Gal

[2]

“And who’s this now, Rau?”

Out of all the creatures to have dragged themselves out of the primordial muck, Rau Dimmon must have been the last. The slime still clung to him at the lapels of his expensive crimson overcoat; dripped off his lopsided hat, latest fashion from the Savile Quarter; but most of all, it glistened lurid in his wide grin, the teeth all replaced by blinding gold.

“A new rat for your lines, I reckon. Whelp came of her own will.”

Captain al-Kamah of the Southern Wind – previously Allirian Merchant Fleet escort five, dubbed ‘Petra’ – crossed his arms and squared his shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’ve quit the slaving business.”

“When you quit pirating. Anyway— she ain’t no slave. Picked her up on the way north by the Nazrani isles. Girl begged a ride off me.”

“And you, generous gentleman that you are, took her on for free.”

“You wound me. We’ve known each other how long, al? I’m a businessman, as you well know. So we made us a deal.”

Al-Kamah arched a bushy black brow. “You made a deal. With a Nazrani kid.”

“Adult. Nazrani adult.”

“Old age got you blind already, Rau? Little Oren’s got bigger tits than this girl.”

There was a roar of laughter from the crew lounging on the deck and railing. Dwarven profanities were quickly tamped down by the sloshing of rum.

“After two decades of profitable enterprise, you’d think a man would show some confidence—” the slaver muttered with an sigh as exaggerated as the rest of his body language. He motioned to the Nazrani between them; to the scars lining her arms in intricate patterns. “See these? ‘Marks of Adulthood’, they call ‘em. Means she passed their initiation ceremony. Hunting, climbing, survivin’ the jungles, that sorta thing.”

“Rau Dimmon. A man of the world.”

“What can I say? You get to meet folk of all stripes and colors in my line o’ work. Not much to do besides talkin’ on them long journeys ‘round the Spear.”

The Captain didn’t say anything for a spell. His eyes, as black as his hair and clothes and heart, narrowed. He considered the mute girl with an inscrutable curl to his mouth. “So. Adult. And you say she’s a monkey?”

“Monkey, cat, whatever you wanna call it. I betcha a pitcher at the Broken Oar she can be up in the crow’s nest before your fastest man’s even got his ass off the gunwale.”

“A pitcher? At the Broken Oar? You might bet me a pitcher of Cerak harbor water while you’re at it.”

“Prob’ly taste better too!”

They both ignored the chortling crew in the background. Al-Kamah with a face like hewn rock, Rau with a sideways pout.

“Al. Where’s your sporting spirit? Still, a man must know when he’s beat. A pitcher for every man—”

“And woman!”

“—on your ship,” he finished, pointed. Only then did he flick his pale eyes over to the figure swinging her legs on the taffrail of the Southern Wind. His dishonest grin snapped back into place a moment later. “Jahari! Perfect timing, as always. ‘Twas your lovely face made me think of al when I picked this whelp up.”

“Really.”

“Well, you’re both…” he gestured between them; the burnished bronze of their skin, the wavy curls that spilled down their shoulders like midnight waves.

The woman let out a short bark of a laugh. “Not just your sight, your memory’s going too. Only ‘tropical paradise’ I was born in’s the whorehouse down in Allirian Lowdocks.” She jutted her sharp chin at the girl. “Orcish or Narra, it’s all the same to me.”

Al-Kamah noisily cleared his throat. Rau’s guilty gaze took his time meandering back to meet his eyes.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised there’s a catch. Tell, me – what use is a monkey that doesn’t understand enough to obey?”

“Show a little patience, Captain. I taught her some basics on the ride over, and she’s a quick learner. Tell him you’re a quick learner, Gal.”

Though the conversation revolved entirely around her, this was the first time the girl made a single sound. “Me lern quik.”

“What’s the more, she’s quick up the ropes. C’mon, al, give her a shot. I promise you, this one’s somethin’ else.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“But have you ever regretted it?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Rau’s chuckle was short, his hand nervous where he clapped the girl’s shoulder. “Well, you know me. Man of the future, always moving forward! She’s different, you’ve my word for it.”

“Right. I’ll take those pitchers at the Oar, if it’s all the same to you.” This time, at least, Rau had the good grace not to fake offense. The Captain half-turned to his ship and bellowed so loud the slaver jumped in his boots. “Kreeeeeling!”

There was a scramble of hushed voices and pattering feet. A mess of blond curls and freckled cheeks poked over the railing next to Jahari. “Capetain?”

“You’re going to race this pup to the crow’s nest.” The curly head bobbed in agreement and al-Kamah glanced back around. “She got that, Rau?”

The slaver didn’t answer. Instead he leaned over to the girl, and the two exchanged quick, melodious sentences in Narra. The girl looked up at the Captain with a dauntless black gaze and smiled.

“Me got.”

She repeated the words a sweaty ratline-scramble later, grinning all the wider as she leaned out the crow’s nest and held her hand out for a breathless Kreeling.

Below, the Captain peered up into the glare of the midday sun, one broad paw shielding his eyes. He clicked his tongue in appreciation.

“She got.”

It took exactly five months, two weeks, and three days for the crew to accept Gal as one of their own.

The first barrier was language, but naval commands were a thing of distilled efficiency that had little to do with the Common tongue. The learning was all hands-on, and the consequences for mistakes painful enough to burn it all rather permanently into her memory.

For a long time after they’d left Āina o Ka Lā, the weather held. Clement white clouds followed them all the way to the Cortosi coast. They switched flags and made port in Avvellagno; stole off the ship in the wee hours of the morning and sold the silks and jewelry and fresh Allirian mint to the types of merchants in smoky corners that didn’t care too much that dried blood still clung to some of the fabric and coins.

It was on the way back that their luck dried up. It should’ve been a week’s jaunt ‘till the Spear parted the misty horizon – the weather had other ideas. Overcast skies and nary a breeze left them with no choice but to keep in sight of the scarred cliffs while they killed the time dicing and drinking.

When favorable wind finally began to pull from the west, the Captain was quick to order all sails set, eager to make up for lost time. The Southern Wind made great headway on the first day, but come nightfall it quickly turned sour. This were Spearshoals – fickle and deadly even to the experienced sailor – and weather turned at a whim.

When the order came to stow the sails, the sea had already swallowed the horizon. Water came first from above, then poured overboard when waves climbed and toppled over one another. Soon there was no way to tell where the sky ended and sea began; soon, it ceased to matter altogether – there was only the blackness undulating back and forth to no avail, toying with the ship as if it were no more than a leaf.

It was Gal and Kreeling up on the main t’gallant yard again, furling in the whipping rain. They were the fastest, tying down the creaking gaskets while the stronger crew worked on the leaden tops’l below. Even through the screaming gale she could hear their shanty as they heaved the sail up as one.

The feeling rose in the pit of her stomach, but it wasn’t her lunch doing somersaults. Eyes wide, Gal turned to port just in time to see a massive wave break.

Her warning was lost in the roaring wind.

And even so – on instinct, it’d come out in Narran.

The force of the heeling ship swept them all to starboard. She watched Kreeling tumble from his perch beside the mast and into the streaking rain. On pure instinct, Gal let it take her with – right until she crossed her ankles, hooked one knee over the footrope, and threw her arm out as far as it would go.

Slippery, calloused fingers closed around her wrist like a vise.

Blinding pain arced through her shoulder as the weight of a falling man threatened to yank her free. Gal gnashed her teeth, swayed with the wind and wave, and swung Kreeling down into the ratlines.

She didn’t look to see if he’d made it. Couldn’t. Her world had narrowed to the simple, painstaking goal of pulling herself back over the yard. So long as she could still squeeze her fingers to grip the jackstays, the throbbing in her arm would have to wait.

When her bare feet splashed down onto deck again, they'd struck all but the fore tops’l, gaff, and the inner jib. Once they were back on surer ground, Gal could hear the call for hauling go out. She squinted against the bouts of spray, then grinned despite the stinging in her shoulder.

Bastard of a Kreeling was jumping the halyard like he had something to prove to the weather itself. Before Gal had even caught her breath proper, the yards were brought low, and the ship steadied despite the buffeting waves.

Nobody thanked her. There wasn’t any time, not in a storm straight out of Kiva’s knickers.

They hove to the whole night long, kept awake by iron will, and bracing cold, and waterlogged bones.

With dawn came the sun, and rum, and then blissful, blessed sleep.