shared Inda’s ideal of dispensing rough justice against pirates.
So Fox had kept control, but that didn’t mean they were his crew. At most they were Inda’s crew, prudently (or sullenly) putting up with him until either Inda popped up again on Parayid’s long dock or until someone organized a mutiny, whichever happened first.
What Fox needed, he knew, was a battle—and victory.
But not against these locals, he thought as he steered the trysail in under a lowering sky, flanked by his two capital ships, Dasta’s Cocodu and Eflis’ magnificent schooner Sable gliding on either side of the Death.
The harbormaster’s tower, half rebuilt, sent up flags. Fox could just make out the yellow over black-and-red, meaning: Warning! We regard you as pirates, and below that, the green-striped flag for Anchor in the road.
Pilvig, fifteen, and on duty as flag mid, bounced lightly on her toes, anxiously watching Fox. She knew every single glass in the harbor was on them. On her.
“You can answer,” Fox said lazily, hands loose on the helm. “Will comply. Parley and supplies.”
He also knew every glass was trained on them, but that he, not the girl, was the focus.
He snapped out his glass and gave the harbor one quick sweep; the dozen or so big fishers upwind had people on them, but they were not about to launch out against the tide.
So he said, “Anchor.”
Fibi the Delf, his sail captain, yelled in her unlovely squawk, “Flash!”
The sails thundered briefly, the wind spilled, then came smoothly to rest; the fight teams along the rail straightened up, still holding their weapons.
From the long dock a single small boat tacked bravely against the choppy sea, two lanky young men pulling hard, and what appeared to be a skinny lad leaning out, tending the sail one-handed.
As the boat fought its way toward the Death, the harbor’s denizens slowly appeared, lining the dock and the quay, even crowding into small boats. These stayed close to shore, glasses leveled steadily on Fox’s fleet.
A wash of rain on a strong offshore gust of wind skimmed the boat closer, and the lad’s awkwardness was explained: he had only one arm, and further, he was not a lad, but a lanky girl with a head full of unruly butter-colored curls.
A high, shrill screech made him wince.
That was Pilvig, the flag mid. “Nug-get!”
“Pil-vig!” Nugget shrilled from the water, bouncing up and down so hard she almost capsized the boat.
There were snorts of laughter, which caused Nugget, once one of Inda’s crew, to grin and preen a little. As the boat thumped alongside on the choppy waves, she called up to Fox, “Some of Marshig’s pirates just left day before yesterday. Are you here to chase them?”
The rain lifted briefly as a row of supply boats slid down Parayid Harbor’s ebb tide to the pirate ships alone at their anchorage. Three times fishing smacks returning to shore appeared on the horizon, took one look then sheered off, vanishing beyond the land rise to the north. No one wanted to risk the harbor, not with those infamous and sinister ships brooding in the middle of the bay.
Pilvig and Nugget sat side by side in the mids’ bunk area in the Death ’s narrow forepeak, the hull slanting sharply in overhead.
They had just finished a delicious hot meal, cooked by Lorm, who’d been a chef in Sarendan before he was forced aboard a pirate ship.
“I missed his cooking. Mmmm.” Nugget licked her fingers.
“We haven’t eaten that good for ages,” Pilvig said. “We didn’t dare stop for any supplies. Venn were after us, and then we were passing by the Marlovan land. Where they let Inda off.”
Nugget’s thin face pinched up. “Inda gone? Where did he go?”
Pilvig sat back on her elbows, the expression in her round, flat-cheeked Chwahir features difficult to make out in the guttering light of their swinging candle-stub. “Dunno, really.” She jerked one shoulder up. “Something about the Venn attacking the
So Fox had kept control, but that didn’t mean they were his crew. At most they were Inda’s crew, prudently (or sullenly) putting up with him until either Inda popped up again on Parayid’s long dock or until someone organized a mutiny, whichever happened first.
What Fox needed, he knew, was a battle—and victory.
But not against these locals, he thought as he steered the trysail in under a lowering sky, flanked by his two capital ships, Dasta’s Cocodu and Eflis’ magnificent schooner Sable gliding on either side of the Death.
The harbormaster’s tower, half rebuilt, sent up flags. Fox could just make out the yellow over black-and-red, meaning: Warning! We regard you as pirates, and below that, the green-striped flag for Anchor in the road.
Pilvig, fifteen, and on duty as flag mid, bounced lightly on her toes, anxiously watching Fox. She knew every single glass in the harbor was on them. On her.
“You can answer,” Fox said lazily, hands loose on the helm. “Will comply. Parley and supplies.”
He also knew every glass was trained on them, but that he, not the girl, was the focus.
He snapped out his glass and gave the harbor one quick sweep; the dozen or so big fishers upwind had people on them, but they were not about to launch out against the tide.
So he said, “Anchor.”
Fibi the Delf, his sail captain, yelled in her unlovely squawk, “Flash!”
The sails thundered briefly, the wind spilled, then came smoothly to rest; the fight teams along the rail straightened up, still holding their weapons.
From the long dock a single small boat tacked bravely against the choppy sea, two lanky young men pulling hard, and what appeared to be a skinny lad leaning out, tending the sail one-handed.
As the boat fought its way toward the Death, the harbor’s denizens slowly appeared, lining the dock and the quay, even crowding into small boats. These stayed close to shore, glasses leveled steadily on Fox’s fleet.
A wash of rain on a strong offshore gust of wind skimmed the boat closer, and the lad’s awkwardness was explained: he had only one arm, and further, he was not a lad, but a lanky girl with a head full of unruly butter-colored curls.
A high, shrill screech made him wince.
That was Pilvig, the flag mid. “Nug-get!”
“Pil-vig!” Nugget shrilled from the water, bouncing up and down so hard she almost capsized the boat.
There were snorts of laughter, which caused Nugget, once one of Inda’s crew, to grin and preen a little. As the boat thumped alongside on the choppy waves, she called up to Fox, “Some of Marshig’s pirates just left day before yesterday. Are you here to chase them?”
The rain lifted briefly as a row of supply boats slid down Parayid Harbor’s ebb tide to the pirate ships alone at their anchorage. Three times fishing smacks returning to shore appeared on the horizon, took one look then sheered off, vanishing beyond the land rise to the north. No one wanted to risk the harbor, not with those infamous and sinister ships brooding in the middle of the bay.
Pilvig and Nugget sat side by side in the mids’ bunk area in the Death ’s narrow forepeak, the hull slanting sharply in overhead.
They had just finished a delicious hot meal, cooked by Lorm, who’d been a chef in Sarendan before he was forced aboard a pirate ship.
“I missed his cooking. Mmmm.” Nugget licked her fingers.
“We haven’t eaten that good for ages,” Pilvig said. “We didn’t dare stop for any supplies. Venn were after us, and then we were passing by the Marlovan land. Where they let Inda off.”
Nugget’s thin face pinched up. “Inda gone? Where did he go?”
Pilvig sat back on her elbows, the expression in her round, flat-cheeked Chwahir features difficult to make out in the guttering light of their swinging candle-stub. “Dunno, really.” She jerked one shoulder up. “Something about the Venn attacking the
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