Buxacan Spicerunner Page 6

Then Tarela unrolled a large piece of paper. “This is not a map,” he said. “At sea, it’s a chart. Just like ‘downstairs’ is ‘belowdecks’ and a ‘kitchen’ is a ‘galley’. Different words for the same thing.” He proceeded to explain what the markings and symbols meant in rapid succession. When he was done, he expected Sako to know the difference between currents, prevailing winds and coastlines.

  He spent the next half of the watch studying the chart. It was almost effortless, once Tarela provided him with a legend. Numbers here meant soundings measured in feet, numbers there meant average wind speed measured in knots. This kind of line in a shape was a reef; a solid line was an island. This island was wooded and fresh water could be had there, that island was barren…rock. This other barren one was coral—no; it was a reef that broke the surface.

  “We need to make hull repairs.”

  Sako looked up in surprise.

  Ster Tarela had returned and was speaking to him. “To do so, we need a protected cove with a beach. Find it.” Sako’s eyes went to the wooded island, but it had neither beach nor cove. There was a cove, but it was fifteen feet deep. “There, sir.” He’d found the right spot.

  “How do you know it’s protected?”

  “The prevailing winds are from this direction,” Sako answered. “We can approach slowly and leave quickly.”

  “Very good. By the end of the week, you’ll also know how long it will take to get there and be able to plot the best route to avoid reefs and shoals in the area.”

  The next watch, Tarela took him to the binnacle. “Tell me what you know of this.”

  “The needle always points south.”

  “So if the needle’s pointing aft?”

  “Then we’re headed north, sir.”

  Tarela smiled and went on to explain the marks on the ring. Sako knew that there were three hundred sixty degrees in a circle, and the navigator taught him that they used the circle to plot their heading. Zero degrees was due south, halfway around the circle was a hundred eighty degrees, which was due north.

  “So what’s our current heading?”

  Sako looked at the ring. The directions were labeled, which helped. “A few degrees south of southwest, sir.”

  “You’re right, but your answer is too general. Try again.”

  “Forty-three degrees, sir?”

  “Closer. When asked this heading, say ‘zero four three degrees’. That’s how you’ll give the command to the helmsman: ‘Steer zero four three degrees, Ster Blue’.

  “Halfway between south and west is southwest, between here and here is south southwest and on this side it’s west southwest. Understand?”

  “Yeah yeah, sir.”

  The next watch was spent in a detailed explanation of how to cast the log to determine their speed. The lessons were the only time Sako spent in conversation with anyone.

  Racked with guilt over the men he’d killed, Sako kept to himself. As he didn’t open himself to anyone, he made no friends. Word of his deeds in Port Buxaca had spread quickly aboard ship, and the crew did not know what to make of this silent, dangerous young man. His sword was locked away in the arms chest, but that was not reassuring to the other men. The Breeze was underway for three weeks before he became a member of the crew.

  The ship’s boy had been ordered aloft along with several other hands, but had stumbled in his haste to obey. The boatswain had immediately lashed out at the boy with the knotted end of his rope. Unfortunately, the blow caught the lad in the short ribs. Out of breath, he collapsed onto his seat. The officer was in a bad mood, or he might not have reared back for a second swipe. Later he claimed to believe the boy was malingering at the time. Regardless, the second lash didn’t hit its intended target. Sako had deliberately stepped in the way and took the full force on his back.

  Though it was the first time he’d ever felt the rope, Sako neither flinched nor yelped. Instead, he turned a glare full of murderous fury on the boatswain. Mouth agape, the officer actually dropped his rope and took two steps back. Sako then turned the same glare on the still sitting boy and flicked his eyes aloft. That one was on his feet and had both hands on the lines before Sako turned away. He glanced once at the boatswain before swarming up the rigging himself.

  The ship’s boy was a great favorite of the crew. He was a gawky fourteen year old with unbridled enthusiasm. He was always willing to help and learn and was especially prized for his pranks and hijinks. Sako’s unthinking intervention had prevented the boy from suffering undeserved punishment and endeared him to everyone forward of the mast.

  The ship’s officers also had no complaints about his performance, though the boatswain was careful around him. The navigator was especially pleased with his apprentice’s progress. Sako never made the same mistake twice. His calculations were awesome. He learned to use the sextant and mastered the log with ease. He was learning the stars and constellations more quickly than Tarela thought possible. As he put it to Captain Junarre one night, “Fast learners are often fast forgetters. But not this one. He’s another Ark pen Vishen, this one.” At this rate, Sako would be a fully qualified navigator with only a year of instruction. Only that famous explorer Tarela had compared him to had done it faster.

  Sako’s first real test had been to plot course and speed to predict the Breeze’s time of arrival from Port Sipa to Ariton. He’d only been off by half a watch, or two hours. He did even better on the leg to Gateway, in spite of inclement weather. There was a large storm between Gateway and Ingo East, which had blown the Breeze off course by days, but Sako had replotted their position on the first clear night after. That prediction looked to be dead on, so far.

  Captain Junarre was prepared to commend Sako to any ship he applied for if he ever felt like leaving the Breeze, and so informed him. Sako gave no indication of his true intent, though he thanked him courteously. It would be several more months before the Breeze would call at Port Buxaca again.

  14

  Stowaways

  Finve scuttled back to the spot deep in the center hold where he’d left Samdin. He hissed twice to let Samdin know that it was safe to come out.

  “What’d you find?” the younger boy asked.

  “Apple barrel by the mizzen, two hard rolls and a pan of water.” Both boys whispered.

  “Give me a roll.”

  “Here. Take two apples but don’t eat them right away.”

  “I know! I’m not stupid!”

  “Shh.”

  Both looked around, but there were no sailors down here. This was the second ship they’d boarded secretly.

  “What port?” Samdin asked.

  “Don’t know. North of the Line. Hope its home.” Home was a place neither had known for quite some time. Finve Hebber was a short, small boy of fifteen who wore his hair in a short pigtail like some sailors. Samdin Speer was a year younger but much taller than his companion. He already had a noticeable shadow on his upper lip and black hair sprouted from his chin. Samdin’s parents had been sold into slavery, Finve was recently orphaned. Both were natives of Gateway. They’d met in the filthiest, most dangerous part of town, where they had the least chance of being found by the City Watchmen. They picked pockets and stole food to survive, but the Watch made regular sweeps and they were never safe.

  Other criminals would turn them in for the reward if they could catch them. And there were worse things that could happen to those unable to defend themselves. But together, they’d learned that they could indeed defend themselves. If there had been any witnesses, or if the city watch even cared about a deranged beggar, they’d be wanted for murder as well as begging and picking pockets. Either of those offenses was punishable by slavery, but murder was a hanging offense. They decided to leave the Tayan Empire forever. Zancharia and Tanovia were too far to the southwest, and the eastern border with Agresia was out of the question as well. They had to stow away on a ship.

  It was a dangerous thing, this stowing away. They’d heard several tales of the punishment meted out t
o captured stowaways. They would not get on a Tayan ship—those crews routinely sold captives into slavery. Agresians were said to press theirs into service until the next port, where they would be put ashore, branded and unpaid. Samdin had heard that Jonos tied stowaways to the mast and starved them to death, but Kimbulans merely tossed theirs over the side. Both thought drowning preferable to a lifetime of slavery, so they would sneak aboard one of their runners. Better to die young and free…

  Either boy could have signed aboard an outgoing runner as a ship’s boy, but they wouldn’t be separated by mutual, unspoken agreement. There were no slaves in Kimbula and they were determined to get there.

  Late one night they joined a few other brave souls under the docks in Gateway Harbor. There was always food to be found there, but feral dogs knew that too, and the pack was more than willing to eat beggar instead of refuse. Finve and Samdin were able to avoid the dogs and swam out to a Kimbulan runner moored just forty yards from the dock. Moored ships didn’t watch as closely for stowaways.

  It seemed to take forever to climb up the anchor chain and onto the deck. Dripping and shivering, they slipped to the center hatch and down amid the bales and barrels. The hold stank, and there were rats that bit. The runner creaked and groaned alarmingly once they were underway, and it was always dark. They grew accustomed to constant hunger and thirst and it was always dark in the hold.

  Finve found that there was no wall between the cargo and the crew’s sleeping area, and it could be reached with great effort by crawling and climbing. Sometimes there was no one in the crew’s quarters and he could steal a bit of bread. Once he stole a mug full of water, but that caused a big argument forward when the owner accused several of his mates of stealing. Eventually the ship’s tossing stopped and Finve learned that they were moored in Ingo West. The runner would be offloaded by lighter. They had to get off before they were caught. They didn’t learn until months later that there was no slavery in Jonos, either.

  So they waited until all was quiet and dark, then they crept up on deck. It was much warmer here than in Gateway. There were two sailors by the whipstaff, too busy throwing dice to see the shadows slip over the side. Finve and Samdin entered the harbor without a sound. The water was much warmer here, as well. Torches and lanterns winked at them from the town. There were several other ships moored nearby so the boys swam to the first one they found with three masts.

  “Bigger ships are less likely to notice us,” Samdin whispered. He reached for the netting that dangled over the starboard rail.

  “Wait! What if they’re Tayans?”

  “Let’s listen.” It took a long time to find the deckwatch. They swam around until they spotted the glow of a sailor’s pipe, but the man wasn’t speaking to anyone. The boys waited for what seemed like hours before another sailor spoke in the unmistakable accent of an Agresian. The pipe smoker answered with the same accent. Samdin and Finve swam to the next ship. There were three men smoking cigars near the stern.

  “Kimbulans,” said Finve. “One just said ‘youse’ to the other two.” They went up the anchor chain as they had in Gateway. That had been the night before.

  The trick now, besides avoiding discovery, was stealing enough food to survive but not enough to be noticed. There was another problem, which loomed large now that they were north of the Line. The Line was the latitude north of Jonos where civilization ended. Clavland was north of the Line, as were the Chains, Sevulia and Kimbula. Sevulia was settled by Tayans and most of the Chain Island savages had been tamed, but the savages in the Kimbulan Archipelago were the most dangerous in the world.

  They weren’t the problem however—pirates were. The Kimbulan Archipelago swarmed with sea vermin based on some of those islands. If pirates took their runner, it would be impossible to avoid detection. What pirates did to stowaways was too gruesome to consider. If they could only get to Kimbula.

  15

  The Taking Of the Two Stags

  “Deck! Sail!”

  “Whither away?”

  “Four points off starboard bow!”

  “I have it!” Captain StrongArm trained his spyglass on the distant sail. “Schooner. Under full sail but still hull down, heading to the west.”

  “She must be heavy,” said his first mate.

  “Let’s go find out why.”

  As the mate shouted orders to put on sail, StrongArm turned to the helmsman. “Four points to starboard, Ster Tavven.”

  Chos Tavven’s eyes got squintier. “But she’ll have moved farther to our starboard by the time we get there.”

  “Only if she maintains her current heading, son.” StrongArm liked this tall, lanky boy. Chos reminded him of his own brother, dead these two years. “Let’s say you’re in command of a schooner too heavy with cargo, and you sight a strange fluyt in an area known to be infested with sailors of enterprise. What would you do?”

  Chos scratched at his wispy beard. “Run, I guess.”

  “How? Can a schooner outrun a fluyt sailing before the wind?”

  Understanding made Chos’ eyes open up to almost normal size. “No, he’ll need to get upwind of us. If he does, he might out-tack us.”

  “Good. Very good.” StrongArm beamed and stuffed his cheek with a quid. He worked the tobacco briefly and spat accurately into the spittoon that hung from the binnacle mount. “Now since we’re bigger than him, chances are they saw us first and tried to run. Dumb, but by now they’ll have figured out what you just did and try that. So we head right for him and he’ll still be there relative to us and we can get him to heave to. He doesn’t heave to, I’ll shred his sails and rigging with chain, then he couldn’t out-tack an island.”

  The Hack and Slash closed inexorably on the schooner. Even when the wind shifted a few points south, the sailors of enterprise continued to close on the runner. When they were in signal range, StrongArm gave his orders.

  “Load all guns but the number two on each side with chain!”

  “Yeah, yeah!”

  “Load the remainder with shot; those crews to stand by for a salute!”

  The Crew laughed as they complied.

  “Masthead! Show them our colors, if you please.”

  “Yeah, yeah!” A black flag streamed out in the stiff breeze. On it was depicted an extremely muscular arm with a naked cutlass in its fist.

  StrongArm turned to his first mate, who had the telescope. “I can see she’s Sevulian, but I can’t read her escutcheons.”

  “Two Stags,” the mate said curtly.

  “Thank you.” He turned back to the helm. “Steady now, Chos. I’d rather cross her bow than her stern.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Chos concentrated on their quarry and deftly conned the Hack and Slash into position.

  “Starboard number two! Put a shot across her bows!” The cannon boomed almost before the order was finished. On StrongArm’s ship, obedience counted more than courtesy. The ball splashed down close enough to wet the foredeck of the schooner.

  “A bonus to those men on number two!” StrongArm shouted. The Crew cheered the gunners, and again as the Sevulians struck their colors and pointed the Two Stags into the wind. Hands scrambled to take in the runners sails.

  “Put her head up, Chos,” StrongArm said, as the mate gave orders for their own sail to be taken in.

  The hugely muscled sailor of enterprise raised his megaphone and pointed it at the other ship. “I AM STRONGARM OF THE HACK AND SLASH,” he roared. “WHO AM I ADDRESSING?”

  A short, thin man near the helm raised his own megaphone. “Captain Stomon Tofe, commanding the Two Stags of Sevulia,”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir!”

  “What would you have me do, Captain StrongArm?”

  “You’re to put a boat over, yourself and your mate are going to join me here. All hands on the foredeck, officers and passengers by the helm. Weapons piled in the center of your weather deck.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You’re not already in the boat? Don’t mak
e me angry, Captain Tofe!”

  Five hours later, the Two Stags was significantly lighter and sailing easily for Tevon. Every coin, weapon and the entire cargo of sugar and coffee was now in StrongArm’s hold. In addition, they’d taken one of the passengers for ransom. He was the son of a wealthy plantation owner. Five hundred Tayan crowns would return him safely to his father. According to the ransom note, the hostage would be fed twice a day for two weeks, then once a day for two weeks, then not at all until StrongArm had the gold. He would be beaten every time he was supposed to be fed.

  Once the Two Stags was out of sight, they let the young man out on deck. He quivered as he faced StrongArm.

  “Are you hungry, sir?” the burly sailor of enterprise asked.

  Since StrongArm had dictated his ransom note aloud in the boy’s presence as he wrote it in his firm, elegant hand, his prisoner was afraid to answer.

  StrongArm smiled at his consternation. “Don’t worry, my boy, dinner will be served in about a quarter glass. It would be my pleasure to have you to my own table with my own officers.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m afraid our table manners aren’t quite up to the standards you were taught, but the food’s edible, at least.” StrongArm resumed his usual boisterous tone. “What’s the matter with you, sir? You’re shaking like a topsail in a squall!”

  At that the young man broke, fell to his knees and sobbed. “Please don’t beat me, sir!”

  The Crew burst into raucous laughter. StrongArm laughed so hard he nearly swallowed his quid. He cured the resulting coughing fit with a huge swallow of rum, and then passed it to his hostage.

  “Drink up and take courage! HAVE ANY OF YOUSE SEEN ME EVER BEAT A HOSTAGE?”

  “NO!” The Crew roared back.

  “That’s cause I don’t. Nor do I allow my men to. And stop calling me sir! None o’ my men do, so you don’t either. StrongArm’s my name; the only name anyone ever calls me. Only name I know, for that matter. I had another one once, but I forgot what it was. Drink! Puts hair on your chest, that does!”