him sloppy, forced him to leave trails, and to consult with the same people in different personae. It was a dangerous strategy destined to fail him, especially if he kept associating with intelligent and capable people. Covering his tracks forced him to respond casually. “Thanks for not amputating them in the Gold Lantern.”

The captain’s smile broadened, revealing the straight white teeth. Before he could voice a clever comeback, footsteps slammed against the ladder rungs, then pounded across the lower deck.

“Cap’n! Cap’n!” The words preceded a wiry man with skin like leather and a wild mop of sandy hair. He skidded suddenly into view through the still open door. “There’s a runner on the starb’d horizon.”

“Runner” meant nothing to Nightfall. It was not a standard seaman’s term.

The captain frowned. “What colors is she showing?”

The pirate rolled his eyes toward Nightfall as he spoke. “Can’t see no colors yet, Cap’n. Got Caylor up top.”

“Good.” The captain’s tone and stance shifted effortlessly into command mode. “Keep him there, stay on course, and let me know when anyone spots colors.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” The pirate spun with scarcely a movement of his tight-fitting linens and scurried back the way he had come.

Nightfall had to know. “What’s a runner?”

The captain pushed past him and out the door. “It’s a smaller, more streamlined ship that could move as fast, possibly faster than ours.”

Nightfall followed the captain, pausing only to shut the door. Even that slight hesitation put the larger man two massive strides ahead of him. Nightfall scrambled to catch up. “Are we being chased?” Another possibility filled his mind, though he could not voice it as Balshaz. A country aware pirates cruised the inlet might put their most valuable cargo on a ship capable of dashing swiftly past them.

Still without turning, the captain climbed the ladder onto the main deck. “Always.” He did not elaborate, and Nightfall did not press. To do so might prove dangerous. Thus far, the crew had done nothing to reveal themselves as pirates to Balshaz. Loud, grimy, obnoxious, yes; but he doubted even they would take well to being presumed thieves and murderers, no matter how true the assessment.

As the captain strode onto the deck, the crew snapped to attention. Each man became intent on or found a job. The change impressed Nightfall, who, until that day, had only ever seen them in pirating mode. These men did know how to sail, and they clearly held their captain in high esteem. Nightfall wondered exactly what qualities earning the allegiance of pirates took: high connections, intelligence, skill with a sword, or simply bravado and charisma. From what he had seen so far, Nightfall guessed the man displayed all of those.

The captain stopped directly beneath the foremast and shouted up to a man balanced in the riggings. “What do you see, Caylor?”

The lean dark man in greasy red linens called down, “A runner, sir.”

The captain’s features set. “Yes, a runner, you twice damned galley-clod! I mean her colors, man. Is she struck?”

With a half smile of amusement, Nightfall leaned against a gunwale, keeping his distance from Arturo who cleated a freshly tightened line. As far as he could tell, Paskhon was not among the onboard crew this time.

“She’s struck.” Caylor ignored the insult. “Flags fore and aft. I can’t quite make out the colors yet.” After only a moment of silence, he added, “On the fore, it’s yellow with a darker stripe. Red, I think.”

“Red,” another man confirmed, limbs balanced between the gunwale and the lines.

Caylor continued, “Aft, she’s red with something on it. A figure of some kind. Looks like a . . . maybe a raccoon.”

Someone laughed.

Nightfall glanced up, nearly blinded by sunlight reflecting from their own unadorned white sails. Currently, the pirates flew no flags.

Arturo looked up from his task. “What dizzy silversucking oaf would take a raccoon for a symbol?”

“It’s not a bloody raccoon,” said the sandy-haired man who had brought word to the captain. Now firmly ensconced in the forward riggings, he added, “It’s something with a big, fat head.”

“A lion?” the captain suggested, taking a position on the forecastle, just below the speaker.

“A lion. Lifthranian.” A pirate spat over the sea. “Can’t say as I ever seen one of those.”

The gold lion on a scarlet background did symbolize Lifthran, an older city, strongly built, just across the Ivralian border from Alyndar. Two things intrigued Nightfall: a landlocked town like Lifthran had no need for ships at all, and the striped forward flag announced a direct connection to Baron Ozwalt.

A brawny pirate with a long facial scar pounded toward them from the poop deck. “Captain!”

Everyone whirled.

“Captain.” The man skidded to a stop, smearing fresh caulk across the deck like ink. “There’s another runner port and aft.”

For an instant, the captain’s facade cracked. He went utterly still and silent, not even appearing to breathe. He recovered so swiftly, Nightfall doubted anyone else had noticed the lapse. “Is she struck?”

“Red flags, far as we can tell, Captain.”

The captain muttered a harsh oath worthy of a sailor.

The man on the foremast called down from his riggings. “What d’you want us to do, Cap’n?”

“Keep her on course,” the captain said with a low growl. “And watch those runners. I want quarterly reports on their positions, plus immediate notice of anything odd.”

A few cries of “aye” and “right” came from various places on the ship, some sounding disappointed. Nightfall suspected the pirates saw booty on any ship determined to outrun them. He hoped the bloodthirsty crew would not hold him personally responsible for sabotaging their fun and profit.

The captain issued no further commands, other than to gesture for Nightfall to return with him belowdecks.

A sudden flash of memory hastened Nightfall’s step. Once again, he remembered collapsing beneath the weight of men reeking of blood, their hands scratching and bruising him, rending his clothing. He forced away thoughts that did not belong to Balshaz. They could only hamper a role he needed to play flawlessly.

In silence, Nightfall trailed the captain into the dank, gloomy depths of the lower deck and back into the lantern-lit cabin. The sea glided by the window, its calm gentle movement an odd contrast to the inner turmoil Nightfall sensed and the captain refused to reveal. This time, the pirate captain closed the door behind them. He flopped onto the deck chair and waved Nightfall to the couch.

Nightfall sat. The stiff, firm cushions barely dipped beneath his weight, which he appreciated. It kept his feet planted on the floor, and he could rise, if necessary, in an instant.

The captain did not mince words. “You have experience talking with nobles, Balshaz?”

“A bit.” Nightfall gave a signal that was half nod and half shrug. An equivocal answer would have to suffice while he fished for more information. Clearly, the question had something to do with the two Lifthranian ships whose presence still confounded him.
Are they chasing Sudian?
The idea seemed ludicrous. Even if Alyndar had managed to track him through his aliases, they could use the power of their own massive navy to trap him. “No more experience than you, though, I’d wager.”

The captain’s pale eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that, merchant?”

Not for the first time, Nightfall wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut. He could not afford to rile the captain. Trapped on the ship, he did not stand a chance should the captain find him unworthy or, worse, a threat. Playing dumb seemed just as foolish. The captain clearly valued intelligence and ability, and he might interpret any feigned ignorance or stupidity as reason to mistrust.“I just mean you have the appearance, dress, and bearing of the highborn. You look as if you’ve walked among them.”

The captain gritted his teeth and bared them like an animal. Had he not faced off with the most terrible men in existence, had he not, in fact, been one, Nightfall would have withered beneath that glare. Instead, he returned the infamous ferocious stare that had, in its own time, cowed hardened criminals and royalty.

The captain broke first, though he showed nothing for losing. He sat back, arms crossed, as if the movement had nothing to do with the intensity of Nightfall’s gaze. He huffed out a sigh, dodging the subject. “I’m going to try to outrun them.”

Nightfall knew better than to press his advantage, instead focusing on solving the problem the captain had not yet directly addressed.

“But we have to prepare for the eventuality that we can’t.”

Nightfall played his part. He was not supposed to know he consorted with pirates. “What eventuality is that, sir? Of what peril are two small ships to us? Your crew seems plenty fit for battle, more so than for sailing, even.”

“The Lifthranians will have weapons, too. Better than ours. Raising a bloody flag or tipping a black spot won’t send them trembling into submission.”

“Bloody flag? Black spot?” Nightfall clamped his hands in his lap, trying to appear startled and more than a bit nervous. “So you’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Pirates,” the captain supplied. “And don’t look so shocked. You had to have suspected, at least.”

Nightfall knew better than to overplay his ignorance. “So, if they catch you—”

“If they catch
us,
we’ll all be dancing the hempen jig.” Apparently realizing Nightfall might not grasp the pirate slang, he simulated a hanging.

Nightfall stared. He had considered the risk of traveling with pirates: sparking a disagreement into a life-and-death war, offending the captain, dealing with a poorly maintained ship. He had worried about Alyndar penetrating his disguise. But these pirates had survived for years while actively plundering; it had seemed silly to worry about capture on a routine run to Alyndar. “So,” he said, not certain where to take the conversation and wondering why the captain had chosen to confide in a stranger rather than some trusted member of his own crew. “What are you proposing, Captain?”

The captain studied Nightfall, eyes piercing beneath oiled black locks. “You’re taking this well.”

“Am I?”

“You appear to be.”

Nightfall shrugged. He had been in more immediate danger. “Ranting would only waste time better spent preparing, and punching the captain might get me keel-hauled.” He had only seen the procedure once, during his own brief stint as a pirate; and that had proved enough to keep him forever in line when shipbound. Pirates lived by a strict code, and violation called for severe punishment. Nothing less would keep men who lived and died as they did under control. They had tied the miscreant to a rope that ran beneath the ship, tossed him overboard, and dragged him along the hull. He had emerged half-drowned, clothes and skin tattered by rocklike barnacles and cast-off worm shells, and sharks had trailed the blood trail for nearly a day. “What good would that do me?”

The captain returned a wan smile at the threat. “Do you know how to coax some extra speed from a good ship?”

Nightfall pursed his lips.
Not as Balshaz.
For the sake of all of their lives, crossing aliases seemed moot. Marak the Nemixite sailor had known all the tricks before his capture by Alyndar had put a definitive end to that guise. “I might have an idea or two.” He had tired of the game. “But, once again, Captain, I believe you have more experience. Especially with this particular ship.”

“Oh, I’ll use what I know.” The captain continued to study Nightfall, as if trying to see through him. “But that may not be enough.”

Though Nightfall still doubted he had come to the root of the captain’s need, he proceeded. “When’s the last time you careened her?” He cringed at the likely answer. If the pirates gave only as much attention to the hull as they did to the planking, they were in serious trouble. Caulking took no time compared to dragging the ship on land to scrape away the clinging animals and vegetation.

The captain looked away, a sure sign he planned to make excuses for his men. “She’s inoperable careened.”

“And your men are inoperable drunk, but I saw them downing plenty in the Gold Lantern.”

The sea-blue eyes zipped back to Nightfall, and they held more than a hint of warning.

Nightfall let the point drop. A mass of flotsam clinging to the hull would slow them down, likely enough for the runner ships to catch them. He had always expected to die violently, but it irritated him to near rage to realize he might do so because of other men’s laziness and incompetence. “Captain, sir, I ask again: What do you propose?”