Quintessential Tales: A Magic of Solendrea Anthology (12 page)

Faxon was so consumed with the task at hand that he forgot he was being watched. He'd just finished tasting the hearty, creamy stew and moving the pot off the fire when he felt a presence beside him.

"You know your way around a pot, Old-timer. I'll grant you that."

"I'
ve been cooking since afore ye was born, son."

The giant took the ladle from him and slurped up some of the stew. The man's eyebrows went up in surprise
, and Faxon allowed himself a satisfied grin.

"
All right, Old-timer. You proved me wrong. You've earned yourself a spot on the crew until we reach next port. I'll talk to the captain about where we go from there."

"Ye're not the cap'n, son?"

"No, Sir. First mate. Now let's get these men fed."

When the giant called assembly, the men snapped to and fell in. Faxon hadn't seen a pirate crew quite that disciplined before. They were usually a fairly rowdy lot with little respect for authority. Faxon filled bowl after wooden bowl and then quiet descended over the camp as the men ate.

Halfway through the meal, a brilliant white flare streaked skyward from the anchored ship. Seamen leapt to their feet, rushing around the camp as if they were being chased by demons. Poles were struck on the tents and they were quickly rolled into bundles of canvas. The cook Faxon had displaced rushed to the larder and began tossing anything that would fit, inside. Knives, spoons, dirty bowls, anything that happened to be at hand disappeared into the crate. The giant had gone rigid, overseeing the preparations with a scowl. He'd been so genial before. The difference was night and day.

In less than twenty minutes, the camp was torn down and stowed in three shore boats. The men filed in after the supplies
, and the whole lot of them shoved off and made for the ship. As they came alongside the vessel, davits were swung over the side and ropes thrown down to the returning crew. Lashed at bow and stern, the shore boats were hoisted aboard, unloaded, and racked on deck.

After climbing down from the shore boat, Faxon stood on the deck, taking in the organized chaos. He did his best to stay out of the way as the dance of frenetic activity went on around him. The incessant buzz inside his head, the reminder that something was fundamentally missing, did nothing to improve his concentration.

"Well now, what have we here? Has Raff been picking up strays again?"

Remembering his disguise not a moment too soon, Faxon limped a slow circle to face Tionne. Her flowing black dress stood out against her white skin. Blood red lips were parted in a half smile that Faxon recognized as Tionne at her most deadly. There was no joy or happiness left in her waifish frame. She only smiled when she was considering something truly vile or hateful. Faxon was in danger and he knew it. He'd have to tread lightly.

"Aye, Miss. Ye first mate took me on as a cook till the next port."

"Oh, he did, did he? Did Raff not tell you that we already have a cook on board?"

"Aye, Miss. He did. I convinced him I could do better."

"I see."

The look Tionne turned on him made Faxon doubt his disguise for a second time that night. He suppressed the urge to shudder and tried not to worry. Out here, on the water, they were on even footing. The spell cast on land would hold fast, but she couldn't work any new spellcraft and neither could he. He just had to rely on his disguise being good enough to pass her mortal inspection. Nevertheless, he was still too damn jumpy for his peace of mind.

"Obie!" Tionne shouted, her voice sharp. "Come here!"

The cook from the pirate camp dropped the line he'd been coiling and trotted across the deck.

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"This man says Raff took him on because he can cook better than you. Is that so?"

"Aye, Cap'n. Made a right good stew, he did." Obie grinned and tossed a nod toward Faxon. "Best I ever had, mate."

"Best he's ever had," Tionne echoed with a smile. "High praise from a backwater pirate, wouldn't you say?"

Obie's grin
disappeared as if it had been slapped off his face. Tionne's belt dagger appeared in her hand as if summoned there. She shoved the blade into Obie's gut, giving it a savage twist as she pulled it out. The pirate's eyes bulged, and he clutched his abdomen as if somehow he could staunch the flow of blood that was cascading over his fingers and pooling on the deck by his feet.

"We don't need more than one cook, so I guess you've got the job. What did you say your name was?" She looked expectantly at Faxon while Obie keeled over. A few of the men nearby cast uneasy glances at Tionne as she wiped her dagger clean on the hem of her dress. Their eyes didn't linger long. Faxon wondered how many of the crew had fallen to Tionne's sadistic hand.

"Varden, Miss."

"I am the Captain of this ship, Varden."

"Aye, Cap'n. Beg your pardon."

"Don't let it happen again, or I promise you'll be begging for more than my pardon."

Tionne turned on her heel, her dress following behind like a shadow. She skipped up the steps to the poop deck two at a time, shouting orders as she went. The deck lurched underfoot as the ship got underway. Faxon knelt by Obie's side. His eyes were dull and his chest still. There was nothing to be done.

A handful of men made their way across the gently swaying deck. They carried a piece of sailcloth between them. Raff was with them, and his face was nearly as white as the cloth he helped to carry. Raff and the others rolled Obie's body onto the sheet and wrapped it snugly around him.

"Poor Obie," Raff said softly. "He didn't deserve to die like this."

"Why don't you do something about the Captain?" Faxon asked, forgetting his acquired persona. Raff didn't seem to notice, or care.

"The four of us are in the minority," Raff replied with a scowl. "The rest of the men are either too greedy, too malicious, or too stupid to stand up to her. We wouldn't stand a chance against the rest of the crew. If we'd known what we were getting into..." Raff trailed off, as if he realized he was uttering traitorous thoughts to a complete stranger. Faxon scratched his whiskers, his mind racing. Perhaps he could help these men and himself too.

"If I could get you honest work, would you take it? Would your men?"

Raff's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

"No catch, but it might be dangerous. There's something on this ship I need, and we'd have to make it back to Overwatch once I steal it."

"That's a catch." Raff looked at Obie's body, wrapped in the sailcloth. Then he looked at the men. One by one, they each gave a single, curt nod. Faxon couldn't help but notice their furtive glances at the deck where Tionne was still barking orders. "I guess we're in. What do you need from us?"

"Directions to the Captain's quarters, and a diversion. Then a way off the ship."

"At least you're not asking for much," Raff said with a grunt. "You're not exactly what you seem, are you?"

"No. Not exactly. Just believe me when I say I can get you honest work if you want it, and if we make it back to Overwatch in one piece."

"That's a pretty big 'if', Old-timer."

"Don't I know
it? But trust me when I say that there is much more than our lives at stake here. Whatever the Captain has done, it is a mere fraction of what she is capable of doing...of what she
will
do, if we don't stop her."

Raff blanched and Faxon wondered what he'd seen. It didn't matter. He'd get these men back to Overwatch and away from Tionne's predatory clutches. They just needed to move, and move quickly.

The first mate gave him a series of terse directions that would lead Faxon to Tionne's quarters. Faxon promised to watch for the diversion and made his way to the door that led below deck. None of the other men seemed to find this odd, and most were busy with their own tasks. Faxon waited. Raff and his men moved Obie's body aside and went to work.

A moment later, one of the davits swung inboard, whipping the heavy metal hook around on the end of its line. The hook slammed into a short seaman's face, sending a spray of blood and teeth across the deck. His howling, and the shouting of his mates, drew all the attention on the deck. The men stopped what they were doing to gawk at the spectacle unfolding before them.

Faxon ducked below. A few lanterns were hung in the companionways, but it was still too dark to see very well. Between the lack of light and the constant buzzing in his head, it made for an unpleasant journey. Wrong turns in two places slowed him down even further, adding to his frustration. After what seemed like hours entombed beneath the surface, he located the Captain's quarters.

The door was unlocked and Faxon slipped inside. He doubted any of the men would dare cross that threshold, locked or not. Gloom swaddled the room, only a single candle burning to keep the worst of the dark at bay. No wonder the men kept lights burning in their cabins, Faxon thought. The cabin was musty and damp, with a chill that Faxon doubted had anything to do with the climate. Wherever Tionne went, she took a shroud of evil with her. He took in the room for a moment, shaking his head. His heart sank. How had he failed so greatly, that Tionne would abandon a life in the Great Tower and the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences, for this? A life of promise squandered.

Opposite the Captain's bunk, a great mahogany desk crouched like an ancient toad waiting for prey to happen by. Its surface was a disorganized mess, with bits of candles, scraps of parchment, and broken quills strewn about it. There was little care, and no order. Faxon shuffled through the papers but found nothing worthwhile. These documents, such as they were, predated Tionne's residency. He'd recognize her handwriting on sight and these documents were written by a different hand. Her flamboyant script crept across the page like strangling vines. These documents were crisp, clear, and very neat.

Searching the drawers was likewise fruitless. Faxon ground his teeth. A voice in the back of his head wondered if Tionne might not have keep the parcel on her person. He told that little voice to shut its foul mouth. That wasn't an option. If she was keeping the packet of documents that close at hand, there was no way he'd be able to take it back.

Faxon jammed his fists against his hips and surveyed the room. He didn't have much time. Tionne's housekeeping skills hadn't improved since she'd abandoned her training. Clothes were scattered across every flat surface, including the floor. Plates of old food, some of them giving birth to new life, were in abundance. The thought of searching through all that refuse was daunting, to say the least. His eyes landed on something familiar and he felt a glimmer of hope.

Tionne's locker, the chest she'd taken from the Apprentice's quarters in the Great Tower, rested at the foot of the bunk, half buried by clothes. Stepping over some molding bowls, Faxon shoved the laundry aside and wrenched open the chest. There, lying atop the dubious treasures within, was the string wrapped bundle of parchment he had come for.

With unsteady hands, Faxon snatched the papers and tucked them inside his tunic. He took a moment to ensure that the packet wouldn't be any more obvious than it had to be, then dashed from the room. He couldn't get out of the cramped passageways soon enough. It felt as if the walls were closing in, threatening to crush him under their weight and trap him in the murky black forever.

He burst onto the deck as if fired from a cannon. Deep breaths followed each other in rapid succession. Fresh air had never tasted so sweet. Then he realized that he'd nearly bowled over Tionne, who was glaring at him, and his breath caught.

"What were you doing below deck?" she demanded. She gripped the dagger so recently stained with Obie's blood. Faxon looked over her shoulder. Raff and his men were clustered around a small skiff on the forward deck. The lifeboat.

"Taking back something that doesn't belong to you. I should have censured you when I had the chance."

"Faxon?" Tionne's voice was a low hiss, and her eyes widened.

"Always too concerned with yourself, Tionne."

He brought his fist down hard on her wrist, ignoring the link-shock that flashed into his arm and numbed it to the shoulder. He knocked the knife from her grasp and kicked it, sending it skittering across the desk. Faxon kicked her hard in the knee, and she screamed in pain, collapsing onto the deck. Faxon ran. Tionne rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up on one hand. She stabbed a finger at Faxon with the other.

"Stop him!" she screeched. "Kill him!"

Soft pops from pistols followed him across the deck. Masts threw off blossoms of splinters where the bullets hit, and Faxon shielded his eyes as he ran for the lifeboat. There were confused shouts from the other seamen as they realized that Raff and his mutineers weren't working to stop Faxon, but to help him. They swung the lifeboat out over the side of the ship and climbed aboard.

The first mate and his men furiously worked the lines, lowering the skiff below the deck and out of Faxon's sight. He wondered if the men hadn't betrayed him, taking the opportunity to escape on their own with the time Faxon had bought them. An arrow whizzed by his ear, close enough for Faxon to feel the breeze on the back of his neck. That was too damn close! More shots splintered the deck on either side of him. The pistoleers were getting sighted in. Their next shots might not miss.