Sasharia en Garde

  Fereli retreated to the kitchen and threw pots of preserves at the ducking heads of the young fellows trying to corner her. Despite the danger, bubbles of humor fizzed inside her chest when she saw how those big, brawny youngsters hunched and covered their heads each time she took aim.

  Arlaen got into the act by groaning and clutching his bad hip as he yanked furniture in the way of the dashing warriors, sometimes tripping them up. He’d apologize, reach to help them, and then knock jugs and plates and baskets onto them. They scrambled about amid showers of crockery, beans, nuts, and once a satisfyingly effective dusting with ground pepper.

  Kreki shrieked at the warriors to spare her curtains and rugs, disconcerting them mightily, and Atanial ran around the outside of the house twice, bobbing and weaving, until she stumbled over an unseen cabbage in the garden and measured her length on the carrot tops.

  Strong hands picked her up with respectful care. Swords rang, and she smelled healthy young male sweat many times over as she was closely ringed.

  Fairly soon the others were brought out.

  “This all of ’em?” Canardan asked.

  “All we found, sire,” responded the captain.

  Atanial counted swiftly, then compressed her lips firmly to hide the balloon of relief inside. The prisoners were the old folk and three servants.

  No Tam or Lark.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sore does not begin to describe how I felt the next day.

  In the past the only thing to do was work out harder. Over the next couple of weeks—it was easy to lose track of the flow of days on the sea—Owl and I led the personal weapons practices in the mornings, and he conducted drills in the afternoon. Zathdar was there for some of the sessions, and on other days he took his captain’s launch away to inspect his fleet, and to scout ahead.

  After the first few days, I nerved myself to climb the shrouds—the ropes connecting each mast to the hull on either side—to the platform on which the crew stowed sails for the higher reaches, and crouched with bows during defense practice. This vantage was splendid, the movement of the ship more dynamic, the view farther, the graceful geometry of the sails quite spectacular.

  The masts had three levels—mainsails, topsails and topgallants—with a smaller platform at that third section of mast. The morning Zathdar returned, I climbed up there, clinging to the mast as I accustomed myself to that breathtaking swoop and loop. The wood was rough under my cheek, weather-beaten for countless years, the nails all handmade, each therefore distinctive. On the platform and the side of the mast, unknown hands had carved initials and short words, most of them in unfamiliar alphabets.

  Finally I dared to lift my head and look outward. Exhilaration rushed through me at the sight of the vast ocean sparkling in the sun. The deck looked so small below!

  “Boat ho,” called the lookout on the other mast. “Captain returning.”

  I shifted. There was the narrow launch, its single sail a long, pure curve as it scudded lightly as a gull, water foaming up in an arch down either side.

  Gliss swarmed up with the ease of a flitting bird and scowled at me. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a land rat. If you fall, we get the blame.”

  She turned away before I could speak and slid down a backstay to the deck. That was a trick I was not about to emulate.

  My exhilaration vanished, doused by a vague sense of guilt. I climbed laboriously to the deck, clinging with iron desperation as the pitch of the ship swung me out over the water.

  When I reached the deck, Zathdar had already closed himself in his cabin with Owl and Robin. The crew in the middle of changing watch nodded and smiled at me, most of them familiar now after days of the practice sessions. They were all fairly friendly. With one exception, Gliss.

  Elva was deep in conversation with the navigator at the helm. Having seen almost nothing of Devlaen over the past few days, I explored the lower levels of the ship and discovered him shut into a tiny cubby in the hold, busy with his books under the light of a single swinging lantern. The cabin was hot and stuffy.

  “Why are you stuck in this rat hole?” I asked.

  He blinked at me. “Studying.” He placed his finger on a page covered with tiny handwriting. “Trying to design us some transfer-note boxes. It’s more advanced magic than I’ve learned yet,” he admitted.

  “For Zathdar?” I asked.

  Devli flushed, and I suspected his sister had accused him of throwing in with the . . . if not the enemy, with the not-quite-allies.

  He said defensively, “Well, if he wants to communicate with us, I don’t see why he shouldn’t. And if I design them, I can make sure there aren’t any suspicious wards or tracers on them. So the king cannot intercept our messages.”

  I shrugged. “Sounds reasonable.”

  He relaxed a little. “Why do you want to be on land?”

  “Find out if anyone knows if my father is alive.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on what I hear.”

  “So you won’t search out your father yourself?” Devlaen asked, his expression intent. The lamplight threw his face into relief, making him look older.

  “I was ten years old when we left. That was long ago.” And when he started to speak, I deflected: “I would like to sit down somewhere and catch up on history before making any plans.”

  Devli leaned forward, his expression eager. “But I could tell you that. We study history when we learn magic. I could show you just why we need—” He reached a hand toward me.

  Maybe he reached just to gesture, but I backpedaled fast. He’s a mage, Clueless! A dedicated one. What’s to stop him from grabbing you right now? “I apologize for interrupting your studies.” I backed out to find Gliss coming down the hatch.

  “Captain wants you,” she said shortly.

  When she turned to climb back up, I put an arm across the ladder to prevent her. “Gliss. I am not your enemy.”

  She looked down, scowling. Her broad cheekbones glowed with dusky color.

  “There is something I am missing here.” I sighed. “Please tell me.”

  “You are blind.” Her scowl turned into a glare before she dropped her gaze to her hands. “Or you’re making game of me.”

  “No. Think of me as new to this world. I don’t remember a whole lot before I left.”

  She shrugged one shoulder sharply and mumbled something in which the words, the way he looks at you, could be made out.

  “He?” But I knew whom she meant. I’d sensed that my zings were not just my own attraction. I’d felt those looks from Zathdar. Though he had done absolutely nothing about it, the vibe had been there just the same.

  “Zathdar’s bright blue eyes.” If I expected her to be honest, I had to be honest back. “I can’t help his looking. I promise you I didn’t try to get him to look. I don’t know if that helps.” I fingered one of my braids, which were beginning to frazzle in the sea air, despite being rebraided just that morning. “I don’t even know how relationships work on this world. I was ten when I left. And my mother only talked about how rotten Canary—that is, King Canardan—was.”

  Gliss crossed her arms and leaned against the bulkhead as the ship gave a lurch. “That’s pretty much what Zorala says. I was seeing a princess coming on board. Showing us all up. Crooking her royal finger at the captain.”

  Zorala, one of the cooks, was older, weathered, and seemed to find the crew’s interactions as good as theater.

  “I’m not a princess.” I tried not to sound sharp. “You can blame my parents for my being good at self-defense. My father started that when I was this high.” I held my palm down. “And my mother kept it going. As for finger crooking, seems to me that neither royal nor street-sweeper fingers will be any more successful than the other if the captain doesn’t want to be crooked.”

  She hitched her shoulders under her ears, up and down.

  “Look, Gliss. Her
e’s how my female code works. I should say that there are many female codes on my sorry planet filled with dysfunction”—the closest word was distortion in conduct—“but here’s how I see it. If there’s a she-and-he twosome, and I find myself attracted to the he, then I wait for her to let me know if there’s any hope. Otherwise, hands off. She has to tell me, not him. But if they’re not a couple, well, fair’s fair. Not that I mean to go after your captain. I’m not sure I like anything but his looks. Definitely not his taste in clothes, and I’m not so sure about this pirate business. But, for my information only, are you two a couple?”

  She looked down at the deck. “No.” She faced me squarely. “Said on hiring there would be no dalliances with the crew. But sometimes they say that, and later . . .” She shrugged.

  “Yeah. I know that men change their minds. So do women. Look, I want to get off this ship onto land, and live my own life. Whatever that might be. Fair enough?”

  She didn’t smile, but at least she didn’t look as angry. “Fair enough.” She climbed up so fast I don’t think her feet touched the rungs but twice.

  I followed more slowly. Just as well I would soon be gone. Political enemies were bad enough. I didn’t want to make a personal one, just because Mr. Pirate might turn out to have a roving eye.

  So I did my own arm crossing and cold manner when I entered the captain’s cabin. If Captain Hurricane noticed, he gave no sign. He was in the middle of studying a chart, barely glanced up, his manner absent as he said, “My messenger finally caught up with us. The king sent the navy out to blockade the main harbor, as I’d predicted. We’re maybe a day from their outer perimeter. Here’s the news. He knows you’re here on my ship. The navy is ordered to be on the watch for us.”

  “How are you going to break through the blockade?”

  “By joining a big fishing fleet. We’ve been running parallel to one these past few days. By morning we will be a different ship. I must request you to spend the rest of today and all of tomorrow in your cabin. I cannot risk you being seen on deck. You are too recognizable.”

  “Who on the fishing boats would know me from anyone else?” I asked, not hiding my skepticism.

  “We’re going to run a quick . . . errand before we land.” He looked out the stern windows, as if something important was happening on the choppy seas.

  “All right.” I knew he wasn’t going to tell me what his “errand” was, not after I’d refused point-blank to become part of his plans. “If you have something to read, I would like to try to reacquaint myself with Sartoran writing. Preferably something that might catch me up on local history.”

  He frowned at the chart table, fingers toying with a quill pen, then shook his head. “Nothing on board.” When my glance strayed to those bound books over his bunk, he said with a quick smile, “Not histories. But if you like, when we land, I could scout you out one.”

  Thus obliquely asking my plans. Right. As if I’d discuss them! “Well, let’s get to safety first. And to land,” I said with hearty cheer, my gaze drawn irresistibly . . . And when his eyes met mine the inward jolt made me shift my own attention to the open scuttle, then to the statue.

  Yet the afterimage remained of his open-necked night-sky blue shirt with the gold and crimson embroidery of leaping dolphins round the hem, the green-and-white-striped deck trousers, and a sash riding loose on his narrow hips. The sash at least matched his headband, though both were purple with yellow fringe. More specifically I was more aware of him inside those clothes, the contours of muscle shaping the shirt, the long lines of his legs looking very good in those deck trousers. I wondered if he had buns of steel . . .

  And stalked out, utterly disgusted with myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elva wasn’t there when I woke the next morning. I eased one of the vapor-blurred scuttles open a crack, bringing in a strong whiff of fish. I was surprised to discover the surrounding waters full of boats and ships, tall masts surging slowly on the sea, sails belling in the same direction.

  When I peered out at the foredeck, fine rain misted my face. Under a low, steel gray sky, the crew labored at dismantling what seemed to be another ship. The Zathdar with its clean lines had transformed into a clutter of barrels, nets, old sailcloth, with the rakish topgallant masts laid along a gangway. The masts looked stumpy now, and the rigging had been altered completely to the shabby triangles of fore-and-aft, which made sense for fishing cruising, where you stay closer to shore and want to maneuver better. These sails were old, splotched with mold, and patched in places.

  The crew looked pretty much like always, except the piratical splashes of color were gone. The big surprise was the captain. I almost missed him, but the angle of shoulder and neck, the distinctive stance snapped my attention back to the man tending the wheel.

  If those buns of steel existed, there was certainly no sign of ’em now. He wore a grubby pair of canvas trousers bunched up round his waist and tied with a rope, some kind of knitted stockings (complete with gaping holes), and aged deck shoes. His shirt was a sun-faded brown, with a long vest over it containing a lot of pockets. As usual he’d tied a bandana around his head, but this was a narrow length of brown cloth, below which at last he’d let his hair hang down. I could see why he bound it up. His hair was an ugly hank of tangled, matted brown, coarse as horsehair, constantly flapping in his face.

  My radar still bleeped, even with the nightmare hair.

  Elva appeared from below-decks, brow tense with worry. Behind her, Devli looked excited and happy.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Let’s go inside, where we won’t get yelled at or knocked out of the way,” Elva grumped.

  “We were locked below,” Devli said to me.

  “How should I know he was serious about that? He’s never been serious about anything,” Elva protested.

  “I love the idea that we might be famous. Like, our faces drawn onto wanted posters and spread round the fleet.” Devlaen grinned like a kid.

  “What’s going on now? I take it we’re not staying with this fishing fleet?”

  “A raid,” they said together, Elva with eyes rolled skyward and Devli bouncing on his toes.

  “What?”

  “We joined the fishers just long enough to get inside the blockade. Now he’s going to run a raid. On a navy ship back out on the perimeter.” Devli hopped again. “Hiding behind one of the little islands.”

  “Zathdar is an idiot,” Elva added.

  Her disgust was a candle to the sun of my anger.

  Despite the captain’s request that I stay in my cabin, I marched out into the fine, cool rain, but not before I saw the triumphant look Elva shot at her brother.

  It took me a little time to thread my way between the crew members busy dismantling the mess so artistically arranged on deck, and forming long lines of rope haulers along the gangway as the topgallant masts were being raised again.

  The seas had gone gray, and the mist was thickening fast, obscuring the other fishing boats. The nearest was a blur maybe two hundred yards away.

  By pausing, ducking, swerving, side hopping and squirming, I managed to make it all the way aft, where Zathdar stood at the helm, rain dripping off his matted clumps of hair, his eyes narrowed as he peered into the gray gloom that smeared the line between sky and sea.

  I stood for a time, struggling to get firm control of my temper. Bitchiness never helped anything, I knew that. So far, being mellow at least got me some answers.

  So, when I knew my voice would be neutral, I asked, “How can you see anything?”

  “He’s out there,” Zathdar said.

  “Yes, and I was hoping you’d explain about that.”

  He regarded me with faint surprise. “I told you we had an errand to run. You have an objection to my running a raid on one of War Commander Randart’s most poisonous snakes?”

  “I thought your errand meant changing the sails or something. Do you”—I tried to maintain a semblance of cordiality—??
?have an objection to keeping your word? You did say when we broke the blockade we’d land. I see no land, and your errand seems to be taking us farther out to sea.”

  “We’re in the bay.” He gestured with one hand, a wide sweep. “And I saw the perfect opportunity. After my raid, we’ll land. I promise that.”

  If we’re successful, I thought, but I knew how that would sound, so I retraced my steps.

  Devli and Elva waited inside the cabin, she sitting on her bunk, he at the tiny fold-down table. “Well?” she asked, as I sank onto my bunk.

  “We land after this raid.” I raised my fingers in air quotes, to which they reacted with mute question. “He says.”

  Elva scowled. “If we are alive.”

  “He said I could help.” Devli chortled. “So I’m gonna wear a disguise.”

  Elva turned on him. “What?”

  “Perhaps I could cast an illusion or two.” Devli rubbed his hands. “Anyway, I’m going. When else will I ever get to be on an actual pirate raid?”

  “Wear an eye patch,” I suggested, aware of my heartbeat accelerating. My brain was catching up on reality. Me, a waitress, whose most accustomed battles were against L.A. traffic, was on board a pirate ship, heading straight for a raid on a naval ship.

  “Eye patch?” Devli broke into my dark thoughts.

  “Pirates have to wear eye patches. And peg legs.” I got up, and sat again. “I suspect it has something to do with cannon balls, and no, I’m not explaining that.”

  The watch bell changed, and Devli vanished on some other errand.

  Elva hunched on the other bunk, obviously brooding. We left the door open, watching the swift alteration of the ship back into sleek piracy, as the last of the fishers vanished into the gray haze behind us. The crew got the topgallant masts fidded, the sheets rattled down and the sails set, after which our speed increased with bucking surges, a fine spray arcing on the low, lee side of the ship.