Chapter Sixteen

Krist awoke to a pounding between his ears, most likely from the many rounds of drinks they had consumed in Mangy Dog. Images from the night swam in his mind and he groaned slightly, realizing they had spent too much time and probably all of their money at the tavern.

The old man... The face of Peter Longshanks made a particularly long appearance. What was it they had agreed to? That’s right, we signed a contract.

Krist abruptly sat upright, heart pounding at their foolishness. His head struck something low.

“Ouch!” he cried.

“Well lookie who’s up!” a gravelly voice said with a laugh. “Get up and at ‘em!”

A foot slammed into Krist’s side with what he could only imagine was a kick. His eyes opened with alarm.

He was in a tight space, scarcely tall enough to stand. The walls were lined with wooden planks, sanded and stained quite some time ago. Simple hammocks hung in this room, three rows high and Krist lay atop one in the top row. Beneath him, Franque stirred.

A ragged sailor stood in the middle, finding amusement in Krist’s confusion. He grabbed a low rafter and swung again, this time slamming his foot into Franque. “I said get up!” he roared.

Franque rolled out with a vengeful growl, not realizing there was space between him and the ground. He landed hard with a thud.

Krist moved more carefully, easing himself down before standing to full height. He had a full head of height over this man and would not allow himself to be intimidated. “Where are we?” he demanded.

The sailor’s hand flashed lightning quick, producing a short wooden cudgel from his belt. It was the perfect weapon in this tight space and met Krist’s ear with a sickening crack. He collapsed to his knees, holding his head against the ringing. That was all he could hear for a few seconds, but another sailor’s voice soon came into focus.

“Don’t kill them, Boats!”

“I dun intend to,” the gravelly voice replied.

“Then put away the shillelagh.”

“I had to teach ‘em a lesson, so they know who to respect. I am the bosun, after all!”

“And I’m the quartermaster, and I’m telling you to leave them be. You probably cracked his skull just now!”

Krist pulled his hand away, marveling at the amount of blood. The man may be right, his head did feel like it had cracked.

The boatswain left with a grunt, pushing past a nicely dressed man holding a log book.

“Where are we?” Franque asked.

“You’re on the eastern flow of Lake Norton, about to cross under the Span. But, more precisely, it’s more accurate to say aboard the barque She Wolf.”

“So we did sign on? Last night wasn’t a dream?”

“Last night? Two days, actually, was when you came aboard.”

“I don’t remember boarding a ship,” Franque replied.

“Well, that’s the thing,” the quartermaster said, “you wouldn’t remember. You were drugged and unconscious when you came aboard.” He opened his ledger. “I need to verify your names and their correct spelling for the record. Our boatswain mate didn’t know them when he dragged you across the brow.”

“Drop us off in Eston,” Franque demanded

“That’s not advisable. The captain would view an early departure from your contract as desertion. You’d carry the black mark for the rest of your days, earning who ever killed or captured you a hefty reward.” Matter of factly he added, “You’d forever be hunted and harassed.”

“We’re kidnapped?” Krist asked.

“No. You signed the contracts freely.”

“Six months...” Franque corrected with quite a bit of irritation.

“Umm, no. I see here it was for two years.”

“That’s a mistake,” Franque argued. “I demand to speak to the captain.”

“That won’t be possible unless you want to hang from the yardarm. Names.”

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

“I see. Welcome to the crew, brothers Thorinson. As I said before, I’m the quartermaster. My name’s Benjamin Thompson, and you can both call me Ben. I’ll handle your wages, which you receive every first of the month. You’re each entitled to an advance in order to purchase gear like a marlinspike or a set of sailing clothes. You’ll want those, believe me. These things you have on won’t last a week of scrubbing or sanding.”

Krist touched the tender spot by his ear and asked a very important question. “Who do we report to when scrubbing or sanding?”

“That’ll be Boats. He pretty much owns the both of you. What he tells you is law, and the captain will uphold it.” Ben paused as if he had another thought, then added. “Just so you know, striking an officer onboard a vessel of The Cove is a hanging offense.”

The added response quickly dispelled any notions Krist had before.

“Wait,” Franque asked quietly. “Did you just say The Cove?”

“Aye, that I did. She Wolf is captained by none other than Devil Jacque, Pirate King and Guild Leader of Pirate’s Cove. Welcome aboard, boys! You picked the finest vessel and best captain to sail under!”

Boats turned out worse than both boys imagined, with a mouth full of vulgarity and insults and a mind packed with meanness. It was as if the gods placed him into the world with the single goal of beating the boys down and ruining their day. Franque eyed him from across the deck, yelling at Krist and forcing him to rearrange the mooring lines.

“Not like that!” the awful man shouted. “Curl it like this! Figure eights around the bits, and push each wrap down before the next. Otherwise they’ll tangle and slow departure if we have to leave in a hurry!”

“I’m trying,” Krist protested, one hand held to his head. His wound had stopped bleeding, but he still complained to Franque about headaches.

“Try harder!” the boatswain demanded. The man kept a close watch over both boys, rarely letting them work together when topside. Franque thought maybe it was to keep them from planning an escape so close to Eston.

The boy stole a glance at the city, lifting his eyes from his sanding to watch the Span approach overhead. The walls of the city stood high on both sides of the river, and the Span carried its presence over the open harbor. He’d longed for a chance to see it himself and soon would sail directly underneath. If he wasn’t working so blasted hard, he might’ve been excited.

“Will we be getting shore leave in Eston?” Franque called out to Boats.

“Shore leave? For you two?” the sailor laughed so hard his belly shook. “You’ll be locked in berthing with guards on your door. No, you won’t be runnin’ nowhere, so get the thought outta your head!”

“I don’t want to run,” Franque said truthfully. A contract was a contract and he was coming to grips with the fact. “It’s just we’ve got business in the city.” This caused the boatswain to laugh even harder.

“Hey, Smitty!” Boats called toward a group of men tying up the main sails. They didn’t need them, not with the lack of wind between the city walls. Instead the ship was pulled along by a system of pulleys along the shoreline. As one set fell slack, they unwrapped it and hauled it in, preparing a cast line and monkey fist for another throw further up river. There, a shore crew hauled it to another pulley.

One of the men hollered down, “What is it, Boats?”

“The rookies say they have business in the city!”

This sparked laughter from the men moving the lines along the port and starboard forecastle.

“I’ve got business in the city, Boats!” Smitty shouted suddenly.

“Oh? What kinda business?”

“Gonna visit your mum!” This made the rest of the crew laugh harder and even the lines crew joined in.

“Man those lines and cease your laughter!” Boats screamed at his men. They stopped, but the damage was done and Smitty had won.

Franque cringed. Boats would probably take it out on him and Krist at first chance, but at least they had weapons. He felt the marlinspike on his hip. It and the clothing set both boys back a month’s wage, despite receiving only worn out tools and moth eaten linen. Even if Boats had let them leave, they would never be able to purchase what they needed to kill the king.

A rifle. They needed a rifle.

Two years, Franque thought. It would be a long indentureship, and he regretted ever leaving home. He knew Krist felt the same

A hatch opened nearby, and a handsome, older man climbed out. He wore fine clothing, richly embroidered and not suited for sailing. As soon as he emerged, Zane Rogers, the ship’s first mate, jogged over and saluted.

“We’re nearing the harbor, Captain.”

“Good,” the older man replied.

So this is Devil Jacque, Franque marveled. This close, he appeared more a gentleman than the scourge of the seas, less a pirate and more gentleman than the boy ever imagined.

“I won’t be long in the city, only for the gala. I have to meet with our benefactor but will want to return immediately after. We must shove off by nightfall,” the captain explained.

“So there won’t be shore leave?”

“No, the men had enough of that in Logan.”

“Pardon my pointing out, sir, but this is Eston. It offers much more than Logan, and an evening off is good for morale.”

“Midnight, then. Let the men get some tension out, but remind them they still have to sail.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Zane?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Just keep the men away from the Span tonight. Security will be tight with the king present, and I won’t be bailing anyone out of jail.”

The king? Franque watched the man leave, admiring the captain’s poise and grace and wondered if the man had spoken true. I know where the king will be! He suddenly idolized this man who rubbed elbows with kings, and, if there had ever been a man he wished he could model himself after, they paled to this Devil Jacque. He’s led me to our goal!

“Francis!” Boats yelled, meaning Franque. He had nicknames for both boys. Krist’s was Bleeder after the way his head had split.

Franque jumped to his feet and hurried to join his brother and the boatswain.

“We’re almost to the harbor after this last pull,” Boats explained. The Span was nearly overhead and he marveled at the size of it.

“We’ve got a shipment waiting and you two are on the loading crew, so rest up a bit. I need you strong because it’s a lot of heavy boxes.”

Franque waited till Boats had moved to watch the pulley team then whispered, “I heard the captain talking to the first mate. If we want off, we have an opportunity tonight.”

“Do you think we should?” Krist asked. “You heard Ben, we’ll be marked and hunted.” He rubbed at his skull, pulling his hand away with a muffled yelp.

“Maybe. We don’t know how serious desertion really is. Are you okay?” Franque asked. “You seem to be getting worse.”

“I’m tired,” Krist said with a slight slur, “and I wanna puke, but if I do, Boats and everyone else will make fun of me. I just want off,” he added. “I hate it here.”

“Yeah, this life is not what I expected.”

Both boys looked up as the shadow of the Span darkened the deck of the ship. An entire city floated above their heads, a marvelous construction.

“Hey, Bleeder!” Boats called from the bow. “Haul another line to us!”

“I hate when he calls me that,” Krist admitted. “I hate him,” he whispered to his brother, “and I am going to kill him!”

Franque watched his brother trot off to follow Boat’s every order. “Not if I get to him first,” he muttered.

The shipment turned out to be fifty wooden crates. Boats had been right. They were heavy, but not too much so. Franque hefted them easily, tossing them to his brother. He, in turn, carried them across the brow and onto the ship. There, a group of crewmen waited to stow them away below decks.

Boats watched from the brow and Krist stole a glance at the man. He eyed the boys with suspicion as if daring them to bolt into the city.

I hate him so much, the boy thought. It hurt to focus his eyes, and the image of the crusty sailor wavered and blurred momentarily.

“Mind what you’re doing with those!” Boats abruptly screamed at someone else, stepping away from the rail and out of sight.

“Pay attention!” Franque called as he handed over a box.

It slipped and Krist tried to catch it, but it fell, striking the pier with a thud and cracking open the wooden lid. He froze, staring at the contents poking out from within.

“Franque,” he said, “look!”

His brother saw it too. It was a rifle, though much more advanced than the one stolen with their horses. The two brothers stared wide-eyed. “If they find it,” Franque warned, “we’ll be killed for seeing it.”

Both boys glanced at the brow. Boats was still gone and no one was watching.

“Better they get shorted a delivery,” Krist suggested and, working quickly, the pair tucked the crate behind some empty pallets and covered it with burlap sacks they found lying about.

“Wait,” Franque demanded. “Arrange them like this, so we’ll know if someone disturbs the pile.”

Krist nodded dreamily, the pain in his head now a distant throbbing. The numbness had begun to worry him. “What if someone does find it?”

“Then all of this is wasted, and the man who killed Father gets away a while longer. Hurry,” Franque urged, “let’s get these others on board.”

Krist nodded. They had little time. The final pallet contained satchels, each filled with what they now assumed were cartridges for the rifles. They were different than Sippen’s, tubular and with lead tips at the end. They tucked a bag of these into the hideaway as well. They finished covering it just as Boats returned.

“Hurry up with those sacks!” he commanded.” Carry them directly to the armory.”

Begrudgingly, the boys did as commanded. Anxious to be finished so he could lie down for the evening, Krist hefted several bags of ammunition at once and hauled them aboard. The armory was below decks, down a hatch and tight ladderwell. His vision swam as he descended and his foot nearly missed a step.

The armorer frowned at the end of the narrow passage. “Hurry up with it,” he growled. “I’ve only got a few hours ashore tonight, and you boys are cuttin’ into my time.”

Krist pushed past him into the space, dropping the sacks on the counter. He looked around, marveling at the weaponry. Swords, maces, mauls, and cudgels rested in open barrels, and guns and rifles lined the bulkhead. Against one wall rested the latest additions, still packed and stacked neatly. He ignored these, focusing instead on one particular barrel.

In it he recognized the axe Franque took from their mother’s footlocker. Next to that was a broadsword, too long for shipboard fighting and exquisitely carved as if it belonged to a king. The pommel depicted a Fjorik crest. Krist gawked as the saber cat devoured the wolf of Loganshire. It was his father’s weapon, the royal sword stolen along with his and Franque’s horses.

He studied the crest, taking it in and burning the image into his mind.

I want it back, he brooded.

“What are you gawking at?” the armorer demanded.

“Nothing,” he said, but his imagination ran wild and he envisioned himself running the man through. Humbly, he turned and lowered his head and returned to the main deck. The thought of killing the man thrilled him, but the crest most of all called his attention. I have to sketch it, he thought, to remember.

Their work for the day finally completed, Krist returned to his hammock.

Franque was already in his own bed, sharpening his marlinspike with a stone. “It happens tonight,” he suggested. “While the crew is ashore, we’ll retrieve the rifle and find the king.”

Krist laid back with eyes fixed on the beam holding up his bedding. It was smooth and stained by years of wear. He drew his own spike and began scratching the woodgrain. “We’ve got business here, too,” he said. “This crew is the one that stole our horses.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw Father’s weapons in the armory.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to get those back,” Franque agreed. “How do you feel? Are you going to be okay for tonight?”

“I have to be,” Krist said, wincing against the pain as it throbbed. “We’ll get this done.”