“But he did for Marshig,” Eflis said.
“Good command,” Dasta returned. “Better than Marshig’s trickery. Though it did help that Ramis of the
Knife
appeared and took them into Nightland. But if he hadn’t, I fully believe Elgar the Fox would have killed Marshig on his own deck. He might not have survived it— don’t know what his crew would have done—but at least Marshig had no chance either way.”
Sparrow said, “So that rumor about the rip in the sky is true?”
“I was there,” Dasta said. “I saw it.” He shut his eyes. The women waited, the sounds of the crew above muffled, the water against the hull. “Hard to describe. Don’t have the right words,” he finally said. He had their complete attention. “It was black beyond it, a black of night with no stars. Sometimes, during the day-watch, I think I dreamed it. I was tired. We’d been fighting all night. But no, that’s the easy thing. Not the truth. It would be comfortable to believe it wasn’t real. But it was. It happened. Those six ships sailed right into a night beyond night—into damnation.”
Sparrow twitched her shoulders. “Strange. You use that word as a curse, but when it actually happens, the meaning changes, doesn’t it?”
“They all went?” Eflis asked.
“Yes,” Dasta said. “We saw it. A lot of Marshig’s crew tried to dive overboard, but they got swept on through that hole anyway. I hope never to see anything like that again.”
Another pause, during which Sparrow poured more wine. She found this Dasta utterly unexpected.
Eflis leaned forward. “Before that. Your Fox, as you call him, burned Boruin and her crew to death. Even Marshig never did that—though if you ask me, some of the deaths he and his captains dealt out weren’t much better. But those were one at a time, usually personal, like. Not entire crews.”
Dasta ran his nails absently along the grain of the table. “I think . . . I think I’d have to let him explain that to you,” he said slowly. “I’ll say this. What he intended was to send the crew in their boats to the Chwahir coast, or wherever the current took ’em. Not Boruin. Majarian. They died fighting. Idea was, leave the crew to Chwahir justice, as they’d preyed mostly on Chwahirsland. But things happened otherwise. Wasn’t his intention.”
Sparrow thumped her elbows on the table. The chimes in her hair rang, reminding him of Gutless, who’d come to Halliff’s ship a time or two: the braids and chimes, he’d been told, were a fashion from one of the countries over on Toar across the land bridge. He wondered if they’d known one another, a thought that made him uneasy.
“So what you’re saying is he doesn’t have control of his crew?” Sparrow asked.
Dasta rubbed his nail back and forth on the table a couple more times, then lifted his hand. “Oh, not at all. But there were, huh, things going on, you might say. Had to do with the Chwahir on board, for one thing.”
Eflis sat back, knees up, her hands clasped loosely around her knees. Her gaze was lowered thoughtfully so he let his eyes linger appreciatively on her. Pretty! Gillor was usually reliable, but to call this tall, strong-looking woman “pretty” was to call a big feline a kitten.
“Chwahir,” Eflis finally said. “Huh. I usually take as I find, but some o’ them are strange, like. So you’re here because? ”
“Because though we did for Marshig, the cost was high. Fox wants to play with the Fire Islands pirates now. They get in the way of Freeport independents too often, and you know we’re affiliated with the Freedom Isles. So we’re looking for anyone who wants to have some fun with us there. Equal shares on any loot.”
Sparrow said warily, “He doesn’t take captain’s share, then?”
Dasta suspected what was coming next was a question about the Brotherhood treasure trove. So he gave Inda’s deflection, “He says there are plenty of rich pirates out there. Everyone fights. And everyone gets rich together or everyone loses.”
Sure enough, Sparrow said, “So I take it there wasn’t any mysterious hoard?”
“Ghost Islanders never saw a wink of it,” Dasta replied with the ease of truth. “And Pirate House—where Marshig lived—had been completely stripped right down to the floor tile by the time we got there in spring.”
Eflis snorted. “I never believed in any treasure anyway.
What pirate hoards treasure? You get it, you spend it. Forget the treasure. So what you’re offering us on his behalf is equal shares if we join his fleet? What’s the command line?”
“Plans his, though ideas are listened to. But sometimes he goes off on investigations on his own. He also rides one ship, then the other. Fleet commander, with captains on each, so he’s free to move around. We carry out his orders as if he’s aboard us.” He glanced at Sparrow’s chime-braided hair, then away. “No torture parties or any of that, if that’s what you’re thinking. Thing is, if you like that sort of thing on your own ship, probably better sheer off now.”
Eflis grimaced. “Truth? I hate it. I want a good fight. I hated Coco—everyone hated her. I hope she got what she used to dish out.” She added casually, “And I hope that pretty fellow with the long golden hair gave it to her.”
“Tau cut off his hair,” Dasta said. “Because her fingers had been in it so much.” Eflis and Sparrow gave little nods of complete comprehension, which Dasta found interesting, as he’d never understood the meaning of Tau’s gesture. “As for Coco, Elgar set her adrift. With a couple of Walic’s worst. We don’t know what happened to them, if they didn’t make it back here.” He waved toward the island. “We weren’t all that far out when we let down the rowboat.”
Eflis showed her teeth in disgust. “They never fetched up here. That is, we don’t know what happened between your taking of Walic’s flagship and our own arrival. When we got here, Halliff had survived a mutiny on his own ship. Half of his crew was dead, all Walic’s known spies. A few of Walic’s old fleet—the small craft—came back rather than drift on the ocean and die, because they didn’t have supplies. Not a one squawked at the change when Halliff and I made an alliance. And there was certainly no sign of Coco.”
“So who’s your prey?” Dasta asked.
“We were going to take on traders to Geranda—no Brotherhood holding that road. Compete with the Fire Islanders for any traders not Venn. Wouldn’t mind getting rid of the Fire Islands soul-suckers.”
“But you wouldn’t take on the Venn themselves?” Dasta asked, watching appreciatively as Eflis stretched and yawned.
“Even Marshig didn’t take on the Venn warships,” she said, wiping her eyes. “And they always accompany their traders.”
“They that tough?” Dasta asked, thinking of Inda’s quest for information.
Sparrow laughed, pouring out more wine, then kneeling beside Eflis. “Warships are warships. Venn are rough water, yes. But the reason we won’t touch ’em is, they got those sea dags. That’s what they call their mages.”
“What can a mage do, even if called a dag? I never heard that mages fight.” Dasta asked, watching as Sparrow laid a casual hand on Eflis’ shoulder. Then brushed her fingers against Eflis’ neck in a caress. And when Dasta flicked a look up, he saw awareness in her eyes.
Mate, not first mate. Ah.
Eflis made a wide gesture, apparently oblivious to this little interaction. “You don’t know why no one ever goes north? Why the Venn never gave up those prows, even though they can’t rig ’em well with jib sails?”
Dasta said, “So I’m a southerner. Tell me.”
Sparrow grinned. “A bowsprit makes a nice handle for the big monster squids of the deeps. Prow doesn’t. Also, prow is a signal to them it’s Venn, so the squids don’t attack.”
“Why not?”
Eflis said, “Because the sea dags talk to them.”
Chapter Seventeen
TWO days later, one of the big Venn guards came down into Inda’s prison corridor with a host of the ones in yellow.
The Venn said in Dock Talk, “Those with the following numbers come to the front of your cell.” His accent jolted Inda. It was unexpectedly like Marlovan. “Anyone else stay to the back. Make a wrong move, you kiss the ground.” He hefted his cudgel then slammed it against the iron door.
Silence.
He motioned to one of the others, who commenced reading out the numbers. It took a long time, especially when some exclaimed, followed by hisses and curses from those trying to hear. With fearful and angry looks men shuffled forward and back, no one knowing if it was good news or bad news to have your number called. Or, as a fellow near Inda muttered without moving his lips, “Bad news or worse?”
When the range of numbers neared that of the group in Inda’s cell, his fellow inmates stilled. Each held his medal, many gazing down with furious concentration as if the numbers might change. Then, as numbers were called or skipped, the men separated slowly, many reluctantly. Inda’s number was passed over. He stayed in the back.
Scars
. He knew what that meant: suspicion. But he said nothing.
When the Venn finished, the questions started, spoken first. When the guards ignored them, some began to shout. The guards moved down to the next cell; when a couple men pressed their faces into the bars, demanding answers, one of the Venn snapped out his cudgel and smashed their knuckles.
The bellowing ceased. Numbers were read out for the last of the cells down their side.
After that, the Venn moved back to the first cell. This time they unlocked the door and let the men out one out at a time, each checked against the list.
Sudden noise as a man tried an escape—voices, scrabbling; the horrible thunk of a weapon on a skull, followed by a thud. Then the door was relocked.
No one else tried anything. Presently the last of them were gone. The Venn departed and the cells, emptier now, were left alone until the evening bread and cheese were brought and pushed between the bars; someone else brought the pitcher of water to replenish the bucket soldered to the wall by the door, the communal cup hanging on a string.
The fear and questions of the first week were back again.
Inda sat where he was, back to the wall, working on his story as he ate.
“We’ve got a problem,” Nathad said, dropping down opposite Thess in the Lower Deck, the tavern in the ghost yards of Bren Harbor that had become Jeje’s favorite retreat.
“Not Japsar again! I thought Col had a talk w’ him.”
Nathad shook his head, beckoning, and the regulars came closer, most of them just off work and waiting for Jeje the Pirate to come down from Fleet House.
Haelec, the proprietor, set down two fistfuls of mugs, and stepped up, wiping his hands on his apron.
Nathad sidled a shifty look around then said in a low voice, “It was Japsar who heard ’em, and this time I think I believe his stories. Col says he’s tryin’ to stay sober. So’s he can join us.”
“Don’t trust him,” Marn—the gray-haired grandmother— said. “Least, not till he’s been sober at least a month.”
Nathad waved a hand. “We can talk over Japsar later. This is the thing. There’s some fellow nosing around the taverns along Anchor Way, askin’ about Elgar the Fox.”
A brief silence, during which half of the gathering sent wary looks at the door.
“Who is he?”
“That I don’t know. But Col says his accent is a lot like the Venn.”
Thess made a fist and pounded it on the table. “That don’t sound good at all. You think it’s a Venn spy, then?”
“ ’Cep’ what’s he want?”
“We need to find out,” Nathad said. “And not tell Jeje— she might vanish on us. See, I figure this. If she’s goin’ to all the trouble to train us, and Chim, well, he’s backin’ her, there’s some kind o’ plan afoot. And we’re gonna be in it. Jeje’s talked around about jobs, ships. Careful like, but you know what it is?”
Thess waved a hand. “Already figured that out. Elgar the Fox is gonna be hirin’ for his next fight, and he don’t want pirates. Who would, for choice?”
Everyone signified agreement.
“They’ll want us if we’re good,” Thess said. She grinned. “I plan to be real good, because I want in.” She frowned. “So . . . this spy. I think we need someone to spy on him. Someone real friendly like, if he’s close as a clam. Take their time. Palnas!”
Her son was at the far side of the room, setting up a game of Cards’n’Shards. “Yeah, ma?”
“I got me a job for you, boy, so get over here.”
“Good thinking—” Nathad began, but was interrupted by Marn.
“Here comes Jeje. Mum, everyone! We take care of this matter ourselves.”
Despite there being fewer prisoners in the cells of Beila Lana jail, this time the interviews were more extensive, so it took a couple of days to work down the rows.
Everyone waiting noticed that there was another change: this time some men came back, others did not.
“What’s with the ones don’t come back?” someone asked early on.
“Lettin’ em go,” a young man responded. “I saw it, man before me in line. They chased him right out.” He laughed. “They don’t like me because I used to trade out west.”
“Get inside,” the guard ordered him.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”
Clang!
Inda’s turn came the next morning. This time he was alone in the long office, with the same dag listening, though a different, older, officer did the questioning.
Inda gave them the same information, and when asked to describe the pirate attack, he told the story of Walic’s attack on his convoy, ending with his being struck unconscious. He saw recognition in their faces when he named Gaffer Walic, and described his raffee. As rescuer he described the
Nofa,
the Sarendan war ship that he’d encountered on the way to attack Boruin.
When they were done, the officer addressed the dag in quick, idiomatic Venn. Inda listened, frustrated: he caught a couple of words, but not the sense of the talk. The dag responded more slowly, and this time Inda recognized two words:
pirate
and
captured
.
Four armed guards had brought him out, and four took him back to the cell, and locked him in.