A Jester’s Fortune

'De vay you played his desires…'

'What fur was Petracic's weskit made of, herr Leutnant Kolodzcy?' Lewrie interjected suddenly.

'Sealskin, I belief.'

'Ah.' Lewrie brightened. 'Damme, I hate that. I like seals.'

'You know zomethink, Herr Lewrie,' Kolodzcy said. 'You are a devious basdart.' He doffed his hat in formal salute, bowed from the waist and double-clicked his bootheels. 'I heff gome to like you!'

CHAPTER 2

The anchorage at the small, uninhabited islet was quite busy, for a change, as Jester swept in. Mlavic's new brig was there, along with a three-masted merchant ship of about 120 feet overall, tall, and bluff-sided as a two-decker man-o'-war. Two smaller boats, those 40-footers, were unloading near the beach, piled high with grain or flour sacks, teeming with sheep, goats, puny cattle or pigs. The shore was working alive with nearly one hundred Serb sailors or fighters, that Jester's crew could see, all cheerfully at their labours at beach or camp.

At the sight of all that luscious nutrition-on-the-hoof, Giles the purser positively salivated, and begged to go ashore to buy some. Lewrie grudgingly acceded, and added Mr. Giles to his shore-party of Surgeon Mister Howse-to check on the prisoners' needs-along with Leutnant Kolodzcy, both midshipmen and Andrews, in two boats, the heavier cutter and his gig.

'Leas' some'un have good luck t'fin' a prize, sah,' Andrews commented once they'd grounded on that muddy grey strand. 'Dot's some raght-han'some ship… do some'un give her a lick o' paint an' a good sweep-down.'

'Aye, she is, Andrews,' Lewrie remarked, studying her. 'Just wonder how they stumbled across her. Mr. Howse, on your way. Report back to me, soon as you can. Take Spendlove with you.'

'Oh. Very good, sir,' Howse intoned, sounding put-upon, with his usual ponderously miserable voice. 'Come along, younker.'

Lewrie settled the hang of his sword before he began the short walk to the tree line, where the Serbs had established a rude encampment of huts built from pine boughs, spare ship-timbers and scraps of captured sailcloth. Axes rang as men split logs for firewood, and the smell of well-spiced meat roasting on several spits was intriguing. A jangly, tinkly sort of music was being played on odd-shaped instruments somewhat akin to lutes or guitars, accompanied by handheld drums and the eerie, almost Asian fhweeping of panpipes. If Lewrie felt he was walking naked into a lion's den, then at least the pride of lions seemed to be a well-fed and playful lot.

'Captain!' Dragan Mlavic shouted from the circular commons of his new-founded encampment. He waved a dark-green glass bottle aloft, sloshing some red wine on his new shirt and bestowing upon them a wide smile of welcome. 'Come… drink! We celebrate!'

'Delighted, sir,' Lewrie lied, noting how many of Mlavic's men had already gotten halfway toward the 'staggers,' swilling direct from bottles or crocks. There were hacked-topped brandy kegs into which the exultant pirates dipped mugs or cups, innumerable pale wooden crates on every hand with their lids torn back, revealing the slender necks with the sheet-lead seals of wines good enough to bottle, instead of being casked as vin ordinaire.

'More than enough, sir,' Giles exclaimed. 'Case'r two for the gunroom, case'r two for meself… and for you, sir? Along with livestock and such? Price is certain to be reasonable, in their state…'

'A case'd do me, Mister Giles, aye,' Lewrie replied, feeling a bit nettled to be interrupted when dealing with Mlavic. 'Captain!' He shouted, regaining his feigned air of pleasance. 'Congratulations for your splendid capture, sir. You've had better fortune than even your leader, Captain Petracic. How did you take her?'

'Ah, Ratko.' Mlavic grinned, splitting that bearded face with erose teeth. 'Great man… leader, da. Want drink, captain Lev… Lew… here!' he offered, shoving the opened bottle at him, sloshing some more. Mlavic had tricked himself out in a pair of blue trousers, down inside a new pair of what looked like cavalry boots, a fancy-laced new shirt-though he clung to that foetid goat-hair weskit. And all his weapons. The shirt was already spotted with wine-stains, and he wasn't doing his cabin-servant any favours with new ones, either.

'Feeling a bit dry, I will allow, Captain,' Lewrie told him as he fetched an unopened bottle from a nearby crate. It'd be the last thing he'd do, to share sip-for-sip from Mlavic's. 'Thought an entire bottle'd do me better,' he explained.

So I don't die o' Plague or something! he thought with a shiver. Without a cork-puller handy, he undid the lead- foil and knocked the top off on the edge of a washtub, then had himself a careful sip. It was a very good wine, he had to admit.

'Congratulations on your prize, Captain,' he said again, lifting the bottle to make a toast. 'Did you take her recently?'

'Da.' Mlavic nodded, looking away. 'On way here. Fall in lap, hah? Rich prize.' He shrugged as if it was of no matter. 'All this, ver' rich, oh yayss. Yayss, hah-English? Come! Sit!' Mlavic said, more animatedly. 'We drink, eat, sing songs. Plenty food… come!'

'My purser Mr. Giles wonders if he might purchase some of your foodstuffs, Captain,' Lewrie said, waving Giles forward. 'Meat on the hoof, some grain, pasta or flour? Some wines?'

'Da, have plenty!' Mlavic said with a crafty look. 'One guinea each!' He roared as if he'd just asked the moon. 'I know guinea, in gold… guineas good. One cow, one guinea. You pay?' he leered.

'Aye!' Giles cried, before Mlavic could rethink his price. 'A guinea per cow… one guinea, two sheep or goats? Sack of flour for a guinea? Case of wine… two guineas,' he proposed, dropping into the same sort of fractured trade-pidgin.

'Da, is good price. But you pay now!' Mlavic insisted with a hearty rumble, stabbing at his palm with a calloused, tar-stained finger. Giles made a quick estimate of what would feed the hands at least one fresh meal, what the gun-room wished, what might live aboard for a few days more on fresh fodder, and opened his purse. Mlavic eyed each coin pile avidly, his countenance piggish. Lewrie rued it, but he doled out four guineas of his own for two cases of that excellent wine.

'Might I have some hands, sir… to round everything up and get the goods into the cutter?' Giles asked, once the transaction was done., 'Mister Hyde? Assist the purser, would you? And warn Andrews 'bout the people. There's an ocean o' spirits here. Keep them away from drink, the both of you. Busy with the livestock, then get them back aboard. Else…' Else, like all British Tars, they'd treat it like feast or famine and go on a prodigious tear, no matter the floggings to follow-they thought a few lashes a small price to pay for a drunk. Should half his crew get drunk, though, here in the midst of cutthroats, there was no power in the world that could control them. Or save them.

'I'll tend to it, sir,' Hyde assured him, though not without a long, longing peer at the many crates or bottles, and a furtive lick or two of his tongue over his 'parched' lips.

'Come, sit!' Mlavic coaxed once more, waving a hand toward the rough seats by his hut door and night-fire- which were nothing better than some log sections, adzed somewhat flat on top.

Lewrie took a seat, hitching his sword out of the way. Kolodzcy dusted himself a spot first with his handkerchief, looking dubious in spite of that effort, before he sat. Right next to the opened case of wine, of course. He drew out a bottle, undid the seal and reached into his waistcoat pockets to produce-should there have been any wonder!- a cork-puller, then wiped the neck down before essaying a sip. Mlavic nudged Lewrie in the ribs with a hearty elbow, muttering Serbo-Croat crudities, and Lewrie was forced to show a brief, tight-lipped smile.

'Sdrasvodye!' Mlavic proposed, clinking his bottle against the one Lewrie held. 'Toast! Ratko Petracic!'

'Ratko Petracic,' Lewrie and Kolodzcy were forced to echo. 'He great man… holy man,' Mlavic commented. 'I bring you word from him, by the way, Captain,' Lewrie began. He felt a tap on his left shoulder and turned to see Kolodzcy offering him a looted silver wine-chalice, a mate to the one in Kolodzcy's hand.

'Trink from neck, vill cud your lip, sir,' Kolodzcy said. 'Vit your permission, Kapitan Mlavic… ve use your ceptured goblets?'