“Pirates up in arms over a murder?” Beck asked with a grin that made her look cruel and callous.
“This ain’t the lawless Wilds, Arbiter. We’ve got rules here. Laws, you might say if you were so inclined. A good old-fashioned beating is one thing, but murder…” Drake grimaced as he remembered the night. “They had the lad strung up by the time I arrived, crying, and without a clue as to what was happening or why. A lot of folk wanted him dead, folk that live here and pirates that don’t, though I wager many of those just wanted to see a spectacle and didn’t much care where it came from.”
Beck shot Drake a disgusted look.
“Said we’ve got laws, didn’t say we were civilised. Besides, you lot are known for burning folk alive – hanging ain’t a touch on that for barbaric.”
“There’s a cleansing power in fire,” Beck said defensively.
“Aye, no doubt. Bet it still hurts though, eh.”
“You stopped them from hanging him?”
Drake grinned. “Either that or I brought him back from the dead.”
“You care about your crew.”
Drake‘s grin vanished. “Loyalty deserves loyalty, Arbiter.”
The door to the tavern burst open and the music stopped. All eyes turned to see Princess standing there, casting about the place. He spotted Drake and started forwards, his mouth open to speak, just as the door burst open again.
The figure in the doorway now was shorter than Princess, but stockier, scruffily dressed with a round hat on his head and a shaggy main of straw-coloured hair. His eyes settled on Drake, and he started making his way towards him, pushing past Princess. From the corner of his eye Drake saw Beck’s hand inch towards one of the pistols strapped to her jerkin; he held a placating hand to the Arbiter and stood to meet the man in the bowl-shaped hat.
“Drake,” said the man.
“Poole,” said Drake.
“Call me Daimen.”
“No.”
“Probably for the best – only me ma calls me Daimen. Bless her.” Poole cracked a grin, showing a gap where one tooth was missing and the others were stained a dirty brown from the regular smoking of casher weed. He extended an open hand to Drake. “Good ta see ya again, mate. Who’s the little lady?”
Drake took the man’s hand and gave it a shake. “Newest member of my crew and steadfast protector of my back. Got enough folk thinking to put a knife there these days. What is it, Princess?” His first mate had been desperately attempting to get Drake’s attention as the two captains greeted each other.
“Captain Barklow…” Princess started, stepping forward to stand next to Poole.
“You been stealin’ work crews now, mate?” Poole interrupted.
Princess sent a quick glare at Poole before continuing. “Barklow is over at Herence’s shipwrights right now, threatening to gut the man for pulling his crew from repairs on the Hearth Fire. Herence is throwing your name around everywhere, Cap’n, but it ain’t coolin’ Barklow down one drop.”
“Bollocks,” Drake spat and started for the door. “Lead the way, Princess. You coming, Poole?”
“Aye, mate. Wouldn’t miss this one fer all the wet in all the seas.”
Outside, Drake let Princess take the lead. He knew his way around Sev’relain for the most part, but the town was big for a pirate settlement, full of twisting alleyways, and new hovels could spring up or disappear overnight. It was a town with a constantly changing layout around a more permanent core, and it would be the seat of Drake’s empire one day.
Despite the criminal nature of the Pirate Isles, thievery was uncommon. Honour among thieves was a good way to describe it. Folk didn’t steal from folk who were likely to steal right back. It was a tense peace, but one observed almost everywhere. Instead, merchants, or those pretending to be, attempted to fleece drunken pirates out of their hard-earned bits by selling useless trinkets at extortionate prices or useful trinkets at even more extortionate prices.
“Might be I can offer a fair suggestion, Drake,” said Poole as they followed Princess through the maze of roads and alleyways, “that could lead t’a better resolution o’ your upcoming confrontation.”
Treating the offer with the rightful scepticism it no doubt deserved, Drake nodded to his fellow captain to continue.
“Well, I know ya usual course would be ta go in there all scary and throw about ya big, fancy name and ya dark reputation an’ all that, but I don’t think that’ll win ya any allies here and now.”
“What makes you think I need or want allies?” Drake asked with a sideways glance.
“I ain’t a fool, Drake. I can see which way the wind’s blowing, an’ I know well as any it’s better ta let it take ya where it will rather than break ya ta its will.”
Drake stopped. They were on their way through a narrow alley with high stone walls on either side. It was about as private a place as any they were likely to find in Sev’relain. “This your way of siding with me, Poole?”
Poole grinned. “Mary’s Virtue’s been sided with ya for longer than you realise, Drake. Better the devil ya know than Tanner Black. I’ve been ta Sarth an’ I’ve been ta Land’s End; folk don’t build that many ships ’less they plan ta use ’em.”
“The Five Kingdoms are building a fleet?” Drake said quickly. “I thought it was just Sarth.”
Poole shook his head. “Way I see it, they’re either goin’ ta war with each other, or us. Bad times are comin’, mate, an’ I don’t much fancy Tanner as leadin’ us through ’em. So if you’re thinking o’ stepping up, an’ I reckon I know ya well enough ta see that ya are, I’m right here with ya.”
Drake needed time to think and time to plan, and for that he needed privacy. He’d expected Sarth to come after them, but if the Five Kingdoms joined them in a purge of the Pirate Isles… There was simply no way the isles could stand up to that magnitude of pressure. Despite the whirlpool of thoughts and possible plots spinning through his head, Drake kept himself calm and decided to deal with the matter at hand first.
“Keep on, Princess,” he said, effecting his usual self-satisfied grin. “Let’s stop this Barklow from killing our shipwright, eh?”
The situation wasn’t hard to find once they got closer. The shouting was drawing people in from all over Sev’relain, and by the looks of things some blood had already been spilled. Drake approached the edge of the crowd with his hand on his sabre and Poole, Beck, and Princess in tow. Despite the mounting threat of violence he was determined to fix the situation with diplomacy rather than his usual tactic of a healthy dose of threatening behaviour followed by sharp pointy objects inserted into the offending party.
There was the unmistakeable sound of fist hitting flesh, followed by a cry of pain. As Drake pushed through the last of the gathered crowd, the shipwright with the impossibly square jaw and one eye hit the dirt and rolled to a stop at his feet. The man’s empty socket had swollen shut and his mouth was bloody. He clutched at his face as he stumbled to his feet and noticed Drake standing in front of him.
“Help,” the shipwright slurred through a bloody mouth and broken teeth.
Facing Drake and his growing entourage were six men ranging from large to larger in stature, and one man dressed in what appeared to be the last remnants of some sort of naval uniform. His jacket was unbuttoned and faded and his pantaloons were stained from years of hard wear. He wore an impossibly large hat which bordered on the ridiculous, and at his side hung a sturdy-looking and well-used sabre. The other six were also wearing what looked to be the old, tattered remains of naval uniforms. They would no doubt jump to their captain’s commands without hesitation.