Buxacan Spicerunner Page 3

  Sako remembered a pair of obnoxious Hangmen, young and fresh from their first cruise, who had been in the Arms the night before, and headed west. The suspicion became a certainty in his mind, and he now had a pair of faces to search for. He found them with two other Hangmen in the Sail, a quiet place but not nearly as nice as the Arms.

  The one with no front teeth spotted Sako and nudged his partner of the night before. “Look Kablo,” he sneered. “It’s tavern boy from ‘cross town.” Kablo, a short ugly fellow with fresh scratches on his face, bleared up at Sako. “Nice sword,” he remarked, pointing several inches to the right of the weapon that Sako had thrust through his belt. “Shouldn’t carry a sword, ‘less ya know how to use it.”

  “Hey, that barmaid was tasty, wasn’t she?” taunted the first one.

  “Yeah, she had a tight kitty!” said Kablo.

  “She didn’t like Kablo, though,” said the third, with a chuckle. He wore a blue leather vest.

  “She was my sister,” Sako quietly informed them as he drew the Tayan blade.

  Conversation stopped as the sword rasped clear. One sailor near the door jumped up and tried to summon the patrol, only to bounce off Olik’s massive chest in the doorway. He tried to slip past but was brought up short by Dason, who held a pistol.

  “Sit down.” Sako was not the only one who’d thought to arm. The barman was calling, “Outside! Take it outside!” but he stopped when he saw the pistol.

  The Hangmen had stood and drawn their cutlasses; two were on the wrong side of the table, but none had guns. The fourth one spoke for the first time: “I wasn’t there for your sister, but I stand with my shipmates.” Sako gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement, and then lunged across the table at Kablo.

  Sometimes the first strike is lucky, and it proved so in this case, for the last two inches of his sword went into Kablo’s throat like soft butter. No-Teeth recovered first, came in on Sako’s left and struck twice. Sako blocked both strokes but the force of the attack drove his hip into the next table, and he put his right hand down for balance. His fingers closed around a mug, and quick as thought he flung it into No-Teeth’s face. That one’s drunken attempt to duck sent him sprawling, and Sako turned to face the other two. I-Wasn’t-There approached cautiously from his right, but Blue-Vest jumped onto the table between them and struck straight down at Sako’s head. Sako caught most of it on his own blade, but blood was running down his forehead as he reached for the man’s ankle. Pulling with his right and stabbing with his left, he kicked a chair over into the path of I-Wasn’t-There, who stumbled over it. Blue-Vest was skewered, and hot blood poured down Sako’s arm.

  He slung the body at I-Wasn’t-There and turned just in time to meet No-Teeth’s renewed attack. A quick flurry of blade work and No-Teeth went down with a broken skull. I-Wasn’t-There had finally disentangled himself from Blue-Vest, but Sako’s left-handed attack confused him and he was quickly impaled.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” he whispered. “I wasn’t there…” The light faded from his eyes and he slumped to the floor as he slid off the blade. Dazed and bleeding from several cuts, Sako stared at the bodies. This wasn’t like playing Swords at all. Blood was everywhere, and someone’s bowels had voided in death. Sako looked again at Kablo’s face, peaceful under the gore of a split skull. He dropped to one knee and vomited up what felt like every meal he’d ever eaten.

  His friends were now there. Olik pulled his long hair away from his face as he vomited again. Dason pried the gory sword from his grip to clean it, and Drac held out a mug of beer so he could rinse his teeth. Ellor went to the barman with a handful of coins—Jono princes and a few Tayan regents. “For the damages,” he said. Arno stayed in the door and prevented anyone from leaving.

  “They raped and killed his sister earlier tonight,” Sturo announced to the crowd. “What man among you wouldn’t have done the same?”

  “Hope that’s true, for his sake,” said an older hand. “Otherwise, Hangmen be huntin’ him.”

  “Get him outta here.” That was the barman. “Pango, I recognize you—run a message up to Hangman House, tell them they got bodies to pick up here. I won’t call the Red and Blacks, that’s your pay. The rest of you get that boy outta here. Go!” With that, conversation returned to the room. The boys caught snippets as they moved to obey.

  “Did ya see how fast he was?”

  “He in a Crew, yet? Hangmen don’t get him, every Crew on the island could use—”

  “His first kills. I threw my lunch after my first kill.”

  “’Cause you’re a lubber! He threw cause o’ that head blow he took!”

  “Never seen a beardless boy take four.”

  “Boy coulda cleared half a deck by himself!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Innkeeper’s son. Dalarian Arms.”

  The boys hustled Sako home, always alert for the patrol. Thard ran to his own home for his master’s surgical bag. They brought Sako in through the back entrance, and met Danno. Sturo related the tale while Thard ministered to Sako’s wounds. Danno took his son’s face in his hands.

  “You did the right thing, Sako, but you did it in the wrong way. We have to get you off the island. Captain Junarre is upstairs; he sails on the morning tide. I have to send you away if I’m going to keep you alive, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just after dawn four Kimbulan runners sailed from Port Buxaca, and one had a new apprentice navigator on board. If Danno’s son had to go to sea, he wouldn’t go as a mere hand.

  The story of Sako’s revenge spread quickly.

  5

  Aboard the Lady Of Bilitown

  It was cold, or at least as cold as it could be in a tropical sea near the equator just before dawn, and Afnir had the masthead watch. The navigator’s calculations said the Lady was thirty-five miles west of Swag Island at the beginning of his watch. The tip of the island should be visible when the sun rose.

  Afnir Sanfora had grown to be a handsome man, with long, curly dark hair and dark brown eyes. He stood six feet tall and was solidly muscular at just under two hundred pounds. Women saw him as dashing and he knew it.

  It had been a year since Sako had left Port Buxaca, and Afnir wondered which of his other friends had shipped out since. Afnir himself was done with the Lady once she’d offloaded. A fully qualified seaman, he felt he was ready to join a Crew for a few cruises to build up some money. All of his friends were supposed to be saving towards the purchase and outfitting of a ship. With a ship, they would petition The Captain to become their own Crew. But after two full years aboard the Lady and asking lots of questions, Afnir was beginning to understand just how much money would be required. He and his future Crew hadn’t saved very much.

  Not only were they short of cash, they were also short of men. There were only thirteen of them. Brog, Arno, Sturo and Drac were employed by their own families—they wouldn’t be able to contribute much to the venture. Thard’s apprenticeship contributed much to his knowledge but little to his purse. Ellor made more, but only those who joined other Crews would have any significant silver. Even then, the shares of common hands wouldn’t equal a fortune. Perhaps they could take a loan for the ship…

  Afnir stopped daydreaming and slowly searched in all directions. Not a sail in sight but there, on the horizon, was the tell-tale hump of an island. He called the sighting down to the deck just as the ship’s bell rang. Two hours left on his watch, and then they’d make port.

  Afnir wondered which Crew would take him. He had no doubt he’d be accepted; he was a seasoned hand, skilled at all shipboard tasks and not inconsiderable with a cutlass.

  When the unloading was finished, Afnir joined the queue before the captain’s door. The Lady would be in port for a week, and all hands were entitled to draw as much of their pay as was needed to enjoy their shore leave. Forecastle rumor said that two sailors were being discharged for unsatisfactory performance, and four more would cash out and move on to other b
erths.

  The young ‘tar’ ran the figures through one more time. Two full years at three pages per month (the Lady operated on Tayan coin) made seventy-two pages. He had already drawn eighteen pages, seven pennies, so his cash-out would be fifty-three pages, three pennies. He would take some of his pay in regents to leave with his parents—his father had left the sea due to the lung sickness.

  Finally, it was Afnir’s turn in the captain’s cabin. Inside he found the captain and the accounter behind the table, while the mate sat alone by the stern windows. All three were smoking pipes, which made Afnir’s nose twitch. He didn’t care for tobacco.

  “Young Ster Sanfora,” the captain said. “How much will you be needin’ for the week?”

  “Actually, sir, with all due respect and no complaints against the Lady of Bilitown or her officers, I’d like to cash out.”

  The mate’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

  “Why?” asked the captain, more curious than angry.

  “I’d like to try my luck with one of the Crews, sir.”

  “Hmm. I guess there’s no persuadin’ you to stay with us, then.” He glanced at his Mate. “You’re wantin’ to say somethin’.”

  “Not really. Just—he’s a fine sailor and I’m damned sorry to lose him.”

  “I’m agreein’,” said the captain. “I’ll write up a letter for you sayin’ you’re qualified and reliable, and you’ve also earned a bonus of a page and a half.”

  “Bonus?”

  “If you were knowin’ of it, you’d’ve expected it, then it wouldn’t be a bonus.” He put his pipe back in his mouth. “If you’re not findin’ what you’re lookin’ for with a Crew, or you get tired of it, you’ll always have a berth on the Lady, perhaps as a boatswain someday.”

  “Thank you, captain! I will always remember your offer.”

  “You are owed five crowns, four pages and eight pennies,” said the accounter. “How would you like it?”

  Afnir collected his pay and packed his gear. He returned to the captain’s cabin for his letter, and was walking up Prize Boulevard within the hour. He had written his parents from Ressatta that he was inbound, and so had dinner with them that evening.

  His father looked worse than he remembered, and the fare was simpler than he’d expected. The young man noticed that a few of his mother’s vases and small sculptures were gone. The gold his father had saved over the years must be running low. He helped his mother clean up, promised he wouldn’t stay out late, and left for the Dalarian Arms. Before he went, he tucked two Tayan crowns in the jar on his mother’s vanity table.

  First, he was going to talk to Ster Pizi to find out what his friends were doing and which Crews were in town. Tomorrow he’d see about signing on a Society ship after he deposited what he could in the account Ellor had opened at Sigto and Anford, the island’s only bank.

  6

  The Port Buxaca Shipyard

  Drac Copton finished helping furl the fore topsail just as Miko Alsi stepped out of his office and blew his whistle. That signaled the end of another day’s work in the yard. The senior sail maker smiled at his charges standing along the spar.

  “Okay lads, that’ll do. Good work.” Drac joined the others as they climbed down the shrouds and headed for Dock Street. Once on the boards, he walked over to wait by the Cloud for Sturo.

  Drac stood six foot three and was a little heavier than Afnir. He had gray eyes and wore his brown hair short, like most Dalarians did, even though he was Tayan. His sideburns were long and his nose had been broken once in a particularly vicious bout of the ‘Swords’ game they’d all played as boys.

  As he waited, Drac looked over the Cloud with a critical eye and found little to dislike. The rigging looked good, as did the suit of sails. A good-sized sloop of fourteen guns, she needed nothing but paint and polish.

  Sturo and two other carpenters finally appeared at the gangplank, shaking sawdust from their hair and pulling on their shirts.

  “She’d be perfect for us,” said Drac by way of greeting.

  “There’ll be another when we’re ready,” said Sturo. The carpenter was of a size with Afnir, with medium length black hair tied off at the neck and hazel eyes. He brushed sawdust from his short moustache.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Drac asked. They started off for the Arms for dinner.

  “Captain’s door was kicked in when she was taken. I had to reframe it.”

  “She for resale?”

  “Bloody Fists are keeping her, she’ll be renamed the Stinger.” The Bloody Fists were a Red Flag Crew; their flag featured the front view of a fist. “They’re forming a second Crew of about thirty-five.”

  “Who’s the captain going to be?”

  “Arballe.”

  “The boatswain? He’s only a few years older than we are!”

  “He’s very popular, though. They say he has an eye for the wind. Captain Colbridge let him lead the chase that took that very ship.”

  “No stut! That’s confidence. They get a good haul?”

  “Sixty sheep and thirty wheels of cheese.” They laughed the rest of the way up Rum Street.

  “It’s a start for a new Crew,” said Sturo. “They voted to give the entire haul to Arballe’s people as their first haul. The other Bloody Fists didn’t take a copper.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I was talking to Captain Dalk Arballe as I worked on his door,” said Sturo. “He was very particular, but he left me alone once he realized I knew what I was about. He wanted to talk about everything but his doorframe after that.

  “Brog came down and bought the sheep, and I hear that ten wheels of the cheese are bound for Hanarre on the Flatfish.”

  “Dason’s in port?” Drac smiled. “Hope he’s got time to come by the Arms.”

  “So do I.”

  As it turned out, the Flatfish sailed on the midnight tide. Ster Pizi gave them the news that the Bando brothers had signed on to the Kimbulan Dalarville Spring, which sailed for Gateway in three days. Ellor was on the Albatross, somewhere in the Chains at last report, and Afnir had joined the Facepainters on the Pelican; that was a Black Flag Crew. They painted their faces in fearsome masks prior to battle. Their banner, crossed sword and axe, was the most dreaded in the Buxacan Sea except for the Hangmen’s noose and Spiderhead’s black widow. Sako had written from Ariton. He had been allowed to plot the Port Sipa to Ariton leg of the voyage and would call at Gateway, Ingo East, Braden and Colada before sailing home. It would be four months, and on the last leg he would be performing all the tasks of a full navigator.

  The next day, as always, Sturo and Drac arrived at the shipyard just after dawn. Sturo loved working with wood, but he was beginning to feel that it would be forever before they were able to form their own Crew. Drac had even less patience.

  During his off time, Drac had fashioned a unique Black Flag. Everyone who’d seen it had highly approved. There were a pair of evil looking eyes, suggested by white outline rather than fully present, with red irises. White eyebrows were curved toward the center in a glare, and a blood-dripping cutlass crossed beneath. Like the eyes, the sword was black and merely suggested by white outline, but the blood was red. Drac’s idea was to give the impression that, “We’ll take what we see by steel.” But Dason said it looked like a face with a sword for a smile.

  “We’ll call it the Bloody Smile, and ourselves the Smilers,” he said. They had a name for the Crew and they had a flag, but they lacked everything else necessary.

  7

  Zindi And Son’s Chandlery,

  Port Buxaca

  Arno Zindi turned to his father as the last customer of the day left. He was shorter and slighter than Drac, with blue eyes and short black hair. He wore a short goatee connected to his moustache after the Dalarian fashion.

  “Go ahead and close the door, son.” The elder Zindi sat down behind the counter and opened the cash drawer. As he stacked coins in preparation for totaling the day’s sales, he
had instructions for Arno. “I’ll need you to deliver the Eagle’s order when you leave here tonight. Before that, dust off the binnacles and sweep the floor. Tomorrow after breakfast, I’ll need you to order twenty barrels of lamp oil and order a dozen more Kimbulan flags from the sailmakers.” His father’s expression turned hard, but his tone remained the same. “Your mother would like to see your face at the dinner table this evening, so you may not go to the Treasure Chest until after that. And you will not stay there until dawn again. In fact, if you are there past midnight, you will not go again so long as you live in my house. Do you hear me?”

  “Yessir.” Arno grabbed a rag and began dusting. Well, at least Father hadn’t forbidden me the Treasure Chest entirely. He’d been spending every evening there and last night he hadn’t gone home at all, but he’d shown up for work on time. Until now, his father hadn’t said a word about it and Arno had spent the day in dread.

  For the past few months, Arno had taken his tiny salary of one Agresian copper per week and gambled with it at the Treasure Chest. He was very lucky. Arno was good at two dice games and five card games but his favorite was roulette. Last night he’d been up eighteen Agresian crowns before his streak ended. He still left the table with fifteen more crowns than he’d arrived with. Since he’d started, he was ahead a hundred and five crowns, or thirty-five Tayan crowns. Most of the money had been deposited in Ellor’s account, but some had gone to fine food, new clothes and an occasional visit to Cathouse Row. He also had a deposit on a handsome pocket watch and a fine china tea set—gifts for the New Year for his parents, which he could never afford on his salary.