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“Hey!” I shouted, my fingers balling up into fists. “You’ve been paid, bastard!”
“That I have, ya damned dog,” the man sputtered. “But the principal is that he’s a cheat, and I don’t let cheaters get away without a proper lesson in courtesy.”
“You’ll leave my crew out of your shit-flinging tantrums when their debt has been settled.”
“Maybe their captain is the one here who needs a lesson in manners.” He grumbled, stomping toward me. I didn’t want to cause a scene, but my patience was wearing thinner by the second. He threw a punch. I dodged him with a backward step, but he lunged at me again. This time, I propelled myself forward and swung back.
I struck his jaw, and he staggered into the table before finding his footing and lunging at me once more. I grappled him as we both tumbled to the creaking wooden floor below. He punched. I punched back. In a whirlwind of fists and slurred insults, the tavern soon lit up with jeers and shouts from all the sailors and swindlers flocking to the commotion.
I found my footing, standing just as he latched onto my ankle and tried to force me back to the floor. On the way down, I managed to grab hold of a metal tankard on the counter and slam it across his face. The tavern owner shouted at us and tossed a wooden stool our way, temporarily breaking up the brawl as it splintered into pieces over our bodies. But I managed to sneak in one last punch.
The man stayed down, groaning in pain as I eased myself back up. I rolled my shoulders to shake off the soreness in my knuckles and face, and without a word, made my way to the door, ignoring the riled men’s hearty chuckles as they settled back into their seats. I was done with this foolishness for the night. I’d find Bastian another time.
It was raining. A sudden storm must’ve rolled in on the coast in the last two hours I’d been in there. As I stepped down the wooden planks for steps, my boots sunk deep into the thick mixture of wet sand and mud. I welcomed the calming sound of low thunder and rain patters as opposed to the never-ending commotion of the tavern.
But when I heard the door open behind me and the golden glow of light illuminated the ground below my shadow, I didn’t hesitate to look back. The gambler I’d just fought came bounding out, desperate to continue our fistfight. He flung himself onto me, and I gripped both his arms as he came down, dragging him down to the mud. The rain beat down as we sloshed in the mire, adding to the challenge that much more. We rolled a few times, my grip slipping in the wet sand as we wrestled with strength closely matched. I was tired, and I knew I could reach for the hidden dagger at my side and end it all quickly, but I fought the urge to do that a bit longer as I pinned him down with my knees. But in a split second, my left knee slipped, giving him just enough room to kick my stomach and knock me off him in a sudden motion. He reached over to hit me. I rolled out of the way, but he kept swinging.
I reached for the knife in my belt, more than ready to end this. Looks like we’d be marked bad for business after all. “One more move and you’ll find this blade through your eye.”
“You don’t fight fair,” he growled through his teeth.
“I’m a pirate,” I hissed and then swung the knife at his face. But before my blade struck him, he went still, a sudden glazed look veiling his eyes. He swayed weakly, disoriented, and plopped forward like a bag of wet sand. Confused, I watched him roll his face into the mud, still breathing, but unconscious.
“Don’t do some shite you’ll regret later.” A strange voice came from above me as a skinny pale hand reached down. I refused the help and steadied myself to my feet. The cloaked figure from the tavern stood facing me, not quite reaching my shoulder, with scarlet hair peeking out from each side of the hood. I was still feeling the sway of my own intoxication and the last few jabs, so I didn’t trust my own senses when I heard the voice again. It was shrill and that of a woman.
“Yer welcome. Better than what you were about to do,” she uttered in her heavy Irish accent, turning to leave. “Though he won’t be out fer long.”
“Wait,” I stammered. “Who are you? How did you do that?”
The figure stopped and turned back to me. “Bit of nature and a good aim.” She quickly flashed a flute-like tool in her hand.
“You shot him with a poison dart?”
“Aye, is that against your code, sailor? Or would ya rather keep smackin’ each other senseless in the mud?” She tossed her head, shaking the hood loose from over her head to reveal ivory skin, peppered with flecks from the sun, framed by shoulder-length blood-red hair.
Her brashness surprised me, as well as intrigued me, so I stepped forward with piqued curiosity to follow her. “No…poison is…fair.” I said, still shaking myself sober. “But why did you help me?”
“Cause Ranson’s a feckin’ idiot.” She smiled, gesturing to the unconscious man at our feet. “And ya seem different from the rest of the scallywags wastin’ air in that tavern. I been watchin’ ya the past couple o’ nights.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Good,” she repeated, circling me with curious eyes and a scoff. “Not bad for a man with one good eye. From a decent cap’n I’d expect nothin’ less.”
I tensed at the mention of my damaged eye. By now it had healed up enough to look almost normal, except for an unsightly scar. A scar that’d left me half-blind.
“What’s a lass like you doing in a place like this anyway? You must have a reason to be lurking in that corner.”
“Same as you, sailor,” she nodded smugly with a stubborn grin. “I been waitin’ round fer someone. And I think I’ve finally found him.”
9
A Cap'n Worth His Salt
Milo
The girl stepped toward me, looking over her shoulder as she returned the cloak back over her head. “I need a cap’n,” she said confidently.
“What for?” I asked.
