Epilogue #3
“Right you are.” Vance looked down at Isaac. The grip of her
pistol was shining as brightly as the medals on her coat. He fought in vain to
control his blush. “Good work, sir mage. At ease.”
She nodded at each of them and walked away, maneuvering
through the deckhands, most of whom were still fruitlessly attempting to catch
the fire-breathing rats. At the helm, Presly and some of the leopards were
feeding rats to the cockatrice, who was flashing her scales with affection.
“Well,” Isaac said, still catching his breath. “She was
bound to find us out, eventually.”
Zaria’s grip tightened. Before he could react, he had been
leaned over the gunwale, and she was kissing him, her snout dipping sideways to
bite at his lips. Everything was entirely obvious to the crew. Isaac tried to
protest, but the hyena began to dip lower, dragging a heavy tongue along his
throat, rubbing the bristles of her muscle against the freshly trimmed hair of
his beard.
“She’s always known.” Her breath danced across wet skin.
“Them ex-navy types are sharp as arrows. Just gotta follow the rules.”
“And what is this, then?”
“Mutiny.”
She began to gently nibble at the nape of his neck. Isaac
found his trousers growing painfully tight.
“Two days till landfall,” she said. “Gonna be paradise, so
I’ve heard.”
He struggled to think of his charter. “A tropical island.
Uncharted, though I’ve heard of, um,” he shivered at the press of her cold
nose, “of natural hot springs, in the land. They have healing properties.”
She hummed. “I could use a bath.”
“All the baths in the world would not save you, I’m afraid.”
“Could use my squire’s tongue, as well.”
“Again?”
“Oh, you’d lick me every day, if I could help it.”
“I don’t know,” Isaac said, growing aware of how many of the
crew were watching them. “My cunnilingus seems taken for granted.”
“Oh, a golden tongue, it is. The envy of bards and conmen
the world ‘round.”
He pushed her back. Eventually, she allowed him to win. When
they separated, her face held a smoldering gaze. She had adorned her left eye
with a black patch, which clashed with her tawny fur and pink, weathered scars.
All together, she looked right at home among the
weather-beaten crew.
In that moment, he found her exceedingly gorgeous.
“Well,” Isaac said. “Maybe I’ll work up an appetite.”
“Maybe I’ll feast on you, as well.”
“Maybe we should swim there, instead. It could be faster.”
“Hmmm.”
She stepped back. The sea spray returned. A few snickers
were heard beneath the snap of wave and canvas.
“Two days,” she said. “Be ready.”
He nodded. She turned and strode away, as if they’d never
been talking at all. Isaac had to awkwardly adjust the hem of his pants before
doing the same. As he descended into the humid depths of the gun deck, he found
himself already counting the hours.
“And so now,” Zaria said, spilling some wine as she laughed,
“Isaac’s got the bloke staring daggers. I mean, he’s got a real fury in his
eyes, but sir mage here is still talkin’ as he was, telling the sod he’s got
less letters than a signpost. What’d you call him, again?”
Isaac continued to saw through the manticore steak.
“Jobbernowl.”
Vance broke a biscuit, snorting. “Jobbernowl? What’s that
mean?”
“It’s from a poem. Jobber, as in blocky, and nowl, as in head.”
He blushed at his plate, still working his knife into the meat. “Blockhead.
Moron.”
“Jobbernowl!” Zaria said.
“It’s a real word! He had a big, ugly head!”
Isaac demonstrated with his hands. Vance hid her smile
behind a sip of wine. At her side, Percival, her jackal first mate, was wiping
a ship’s biscuit through the juice of his manticore steak, not hearing much of
the conversation. One of his ears was gone, and the other had been burned
during the Scorch. The jackal had long ago decided to listen only when things
were important.
The captain’s cabin of the Arms of Horn was
expansive. It covered the breadth of the stern, and it did not look much
different than the study of a noble scholar. Vance had a sizable collection of
books, maps, and encyclopedias shelved along the walls. Her king-sized bed made
Isaac’s hammock seem like a rolled-up flag, and her dining table was currently
adorned with fried cuts of manticore, including the puffy white flesh of its
tail, along with biscuits, dried fruit, and no lack of butter and spice.
Vance had provided wine, as well. She had made a point of
opening a vintage bottle. Whatever she wanted to discuss, it clearly involved
some celebration. Isaac, for his part, had only been drunk a half dozen times
in his life, and he had learned not to miss the chance whenever it appeared.
“So,” Zaria said, clawing some gristle from her teeth. “So,
the bloke invites Isaac to step outside, real serious-like. Sir mage here goes,
‘nah, arm wrestling, that’s what we’re doin’.’ Everyone watching just about
cracks on the spot. The bear’s got hands the size of Isaac’s head, and the
latter’s so drunk he can hardly sit on his stool.”
“Do we really need to tell this?” Isaac asked, taking a big
gulp of wine.
“No, no,” Vance said. “I spoke of runnin’ my ship aground
thrice in a day. It’s only fair.”
“Captain—”
“We’re hearing this. Boatswain, continue.”
“So, they sit, right?” Zaria gestured with the meat on her
fork. “And while the bloke’s turned ‘round to laugh with his mates, Isaac’s
moving his arms below the table, casting a spell. Nothing seems to happen,
though, and he gives me a big ol’ wink while he sets his arm. The bear grabs
his hand, and they start wrestlin’. The other man’s clearly not trying at
first, thinking it’s already settled. Then, after a moment, his eyes just about
pop from his head, and he starts screaming real loud. Isaac slams his knuckles
down to the table. The bear rushes from his chair, and his hand’s so burned
it’s still hissing, and he’s grabbing every drink he can find to douse the fur.
“Isaac just sits there, laughing about it. The rest of the
crew aren’t of the same thought. They step forward, loosin’ their scabbards,
and sir mage makes the flame go bright in his hand, and you can see the fire
reflecting off the eyes of everyone in the tavern, and he just goes ‘anyone
else wanna try?’ No one answers. I figure that’s enough, and I tell them to get
their mate to a sawbones, and they do so, huffin’ and spittin’ the whole way. I
follow them out to make sure they’re actually leaving. By the time I get back,
Isaac’s ordering another drink.”
“Got them free the rest of the night,” Isaac said, finishing
his cup in two large gulps.
Percival made an effort to smile,
if only because he could tell that the story was over. He quickly returned to
sawing at his steak.
“My word,” Vance said, whiskers twitching. “I’ve got quite a
delinquent aboard. True terror with a bottle. You sure you can handle that
vintage, sir mage?”
“I’m fine.” He began to pour another glass. “I promise
that—”
Zaria kicked his shin below the table. She gave him a stern
look, using her eye to order the wine bottle down. Ever since the incident she
had just described, the hyena had kept a careful watch on his consumption of
alcohol, making it very clear when she thought he had imbibed enough.
He ignored her, filling his cup. “I promise not to burn the
ship I’m sailing on.”
“Ah,” Vance said, “and what about ashore, then?”
“I prefer homes and orphans, in that case.”
Vance blinked at him. Percival glanced up at Isaac. He
remembered, suddenly, that both of them were veterans of the Scorch, who had
likely been witness to the armies of mages burning roughshod along the coast.
As servants of the Royal Claw, they might have participated in the siege of
Valrynn, which had forced the denizens into depraved acts of starvation. It was
the same event which had forced Zaria’s father to sell her for coin.
He really had drunk too much.
“Sorry,” Isaac said. “That was poor of me.”
“Well,” Vance replied, her smile gone. “It’s good someone
laughs about it.”
“Captain—”
“Leave it, please.” The otter finished her own cup and
glanced at Zaria, changing the subject. “Your hand bothering you?”
The hyena tried to smile, cutting apart a dried apple. “Nah,
capt. It’s fine.”
“I’ve noticed you favor the off-hand, at times.”
“It’s just an old wound.” Zaria opened her hand, stretching
the fingers with a grimace. It had been a small miracle that Zaria had been
able to keep the fingers at all, let alone the hand. After Soren’s wound had
begun to fester, few surgeons had been willing to do anything but amputate.
“Gets a bit stiff. The sea don’t help much.”
Vance made a noise in her throat. “How’d that happen?”
Zaria shrugged, not looking at Isaac. “Pirates. Got stuck in
a boardin’ action, once. Cutlass went straight
through the hand. Fucked the nerves, as the doctor told me.” She gestured at
her patch. “Lost the eye on the second swing.”
“Well,” Vance said. “Them’s cutthroats for you.”
“Aye, capt. Glad they didn’t do worse.”
Vance’s gaze lingered on the hyena for a moment. She noticed
Isaac was watching, let her smile return, and turned to her first mate.
“Percy.”
The jackal was picking his teeth with a knife, working out a
long strand of gristle.
“Oi! Percy!”
Percival flinched, nearly stabbing his gums. Vance flicked
her head towards Isaac. The jackal stood up hurriedly, rattling the dinnerware,
trying to wriggle a scroll from his inner breast pocket.
“’Bout time we talk business,” Vance said.
The jackal came around to Isaac’s side of the table,
flattening the scroll along the cloth. The paper was a maze of titles,
paragraphs, and subsections. Just from a glance, Isaac could see that it had
been inked sometime today, and in somewhat of a hurry.
“That’s the missive the Royal Claw wanted me to pen for
you.” Vance poured another cup of wine. “Some flowery preamble to start, then a
new contract.”
“New contract?” Isaac asked.
“Go on. Read it.”