despairing people take in one another. There was a desperation in Cynthia that urged him—no, demanded him—to scour her pain away, to make her forget, if only for a moment, all the horrors that had invaded their lives
As the bell struck four times in the first watch, she slept soundly in his arms, the light of a million stars blazing down on them through the overhead hatch. Her breathing deep and steady, her features peaceful and flushed from wine and their lovemaking, Cynthia finally rested.
When Feldrin woke with the first bell of the mid watch, just two hours later, she was gone.
≈
“Four shorts and a long! That’s the Cutthroat , lads and lasses!” Sam cried, pointing to the flashing lantern light ahead. It didn’t matter that her crew didn’t understand a word she said; her own voice made her feel less alone amid the crowd of cannibals chatting away in their own guttural language. She snapped her spyglass closed and shouted orders in the few words that her new boatswain, Uag, knew. “Heave to. Helm to windward. Signal Manta to stand in our lee.”
She peered astern; even with the moonlight, she could barely see the low, black hull of Manta behind them. A shuttered lantern flashed from First Venture’s poop, and another answered from the smaller craft. She smiled; these flesh-eaters learned quickly.
Canvas cracked overhead and she looked up as the mainsail and main-topsail luffed. The jibs were still drawing, but the big square-rigged sails were useless when the bow was within sixty degrees of the point of wind.
“Slack sheets on the square rigs! Furl mains’ls and tops’ls!” she shouted, and Uag repeated the orders with an additional stream of gibberish. Dark shapes swarmed aloft and hauled on the furling lines, punching the canvas into wads and binding it tight. “Trim the tris’ls and cross-sheet the jibs!”
In a few minutes the ship was hove to; they could stay on station for hours with little effort while she went over to Cutthroat and met with Parek. Thankfully, here in the lee of Carbuncle Shoal, the seas were mild, which should keep the puking to a minimum. Her newly conscripted force—recruits for their attack on Plume Isle—had not done well with their first sea voyage, and the close-packed accommodations were not helping. The hold was a mass of bodies, overflowing buckets and chamber pots, but she’d be damned if she’d be the one to teach them how to keep it clean. Not that it mattered; all of the valuable cargo had long since been removed to Cutthroat , and First Venture was too big and slow to make a good corsair, so it was no loss to let the cannibals have her. After the attack on Plume Isle, they could let the ship rot from the inside out for all Sam cared.
“Prepare the launch!” she shouted, and Uag relayed her order. In moments Sam was sitting at the tiller of the longboat, shouting for her crew of six to row her over to the corsair. The trip was bumpy for the small boat in the confused chop behind the shoal, and there was some muttering among her crew after being doused by a wave, but they made it without anyone falling overboard.
“You’re right on time,” Parek said with a grin as she scrambled aboard. “How many did you bring along in that great tub?”
“Damn near all of ‘em, I think. Maybe four hundred. I didn’t count ‘em.”
“Four hundred ? By the Nine Hells, Sam; that’s a bloody army!” He eyed the sodden oarsmen as they climbed aboard and stood there, their muscled bodies glistening in the moonlight. “Any…uh…problems?”
“None other than a lot of pukin’ and a few squabbles. They’re not sailors, not by anyone’s reckoning, but they’ll fight, and that’s all we need ‘em for.” She waved her hand at the wallowing galleon and gave a laugh. “I told ‘em they could keep the Venture . Any luck, the emperor’s warships’ll find ‘em and think they did the deed alone.”
“Good thinking! It’ll be rather hard on your new
As the bell struck four times in the first watch, she slept soundly in his arms, the light of a million stars blazing down on them through the overhead hatch. Her breathing deep and steady, her features peaceful and flushed from wine and their lovemaking, Cynthia finally rested.
When Feldrin woke with the first bell of the mid watch, just two hours later, she was gone.
≈
“Four shorts and a long! That’s the Cutthroat , lads and lasses!” Sam cried, pointing to the flashing lantern light ahead. It didn’t matter that her crew didn’t understand a word she said; her own voice made her feel less alone amid the crowd of cannibals chatting away in their own guttural language. She snapped her spyglass closed and shouted orders in the few words that her new boatswain, Uag, knew. “Heave to. Helm to windward. Signal Manta to stand in our lee.”
She peered astern; even with the moonlight, she could barely see the low, black hull of Manta behind them. A shuttered lantern flashed from First Venture’s poop, and another answered from the smaller craft. She smiled; these flesh-eaters learned quickly.
Canvas cracked overhead and she looked up as the mainsail and main-topsail luffed. The jibs were still drawing, but the big square-rigged sails were useless when the bow was within sixty degrees of the point of wind.
“Slack sheets on the square rigs! Furl mains’ls and tops’ls!” she shouted, and Uag repeated the orders with an additional stream of gibberish. Dark shapes swarmed aloft and hauled on the furling lines, punching the canvas into wads and binding it tight. “Trim the tris’ls and cross-sheet the jibs!”
In a few minutes the ship was hove to; they could stay on station for hours with little effort while she went over to Cutthroat and met with Parek. Thankfully, here in the lee of Carbuncle Shoal, the seas were mild, which should keep the puking to a minimum. Her newly conscripted force—recruits for their attack on Plume Isle—had not done well with their first sea voyage, and the close-packed accommodations were not helping. The hold was a mass of bodies, overflowing buckets and chamber pots, but she’d be damned if she’d be the one to teach them how to keep it clean. Not that it mattered; all of the valuable cargo had long since been removed to Cutthroat , and First Venture was too big and slow to make a good corsair, so it was no loss to let the cannibals have her. After the attack on Plume Isle, they could let the ship rot from the inside out for all Sam cared.
“Prepare the launch!” she shouted, and Uag relayed her order. In moments Sam was sitting at the tiller of the longboat, shouting for her crew of six to row her over to the corsair. The trip was bumpy for the small boat in the confused chop behind the shoal, and there was some muttering among her crew after being doused by a wave, but they made it without anyone falling overboard.
“You’re right on time,” Parek said with a grin as she scrambled aboard. “How many did you bring along in that great tub?”
“Damn near all of ‘em, I think. Maybe four hundred. I didn’t count ‘em.”
“Four hundred ? By the Nine Hells, Sam; that’s a bloody army!” He eyed the sodden oarsmen as they climbed aboard and stood there, their muscled bodies glistening in the moonlight. “Any…uh…problems?”
“None other than a lot of pukin’ and a few squabbles. They’re not sailors, not by anyone’s reckoning, but they’ll fight, and that’s all we need ‘em for.” She waved her hand at the wallowing galleon and gave a laugh. “I told ‘em they could keep the Venture . Any luck, the emperor’s warships’ll find ‘em and think they did the deed alone.”
“Good thinking! It’ll be rather hard on your new
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