Sunday, January 29, 2012

Dirty Work, Part 5 of 9


5. 


A week after leaving the wreck, the company finally straggled into the small village, no more than a dozen houses and other outbuildings on either side of the road. “Finally!” Yerzle gasped, as he climbed out of his makeshift harness and dropped it to the ground. Beside him, Dozer merely grunted as he did the same. 

“What are you writing?” Portia asked Stillwell. “You’ve been doing that ever since we left the ship.”

“Nothing!” the elephant snapped, slamming the small, leatherbound volume closed. “It’s totally not a journal of my descent into madness, that’s for sure!”

That’s good to know,” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked past the bath chair. “You don’t have to show it to me, I was just curious.”

After she passed, Stillwell opened the book once more, angrily scribbled something more, then closed it again and tucked it behind his back in the chair. “It’s also not an enemies list!” he called out.

Rubbing his shoulder where the abrasions from the harness had been worst, Yerzle walked a ways down the road into the village. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody out,” he said, puzzled. He turned to look for Sashi. “There were definitely folks out and about when we found the place, weren’t there?”

“Yes. Do you think there are fields on the other side of town that they might be working in?”

Everyone?

“Unlikely,” Sashi admitted. “There should be old women and young children, at least. Maybe a crippled beggar, or a hunchback. Something.

“I’ll go check things out, but someone should stay here with Stillwell. Anyone want to volunteer?”

“I can take care of myself!” Stillwell shouted. “If anyone causes me trouble, I’ll throw empty rum bottles at ‘em!”

“I’ll stay with the lad,” Dozer said, mopping his brow. “I’m tired of walkin, anyway.”

“Fine, then. The three of us will look through the village and find out what we can.” He turned first to Portia, then to Sashi. “Ready?” They moved forward, and after two dozen paces approached what approximated the center of town.

“There’s a smith,” Portia said, pointing to one of the buildings. Its wide front door was ajar, and they could see an anvil and bellows in the half-light within. “And there’s a mill.” They traveled farther up the road and came to a cross street. The new road ended where they stood, and led off to the north-east, past what they took to be farm fields.

“Empty,” Yerzle said. “Where is everybody?”

“Hiding from you bandits,” said a voice from behind.

By the time Dozer caught up, panting and puffing, the high-pitched shrieking had ended. Portia and Sashi had their swords drawn and faced two newcomers, a donkey with what looked like a cooking pot on his head, and an enormous rabbit with an equally enormous hammer. Yerzle lay on his back between the two pairs. “What’s goin on?” the boar asked, hefting his axe. “Who was doin that screamin?”

“Don’t look at me,” Portia said, brandishing her sword at the strangers. “They came out of nowhere and surprised us!” Sashi silently pointed at the prostrate Yerzle.

Nowhere?” the donkey asked indignantly. “We live here! You’re the ones who came out of nowhere!” Dozer saw that he carried a hatchet, and besides his cookpot-helmet was wrapped in a bolster and had what appeared to be a serving tray strapped across his chest with several loops of cord.

“You’re bandits!” said the rabbit, and Dozer realized with a start that she was a woman. A very large woman, taller than any of them except Stillwell, with powerful arms to wield the hammer she carried. “You’re with the other bandits, and we’re not going to give you anything! Get out of our village!”

“We ain’t bandits,” Dozer said, watching the rabbit’s hammer warily. “We come from a shipwreck, down the coast.”

“That’s what the other one said,” the donkey replied, his black-tipped ears skeptically lying flat. “But at least he said straight out that he was a bandit. He called himself ‘the Scourge of the Greensward’ and ‘the Terror of the Borderlands’. That gave us something to work with.”

“Rendtooth,” Yerzle said, sitting up. “He claims he’s a bandit lord, and attacked our caravan several months ago, but none of us could remember him.”

Rendtooth?” Portia said, incredulous. “He was on that ship? As crew?” Yerzle climbed to his feet, looked around at the drawn weapons, and stepped behind Portia, who shot him an exasperated look.

“As a captive,” Sashi said. “We met him in the hold. He must have fled the ship after we ran aground.” He addressed the donkey. “Stocky hyena fellow, with a prominent fang on the left side?”

“That’s him.” The donkey’s eyes narrowed. “You know him, but you’re not bandits? We’re supposed to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” Yerzle said from behind Portia, and told the two villagers their tale of sea-adventure, shipwreck, and capture, wrapping up with the escape from the slavers and flight to the shore.

The rabbit lowered her hammer and leaned against it while she eyed them all critically. Hard muscle stood out beneath her brown fur. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

“I believe you,” said the donkey. “And what are we going to do, Szera? Fight them all? In the whole village, we’re the only two who came out, so I think that if they wanted to, they could take care of us in short order.”

“Speak for yourself,” she told him, but did not object as he took a step forward.

“I’m Gustaf,” he said. “Welcome to Jorke End. We have something of a bandit problem.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Portia, sheathing her sword. “Is it just Rendtooth, or does he have a gang?” Sashi and Dozer followed her example, and stood down.

“A few layabouts in town took up with him,” Szera said. “Good riddance to them, mostly, even if one is my cousin. On the other hand, as long as they’re prowling about, we can’t get things back to normal.”

Yerzle exchanged glances with the others. “We might be able to help you with that,” he said. “In exchange for that, we could use some help of our own.”

“Mercenaries!” Szera huffed. “You’ll still rob us, only now we’ll have to thank you for it!”

“Calm down, Szera,” Gustaf told her. “What is it you need?”

“A place to rest up for a few days and get our friend Stillwell healed up fully, then some food and directions when we’re done,” Yerzle said. “We’re headed for Farien.” “We can do that. You can stay in the loft above the smithy. Let’s get your friend into town, then we can figure out where to go from there.”

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Dirty Work, Part 4 of 9

DIRTY WORK

4. 


STILLWELL’S TRAVEL JOURNAL 

DAY: 1
MORNING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 0 MI

Yerzle and the others are finishing up the final work. I still can’t put any weight on my leg, but it doesn’t hurt much, even after that fall. Sashi had to re-tie the splints, and it’s propped up. I get to ride to the town in this neat wheeled chair! Sashi says it would take him only two days to reach the village we’re heading for, though with me and Portia slowing everybody down it might take us longer.

DAY: 1
EVENING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 150 YDS

This isn’t going the way any one thought. The chair doesn’t roll so well over the sand, and not even Dozer was able to push me much. Yerzle and Dozer tied ropes to the chair and tried to drag it backwards. After a while I started to feel bad, and then I got sick. That made Portia feel bad, because she was walking behind the chair. By then we were at the base of a dune, and the sun was setting, so Yerzle suggested that rather than fight the hill in the dark, we call it a day and start fresh in the morning. That seemed to be a good idea, so everybody agreed to that. When they come back from the ship tomorrow, we’ll be off!


DAY: 1
NIGHT
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 150 YDS

I have a lantern! The dunes sure are windy at night. Sleeping in the wreck, I never realized just how windy it was. It’s not cold, but the sand blows around a lot. The wind almost sounds like people talking in the distance, close enough to know they’re there, but too far away to actually understand what they’re saying. It’s creepy. When’s sunrise?


DAY: 2
AFTERNOON
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 2 MI

I learned more about sand last night than I ever wanted to know. For instance, dry sand blown by the wind gets into every crevice, and I mean every crevice. The others showed up early, and we started fresh. The sun is hot, and there’s no wind during the day here in the dunes.


DAY: 2
NIGHT
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 3 MI

Now that we’re farther from the actual beach, the wind over the dunes has picked up. It never stops completely, only rises and falls. Now it doesn’t sound like people off in the distance, but like people right behind you, whispering. People in the dark. Sushushushushushush. All night.


DAY: 3
MORNING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 3 MI

All night, all night. The wind never let up. The sand doesn’t last forever, and both Yerzle and Sashi claim there’s a road not too far ahead, once the ground gets more solid, but we’re so much slower with me in this chair that we can’t tell how much farther we’ve got to go.


DAY: 3
AFTERNOON
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

Sashi has gone ahead to scout a good path. Yerzle and Dozer are exhausted from pulling me all day, but Portia looks better.


DAY: 4
MORNING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

I wonder if anyone else hears the whispering. I saw Portia staring up at the top of one of the dune ridges last night, but when I asked her about it, she told me she was looking for Sashi, except that I know that he went in the opposite direction.


DAY: 4
NIGHT
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

We did not move at all, today. The sun beat upon our company relentlessly, forcing us all into a listless torpor. Mousashi-san did not return until well after moonrise, although he brought felicitous news. The road we seek is not so far off as we thought, perhaps two days’ travel at our current pace!


DAY: 5
MORNING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 5 MI

The others are making preparations for the resumption of our journey, but I must make note of the winds during the previous night. It coursed ceaselessly through the dunes, its susurrations ever-present in our ears, in our minds. I saw my comrades casting wary glances beyond the edges of our camp, into the darkness beyond our meager fire. What do they look for? What do they fear?



DAY: 5
AFTERNOON
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 10 MI

Having left the accursed wreck, I am confined to this infernal chair. I fear madness creeps upon me from inactivity. The others are no better, stunned by the fierce assault of the sun by day, and the drone of the wind upon the sand by night, and by the general monotony of the scene. The large ones drawing my conveyance are now little more than stupid beasts of burden, straining against their makeshift harnesses and panting mindlessly in their exertions. The erstwhile witch prattles on about “beach volleyball” and “barbecues” and other nonsense. The foreigner is silent, but I can see his eyes. They flit from one of us to another, calculating. Plotting. I must remain vigilant against his inevitable treachery.


DAY: 6
EVENING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 12 MI

Our supplies run low, most especially the rum. The sweet, sweet rum. I am keeper of the victuals, as they ride alongside me in this chair. The others are all against me. ALL OF THEM. I know this because the wind tells me so. It knows everything; it sees all. None can hide from its unfailing ability to discern the truth. It comes to me in the night, whispering in my ear, transmitting to me what the others have told to it. It feeds the truth to me, my one true friend in this wilderness, while placating those about me who scheme and conspire in opposition. Curse my feeble body! If I were but able to stand upon my own legs, they would learn the consequences of their machinations, to their peril!


DAY: 7
MORNING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 12 MI

The wind tells me that the stars are right. Soon, the Sleeper shall awake!


DAY: 7
EVENING
DISTANCE TRAVELED: 15 MI

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Sunday, January 15, 2012

Dirty Work, Part 3 of 9


3. 


Yerzle grunted and strained, pulling against the spoke of the windlass, working to prevent the stout rope wrapped around the axel from playing out uncontrolled. Dozer and Vacamar strained against their own spoke, one-third of the way ahead of and behind him. The line trailed over the gunnel where Sashi stood, trying ineffectually to control its descent. From overboard came a series of bangs and thumps, each followed by a yelp or shout. “Watch out!”

“Many apologies, Stillwell!” Sashi called out. “We’re doing the best we can!” He tugged at the rope, thicker than his own arm, to little avail.

“Do better!” came the response.

“Tell him if he don’t like the ride, he can jump from there,” Dozer said through clenched teeth as they slowly lowered Stillwell to the beach in a modified bosun’s chair.

“Dozer says that if you don’t like the ride--”

Belay that, Mister Mousashi!” called out Vacamar. “What Mister Stillwell doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“How much farther?” Yerzle asked with a gasp. The rough wood of the spoke tore at his palms, and his feet were slipping on the deck. “I can’t keep this up much longer!”

“Only about six feet,” Portia reported from where she stood at the gunnel beside Sashi. “Now five... four....”

The windlass jerked, Vacamar called out a panicky “Ahoy!” and the axle spun violently, knocking Yerzle in the back, and sending him sprawling to the deck. Stillwell let out a dismayed trumpeting, then cried out in pain as he hit the ground. Yerzle scrambled to his feet and rushed to the gunnel. “Stillwell! Are you all right?” Dozer, Vacamar, and Portia crowded around Yerzle and Sashi to check on their friend.

Below on the sand, the bull elephant lay on the beach moaning in pain. “Stillwell!” Portia called out in concern.

Stillwell opened one eye a fraction, looked around, then opened both eyes fully. “I landed on something,” he said, then sat up. He felt at his injured leg. “But I don’t think I hurt myself any worse.”

“Where’s Mister Pauly?” asked Vacamar. “He was supposed to guide you to the ground.”

“I’m not sure,” Stillwell said. “I couldn’t see him below me, so--” The canvas seat of the bosun’s chair, splayed across the sand beneath Stillwell’s considerable bulk, began to writhe and undulate. Stillwell yelped in surprise, and struck down hard upon the largest bulge in the seat, producing a squawk of pain.

Stillwell peeled back the canvas and the Lendri’s first mate crawled out from beneath, glaring at his assailant. “Found him!” Stillwell called out to Vacamar.

“If yer done,” Dozer said, “then get offa the seat and outta the way, so we can get the rest down!” With a grunt, Stillwell rolled himself off the bosun’s chair and Mister Pauly dashed several paces backwards to avoid being caught again beneath the young bull elephant.

Dozer and Vacamar reeled in the rope with the windlass, pulling the seat back up on deck. When it arrived, Yerzle and Sashi removed the canvas seat and attached the ropes to either end of a large wicker bathing chair they had found. The slavers really did have an amazingly diverse amount of loot on board.

“All right, Portia,” Yerzle said when they’d finished. “It’s your turn.”

Portia, dressed in her new-found outfit of tunic, breeches, and vest, was examining her new sword, a narrow blade the length of her arm. She turned it this way and that to catch and reflect the sunlight, and didn’t seem to have heard Yerzle. “Portia!” he repeated. “Hey!

She finally looked up. “Have you seen the pattern in my sword?” she asked. “Lombir steel, the finest in the Middle Kingdoms! I still can’t believe this ship’s filled with so much high-quality stuff! Those slavers must have never put ashore to sell anything, even though they would’ve needed to do deal with their captives somehow. Why take them, otherwise?”

“You picked a good one,” Dozer observed, casting an eye to the mottled pattern on Portia’s sword. “But are you sure it’s the type for you?” Even from where he stood at the windlass, Yerzle could see how the steel looked like running water when the light caught it just right. It was an elegant weapon, with tiny elaborate runes in filigree near the cross-guard and a pommel in the shape of a clenched fist, far more refined than his own plain broadsword or the heavy bearded axe that Dozer normally carried.

“I wouldn’t have taken it if I wasn’t,” Portia said testily, and waved it beneath Dozer’s snout before sheathing it. “I grew up learning how to use one of these, even if I wasn’t ever going to rule, myself. I wasn’t ever going to be Queen, either. What else was I going to do to fill my time? I’ll be much more useful in a pinch with my new sword than with that little apple-carver I used to carry, certainly.”

“I think Jain might debate that,” Yerzle said, “if she was still alive to debate things. Are you really sure that the sword is all you’ll have?”

“When the Duct closed, it closed hard,” Portia said. She leaned against the bathing chair and sighed. Yerzle could see that after three days resting aboard the dhow she was stronger and her face was less sunken, but she still tired quickly and moved carefully. “I can feel the magic,” she continued, stretching out one hand and staring into the middle distance. “I know it’s there, and I can reach out to it, but I can’t take hold and direct it. It may come back, or I may be cut off from it forever; I suppose only time will show me which is true. Until I know for sure, I’ll need to keep the blade handy.”

“If that’s yer choice,” Dozer said, “I can live with it. C’mon, lad, let’s get offa this tub.” Dozer, Vacamar, and Yerzle muscled the bathing chair over the gunnel, to be lowered in place of the bosun’s chair. Sashi put several bundles of supplies in the chair, and then Portia carefully climbed in.

After seating herself, she cast a dubious eye at the set-up, then peered nervously over the edge at the distance to the beach below. “Is this really the best way to do this?” she asked.

“You want to get off my ship,” Vacamar said as he looked down into the chair, his hands on his hips. “There’s no gangway, so you can either climb down the ladder, or ride down in the chair. You told us you didn’t think you could make the climb. It appears your options are limited.”

“It’s not your ship,” Portia grumbled. “The Lendri was wrecked by the kraken.”

“I’m claiming it by salvage,” the bull said. “Mister Pauly and I will find a town along the coast, and establish the claim. Who could challenge us? Not the slavers, whatever you did with them.”

Yerzle saw Portia wince at the mention of the missing slavers. Despite several early attempts by himself and the others to find out, she had refused to say much except that she had not killed them, and they had dropped the subject. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. She waved her hand imperiously. “Lower the chair.” Once again, Yerzle, Vacamar, and Dozer operated the windlass while Sashi guided the load. This time, there were no mishaps.

“If you change your mind, you can still catch up to us,” Yerzle said to Vacamar as he strapped on his own sword. “Once we get to that village Sashi and I found, we expect to be there a few days at least, to let Stillwell heal some more. From there we’ll figure out exactly where we are, and how to get to Farien.”

He cleared his throat self-conciously, and his ears flattened against his head in embarrassment. “Sorry about wrecking your ship, and all....”

The captain clapped Yerzle jovially on the shoulder. “Maybe hunting a leviathan with a greenhorn crew wasn’t my best idea,” he admitted. “There’s enough loot left on this wreck to make up for it, though. If we need to, we’ll come after you, but I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

The others had already climbed down, and Mister Pauly had climbed back up, leaving only Yerzle to disembark. “Good luck in the city,” Vacamar told him, offering his hand. Yerzle shook it enthusiastically. “And good luck with the wreck,” he said, then climbed down to the beach.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Dirty Work, Part 2 of 9


DIRTY WORK

2.


The cabin was low-ceilinged, and Yerzle could not stand fully upright. He realized that there had to be another deck below this one in the forward part of the ship, since the slave pen in the aft portion was high enough that none of them had been able to reach that hatch opening. It was slightly stuffy, and the air held the scents of exotic spices and incense. His nose twitched, and he fought back a sneeze. He stepped off the steep stairway to the main deck -- almost a ladder -- and glanced about the cabin. It was not nearly as dark as he’d thought it would be, and his eyes quickly adjusted. Standard portholes let in light, and more came in through cracks in the hull that had developed in their final rush for shore. The large space was divided into nooks and cubbies instead of separate cabins, each filled with cushions and blankets, no doubt plunder of the slavers. He could not see Portia in any of the nooks, so he made his way about the space as quietly as he could. He found her in a midship nook aft of the hatch, with a large porthole and several large pillows. She lay with her face to the bulkhead and her back to him, cocooned in a blue and red quilt with only her white hair visible.

Even from that position, Yerzle though she looked beaten and exhausted, and he hesitated before speaking. “Portia?” he asked softly. She did not answer. He called her name again, then stepped haltingly towards her sleeping place, although he did not enter it or touch her bedclothes. Still, she did not respond, and he decided to return abovedeck. As he turned to climb the stairs back, he heard the cushions rustle.

“How’s the shuffleboard tournament going?” Portia’s voice was thin and dry. She rolled over just enough so that she could see Yerzle without turning fully away from the bulkhead. The sun through the porthole glinted in her green eyes. “I told Stillwell I’d join, but I admit I don’t feel up to it right now.”

“I just got here,” he replied, stepping over to her bed. “They got so wrapped up in organizing the entertainment that they forgot to look for me.”

“It’s scheduled as a double-elimination, round-robin event,” Portia said with a faint smile. “The brackets have to be seeded carefully.” She sniffed, then wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Also, you smell like kelp.”

Yerzle chuckled. “You can smell that, under all this patchouli? Well, that’s what broke my fall. I had to untangle myself once I woke up, and I’ve got sand in places I didn’t know sand could get. I’ll itch for days.”

He squatted at the entrance to her nook, resting his elbows on his knees. “Dozer told me you were resting, but I thought I’d check on you, anyway.”

She turned her face back to the bulkhead. “I saw you fall overboard when we first struck the beach,” she said, so softly that he could barely make out her words. “I saw you fall, but couldn’t do anything about it. All my power, all that power I was channeling, I could only use it to keep pushing the ship forward, not to save you. Not to do anything but go. I didn’t know whether you’d fallen into the sea, or onto jagged rocks, or even how far up in the air we were. Then we hit the boulders.” She sighed raggedly, like the final puff of a worn out bellows. “All that power, and I couldn’t do anything....

“Then it was all gone."

“Hey, I’m here, you’re here, everyone’s here, and there’s a shuffleboard tournament ready to start! If we get out of this only with Stillwell’s broken leg and your exhaustion, that’s a success in my book. It beats the slave pens for sure, don’t you think?”

“Exhaustion,” she murmured, and rolled back over and sat up a little, keeping the quilt wrapped around her. The tip of her black-and-white striped tail poked out from the bottom end. “Right.... I’ve felt better, for sure, and considering I’ve been dead, that’s saying something."

“You didn’t die,” Yerzle said with a nervous smile. “It was close, sure, but--”

“You weren’t there,” she said flatly. “You couldn’t possibly know.”

He didn’t try to argue the point, and sat down on the edge of the pillows. “I was worried for you. I was afraid that being a Duct would take too much out of you."

“You have no idea,” she said wearily, and pushed herself up into a half-sitting position against the bulkhead with slow, careful movements. Now that he was closer, and she was in more of the light, Yerzle could see Portia’s drawn and haggard face, her sunken and bloodshot eyes, he dry, cracked nose, and the brittle exaggeration of her movements. The white fur of her face and muzzle seemed to have a yellowish tinge, like old bones, but he couldn’t tell if that was real, or only a trick of the light. “Being a Duct siphoned nearly everything out of me,” she said. “My strength, my spirit, my will. I feel like an empty husk of myself. I’d hoped that the ten years I lost would be off the end of my life, not taken immediately.”

“Is that what’s happened?” Yerzle’s concern for his friend grew.

“I’m not sure. The lore regarding Ducts is spotty and incomplete. It’s a last-ditch maneuver, not something wizards take on readily, and the effects aren’t well understood. But, as you said, it beats the slave pens.”

They sat quietly for a while, watching dust motes in the sunbeam that shone through the porthole. “I’m glad you’re all right,” Portia said finally.

“We’re all all right,” Yerzle said. “Even you, you’ll see.” He gestured up at the ceiling. “Do you want to go topside? Mister Pauly should be done setting up the buffet. You could get the last of the day’s sun in one of the lounges, as well.”

“That ridiculous costume disappeared when the Duct shut off,” Portia said, then ran her fingers through her hair. “It left my hair short, though.” Yerzle could see that her hair did end just before her shoulders, unlike the ponytail she normally wore. “I couldn’t find my other clothes, either.”

“Disappeared, you say?”

“I see that look on your face!” Portia said, sounding more like her normal, forceful, self. “You can wipe it right off! The punks who fished us out of the ocean have plenty of gear and equipment, so I’m sure there’s something around that’ll fit me. But you’re going back up top before I go looking!”

Yerzle smiled as he climbed the stairs to rejoin the others. Everything was sorting itself out.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Dirty Work, Part 1 of 9



DIRTY WORK

1.


The waves crashed upon a smooth, gently-sloping beach. The mid-afternoon sun hung in a cloudless sky, the summer heat tempered by a cool breeze that blew in from the sea. Just beyond the reach of the breakers, a pair of green-backed peckers darted to and fro, poking their narrow snouts into the wet sand, searching for edible bits of sea life. Further up, the beach was littered with the debris of high tide: mats of seaweed, driftwood, dead fish, the detritus of the shipping lanes. Beyond that, the wreck of a two-masted dhow rested among a cluster of boulders, a wide furrow in the sand leading from the high-tide line to the broken stern.

Nothing moved around the wreck but another pair of peckers, which froze when an unnatural groan issued from a nearby pile of kelp, thongweed, and bladderwrack. The pile stirred, groaned again, then begain to rise. The fox tod buried beneath the seaweed climbed to his hands and knees, then cast off the leafy blanket and stood. Brushing sand out of his russet fur, he surveyed the beach and the wreck.

“Sheesh.” He ran a hand through his prominent forelock, and sand trickled onto his snout. He began searching the nearby piles, similar to the one he’d been covered by, looking for his companions. They’d all been held captive aboard the dhow after their own vessel had sunk, but had managed to free themselves and overpower their captors, although they’d caused significant damage to the ship in the process.

Portia caused it, he reminded himself. The rest of us didn’t do anything at all, stuck down in the slave hold. He would not panic yet, not after what they’d all endured, but his search carried an urgency that an everyday beachcomber’s could never have. “Hello!” he called out. “Dozer? Stillwell? Are you there? Portia? Sashi? Anybody?

A head appeared above the dhow’s ruined stern, the broad bovine face and horns of Vacamar, their former employer and then their fellow captive aboard the ship, when it had been crewed by slavers. “Ahoy, Mister Yerzle!” the sailor called out. “Up here!”

“Vacamar! Have you seen anyone else?”

“There’s a rope ladder on the port side,” the former captain said. “Get yourself up here!”

The bull had not answered Yerzle’s questions, but he followed the directions and hauled himself up the lines. As he topped the gunnel, he noted with some exasperation that Vacamar reclined in a chaise lounge, his sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, with several other empty lounge chairs beside him on the deck. A brightly-colored pavilion shaded him from the sun, and a small table crowded with several large bottles stood amidst the other furniture. “Catching some sun, are you?” he asked.

“I was,” Vacamar said, a bottle in his hand. “It got pretty hot, though, so I moved into the shade. There’s not much else to do, right now. Mister Pauly is in the galley, getting the rest of the buffet prepared.”

“Buffet?”

Vacamar nodded and took a pull from his bottle. “Those slavers had all sort of loot stored aboard this tub. Food, liquor, clothing, weapons, you name it! The salvage on this will set me up fine!” He took another drink.

“What about the others?” Yerzle asked, and Vacamar gestured towards the bow with his bottle, indicating three of his friends clustered around the stump of the foremast, then took another swig.

“Yerzle!” Stillwell called out to him as he approached the group. His elephant bulk was sunk deep into a deck hammock. “You made it!”

“To find the rest of you drinking rum and sunbathing while I was passed out on the beach,” Yerzle grumbled. “Was I the only one who fell overboard when we ran aground?”

“Sashi pitched over the bow just afore we hit the rocks,” Dozer said, turning from where he and the rat were examining something upon the deck. “Me and Vacamar had to haul him aboard, so that we could all pull Stillwell up.”

Yerzle turned to Stillwell. “Why? What happened to you?”

“He rolled forward into the fo’c’sle when we ran aground,” Sashi explained, his long naked rat’s tail lashing back and forth. “That’s where we found the hatch to the larder, and the shuffleboard supplies.” Looking over Sashi’s shoulder, Yerzle could see the lines of a shuffleboard court marked out upon the deck, and tangs and biscuits scattered about.


Yerzle grimaced. “So you decided to play shuffleboard instead of looking for me? Nice to know I inspire such loyalty. So, where’s Portia?”

“She’s resting below,” Stillwell said. “We didn’t forget about you, we just had bigger problems. First, they had to pull me out of the fo’c’sle compartment.”

“Then the shuffleboard?”

“No,” said Dozer. “Then, we had to set the big lug up in the hammock, since he busted his leg in the fall.”

“Really?” Yerzle asked. He belatedly noticed that the bull elephant’s right leg was propped up on large pillows and splinted with a shuffleboard tang. “How’s it feel?”

Stillwell raised a large golden goblet with a small paper umbrella poking out of the top. “The mai tais help,” he said. “I can’t walk, though. That’s not because of the mai tais,” he added hastily.

“It doesn’t appear to be a serious break,” Sashi said. “On the other hand, he’s got a lot of meat between the skin and the bone, so I can’t be entirely sure.”

“I get to use a tang as a crutch!” Stillwell called out. “Also, I’m running low on crushed ice!”

“Mister Pauly is steward fer now,” Dozer reminded Stillwell as he practiced his launching technique on the court. “I reckon you can bring that up when he comes by next.”

“So you were delayed a bit,” Yerzle said, exasperated. “But you still didn’t come looking for me.”

“Well,” Stillwell said, “after hauling all the equipment out, it seemed like a waste to not make better use of it, so we were organizing a shuffleboard tournament. Then, you showed up. So, problem solved, right?”

These were the sorts of conversations that always made Yerzle’s blood pressure rise. “You got somethin in yer eye?” Dozer asked, scratching his chin. “It’s started makin a funny little twitch.”

Yerzle sighed and silently counted to ten. “Never mind,” he said. “I want to talk with Portia.”

“She’s restin,” Dozer said. “Gettin us ashore took a lot out of her. You might want to let her be, for now.”

“I’ll just look in. If she’s sleeping I’ll be right back.”

“We put her in a nook below the forward hatch,” Sashi told him, pointing it out just behind Stillwell’s hammock. “The fore is separated from the aft slave pen.”

“Thanks.” Yerzle opened the hatch and descended into the gloom of the dhow’s lower deck.