Chapter Twelve

“We’re screwed,” Franque said again, staring at his mug of cider. He and Krist had decided to gather their thoughts and chose a small tavern near the waterfront. The sign out front read, The Mangy Dog, and so far, it had lived up to that name. His skin crawled like he already caught fleas.

“I’ve got a little gold here,” Krist said, tapping his purse now secure in his breast pocket.

“And how far can we get on it?” Franque asked. “A trip around the pier and back again? No, we’re going to have to work our way to Eston, and even when we get there what will we do? How could we even hope to get another rifle?”

“The black market,” Krist offered.

“Oh, yeah? And who do you know who has contacts like that? Huh? Think again, Krist! You should’ve been watching the horses.”

“Well you should’ve kept better control over our purse! You lost a fortune! I only lost a bit of food and a rifle.”

“We needed that rifle!” Franque was ready to come to blows. Had his drink been stronger than cider, he might’ve already knocked his brother around.

“We needed that gold to get to Eston!” From the sounds of him, Krist wanted a fight.

“Excuse me, gentlemen!” an old sailor interrupted. His skin was sun leathered and hair snow white. Though freshly shaved, he missed a few sprigs under his nose and on his neck. He wore a few cuts and nicks, as well. Whoever shaved this man did not have a steady hand. “Did I hear you say you’re seeking passage to Eston?”

“Yes,” replied Krist.

“No,” insisted Franque, shooting his brother a glare.

“Well, I may just have a few contacts who can bill you passage for a bit of work.”

“We’re not looking for work,” Franque said dryly. “Thank you, but no thanks.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” the man said, slipping into a chair at their table. He plopped a small sack of gold on the table.

“What’s that?” Franque asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“It would’ve been advanced wage,” the man said, “for hardy men willing to join the crew.”

“What kind of work?” Krist asked, his eyes locked on the purse and coveting its pieces.

“This ship needs sailors, but not too experienced, only willing to learn.”

“Is it hard work?” Franque asked.

“Aye, to work upon the sea is to bleed for it and often to feed it with the contents of your stomach,” he said with a laugh. His hand moved quickly for an old man, as he pocketed the gold as swiftly as it was presented. “But neither nor both of you are interested.” He stood to leave.

“Wait,” Franque said, placing a hand on the man’s forearm. “How long is an indenture?”

“Six months.”

“That’s all?” Krist asked with amazement. “I expected a year or more!”

“Where would we go?” Franque asked.

“Eston for sure, then down river to Diaph and beyond. Expect a circle around Andalon, stopping in Middleton, Soston, and Eskera. Then up the Misting River to Weston and back here.”

Franque considered. “How long would our stop be in Eston? Would we have leave to see the city?”

“Aye, and wages to enjoy it!” the old man promised.

“What is your name?” Franque asked.

“Peter Longshanks. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“I’m Franque, Franque Thorinson, and this is my brother Krist.”

“Well then, Franque and Krist! Will you sign on with the crew?”

“I... We don’t know,” Franque said truthfully. “Six months is a long time, and we must discuss it, but I believe we’re open to the prospect.”

“Good! Let’s drink to the prospect of a life at sea!”

Krist lifted his tiny purse, jingling the pair of coins within. With a glance at his brother he shook his head and frowned.

“What’s this?” Peter asked. “I wouldn’t offer a drink without paying for it myself! Barmaid!” he shouted. “Bring a round of ale for my new friends and myself!” He paused, then added, “But not the Estonian brew, it tastes like the waterfront. Bring the strongest you have!”

Both boys smiled. Neither had been allowed strong ale, only ever milled wine and cider.

Peter waited till the boys drank themselves so drunk they could no longer focus on his face. This was the part he hated. The empty promises and lies he spewed were tolerable, at least without a conscience, but this bit condemned his soul to any one of the many hells awaiting his kind. They were big boys, Fjorik stock by the look of it, and the ale worked slowly. After a nod to the tavern keep he cut himself off, pretending to drink the same mug the rest of the night. He had no stomach for what the bartender added to the boys’. Thankfully the drug worked quickly.

You’re an awful person, Peter Longshanks. The worst of the worst, his accuser reminded.

There are others worse than me, the old man told himself. He fumbled finding the clasp behind the bench and realized his fingers worked slower each time he doomed young men to their fate. For some reason, this time felt worse than all those others. He swallowed, then looked both ways to ensure no one watched. His fingers ceased shaking just long enough to work the latch, and the back of the booth swung away. With a shove Franque tumbled downward, into the compartment.

“What happened,” Krist demanded. “Where’s Franque?”

Without answering, Pete condemned Krist next, snatching the boy’s purse from his belt as he fell.

Peter did not watch them enter the chute—he never did. He had no stomach for what came next. They were mostly unharmed besides bumps and bruises and would be fine after a short tumble and slide into a hidden cellar beneath the tavern. Soon Jacque’s crew would collect them, and, after that, he cared not what happened. The boys now belonged to the Devil, bought and sold into a two-year indenture. Franque and Krist were headed to Pirate’s Cove.

“Excuse me!” a loud voice asked from the tavern entrance. “We’re looking for two boys about yay tall,” a stocky fella said standing on both tiptoes and pegged leg with his arm stretched high. “They’re broad across,” he stretched his hands to the sides, “and with long blond hair. They’re teens who look like men, they do!”

Peter’s eyes grew wide and his body trembled. His past had finally caught him.

“Thuh... they don’t nuh... know their way uh... around things,” a second man added. He was small, frail even, and the years had not aged him well. He pushed his spectacles onto his nose nervously. “There’s a ruh.... reward if they’re safe.”

Longshanks quickly shut the trap door and slid in front of it, hiding the latch with his body. He stared down at his mug of ale, watching the bubbles rise and praying to the gods these men would leave.

So you have a bit of guilt left after all? his accuser asked.

Pete shrank down into his coat, willing them not to recognize him.

“Why! If it ain’t Peter Longshanks!” Krill exclaimed. “Where you been all these years, Petey?”

“I’m sorry,” the old man said. “Do I know you?”

The pair rushed over and Krill plopped into the booth next to him. “It is you! Damn, if the years ain’t been good to any of us!”

Pete made a show of studying the men, then feigned happy surprise. “Gunnery Sergeant Krill? Sippen Yurik? You both be a sight fer sore eyes!”

“Wuh... we’re looking for tuh... two boys, Peter,” Sippen stammered.

“I don’t see much of anything these days, but I’ll do my best.”

“They’re big boys, Pete!” Krill added. “You can’t miss ‘em. They’re large and big, and blonde and green behind the gills!”

“Who are they? These boy’s you lost. Are they crewmen?” Peter trembled with what they’d say.

“Crewmen?” Krill asked with a laugh. “No, we ain’t sailin’ no more. These are Eusari’s boys. They ran off and she tasked us to bring ‘em back.”

Peter felt his blood run cold. Eusari, he thought, Thorinson. Then he remembered Franque’s introduction. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. What could he say? Surely it was too late. Of all the reefs he could have run aground against, Eusari’s was the least desirable.

His accuser laughed. It’s finally time then, it said, to face her wrath.

He drank the remnants of his mug down with a single gulp, finding courage enough to steady his voice. “Eusari... My goodness. Is she here, then? In Logan?”

“Aye, but she don’t be around the waterfront.”

Pete let out his held breath without a sigh. “That’s a shame,” he lied. He was thrilled they wouldn’t face off just yet. He had time to leave town, perhaps hop a freighter to Eston and get away. “I’ve not seen her boys,” he lied again, “but I’ll keep an eye out for sure!”

“Thuh... thank you, Pete!” Sippen said with a smile. He was always a good man. They both were.

But seeing them brought painful memories Pete could barely stomach.

Perhaps now you have the courage to do it, the accuser suggested, and the reasons too.

Do what? Peter demanded from himself.

End your no good, double crossing, back stabbing, cowardly life!

“I would like to see her,” Peter said, shutting up his accuser and surprising himself.

“That’s nuh... not possible,” Sippen said with an air of sadness.

“Why not? Did she hear of my betrayal? Does she hate me like I deserve?”

Krill and Sippen exchanged a look. No, that wasn’t it at all.

“Eusari’s in jail,” Krill finally explained. “She’s falsely held and must stand before the magistrate.”

“Falsely? So she’s not to stand for past crimes?” Peter asked with surprise. He’d been running from his past so long he figured she had as well—otherwise she might have come to seek revenge on him sooner.

“No,” Krill answered immediately. “She was pardoned long ago. This is a different matter, a small one even, but one she intends to face.”

“That’s always been her way,” Peter acknowledged. Eusari was a determined woman. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “I’ve something I must attend to. Please excuse me.” To his own astonishment, as much as to the others, Peter rose. He took four coins from his own purse, careful not to take those he took from Krist, and placed them on the table. “Have a round on me,” he said, then hurried from the tavern.

What are you doing? his accuser demanded.

But he ignored himself.

Peter rushed around the corner and around the building, nearly running down a steep incline that led to the waterfront. The door to the cellar was closed, and he heaved his body against it, swinging the heavy oak inward. He froze. The boys were gone. Turning slowly, he faced the waters of Lake Norton. In the distance, silhouetted by moonlight, he made out a small vessel. The sails and keel were black as the night, but he could easily make out the shape of the bowsprit extended from the growling mouth of a wolf.

She Wolf, the ship was called, the infamous vessel of Devil Jacque. Peter Longshanks fell to his knees and wept. He failed her not only once but now several times over. He had once again betrayed the woman he loved like a daughter, and because of him her children were gone forever.

You’re a failure, his accuser said with a laugh.

“No,” he argued. “I’ll make this right somehow.”