Buxacan Spicerunner Read online

  Silence reigned on deck. When some of the sails started luffing, everyone noticed. Buck quickly made the necessary helm correction, but the spell had been broken. The first man-made sound after Sako’s screams came from the last man anyone expected to say anything.

  “Not good,” said Clenchjaw. “Navy discipline. Was in navy, jumped ship. No more cat.” He picked up the whip and threw it overboard. “Never again cat on ship.”

  Dason was the first man Thard saw as he returned to the weatherdeck.

  “How is he?”

  “It’s bad. Could go either way.” Thard looked up and repeated himself at volume for the whole Crew.

  “That’s it?” said Afnir.

  “If he lasts the night…his chances improve.”

  “All right, spectacle’s over!” said Nitch, as he came back up from below. Chos and Stowe were nowhere to be seen. “I got mastheads and hull repairs for anyone needs a job. Back to work alla youse!”

  “For what?” Afnir wanted to know. “A fifth of a share?” He jumped from the main shrouds to the deck. “The opportunity to get hurt or even killed by that drunken son of a whore every time he loses his temper?” The other sailors of the starboard watch started to join him as he walked aft.

  “That’s your captain you’re talking about!” Buck shouted from the whipstaff.

  “A fifth is all youse’re worth till you’ve proven yourselves. It’s the rules. Now youse get—”

  “Whose rules?” Dason asked. “None of us voted on the rules.”

  “I sailed with StrongArm when he captured and ransomed Captain Winois, and I got a full share,” Chos Tavven said.

  “And Afnir sailed three cruises with the Facepainters!” Dason had the wind in his sails now. “Full shares on the first two and a double share on his last. Thard got an officer’s share from the Knifehands; you’re alive right now due to his skills! So whose rules are they?”

  “Featherhead rules,” said Nitch.

  “Do we have a Feathered Skull flag aboard?” Afnir asked softly.

  “It’s not even red,” said Drac. “I thought we were Smilers. I thought we’d have a say. I—”

  “ENOUGH!” Nitch raised his rope threateningly. “Get back to your posts!”

  Olik shoved his way through his friends until he towered over Nitch. “You snap that valling rope at anyone here and I’ll tie it around your stap and drag you up to a masthead.”

  Nitch stepped back nervously, switching the rope to his left hand as his right moved toward his blade. Olik saw, and shifted his weight, preparing to lunge.

  “Avast that nonsense!” Tirpa had returned from below and stepped deftly in between Nitch and Olik, facing the larger man. “You starboard tars are off-watch! Get below! We’re still underweigh. Quarrels are waiting until portcall!”

  Afnir and his friends didn’t move.

  “Why are you boys still on deck? I’m telling you you’re off duty for the next two watches! Getting some rest.”

  Tensions eased as first one, then another of the starboard watch looked down. They shuffled below as ordered. The enforced rest, though welcome, did little to improve morale. Instead, it gave the starboard watch extra time to grumble and plot.

  Three days later, Sako walked stiffly up the ladder into the sunlight. Drac had sewn his shirt, but he still couldn’t wear it. Afnir brought him a cup of rum but was unable to get Sako to speak. One by one, as their duties allowed, the entire watch stopped with Sako.

  None could get him to speak or even acknowledge their presence. He slowly sipped at his rum and stared at the clouds. Ellor sent a cup of soup, delivered by Brog. Sako ignored the big Clav until he heard Ellor’s name, then took the soup. Dason was the last to join him. He didn’t try to engage Sako in conversation, but gave him a cigar instead. They smoked together until the end of the watch, when Dason had to go back to work.

  Sako joined his mates for dinner, wearing his shirt. After he ate, he went back to work, but still hadn’t spoken. Brog and Dason exchanged worried looks. Afnir had told them what he’d heard of the cat on other ships.

  “It makes a bad man worse and breaks a good man’s heart.”

  Sako worked like a horse. He spent that first watch flinching at every order before he moved quickly to comply, though none of the officers so much as pointed a rope in his direction.

  The port watch now stood two of the watches formerly held by the starboard, and Stowe now only came up when Afnir’s group was below. This was a machination of Tirpa’s, done so subtly that neither the captain nor the navigator realized he hadn’t seen the other for several watches.

  Though Sako’s body moved, his mind was turned inward. He’d heard of men being broken, but had never thought it could happen to him. He felt that if he spoke, he would just start screaming and never stop. He now doubted his courage and abilities, even his worth. This feeling lasted until his next off-watch.

  It had been raining on and off all day, so Ellor was in his chair two hammocks over from Sako’s. Every morning Brog and Olik hoisted the accounter from his hammock and tied him into his chair, which they then carried to the foredeck in good weather.

  Today Ellor sat with pen and ink and sketched pictures. When Sako saw him, he was holding his empty pipe in his other hand. “Sako,” he said. “Thank Stess—I’m out of tobacco: can you help me out?”

  Sako rummaged briefly in Thard’s seabag and found a pouch of pipe tobacco. The surgeon had brought the most aboard. None of the starboard watch denied Ellor anything.

  Ellor lit his pipe and closed his eyes in bliss. “Thanks. Been waiting four hours for that.” Sako almost smiled but noticed that the crippled man’s slop bucket needed to be emptied. He took care of that, and fetched Ellor a cup of water and rum for himself.

  Ellor chuckled as he eyed the clean bucket. “Been waiting four hours for that, too. Smells a lot better around here.” He took a long drink of water. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I can tell you’re tired.”

  Sako smiled his thanks, slammed his rum and clambered into his hammock.

  Now instead of self-pity, Sako felt deep shame. He’d been physically overpowered and whipped. So what? He still had use of his legs. He could walk to the heads to relieve himself. He could still touch a woman, father children. Ellor had to use his arms to get to the bucket, had to wait for someone else to put him to bed, and he’d never sleep with a woman again.

  Yet if these losses affected him, none of his friends could tell. There was no defeat, no suppressed rage in the accounter’s dem-eanor. In fact, his attitude was generally cheery. His condition was a chilling reminder of what could happen to sailors of enterprise, but Sako hadn’t been injured that badly.

  I’m not going to die of this beating. Maybe instead of being broken, I’m merely bent. That which was bent could be straightened . Hargen Stowe was a good fighter, but he was no match for Sako with a sword. In fact, he could kill Stowe in a duel. That thought gave Sako power, and with power came a return of his confidence. The next words he’d utter would be to challenge the captain. With new resolve came a measure of peace, and Sako was finally able to sleep.

  Two days later they were near an ink spot on the chart called Gull Stut Island when they caught an Agresian runner. There was a quick exchange of cannon fire before the ship was grappled by the Smilers. Captain Stowe, checkered head cloth tied firmly, led the charge himself, while Afnir put his own plan into action.

  The men of the starboard watch charged as enthusiastically as the rest, but stopped short at the rail. Unexpectedly outnumbered, Stowe’s men were quickly beaten back to their own ship. The Agresians cut grapple lines and deployed gaffs to separate the two ships.

  A fusillade of musket fire knocked down Kostek at the helm and the Merciless swung free. A well-aimed broadside of chain shredded the Smilers’ forward main and the runner pulled away. The wind changed direction and strengthened.

  Purple with rage and bleeding from minor cuts, Stowe confronted the st
arboard watch as they stood grouped together ten feet in front of him. The port watch gathered around their captain.

  “What are you valling sons o’ bitches playin’ at?” he shouted. “Ster damn it; we could have had that prize!”

  “Why should we risk our lives for a few pennies, maybe a coal apiece?” said Afnir. “If I wanted to fight to make someone else rich, I’d join a navy. We get full shares of the next prize or we won’t fight. We’re not Featherheads and we won’t live by Featherhead rules.”

  “Forkbeard died on that ship for your stupid stut! You won’t fight? YOU WON’T FIGHT? NO MERCY FOR VALLING COWARDS! YOU’LL GO OVER THE SIDE!”

  The faint hiss-ching from Sako’s sword as it was drawn was heard by all in the eerie stillness. No one noticed the sudden calm, nor the darkening sky. Brog nocked an arrow and drew a bead on Chos. Three muskets and five pistols were leveled at the port watch.

  “I think not,” said Afnir, as he drew his own sword.

  In the maintop, Aler Calas had finished loading his musket, probably the only loaded firearm amongst the port watch. Privately, he stated that Stowe had ridden those boys too hard and he strongly disagreed with what had been done to the navigator. Keeping officers forward of the mast and cheating them (they should have received a fifth of an officer’s share by the old rules) was just plain stupid. He’d mentioned it to Tirpa, but that worthy had told him to keep it to himself. He was doing all he could, he’d said. Apparently it wasn’t enough.

  When the bloodletting ended, they’d climb up for him. Aler aimed at Sako first; he’d heard about those Hangmen. Then he changed his aim to Dason. He had two pistols, each aimed at a different man. There was no doubt in Aler’s mind that he’d drop both targets. His next thought was for self-preservation, and that meant the Clav. That savage could plant arrows in at least six of Aler’s friends before they moved, then put one in each of Aler’s eyes without thinking.

  But as he shifted aim for the third time, Aler was forced to drop the musket and grab the lines as Merciless rolled deeply. There was still no one at the helm. Aler looked to the horizon and faced a solid white wall. The musket clattered to the deck between the two groups and discharged harmlessly as Aler screamed: “SQUAALL!”

  Weapons were dropped, arguments forgotten as orders were bellowed. Two were sent to batten hatches, the rest aloft to cut away sail. Stowe and Chos reached the helm just as the storm hit.

  22

  The Naval Affairs Committee, Ariton, Republic Of Agresia

  The new government of Agresia was struggling. The Revolution had been successful; the landed aristocracy no longer ruled. The worst of them had been executed. Others had been killed because their family names were associated with evil deeds, and some had died to prevent loyalists from rallying to them, but they were not all gone.

  Many still lived in exile, mostly relatives of Queen Bontina II of Jonos. A very few had publicly abdicated their titles, and some of those were allowed to keep their wealth and lands. Most of the noble born children had survived the Purge.

  The new government was no longer struggling against the nobility. Their biggest problem was a lack of executive experience. The High Council consisted of seventeen members, none above the others. The High Councilors were aware of their shortcomings and knew they didn’t have all the answers, so they created committees of experts in the various fields. The bureaucracy grew exponentially. Lines of authority were nebulous; areas of responsibility overlapped and fear of being held accountable for a mistake meant that things happened very slowly.

  The single exception to the out of control bureaucracy was the Department of Foreign Affairs, headed by the three High Councilors with the best and most influential ties with the other nations on the Continent and Jonos. The two most efficient Committees in that Department were the Military Affairs Committee and the Naval Affairs Committee.

  The Naval Affairs Committee was made up of four admirals, two shipping magnates, and an accounter. Today they only had two items on their agenda. In the morning they were to decide the fate of Captain Winois, and in the afternoon they were to present their progress on the war effort to the entire High Council. The addition of the three civilians was the only real change from the days when King Aroix IX ruled. They were actually of great help to the Committee, with the authority to streamline certain operations.

  Captain Winois arrived at the building’s entrance half an hour early, dressed in his best uniform, freshly scrubbed and barbered.

  A snotty midshipman, full of authority as a secretary to the Committee, bade him to sit and await the Committee’s pleasure.

  Winois curled his lip at the boy and stood instead.

  There was a painting of an Agresian Ship-of-the-Line on the far wall, and Winois walked over to study it. It was DeGonne’s Prince Naperre, under sail. The portrait was a few years old, and had been commissioned back when Winois was a mere midshipman aboard her. He fancied that one of the officers depicted was him—perhaps the one with the looking glass…

  Twenty minutes after the appointment was to have started, the navigator Lieutenant from the Flame came out of the inner door, followed by all three of Winois’ surviving midshipmen. They paid shipboard obeisance to their captain.

  “Back to the Flame with you, lads,” the lieutenant told his subordinates. “There’ll be plenty of work for you.” They hurried out as he stepped closer to Winois. “They hold you in very high regard, sir.” His voice was pitched low enough that the secretary midshipman was visibly straining to overhear. “Their testimony put the best possible light on the situation.”

  “Did you hear that, Midshipman?” Winois asked mildly. “My Navigator Lieutenant asked me if midshipmen who’ve never been in water deeper than their knees have anything better to do than eavesdrop on their superiors.”

  The boy sat stock still.

  “I have the same question for you, boy.” Winois’ tone turned slightly sharper.

  “This is my duty post, sir,” the midshipman replied stiffly. “I meant no offense.”

  “Acceptable. Carry on.”

  “Yeah yeah, sir.”

  “By the door, if you please.”

  The boy complied, his face a militarily correct mask. Both senior officers watched with approval.

  “My apologies, Lieutenant. You were saying?”

  The navigator nodded and repeated himself.

  “And what light did you put on the incident?” Winois asked with a slight edge.

  The lieutenant was offended, but didn’t let it show. The younger man was still his captain. “I didn’t put any light on it, sir. I told it as I saw it.” He smiled slightly. “If that happens to look like a young man who did his very best in an impossible situation, then that’s the light I put on it. Sir.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little on edge—”

  “Captains don’t apologize, sir. I don’t think they’ll beach you.” The navigator saluted again. “I’ll see you on the Flame, sir.”

  Winois returned the salute as a small ship’s bell rang.

  The midshipman twitched toward the inner door, but kept his feet still and was instantly back at attention. “Excuse me, Captain, that’s the signal that the Committee wants me.”

  Winois acknowledged with a nod and the boy slipped inside. Other than the attempt at eavesdropping, the boy appeared to be the perfect midshipman. Stut, he is the perfect midshipman, if a little arrogant. Winois suddenly remembered his own wardroom days, where information meant survival in the harsh world of junior officers. He brushed the front of his jacket nervously and straightened his cuffs.

  “They’re ready for you now, Captain Winois,”

  “Thank you.” Winois took a deep breath and entered the conference room. They were all there. Down the port side of the table sat the accounter, Ster Apic; Ster Coinier, who owned the Northern Trading Company, and Captain Farge, who had started with one ship and now owned sixteen, a third of which were slaverunners.

  On the starboard were Elvoi
x, Admiral of the Home Fleet, who had suffered two mutinies; Allois, Admiral of the Colonial Fleet. Then there was Admiral Gapore, who had defeated Admiral Overbridge at Caryn Roads during the Thirty Year War. Nearly ninety, he was rumored to be extremely intelligent, though at the moment he appeared to be asleep. At the head of the table sat Admiral of the Seas Laneau.

  Winois stepped to the foot of the table and saluted. The door closed soundlessly and Laneau looked up from the report he’d been reading.

  “You may be seated, Captain.”

  Winois sat in the surprisingly comfortable chair. He glanced around the room, determined to give an accurate report without stuttering or mumbling. He had time to note well-fitted wooden paneling and a thick Stitian carpet before Admiral Elvoix spoke.

  “Do you know why you are here, Captain?”

  “To, uh, give my account of my actions regarding my last action, um, when I was defeated and held for ransom by the pirate StrongArm.” Winois swallowed. No ‘ahs’ or ‘ums’! Clear and concise. You’re a midshipman again, trying to pass the exam for Lieutenant and these are just the officers’ board.

  Not that that had been an easy day, but he’d survived it and passed the examination. They began with his service since he’d first put on a Navy uniform at age twelve. The three admirals who were awake went round and round with pointed questions on every offense he’d ever committed. On occasion one of the shipping magnates asked for an explanation of a particular custom. The accounter said nothing and looked bored. They had finally reached his service aboard the Prince Naperre when there was a knock at the door opposite from the one by which Winois had entered.

  “Come!” said Laneau. A well tailored and polished midshipman entered, carrying a silver tray with coffee service.