There were dead to tend.
Lenk spared a glancing frown for the men below. Some were veterans, having seen the deaths of comrades before, though likely none so gruesome. Most were young men who’d only seen elders pass away in their sleep. He hesitated at the top of the helm, his gaze lingering upon a young man dragging one of the dead from the deck.
A part of him wanted to turn back around, put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and move him below where Asper tended to the wounded, mortally or otherwise. The sailor was possibly the same age as Lenk. Hands on shoulders should be wrinkled, he thought, weathered with age and experience, broad from embracing children and wives. Young hands, calloused hands, were not meant to be placed on shoulders.
Old hands grip people. Young hands grip swords.
His grandfather had told him that once. His grandfather’s hands had been young to the day he died. He blinked, drew in a deep breath. Something in his mind stirred: the roar of fire, shadows dancing against sheets of orange, people falling beneath flashes of silver, smiles that twisted into screams. His grandfather. .
No. He commanded himself to force the images from his mind. Not today. Not now.
He turned his back on the deck. There were plenty of men with weathered, wrinkled hands on the ship. His still gripped a sword.
At the ship’s impressive wheel stood Captain Argaol, looking decidedly less fazed than he should have with dead men on his deck. His dark features were stern, eyes fixed straight ahead, not even looking at the young man. His only movement was to reach down and smooth the sash of commendation medals he had earned from his various charters.
His mate, Sebast, a man who had spent so much time in the sun that he had both the appearance and smell of jerked beef, dutifully moved aside as Lenk stepped onto the quarterdeck. He sniffed, dipped a mop into a wooden bucket and proceeded to wipe away the blood that had been spilled on the ship’s timbers as casually as if he were wiping away the lunch that Lenk had spilled some days earlier.
Lenk gave him a cursory nod before stepping up to the captain’s side.
‘Well, we did it.’ His voice sounded alien to his own ears.
‘Did what?’ The captain’s voice seemed much deeper than it should have, given his size. The man stood only a little taller than Lenk, his height perhaps diminished due to the lack of hair upon his head.
‘Drove off the pirates.’
‘And?’
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘I can see the whole Gods-cursed ship from up here, boy. You think I didn’t see that?’ He glanced at the young man with a sneer. ‘What? You wanted some credit for breaking the chain? Smart move there — wish you’d thought of it early enough to spare my men.’
‘It was a fight,’ Lenk replied coldly. ‘People die.’
‘How fortunate we have you to be so casually nonchalant about it. I’ve been in this business awhile, boy. I know what happens.’
‘Then you’ll also know to choose your insults carefully. Many more of your men would have died if not for us.’ The young man gestured to the deck. ‘Or did you not see how many pirates we killed?’
‘Oh, I saw,’ the captain replied, seething. ‘I also saw you making eyes at the escape vessel while you were down there.’ He levelled an accusing finger. ‘You’d have run like the heathens you are and left the rest of us to die if you could have.’ He grunted and glowered at his first mate. ‘What’d I tell you about taking adventurers aboard?’
‘Bad idea,’ Sebast replied without looking up. ‘Bad philosophically, bad practically. Still, they did undoubtedly save about as many as they killed, Captain. Perhaps a little gratitude wouldn’t be inappropriate?’
‘I’m grateful enough that the heathen scum didn’t decide to slaughter us to try and curry favour with the Cragscum, aye,’ the captain agreed.
The adventurer reputation for opportune betrayal was not unknown to Lenk, but he still took slight offence at Argaol’s accusation. It wasn’t as though he had seriously considered turning on the crew.
Not until now, anyway.
‘So, you’ll forgive me if I’m not at the pinnacle of appreciativeness’ Argaol continued, scowling at the young man. ‘And you’ll forgive me for saying that if you ever so much as think of fleeing and leaving my men without escape again, I’ll chop you up and serve you in the mess.’
‘Hope you’ve got a bigger sword,’ Lenk muttered under his breath.
‘What was that?’
‘I said if you’re so concerned for your crew, perhaps you should be down there moving corpses and grieving.’ Lenk cast a sneer of his own back at the captain. ‘I promise I won’t look if you start crying.’
‘Ah, we’ve got a merry jester here, in addition to a filthy adventurer. I bet a man of such diverse talents would like a lovely strawberry tart.’ He snapped two thin fingers. ‘Sebast, fetch the fanciful adventurer a tart!’
‘As you like, Captain.’ The mate set aside his mop and began to trundle down the steps.
‘Get back here, you nit,’ Argaol snarled. ‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘Facetious,’ Lenk corrected.
‘What?’ He sighed, slumping at the wheel slightly. ‘You got word for me, boy? Or did you come up here to demonstrate your impeccable wit?’
‘A little over a dozen of the Cragsmen dead, fewer of our own.’
‘My own,’ Argaol snapped back fiercely. ‘The Riptide sails under Argaol, the men serve under Argaol, not some runty adventurer.’
The mate leaned upon his mop, peering thoughtfully at the young man. ‘Where is it you said you came from, Mister Lenk?’
‘Steadbrook,’ the young man replied, ‘in Muraska.’
‘Steadbrook, is it? That can hardly be right. I’ve travelled up, down, through and around Muraska and I’ve never heard of any such town.’
Lenk opened his mouth. His voice caught in his throat as he blinked. ‘It’s gone,’ he whispered, choked, ‘burned.’
‘Such a shame.’ Whatever sincerity the first mate might have hoped to convey was lost as he returned to his mop-ping. ‘It would have been interesting to visit a place that produces such short men with grey hair.’
Before Lenk could respond, Argaol interjected with a rough cough. ‘What of the Lord Emissary?’
‘Evenhands is-’
‘Kindly refer to our charter by his proper name,’ the captain interrupted sharply. ‘This ship is free of all blasphemy, no matter how minor. I won’t have a. .’ He stared hard at Lenk. ‘What’s your faith, boy?’
‘None of your business,’ Lenk responded hotly.
‘Khetashite,’ Sebast muttered. ‘All adventurers follow the Outcast, I hear.’
‘The proper title is the Wanderer.’
‘Khetashe gets a proper title when he’s a proper God and not some patron of misfits.’ Argaol coughed. ‘At any rate, what of the Lord Emissary?’
‘Evenhands is safe. No pirate managed to get through us.’
‘Aye, thanks to that monster of yours, no doubt.’ Argaol laughed, his humour tinged with an edge of hysteria. ‘Your boys are good at killing, Mister Lenk, no doubt about that. A shame you couldn’t find a more decent skill to devote your life to.’
Lenk’s only response was an acknowledging hum. There was no real sense in getting angry at slights towards his profession. He had heard them all, up to and including slights against his God, Khetashe. There was, after all, little sense in getting irate about insults to a God who watched over people who killed things for money.
‘Speaking of faith, your men are all Zamanthrans, I hear.’
‘All men of the Riptide pay homage to the Sea Mother, aye.’