Private Tales Over the Wine Dark Sea

[Gal]

She caught the knife with one hand and let out an amused hiss between her sharp teeth. “Ye’ll try.”

Her eyes flickered from bow to stern as she took in the sorry state of the deck. One day of repairs wasn’t nearly enough to hide the destruction of two close calls. The caravel had been hurt before the Southern Wind had opened fire on its sides.

Now it just looked sad.

Finally, Gal squinted at the mainmast, one hand raised to shield away the sun.

“Mus’ be an arse ta go aloft on starboard tack,” she said, tilting her head to the sole set of ratlines on the port side. If the ship so much as heeled, an easy jaunt skyward quickly became a vertical climb.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

The mate caught the knife easily with the practice of a knife fighter. He resisted the urge to bare his teeth back, hers looked like they could tear chunks of flesh off. He kept silent while she took an appraising look of the ship though he seethed inside at what he felt she might say. Lucia could have been a half burnt raft and he'd have still defended her because she was his.

"Why?" he asked with feigned innocence, "Scared you'll fall?". He moved down to join her, avoiding the urge to grasp the hilt of his blade. "It's not much of a climb, our mast isn't that high. We use lines if there's foul weather" he explained, finding his dig a bit childish.

He took a breathe, forcing himself to keep calm. "You're over here because I've no other choice. Your captain's statements to the contrary, this is my ship. You're but a guest, are we clear Nazrani?"

 

[Gal]

Provoked as easily as a caged beast. Hell, he was a caged beast.

Her smirk edged sideways, one corner of her mouth clewed up by a twitching muscle. “Ne, ain’ much o’ a clim’, dat’s tru. We got trees baq home taller’n yer mast. Taller’n our mast, e’en.”

No need to mention she hadn’t been home in years. Besides, to an outsider most of the Aina O Ka La looked about the same. Black beaches, intraversable underbrush, savage natives.

Gal brought her black gaze around, slow like bracing a mains’l. “Wot’re’ye tryin’ ta’ proov, Capo?” She spread her arms wide, and her grin besides. “Scaired o’ lil’ ol’ me? Ah’m noht but a lone wummin amid a crew o’ knaves an’ scoun’rels.”

Gal lied easily – and when Nazrani lie through their teeth, every fib comes out razor-sharp.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Well if your home is so bloody great why didn't you stay there?

That would have been his response if he'd the gall to say it but Ferran decided that maybe a bit of discretion wouldn't go astray. "Scared? Ha!" he said, trying to give his best impression of a careless laugh, "I'm just worried your dead weight will slow down the ship is all".

Woman. As if that meant she was no threat. He'd seen plenty of pirates slit throats, men and women. A sailor's life was tough, it didn't care about the conventions of land. The flash of sharp teeth reminded him that she was from no soft part of the world. "A lone innocent woman wouldn't have been put aboard would she?"

 

[Gal]

Gal considered him with unblinking eyes as she tapped the knife to her bottom lip, as if caught up in thought. “Ye gatta desayd wot ah am, Capo. Ded weit or a denjeroos, debosch’d wummin wha’ ne ‘as done an ‘onest dey’s work in ‘er layf?”

She bounced her brows as her mouth split into a grin again. “Ah’ll leave ye ta’ pondar dat, Mistah Elmahir.”

In a cloud of dark curls the Nazrani turned and scaled the skandalon of their little debate fast as any cat. Before the ship’d rolled again, Gal was sat on the edge of the nest, swinging her legs with the blithe smile of a maiden on her first voyage.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

A variety of responses threatened to drop from Ferran's mouth but the Nazrani just smirked, nimbly climbing up to leave him on deck. She'd claimed the nest for her own so Ferran turned to the business of captaining Lucia. The pirates had sent over sailors at least so even despite the crew's differences, they managed to get underway.

The caravel was sluggish but the brigantine just put on less sail to keep them at a close distance. Southern Wind shepherded her like a nervous sheepdog or a maiden's chaperone. The countless islands made for a change from the endless horizon, Cerak At'Thul was perched in the middle of a ring of them, in the notorious Black Bay.

He felt more like a prize being escorted in while Lucia limped gamely onwards. It was a slaver's port, open to any pirate or brigand. Peace was kept by the blades of the fortress, he'd heard enough tales about its ruler.

 

[Gal]

Both ships had shallow enough draft to maneuver up to the long teeth of the jetties jutting deep into the bay. Once the anchors were secured to the seafloor, the crew of both vessels swarmed down the wharf and into the rotten knot of drunken shacks on the shore.

Ah, home sweet home.

Gal was among the first through the door of a run-down tavern. Narrowly dodging an airborne clay pitcher, the Nazrani quickly shoved her way to the counter while the rest of the people negotiated a table or three from a gaggle of much drunker patrons.

She deposited an armful of brimming tankards with a satisfied grunt. Rum splashed on the stained table as the crew fell upon them with the thirst of a man lost in the desert. Gal, for her part, stuck to a long pipe that she produced from some unknown pocket while everyone was crowding after booze.

Her eyes slunk over to the opposite corner, where al-Kamah was engaged in quiet but furious debate with el Machir.

Business.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Desire to leave the tavern without a knife in his back kept Ferran's tone civil. There were enough of the pirate's crew in here to make that a forgone conclusion if the 'negotiations' went south. Any attempts at subterfuge had been abandoned. The pirate seemed to know the cargo contents better than he did. No doubt that Nazrani witch had gotten some of her crew to take stock while they'd been at sea.

The end result was that most of the cargo was going to be sold at cutthroat prices which the pirate had pointed out quite reasonably to him was better than Ferran's own throat being slit. "Fine" he half spat, it wasn't like he had much choice. Al-Kamah had made reference to how helpful and charitable his own sailors had been to help Lucia limp home to a friendly port like this one.

The smuggler rose and staggered towards the bar, certain he'd stab the man if he had to sit opposite him much longer. His eyes flickered to the pipe wielding Nazrani, Gal's eyes piercing. "Welcome home".

 

[Gal]

A cloud of blue smoke was her generous reply. Her smile and arms spread wide, as if to encompass the island at large. “Ye ne layk et?”

No civilized man would. She’d seen enough of those dragged to their knees from slaver ships – grimy, bruised, yet still spitting their judgment all over their beaten dirt. A round or ten with the lash, and their tongues ran quick out of poison.

Her grin turned ugly.

Ferran el Machir was no civilized man, however much he liked to tell himself otherwise. One glance at al-Kamah in the back told her the Captain had driven a bargain so hard dwares would mistake it for stone, and won.

Good.

“Wanna smoke?” She offered the pipe in a conciliatory gesture. The burning spice was fast to turn blood to tar, make a man sluggish as a snake on a cold day.

Would serve them well when they went ‘round the back later at night to gut him in some alley. That’s how these things usually went, anyway. Al-Kamah ill-suffered people who refused to bow.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran's look was all the answer she needed. Cerak was a place of misery. Slaves there came from all over, the only thing they had in common was their dejected look and miserable gait when prodded forward. There was a solid trade in souls, a commodity that rarely went out of fashion. There was always demand for it.

He took the pipe and took a drag. His bravado had a price, it had him coughing and spluttering a few seconds later. He'd smoked spice before but not something cut as rough or strong as that. "Gods" he managed, thumping his chest to get air back into his lungs.

"What's in that?" he felt tingly after it, a warmth spreading through him.

 

[Gal]

“Das home, Mistah el Machir.” She reclaimed her pipe and dragged another blue plume into her mouth. It crawled out slow between her teeth, thin streams that dissipated into the cloying air of the tavern.

“Kālau only grows ‘ere. Ain’ enuff water or sun ne plays els’, so…” she shrugged and slid off the table, “gal’s gotta enjoy et wen she can.”

With a curt nod to the door the Nazrani shoved her way outside. Wasn’t no thing like cold in these parts, but the air did grow some teeth in the night. It was often welcome compared to the thick stink of sweat and cheap rum that clung to every piece of furniture in the tavern.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

"Gods, it's bloody..." he paused, not sure what words to use for it, "Something else" he managed. He followed her outside, the colder air hitting him immediately. It went right to his head but it cleared that foggy feeling from inside. Taverns were warm but they stank of smoke and worse.

The hustle and bustle from all along the waterfront was audible from their perch. A scream sounded in one direction, glass breaking from another. "I haven't been here in a while" he said, taking in grateful gulps of air, as fresh as any could be found though the ever present stink of the port mingled with the fresher salt smell of the sea.

"Why are you" he said, pointing his finger at her "With him?" he jabbed it back in the direction of where they'd come from. The Nazrani was still a mystery to him even though they'd shared a ship the rest of the way to Cerak.

 

[Gal]

“Ne?” She tilted her head like a curious cat, dark curls tumbling off her shoulder to reveal dark freckles and many, many scars. “Wher’ do ye sell yer goods den? Cortosi?”

There were always a couple poorly supervised governors who liked blood money more than they were afraid of the repercussions of the distant Mantessant authority. That, and the cheaper rates they could buy expensive wares at. You could almost judge it by eye these days – if a governor’s palace seemed closer to a well-to-do count than a lowly public official, you were almost sure to find a friendly fence or five in the city.

“Wit who?” Gal played dumb with those big black eyes for a moment. It was too easy. Then – “Whass da sayin’ go layk again? A merry lyf but a short one?”

Blue smoke crawled out between sharp teeth, into the star-spangled sky. When she was little the Shaman would tell her how all the clouds in the world came from the great fires. Why the heavy rains and storms always came upon Aina O Ka La after they’d finished their slash-and-char in the summer. The plumes of smoke would rise from their fields and become the great dark shadows that crept over the isles with the coming autumn.

She sighed out the last of the kālau and offered the pipe to the smuggler again. The westward winds would soon be upon them, and with them the incessant deluge, the crops, the rain-rites.

“He sails a lot an’ da world is big. Ah wanna seet.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

"Cortosi. Vel Anir. There's plenty of ports open for trade but I've tried to avoid the northern ones".

He was a little less unsteady on his feet in the cooler air. "And if you know the right people" he shrugged, "It's easy to sell on goods without any tax or duty, si?". He accepted the pipe a bit more readily this time. Prepared for its kick, he took a careful drag, letting the smoke work its magic.

He stared as Gal flashed those big black eyes at him. They were like dark pools, it was probably the smoke but he felt like he was getting lost in them. The Nazrani had an impressive figure on her. But the memory of her murdering a captive made for sobering thoughts. He realised he was staring and hurriedly jerked his gaze up.

"I can understand that" he said, pausing while he tried to formulate his thoughts, "But why do it as a pirate?"

 

[Gal]

When his gaze stumbled back up, he found the Nazrani flashing him a knowing grin.

She shrugged the shrug of those who knew the answer damn well, turning half away with another smoke parting from her lips towards the sky. “Wat els’ would ah do it as? Serv’ on da navy ship fo’ ne pay an’ shit food? On da merkant ship fo’ shite pay an’ shit food?”

Snorting, Gal shook her head and knocked the ash out of the pipe before she lit it again. “Ne, ah don’ tink so. Ah’m me own wummin, Mistah El Machir.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

She made a fair point. Life in the navy was usually one of painful discipline with little benefits. Some captains ruled their ships in paranoia, convinced the crew were mere moments away from mutiny. Gal preferred to be a wolf in a world of sheep, why risk being a merchant sailor and deal with pirates when you could be one of them?

"Agreed, you are a woman" he murmured, his hand brushing her side. He felt foggy headed but the warming numbness made his skin tingle all over. It helped him to see the world in a bright cheerful way and right now the first mate of Southern Wind was looking very pleasing indeed. He closed his eyes and leaned in.

 

[Gal]

Her laugh was the tinkling of pearls falling from an unraveled string; her finger on his lips was the satin brush of aged Guancano poured straight from the cask; her breath in his ear the warm southern wind.

“Qesq t’pensi qe stai facit?”

Her eyes were like polished obsidian up close, smoke and secrets pooling in their depths as she waited to meet his dazzled gaze.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

The laugh almost seemed at odds with the hardened pirate, it was beautiful. Her finger intercepted his lips and held him there but the feeling of her warm breathe on his skin made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He racked his brain to respond to her in the same tongue. Her eyes were like pools, he was enthralled by how dark they were.

"Io-" he began but was caught for words. He didn't try to move her hand, but just let his drop to her hip. "Sai" he tried. He accompanied it with his most winning smile, the sort he reserved for humorless excisemen, aging noblewomen, and grim naval captains. She hadn't tried to stab him yet which he took as encouragement.

 

[Gal]

“Ne,” she said with an arch voice and an arched brow. With the flick of her wrist she pushed his lips away and crossed her arms under an ample bosom.

It was not a coincidence.

“N’elo so. Qe voy, ragazz’? Perq n’avo tant’ pacienza, sai?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

The tone abruptly changed and a brow arched. Gal smoothly pushed him away, eyes locking with his. Her crossed arms accentuated what was already a distracting sight. His eyes dipped for a second before meeting her dark ones. Her tart voice mimicked his words as she demanded a straight answer. He'd have laughed if it was anyone else.

Ferran thought about beating a hasty retreat but stayed his course. "Ragazza, ti voglio" he said, one hand touching his chest to affirm his sincerity. "Et tu?"

 

[Gal]

Her lips turned up, crimson like the twist of a knife. “Typical.”

She leaned in, covering his hand with her own. “Ah should of known Kamah woulda thrown me in wit da deal.” There was no edge to her voice – that was all in her eyes, as dark as they were in the low lighting of the narrow Cerak street.

“Well—” she tilted her head to the side and tugged him closer by the lace of his shirt. “Se business, ne?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

He could feel her hand on his, the touch marking her as a sailor. No noblewoman born to silk and perfume had hands like that. Her voice was flat as she made her conclusion. He worried she was on the verge of doing something to vent her displeasure but the pirate resisted. She grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer with surprising strength.

"Ne, se pleasure" he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning in.

 

[Gal]

This time she didn’t stop him. She twisted her hand into his tunic and yanked him close for a bruising meeting. She bit into his lips like into a ripe fruit, teeth hard and sharp enough to break skin and introduce the blossom of salt and copper to her tongue as she swept it over the trickle of blood.

“Sei siggur’ d’elo, Mistah Elmahir?”

Business was unlacing your breeches, lying back, and taking that quick grunt and fuck for a gleaming sum of gold.

Pleasure, however, was currently dripping down his chin.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran was used to swooning wenches who quivered at his touch. Not to being grabbed full force and yanked forward. Gal wasn't exactly gentle. He gasped at the sudden flash of pain, eyes watering from it. He deepened the kiss, letting one hand drop to her rear and squeeze. At least if he knew where her hands were then he'd have a heads up if she went for the knife.

"You can say Ferran" he murmured, pulling back. His lip still stung and he could taste the blood.

 

[Gal]

“Ah could,” she husked, tracing a rough thumb over his lip. She smeared the red down his chin before licking the remainder off her finger. “But ah don’ want to.”

Her mouth was gentler this time – if a knife is gentler than a cutlass. Her hands found their way underneath his loose shirt, scraping along the weathered body of a sailor, traipsing over muscle, bone, and scar.

“Frut ninin, non a paura, vien mi donde kokolon.”