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 harbor. 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.”
“Home,” she said, and smiled again. “Then this one is on me. To a swift trip home, for you and all your crew.”
Slowly he removed his hand from the top of his mug and watched her pour. Truly, his luck was changing. “You're from the same ship as those men, aren't you? The Reaper?”
“That's us,” he confirmed. He shifted the cindin in his mouth again.
“And you're the mate of the Reaper, then.”
“Just barely. I'm the third.”
“Ah. You're Brashen, then?”
He nodded and could not keep from grinning. There was something flattering about a woman knowing his name before he knew hers.
“They're saying the Reaper has filled her hold and is headed back. Must have been a good crew?” She raised one eyebrow whenever she asked a question.
“Good enough.” He was starting to enjoy this conversation. Then, in her next breath, she betrayed the true reason for her generosity.
“That's your ship's boy on the end, there? He's not much of a drinker.”
“No, he's not. Doesn't talk much either.”
“I noticed,” she said ruefully. She took a breath, then suddenly asked, “Is it true what they say about him? That he can skin sea bears near as fast as they shoot them?”
She did think Althea, or Athel was comely, then. Brashen grinned to himself. “No, it's not true at all,” he said solemnly. “Athel is much faster than the hunters. That's the problem we've had with the lad, he was down there skinning them out before they were shot. Our hunters had to spend all their time chasing down the naked bears he'd already skinned.”
He took a swallow of the beer. For an instant she just stared at him, eyes wide. Then, “Oh, you,” she rebuked him with a giggle and gave him a playful push. Relaxed as he was, he had to catch at the bar to keep from falling. “Oh, sorry!” she cried and caught at his sleeve to help him right himself.
“It's all right. I'm just more tired than I thought I was.”
“Are you?” she asked more softly. She waited until his eyes met hers. Her eyes were blue and deeper than the sea. “There's a room in back with a bed. My room. You could rest there for a while. If you wanted to lie down.”
Just before he was certain of her meaning, she cast her eyes aside and down. She turned and walked away from him. He picked up his mug again and just as he sipped from it, she said over her shoulder, “Just let me know. If you want to.” She paused as she was, looking back at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Or was it invitingly?
A man's luck turning is like a favorable tide. One has to make the most of it while it's there. Brashen drained off the last of his mug and stood up. “I'd like that,” he said quietly. It was true. Whether the offer of a bed included the girl or not, it sounded very good. What was there to lose? He shifted the cindin in his mouth again. It was very, very good.
“One more round,” Reller announced. “Then we'd better get back to the ship.”
“Don't wait on us,” one of the hands giggled. “Head back, Reller. We'll be along soon enough.” He started to sag his head down onto his arms.
Reller reached across the table and gave him a shake. “None of that, Jord. No passing out here. Once we get to the ship you can drop to the deck and snore like a pig for all I care. But not here.”
Something in his tone got Jord's attention. He lifted his head blearily. “Why's that?”
Reller leaned across the table. “Deckhand from the Tern gave me a warning earlier. You know that Jolly Gal, tied up just to the lee of us? Crew had the red-heaves before they got here. They lost seven men. The skipper has been about town for three days, trying to hire on more crew but with no luck. Word is that he's getting desperate; they got to get out to the grounds. Every day they stay here is likely another week they'll have to spend hunting. Fingers from the Tern told me our crew would be wise to stick together and sleep on board tonight. One of their hunters has gone missing for two days now, and you know what they think. So when we go back to the ship we all go back together. Less you want to wake up northward bound on the Jolly Gal.”
“Crimpers?” Jord asked in a sort of horror. “Working here in Nook?”
“Where better?” Reller asked in a low voice. “Man don't come back to his ship on time, no one's going to stay tied up here to look for him. Easy to lay in an alley, pick off a few tars from a home-bound vessel, the poor sots wake up back on the hunting waters. I tell you, this isn't a town where a sailor should walk about alone.”
Jord abruptly hauled himself to his feet. “I've had a gut full of these northern waters. No way I'll even take a chance on that. Come on, fellows. Let's to the ship.”
Reller glanced about. “Hey, where'd Brash go? Wasn't he sitting over there?”
“He went with a girl, I think.” Althea spoke up for the first time. She heard the disapproval in her voice and saw the faces turn toward her in surprise. “One I thought was looking at me,” she added sourly. She picked up her mug, took a sip, and set it down. “Let's go. The beer here tastes like piss, anyway.”
“Oh, you know what piss tastes like, do you?” Jord mocked her.
“Don't need to. All I need to know is that this stuff smells just like your bunk, Jord.”
“Aw, a bunk sniffer, eh?” Jord guffawed drunkenly. The others joined in the laughter and Althea just shook her head. Afloat or ashore, the humor and witticisms were the same. She actually found herself eager to return to the ship. The sooner they sailed from this armpit, the sooner they'd get to Candletown. She pushed back from the table. Jord leaned over to look in her mug. “You going to drink that?” he demanded.
“Be my guest,” she told him and turned to follow the others out of the tavern into the storm. From the corner of her eye she saw Jord toss it off and then make a face.
