Cassandra's Pirate (The Atlantis Series) Page 3

  The pirates managed a week at the fortress stocking their pilfered supplies, drinking the last of their liquor, and eventually getting bored to the point where Vincent was breaking up brawls.

  “Enough of this. We sail to the west for adventure, and then make our way to Rogamis,” Vincent decided. The liquor was gone, except for a few bottles of brandy hidden in his cabin on the schooner. His thoughts moved continually to Rogamis. It was home to a sea witch three hundred, captured five years ago. The sea witches were the only outlet exiled Realm citizens and pirates could use, and his balls were getting heavy.

  Stories of the lush women settled on Rogamis and willing a toss were greatly exaggerated. There were none. All real women were on Espedene, and they were never exiled. Vincent spent years easing his need on the discarded stiff sea witch one and two hundred models before a trawler netted the three hundred. She was a vast improvement over the early models, and a tavern rented her out at a hefty price.

  Vincent and his crew schemed and discounted dangerous plans to sneak back to Espedene for a toss with the soft curves of a real woman. The only way to safely approach the island was harbor side, which, given their outlaw status and the particular ship they had commandeered, made the task an impossibility. They gave up the frustrating idea of returning to the Realm, and settled on the use of the sea witches.

  The schooner entered the cove just before midnight, two weeks later. “Starboard, Pascal.” Without turning his eyes to the wheel, Vincent felt the slow shift. His voice rumbled low enough to keep the sound from echoing across the calm surface to the dock. “Ease your oar, Mudeye.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Mudeye lifted his oar and slowed his effort.

  Vincent stood on the bow of his schooner with one black booted foot resting on the rail and the other on the deck. His loose linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, blew open exposing a broad expanse of tanned chest. The heavy links of Lorena’s gold chain lay on it, with the bejeweled medallion hidden under the cloth. He stroked his dark beard and gazed across the smooth surface of the water. Lit only by dim lights from lanterns on the dock, the sparkling erratic bursts offered no clear indication of the path through the reef. Vincent did not need the lights. He could feel safe passage in a way he could not explain but had learned to accept.

  It was quiet this evening and only stars lit the sky. The crew, cautiously dipped oars, waiting for his instruction. They dared not distract their Captain and find the hull speared or peeled open like a tin of shanker fish.

  Vincent closed his eyes and let the sea’s soothing calmness fill him. His nostrils flared, and with lips slightly parted he scented and tasted the salty air sifting through his mustache and beard. The heady fragrance he had loved since he was a boy steadied him. A gentle slapping of the surf against the near rocks kept a predictable rhythm with light splashes of the oars. Sticky salt water clung to Vincent’s face and hands. It felt natural to him, as though his skin was without texture with the sea mist rinsed off. The pirate was as much a part of the sea as the waters were a part of him.

  Two thin braids rested on top of his beard. Lost in thought, Vincent stroked their length and opened his eyes. He studied the dark water and glanced at the sharp rocks shooting out of the rolling waves. The crew was nervous. Vincent knew they could never understand his unwavering confidence in guiding them through the treacherous reef, especially during a dark night. No one without his connection to the sea could ever understand. Vincent swore the very blood coursing through his veins matched the beat of his heart to the tides.

  Harlan shivered at a shadow inches beneath the water. “How the fuck can he guide us through the reef in the darkness? It ain’t natural.”

  Pascal gripped the wheel and reached out his leg to kick Harlan’s ass. Just a nudge to urge his silence.

  Mudeye whispered, “Don’t send us an omen, Harlan. Bad enough we go in without the moons.” He stuck a thumb to his forehead to ward off the curse.

  “Bad enough we go in at all,” Harlan muttered. When the Captain announced the detour to Romagis, Harlan was eager to prolong the return to their isolated island fortress. He looked across the sheet of dark water. The further their schooner slipped into the cove, the more the reality of the dangerous approach tightened his balls. To squelch his gripping fear, Harlan stared at the Captain’s broad back and imagined he could already taste the burn of cheap whiskey in Shantytown.

  The knife-sharp rocks above the water were threatening. Below the shallow waves, twice as many passed within inches of the hull, yet the Captain seemed to know where each obstacle lay. Harlan searched the sea around them and shuddered at the skeletal shadows of broken schooners and masts sticking up from the quiet surf.

  Vincent’s eyes mirrored the inky black of the water, never blinking while he studied their course. “Hard in, Mudeye.” The splash and strong pull of the rower’s effort turned them before a jagged cliff of submerged coral pierced the hull of the schooner. They had trimmed the sails before entering the cove, though there was not much of a breeze. It barely lifted the ends of Vincent’s dark hair off his back or fluttered his billowy sleeves.

  From the stern, Pascal watched Vincent for a sign they were clear of the reef. He relaxed when the Captain lifted his foot off the railing and turned to face them. Pascal calculated the distance to the shore and realized it seemed much further than their last visit to the island. “The reef has drifted.” He wished he had not spoken when he detected a slight wince from Vincent.

  Over the years, the pirates had tried to convince themselves that reefs and islands moved. They did not want to admit the waters were rising. The truth faced them each time they returned to their fortress. The beaches were a full twenty feet back from where they were when they first claimed their island. Obviously, Romagis settled into the same fate. Only Espedene was immune to the rising tides, or at least it was drowning at a much slower rate.

  They rowed in silence until the dock appeared, reaching its craggy arm of irregular spaced pilings into the water. Pascal was right. In the two months since they had visited the exile island, ten feet of weathered planking had submerged. Unfortunately, it was at the end of the dock where visiting boats tied up. The vessels belonging to Romagis’ settlers occupied the only useful berths.

  “Vincent,” Pascal warned. He could see the slight tension in the Captain’s stance. As closely as Vincent could read the sea, Pascal could decipher their leader’s shifting moods. Right now, with no space to tie up their schooner, there was a quiet fury building within the man. “We’re not supposed to be back for a month. They would have built on for us by then.”

  Without answering, Vincent dropped over the side and landed on the dock in a foot of water. He splashed up the planks towards the last boat and chuckled quietly. Aye, Schindler’s wreck. Vincent hopped onboard, cut the rigging to the furled sail, and shook his head at the splintered wood and destruction. Schindler’s minor attempt at patching the deck lacked ambition. With the supplies on Romagis, the vessel should have been seaworthy weeks ago.

  Vincent threw the canvas over one broad shoulder and climbed over the railing to the dock. He slipped a dagger from his sash belt, and cut the lines. One strong kick from his boot sent the small boat floating into the cove.

  Vincent walked back to his schooner and tossed the sail onto the deck. Amidst low praising laughs from the crew, he issued his order. “Tie her up good, men. Mudeye, keep a look-out from up top.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Even if offered, Mudeye rarely chose to go to town. His lean muscles tightened while he climbed the rigging to the crow’s nest. Mudeye lifted the spyglass to his good eye. A patch lay over the sealed lid of the other, with a wide scar shooting from the top and bottom of the covering.

  “Any sighting?”

  “No, Captain. If she’s out there, I’ll be seein’ her sails and ring the boys home,” Mudeye called down. Even in the darkness, the bank of white sails on the Admiral’s Royal frigate could be seen from a distance. Mudeye glanced at the b
rass plate hanging beside him. A few good bangs sounding through the quiet town would get the crew moving back to the ship.

  Pascal’s eyes followed their recent path across the water to the shadows of jagged rock breaking the surf. “It’s possible the bastard might come in through the cove.”

  “Damien won’t try the reef and break the Romagis Truce. I’m more concerned he lands the guard from the other side of the rocks and blocks our passage to the bay.” The schooner could outrun the Admiral’s frigate, but there was the risk Damien could follow their course through his spyglass. Vincent sure as hell did not want to chance the man finding their island hideaway.

  Espedene had a precarious truce with Romagis that they would not blow each other’s islands apart. The Royalty considered anyone not living in the Realm to be exiled and a Romagis settler. The rogue pirates declared themselves exempt, as they did not belong to either settlement. It forced a separate agreement between Romagis and the rogues that offered the pirates use of the island’s facilities, but none of their pilfered supplies. In exchange, the pirates agreed not to take aim on Espedene and cause Romagis problems.

  Vincent and his crew were the last of the rogues abiding by the truce. The other pirates settled on Romagis as their island fortresses sank. If it were not for the danger Vincent presented, the exiled settlers would dissolve the damn thing. The board tested the pirate’s patience by banning Vincent from Romagis for three months. If it worked without him blowing up their harbor, they considered siding with Espedene against him. That truce would take much more work, as the open sea was fair game and the vessels could blow the hell out of each other with no recriminations.

  From his high perch, Mudeye watched the Captain and Pascal continue through town on the main road. The crew turned down the back streets towards the gambling shacks. All of them were well aware of the brewing conspiracy against them by the two islands. Mudeye touched his thumb to his forehead and wished his friends well.

  At the end of the dock, Vincent called out, “Listen for the bell and make haste to the ship if you don’t want a life as a fisherman on this rock. We won’t be waitin’ for you to pull up your breeches or claim your pot,” he warned.

  Pascal walked beside Vincent. The Captain’s jaw set, preparing for a possible fight. The order had been for three months off island, but Vincent decided two was sufficient for the minor infraction. No matter the chance he was taking, he was determined to ease his needs before returning to their fortress.

  The bright feather on Pascal’s hat blew across Vincent’s cheek. He scowled, and batted it away. Pascal panicked and ran his fingers down the length to make sure the spine was not broken.

  Pascal frocked in the fancy costume most captains chose. He sported a brocade waistcoat, velvet pants, and a ridiculous hat with the shushu bird’s tail feather stuck through a ribbon wrapped around the crown. After ten years of his voluntarily exile, the only trait Pascal carried from his Royal upbringing was his outlandish propensity towards colorful clothing.

  Except for his size and dominant manner, Vincent could pass for one of his crew. He wore coarse breeches, with a red sash securing his dagger and cutlass to his waist. Sandra’s bandana wound around his head and the gold hoop earring shined against his long dark waves. His only other adornment was the expensive medallion Prince Ashton had presented to Lorena, tucked below the open throat of his loose, white linen tunic.

  Vincent’s eyes focused on the Broken Mast. He never skipped stride when they approached the tavern. Unlike Pascal, Vincent did not bother to scan the dark pathways or stores they passed. His focus was on relieving the weight of his balls and the nagging desire for a good toss. Only a fool would chance barring his way after seeing the intense look in his eyes.

  The tavern keeper placed a silver tankard of beer on the bar and looked onto the street. Dilapidated shacks with no front walls lined the muddy route from the dock. Shops never closed, and with the mild climate a front facing with a door was an unnecessary luxury. Romagis was the exile island, and the only building materials available were discarded or pilfered from settlers’ victorious sea battles. The barkeep watched the two shadows moving closer. “What the hell are they doin’ here?”

  His bleary-eyed customer turned. “Ah shit. Thought they was voted off island for another month.”

  “And who the fuck is going to enforce the order?” a former rogue pirate chuckled. Harry had been on the receiving end of Vincent’s battles many times, and had never sailed away the winner. “We should count ourselves lucky he’s stayed away for two months.”

  Captain Schindler tossed heavy gold coins into the pot in the center of his table. He glanced towards the door to see what had caught the barkeep’s attention. “LeSeure,” he muttered. The man refused to refer to Vincent as Captain. “Why the hell can’t that son of a bitch sail off the end?”

  The man sitting across the card table stuck a thumb to his forehead. To curse even the likes of Captain LeSeure was an offense he was not willing to chance, and Schindler had uttered the worst of omens, to wish for a vessel to sail off the edge of the sea and into the abyss. Franklin shuddered and thumbed his forehead again, while Schindler sneered at him. Fuck you, Schindler. You’ll find your own trawler and crew bein’ the cursed fools lost in the raging seas off the end. The unbidden thought caused Franklin’s tankard of ale to wobble when he jerked his thumb to his forehead again.

  “You’ll poke a damn hole in your head, idiot.” Schindler waved towards the pot. “You in, or are the coins mine?” He watched Vincent and Pascal walk by him, and his eyes narrowed on the feathered hat. Bile churned the ale in his stomach. LeSeure might not flaunt the trophies of his battles, but he had no qualms about turning over his ill-gotten boasts to his friend.

  “Isn’t that the feather of the Sailing Dream, Captain?” Quincy knew that it was, but he figured the reminder might throw Schindler off his game.

  “Shut your trap, Quincy. I’ll not be challenging to get it back from the thief.”

  Franklin egged him on. “Worried Captain LeSeure might step in?”

  “LeSeure has wiped the snot from Dupree’s nose since they were boys. Pascal would still be living the life of Royalty with a real Lady for a wife if he had not listened to Vincent’s promises.”

  Vincent tossed a coin onto the bar. “Two brandies, and ready the sea witch.”

  The barkeep’s shaking hands poured the liquor while his eyes roamed the room for non-existent help. He laid the bottle in front of the pirate. “Captain, I’m not supposed to. You know it was voted and passed.”

  “And you know it wasn’t my fault you kept her dry-docked with only a dip to wet her when you took my money. If anyone was to be voted on, they should have taken the witch away from you.”

  The man paled. “She won’t be hydrated for a while. Enjoy your drinks and I’ll have the boy tell me when she’s ready.” The tavern keeper walked through the curtain leading to the back room.

  Vincent looked down at his drink. “Captain Schindler, I expect you better be concentrating on your game instead of your lost treasure.” Vincent did not bother turning. He could feel the man’s eyes on them. “Lest, of course, you’d like me to tell your gaming friends how Pascal acquired the prize.”

  Pascal sipped his drink. A part of him worried that the Schindler might challenge for his beautiful new feather. Technically, it should be resting on Vincent’s head, and the thought of that sight brought a smile to his face.

  “I won a fair fight, LeSeure. You’re nothin’ but a cur picking up scraps.” Schindler watched Franklin and Quincy reach for their coins before they left the table. They did not even bother to try to collect their money from the current pot. “Leaving the game, my friends?”

  Vincent poured another brandy and turned around. He rested back against the bar and crossed his ankles. Danger illuminated his dark eyes, and men slowly moved out of the way. Vincent smiled and lifted his glass. “A fair fight, Schindler. And a fair win I collected when I tossed yo
u a sail and rigging to make it back to Romagis.” You bastard. Stuck out of ammunition with your last canvas in shreds. “You were within land sight of Espedene with two frigates already leaving port to finish you off. That bucket you float would never have escaped without my help. Fuck, were you planning to row to the Sailing Dream to collect the prize?”

  Franklin eyed Schindler suspiciously. “You said you cut the rigging free to save the sail.”

  “Shut up,” Schindler hissed.

  “It’s true, Captain LeSeure. He showed up with one mast splinted up on two sides, so we knew the sail took a hit. The other pillar was ripped from the deck and lying in pieces with burned holes through the canvas.” Quincy pointed at Schindler. “You forfeited the prize.”

  “Shut up, Quincy. You weren’t there spending an hour trading fire with the frigate.” Schindler turned to Vincent. “Neither were you. You come sailing in when we had the Sailing Dream incapacitated.”

  “Incapacitated? Is that what you call it when they were still shooting iron at you and your crew was gripping the oars?” Pascal asked.