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CRIMPERS

T HERE WERE FEW SAFE HARBOURS on the Outside Passage worthy of the name, but Nook was one of them.

It was a tricky place to get into on an outgoing tide, but once within, it was one of the few places where both ships and sailors could rest easy for a night or two.

Most ports on the Outside were regularly scoured by the winter storms that blew in off the Wild Sea and pounded the beaches mercilessly, sometimes for weeks on end.

A wise captain kept his ship well away from land on her way south, for the closer she came to the outer banks, the greater the chance she would be driven ashore and pounded to pieces on the rocks.

If their water supplies had not gone too foul even for sailors to drink, chances were that the Reaper would not have taken the risk of coming into Nook.

But she had, and so the crew was having one blessed evening of shore-liberty, of women, of food that was not salt and water that was not green with scum.

The holds of the Reaper were full, cask after cask of salted meat, stacks of rolled hides, tubs of oil and fat.

It was a rich cargo, hard-won, and the crew were justifiably proud of having filled her so swiftly.

It had been but fifteen months since the Reaper had left her home port of Candletown.

Their return journey had been far swifter than their outbound one.

The professional sailors knew they had well-earned the bonuses they expected at the end of the trip, while the hunters and skinners had kept their own tallies as to what their shares would be.

Those forced into sailing knew that all they had to do now was survive as far as home, and they would disembark as free men.

Athel, the ship’s boy, had distinguished himself by earning a skinner’s bonus on top of his regular wages.

This had made him somewhat popular with those on the ship who enjoyed playing dice, but the shy boy had turned down all offers to accept his scrip against his forthcoming bonus.

To the surprise of all, he had also refused the offer to move in with the skinners and hunters and become one of them, preferring to remain as a common crew member.

When pushed to answer why, the boy would only grin and say, ‘D’ruther be a sailor.

Sailor can ship out on any kind of vessel.

But hunters and skinners, they have to come north at least once a year.

This is my first time north; didn’t like it much. ’

It was actually the best answer he could have given.

Hunters and skinners were left admiring themselves for how tough they were, while the sailors nodded approvingly to themselves at the wisdom of his choice.

Brashen had to wonder if Althea had taken all that into account or simply made a lucky decision.

He watched her across the tavern. She sat at the end of a bench, nursing the same mug of dark beer that she’d first ordered.

She nodded to the talk at the table, she laughed in all the right places, and she looked convincingly bashful when the whores approached her.

She was, he thought, finally a member of the ship’s crew.

That afternoon on the slaughter-beach had changed her.

She had proven to herself that she could excel, when the task did not demand brute strength or bulk to accomplish it.

For as long as they’d been ashore there, her first task had become to skin, and with the passing days, she had only become swifter at it.

She had brought that confidence back on board with her, taking to herself the tasks where nimbleness and swiftness counted more than size.

She still struggled when she had to work alongside the men, but that was expected of a boy.

That she had excelled in one area had given them faith that in time she would grow into her other tasks as well.

Brashen swallowed the last two mouthfuls of beer in his mug and held it up for more.

And, he thought to himself, she had the sense not to get drunk with her shipmates.

He nodded to himself. He’d underestimated her.

She’d survive this voyage, so long as she kept on as she had begun.

Not that she could spend many years sailing as a boy, but she’d get by for this one.

A barmaid came to refill his mug. He nodded to her and pushed a coin across the table.

She took it gravely and bobbed a curtsey before darting off to the next table.

A pretty little thing she was; he wondered that her father allowed her to work in the common room.

Her demeanour made it plain she was not one of the women working the room as whores, but he wondered if every sailor would respect that.

As his eyes followed her about the room at her tasks, he noted that most of them did.

One man tried to catch at her sleeve after she had served him, but she evaded him nimbly.

When she reached Athel, however, she paused.

She smiled as she questioned the ship’s boy.

Althea made a show of glancing into her mug, and then allowing the girl to refill it for her.

The smile the tavern girl gave the supposed lad was a great deal friendlier than she had offered the other customers.

Brashen grinned to himself; Althea did make a likely-looking boy, and the bashfulness the ship’s boy professed probably made her more alluring than most. Brashen wondered if the discomfort Althea exhibited was entirely feigned.

He set his mug back on the counter in front of him, and then opened his coat.

Too warm. He actually felt too warm in here.

He smiled to himself, replete with well-being.

The room was warm and dry, the deck was still under his feet.

The anxiety that was a sailor’s constant companion eased for a moment.

By the time they reached Candletown with their cargo, he would have earned enough to give him breathing space.

Not that he’d be so foolish as to spend it all.

No. This time, at least, he’d hearken back to Captain Vestrit’s advice and set a bit by for himself.

He even had a choice now. He knew the Reaper would be more than willing to keep him on.

He could probably stay with the ship for as long as he wanted.

Or he could take his ship’s ticket in Candletown, and look about a bit there.

Maybe he’d find another ship there, something a bit better than the Reaper.

Something cleaner, something faster. Back to merchant-sailing, piling on the canvas and skipping from port to port. Yes.

He felt a once-familiar burn in his lower lip and hastily shifted the quid of cindin.

It was as potent as the seller had promised, to eat through his skin that fast. He had another mouthful of beer to cool it.

It had been years since he’d indulged in cindin.

Captain Vestrit had been an absolute tyrant on that point.

If he even suspected a man of using it, on shore or on ship, he’d check his lower lip.

Any sign of a burn put him off the ship at the next port, with no pay.

He’d won the small plug earlier at a gaming table, another amusement he hadn’t indulged much of late.

But, damn it all, there came a time when a man had to unwind, and this was as good a time as any.

He hadn’t been irresponsible. He never bet anything he couldn’t lose.

He’d started out with some sea-bear teeth he’d carved into fish and such in his bunk time.

Almost from the start of the game, he’d won steadily.

Oh, he’d come near to losing his deck knife, and that would have been a sore blow, but then his luck had turned sweet and he’d won not only the cindin plug but enough coins for the evening’s beer.

He almost felt bad about it. The fellows he had fleeced of the coin and cindin were the mate and steward of the jolly Gal, another oil-ship in the harbour.

Only the Jolly Gal had an empty hold and full kegs of salt.

She and her crew were just on their way out to the killing-grounds.

This late in the season, they’d have a hard time filling her up.

Wouldn’t surprise Brash if she stayed on the grounds the season through, going from sea-bear to small whale.

Now there was ugly, dangerous work. Damn glad he wouldn’t be doing it.

His winning tonight was a sign, he was sure of it.

His luck was getting better and his life was going to straighten itself out.

Oh, he still missed the Vivacia, and old Captain Vestrit, Sa cradle him, but he’d make a new life for himself.

He drank the last of the beer in his mug, then rubbed at his eyes.

He must have been wearier than he thought he was, to feel so suddenly sleepy.

Cindin usually enlivened him. It was the hallmark of the drug, the benign sense of well-being coupled with the energy to have fun.

Instead he felt as if the most wonderful thing that could happen to him now would be a warm, soft bed.

A dry one, that didn’t smell of sweat and mildew and oil and oakum. With no bugs.

He had been so busy building this image of paradise in his mind that he startled to find the tavern maid before him.

She smiled up at him mischievously when he jumped and then gestured at his mug.

She was right, it was empty again. He covered it with his hand and shook his head regretfully.

‘I’m out of coin, I’m afraid. It’s all to the good.

I’ll want a clear head when we leave port tomorrow anyway. ’

‘Tomorrow? In this blow?’ she asked sympathetically.

He shook his head, confirming his own reluctance. ‘Storm or no storm, we have to face it. Time and tide wait on no man, or so they tell us. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we’re home.’