Maneira didn’t like being cold or wet at the best of times, and this certainly didn’t qualify as the best of times. She viciously shook her head, sending drops of filthy saltwater flying from her hair and long, elegantly pointed ears. Cursing under her breath she looked up at the bulk of the ship she was currently using all her strength and willpower to cling precariously to. The clouds in the black sky overhead broke apart for a few seconds and the moon looked down at her, seeming to wink like a glowing demon’s eye. Then the clouds closed again and she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a few brief seconds her surroundings came back into focus and she could see again. Climbing another 4 feet up the ship’s hull she came to a porthole with a sill just wide enough for her to crouch on.
The ship’s name was the Sea Crow. She was a Cambrian-built schooner, fully 125 feet from stem to stern, and drew 12 feet of water. She was built for stamina and combat, and the double row of ballista ports running down each side of her hull weren’t just for show. Officially the Sea Crow was a merchant trader that flew the flags of Chandreskahr Barony and the Molina family. Maneira knew that merchant trader was a cover; once on the high seas those flags were lowered and the black flag of piracy raised. Lord Molina had several such ships in his employ, dealing in everything from captured goods to the occasional slave expedition. Though slavery was outlawed in Chandreskahr and its neighboring baronies, many eastern kingdoms openly condoned its practice. Maneira also knew the Sea Crow’s captain, Reynald de Saylaire, as an utterly ruthless and brutal man. Many in his crew had been impressed into service against their will, and she had heard stories of Reynald torturing and killing sailors who attempted to escape from under his thumb.
Two fortnights ago the Sea Crow had attacked a merchant cog traveling east down the coast toward Limon. The crew had been murdered or impressed into service, the cargo ransacked, and the cog burned to the waterline. Reynald had taken everything from the ship, including a log book that belonged to Maneira’s current employer. Maneira had been sent to recover it.
In a way, her plan was perfect. Her own ship, the Zephyr of Huzuz lay at anchor forty miles east in the harbor of ****. Noone knew Maneira was in Chandreskahr except her employer. She had stolen a small coracle, rowed it out into the harbor half a mile to where the Sea Crow wallowed restlessly at anchor, drunk the foul-tasting potion Isand had given her, and climbed the ship’s hull to her perch on the porthole’s sill. The sticky pads that had grown on her hands after drinking the potion allowed her to climb walls like a spider; unfortunately she didn’t know how much longer it would be in effect. She surmised the log book would be in Reynald’s cabin, and she knew the layout of the Sea Crow’s interior well enough to know where that was. The problem now lay in getting through the porthole’s thick glass. She couldn’t climb to the deck; a watchman was surely posted, and she had no intentions of killing any sailors if she could avoid them.
The porthole led into a small rigging locker that lay above the bilge. She knew that such rooms were typically unoccupied, but there was no guarantee it was empty now. Sailors were often desperate for privacy, and often snuck away into any cubby to be alone. With limited choices available, however, she would have to chance it. She planted one hand on the porthole’s sill and drew a small metal vial from the beeswax-coated pouch slung across her back. With her free hand she removed the vial’s cap and poured its viscous contents onto the center of the glass. Working quickly she dropped the vial into the water below and took a square piece of raw leather from the pouch. She quickly rubbed the oil across the glass surface. Feeling it begin to grow hot she quickly dropped the leather into the water. The oil worked quickly. In the space of a hundred heartbeats the glass had melted like ice, leaving a hole large enough for her to worm her way inside.
She dropped silently to the floor of the rigging locker. It smelled of mold and canvas. Maneira pulled the lead-filled leather sap free from her belt and unsheathed the curved jambiya from its place on the back of her belt. She had blackened its blade so it would not reflect light; its leather wrapped grip fit the contour of her hand as if had grown there. The sticky pads on her hand made it difficult to adjust her grip, but its heft was still reassuring.
The rigging locker had no door; she peered around the frame and saw the faint glow of a boatswain’s lantern down the hall to her left. She knew that way were the weapons lockers, storage, hatches into the hold, and the officers’ quarters. To her right the corridor was dark. Reynald’s cabin would be at the end of it, with more stowage between. The Sea Crow stank of sweat and human offal. Slave ships were notoriously filthy, and this one had been at sea for months with little port time. Maneira wrinkled her nose at the stench, but there was nothing to be done. The sooner she retrieved what she came for, the sooner she could leave. Not for the first time she cursed silently and wondered how she had let Isand sweet-talk her into this.
Maneira beni Azir had once been a pirate, and was not ashamed of her past. In her more than three centuries of life she had sailed many ships under many flags. Taking to the sea while still a child, the orphaned brown elf had sailed all known waters and seen too many ports to count. She had spent her childhood in the back alleys of Huzuz, the huge, bustling city on the western tip of the emirate of Qirida. Qirida was a desert land with cities dating back to before the first stick had been laid on top of another in Chandreskahr. Steeped in tradition and a rich history, its people were proud of their long bloodlines. Dark skinned, with onyx hair and eyes, they revered the teachings of the Enlightened, holding all others in disdain.
She’d grown from a starving street urchin into a crafty businesswoman. Standing five and a half feet tall and weighing slightly more than one hundred pounds, she commanded enormous respect and admiration from her crew. Her knowledge and experience made her a fearsome opponent or a valued ally. She now made a living as a privateer, capturing pirates and outlaws on the seas for anyone who had the coin to retain her services. Though she had made and spent several fortunes during her life, she refused to leave the seafaring life. Isand was her sister; it was only for the blood tie that bound them together that she had even considered taking on her current task. Of course, Isand knew Maneira’s sense of adventure and daring, not to mention her highly developed sense of duty, would ensure her cooperation.
Maneira mentally shook herself; if she continued to pay more attention to her memories than her current surroundings she may get the chance to see if she could swim with a blade stuck in her belly.
She eased herself away from the rough planks of the wall and moved, catlike, toward the stern. She’d made it only a few stealthy steps before a large shape stumbled into her from a dark locker to her left. Fortunately her ears had picked up the rasp of his rough shirt against the wall and she didn’t stick him with her jambiya. He mumbled something that might have been “Watch where yer goin’” in a thick Cambrian accent. Before he could make another sound, she laid her sap against the sensitive spot behind his left ear, then caught him as he crumpled like a jellyfish on dry sand. She nearly gagged at the smell of the man. Holding her breath she quickly lashed his hands and feet together with a strip of leather and stuffed a knot of rope in his mouth. The ship was quiet except for the occasional creak of timbers and some very muffled snores that seemed to be coming from the hold beneath her feet. Noone had heard the big sailor’s midnight surprise.
Holding her breath she waited a few moments before moving on. The last few feet of the passageway seemed to take forever, but finally she stood before the door into the captain’s cabin.
Reynald’s door would be locked; he was too paranoid of mutiny to leave himself unguarded. He was most likely inside; he hardly ever left his ship for more than a few hours at a time, and spending a night away was something he rarely did. She didn’t want to kill him tonight, not because she had qualms about causing his death, but because if she killed him, she wanted it to be in a fight pitting her ship against his on the open sea.
Maneira sheathed her jambiya (having to pry her sticky hand away from its hilt) and took out a lockpick set in a flat leather case from her bag. Within a minute the ornate lock on the door softly clicked open. She took a soft breath and held it, listening for any sound inside the cabin. There was none. She cautiously pushed the door open a foot and squeezed inside. The cabin was faintly lit by the moon shining through the mullioned porthole in the stern of the ship and she could easily make out a human shape lying in the wide rack. A desk littered with charts took up one end of the room, flanked by two overstuffed chairs. A plain wooden lockbox sat at the foot of the bed.
She crept slowly toward the bed. The shape did not stir or snore but the almost imperceptible sound of deep, even breathing came from it. She had to gag and tie him; the risk of waking him while breaking into the box was too great. The sap was in her hand and rising slowly toward the low ceiling when the figure stirred, groaned softly and rolled over. The rough blanket pulled away from its head revealing long hair the color of pale gold in the moonlight. Maneira’s eyes widened; Reynald had black hair!
Her reflexes took over and she flung herself toward the center of the room. A cutlass sliced the air where she had been a split second before as she rolled into the legs of one of the stuffed chairs. She scrambled to her feet, frantically clawing the jambiya from its sheath. A low chuckle rolled toward her.
”Who is it trying to assassinate me this time?” His sibilant voice was pitched low, colored by undertones of cruelty. “By your size I’d guess you’re not a man. An elf perhaps, or a woman?”
Her hand carefully searched the top of the desk for something she could use as a second weapon. He was enjoying his game of cat and mouse and she had to let him believe he still had the upper hand.
”Both.” She replied coldly. He chuckled again and moved toward her into the moonlight. His scarred face was covered with a week’s growth of beard and his coal black hair was rumpled. He was wearing breeches and a loose fitting muslin vest. A cutlass hung nonchalantly from his right hand, a small hatchet in his left. His ears were ringed with gold hoops. He nodded toward the bed, his eyes not leaving hers. “Well then, in that case are you sure you’ve come to kill me? There is room for another.” He took another step forward, then suddenly lunged at her bringing the cutlass around in a wicked slash. She knocked the blade up and away with her jambiya, spun, and swung the spyglass she’d found on the desk. It landed against his jaw and came apart in a jumble of glass and brass tubes. It stopped his advance and gave her the opening to slam her boot against the side of his left knee. He cursed and staggered, flailing with the hatchet. She moved in with her jambiya but Reynald dropped the hatchet and caught her wrist, twisting the blade away. He regained his balance and slammed the basket guard of his cutlass into her forehead. Lights exploded behind her eyes and she staggered back. He jerked her wrist, the jambiya spinning away, and punched her again with the cutlass’ hilt. This time the room faded to grey for a second and when she came to, Reynald had her bent backward over the desk, his hands around her neck. His foul breath enveloped her like a fog and spittle sprayed her face as he hissed at her. “Maneira! So nice to see you again my dear.” His fingernails dug wickedly at the skin of her neck. “Seems I owe you this one.”
Fighting for breath she wormed her hand underneath the small of her back until her fingers found the cool steel hilt of the small knife secreted there. She jerked it free and slammed it into Reynald’s side, forcing it between two ribs and digging toward his lung. He jerked back with a stifled cry loosing her neck from his grip. She gasped and staggered up, bringing the bloody knife up in front of her. Reynald felt gingerly around the wound, shocked surprise registering in his eyes. She snatched up his cutlass where he’d dropped it, her own eyes blazing with white-hot rage. The woman in the bed stirred and sat up suddenly, the blanket falling away. Her mouth opened to scream as she sucked in air. Maneira flipped the knife in her hand and caught it by the blade, then flung it at the woman. The hilt slammed squarely into her forehead, cutting the scream off as she collapsed back onto the bed.
Panting, Maniera leveled the cutlass at Reynald who was now hanging on to the edge of the desk to keep from falling. He stared dully at her, blood coursing freely from the wound in his side as he gasped “You’ve killed me, you mule-eared witch.” She massaged her throat. “Not yet, Reynald, but I will if I ever see you again.” She tilted her chin toward the lockbox. “Where’s the key, or do I take a few more chunks out of you?” He stared at her, amazed. “What is it you’re after?””A logbook. One you took from the cog you sunk down the coast.” He furrowed his brow and quirked a slight smile. “It’s not locked. If you came here for a logbook, you’ve wasted your time. It’s there, but there’s nothing of value in it.” She became aware of footsteps outside the door. He was stalling, of course, counting on his men having heard the fight and coming to see if their captain needed them. He pressed a hand against his wound and gave her a cruel, mirthless smile. “Take it, but you won’t make it off this ship alive.”
A tentative voice called from the passageway outside the door. “Captain, are ye alright?” Maneira ran to the box, flung open the lid and began rifling through the clothes lying in the top. Her fingers found the leather binding of a book as Reynald called out to his men. The door opened and armed sailors stormed in. Ducking a slash from a cutlass, she snatched up the book and ran for the window at the stern, stuffing it hastily into her satchel. She leapt onto the desk and dove for the window. There was a breathless moment as she smashed through the mullioned glass and dropped into the filthy, cold water of the harbor. Arrows began to hiss and slice into the water around her as she sucked in a deep breath and dove deep under the frigid water.
This story concluded under the May 06 link.
