The Mercenaries - Ed Greenwood [3]
"What?"
"Blackfingers? I don't believe it! His ship, aye, mayhap, but-"
"I've heard," the sarcastic sailor said with some satisfaction, "that Redbeard used fire-arrows, and burned all aboard her alive, as they cowered not daring to leave the hulk-for none of 'em could swim!"
Most of the men in the room were staring at the speaker. The fat man in the corner was looking at other faces-and at the man's last words, he was rewarded. The table that the drunks had been dragged away from was now crowded with seven drinkers-a dwarf and two women among them-who sat hunched forward, emptying two carry-kegs as fast as they could drain their tankards. Their faces had grown hard at the mention of the Kissing Shark, but bitter amusement had crossed more than one pair of hps at the assertion that none of Blackfingers's crew could swim.
A rather less alert man could have tumbled to the fact that he was looking at a table of surviving Sharkers… or rather, ex-Sharkers. The watcher covered his face with his tankard again and studied them more closely. This was his first chance to see more than seven wet shapes by moonlight.
Their leader seemed to be a big, heavily muscled Konigheimer… probably an escaped slave. He had the usual temper of such folk; just now, he was snarling something into his drink as one of the most battered and scarred seamen the observer had ever seen held on to one of his arms and whispered urgent soothings to him, while a moon-faced Edenvaler who had the hands and habits of a gambler clung to the other.
The bald dwarf had a nose and ears bedecked with rows of dangling earrings; the fat man tagged him as the whimsical wit of the group and looked at the others. There was the usual green youth hungry for fortune and adventure, and the two women-one a battered barrel of a wench who could probably out-muscle many men in a brawl, and the other as beautiful as a high court lady, with flawless skin, large and striking blue eyes, brows that were even more arresting, and a long, silky fall of black hair to match. The watcher looked away quickly before she felt the sudden weight of his gaze. Then he glanced back and saw the empty dagger-sheaths on her forearms, and the war-harness riding on her slim hips.
She leaned forward with sleek grace to say something to the big man at that moment, and her murmured words calmed him visibly. Yes, this one was every inch a pirate too.
The silent spy listened intently, but the seven Sharkers weren't saying much. "We must stick together," he heard the battered veteran say, his voice like gravel rattling down a metal chute.
Aye, they were grim and guarded. Time to strike them with fire and see what befell.
The fat man glanced around, saw the foppish pirate who'd been so scornful standing nearby, and noted how close he stood, face still flushed in anger, to the sarcastic taleteller. The fat man covered a smile with his tankard, and kept it raised to hide his lips as he said-in perfect mimicry of the sarcastic sailor-"Perfumed sot, what would you know of swimming?"
"Ridicule my looks, would you?" the well-dressed, scornful man snarled, voice rising, and the watcher glanced up in time to see the fop sweep a long, needlelike poniard from his boot and drive it into the face of the sarcastic tale-teller.
The startled sailor saved his eyes with a quick sweep of his arm, and with the toe of his boot lifted his stool into his attacker's face. The fop staggered backward, spitting out teeth and curses, and the sarcastic man produced a hitherto-hidden knife of his own.
Men backed away hastily, spilling ale from their tankards, and a chant of "Blood! Blood!" arose. As men began making wagers on the outcome of this duel, the fat man saw a lammer peer around some of the watchers and then hasten to get the doorguards. Bladed weapons were banned in the Masques, what with all the anger and rivalries and ready drink-and by the looks of things, these two pirates were going to demonstrate why.
There was a sudden shout