Private Tales Over the Wine Dark Sea

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran heaved the body over the gunwale and spat for good measure. A few corpses drifted in the wake of the caravel, their bodies having been stripped of anything useful. The ship listed awkwardly to the side, still scarred from the morning's battle. Sails scorched and the deck discoloured from bloodletting. Weapons and other paraphenalia lay strewn on the wood.

A sailor tossed a bucket of seawater over the deck before starting to mop in a futile effort to get rid of the blood. It had been a hard fight for Lucia. The small caravel had taken a beating and her crew were worn out. Ferran tried not to look towards the bow where the ship's company fallen lay. Eight gone and it looked like another one or two would be joining them. The ship was barely at half strength, no sailor uninjured. The surviving Lucias moved like undead, stumbling and shambling about the deck.

He managed a smile for his mate as they passed each other. It was thanks to Truan Barry that they weren't all shark food. He'd heard the muffled sound of oars and roused the crew. The first longboat had come alongside when they dropped the comet on her. The stone wrapped in oil soaked rags had given them a good view of the dozen or so cutthroats waiting to board while they tried to avoid the hideous flames.

After that it had been a taut chase in the dark until they'd been brought to bay at dawn. Barely a whisper of wind but they'd kept ahead by towing with their own boat. The pirate had gone for broke and sent all their small craft after him. A short, bloody, and fierce fight, the decks still showing the result. He remembered hacking a man's hand off with an axe while he climbed aboard, the panicked retreat to the castle aft, and the desperate charge that had swept the deck clear.

"Be lucky to make port in this state" he muttered to himself. He wasn't fool enough to risk landing on some Nazrani island. Knowing his luck the savages would probably to eat him. He managed a smile for the sailors' sake, clapping backs and making comments about the fight. They'd done well. No one had ran. Even rats would fight hard when cornered.

"SAIL HO!". The cry from the mast made everyone's heads crane upward. Ferran found his hand gripping his amulet out of nerves. "FOU-" the lookout cut themselves off "FIVE POINTS STARBOARD. BEARING-SHE'S A PIRATE!".

Some looked distraught, others angry. Ferran just swore, "Full sail, all hands to battle stations!" he said in a clear voice, faking his confidence. He made a run for the stern, not even bothering to check his orders were obeyed. He could hear Truan roaring to get the crew moving. "Hard to port helmsman" he said, risking a look back at the horizon.

Gal

 

[Gal]

Ferran el Machir

“Aaand she’s wounded!” Mahto lowered the spyglass and turned his grin to Talris on his right. “Told you the corpses were from two different ships. Should of listened, old mate. Now pay up.”

The man grudgingly flicked a coin at the other pirate before scrambling for his station as al-Kamah marched on the deck.

“Stay on their stern. We need to catch and rake them before the Lovosie shallows.” The Captain clapped his hands as he leaned over the taffrail to peer at their quarry. “Ho, do I ever love me a runner.”

“Helm to port! Hoist da studs’ls an’ da sprits’l! Fly da fisherman!” Gal roared as sailors swarmed up the ratlines and across the deck. “Load op da ballistas! Redy da sweeps, an’ bring me da prisoner!”

Mahto threw her an odd look, pausing halfway down the ladder. “You sure? We only got one left.”

“Is you blind? Dey a car’vel, Mahto. Dey wil closhaul and beat us opwind to da Lovosie.” She slid the dagger from her sash and jerked her chin belowdecks. “Bring me da prisoner.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

"Come on lads, look sharp!" Ferran barked. Half strength and wounded, they were doing their best but it just wasn't good enough. "Keep the course once we've gybed" he said to the helmsman, rushing to hop down to the maindeck and lend his own strength. Everyone was going to have to pull their weight if they were to get out of this.

"Prepare to gybe!" he shouted. Tacking was tricky at the best of times, even with a strong and experienced crew. Gybing was worse. "Loosen the sheet and braces!". The sail began to billow, the yard shifting off the mast. Crew hauled the yard vertical, shifting the sheet to the other side. "Shrouds!" he reminded, Truan scrambling to make sure the windward were tightened and leeward loosened.

Only enough crew to do one at a time. There was no time to congratulate themselves on a job well done. They had to do the same all over again and all the time the pirate was drawing closer, eating up the distance between them. "Come on you bastards!". Lucia was picking up speed but far too slowly for his liking. She was fast on a reach but she'd less sail than her adversary and they were still taking on water.

He scrambled up to the aftercastle, staring back at the looming bulk that was on their stern. He squinted through his spyglass, catching the telltale glint that marked another staring back. "Come on girl, come on" he muttered, smacking the gunwale for encouragement.

 

[Gal]

The telltale glint wasn’t a spyglass, for once – it was al-Kamah’s golden teeth as he grinned at the limping ship before him. The gybe had cost them precious headway, and the crew of the Southern Wind could smell their fear even across the stretch of sea still separating the two.

They were jeering loud enough to be heard over the song of the waves, hanging off the ratlines with hungry smiles and rattling hooks.

Gal had one hand wrapped round the forestay, feet planted on the bowsprit. The sprits’l bloomed below her, but she had eyes only for the man hung upside-down from the port boomkin.

She wanted their prey to see.

The man kept babbling in some particularly grating dialect of Common. Gal filled her lungs with the blasting wind as she lowered herself astride the bowsprit. Then she exhaled, and slipped her dagger out again. “No cryin’ now. Dis an ‘onor.”

He didn’t see it her way, of course, but at least his sobbing was drowned out by the next wave that broke against the stem of the ship. Gal clicked her tongue, crossed her feet at the ankles, and swung down in a billow of dark hair.

“You wil please da sea spirit. Is ‘onor, see?” And she slit the flesh of her own wrist first, sacrificing precious ruby droplets to the hungry ocean. Blood continued to run down her hand as she reached out and steadied his trembling chin.

“Kaumaha i ka rohai, semaku o kai,” the chant fell easy from her lips as she looked him straight in the eyes. They were glistening with tears that spilled over soon as he blinked, carving pale lines through the dirt on his face. “Haere ia.”

She opened his throat like a fish, end to end in one sure motion of the hand.

In three beats of the heart he was dead, and in five, the sea foamed red.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran tried to ignore the jeers that were sounding faintly across the gap between the two vessels. His eyes were locked on the horrific display that was playing out at their bow. A tall figure was there by the bowspirit, moving close to a swaying body. Ferran lowered his spyglass for a moment, the swayer was still alive.

He couldn't look away. He squinted, able to make out an impressive acrobatic display as the pirate hung upside. They had a knife... Ferran flinched and looked away, dropping his hands. When next he looked back the sea around the pirate vessel had turned red, foaming and with waves racing with it. The brigantine was picking up speed.

"By the gods..." he swore. Other crew had stopped to stare, making signs against evil. Ferran could feel despair gripping at him but he shook it off. "I want crossbows by the stern rail! First mate, I want a barrel of pitch brought up to the main deck now!". He accepted a sturdy crossbow from a sailor, priming a bolt and checking the lock. No time to wet the sails but he'd hoped to outrun them rather than fight.

He let himself feel the sway and rocking of the deck, aiming at the figure who'd murdered their captive. At the very least it meant he could test the range. Ferran waited for the deck to rise before he shot.

 

[Gal]

Gal, too was feeling the rock and sway of the ship. Swinging back onto the bowsprit was a somewhat more taxing endeavor. It helped to move with the rising prow, but it still required plenty of strength and agility.

Not unlike the release of a bowstring.

Which was, incidentally, exactly what happened as she made to coil back up. The twang never reached her ears over the shouting and the swell of the sea, but she could well feel the sharp sting in her side where the bolt tore through her tunic.

The pain rushed in the instant she settled back on the bowsprit, but she had enough wit to lie flat against the wood at her back. She yanked her shirt up to see an angry red line scored across her side. An inch to the left, and she’d have plummeted into the water, keelhauled under her own ship.

Gal scowled, a rush of curses on her lips. She scrambled forward like a cat on all fours, leaping back onto the forecastle with a yell. “Rake da stern!”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran let off a victory whoop but it cut short as he saw the figure still moving. More of a fluke than anything else but at least they'd shown they had teeth. Other crew were with him now, letting loose bolts at the pursuing ship. The wind snatched some away or they landed harmlessly on the ship's bow. "Keep shooting at them, I want them distracted!". It might make aiming that war machine a mite harder.

He felt his stomach clench at the sight of the ballista being readied. If they got a solid shot to the rudder, then they were finished. "Helmsman, evasive action if you please". Even sailing in a serpentine might throw off their aim but it'd just let the demonically fast ship gain even more on them.

"Mr Barry, how are those bolts coming along?" he demanded, running to the forward rail. The mate had two assistants wrapping pitch coated rags around the bolt heads. Shortened distance but that wouldn't be an issue soon. He cranked his crossbow, arms burning with the effort as he jammed another bolt in.

 

[Gal]

Asten took a bolt to the shoulder and Talris one to the leg before they’d managed to get off a shot. Nasty business, but no pirate signed up just for the view and the whores. Between the turquoise coasts and spread legs there was sweat and blood and toil aplenty.

All for that glint of gold.

Gal leered at the scrambling men on the other ship through the spray, a grim smile twisting her lips as the crew rushed about. The promise of coin and lash kept them sharp; a well-oiled machine that loaded bolt after heavy bolt into the broad cord of the ballistae on the prow. The sea was merciless to them all, and they surely missed more than a quarter of their shots – their target was the narrow strip of a stern, and it was dancing about to boot.

But even one good hit was enough to put a dent into a ship that was already bleeding.

Al-Kamah appeared at her shoulder, mouth curled with satisfaction. So long as the wind held – and they’d given blood so that it would – they’d catch them long before the shallows. But— “Let’s cut them off to windward. If they want to reach Lovosie, they’ll have to get past us first.”

He retreated to the quarterdeck with a dark chuckle, and Gal turned back to the swarming crew. “Run oot da sweeps and hard to port! Redy da hooks! Load op the starboard shot!”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

It was a hard thing to aim from the pitching deck of a ship despite the ever shortening range. Still, Ferran would take every shot he could get. "Good, keep at them!" he encouraged, if the pirates were too busy dodging wild shots, they wouldn't be taking their time to aim.

The first bolt went wide. A ranging shot. It flew past Lucia, going well past bowshot from the bow. The pirates seemed to be cackling with glee, delighted at the chance to use the weapon. The second screeched in, snatching one sailor off the stern. One second he was there, the next gone. No one had even had the chance to hit the deck.

"I need those fire arrows now!". An ashen sailor stumbled up onto the castle with a bundle in his arms. Ferran stepped back, striking steel to flint. If anyone was to handle flames aboard his ship it would be him. He lit the torch, stumbling as Lucia lurched. "What was that?!"

He ran to the stern rail. They'd missed the rudder but the ballista bolt had ploughed into the cabins. "Make them count, come on" he muttered, steadying himself and lighting the pitch soaked bolts. The first two shot missed the pirate ship and landed in the foaming water, the third landed on the deck, a little flame flickering along the wood until a pirate stamped it out. "Aim for the bloody rigging!". If they could burn a sail they'd outrun them. He thrust the torch into a sailor's hands, while the crossbowmen fumbled with the unwieldy bolts.

They were close enough to hear the guttural cries now. "Bear more to port helmsman" he ordered, desperate not to have their wind cut off by the bigger ship. Hooks. They were going to try to board. He could see a second ballista being readied to rake their port side. Ferran's voice was hoarse. "Mr Barry? Ready the lime if you will". As dangerous to its user as to the enemy but desperate times called for desperate measures. The small clay pots were always a last resort. Gods, barely a dozen sailors left standing to sail and fight. They'd not last two minutes if that pirate got her claws into Lucia.

 

[Gal]

Her eyes narrowed the instant she saw the flicker of flame on the enemy deck.

“Shit. Shit. Weit fo’ da oproll an’ aim fo’ da archers!”

She ignored their straining grunts as they worked to adjust the angle of the siege bows. The hadwood was heavy and solid, tough to move even when the ship wasn’t reaching under full sail and flying on the red waves.

And yet Gal was grinning. This was what it felt to be alive – the thunder of surf breaking against the hull, the snapping of strings as they released their bolts, the smell of blood and salt, the sting of wounds and the scorch of the southern sun.

The fire arrows would fall as it would. There was nothing to be done for it but try and kill the shooters before they could launch their attack, but in the unsteady rock of the waves, Gal didn’t hold out hope. If something caught, well… they’d burn that sail when they climbed to it.

Instead she stopped halfway below decks, one eye on the enemy ship, the other on the stacked rowing benches. Far as she knew, al-Kamah was the only pirate on the Cortosi coast that used this trick, which would only add to the surprise. They were too close now to the other vessel to row properly, but the long oars had other uses still.

Like breaking bones and sweeping their foes off their feet.

Gal roared orders until the men below had shoved the oars high enough to be in line with the enemy deck. And then, with a wide grin – “Foooo’ward!”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

The small flickers of flame on the sea soaked pirate deck were a secondary concern when their prey was so close. This close they could make out individual features on the other crew. There were were a lot of pirates, enough to kill Lucia's crew two or three times over. Their leering faces smiled as they trained the heavy warbows on the caravel.

Lucia slowed as the other vessel stole her wind. Ferran snarled at the brigantine. She was drawing intolerably close. The boarding parties were ready, hooks in hands and weapons drawn. They were smiling. "All hands ready!" he shouted, his voice more of a screech than a roar. "Throw!". The clay pots sailed over the gunwale to shatter on the opposing deck.

He saw the sweeps too late. The heavy wood swung in with shocking speed. Where they hit men, bones broke. Sailors were sent sprawling, knocked aside like ninepins. The bosun went down, his quicklime pot breaking on Lucia's deck. The white cloying powder rose fast, aided by the wind. It engulfed parts of the decks on both ships. Sailors from both sides were screaming and clutching at their eyes, coughing and choking in the blinding white cloud.

Ferran had only ever used it twice before and had nightmares both times. He lobbed his own pot from the aftercastle before firing his crossbow into the cloud. A groan sounded aside him and the helmsman slumped, an arrow protruding from his back. Ferran ran to him but the sailor was already gone. He took the helm and angled more to starboard, desperate to keep the pirate from grappling with them. He'd fire his own ship with the last of the pitch before he let pirates take her.

 

[Gal]

Her eyes widened as the first jug smashed against the deck in a cloud of white smoke. Even with the wind in their favor, the starboard gunwale was practically teeming with pirates, and suddenly all of them had the stinging shite in their eyes. Screams rose from both sides as men clawed at their skin to rid it of the burning substance. Some lost their hold on the ratlines and tumbled over into the foaming waves between the two ships. Others stumbled blindly around, easy targets for the enemy archers.

And then it got worse.

“Coglioni!” She wheeled ‘round, saw Kreeling pointing up with a trembling finger. The main topsail was on fire. They hadn’t the time – or a ship stable enough – to haul buckets up the mast. One quick shared look with Kreel, and they understood each other. They were the fastest climbers, and the rest were either rowing or shooting at the bastards.

“Trim da main tops’l!” she roared over the din of the fighting, then dashed after Kreeling up the port shrouds. She scaled the futtock onto the top and split off to take the starboard side of the yard as the ship heeled even further to lee.

“Clear da starboard gunwale!” Gal yelled as she swayed back and forth on the footropes. She had one hand wrapped firmly round the jackstay while she worked to cut the canvas free with her dagger. Finally the sail fluttered free and down towards the narrowing strip of sea between the ships.

The scorched canvas that landed on the deck was snuffed out by the wash of the waves and a few intrepid pirates with buckets, but— “Da buntlines got burnt. Fuck. Fuckers!”

She twisted around with rage in her eyes, stare fixed on the quarterdeck of the running merchant. With the heel of the ship and the distance… she wouldn’t get a better chance. This was as close as they got, one sail down.

Gal grunted, snagged one of the knives from her sash, and flung it down at the damned Captain who’d set her ship aflame.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran could only clutch at the helm while his crew flung everything they had at the pirates. The screams were going to haunt his dreams. A shout of joy rose as they saw one of the pitch soaked bolts had managed to set their main topsail alight. Shouts of dismay from those pirates still with eyes showed they weren't the only ones who'd spotted it.

A roar of triumph went up as their sail fluttered down, the brigantine slowing in speed. Lucia lurched ahead, a runner putting everything into their last effort. Ferran's grip was knuckle white on the helm as Lucia just avoided being rammed by the ship's bow. He turned back to look at it.

And a knife landed just a foot in front of him. A fraction closer or a different wind and he'd be a dead man. Ashen, he looked up to see an enraged pirate in their rigging. Ferran managed a smile and inclined his head in a bow. He blew a kiss to her before turning his back contemptuously on the pirate.

If they'd been a frigate or sloop, now would be the time to turn around and tackle the pirate. But Lucia was just a merchantman who'd gotten lucky. She moved sluggishly now, still taking on water but widening the gap between them. Sailors collapsed on deck as they realised they'd escaped.

If they made a run for port, they'd go down with all hands. Ferran wasn't fool enough to chance a lifeboat in these waters. If pirates didn't get them, sea beasts would. He'd seen ones bigger than Lucia in deeper waters, a longboat crammed with sailors would be a mere appetiser.

They limped into a small bay, the shallow depth ensuring they'd be safe from the worst predators. Anchoring, there was no rest for the weary crew. Eight still standing, including himself. Another two or three who might not live through the night. Two fights in one day and no chance to rest. The bilges had to be bailed, caulking redone, blinded sailors' eyes washed out with seawater. Ferran and the rest of the crew moved like dead men, working on autopilot.

There was an unfairness to it all. They'd made it through by the skin of their teeth but their luck wouldn't hold a third time. No one even had the energy to consider mutiny. The ballista bolts had torn through the weakened structure of the ship, even hardwood had its breaking point. Hasty repairs had to be made if she was to stay above the water.

 

[Gal]

There was no point giving chase with one of the mainsails struck. They were lucky the fire hadn’t spread further as it was. A few buntlines were a small price to pay to escape a fiery founder.

And besides, the merchant couldn’t run far. It was a beast whittled down by a hundred cuts, their crew reduced to a exhausted few that barely hauled the ship to safe port in Lovosie shallows. The Southern Wind kept a steady pace in their wake, but they couldn’t follow into the bay. Small though the difference was, the merchant still had a lower draft, and al-Kamah would sooner torch his ship than run aground in reckless pursuit.

They dropped their anchors at the mouth of the little bay and set up three watches. The men would get their rest after a hard day at sea, but the dogged merchant would never be left unobserved. The last thing they needed was for the bastards to slip out under the cover of night.

Night was fast approaching when Gal finally got her turn belowdecks with the surgeon – a disgraced doctor from Elbion who’d been dismissed from his practice and the city because of certain questionable grave-robbing practices. The pirates didn’t mind one bit, and the man was a sight better at his job than most sawbones found on pirate vessels.

Al-Kamah appeared in the door to the cabin just as Verlein was stitching up the wound in her side. “We can’t get to them in the bay, and they can’t get out. This could turn into a long wait, and we need to replace the sail as soon as possible.”

Gal nodded. “Wat do we do den?”

“Well,” he drawled out, twisting his moustache in thought. “We could negotiate.”

“Negotiate? Dey burnt da sail!”

“Mm. They did, didn’t they? But they also fought back with weapons merchants don’t have, in my experience.” His smirk turned sly. “I think we’re dealing with a man after our own heart, Gal.”

“Only hart I want is hiz.”

He arched an amused brow. “Save the anger for the next reds’l hunter that comes after us. I’ll see about sending a rowboat with a despatch.”

Gal huffed her displeasure and flopped back in the seat. It earned her a sharp glance from Verlein, but she ignored it. Not like she could tell the Captain no.

“Fine.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Trapped.

The brigantine couldn't follow them into the bay itself but it'd pounce on them the moment they tried to leave. And if the wait lingered too long, they might just risk swarming them with their small boats. With the few crew he had left standing, they probably could have managed it just with sticks and stones.

Ferran worked his crew like a demon. Exhaustion was beginning to tell now, mistakes being made and as night fell, he had to allow some to sleep. There was no way they could go on otherwise. Lucia was no longer taking on water but the other damage wouldn't be fixed until they got her into a dry dock.

Armaments, personal weapons aside they had six small pots of quicklime left and some pitch. Lucia wasn't a warship, weapons were meant to give them enough of an edge to slip away, they hadn't planned on prolonged battles. Ferran toyed with the idea of turning her into a fireship and charging the brigantine in a last blaze of glory but he couldn't throw away lives like that.

He stood watch most of the night, brooding until Barry took over. He was in a dreamless sleep when a crewman woke up. He stumbled up on deck to see a boat coming towards them with a flag of truce. "All hands, to arms" he said in a quiet voice, taking his own crossbow and leaning it against the gunwale.

He'd grabbed his speaking trumpet, "That's far enough!" he barked in Common, "What do you want?"

 

[Gal]

Again that golden smile would greet him in the rays of the morning sun. Al-Kamah looked a right flower compared to the other man – well rested, and without a single injury to show for yesterday’s battle. Always had a knack for avoiding conflict, that sly bastard.

He lifted a horn of his own and brushed the thick black beard away. “I am Captain Eshan al-Kamah,” he announced in a tone of voice that implied he expected everyone to recognize the name – and tremble at its sound.

His reputation couldn’t match the likes of the cursed In Irons, but he was far more corporeal to make up for it. Every port up and down Cortosi had lost a shipment or ten to the Allirian. And to think he’d been a noble once.

“ You put up a good fight – we respect that. Alas we cannot simply… let you go, as I’m certain you understand. You caused harm to my ship, and to my people. Normally I would simply levy a tax for your safe passage, but methinks you’re not a mere merchant. So I propose…” he made a little show of bowing, “an arrangement. May we come aboard? I should hate to scream myself hoarse.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Maybe not a tremble but Truan cursed and two of the crew made a sign against evil. Ferran tried not to smirk, what was captain but a title even the head of a four man tug could claim? "Captain Ferran el Machir" he called back, his tone curt. He knew the name, you'd have to be deaf to not hear those of at least a dozen persistent raiders.

"We could just kill him" Truan murmured. Ferran laughed, "You ever met the man? That could be his third mate for all we know. And even if it is him, the rest of the crew are still out there. Killing an officer and a half dozen sailors isn't going to change this".

He'd hoped they'd proven too tough a nut to crack but pirates could get unreasonable. A captain who let prey get away might be seen as weak and weak captains didn't last long. "You could let us go and no more of you have to die" he told him, false bravado. He shrugged at the gesture, "You may, but you'll leave your arms in the boat". He moved away from the quarterdeck rail and began to give quick orders.

The first one up over the gunwale would see Ferran standing with his arms folded, his sword hanging by his side. Truan's bulky form was next to him, his boarding axe in hand. Two sailors leaned on the quarterdeck rail above them, three loaded crossbows lying by each. Other sailors stood around the deck, all armed and with hostile eyes. Lucia was a mess. Still seaworthy but she showed the mark of two sharp fights.

 

[Gal]

The boat drew closer at a fast rhythm, and soon the party ascended the jacob’s ladder onto the deck. Without the smoke and the foam-fog, the stark light of day made it quite obvious just how hurt the caravel really was. Al-Kamah tut-tutted like a disappointed father and strutted forward to the quarterdeck as if he owned the ship.

He stuck out his hand to Ferran with a feral grin. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. As you’ve no doubt heard of me, so I’ve heard of you, Messir el Machir. Ran the Merchant fleet blockade of Bellesgardes? Twice?” He chuckled, twisting his moustache again. “I’d have been more surprised if I’d captured you yesterday, Captain.”

“Still,” he clapped his hands together, bejeweled fingers clinking, “you seem a reasonable man. So am I.” At that, al-Kamah reached to slowly open the lapels of his coat – a precaution to avoid ending up with a bolt in his gut – and took out a bottle of Guancano port, aged ten years in Falwood oak.

“Shall we?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

A growl came from Truan Barry as Al-Kamah mounted the ship like it was already his. Only a look from Ferran stopped the burly mate from burying his axe in the pirate's skull. Ferran's face was impassive while the pirate stuck out his hand. He pointedly stared at it. "I lost five sailors yesterday" he said in a quiet voice.

He took a step back and looked out towards the mouth of the bay. "Blockades are how money is made" he said, trying to avoid the feeling of pleasure at being recognised. The pirate wore his wealth, letting them see his success. "Reasonable" he repeated, wondering what that word meant to a pirate who'd had a man killed to spur on his ship.

He let the pirate drink first but he took the port with a swig. It was good, far better than the usual rotgut that passed for fare aboard ships. "I've a long day ahead of me so I'd appreciate to hear what reasonable means". It might be his last day. "I've done you the courtesy of allowing you on board. You didn't come this way to banter and joke".

 

[Gal]

“No,” al-Kamah agreed with a blithe smile. “I came to banter, joke, and make a deal. You’re an adroit businessman, are you not, Messir el Machir? Blockade runners, smugglers…” he waved his hand, rings glinting in the rising sun, “that is how money is made, isn’t it?”

“That, and piracy, of course.”

His hand fell back to his side, and his smile turned cold. A foul gale pulled in from the sea with the first licks of the coming tide. “Now, some… less gentle men in the corsair business claim that a smuggler’s just a cowardly pirate – not me. You’re simply less bloodthirsty, no? A wise choice. Few people are mad enough to dare go shoulder to shoulder with an Allirian merchant escort.”

At this, he gestured broadly to the Southern Wind, which in fact was an Allirian merchant escort. Repainted and rerigged, but an Allirian merchant escort nonetheless.

“All of this to say, Messir el Machir, that the good folk who help me sail that ship refuse to leave with their efforts of the day unrewarded. Naturally in hearing this, your first instinct would be to cut me down, or even better, hold me hostage!” His beady black eyes flicked over to Barry, who was practically chomping at the bit. “And I would tell you to remember what my First Mate did yesterday.”

As if on cue a figure in a white tunic and a blood-red sash swung onto the starboard ratlines, gold jewelry catching the morning rays.

“A deal then, yes? One where none of us have to hold another burial at sea.” He gave a twirl to his oiled mustache as he turned back to the smuggler. “Sail with us to Cerak and sell us your goods at a better price than you’ll give the rest of your buyers.”

The alternative remained unsaid.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

"I'm an honest trader" Ferran protested, the words falling on deaf ears. His eyes rolled at the accusation of being mad. He hadn't exactly had a choice! His eyes flickered to the other ship, gold glinting again as he saw their mate. "I saw it. And remember that she aimed a knife for me too" he said, forcing his unease down.

"Sail to Cerak? And how do I know your ship won't just board us the moment we leave this bay? I'm expected to believe you'll let us sail to Cerak with you and sell off our cargo at reduced rates?". His exhaustion was showing. "I'll need some guarantee I'm not going to end up a blood sacrifice for your first mate like that poor bastard yesterday".

His head ran through the numbers, not liking the answer he got. "And even if I did, I need more crew if she's to sail. I have enough to fire this ship and yours with it. but not to sail to Cerak".

 

[Gal]

“Ah, but do you not see? A perfect solution presents itself!” al-Kamah grinned and snapped his fingers in delight.

“A few of my people will come over to supplement your… woefully undercrewed vessel and help you bring her safely to port. Should we attempt anything foul, you will have yourself a number of hostages. Say— I’ll even send my First Mate over, if you’re concerned I wouldn’t value ordinary sailors enough.”

Despite his wide smile, his eyes remained cool deep in the shade of dark brows. “Besides. If you refuse my ship will board you anyway. What’ve you got to lose, Ferran el Machir?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Hostages. An odd way to phrase having more cutthroats aboard. Still they would be a satisfying sacrifice if they fired the ship. He'd make sure to lock the helm on course with the Southern Wind. "To lose? Everything. And I'd burn Lucia to the waterline before I'd let your crew take it". That said, he reluctantly took the proffered hand, shaking on the deal.

Ferran's expression was gloomy as he watched the longboat from the pirate brigantine arrive with his substitute crew including one tall dark figure that was all too familiar. He'd done his best to make his own preparations. He thought the chances of them seizing the ship outlandish but he was paranoid enough from tiredness and the events of the previous day.

And another near full one ahead of him. They'd not be lingering long before hoisting the anchor and limping after their 'escort'.

 

[Gal]

They’d just about missed the best tide to weigh anchor, but that’s negotiating for you. At least al-Kamah hadn’t come back with a new navel like the last time. Courtesy of some cocky asshole who’d thought himself faster than a Nazrani with a knife.

Wrong, of course. Jahari had gotten a bolt to the neck for her trouble, two years back now. Eshan, as always, licked out of it none the worse for wear but another dashing scar to add to his collection. After almost two decades of raiding and pillaging, the man had plenty and then some.

But the man, silver-tongued as he was, had talked his uncooperative First Mate straight onto an enemy ship.

Or, rather, a ship that had been, until that morning, the enemy.

Gal resisted the urge to sigh. Mahto had broken the ice the minute he’d set foot on the caravel, of fucking course, and was well on his way to charming the pants off one of the sailors. Bastard was slimier than Eshan by the margin of a sea slug or three, and probably bred just as fast if the women he left behind in every port were anything to go by.

She rolled her eyes away from the sight and set them instead on the grim Captain standing watch on the aftercastle. Her mouth twitched.

“Ye gon’ giv me baq me knife, Capo?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran fought the urge to smirk. And bit back his impulse to quip about throwing the knife overboard or using it to caulk the ship's seams. She was Nazrani which meant aside from being taller, she was probably stronger than him too. They were built like leopards, all muscle and sinew. He'd never seen a fat one, darker jokes were made that they ate the ones who got that far. He'd never lingered long on any of their islands.

"Captain" he corrected, before lightly tossing the knife to her underhand, "Though if there is any trouble Nazrani, I'll have it taken right back off you" he warned though his voice remained pleasant.