Nightfall filled in the obvious, significant details. “So those Lifthranian ships aren’t after you because you’re pirates.”
“Not specifically,” Captain Celdurant admitted. “But that will serve as an excuse. I’m the one they want, but they’ll give no quarter to my men.” He turned Nightfall an earnest look. “Nor, I believe, to you; but you’re the only hope we have.”
Nightfall put the last pieces together. “If they find an honest merchant commanding the ship, and you’re not aboard . . .”
As Nightfall hoped, the captain finished the thought, “They might leave you all alone. They don’t know the crew. Without me, they have nothing.”
Nightfall sat back, running the plan through his mind. The captain had a definite point. The Lifthranians would have prepared for combat, substituting armed warriors for any form of cargo. They wanted a fight, any excuse to kill the exiled brother of the baron living under an unexecuted sentence of death. The pirates would give them that battle, and most would die as they did so. No telling what kind of horrors the Lifthranians would inflict upon Captain Celdurant. Nightfall might have the chance to talk himself out of the situation, but it would require him to survive the bloodlust of both sides first. “Captain, you’re right. I have to take control of this ship.”
The captain loosed a blast of pent up breath through his nose, and his aura of authority returned. “Didn’t I say that quite some time ago?”
“Yes.” Nightfall agreed. “But I didn’t understand why, and the original problem still exists: your men will not accept me.”
“If they thought I was dead—”
“—they would fight for command. That’s one battle I’d avoid.”
“Chaos,” the captain said. “Perhaps if I pretended to be ill or injured and named you my successor.”
In theory, the idea sounded plausible, but something still troubled Nightfall. “Is this your entire crew?” He already knew the answer. He still had not seen Paskhon aboard, and he definitely noticed fewer men than the first time he reluctantly set foot on the
Seaworthy
.
“We’re working with a skeleton crew. We just came off a big campaign, and the men were eager to spend their spoils.”
“And the ones with us now?”
“My regulars. The ones willing to put to sea with me even just to return a favor, without concern for compensation.”
“So these are your most loyal men, Captain?”
“In other words. Yes.”
“Don’t you think they might take offense if you placed command into my hands? Perhaps they might think you had gone mad or I had injured or drugged you.”
“Perhaps.”
“And then?”
“They would kill you.” The captain stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That would be bad.”
“Bad for you, perhaps. For me, catastrophic.”
Captain Celdurant managed an edgy laugh. “Ultimately, catastrophic for all of us, but I see your point.” He threw the onus back on Nightfall. “So, merchant. What do you suggest?”
Nightfall could scarcely believe what he was about to say and only wished Dyfrin were alive to hear it. The only right answer came from his most recent experiences, ones he would have dismissed as flukes before the character of the demon became lost to him forever. “Captain, sir, I think you should tell them . . . the truth.”
“What?” The captain finally fully lost his wicked composure.
“I think you should tell them what you just told me.”
“Show weakness to a pack of wolves?” The captain’s fist crashed to his armrest. “What foolishness is this?”
“These are your regulars, you said, your most trusted. Daily you place your life into their hands and never think much of it. Whether it’s trusting them to pilot the ship or maintain it, whether it’s knowing you have a friendly sword at your back on a hostile boarding, you hand them the tools of your destruction daily. How much harder can it be to share your past?”
The captain stared in silence.
Nightfall added nothing, allowing his previous words to have their full effect. He would never share the details of his own past with anyone except Kelryn and Edward, yet he still meant every word he had spoken. The captain had little choice. If he wanted his men’s faith, he had to earn it with disclosure. It would prove a difficult decision for the captain, one that would require time, one he needed to make alone. “I’ll be topside,” Nightfall finally announced. “Keeping the sails at their fastest and the men honest.”
Clambering to his feet, he left Captain Celdurant el-Bartokus Arbonne to his thoughts.
Nightfall found a quiet position on the fo’c’sle, steadied by nearly unconscious tappings of his talent. Heavy with sea spray, the winds slapped at his face, leaving a stinging wash of salt. The breezes tangled red locks usually held in strict and well brushed abeyance. The ocean spread out before him, a vast plain of blue-green tinged white with choppy wavelets. He avoided the other men, worried he might feel driven to join or assist them, to abandon his proper persona for the one who had dedicated his life to sailing.
The thud of a nearby footfall caught Nightfall’s attention. His thoughts channeled instantly toward the sound, though he did not reveal this by stiffening or whirling. He knew the pirates would value calm alertness, so he turned slowly to face a short, bow-legged man with a stubbly, scarred face and a thick crop of sandy hair tied back from his eyes.
The pirate planted himself in front of Nightfall, speaking a thickly accented version of Xaxonese. “Begging your pardon, sir. What’s happening with the captain?”
Nightfall wondered if the man was testing him, again. “I wouldn’t break the confidence of any man,” he said matter-of-factly, hoping the crew would not go to any extremes to prove his claim. Torture, he knew from experience, would only make him angry. “Most especially, your captain.”
The pirate rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “Not wanting you to give anything away, sir. Just wondering if he’s in a mood. I’ve got a report to deliver.”
Remembering Celdurant had requested quarterlies, Nightfall returned his attention to the water. “Bad news?” he guessed.
“Runners still gaining. Cap’n gonna take my head off?”
Nightfall shook his head. “He won’t like hearing it,” he admitted. “But he doesn’t seem like he’s on the edge of attacking the messenger.”
The pirate padded away. Nightfall doubted the man truly needed the information he had requested; he knew the captain better than Nightfall possibly could. The maneuver, Nightfall suspected, had more to do with delay. He considered offering to accompany the pirate, but shook the thought away. His presence might antagonize the captain, who needed to make a difficult decision alone, without the pressure of a near-stranger dropping in at intervals to check on the process.
Nightfall clambered to the main deck, trying not to make it look difficult, or too easy. Though beyond competent with a dart, Balshaz was not known for the kind of agile sleight of hand Sudian had demonstrated on this same deck. He could not risk appearing too awkward either; not only would it risk the scorn of the pirates, but a graceful movement later might expose it as an act and cast suspicion on everything he did or said. For now, he needed as much of their respect and trust as he could reasonably earn in such a short time.
A stroll around the decks showed Nightfall what he already suspected: these men knew a reasonable amount of seamanship, some more than others, but tended to take shortcuts. They could keep the vessel seaworthy but not groomed for greatest speeds, quick but not primed for a lifesaving run. Given full command of the ship and a crew more fit for sailing than combat, he could coax quite a bit more speed from the light, narrow-hulled
Seaworthy
. As things stood, they made good time against bulkier ships, especially those weighted with cargo, but they seemed destined for a run-in with the Lifthranians.
As the wind shifted, a sheet clamp thunked against the mast and a sail luffed. The men rushed to take up the slack, to put the sail back in proper alignment as they lost precious moments. Nightfall could teach them not to miss those cues, to anticipate rather than simply respond, to use the sea to their advantage against pursuers. All he needed was complete command, a willing crew, and a year.
As Nightfall lamented the lack of skill and cohesion that might result in all of their deaths, an enormous pirate who seemed constructed entirely of muscle shoved him with unnecessary violence. Thrown sideways, Nightfall would have crashed to the deck, perhaps even toppled over the gunwale, if not for his talent. Instead, he staggered a single step, gracefully minced three more, then planted himself firmly on the planking.
The massive pirate turned to watch the effect of his push, his stubbly face puckered into a smirk. “Out of the way of the working men, lubber.”
Ordinarily, when in Balshaz’ guise, Nightfall would have let the incident go with a politely worded, though grossly undeserved, apology. However, if the captain intended for him to lead these men, he could not afford to back down from a challenge. He trained his withering stare directly into the larger man’s dark eyes. “I would stay out of your way, were you actually working.” He added, “Lubber.”
“Lubber?” The pirate laughed, raising his voice to share the joke with the entire crew. “The long-clothes silversucker just called me ‘lubber.’ ”
A chuckle rumbled across the deck, and many of the men quit working to watch the drama unfold around or below them.
Nightfall kept his joints limber, prepared to leap in any direction. At some point, this war of words seemed destined to degenerate into a fistfight he could not win.
“You don’t even know what the word means. Do you?”
“Of course I do.” Nightfall did not back down.
“Then you know you might just as well have called me ‘girl.’ ”
Nightfall could not resist the opening. He glanced pointedly at the larger man’s crotch. “Had I known it was apt, I would have.”
Another short laugh swept the deck.
The massive pirate tensed. “Exactly my point. Both are ridiculous things to call me.”
Nightfall appreciated the sudden common ground. “Agreed. But the names you assigned to me are equally absurd.” He returned his gaze to the other man’s face, seeking any advance warning of a physical attack. “I’m no silversucker.” Though he would have liked to have given Balshaz the noble background many merchants had, he would have left himself open to a tracing of bloodlines that would have revealed the lie. “And I’m no more a lubber than you are. Even my blood is salty.”
The pirate considered momentarily before coming to the obvious realization. “Everyone’s blood is salty.”
“But not everyone has seawater coursing through his veins.”
The pirate’s eyes narrowed, and a knife seemed to leap into his hand. “Well, then. Let’s open one of those vessels and take a peek, shall we?”
Nightfall did not regret his words. No matter what he had said, it would have come down to the same fight. The pirate would have goaded until he could justify violence. Nightfall only wanted to force the first angry strike to come from the other man. “Better yet. Let’s see who’s the better sailor.”
“Fine.” The larger man released the ties from the ends of his tight sleeves and started shoving the fabric up his arm. “Let’s see who can pummel the other to the bilge.”
“What’s that got to do with seamanship?” Nightfall acted genuinely puzzled. “Perhaps a race to the top of the mast?”
The knife remained clenched in the pirate’s fist. “That’s not seamanship either. That just shows who’s smaller and rattier.”
Nightfall would have preferred “squirrelier,” but he understood the pirate’s need to fling an insult that stuck.
“Look,” one of the men called from the sidelines. “We already know Elliar’s a sailor. Let’s see what merchant-man can do with the mainsail.”
The huge man the other had called Elliar stepped back, the smug smirk returning to his lips. He lowered the knife. “All right, let’s see.” He rested his bottom against the gunwale to watch what he clearly expected to be an amusing display. Like the others, he probably saw Nightfall’s performance as unsupportable bluster.
Nightfall did not waste an instant. Seizing the mainmast, he shinnied upward.
The bulky pirate called up after him, “Hey! I already conceded you’re smaller and more ratlike than I am.”
Nightfall ignored him, rearranging shroud stays, battens, and clamps with the deft practice of long years at sea. Most sailors preferred deckside duties, avoiding the riggings where most fatal accidents occurred. A shake, a lurch, or a collision could send a man tumbling to his death. As Marak, Nightfall had relished those jobs that most sailors hated, and he had become an expert at the perfect placement of every tiny contrivance. In no time, he had everything in its ideal position and the wind well-studied in the open heights of the hatchwork. Shinnying to the ground, he took over the lines, rearranging each to its optimal position before looping them around the proper cleat. He saved the main line for last, knowing that putting it in order would bring every one of his changes to bear at once.
The pirates who had manned the many lines stepped back as Nightfall watched the sheet burgeon like a silken cloud, without a single luff or billow. The vessel leaped forward, its speed abruptly increased by a long series of complex maneuvers Nightfall had made look fast and easy. “There,” he said calmly, wiping his hands on silks that now held smears of grime.
Every pirate stared. Even Elliar was speechless.
Once again, Nightfall knew his next best move was to leave, to let the full effect of what he had done settle in and allow the pirates to talk about it, and him, without interference. The more they saw of his technique, they more they would recognize it as the simple operation of a well tended ship all come together at once. He would have preferred to go belowdecks, but that would put him in conflict with the captain, since they shared a cabin. Instead, he found an open position aft, high on the poop deck, and stared out over the water. The wake trailed them like lacy runnels; and, marked by the colors of setting sun, the steady droplets sweating from the hull gleamed like gemstones in the
Seaworthy
’s trail.