It was going on noon outside the Viceroy and it was even hotter then Julian McAllister remembered. Never pleasant here this deep in summer and if he’d not counted himself a master complainer, with standards to maintain, it would be worth remark. He let out a long, low belch after spearing a round of cheese with a delicate silver stiletto. He examined the great table, now laid waste before him. Noted the stains and crumbs with nodding approval, patted his belly and afforded himself a vague feeling of satisfaction. He was still far too drunk to be truly at peace but this would do nicely.
He caught the eye of a merchant who had come to argue with another patron about timetables or some such, a brand on his forehead to denoted him found guilty of profiteering on another’s misery. Most likely food or medicine. These were lawless parts by most standards but the locals most defiantly had their rules. Julian stared right through the little man; he might have sneered at him anywhere else but this was his ground and he felt no need to bother. The tiny fellow lowered his gaze and left promptly. A brand like that can get you killed very easily here, so he had some measure of guts showing his face in the port quarter. The beleaguered merchant had been shoved and an ale thrown in his face before he reasoned-out that rogues were best not disturbed once the drinking and wenching hade commenced.
“Yarrr, pig-fucker,” said a voice that might have been jovial if slightly less drunk and unsteady. Deacon sat down heavily across from his captain and began rummaging. Turned a fine clay wine pot to find it empty and casually tossed it aside. Julian closed his eyes and smiled as it shattered. He had been a great connoisseur of the sounds things make when they break since he was a young lad growing up in this very establishment, then his mother’s brothel. A good storefront window was his hands-down favorite but satisfaction could be found in anything being destroyed. It really is the little things in life that matter most, he thought and laughed out loud.
“And to you,” He replied once his companion had found the remaining spirits and set himself to task.
“White wine after a bloodbath?” Deacon questioned, his tone disapproving. “Fucking savage . . . ” he added with another gulp.
Julian shrugged faintly. “If I’d any manners a’tall I might have ended up a proper gentleman as missed your fine company, sad indeed would be my wretched state.”
“As well teach a wolf to smile politely at the lambs as add any subtlety to your mix I suppose,” Deacon said, his back straitening. He was about to get bookish Julian noted. The man truly never took a moment off the job, even stinking drunk. “As you know,” said the quartermaster, now upright and more or less steady, but Julian waved him off, they were both too drunk and his was in no mood at any rate. He pulled himself forward and leaned on the table with a single arm, looking relatively sober from a distance he imagined.
“Do you remember Martha?” he asked.
“No,” Deacon replied, “but I remember Maria.”
“MARIA!” Julian cried-out in recognition and slapped the table with authority. “Maria, yes. I’m convinced I saw her earlier.”
“You did,” Deacon informed him.
“No,” Julian sank low and allowed some surprise to enter his voice.
“She owns this place now, has for over a year I’m told.”
“That makes it practically back in the family then,” Julian said and they both had a laugh.
After his mother’s death some twenty years ago, the building was taken-over by the local crossers who were bent on saving the souls of the colonists from the abandoned shell of its most debaucherous and sinful house. Why a bunch of daffy religious loons should come to an outpost of pirates, smugglers, and unlicenced mercenaries just to get all bent out of shape by a little harmless fun seemed nonsensical, but he’d always been told “it takes all kinds.” He had contemplated burning the entire place to the ground the night he first returned home and learned the fate of his mother’s house, but couldn’t bring himself to do it and hadn’t been back to see it since.
“Speak of the devil,” Deacon said pointing over Julian’s shoulder.
“And a double health to thee, young gents,” said the woman who approached. “Welcome home, Master Julian,” she said with a pat of the captain’s shoulder. “Will you be staying the night? It doesn’t look like either of you will make it far if not . . . ” She snapped a loud and practiced thumb to finger and a pretty young girl seemed to shoot upright from thin air. Maria instructed her to toss whoever was in the two best rooms out, refunding their money for the last two days.
“Please sit,” Julian said and attempted to pull out a chair for their host, falling out of his own for his trouble. She smiled and obliged him once she’d helped him back to his seat. “I cannot express how grateful I am to see the place back in respectable hands,” he said.
Maria cocked her head slightly in confusion then understood. “Oh, the god freaks?” she asked with a dismissive wave of her shopworn hand. “Long-long gone, them. Didn’t last half the year in the port quarter. Took to raiding the taverns and tipping the booze. Didn’t sit well with the good folk around here. Mob came, branded all their foreheads with crosses and made ‘em move outside the walls.”
“Good riddance to foul rubbish,” Deacon said with a hearty belch of his own and three glasses rose to meet as one.
“They can be obnoxious as hell but I wouldn’t trade places with Curacao for anything,” Maria went on, “Lousy with jihadis, the whole place.”
“Everything they did here and that’s what they get run out of town for?” Julian asked.
“Some addictions are harder to quit then others,” Deacon said with a yawn, hoping to bring the conversation elsewhere. One of Julian’s rants on the god-folk was dangerously near and no good ever came of one. “As I was trying to say earlier, while the new ship will certainly prove to be profitable in the long term, it’s going to cost us in the interim. It’ll take moths before we’re competent with all the new gear and have it outfitted to our particular needs. Almost everything we’ve got will go into immediate repairs and essential upgrades,” Deacon now began enumerating on his fingers, “we might still have to . . . ”
“That’s life in the big city, Deak,” Julian said exasperated.
“I just ran into Angus,” Deacon continued and Julian’s head nodded in recognition, “who was transferring twenty tons of that medical cargo to Farouk’s people. I asked him what was going on and he just waved his hands telling me to talk to you. I’m the damned quartermaster, Julian. And first mate besides, I’d really like to have an idea what’s going on from time to time, please, if only just to make me feel better.”
“Don’t pout, Deacon,” Julian chided. “It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up or wait on. Deacon opened his hands in waiting so Julian elaborated. “The Black Adder is in port,” Julian let out a belch and washed away the taste of it with another swig of wine. “They had a captive and I took him off their hands.”
Deacon looked confused and indignant. “We’re slavers now?”
“Of course not,” Julian said, offended. “Mr. Blackthorne is a free man who can do what he likes. I have convinced him, however, into staying on for the time being.” Deacon’s hands, still spread, now motioned inward to request clarification. “Guy Blackthorne, one of the most accomplished naval architects alive today,” Julian explained as if to a child, “A valuable asset to any vessel.”
“And you sent Angus to fetch his new competition, did you? You are a bastard,” Deacon told him flatly.
“I am,” Julian said, pleased with the recognition. He then added with a laugh, “Besides we still have another three-hundred and eighty plus whatever we can get for the ships, what can we expect to see from them anyhow?” Julian hated talking trade when he was relaxing, let alone intoxicated, but the thought of money to spend had him excited. Talk of the daring raid was already making its rounds in the port quarter, growing grander by the telling, as he knew it would. |
Submission Name: Iceni Queen 1-Prologue
