Blaggard's Moon (7 page)

“A letter from the king?” asked a sailor.

“That's been heard about before,” another suggested.

“Aye it has,” Ham acceded, “for the king has had some dealings in the past with those of the pirate persuasion. So it is said. But nay…it were no letter from the crown, though it was sealed by the governor to prove the truth of its verity. This seal was broken before the eyes of both captains, right there on Sharkbit's main deck, and there both saw together that the parchment within had been signed and pressed with yet another seal—the seal of a man all of you shall hear much more about soon enough. A man with dealings far and wide, and no lack of plans and schemes by which to line his own pockets. A man who would happily invite a fine-looking young woman and her mother into the very lair of the devil, and them wishing only to better themselves and their lot.” Ham paused, waiting. Not a soul had a guess. “The sort of man who would invite a lady far south to the Warm Climes, while she supposed him a gentleman of noble character.”

“The one that took Jenta on board that ship headed south?”

“Excellent! Mr. Roe, our fine helmsman, has not been asleep at the tiller. Aye, the document was signed by one Runsford Ryland, of Ryland Shipping and Freight. For you see, Sharkbit carried with him a signed affidavit. That's a legal document, in case you were about to ask, a bit like a contract except it just writes down a man's words so no one can question that a man said them. And the words written down were these…” Ham cleared his throat and stroked his beard, closing his eyes as though recalling it all precisely.

For all men hereby, who may come to these portents and in due course meet with Captain Stansfield Sutter, better known as Sharkbit, I heretofore and with all due legal conformity herewith state for all men present that this same Captain Sharkbit Sutter be now in my employ, to ensure the performance of duty by my own ships and captains thereto, of any vessel sailing under the banner and in the register of the Ryland Shipping and Freight Company. Furthermore, I wherefore acquiesce that empowerment hereunto has been given, which allows said Sharkbit to halt
and board for commercial purposes said ships of the Ryland line, using force as necessary to inspect and to confiscate such goods and materials as deemed by him necessary for the enactment of his said duties, heretoforeupon.

“What's all that mean?” Trum whispered in the dumbfounded silence.

“It means, young pup,” Ham quickly answered, “that Sharkbit can do as he blame well pleases with a Ryland ship, and Mr. Ryland himself gave the orders. And being as how the fat merchant vessel that was being attacked by Sharkbit was flagged and chartered by Ryland, it means what Sharkbit did was all good and legal, and so our courageous men o' war could do nothing but let him go.”

“How'd Sharkbit ever get such a paper?” a sailor asked.

“Why, in a pirate's parley, of course.”

Much laughter, much whooping. A fine fight well told, they all agreed.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A WOMAN OF SECRETS

“A
ND NOW TO
J
ENTA
'
S VOYAGE
south to the Warm Climes,” Ham began the next night in the forecastle.

“I'm sleepin',” one said. “Wake me up when there's another fight.”

“All right, if you don't want to hear about her wedding.”

It had been a long shift in the sun, and a blustery wind had kept them busy furling and unfurling canvas, hauling and tying sheetlines. They had done no business today, no pirate's business, but were on their way to the Stella John Shoals off the Bandamin coast, where business was always brisk. Muscles ached and eyelids drooped. They all needed rest.

“She marries Damrick,” a tired sailor said. “Who couldn't guess that. Tell us a fight, or let us sleep.”

“Nah, ye dolt, she marries Conch Imbry. It's Jenta, the pirate's wench.” This was Spinner Sleeve. But even in argument he sounded weary tonight.

“So she's been called,” Ham answered. “But sometimes the truth is not what it seems.”

“No mysteries tonight,” another weary voice implored. “Just tell us who she married, and we can sleep.”

“Hmm.” He thought a moment. “No, that would be tapping the keg too early, and spoiling the ale. But I'll say this, and then let you rest: The next man to fall in love with Jenta was tall and skinny. The son of a rich
man, raised to run a rich man's business. Heir to the Ryland Shipping and Freight Company. And Jenta, well, many thought Jenta lucky to have found favor in the eyes of such a man as Wentworth Ryland.”

Snorts and epithets rose. “Lucky?” and “
Wentworth
?” and then “Are you kiddin'?” and finally “He ain't man enough!”

Ham just tugged on his crooked pipe, let the smoke rise and the ire settle. “See, boys, that's just it. That's just the kind of woman she was. Men took to her, took to defending her, just as you're doing now. Many wanted her for themselves. Many others just didn't want the under-deserving to have her. She carried herself with an air of easy nobility, and when she looked at you, you felt the light of it in those blue eyes. Like not only was she noble, you could be noble too, just by standing close enough. But I'll tell you, Jenta Flug was not born noble. No, that rumor was false. She was in truth born poor, raised poor, and by a mother who dreamed she'd become more.”

“Wait, who's Flug? I thought you said her name was Stillmithers. If she married this Ryland, wouldn't her name be Ryland?”

“Aye, yer messin' it up. How many names she got?”

“Ah, it's a wee bit hard to answer all these questions at once, and still let you nod off after only a few minutes time.” He sighed and stroked his beard. “But I'll try. See, Jenta's mother, name of Shayla Flug, had made what fine people in up-and-up society call a bad, bad mistake. She wasn't more than sixteen when she'd latched on to a man above her station, a gentleman who was…kind to her. But he turned against her and turned her out, soon as he learned she was with child.”

Whistles and low whoops stole through the forecastle.

“He swore the baby wasn't his, and all believed him. The young man's family promised to pay handsomely for her to keep it all quiet and secret and send the baby off to an orphanage, but she refused. And then her own family gave her the boot. And so that left Shayla Flug to fend for herself, a scarlet woman now, and a baby on the way.”

“What'd she look like, Ham? The scarlet mother?”

“Well, she had raven-dark hair and clear green eyes. Her skin was like the finest white porcelain, and her heart, they said, was the same. But who could blame her for turning cold, making her own way like she did in a world where she was scorned? She took the only honest job she could find, with a wealthy man who let her have one small room in his basement for raising her child. She became the lowest of household servants, no more than a washerwoman, her delicate fingers ever raw and
callused from scrubbing the master's silk stockings and the mistress's dainty underthings.”

“Dainty underthings,” one listener repeated. Men chuckled and glanced sideways at one another.

“It was a hard life for Shayla Flug. But she loved her little girl, and gave her the name of Jenta in the hope that one day, some way, she'd become a gentlewoman herself. And Jenta grew to be a beauty. Tall and comely, with blue eyes that pierced.”

“And hair like a mug a' beer!” a young voice noted.

Ham winced. “Ah, the analogy is apt, even if the words fall somewhat short of perfection, Mr. Trum. But let's rather again say that her hair was the color of a fine sherry, and leave it there.”

“Okay.”

“Jenta, now, she was softhearted. And she learned something her mother had lost somewhere along the way. Jenta knew how to laugh. She would seem quiet and serene, politely listening, and then something would strike her, and her blue eyes would spark like a flint on powder, and she'd laugh, and her laugh would light the darkness. And the world would be drawn to her. And by the world, I mean the world of men.

“But Shayla protected her daughter ferociously. This one,
this one,
would grow up a lady. And so while Shayla cleared the teacups and crumbs of crumpet cakes, she watched the wealthy women carefully, and she listened close and studied how they worked their polite magic. And when she wasn't washing the linens or polishing silver or scrubbing fine marble tiles, she was schooling her daughter in the ways of gentility, teaching her how to sip from a porcelain cup with her pinky finger raised.”

A few of the men, lost now in the tale, raised invisible cups to their lips and dutifully protruded their little fingers.

“And Jenta learned how to proffer a limp hand for a gentleman to kiss at a garden party.” Several men kissed invisible hands. One or two absently held up limp hands toward the dark timbers above their hammocks.

“Eventually, she taught Jenta all the manners and mannerisms, and Jenta learned to be a perfect lady. But as Jenta came of age, neither her lessons nor her skills brought her a single invitation to any of the fine events in town. For in Nearing Vast, in the City of Mann at least, the doors to such society are shut upon those not born to rank and privilege.”

There were grumblings about the unfairness of society's doors.

“There was one dance, though, just one, a cotillion held for new recruits into His Majesty's Navy. It was local girls saying their goodbyes to local boys, mostly, but it had an air of respectability to it. Jenta was sixteen, versed in all the ins and all the outs of polite banter, knowing the fine dance steps of ladies and gentlemen, and ready to put such skills to use. So Shayla said yes, and Jenta went. And there she danced with many a young sailor. Several caught her eye, but only one caught her fancy.”

“You're a quiet one.”

Jenta said it to the dark-haired boy who leaned against the wall near the bowl of sugar punch. He wore the same blue uniform as the others, but standing there by the drapes where the wall angled in, he fairly melted into the shadows. She had noticed him some time back, tall and aloof, calm eyes that spoke of some larger purpose, something deeper. He seemed more aware, somehow, than the others. He had held her gaze when she glanced at him during a dance, not in a challenging way, nor in a hopeful way as most of the boys did, nor in that hungry way a few of them did, but just in a questioning way. As though he felt she was different, too. He hadn't seemed the least interested in dancing; she even saw him shake his head when chatting with several girls who came by and then left him alone again.

Jenta spoke the words after she had finished perhaps her fifth dance, a slow and melancholy thing, throughout which she had needed to assure her partner that no, he hadn't hurt her toes and yes, he was doing just fine, both of which he seemed quite willing to believe. She had graciously declined the young man's offer to continue their partnership into the next tune, citing a sudden thirst, and when he asked if he could accompany her to the punch bowl she had quickly agreed. But on the way she introduced him to a young lady with whom she had spoken earlier in the evening, and who afterward seemed to watch with something that looked a bit like envy. So after a brief conversation, during which it was discovered that the young lady very much enjoyed dancing and the young man very much wanted to learn to dance better, she was able to complete her quest for punch unaccompanied.

She did not pick up one of the empty cups beside the bowl, however, but instead stood nearby watching the dancers, close enough to the quiet young man that he must be quite aware of her presence, but not so close as to be considered forward. He made no move to introduce himself. She sighed, fanned herself, and even caught his eye with hers once. But he
said nothing. So she was the first to speak, a simple observation, not an accusation, regarding the apparent disparity between his level of interest in the affairs of the evening and his actual participation in them.

“I'm sorry,” he said in answer. “I'm afraid I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“You don't dance, then?”

“No.” He was not apologetic about it.

“But you don't mind watching others.”

The fiddler hit three sour notes by way of tuning, then started in, joined by a bass fiddle in a much more spirited tune.

“I don't step on toes when I watch others.” His raised eyebrow spoke of experience.

She laughed. “Not a risk taker, then?”

He did not answer. Instead he studied her.

She turned her attention back to the dance, letting him make his assessments, hoping she had not offended him. But she thought not. She waved at the couple she had recently put together. The young man smiled as he danced by. The young lady winced.

“What are you doing here?” Not curt or cold, but curious.

She turned her head toward him, looked away again. “Certainly you know. You've been watching me all night.”

“Well, there's only one way you could know that.” His tone was not defensive.

She laughed again. “I did wonder why you're standing here alone. I thought perhaps you were assigned to guard the punch bowl.”