Buxacan Spicerunner Page 5

  “Are the fish biting?” Olik rumbled at his friend.

  “Not at my toes they’re not,” the sailmaker answered, with a smile.

  “You need better bait. A hook and line might be helpful as well.”

  “I’m not sure I want to run a hook through my toe to catch a fish. That might hurt.”

  “You have to make sacrifices to catch fish,” Olik said. “What brings you out so early?”

  “My feet were a little sore from yesterday. I woke up early and thought a soak might help. You?”

  “It’s late for me. I was working.” He knew he looked tired, and Drac would be observant enough to guess there was more to it.

  “Don’t worry, Olik,” Drac reassured his large friend. “It won’t be forever. I hear Afnir wants to do it by the end of the year.” The sun broke the horizon, and other shipyard craftsmen were beginning to arrive.

  “Time for me to go to work now,” Drac said. “Go eat something. That always makes you feel better.” He smiled. “At least until you have to pay for three times the breakfast an ordinary man eats.”

  Olik finally smiled back. “Well, it wouldn’t have cost me as much this morning if you’d caught me a fish.”

  “Stick your toes in and catch your own fish!”

  “See you later, Drac.”

  “Bye.”

  11

  Portcall, Ingo East

  The Albatross, moored in the roads of Ingo East, was being offloaded by lighters. Three factors’ agents were closeted long with the captain and Ellor Dayne, his young accounter. The captain negotiated the best prices for his varied cargo, and Ellor was there to track the money.

  Every so often, orders would come from the cabin directing what was to be put on which agent’s boat. Eventually the captain politely escorted the agents out, while Ellor totted up their profit.

  Ellor Dayne was only of medium height, but he was powerfully built in spite of his sedentary occupation. He was clean-shaven and wore his light brown hair cut to a medium length, tied off at the back of his neck to keep it out of his eyes. Though a young man, he was beginning to develop a squint from reading in bad light.

  “Well sir, we’ve turned a tidy profit this leg,” Ellor said when the captain returned. He passed over the ledger, careful of the wet ink. “You almost doubled the money for the corn.” The captain spent a few moments looking at the neatly written figures.

  “Excellent! I’m thinking tobacco will do well in Dalaria or Gateway. You can have the rest of the day and until sunrise if you’d like to stretch your legs ashore.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ellor stowed the ledger in the captain’s desk and left the cabin.

  On deck, Ellor found the sailors granted the first shift of shore leave in a rowdy crowd bunched at the port gangway, jostling to get aboard the ship’s boats. He worked his way through the group until he found his friends. The boatswain, cook, navigator and carpenter all smiled to see him.

  “Did we do well?” the cook asked.

  “Captain’s happy.” Everyone was glad to hear that. They clambered down the cargo net into the jolly boat. Ellor stared ahead eagerly as they left the Albatross.

  “First time in Jonos, lad?” The cook was the oldest of the bunch and called everyone ‘lad’. “You’re in for a treat!”

  The others snickered. Ellor frowned, wondering what the joke was, but soon forgot as the boat approached a quay crowded with ships.

  Ingo East was situated on a steeply mountainous island just off Ingo West at the eastern end of the main Jono Island, which was clearly visible. Its streets were well cobbled and the buildings were tall, narrow and brightly painted. A few roofs were thatched, but most were of blue or red tile. The trim and windowsills were elaborately carved and painted in contrast to the walls.

  Most of the buildings in Port Buxaca were built in Tayan or Agresian style of brick, stone or with a stucco façade. But in Queen Bontina’s realm, or at least in Ingo East, wood was preferred. Ellor liked this more. Then he realized that the cook was not referring to the architecture when he’d said Ellor was in for a treat.

  “By the Lady! They’re naked!”

  The junior officers of the runner burst into laughter. “Don’t point, lad.”

  “I didn’t point!”

  “You were about to.”

  One and all, the men wore short vests with neither jacket nor shirt, but it wasn’t the men who’d startled Ellor. The women were neither more nor less beautiful than those he’d seen in other ports, but they certainly wore less clothing in public. All of the ladies Ellor could see wore nothing above the waist save a halter. They varied in cut, material and color, and some exposed more than others.

  One woman viewed from behind appeared to have the smallest of coverings—her entire back was bare except for a string tied in a simple bow. When she turned, however, she was covered in a dark brown material from her throat to just beneath her breasts. Another girl, this one much younger, was concealed in red from behind, but the front featured a wide, deep vee-cut.

  As for skirts, whether snug, loose, pleated or frilled, none started very far above the hip nor ended below the knee. Their legs and feet were also bare except for sandals, some of which had elaborate lacing. Ellor slowly became aware of his friends’ snickering and realized he was gawking like a teenaged boy on his first trip to Cathouse Row.

  He flushed and fastened his eyes on the cobblestones in front of him. The walk uphill was becoming strenuous. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

  “Just a few blocks, Ellor. Cookie and me, we found a nice place last time called the Banana Bunch owned by a lovely woman named Zela.”

  “Cathouse?”

  “No!” the men answered in unison. “Never, ever refer to that kind of establishment when in Jonos,” said the boatswain. “There are none.”

  “Remember that this is a matriarchal society, lad,” said the cook. “Here the women have absolute say in matters between men and women. Many of them are available and virginity isn’t a prized commodity here, but she chooses you, not the other way like on the continent.”

  The street had leveled off and they now faced a yellow building with white trim. Above the door, a sign shaped like a bunch of bananas swung gently on its chains. They entered, and were greeted and seated by Zela herself. She was indeed a lovely woman, though well into her middle years. The interior was sunny, clean and smelled of good food cooked well.

  Not particularly hungry, Ellor tried the onion soup on Zela’s recommendation, and proceeded to consume four bowls. The broth was dark brown and had a chunk of crustless bread submerged in its depths. The top of the bowl was covered in a thick skin of melted cheese.

  “Family recipe,” Zela said with a bright smile. “Passed from my grandfather to my father to my husband. I’ll tell him how much you enjoyed it.” Like most Jono women, Zela did little if any of the cooking.

  As they ate and drank Zela’s fine beer, the navigator continued Ellor’s education in Jono customs.

  Any girl wearing a full dress or blouse was not yet of age. A ribbon in her hair that was not matched to her hair color meant she’d chosen a man and was betrothed.

  “But that doesn’t mean she’s not available,” the carpenter added. “If she’s interested in you, she’ll let you know.”

  “Be careful there, lad. You might find yourself challenged by her man—and love duels are to the death,” said the cook.

  “Cookie’s right,” said the navigator. “Unless you’re lucky enough to be invited to a Bride to Be party; then he can’t touch you.”

  He went on to explain the rings. A pair of simple silver rings on the same finger of each hand indicated a married woman who was not to be trifled with, and a single ring on a necklace meant a widow. On the continent, a married woman wore a gold ring on her left hand, Ellor knew, and gold on the right hand was common in the Chains, but he’d never heard of two rings before.

  “If you are approached,” he finished, “take things no further
than she wishes. It’s tough stut for you if she leaves you unspent. Forcing the issue will cost you your manly parts. And here, you’re guilty on her word alone until proven innocent!”

  “I’ll tell you the secret to getting under the skirt lad,” Cookie said with a conspiratorial wink. “They like confidence but not arrogance. Each and every one of them wants you to notice her curves, but she wants you to admire them at a distance—look her in the eye when you’re face to face. Respect is the key!”

  This wasn’t really news to Ellor; he had three aunts and ten female cousins. He’d learned young to mind his manners around the ladies—he always behaved as a gentleman. Even discounting those women he’d known on Cathouse Row, he’d still probably gotten under more skirts than all of his companions combined.

  Regardless of his previous success, Ellor received no more than a smile from any of the Jono women they saw that evening and he slept alone that night. By the time the Albatross sailed, the only conquest he’d made was of a copy of the soup recipe for his mother.

  12

  Vord’s Ranch,

  Swag Island

  The sun was just rising when Brog opened the gate of the sheep pen. His two dogs, Bull and Bear, started barking at the other side to drive the sheep out. Those closest to the open gate immediately turned uphill toward the meadow and away from the dogs.

  As usual, several sheep tried to circle Brog to take the easier route downhill and, as usual, Brog had to physically steer them in the proper direction. The flock was healthy and growing. Even so, Brog checked each one by sight and touch as his father had taught him. It would be time for shearing in another week. Vord would come out later in the day to mark off those to be sold to the butcher this week.

  For now, his father worked in the garden, half of which was for their own consumption. The rest went to their produce stall in the square in front of Castle Heights. Every week father and son alternated for the shepherding chores and Brog’s mother spent a few hours every morning at the stall.

  It was a good life; there were no Takers here and the table was never bare, though there was little coin in their modest little cottage. Theirs was the only house that was not in the town proper, except for the fishing village at the mouth of the bay.

  Once the sheep were grazing happily, the dogs settled down on opposite sides of the flock for a nap. Brog could have taken a nap as well, as there were no poachers here, nor were there any predators large enough to threaten the sheep. The dogs did an excellent job of keeping the flock from straying downhill. Brog wasn’t interested in sleep; he had three hours at least to devote to one of his favorite activities.

  On Brog’s tenth birthday, Vord had presented him with a length of yew to be fashioned into a bow. Yews didn’t grow here and Brog had protested the expense of importing the wood.

  “Traditions have no cost,” his father told him. Their tribe counted its wealth in sheep. The Clavs didn’t really have a use for horses, preferring oxen for plowing. For weapons they used long spears and longbows.

  The Takers however, counted their wealth in horses and slaves. They used shortswords and nets, and attacked unwary Clavvish families and clans. That was how they’d been taken and sold to the Tayans, later to be freed by a Knifehand raid.

  The tradition was that a boy and his father would select a yew sapling when the boy reached ten. Together they would make a bow to fit the boy when he became a man. When Brog’s bow was finished, it towered over the boy. It was believed that a boy would grow to be as tall as his bow.

  Though his moustache was neither thick nor long yet, Brog had reached that height of six feet and two inches. He’d inherited the straight yellow hair and intense blue eyes from both of his parents. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested, Brog could move much faster than anyone would expect. He’d come by his speed the hard way, playing Swords with his friends. Dason was a whirlwind and Afnir was like lightning. Sako was the worst because he fought with the wrong hand.

  But none of them could match him with a bow. Only Drac and Olik were tall enough for it and only the latter was strong enough to bend it. None of his friends understood his fascination with what they considered an obsolete weapon. Arno was openly contemptuous.

  Vall Arno anyway, Brog thought. His father had asked him not to shoot the leaves off trees anymore since he’d completely denuded three of them. Yesterday he’d started shooting at birds. It had taken most of the day to bring one down. Since Brog felt it a waste to kill an animal without eating it, he’d dressed it out and seared it over a fire. It was terrible.

  Today, he wanted to knock a single tail feather from a bird in flight. The dogs kept a better watch than he did anyway, so he had plenty of time to search for the arrows he’d missed with. He stopped at noon to share lunch with his father and sheared the sheep that’d been selected for the butcher.

  After that he went back to shooting at birds. By dusk, he’d chased a lot of arrows but had no feathers. At least he hadn’t been forced to eat any more of them. Brog whistled at the dogs and helped drive the sheep back in.

  Someday his friends would be ready to go to sea as their own Crew, and Brog would get the chance to see something besides sheep asses. Of the Smilers, Brog had contributed the least to their fund. Not that anyone expected him to add much coin to the pile, nor would they say anything, but it bothered him anyway. Starting a venture in debt was a bad idea, but it had to be better than pushing mutton up and down the hill for the rest of his life. Vord wanted nothing more than his own flock and a house far from the Takers. Brog hoped he wouldn’t get angry when he learned that his son wanted more.

  After dinner, Brog went down to Dock Street and found Sturo loitering by StrongArm’s ship, the Hack and Slash.

  “Ayo! The mighty leaf killer!” Sturo greeted him. “How was the hunting today?”

  “Hello, mighty wood chopper. I’ve been shooting at birds for two days now so the leaves are safe.”

  “I, sir, am a wood crafter. So how many birds are you going to add feathers to before you learn about this new thing called gunpowder?”

  “I’m not adding feathers to any; I’ve been trying to take away one tail feather away—in flight. How much more wood are you going to chop before you learn about this new thing called metal?”

  “I’ll learn about metal when they start making ships out of it.”

  “Ships made out of metal! And you call me the ignorant savage! Where’s Drac?”

  “I wouldn’t say ignorant. Savage, yeah, but not ignorant. Drac’s with a girl.”

  “Lucky bastard!”

  “Not that lucky; he’s trying to convince her that his stap tastes like candy, but she doesn’t believe him and won’t try it,” Sturo said smugly. “She’ll kiss him and maybe let him reach down her blouse, but that’s as far as she’ll go.”

  “That’s still more than I’m getting to do. Got anything to drink?”

  “Found a bottle of rum with a little left in it, but I don’t share with savages.”

  “Ha! There’s probably sawdust in it anyway. You added it for flavor.”

  “Who needs flavor? Its lousy rum, the only kind my father likes. Want some?” Sturo handed Brog a nearly empty bottle. The Clav drank half and gave it back.

  “Just enough for my mouth to think it had some rum. That’s almost worse than not having any.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it’s better than none. Was talking to some of StrongArm’s Crew. They took a runner in the Chains, this time.”

  “Good haul?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good. At least we’re not alone.”

  “What do you mean?” Sturo asked.

  “Alone in our disappointment. They didn’t get enough money, Drac’s not going to get enough of his girl and we don’t have enough rum.”

  “You’re a gloomy savage tonight.” Sturo scowled, and then brightened. “Someday soon, Brog. Very soon you’ll get off this island. Then we’ll come back with enough money and we’ll have enough women, an
d we’ll have enough rum.”

  Brog just grunted. He was tired of waiting.

  13

  Aboard the Breeze

  Sako had thought that the life of an officer, even one that was an apprentice, would be easy at sea. He was very wrong. Captain Junarre, like most runner captains, felt that apprentice officers were sailors first and future officers second. Therefore, for three hours of each watch that he was awake, Sako was merely another hand to be set to scraping chain, coiling line, or any of the other myriad tasks that always need to be done but never seem to be finished. The Breeze was a very clean ship, so Sako also did his fair share of cleaning, as well. The schedule was a major adjustment, but there was so much to learn that Sako really didn’t mind the lack of sleep.

  In the last hour of his first watch, Sako met the navigator, Ster Tarela.

  “Captain signs me on an apprentice and doesn’t even consult me first!” he complained. Then he smiled at Sako’s look of dismay. “Don’t worry, son, I get paid extra for the teaching. I’ve qualified two other navigators before you. I’ve gotten good at it. Let’s get started.” He proceeded to question Sako on his education so far. He was pleased that Sako had honed his numbers by working in his father’s inn. They moved on from basic math into geometry. Sako understood most of the basic concepts but hadn’t used his knowledge much. That was fine too; he hadn’t had time to learn any bad habits.