The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel Read online

  A league! His tired brain thought. No one can swim a league underwater. But he had! What was happening? He felt his hands shake and he wanted to curl up into a ball. He answered instead. “My name,” Marko hesitated. He felt his old life as “Mouse the Thief” slide away and realized, in a rush of exhilaration and fear, that he was free to start again. “My mother named me Marko, after her dad. Jared, my dad, was a bricklayer, but about three or four years ago a brick fell on his head and he died. My ma stopped eating much after that. Didn’t take her long to die. I’ve been on my own ever since.” So far what he’d said had been true. He plowed on, remembering the old axiom; “two thirds truth and one part lie. Mix well and they will buy it every time.”

  “Two days ago I decided to stow away on a freight boat to see the world. I think it was the Zerlinda or something like that. I didn’t really look.” The big man frowned. “The first mate found me. He tied me up and threw me over the side like so much garbage.” He held up his thin, rope-cut wrists as mute testimony. “I’d about given up hope when you came along.” Marko looked around, eyebrows raised. He was still sprawled on the deck of what was obviously combination freight and fishing boat. Cases and bales of cargo were lashed to the deck and covered with waxed canvas. At the same time great wing-like nets were furled and dripping, stowed on the side of the ship. Blue-green shrimp the size of his hand wiggled on the deck next to him while overhead square rigged sails snapped and cracked in the wind.

  “Don’t recall,” The big man replied, rubbing a jutting, whiskered jaw. “that I ever heered o’ the Zerlinda. Still and all, it’s a bad business throwin kids overboard.” He reached down and took the boy’s hand, slowly drawing him to his feet. “This here ship is the Dagfred, an she be the finest vessel to ply the islands of the world. Lots of cargo space and still room for a couple o nets full o shrimpies or silverfish. They feed us on our way so’s we don’t have to buy so much food. I was pullin in a last load o shrimpies when I caught you. Lucky thing for you I guess. Get to know the ship, lad. She’ll be your home for quite some time.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Cap’n Svetla never did find herself a new cabin boy, so’s I guess you’re it.”

  “But I don’t know anything...”

  “Bloody straight you don’t know nothin.” The hulking man cut in. “Everyone works on this eer ship, lad. Ain’t no passengers, so learn fast! You can call me Mister Hudak, or Hudak if you will. I’m the First Mate. Cap’n Svetla is always Cap’n Svetla or ma’am. Got it?” Marko nodded slowly and the deck seemed to keep nodding all on its own. His stomach churned and he lurched for the nearest rail. A loud voice cut him off. “No, you ignorant pup! Puke over the downwind side or you’ll get it all back in your face. Get any on my deck an I’ll feed you back to the fishies.”

  Marko could swear that he had just puked up his toenails when the deck seemed to come up and slap him in the face.

  Soft. Lying at his side, his limp left arm was definitely resting on something soft. A bit lumpy but still soft. He opened his eyes. The bottom of a stained mattress hung two feet over his face. He thought in wonder. It had been a long time since he had slept in a real bed—no matter how rude. He shut his eyes and savored the feel. Smells came to him; mildew from the mattress, the sharper smell of the ocean, and the spices of food cooking. His stomach rumbled. He was alive, he was free and he was in a bed. He wiggled in sheer pleasure. Yesterday he wouldn’t have given a single rappen that he would live to see another sun rise.

  He remembered the strange voice in his head and the long swim. He directed the thought inward.

  The voice replied tartly. It might have only been his imagination, but Marko was sure that the voice in his head had a slight feminine lilt and feel to it.

  His thoughts were racing.

  There seemed to be a sigh, far away in the recesses of his mind.

 

  The voice replied dryly.

 

 

  The boy was beginning to rant.

 

  < I don’t understand.>

 

 

 

  Marko swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Maybe activity would make the thing in his head stay away. The room swayed dangerously, but quickly steadied. They had taken the clothes that he’d been wearing, not that they were fit for anything but rags, and left him a small folded stack of clothes under his bed. He looked down at his thin body. The abrasions caused by the rope on his wrists and ankles were gone. He almost asked the voice in his head about it, but bit off the thought. The old rough clothes were clean and they fit, more or less. There was even a length of rope for him to use as a belt. Once dressed, he was surprised to find the cabin door unlocked.

  “No, no!” The gruff voice of Hudak bellowed from somewhere. “Take in THAT sail first, and THEN the other one.” Marko climbed the ladder up to the deck and stood swaying in the sunlight. Hudak looked over and winked. “Why, I could teach this eer lad to be a better sailor than you, Javor. Now fix them sails.” He turned to Marko. “How’r ye feelin, lad? You were mighty sick for a bit.”

  Marko swayed. “Better, I think, Mister Hudak. I suppose that I’d swallowed more salt water than I thought. I am a bit hungry now, though.”

  “I suppose you are. Boys are born hungry. Let’s go see if the cook can find anything for a growin lad.” He led the way down another hatch. Smells of cooking wafted up from below and Marko’s stomach growled loudly. Hudak laughed. Two bowls of a rich fish chowder heavy with spices, and a heel of bread later, Marko met the captain.

  Captain Svetla was a tall wide-shouldered woman, as hard looking in her own way as Hudak. The skin on her face and hands was weathered and brown. Like the rest of the crew, her long dark hair was tied back with a simple piece of twine and her gray eyes regarded her newest crewmember like a snake regards a mouse.

  “Well, well.” Her voice was deep for a woman, and strangely accented, maybe from Rakiura or Prangli, Marko guessed. “We have us a new crewmember, do we, Hudak?”

  The big First Mate, who had almost pushed Marko into the small cabin stood, filling the door with his bulk. He tried to pull his striped shirt straighter. “Yes, ma’am. Pulled im in with the last load o shrimpies. Sez is name is Marko, ma’am. Sez ee was thrown offen a boat called the Zerlinda, or some such.”

  “Well, well.” She repeated, her eyes never leaving Marko’s face. “Is that so?”

  Marko swallowed and looked at the floor. “Yes, ma’am, Captain. Just as he said.” The silence in the room was deafening, and Marko concentrated on the many small sounds of the ship: the slap of the water against the hull, the snap of canvas, the creak of the ropes.

  “There was no ship called the Zerlinda in the port of Boktor when we sailed, nor had there ever been one there.” Her eyes were cold. “I make it a point to know all the ships that be berthed close to ours. What do you have to say about that?”

  Marko looked up into the cold gray eyes and shrugged. “Got nothing to say. The ship was the Zerlinda or it wasn’t the Zerlinda. Makes no difference. I got thrown in the water to drown like a cat in a sack. Your man fished me out. I’ll work my way, if you wish, or you can throw me back. I’ll be a good honest crewmember if you keep me. What do you have to say about that?” He put his hands on his hips and stared back at the captain.

  Inside he shrieked.
<
br />   The voice replied calmly.

  Captain Svetla just stared at the boy for a moment, and then she began to laugh. Marko heard an explosive exhalation behind him as Hudak let the breath go that he had been holding.

  “You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that. If your mind is as sharp as your tongue we’ll be able to use you.” She looked over Marko’s shoulder. “Hudak, teach this young rascal what he needs to know about the ship and what he needs to attend to as my cabin boy.” She looked critically at the boy’s thin frame. “It will be a while before you can man the sails, I expect. Build up your strength, boy.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Marko mumbled as Hudak’s huge brown hand closed over his shoulder. “Thank you, Captain.” The hand turned his shoulder and body toward the door.

  “Git out.” The First Mate whispered in his ear, quietly enough for all in the cabin to hear. “You sharp tongued son of a cuttlefish.” Hudak was laughing by the time they reached the deck. “You played a risky game, boy.” The laughter in Hudak’s voice didn’t last long.

  Marko thought for a second. “I didn’t think that the captain would want a bootlicker who couldn’t stand up for himself.”

  “Yer right about that, boy, but you might bear in mind that she threw her last cabin boy overboard when he sassed her too much.” Hudak let out an evil chuckle. “We was only four or five cables out from docking, so I’m sure he made it to shore, if he could swim. The Cap’n didn’t ask.” Marko swallowed hard. “We’ll begin with the front of the ship.” The First Mate moved forward along the smooth, scrubbed wood planking. Ropes along the deck were coiled smartly, and what to Marko’s untrained eye had at first seemed to be a chaos of activity, now resolved into a carefully choreographed dance; one designed to keep the ship moving at the best possible speed, while still keeping its crew in good health. “Now, this is called the forecastle deck, or fo’c’s’le if you don’t want to sound like no lubber. This is where...” Marko grinned into the wind. Overhead the sun played games with the great rings of Thalasia, and the sea sparkled in myriad colors.

  ~~~

  “The main forebrace you bloody idiot, not the backstay!” Hudak screamed in a rage, his face purpling. The wind howled across the deck, and the ship pitched wildly. Sheets of rain slashed out of steel gray clouds. “Marko!” The boy looked up from the base of the mainmast where he’d been holding on for dear life. “Marko, get up there and help Javor reef in that main upper topgallant sail before she carries away.”

  Marko rolled his eyes in disgust and began the long climb up the slippery ropes to the topmost sail. “Aye, Mister Hudak.”

  The boy’s mind was quick and retentive and his half-starved body, thanks to regular meals, had quickly packed on lean muscle. Much to his surprise, Marko found that he had a head for heights. Working the sails at the very top of the mast gave him a heady sense of freedom he had seldom found in the shadowy underworld of Boktor. Learning to take someone else’s orders was something different, but after a number of shouts, threats and more than a few blows, he had learned. Marko’s foot slipped off the wet rope and he caught himself with a gasp. This was no time for daydreaming. Working in concert with Javor, the two pulled and tugged the unmanageable sail into a loose reef and the pitching of the ship lessened noticeably. As Javor disappeared down the mast to the deck below, Marko wrapped a leg around a convenient backstay and looked out over the pitching teal-gray ocean. The storm, really just a normal summer squall, seemed to be lessening and the horizon already looked brighter.

  “Cooks lightin the galley fire.” Hudak’s voice carried up to him faintly. “Ye’ll miss yer feed if’n ye don’t hurry.” Marko grinned again, took a small piece of heavy rope out of his pocket and wrapped it around the mainmast stay. He stepped off and slid. Ten feet from the deck he dropped and rolled, coming to his feet virtually in front of the startled captain.

  To cover his own surprise, Marko knuckled a quick salute and flashed the captain an impudent grin. “Morning, Cap’n.” Her eyes widened. “Fine morning, ma’am. I’m late for breakfast—gotta go, ma’am.” He was off at a run. “I’ll finish your cabin after I eat.” He called back over a shoulder. Then he was gone.

  Now, after several months at sea, Marko was strong enough to man the sails. The Captain’s cabin he straightened when he could. He didn’t mind the extra work. He would work all day for a chance to look at her maps. And what maps! Detailed maps of every island and every major harbor in the known world. Notes in the margins hinted at fantastic adventures. One said, “Here be Sea Monsters.” Another said, “Beware Corsairs!” He had heard the tales of the dreaded Corsairs of the mysterious pirate island of Aethalia. Having brought his food in from the mess, he didn’t quite stop eating, but he did slow down as his eyes took on a faraway look. He could almost hear the clash of swords and the shouts of the boarding parties in his overly vivid imagination.

  Work in Captain Svetla’s cabin was boring and often tedious, especially when she didn’t have her maps out. Making the bed, sweeping the floor and bringing her dirty dishes from last night’s dinner down to the cook for washing, wasn’t Marko’s idea of a good time. He leaned on the broom and stared out of the small stern windows. He remembered his mother sweeping. Zoya hadn’t been much of a mother to him, he thought a little wistfully. Oh, she hugged him and said all the right words, but there was something missing, like a part of her heart was dead. Then Jared, his da, was gone and then she was gone too. He pushed some dirt around under the bed with the broom. He had tried to make-believe that they were still there, but the food finally ran out and then the owner of the house, a hard thin man with bad teeth and worse breath, ran him out too. Life had been tough for a seven year old. He had slept in alleys under the rubbish and in doorways for months before he stumbled on the abandoned, well mostly abandoned, dovecote. After that things had been a little better. He had stolen a few blankets and a handful of candles, and that seemed to make all the difference in the world; except, of course, for food. He had always seemed to be hungry. For some reason he never thought of eating the pigeons. Gangs of street toughs pressured him to join with them, but Marko stubbornly refused. Eventually some of the smaller boys, castoffs from the gangs, attached themselves to him and reluctantly he became a leader. He set the broom in the corner of the room and picked up a pile of dirty dishes. The blue willow patterned plates had once been elegant, but the chipped edges and faded print stood testimony to their rough use. Boys had come and gone in the small gang. Some were caught and executed, but most just died; some from the fever, some from the coughing sickness, and some from the black shakes. That was the worst of all. Heels drumming on the floor of the dovecote still haunted Marko’s memory. He looked around the small room.

  Balancing the dishes carefully, he cautiously navigated the narrow corridor that led to the galley. If he dropped a dish it would come out of his pay. That was another thing that had shocked Marko speechless. He was actually getting paid for his work! Already he had several small clear rappen and a blue batzen. His hand went to the small pouch he kept tied to his belt and tucked into the waistband of his pants. A working man couldn’t be too careful. He grinned at the thought. Working man. HA!

  On the high stern deck, Tibor, a lean crewman with a scarred face and a sour disposition, held the massive ship’s wheel and glanced occasionally at the small binnacle that sat on a wooden pedestal mounted firmly on the deck in front of the wheel. The case of the binnacle was custom grown clear crystal and the mechanism inside even contained a few ounces of metal. Other than the gold cup he had stolen, it was the first metal object Marko had ever seen. Metal, he knew, was heartbreakingly rare and only the most precious objects or the most delicate instruments had any at all.

  Marko caught his big toe on the stub of an ironwood nail that had backed out of a plank, and he hopped, cradling his injured foot in a hand as tears sprang to his eyes.

  Tibor let out a nasty laugh. “What’s-a-matter, city boy? Ca
n’t even walk? Maybe yous otta swim.” He laughed again. “We heered you was good at that.”

  Marko clenched his fists and took a step toward the helmsman, a man with bulbous pustules on his cheeks and a huge boil on his neck, when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned, surprised, and smiled. It was Malara, one of only two female crewmembers. She, along with Hudak, had taught him the ways of the sea and sail. Her skin was brown from the sun and her brown eyes sparkled. Straight black hair was held back by a piece of blue ribbon and her face was serious. It was too bad she was so old, Marko thought - maybe even thirty.

  “Don’t let that idiot bother you. He’s just trying to make you lose your temper. You know the captain’s rule about fighting, especially with the helmsman.”

  “Yeah,” the boy looked down at the deck. He had lost his temper before, to his embarrassment. The flogging he had gotten as a result didn’t seem as painful as the feeling that he had somehow let the captain down. The captain was fair, but hard when you broke her rules. He looked up at the grinning helmsman.

  “Found yerself a girlfriend there, boy? She might even be better than yer own hand.” Tibor’s words coiled in a sneer. “Maybe not, though.” Marko felt Malara stiffen in anger, and he knew just what to do.

  With his hands behind his back and a smile on his face, he pulled away from the woman and walked toward the grinning helmsman.

  “Marko, no!” Malara hissed behind him. He ignored her.

  As he closed with Tibor, Marko slowed and then stopped, frowning at the man’s right hand, high on the big wheel. The helmsman’s smirk slipped.

  “You know, Mister Tibor, you really ought to wear a ring on that hand.”