That was the last seen of that proud and beautiful ship.
Varian had not sailed with her because of his youth and inexperience, but he often wondered what had happened to her crew. One of them had been Reg Furioso, the famous weapons master of Sanda. An old man by the time Varian met him on the Nightshade, Furioso was still as keen and hard as his vast panoply of first-quality blades and pistols. During the long lulls in the voyages across the Aridard, Furioso schooled the young Varian in the uses and techniques of the pike, the broadsword, the shortsword, the cutlass, the sidearm (or pistol), and the rifle. At all times, the old man stressed the dominance of the spirit over the flesh, having learned his deadly crafts through the ancient masters of Odo, the seat of philosophic understanding in the modern world.
Hence, Varian assimilated a blend of religions, cultures, and philosophies—all pointed to the mastery of killing and maiming, yet filled with marvelous digressions which gave one fascinating ways in which to view the world. And so, by the time Varian had reached his present age of thirty years, he was an expert in all the lethal businesses. There were literally thousands of ways to kill a man, and Varian was familiar with most of them. As with such men, their reputation travels specterlike ahead of them, and there was, then, a period in his life when he was being asked to prove the worth of his reputation.
He did.
And now that period of macho challenge was at an end. Varian’s motto could have been “Nobody bothers me!” for it was indeed true.
“You there!” A voice seemed to pierce him like an arrow. “Get down here!”
Varian was yanked from his reminiscences by the voice of the first mate, a thin, sinewy, oily-haired fellow, who was standing directly below.
Dropping down the lines, Varian landed at his feet. “Yes sir?”
“You’re Hamer, one of the new men?”
“That’s right. Anything wrong, sir?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.” The first mate eyed him with a look that was neither kindly nor malicious, as one might appraise wares in a vendor’s stall.
“Sorry, sir.”
“The captain didn’t have any papers ready on any of you new men. I just want to get a few things straight in my mind. I like to know my crew, if you know what I mean.” The first mate almost grinned, then apparently thought better of it.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good. Now then; last ship?”
The Dragonfly, out of Asir.”
The first mate’s expression changed passing through flashes of surprise, curiosity, and grudging admiration. “That was a bad wreck, I heard. How many men’d she lose?”
“All but ten of us. She carried a crew of eighty-four. Storm came up out of nowhere, caught us as we were leaving the Straits, and we broke up on the rocks.”
“Aye, that’s what I heard. How’d you make it?”
“Luck, I’d guess, sir. And some strong swimming.” Varian ventured a smile, hoping that he did not appear cocky.
“Any special skills I should know about?”
Varian considered the question. It was best not to talk about combat skills or knowledge. One was asking for trouble that way since it was often misinterpreted as bragadoccio. He deferred and added only that he was an amateur astronomer and had some basic navigational training.
“That might come in handy. That’s good. Stay armed and be alert. There’s been talk of some new raiders out of Hestall. We’re big enough to tangle with ‘em, but you should be aware, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll be running standard shifts. You’ll take your orders from me or the captain and no one else unless one of us designates a lieutenant of the Watch. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Mr. Hamer. Don’t forget. You represent the government of Nespora, now. She’s a fair and fine country, and her sailors should reflect that image. We treat our sailors fair on The Courtesan . . . as long as they deserve it. Clear, Mr. Hamer?”
“Yes, sir.” Varian was beginning to sound quite repetitive, but he had long experience in dealing with authoritarian types like this first mate. Men such as he have precise, orderly, and simplistic views of the way-things-should-be. Their perception of the world is global and lacking in an awareness of the sheer complexity of things. Old Furioso had been quite clear about such men: Speak to them directly, clearly; no big words, no lengthy discourses; obey them as long as their commands are reasonable; but if they get in your way, eliminate them.
The first mate had nodded and was already walking down the deck, searching out other new faces, where he would presumably repeat his little performance and establish his place in the vessel’s pecking order. Fine. It was of little importance to Varian. He knew his job, and he did it well. No problems.
The Courtesan would be sailing out of
