Buxacan Spicerunner Read online

  Nobody knew when StrongArm was coming home, but Sako’s ship was due in two more weeks. Then they would go to Castle Heights and ask Captain Anford’s permission to form their own Crew under the Black Flag Society. That was fine by the Tayan orphans. Now that they had enough to eat and a home and friends, they were tired of being scullions.

  The Hack and Slash came in late one night, and the town seemed to get rowdier. StrongArm’s men were everywhere, determined to spend all of their wealth as quickly as possible. Chos gave a big handful of gold to Ellor and was full of tales from his cruise. They’d captured and ransomed Captain Winois of Agresia! That name was known and respected even in Gateway.

  Finve and Samdin informed the Pizis of their plan to join the new Crew, and were released from their job without recriminations. Danno had already found replacements who wanted to learn what Safa could teach them.

  Then the Breeze came in and they finally met Sako. All they knew of him was what they’d heard—various stories involving a four on one duel with Hangmen at the Tradewinds.

  He seemed both more and less than what they’d imagined. For one thing, he was much smaller than they’d been led to believe, but his stance and eyes showed that he was capable of the feats attributed to him. He was polite but restrained, and didn’t smile much. Sako had been in port for two days before the group got an appointment to meet with Captain Anford.

  A few hours before noon, they gathered on the steps of Castle Heights; barbered, bathed and dressed in their best. Afnir and Chos were armed with cutlasses and Sako wore an antique Tayan Infantry officer’s sword, but none of the others had more than a knife. Ellor carried a bag of coin, all the group could muster. It was a large amount, unless one intended to purchase a ship with it. Afnir carried their petition and Drac held the flag he’d designed which they’d dubbed the Bloody Smile.

  They were admitted by an old, evil-eyed sailor with one leg. Afnir stated their business and gave him the petition.

  “Wait here,” was all he said to the boys. ‘Here’ was a grand entry hall. The floor was marble and smooth as glass. On one wall hung every flag flown by the Societies present and prior, and dominating that display was Anford’s personal banner, a blue-eyed skull over crossed cutlasses on black.

  The opposite wall held captured flags from every nation, some quite badly torn. There were paintings and statues and sculptures on display, and a rack of swords taken from captains who’d run afoul of Captain Anford when he himself had roved the Buxacan Sea. On a display by itself was a one twelfth scale model of the Rose of Rumtown.

  The young men had just enough time to take it all in before the one-legged sailor returned. “Come with me.”

  “Not much of a conversationalist,” Dason whispered.

  “He doesn’t have to be,” said Afnir. “He was part of Anford’s original Crew.”

  “I’ve seen him at the Arms a lot,” Sako said. “His friends call him Half-tongue, because he speaks so little.”

  Dason smiled at him. “Every time I’m ready to give you a name like that, you say something. Maybe we should call you ‘Threequarter-tongue.”

  “His sword talks for him,” Sev said. “But his conversation is too sharp for most of us.”

  Dol chuckled and said, “Swordtongue!”

  Sako gave the brothers a withering look and breathed a patient sigh, then smacked Dason on the back of his head playfully.

  “Ow!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sako. “Was I speaking too loud for you?”

  Half-tongue ignored the by-play as he led them up a flight of stairs. He managed very well on his sturdy peg.

  “That’s ivory!” Drac said to Thard.

  “His clothes are of the finest, too. He’s no servant, that one.”

  Everything they’d seen so far spoke of vast wealth. The walls were plastered and painted well. They had yet to see a crack or even a cobweb. The staircase didn’t creak. Half-tongue opened a beautifully carved door without knocking and ushered them in.

  This room was light and airy, with open windows on all sides. It could have been an audience hall, a conference room or a dining chamber. The Captain himself sat at the head of a massive table.

  Like Half-tongue, he was dressed in the finest of clothes, though his shoes were worn. Captain Anford’s hair was uncombed and he was more unshaven than bearded. He smoked a pipe made of walnut with an ivory mouthpiece as he read something. The Captain was wearing a fine pair of spectacles, which he removed as they entered the room. His eyes were indeed as blue as any Clav’s. It was rumored that one of his grandparents had been a slave in Taya.

  “Take your seats, lads.” His presence and automatic assumption of command had them scrambling to obey. “No one sits at my table without a drink in his hand, see?” He looked at Ellor. “That carafe is water, since I hear you don’t drink.” Anford smiled at Ellor’s surprise. “I know each and every one of youse, see?” He sat back and puffed contentedly on his pipe. “There’s ash bowls for those of youse who want ‘em, see?” He looked at each hand in turn before he spoke again. “A pair of orphans and a leg-breaker from my bother’s gambling house, an accounter, a surgeon, a navigator. Carpenter, sailmaker, chandler’s son, shepherd and four able hands. How many more hands do you have?”

  “Uh…this…is all of us, Captain,” Afnir replied.

  “Fifteen? What will youse attack: rowboats? I thought youse wanted to become a Crew, see? You got enough to work one watch of a brig—if youse were a merchant crew! Well? You look like you want to say something, Sanfora. Out with it, see?”

  “Sir, we…uh…were planning to recruit more hands, b-but we, ah, needed a ship first. Who would, uh…join our Crew if we, ah, had no ship? We’d be laughed at—”

  “And young salts would rather die than be laughed at. Well youse take on a Jono runner with only fifteen men and youse’ll do just that, see?”

  Anford paused to relight his pipe. “It’s a poor Captain as doesn’t know what his hands are about, see? But I can help youse with manning your ship. There’s some Featherheads as want to leave and form their own Crew as well, but they’re not enough, see? “There’s eighteen of them. Thirty-three is still a small crew, but I seen smaller do okay. Let me see your flag.” Sturo and Drac shook it out and held it up. “So that’s the Bloody Smile. Gory looking thing, but that’s the point, see?

  “As it happens, The Black Flag Society could use another ship. There’s too many Reds, see? I’m willing to front youse the cost of a brig at five percent a year. Now you can use your own savings to fit her out, see? And the Featherheads, they got some money too. Man in charge of them is Hargen Stowe. He was the Boatswain from the Falcon. An election for captain puts him in charge, see.

  “To my thinking, he’s a better choice than your own—more experience commanding men at sea, but youse do what youse think best.” Anford gave up on his pipe, tapped it out and packed it afresh. “Sanfora, you still got ambitions of being captain, you watch Stowe and learn from him. I served under four captains before I was elected, see? Or, you don’t got the patience for that, you could try your luck in Rumtown, but none of those scum got the gold to make you as generous an offer, see? My way youse double the size of your Crew, youse got a ship and your own flag—What do you say, lad?”

  Afnir looked at his friends. They looked as eager as he felt. “Yes sir! We’ll take your deal, Captain. We’ll make you proud!”

  “Don’t make me proud, make me money, see? The Burners brought in a little brig three days ago. You’ve seen her, Alsi. The Bellflower.” Anford dipped pen in ink and wrote out a quick note, to which he added a wax seal with an impression of his ring.

  “Now, ten percent of every haul comes to me, see? Same as any other Crew. And I’ll expect a payment on the ship every time youse come in. You’ll see Tergel for that, see? Take this note to my brother, downstairs and right to the end of the hall, then take it to harbormaster Orange. Stowe and his men will be aboard at first light. Fair winds to you lads.
”

  The Smilers were effusive in their thanks as they left to follow his instructions.

  The new Crew waited outside impatiently for Ellor to finish his arrangements with Tergel Anford.

  Afnir wanted answers. “Anybody know anything about this Stowe?” No one did. “Dason, talk to some Featherheads, see what you can find out about him and his men. Arno, find out what, if any, provisions and arms they’ve purchased and buy us enough to last four weeks, plus some powder and shot.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” they said in unison.

  “Everybody come to the Arms for dinner tonight,” said Sako. “My parents want to give us a nice sendoff. I think I’ll go look at the Bellflower, then we’ll share what we’ve learned at dinner.”

  Ellor came out, clutching the notes given him by the brothers Anford. “It’s ours, or will be. But I hate starting a venture like this in debt.” Several of the others agreed.

  “We’ve been through this,” Afnir said with exaggerated patience. “Even if we had enough to buy the ship outright, we still wouldn’t have sufficient to buy even a week’s worth of food.”

  “Couldn’t we just get provisions from the ships we take?” asked Brog.

  “Sure we could, and will, but what if it takes two weeks to find a prize?” said Afnir. “Go without food for a week and see how well you can fight, then!”

  “Like fighting drunk, only worse,” said Samdin.

  “Dizzy and weak, you’d get knocked down by one punch,” Finve added.

  “Could be, they’d take us, and then it’s the rope for the Smilers.”

  “All right,” said Ellor. “You’ve made your point. I don’t have to like it though.”

  “Pack your seabags and say goodbye to those you love, men,” Afnir commanded. “Tomorrow night we’ll be at sea!”

  19

  Hargen Stowe

  “Pass the lamb down this way.”

  “Want more wine?”

  “Slide the butter dish a little closer, will you?”

  To the surprise of the Smilers, Danno and Safa had reserved the upstairs dining room exclusively for them. Not only that, the meal was half price. The senior Pizis didn’t necessarily approve of their plans, but they would hope for the best.

  The table didn’t quite groan under the weight of the feast, but it came close. To start, there was a macaroni dish with hot tomato sauce (a traditional Dalarian plate) served with a hard, dry, salty cheese grated fine. Meat courses were small tender steaks of beef, lamb chops, smoked ham and three chickens, each cooked a different way. Fish courses were swordfish, flatfish rolled around crabmeat, Sako’s favorite soup (clam), and a full gross of steamed clams. Two kinds of beans, broccoli with cheese sauce, potatoes, and peas sautéed with mushrooms and onions rounded out the fare.

  Just in case that weren’t enough, there were also several long loaves of the hard, crusty brick-oven bread that went with every meal in a Dalarian household. To quench their thirst were a half dozen bottles of wine and a keg of expensive and rare Vakgennir Stout. (The keg was still being awaited eagerly by a Sevulian baron).

  Dason was the last to arrive and hastened to fill his plate and catch up with the others. After the dishes had been cleared away, the ash bowls and spittoons were put out and every man but Ellor held a tumbler of the smoky clear rum of Ressatta, Afnir called them to order and asked for the reports.

  Sako went first. “The Bellflower is a tight, trim little brig. I didn’t find any rot and the suite of sails is in good shape. Ownership papers say she’s only three years old, built in Gateway. She has ten guns and a swivel on the foredeck. She could stand some fresh paint and the captain’s cabin smells of cat piss. There’s another small cabin aft with four bunks and hooks for thirty hammocks forward. Bowsprit is cracked but it’s been lash repaired. Galley’s been cleaned out; no pots or pans or anything. She’s also missing her anchor and starboard running lantern.”

  “How about the pumps and hoses?” asked Sturo.

  “Sorry. Forgot to check them.”

  “Sako! They’re pretty important.”

  Sako shrugged apologetically. “Forgot, I said. Bilges were dryer than on the Breeze, anyway.”

  “That’s good enough,” Afnir said. “Dason, what’d you find out?”

  “Hargen Stowe was the Falcon’s boatswain for the last two cruises. He’s about forty, a hard drinker and a bit of a bully. I got the impression,” Dason said with a smile, “That Captain Argi and most of the rest of the Featherheads aren’t sorry he’s leaving. As for the men, all I got were a few names and fewer details. A man called Clenchjaw was second gunner on the Hawk, the rest are just able hands from either the Hawk or the Falcon.”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone from the Eagle,” said Ellor.

  “You’re joking, right?” Sturo added.

  “Belay that!” said Afnir. “Go on.”

  “Tirpa Ackel speaks Alarfaji and Clavvish,” Dason continued. “Buck Pall is a notorious liar, and not the funny kind that just tells stories, either. If you’ve done it, he’s done it better. If you’ve got one, he’s got three.”

  “I hate that kind,” said Ellor.

  “The rest is just names: Nitch, Forkbeard, Balgo and Chos, who’s going to be the Mate. As far as I could find, there’s no navigator, surgeon, carpenter or accounter. They know they’re getting us, but I haven’t heard any inquiries about us or our skills. Almost like they’re not even interested.”

  “We don’t know much about them and they know nothing of us,” said Afnir. “Sounds like a great way to form a Crew.”

  “Is anyone else thinking about that proverb about getting what you wish for?” Thard asked.

  “We’ll make do,” said the irrepressible Dason. “We’re the Smilers! They are too, they just don’t know it yet.”

  Samdin caught Finve’s eye across the table. They were barely accepted by this group—how would they fit in with the rest of the Crew? Finve appeared to have the same doubts, but he kept them to himself.

  The boys arrived en masse at the Bellflower a half hour after sunrise only to find it already occupied. Unfamiliar sailors were loading provisions, supplies and personal belongings in a haphazard and disorderly fashion. One man sat in a padded armchair near the dockside rail of the helmdeck. He wore the fancy dress coat of an Agresian merchant captain and a checkered headcloth. Another man lounged against the rail next to him. Work slowed as Afnir led his friends up the gangplank and stopped at a bellow from the man in the coat.

  “Here now! Youse know better than to board a ship uninvited! Get back dockside and request permission to board, dammit!”

  The man next to him giggled.

  Afnir dropped his seabag to the deck. A few moments later, everyone else followed his example.

  “Since when does a hand need permission to board his own ship?” he demanded. “We’re part owners and have as much right as any man here.”

  “You staps are the ones joinin’ my Crew?” The man hawked and spat over the rail. Afnir and his friends noted that the fancy coat was dirty and torn. His feet were also dirty. In spite of his appearance, he eyed them with drunken contempt. “Sorriest lot of sea-virgins I ever seen. Whatcha think, Chos?”

  The hand lounging on the rail spat tobacco juice accurately overboard and took a swig from the rum bottle he held before answering: “Might be good for deck swabbin’. Or cannon fodder.”

  The man in the chair grunted and took the bottle from Chos. “All right then. Line up here while I decide if I’m gonna keep any of youse. I’m Captain Stowe, and don’t you forget it.”

  “With all due respect, Captain,” Afnir said deferentially. “You’ll keep us all or none. Captain Anford said—”

  “Baz Anford will get his ten percent, same as always. But aboard my ship, he doesn’t say a word about who I have!” He took another drink and gave the bottle back to the Mate. “Now, you what thinks he’s in charge—name!”

  “Afnir Sanfora.” In one stride Stowe loomed over the youn
ger man. Without warning, his fist lashed out and Afnir was driven to his knees with a split lip. “You call me sir! I’m the Captain! You! Yes you—name!”

  “S-s-s-Samdin S-s-s-Speer, s-sir.”

  “How long at sea, boy?”

  “A coup—couple of m-months, sir.”

  “AS WHAT? Speak boy, or so help me…” Stowe took a step toward the cringing boy.

  “As-as-as a stowaway, sir!”

  Hargen’s men erupted in laughter. Even most of Afnir’s friends had to smile, but Hargen Stowe was not amused. “A VALLING STOWAWAY!”

  Afnir wondered if anyone in Port Buxaca hadn’t heard that, but Stowe rounded on him. “What kind of worthless stut you bring on my ship, Sanfora? Bilge scrapings, the lot of them!”

  Afnir had had enough. He wiped the blood from his mouth and stood. “Fine. I’ll take my ‘bilge scrapings’ and go. We’ll get our money back from Tergil and find another ship. I’m sure youse’ll do well without a navigator or surgeon. A fine Crew like this, you don’t need a carpenter or accounter, either!” Afnir raised his voice and addressed the watching hands. “Stessaca take the lot of you! May you sail straight into a Tayan man-o-war!”

  He picked up his seabag and started for the gangplank. In spite of their disappointment, his friends reached for their gear and prepared to follow. A tall, bald hand stepped in front of Afnir, his hands out in a supplicating gesture. “Captain…”

  Stowe’s color faded from purple back to bright red. He flopped back into his armchair. “All right then. Hold fast. Last chance. You.”

  “Dason Nive at your service, sir. Two years on the Flatfish as an able hand.” Dason flashed his most winning smile.

  “And you, Sanfora? How many years and what ship?”

  “Two years on the Lady of Bilitown, Captain. And one more on the Pelican.”

  “That’s a better attitude, tar. Facepainters, eh? All right then, youse can stay. Next!”