Epilogue #5
Percival nodded, his hand still at his scabbard.
Zaria leaned over the table, staring into the spreading
stain of wine. “Don’t suppose I’m talking you out of this?”
“I got my orders. Nothing’s changin’ that.” Her short fur
bristled. “And to tell the truth, I’m of little mind to argue them. I’ve lost
too many of my mates to pirates. There’s acres of bone down below the
drink—good sailors—all dead ‘cause of your kind. I don’t care if you’ve made
amends. I’ll not abide your presence. Not on my ship.”
Zaria straightened herself. She looked back at Isaac. For a
long moment, her eye blinked, and her ears bent back, and there was something
she was just on the edge of speaking. It never came. She closed her mouth,
seemed to steel herself, and said: “Aye, then. Thanks for dinner, capt. I’ll
leave you three.”
“No!” Isaac stepped forward. “You’re not going. This is
not—”
“She is going,” Vance said. “We still need to discuss your
terms.”
“There is nothing to discuss!”
Both captain and first mate flinched at his shout. Their
eyes went wide, watching his hands.
“I’m not signing that contract,” Isaac said. “If she doesn’t
stay, then you can consider this my resignation.”
Vance’s whiskers curled down.
“I see,” Isaac replied. “It seems we’re finished here.” He
grabbed the bottle of wine. “I’ll be taking this, as well. Payment for saving
your ship.”
Percival’s hand rested on the hilt of his cutlass.
“Isaac.” Zaria reached for the bottle. “That’s enough. I’m
not raisin’ a fuss.”
He pulled the wine away, nearly falling onto the table.
“What were you doing, captain? You’ve been sitting there all through the meal,
smiling at us, knowing you’re about to rip us apart. Was this your idea
of a jest? Did you think I’d be grateful that you’re about to leave her
stranded?”
“I was being gracious,” Vance said, her voice measured.
“Would you rather I’d hauled her to the brig in front of you?”
Isaac pointed at her. “You’re not half the person she is.
She’s worth ten of you combined.”
Percival took a step towards the table, his burned ear flat
to his skull.
“Isaac,” Vance said. “I don’t appreciate your tone. I’ll not
put up with it much longer.”
“That feeling’s mutual, captain.”
She leaned over the table, candlelight reflecting off her
navy coat. “Sleep this off. That’s an order. You’re upset, and three sheets to
the wind, besides, so I’ll let you take leave. Push your luck, and I’ll have
you caned.”
Isaac felt a moment of utter, raging fury.
Vance pushed the contract across the table. “Read it. Think
it over. We’ll be heading back to the mainland after this last mooring, and
I’ll take your answer anytime ‘tween now and then.”
“There is nothing to think over,” Isaac said. “The answer is
no.”
“Cunts to collars, Isaac, it’s a royal pardon. It’s the
queen’s bloody wishes. You’ll never get another chance—”
He picked up the scroll, rolled it together, and stuck the
end into the flame of a candle. When the fire had fully caught, he threw the
parchment at Vance’s feet.
“Fuck your contract,” Isaac said, “and fuck you, too.”
He made to leave. He tripped on the leg of a chair as he
did, nearly throwing the bottle of wine. The cabin door seemed to rush at him.
He fell into it without reaching for the knob, and the lock shattered off the
wood as he plummeted through the doorway. Outside, the top deck of the Arms
of Horn was dark, wet, and wreathed in the light of lanterns. The sigiled
sail was bright against the stars, and the cold spray of the sea felt wonderful
on his clammy skin. He washed the salty water down with a generous gulp of
wine. One of the leopards was standing watch at the back mast, reflective eyes
watching him in surprise.
“Wanna drink?” Isaac shouted.
The leopard did not respond. Isaac laughed, took another
swig, and stumbled down the deck.
Zaria grabbed him. She was forced to grapple with him to
keep the hold. “Quit your fuckin’—”
He yanked on the fore-rigging, reaching up to the sail.
“Isaac!”
The world spun. His stomach heaved. He fell back, looking up
to see Zaria’s face, seeing tawny fur
under a black eyepatch, watching her grunt as she suddenly held up his entire
body.
“Oh, fuck me,” she said, “you’re legless.”
Being held horizontally did not agree with him. His stomach
flexed. He began to gag, her eye went wide, the world spun again, and then he
was vomiting off the side of the gunwale, painting the hull of the ship with
the fresh chunks of his dinner. He barely had gaps in which to breathe.
When his guts stopped folding themselves, he made out
fractions of conversation, somewhere close by.
“—ere’s the wine back—”
“—your quarters—”
“—not like to happen—”
Eventually, Zaria took him again. He was forced to stand and
walk. When he did, Vance was watching from outside her cabin, her tall form
bathed in the glowing sail light.
“See you on the morrow,” she said, rubbing the broken lock
on her door.
Isaac was taken below deck. The process involved more
dragging than walking, and every breath Zaria gave seemed to have a curse. All
his protests were yanked and hissed into silence. There was a flurry of
bulkheads, the ripe smell of the privy, the dull iron of cannonball mounds,
crewmen on watch looming from shadow.
He was in a dark room. He was shoved onto a mattress that
was as thick as a puddle. After some curses and fumbling, a lantern was lit,
its metal casing dripping salt water as it swung with the swaying ship. Beside
it, Zaria was hastily shrugging off her uniform, loosening the buttons on her
coat, vest, and shirt. She was doing it with such force that they barely
survived the process.
“Is this your cabin?” Isaac asked.
He had never seen it before, owing to their need to keep
apart while underway. It turned out to be little more than a shed. Her bunk was
the only furniture, and it was just long enough that she could lie down without
bending her knees. The sea was close, pounding loudly against the planks,
creating a constant salty dew on every surface.
Zaria unclasped her brassiere. Isaac blinked at the sight of
her breasts.
She shoved a tankard at him. “Drink the water.”
“There they are!”
She slapped his hand away. “Drink the fuckin’ water.”
“There they are!”
She made him drink. Some groping was allowed. He downed
enough water to wash the taste of vomit from his mouth,
barely managing a few breaths before she was demanding more. By the end, his
stomach was full again, and some small clarity had returned.
She grabbed him. He was dragged down to her mattress. The
world became a dizzy mixture of fur and motion. All resistance was met with
force, and every curse was met with laughter. When things settled again, she
was on her back, he was lying on top of her, and his face was buried in the fur
of her chest. It was a very pleasant surprise. Everything became second
nature—her smell, the heat of her body, the feeling of her hands. . . .
“Fun’s over,” she said. “Lie still.”
He tried to push himself up, but her hands were on his back,
keeping him pinned. Down below, the backs of her knees were locked against his
legs.
“So help your furless arse,” Zaria said, “you’re sleeping
here or the planks. Make a choice.”
He fell back into her fur. His world became scent and fluff.
“Is this a bribe?”
“Aye. I’m buyin’ your compliance.”
“You’re a foul temptress.”
“And you best point that thing somewhere else.”
He blinked. After a moment, he lifted his hips, tucking his
erection off to the side. “Sorry.”
“He’s a good friend,” Zaria said, “but he’s sleeping indoors
tonight.”
“Oh, how he misses his sheath.”
“I’m not your sheath! You’re my rod!”
He snickered. She growled. After further prompting, he
relaxed on top of her, burying his cheek into her chest. Hands began to scratch
his back. He loosed a contented sigh, blowing it out to the sound of a crashing
wave. But, suddenly, everything was spinning again—if he closed his eyes, the
bed became a centrifuge, and the nausea grew strong. He opened his eyes, trying
to concentrate on her breath blowing through his hair. It kept him centered.
After a while, her hands stopped scratching. There were
small intakes of breath, as if she was taking several attempts to speak.
“So,” Zaria said, drawing the word out. “Quite some
shouting, there.”
Isaac’s grunt was affirmative.
“Them words all left you now, have they?”
He rubbed his cheek through fur. The grunt was more
affirmative.
“Isaac. You shouldn’t have. . . .”
Her sigh blew through his hair. Isaac felt a small stab of
clarity.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” Zaria said. “You shoulda signed
the contract.”
“I should’ve slapped her.”
“No, love, look—”
“The absolute nerve to think—”
“Isaac,” she said. “On the morrow, I’m going back to her,
and I’ll do my damndest to beg for a new document. If she pens it, you’re
signing.”
He blew a fat raspberry.
“I’ll puppet your hand, if need be.”
“Can you even spell my name?”
“Isaac,” she said, voice hard and firm. “You need to sign
it. She’s right. It’s the only chance you’re ever gonna have to. . . .” There
was another sigh. “You gonna throw this away, just like that?”
He burrowed his cheek into her chest. “I’d rather die than
go back.”
“Oh, you’d rather be stranded on some foreign island,
instead?”
“With you,” he said. “I’m being stranded with you.”
“Do you know the language?” she asked, exasperated. “Do you
got any idea of the terrain, the cities, how many bandits line the roads? Do
you even know the name of this place?”
“Do you?”
“That ain’t the point.”
“Isn’t it? How’re you gonna survive there?”
“I dunno,” Zaria said. “I’ll figure it out.”
“We’re figuring it out together.”
“No, you stupid cunt. I survived the street. I survived the
pirate life. I’ll manage this, like I always have. You—”
“You need my help,” Isaac said. “You need my magic, you need
my reading, you need—”
Her hands pressed on his back. “I need you to sign this. All