"I speak to him, unt bring him to you, sirs," Kolodzcy offered primly, shooting his lacy shirt-cuffs and settling the hang of a dazzling fresh pale-blue waistcoat.
The fellow didn't wait for that, but, bouncing on his feet with impatience, sprang into action again and towed his compatriot to the end of the gangway, then onto the quarterdeck, where he'd espied the better-dressed officers.
"Ratko Petracic," he boasted, thumping his chest and naming himself to them, as if it should mean something to them, before Leutnant Kolodzcy could even open his sour-pursed mouth. Petracic gave Kolodzcy a withering, amused once-over from head to toe, before turning to his companion of the bearish beard and goat-hair weskit and slithering out a comment that made them both chuckle.
"Well, go on, sir," Rodgers urged. "Say the bloody how-de-dos. Name us to the bugger."
"Boog-er," the bearded one parroted, then laughed, nudging his
leader. "Ha, boog-er!"
Kolodzcy smoothly performed the introductions, no matter what the pirates had said about him or how rowed he was. "Dey are, chentlemen, Kapitan Ratko Petracic, leader of dis seagoink bent. Unt, Kapitan Dragan Mlavic, who ist second-in-command… main leutnant of his… fleet.
"Fleet, mine arse," Midshipman Hyde muttered to Spendlove, just loud enough to be heard, drawing a scathing glower from his captain.
"Mine-eh arse," the shorter pirate repeated once more. "Arse!"
What is he, a bloody magpie? Lewrie wondered.
He didn't look quite sane, for starters. Dragan Mlavic had beady little black eyes that threatened to cross, did he leave them open too long, which made him blink rather a lot. His face was pockmarked and rough-textured, a tad swarthy and full-all round knobbiness to cheeks, nose and forehead. Lewrie gave him an up-and-down, with one brow cocked, as Kolodzcy garbled off some gilt-and-beshit politenesses. The short pirate chieftain could easily be dismissed, he thought. Mental defective, borderline loony… something like that? He'd traded a drab brown homespun knee-length smock this day for a white cotton one, gaudy with red and blue embroideries. Under that rank goat-hide waistcoat, o' course. His very baggy pyjammy-trousers, which gathered below the knee like an Ottoman version of proper breeches, were the roughest sort of homespun. His shoes were little better than goatskin versions of Red Indian… what'd they call 'ems?… moccasins? There was a round knit skullcap… Well, the weapons, o' course, jammed into a wide belt-a brace of all-metal Arabee flintlock pistols with barrels over a foot long, a very expensive-looking scimitar in a parrot-green leather scabbard, both sword and scabbard awash in brass, brads, inset ivories and… damme… gem-chips? Bolstering his arsenal, though, was a very plain butcher-knife of a dagger, with rough wood hilt, hardly a haft at all beyond a black-iron ring-guard, in a rough, hairy sheath.
The other, Ratko Petracic, was an entirely different breed of cat, and Lewrie put him down as a damned dangerous customer. He was too self-possessed, too sure of himself by half. Too handsome and cocksure, this'un! He wore soft leather boots to the knee, made from a coral-red dyed hide; shimmery burgundy pyjammy-trousers, a flowing smock of startling white and sewn with gold thread, silver thread and ornate with sequins. His waistcoat was of hide, too, though of a very short-haired, very sleek fur. He sported no headgear, just a full, lush mane of shiny brown hair clubbed back at the nape of his neck. His weapons consisted of a pair of gold-inlaid Arabee pistols, a gem-studded scimitar in a red velvet scabbard set with gilt fittings and a magnificent dagger on his left hip in a silver-and-ivory, jewel-bedecked scabbard, which made an impossible forty-five-degree bend. Atop the hilt of the gilded dagger there was set an emerald the size of a robin's egg, clutched in elaborately fil-igreed real-gold claws!
Aye, he knew what a raffish, dangerous impression he was making, Lewrie realised; he'd planned it this way! Put on his best to overawe!
"He asks me, are we de British Royal Navy vich hezz so vahry much silver to buy brot unt sheep," Kolodzcy was explaining, leaning to and fro from translatee to translatee. "I tell him we are. He ist askink, do we fight de French. I say we do. He asks me, do ve dell de druth… ve take many rich ships, oud ad sea. I say ve dell druth, alvays, unt daht dhere are vahry many more rich ships… good bickinks. Kapitan Petracic is askink… he vould vahry much like de riches dhat we take. Uhm… Gott in Himmel, was ist das? Ldcherlich! Umph!"
Kolodzcy leaned away from the pirates.
"De Kapitan Petracic sayink he ist master ohf dis goast… unt… unt!" Kolodzcy gargled, outraged. "Ve are owink him… tributes! His share!"
"Tell 1m t'go buy a hat, shit in it an' call it a brown tie-wig," Rodgers barked. "The bloody nerve o' th' man!"
"Plenty… blood-ey… nerve, Ratko Petracic," the short man hoorawed, as good a sycophant as Clotworthy Chute any day, Lewrie told himself. Once he got over his shock, o' course. His shock of hearing English from the hairy churl-and the smug look of satisfaction on Ratko Petracic's face. "Plenty bloody nerve," indeed! Lewrie thought.
CHAPTER 5
"He speaks English?" Rodgers blanched, staring at Petracic.
"Not bloody word," Dragan Mlavic informed him soberly. "But I do. Little."
Least we can do 'thout this mincin' pimp Kolodzcy from here on out, Alan silently hoped.
There was a brief palaver between the smirking Ratko Petracic and his chief lieutenant. Then, "I listen careful, British man. Then I tell him what you say. But Captain Petracic says we will talk. In Serbian. Your…" Mlavic gave Leutnant Kolodzcy another of those scathing head-to-toe glances, as if he still couldn't quite believe his eyes or that such creatures lived. "Your translator help us, da?"
"Bud, ohf gourse," Kolodacy seethed, though smiling rigidly.
There was another brief outburst of Serbian, which to Lewrie s ears seemed like gargling, from the handsome Petracic.
"Captain say… rain, soon. We go below… talk, yes? You have good wine? We talk," Dragan Mlavic urged. "No good sailing today."
"Inform the captain, uhm… Petracic," Rodgers offered, turning a lot more civil, "that we will indeed repair below to the great-cabins and talk. But… there must be no more talk of paying him tribute."
"We see, British captain." Mlavic smiled and lifted one chary brow. "We see."
The first hour of talking and swilling (Lewrie's wine, with which Rodgers was damn liberal, and the Serbs putting it down like they were fresh-parched from Hell!) consisted mostly of boasting. Ratko Petracic told his listeners what a great seaman he was, how many villages he'd raided, how wealthy he'd become, how many throats he'd cut and how many Turks now roasted on Shaitan's Coals because of his sword or the actions of his bold warriors. How Venetians gave him a wide berth when they saw his sails and took themselves elsewhere. How the fierce Ragu-sans shook in their boots and would not pursue him when he boldly raided one of the outlying ports. And blah-blah-blah…!
"Unt de Croats?" Kolodzcy queried. "They run from you, too?" "Ha!" Dragan Mlavic sputtered. "Croats… poo!" He spat upon the black-and-white-chequered sailcloth deck covering, highly insulted.
"Here, now," Lewrie grumbled. "Have a care, tell him. Spit on his own damn deck… but not mine! Damme, was he born in a barn?"
Kolodzcy posed the question to Ratko Petracic directly, resenting his role being usurped by the barely intelligible, and partisan, pirate. A babble ensued as Mlavic tried to ask the question in his place, and Petracic put up one hand to silence his lieutenant. Petracic put a noble expression on his face, one of deliberate musing, before replying.