He rolled his shoulders.
“Is your name really Dorsal?”
“No, it’s Finn. Finn Calder. But that’s what they call me.”
Dorsal Finn: more pirate humor. “Do you have a job, or are you someone’s son?”
“I have a job,” he said almost defiantly. “I’m a bolt runner when we’re fighting.”
That explained the loops on his rope belt. He carried crossbow bolts from the ship’s carpenter to the men during battle. “Important job.”
He nodded, and his little chest puffed up. “Yes, sir, indeed.”
I sat on the bunk. He quickly scooted around me toward the door. “You don’t have to run off,” I said. I pulled the sword from its scabbard and held it so the light from the porthole shone on the blade. It needed cleaning, especially in this salt air, but it was in good enough shape to impress a barefoot cabin boy: His eyes widened in delight, and light from the blade sparkled in them.
“What kind is it?” he asked reverently.
“It’s called a Point Major. It’s made in Estepia by a family of swordsmiths named Tomatt. They do a special kind of metal folding that makes the blade stronger than it looks. The downside is, it doesn’t hold a razor edge like some other swords, so you have to stab instead of slice after you’ve used it for a while.”
“Is it heavy?”
“Not so bad. Want to hold it?”
He shook his head.
“You sure? It’s all right.”
He shook his head again.
“Okay. I don’t mind you asking to see it, but I don’t want to catch you going through my stuff again. Am I going to find anything missing?”
He shook his head once more.
“Thanks. I hope I can trust you. By the way, do you like being called Dorsal? I don’t want to use a nickname you don’t like.”
“I don’t mind. Could be worse.”
“That’s true.” I took my eyes off him momentarily to put away my sword, and when I looked back he was gone. I hadn’t even heard the door open.
I went through my bags just to be sure. Nothing was missing. It appeared that “Dorsal” Finn Calder was a man of his word.
When the sun was high enough it didn’t shine directly in anyone’s eyes, I took my sword on deck. The Red Cow now looked like any other cargo-carrying vessel, with no visible sign of her true identity. Even the men on deck wore the drab clothing of sailors used to numbing drudgery, not the bright colors of pirates, current or ex-.
A different sailor hung over the side, painting the name Crimson Heifer where the brass letters had proclaimed Red Cow.
“That’s not much of a disguise,” I pointed out to Seaton.
“Aye, perhaps. But it’s bad luck to change a ship’s name in mid-voyage. And you’re assuming that most pirates can read.”
“Everyone here seems to be able to.”
“Aye, it’s part of their pardoning. They have to learn to read to ensure they understand the consequences of returning to the Brotherhood of the Surf.”
“Queen Remy’s idea?”
He nodded. “She’s a tough old buzzard, but she plays fair.”
“Could you read before you were pardoned?”
He laughed. “Yes, Captain Argo required it as well. Said she wouldn’t command a bunch of ignorant lampreys.” He nodded at my sword. “And where might you be off to?”
“Teaching the lampreys,” I said, and indicated the pile of phony cargo crates. A half-dozen men lounged on them, looking at me with decidedly skeptical expressions.
After hearing Jane’s embroidered tales of my exploits (“I swear, you’d think he’d been trained by some royal fighting master,” she’d said, not realizing she was exactly right), Captain Clift had asked me to show the members of his boarding crew some advanced sword-fighting tactics; to combat the ennui, and because Clift made sure I’d had plenty to drink first, I agreed. I understood his concern: his men were tough, brave, and eager, but their skills were the result of chance and experience rather than any actual training. They were certainly the equal of any pirate crew they faced, but he wanted them to be better. He picked six of his best for my first class, intending for them to subsequently instruct the others. If I was able to teach them anything.
I’d suggested having the ship’s carpenter turn out wooden practice swords, but Jane assured me the men would not take them seriously. So we were practicing with live blades on a constantly shifting surface, something that went against all my common sense.
Jane and Clift watched discreetly from the stern. If I saw Jane laugh, I might toss her over the side, so I did my best to ignore them. “Hello, gentlemen,” I said. “Who have we got there?”
They lined up, faced me, and tersely introduced themselves. There were six of them, but only one registered: Suhonen. He folded his arms across his chest, but just barely, and his whole demeanor said, Impress me.
By now, the crewmen not engaged in actual work had also gathered to watch, some hanging from the shrouds or sitting on the spars. It would be tricky not to embarrass the men who’d been volunteered for this; it might also be tricky to avoid getting skewered myself. I said, “I’m not here to change how you fight. You’re all pros, and the fact that you’re alive means you’re already pretty good. But I’ve been a soldier and a mercenary all over the world, and I’ve learned some stuff you might find useful.”
I drew my sword and pointed it, not at Suhonen, but at a smaller man named Hansing. “Show me how you attack someone.”
He had a huge mustache that covered the lower part of his face down past his chin. “What, for real?”
“Close to real. I’d rather you didn’t actually kill me. Come on, show me.”
He shrugged, stepped forward, and raised his sword. He shook it menacingly, then swung down at my head. I had no trouble dodging it.
He took a deep breath, tried a side slash that was no better. Our blades clanged together, and his bounced aside to stick point-first in one of the empty crates.
The watchers laughed.
He turned red beneath his tan, and when he blew out a sharp breath, his mustache billowed like a curtain. He wrenched his weapon free, stood with his shoulders hunched in defeat, then said, “Can I yell?”
“What?” I said.
“Yell. Shout. Do you mind?”
“No.”
With a bloodcurdling shriek that startled everyone on deck, Hansing sprang at me. I didn’t exactly parry his blow so much as turn it slightly off course at the last moment, and his backhand slash could’ve disemboweled me if I’d been a hair slower dodging it.
But he was so sure that this last blow would end the fight that he left himself wide open. I slapped him across the neck with the flat of my own blade, then kicked him in the knee. He sprawled back into two of the other would-be students, and when they pushed him back to his feet, he came up swinging. But I put the tip of my sword against the center of his chest and said, “Whoa, remember, this is just practice.”
For an instant the rage remained; then it faded. He nodded and sheathed his sword. I kept mine out. No one was laughing.
“I thought I had you,” he said, shaking his head.
“The only mistake you made was assuming that,” I said. “In most cases you’d be right, but the minute you get someone with a cool head and fast reflexes, you’ve left yourself wide open. How many of you have killed a man with the first blow when he saw you coming?”
One raised his hand, then added sheepishly, “He still managed to stab me, though.”
“Exactly. You have to disconnect your emotions from your brain. It’s okay to scream or yell or do anything to try to startle the other guy. But it’s got to be an act, and you’ve got to be above it watching.”
