“Any issues?” Drake leapt down the five feet from the aft deck to the main deck.
“Well, there’s the repairs,” Princess said hesitantly. “Looked over it my own self and reckon we’ll need a week in port with the shipwrights to get her squared away good and proper.”
“A whole week? We haven’t got time to be sitting on our arses for a week, Princess. Besides, the crew will pickle themselves with that much free time. Buy whoever you need and get it done in three days.”
“Can’t be done, Cap’n.”
Drake rounded on his first mate just before they reached the ladder to the aft deck. He didn’t look angry so much as really displeased. Princess would have preferred anger. Anger was predictable, displeasure could go either way, and it was the uncertainty Princess hated most.
“Might be able to push for five days, but a couple of those ships at port look to be taking repairs already. We’ll have to…”
“Do it! Any of the other captains make waves, I’ll deal with them my fucking self. Five days, Princess. Anything else?”
Drake turned again and started up the ladder. Princess scratched at the back of his neck before continuing. “We got rats.”
“There ain’t a ship built don’t have rats.”
“Yeah, well ours are as big as my foot and they’ve been getting into the food, making a mess of things. Need to do something about it or next time we set out might be we got sickness to deal with as well as those navy ships. Problem is, ever since Zothus took the Bride for his own ship and Rhi went with him… well, there ain’t anything hunting the bloody rats no more, Cap’n. We need a cat.”
“No,” Drake stated firmly as he shooed Joelin away from the wheel and took hold of it himself. There wasn’t really much steering to do at the moment, but Princess had to admit the captain cut a right striking figure doing it, and that was maybe the point. “Might be this has escaped your notice, Princess, but I am Drake Morrass and this ship is the Fortune. Now the last little predator we had on board was a big fucking spider, struck fear into the hearts of men and all that. I can’t go back and just have a cat on board. Get me something – I don’t know – more monstruous.”
“More monstruous than a cat?”
“More monstruous than a giant spider.”
Princess knew his mouth was hanging open, but at that moment he was finding it more than a little difficult to remember how to close it. A stern glare from Drake soon fixed that malady, and Princess nodded his affirmation before scuttling off to lament ever being made first mate.
No sooner had Drake’s recently polished and gloriously buckled boots touched the ground than all sorts of people wanted a piece of him. Some folks shouted offers for any wares the Fortune might be carrying while others offered services either to him, the ship, or the crew, and some just stood around watching, no doubt hoping to get a glimpse of a legend. Drake was more than willing to accommodate that last desire.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Drake started in a loud voice that instantly quieted all the others. “For matters of booty procurement all requests shall be dealt with, as always, by Byron. You can’t miss him; he’s the tall fella up on deck with an extraordinarily small head.” Byron was one half simpleton, one half genius, with an intimidating manner that was matched by his intimidating size. He was certainly not the brightest of folk, but he knew the inner workings of numbers like no one else alive and also happened to be even more loyal than the average dog, so Drake let the man manage the books.
“For any matters of employment or payment for rendering of services I direct you to my first mate, Princess.” Princess looked less than pleased to be given yet another responsibility, but Drake couldn’t really find it in himself to care – and what was the point of a first mate if not the delegation of the more boring aspects of the job of captain.
“Now it may be some of you have already heard some of the rumours regarding Black Sands…”
“Where do I go for matters of retribution?” said a dishevelled young man with fuzz on his chin and none on his head. He wore an old, faded tan jacket and sailor’s leggings, and a cutlass dangled at his hip. Drake also couldn’t help but notice that the man’s boots were, if anything, even more polished than his own.
Drake smiled at him. “Reckon ya might be looking in the wrong place, boy.”
“You killed my father!”
“Probably.”
The man began to draw his cutlass, and five of Drake’s pirates surged forwards, carried him to the ground, and proceeded to give him what Drake assumed was the worst and last beating of his life.
Stepping around the group murder taking place on the pier, Drake continued his way into Port Sev’relain proper. Some of those who had accosted him on the pier stopped to watch the young man die, and others followed in Drake’s footsteps.
“As I was saying,” Drake said, “some of you may have heard of Black Sands, some maybe not. Any that want to know can join me over at the Piper’s Flock, and I’ll treat you all to my very own retelling.”
The Piper’s Flock was about as fancy as a tavern got in a town founded by a crook and populated by pirates. The floor was clean, for the most part, and the tables were new and sturdy. Unfortunately, no matter how sturdily the tables were constructed, they tended not to last long in a place that saw more blood than the average battlefield. The ale wasn’t exactly what anyone could call safe for consumption, but it had one thing going for it over what was served in the other taverns in Port Sev’relain, and that was that it had never given Drake the shits.
Drake took a seat at the centremost table in the common room and took his hat from his head, laying it on the table next to a gold bit. The barman and owner, a portly man by the name of Arst, didn’t take long in slithering over to the table to stare at the coin, a greedy glint in his eyes.
Drake gestured to the entire room. “This round is on me.” Without a word Arst snatched up the gold bit and scurried away.
Now Drake found himself the real centre of attention, and he counted a good thirty-three people in the tavern, including two burly bruisers by the front door, and every single one had quietened to hear what he had to say.
As Arst began bringing drinks around, starting with Drake, one of the visiting pirates lost patience. “Ya said ya had rumours about Black Sands?”
“Do I know you?” Drake said.
“Sienen Zhou. Captain of Freedom, out in the port.”
The man had distinctive tattoos around his left eye and cheek. “Slave?” Drake asked.
“Use ta be, ’til the Black Thorn set us free.”
Drake almost laughed, but he settled for a grin. “Well, you don’t know me yet, Captain Zhou, so I’ll tell you this for free. Drake Morrass doesn’t deal in rumours. Everything I’m about to tell ya is cold, hard fact, and you’d all do well to listen with the utmost concentration. First things first…” Drake paused to take a large gulp of foul-tasting ale. “Black Sands ain’t there no more.”
The reaction was much as Drake expected: a mixture of shocked silence, outspoken denial, and fervent disbelief. He rocked his chair back onto two legs and basked in the whirlpool of attention.
“What do you mean, it ain’t there no more, Morrass?” came a voice that Drake could only describe as big. He looked around for the owner and found it belonged to a tall, broad man with olive skin and a stark white tattoo of a skull painted on his face, which gave him the appearance of a walking, talking, glowering skeleton.
“It’s been a long time, Captain Burn. Didn’t see your little boat out there. Could it be you’ve gone and got her sunk, Deun?”