“All missing the same thing?” Jane asked.
“Don’t know.”
“And there’s no sign of who did it?” I said.
“Oh, there’s a sign. A double X carved into the door of the captain’s cabin. But no one knows what it means.”
“When you say ‘no one,’ ” I said, “exactly who do you mean?”
He looked at me now with undisguised contempt. “I mean, me and everyone I know.”
Clift and Jane exchanged a look. Clift said, “I suppose we’ll keep an eye out ourselves, then. See if we can’t get as lucky as you.”
“Not sure if it’s lucky or not. Damn well creepy, that’s for sure. Be more’n happy to get this wreck back to port and my boots back onto an honest ship with no shadows, that I tell you.”
As we watched Fernelli row back to the Mellow Wine, I said, “What happens if we do run across one of those ghost ships?” “We do the same thing the Randagore did,” Clift said. “I’ll assign some men to sail her to port and claim the salvage prize. Although I’d hope that, with two trained investigators aboard, we might get closer to the bottom of things.”
“Only if you pay us,” Jane said. “Right, Eddie?” “Twenty-five gold pieces a day,” I agreed. “Plus expenses.” “Each,” Jane added.
Clift laughed. I looked at the Mellow Wine bobbing ungracefully in the waves and was secretly glad her mystery wasn’t mine to solve. The one I had was complex enough.
And of course, even a blind man could’ve seen where this was leading.
Chapter Ten
When I came on deck the next morning, the sky was cloudless, and the sunlight reflected off every ripple. The heat was already intense, and the ship’s distinctive odors felt renewed and strengthened. Even the breeze that filled the sails seemed muggy and rancid. As my eyes adjusted to the glare, I saw Quartermaster Seaton before me.
“Good morning, Captain,” he said with a jaunty salute.
“I’m not a captain,” I said in what had become our usual morning exchange.
“Any man who pays the bills is a captain,” Seaton replied with his standard half smile.
“Any ships pass our way?”
“A small galleon from Boscobel. Two Ilyrian warships going in for repairs.”
“Repairs? Is Ilyria at war again?”
“Didn’t stop to chat, so I don’t know. But it’s been six months, which is about all the peace they can stand.”
“No pirates or ghost ships?”
“Alas, no. But starting today, we’ll be following prime shipping routes. We could see action at any moment.” He gestured around him. “That’s why we’re putting on our best civilian frock.”
I’d wondered how such an obvious vessel could possibly catch an experienced pirate unawares. Now I saw: wooden boxes were strapped to the deck in a pile ten feet high, just as seen on the Mellow Wine. Since they were empty, though, they did little to slow us down and could be quickly cast overboard. Instead of the banner of the Anti-Freebootery Guild, we flew the flag of Klarbrunn, and beneath it the banner of the International Cargo Federation. Most significant, the deck ballistae were gone from their sockets, arranged in a neat row on the wooden deck. The ones below remained in place, though, and I knew the gunnery crew could have the deck crossbows remounted and ready to fire in minutes. I used disguises myself on occasion, and could appreciate the scale and effectiveness of this one.
Sweat trickled down my spine and forehead; I’d probably melted off ten pounds on this trip already. I excused myself, walked to the starboard bow rail, and looked down at the bow waves. The spray, at least, was cool on my face. Big fish leaped gracefully out of the ship’s path, only to circle back and repeat the move.
A man hung over the side, strapped in a harness, removing the brass letters that spelled the ship’s name. He saw me, smiled, and waved.
On one of my first days at sea, I’d asked Seaton the origin of the ship’s strange name. Far too loudly, he said, “Ah, so you be wanting to know why she’s called the Red Cow. She’s not always borne that moniker, though.”
He waited. So did every man on deck, grinning in anticipation. At last I played along. “What was she called before?”
“The Impatient Cow. Come on, lad, ask me why.”
“Why was she called the Impatie-?”
“Moo!” bellowed every sailor from the open hatchways to the foremast crosstrees.
I sighed and shook my head. I was on a ship crewed by twelve-year-olds.
The actual explanation was much more mundane. Originally she was known as the Red Crow, but a letter had fallen off during battle. The crew believed this to be a sign that the ship had chosen her own name, and so Red Cow it had remained ever since. Her reputation ensured that no one familiar with the sea laughed when she was mentioned.
“Morning to you, Mr. LaCrosse!” cried a voice from above, bringing me back to the moment. Celia Zandry, the boatswain- which of course came out “bos’n” whenever anyone referred to her by rank-hung from the mainmast shrouds and directed adjustments to the rigging. She was almost as tall as Suhonen, although she weighed considerably less. She reminded me of a stick insect; rumor said that when the wind was strong enough, she could raise one bare arm and it would whistle.
“Morning, Celia. How’s the wind today?”
“Strong and damp. Makes the canvas sluggish.”
“Does the same to me,” I said.
I greeted several other crewmen with whom I’d become friendly. They were, on the whole, a good- natured lot, content with their jobs and glad not to be in Queen Remy’s prison, or worse. Some diligently scrubbed the decks, while the crossbow crew, under the direction of Mr. Dancer, the gunnery master, disassembled and cleaned the ballistae before storing them below. With such a large crew, shifts were short and we had an adequate, if strictly controlled, supply of rum. Sometimes I got so bored, I almost volunteered to help, but I sensed that these professionals wouldn’t welcome a dilettante like me. Besides, they sang while they worked, and no one needed to hear me sing.
Then I saw something new. Three men emerged from the hold carrying barrels on their shoulders. They had to be empty, given the ease with which the men handled them. They went to the stern and handed them over the rail to waiting hands below, where more men evidently hung in harnesses.
“What’s in those barrels?” I asked Captain Clift when he joined me.
“Why, nothing at all.”
“So you just dump your empties over the side?”
“Oh, no. They have a very specific function.”
When he said nothing else, I prompted, “And?”
He laughed. “Should we need them… Well, you’ll see.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jane called. Today she wore an even skimpier outfit; I never knew she had a tattoo below her navel. She leaned on the rail between Clift and me, looked out at the sea, and said, “We’re in the shipping lanes, if I’m reading it right.”
The ocean looked the same to me as it had every day before this, but Clift nodded. “Aye. And we’re now the totally defenseless merchant vessel Crimson Heifer. ” He looked at her while she gazed over the water, and again I saw that little shift in his demeanor. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’m sure there’s something more productive I can be doing.” He touched his knuckles to his forehead in a casual salute.
When he was out of earshot, I said to Jane, “Are you deliberately trying to torture that poor guy?”
She looked blank. “What?”
“What?” I repeated, imitating her. “I’ve seen less skin on a Selian bride.” Selian women wore only ankle bells during the ceremony; the men wore bells in a much less discreet location.
“Hey, this is just how I dress at sea. When I was a captain, I wore the same sort of thing. And you know what?” She winked. “I never had to give an order twice.”