Glory Season

paddles, making it seem as easy as swatting zizzers. But the piece had been programmed to increase its tempo. Soon the tip of her treppbill moved in a blur and the clock-ticking was a staccato ratchet. Sweat popped out on the small woman’s brow as her wooden pole danced quicker and quicker…

Abruptly, the disk louvers flashed with a loud clack! turning the upper surface white. “Agh!” she cried out. “Twenty-eight!” a sailor shouted, and the woman laughed in chagrin as her comrades teased her for falling far short of her record.

“Too much booze an’ lazin’ about on shore!” they chided.

“You should talk!” she retorted, “jutzin’ with them Bizzie hoors!”

One of the men started rewinding the game piece for another try, but Wotan’s second mate chose that moment to descend from the quarterdeck and call the small brunette over for a talk. They spoke for a few minutes, then the officer turned to go. The woman sailor fished a whistle out of her halter and blew a shrill blast that got the attention of all hands.

“Second-class passengers aft,” she called in an even tone, motioning for Maia and the other vars to stand in a row by the starboard gunwales.

“My name is Naroin,” the petite sailor told the assembled group. “Rank is bosun, same as Sailor Jum and Sailor Rett, so don’t forget it. I’m also master-at-arms on this tub.”

Maia had no trouble believing the statement. The woman’s legs bore scars of combat, her nose had been broken at least twice, and her muscles, if not manlike, were imposing.

“I’m sure you all saw last night that the rumors we been hearin’ are true. There’s reaver activity farther north than ever this year, an’ it’s startin’ earlier. We could be a target anytime.”

Maia found that a stretched conclusion to reach from one isolated incident, and apparently so did the other vars.

But Naroin took her responsibilities seriously. She told them so, laying the padded bill across her back.

“Captain’s given orders. We should be ready, in case o’ trouble. We’re not goin’ to be anybody’s sealfish steak. If a gang o’ jumped-up unniks tries hopping this ship—”

“Why would anyone want it!” a var muttered, eliciting chuckles. It was the sharp-jawed woman who had cursed earlier about “Lamai brats.”

“What kind of atyp bleeders’d hop us for a load o’ cffall the half-Chuchyin went on.

“You’d be surprised. The market’s up. B’sides, even a coerced split of profits could ruin the owners—”

Naroin’s explanation was interrupted by an offensive blat, imitating a fart. When the bosun glanced sharply, the Chuchyin var nonchalantly yawned. Naroin frowned. “Captains’ orders needn’t be explained to likes of you. A crew that doesn’t drill together—”

“Who needs drill?” The tall var cracked her knuckles, nudging her friends, apparently a tight-knit group of tested traveling companions. “Why fret about lugar-lovin’ reavers? If they come, we’ll send them packin’ for their daddies.”

Maia felt her cheeks redden, and hoped no one noticed. The master-at-arms simply smiled. “All right, grab a bill an’ show me how you’ll fight, if the time comes.”

A snort. The Chuchyin variant spat on the deck. “I’ll just watch, if it’s all the same.”

Naroin’s forearms revealed bowstring tendons. “Listen, summer-trash. While on board, you’ll take orders, or swim back where you came from!”

The tall woman and her comrades glared back, confrontation certain in their hard faces.

A low voice interrupted from behind. “Is there a problem, Master-at-Arms?”

Naroin and the vars swiveled. Captain Pegyul stood at the edge of the quarterdeck, scratching a four-day growth of beard. Banal of appearance back at the Bizmai tavern, he now cut an impressive figure, stripped down to his blue undershirt, something males never did in port. Three brass armrings, insignia of rank, circuited an arm like Maia’s thigh. Two other crewmen, taller and even broader in the shoulders, stood bare-chested behind him at the head of the stairs. Despite the redolent tension, Maia found herself fascinated by those torsos. For once, she could credit certain farfetched stories… that sometimes, in the heat of summer, a particularly large and crazy male might purposely torment a lugar into one of those rare but awesome furies the beasts were capable of, just to wrestle the creature one-on-one, and occasionally win!

“No, sir. There’s no problem,” Naroin answered calmly. “I was just explaining that all second-class passengers will train to defend the ship’s cargo.”

The captain nodded. “You have your crewmates’ backing, Master-at-Arms,” he said mildly, and walked away.

The shiver down Maia’s back wasn’t from the north wind. Generally speaking, men were supposedly as harmless, four-fifths of the year, as lugars were all the time. But they were sentient beings, capable of deciding to get angry, even in winter. The two big seamen remained, observing. Maia sensed in their eyes a wariness toward any threat to their ship, their world.

The Chuchyin made a show of examining her fingernails, but Maia saw perspiration on her brow. “Guess I could spar a bit,” the tall var muttered. “For practice.” Still feigning nonchalance, she stepped over to the weapons rack. Instead of taking up the other padded training bill, she grabbed a trepp meant for combat, made of hard Yarri wood with minimal wrapping round the hook and prong.

From the rigging, two of the women crew gasped, but Naroin only backed onto the broad, flat door covering the aft hold, scuffing a film of coal dust with her bare feet. The tall var followed, leaving tracks with her sandals. She did not bow. Nor did the short sailor as they began circling.

Maia glanced toward the two shirtless seamen, who now sat watching, all wrath gone from their docile eyes. Once more, she felt a half-excited, half-nauseated curiosity about sex. Her ignorance was normal. Few clans let summer daughters enter their Halls of Joy, where the dance of negotiation, approach, refusal, and acceptance between sailor and mother-to-be reached its varied consummations, depending on the season. Among the ambitions she shared with Leie was to build a hall of their own, where she might yet learn what delights were possible—unlikely as it seemed—in mingling her body with one such as those, so hirsute and huge. Just trying to imagine made her head hurt in strange ways.

The two women finished their preliminary swings, waving and thrusting their bills. Naroin seemed in no hurry to take the offensive, perhaps because of her padded, ill-balanced weapon. The Chuchyin var spun her chosen trepp in one hand with panache. Suddenly she leapt forward to sweep at her opponent’s well-scarred legs—and abruptly found those legs wrapped around her throat! Naroin hadn’t awaited the traditional-exchange of feints and parries, but instead rammed her awkward bill onto the deck, using it as a pole to vault over her foe’s slashing weapon, landing with one leg across each of the other woman’s shoulders. The var staggered, dropped her trepp, and tried to claw at the master-at-arms, but found her hands seized with wiry strength. Her knees buckled and her face started to color between the woman sailor’s tightening thighs.

Maia breathed at last as Naroin jumped back, letting her opponent collapse to the sooty hatch. The dark- haired sailor grabbed the Yarri-wood weapon dropped by her foe and used its Y-shaped yoke to pin the var’s neck to the cargo door. Naroin was barely breathing hard.

“Now what’d you expect, comin’ at me that way? Bare wood against padding? No courtesy, then choppin’ a cripple blow? Try that against reavers and they’ll do more’n take our cargo or sell you for a season’s labor. They’ll sea-dump you an’ any other wench who cheats. And our men won’t lift a finger, hear? Eia! ”

The female crew shouted in refrain. “Eia!” Naroin tossed the bill aside. Wheezing, the half-Chuchyin crawled off the makeshift arena, covered with black smears. A glance at the quarterdeck showed that the men had departed, but assorted clones watched from first class, wearing amused expressions.

“Next?” Naroin asked, looking down the file of vars, no longer appearing quite so small.

I know what Leie would do now, Maia thought. She’d wait for others to wear Naroin down, pick out some weakness, then go at it with all panels charged.

But Maia wasn’t her sister. Back in school she might watch a dozen bouts without recalling who had won, let alone who parried when for points. While her churning guts wanted to find some dim shadow, her rational mind said, Just get it over with. Anyway, if Naroin was trying to encourage proper womanly combat virtues, Maia could offer a good contrast to the Chuchyin, and surprise those who called her “virgie.”

Fighting a queasy tremor, she stepped forward, silently drew the other padded training bill from the rack