They worked in darkness, grunting and straining as they wrestled a large wooden crate past a collapsed beam. Once it was free, one of the men tugged on the rope that was secured to the crate’s handles. It only took a moment for the rope to go taut, and the crate screeched in protest as it was hauled across the hold, leaving deep gouges in the hardwood deck. The sailors pushed with all their might from the other end, helping the heavy crate along.
It was a balmy tropical nigh and their bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat that glistened in the moonlight. Once the crate was under a large open hatch, one of the men barked a warning to the crane’s operators, and the rope went slack again. They took a moment to rest their aching muscles. For a moment, they heard only the sounds of their ragged breathing and the lapping of waves outside.
Duglin Garsop didn’t know it was possible to be this tired. His back ached, and his muscles were numb. He was a scrawny boy of fourteen and this was his first time at sea. He had joined the crew as a means to escape the poverty that plagued his hometown, and this was his crew’s first job since he signed on a month ago. As harsh as his training had been, it had done little to prepare the day’s labours.
Their toil had begun at midday, and they had worked with few breaks to move these mysterious wooden crates out of this derelict’s hold. None of them knew what their contents were, but they were large, almost twice as long as Duglin was tall, and they were heavy. The labour was backbreaking, and everyone was exhausted, but none of the others had uttered so much as a word of complaint, so Duglin had kept his mouth shut.
A moment’s respite was all they had before, a tall, muscular untied the rope and restrung it so that it could be lifted vertically out of the hold. Duglin watched him as he worked by the light of the moon and caught a glimpse of the deep, ugly scar on the man’s cheek. The man caught him staring and gave Duglin a murderous look.
“What are you looking at?”
“No… Nothing,” Duglin stammered.
Bardrick Haranon was the ship’s carpenter and had a foul temper. Duglin learned early on that he was quick to anger. Duglin had heard stories of the brutality of discipline at sea, and though he hadn’t suffered any physical punishment yet, he was sure he wouldn’t survive a beating from this bear of a man.
“Bardrick,” Fultern Rinwick whispered. He was a wiry man with hawk like eyes. He carried a rapier at his hip and was the only armed member of their three man party.
The large man looked up to see a rope being lowered through the open hatch. He took it up and expertly secured it to the crate. Once this was done, he tugged on the rope three times and gestured to the others.
“Come on, two more after this and we’re done,” he urged.
“I don’t understand what the rush is,” Duglin blurted and regretted his loose lips when Bardrick shot him a baleful look.
“We’re behind schedule thanks to the Captain’s boneheaded decision to have the ship careened before shipping out,” Bardrick spat. “We need to get this done tonight, so get a move on.”
Duglin bowed his head and followed the other two up the rope ladder into the fresh, salty air up on deck. Fultern remained at the hatch while the other two picked their way past the skeletal remains that lay slumped across the deck. They were aboard the Darvian Finch, a hundred ton caravel that had run aground on an uncharted rocky outcropping. Her mast had collapsed and been carried away by the sea, and her crew had starved to death long ago. Their remains were a sobering reminder of how dangerous the life of a sailor could be.
Duglin felt much better as he crossed the gangplank from the ship of the dead onto their own vessel, the Vesper. She was a sixty foot long sloop, and she was riding lower in the water than usual, weighed down by her cargo. Her normally sleek lines were modified by wooden panels that were installed along her hull, and she was rigged so that she looked like one of the many coastal trading ships that plied these waters.
“Will we be able to take three more crates without sinking?” Duglin wondered out loud.
“We’ll be pushing her limit,” a woman’s voice sang cheerfully from the quarterdeck. “But our girl will be fine so long as we don’t encounter rough seas.”
Raimala el Tiaman was a lithe woman from the distant lands across the Western Ocean. Her hair and skin were dark, but her teeth were brilliant white. By the Captain’s order, no lights had been lit, and as she lurked in the shadows of the quarterdeck, she looked like a set of floating teeth.
“Let’s get to work,” Bardrick growled as he took his position at the huge winch that was just forward of the Vesper’s mast.
Duglin staggered over to the winch and on command, put his back into it together with the rest of the crew. Slowly, the crate rose out of the hold, guided by Fultern’s steady hand.
“Ship on the horizon, north by north east!” the woman on the quarterdeck warned as she lowered her spyglass. “She’s flying Imperial colours!”
Duglin’s hackles rose as he looked out to sea. Sure enough, a ship had appeared on the horizon. She was a sleek two masted frigate, and her running lights twinkled ominously in the distance.
“What is the Imperial Navy doing all the way out here?” Bardrick growled.
“Back to work, everyone,” an imperious voice ordered. It belonged to Inder Fley, the first mate. He was a squat, powerfully built man in his middle years. He had a head of jet black hair that was streaked with white. “Pilot, let us know if she turns towards us.”
“Aye, sir,” the woman on the quarterdeck replied, her good cheer gone.
Soon, the crate was clear of the hold. The winch was locked, and the crew sprang into action to swing the crane’s arm around until it was over the Vesper’s hold. As they were about to lower the crate, another urgent whisper came from the quarterdeck.
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“She’s coming for us.”
Everyone froze. Then, a quiet voice spoke. “Finish the loading. Inder, tell Fultern to light the fuse. Make it ten minutes and then prepare us for immediate departure.”
“What about the rest of the crates?” Bardrick protested.
“The Captain has spoken!” Inder hissed as he rushed up to the bear of a man who stood almost a head taller than the first mate.
“We leave them behind,” Firch Seager replied calmly. He was a slight young man who was only a few years older than Duglin. The Captain of the Vesper wore a light linen shirt that was buttoned up to the top button and a deep blue tricorne hat. While the other men often stripped themselves to the waist when working in the tropical heat, Duglin had never seen his Captain out of long sleeves.
“These aren’t Imperial waters,” Bardrick pointed out. “They have no authority here.”
“You can explain that to them if you’d like,” Firch remarked. “But I don’t plan on sticking around.”
Bardrick didn’t back down. “What about our contract?”
“The agreement was that we will make our best effort,” Firch replied calmly. However, Duglin saw the Captain’s knuckles whiten around the hilt of the cutlass at his hip.
Bardrick’s eyebrows shot up. “Thuley agreed to that?”
“Ergon wouldn’t ratify the contract otherwise,” Inder said hotly. “Your Captain is no fool, now get to work!”
At length, Bardrick’s shoulders slumped. “This’ll affect our pay.” He sniffed.
“We won’t get paid at all if we get caught,” Inder pointed out before rushing to the gangplank to relay the orders to Fultern.
Soon, the crate was safely in the Vesper’s hold and her crew scrambled to make her ready to sail. Meanwhile, the Imperial ship was drawing closer. Once the lines connecting them to the wreck were severed, Inder turned to the Captain.
“We’re ready for departure,” he announced.
“Raimala, we’ll run south.” the Captain ordered. “We’ll lose them in the Maw.”
The pilot turned pale before consulting her map. “We’re heavily laden and with our sails set the way they are, we might not be able to…”
“Just plot our course,” Firch ordered.
“But…” she began.
“The Captain has given you an order,” Inder reminded her softly.
The pilot looked at him for a moment before shrugging. “Aye, Skip.”
“Pilot, get us up to speed,” the Captain ordered. “With all possible haste. You have the con.”
Bardrick clicked his tongue irritably upon hearing the Captain’s orders. He made it no secret that he thought that women had no place crewing a ship. They were to be tolerated as passengers and even then, rarely. That was a commonly held belief in these waters, and Duglin quickly learned after signing on that Firch Seager had a reputation as a young upstart who had little respect for the traditions of the sea.
“Aye, Skip!” Raimala sang, cheerful again now that they were underway. She checked the wind and began barking orders. “Raise the headsail, standby on the mainsail. Helm, make your heading two one zero!”
Duglin worked with Bardrick to unfurl the headsail, which quickly caught the wind. It caught the wind with a snap and the timbers under their feet shuddered and groaned as the ship began to move. Tash Ditern, the well built helmswoman grunted as she turned the wheel, and ever so slowly, the Vesper began to turn.
“Raise the mainsail!” the pilot ordered.
Once the mainsail was raised, Duglin braced himself against the gunwale against the expected lurch as the Vesper picked up speed, but it didn’t come. The ship accelerated much slower than usual, and Darlin glanced worriedly at the Captain, who stood on the quarterdeck with his arms folded across his chest, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Shouldn’t we send the girl to the stern cannon?” Bardrick ventured.
“No,” Firch replied. “That won’t be necessary.”
“But…”
“Can you think of a stupider thing to do?” Inder snapped. “Their long guns will outrange us. Besides, that’s a frigate. Our dinky six pounder won’t even scratch her hull.”
“I don’t like the idea of going down without a fight,” the huge man retorted.
“There won’t be a fight,” the Captain said simply.
Fultern placed a hand on Bardrick’s shoulder and spoke softly. “The Captain knows what he’s doing, lad.”
After an excruciatingly long time, the Vesper was up to speed. The pursuing vessel was no longer getting closer.
“They’re a good two thousand yards away,” Inder called loudly from his place at the foot of the quarterdeck. “Just out of cannon range. Well done, pilot.”
Duglin breathed a sigh of relief but noticed that though their pursuers were not getting any closer, they weren’t getting any further away, either.
“If we were rigged properly, we could outrun that tub, no problem,” Raimala sighed. “It will be tough to lose them in the Maw when they’re breathing down our necks like that.”
“The Nomad,” Inder grunted as he studied the pursuing ship through his spyglass. “Odd name for an Imperial vessel.”
As soon as she spoke, a loud pop came from the wreck. Thinking it was cannon fire, Duglin ducked. As he did, he saw a red flare arc into the sky before exploding high overhead. The boy leapt to his feet to see that the wreck was now ablaze.
“Now, let’s see if they take the bait,” Fultern breathed. A red flare was the universal signal of a ship in distress.
“What happens if they don’t?” Duglin asked.
A faint smile crossed the wiry man’s face. “Then things get interesting.”
“I would rather they didn’t if it’s all the same to you,” the Captain remarked as he pulled out his spyglass and trained it on the Imperial ship.
“They’d have to be idiots to take bait that obvious,” Bardrick groused.
“Care to bet on that?” Inder ventured as he extended his hand towards Bardrick. “One percent of the takings.”
The muscular man scowled and shook his head. “That’s too rich for my blood.”
“A shame,” Inder shrugged. He looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “Look, they’re dropping their sails and heaving to.”
Duglin breathed a sigh of relief as the vessel veered sharply towards the wreck.
“I can’t believe it,” Bardrick muttered.
“It’s a simple calculation,” Inder said. “They would rather save lives than attempt to prosecute us in waters they don’t have jurisdiction over.”
“That is uncharacteristically noble of them,” Fultern remarked. “Has the Empire changed since we’ve been away?”
“No, they haven’t,” Inder said, shaking his head. “An Imperial ship in these waters means that they are making overtures to incorporate this territory. They will want to win hearts and minds and once a treaty is signed, they will show their true colours.”
“What should we do now, Skip?” Raimala asked. “Do we still make for the Maw?”
Firch looked thoughtfully at the imperial vessel for a moment before nodding. “We’ll see how long it takes for them to realize there’s no one to save on that wreck before making that decision.”
They continued watching the ship until it disappeared over the horizon around an hour later. Just as tension on the deck eased, Duglin felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He looked up to see the Captain and his first mate giving one another a concerned look.
“What was that?” Raimala asked.
“Nothing to worry about,” Inder said quickly.
“The Imperials will no longer pursue us,” the Captain declared. Bring in the panels. Pilot, set a course for Avarice as soon as we are out of sight.”
“Say, shouldn’t we check the cargo?” Bardrick ventured. “You know, see what it is we’re carrying before we return to port?”
“Absolutely not,” Firch replied.
“Whatever it is we’re carrying, we’re better off not knowing,” the first mate added. “Better for everyone that way.”
“You never know, we might be underpaid for what we just took,” Bardrick remarked.
“Ergon would not have accepted the contract if that were the case,” Inder pointed out.
“Since we’re no longer pretending we aren’t us, can we rerig her as well, Skip?” Raimala asked hopefully.
“Yes, I want all possible speed,” the Captain ordered. “Tash, I’m going to need you to remove the tarp from our stern and replace the figurehead. We don’t want to sail into port looking like we have anything to hide.”