“Doubled,” said Trent, gazing in wonder at the Sword of Chance.
Paethor limped forward and looked down at Carcham. “Which of his enemies threw it?”
“Does it matter?” said Echevarian. “He must have had dozens.”
Paethor bent down to retrieve Wayfinder, swaying dizzily as he straightened, then Elian was at his side. She put an arm around him and helped him to a chair by the hearth. Paethor clasped her hand tightly. “You took a great risk, coming between us,” he said.
Elian smiled softly. “No greater than yours,” she said. She urged him to sit, and called for water and bandages. Through a fire-gilt haze Paethor watched her calmly tend his wounded shoulder. A hand entered his sight holding a cup of wine, and Paethor looked up to see the squire, with Trent and Echevarian close behind and Sylva clinging to Trent’s arm.
“Well fought,” said the squire with a grim smile. Paethor accepted the cup, smiling weakly back. His ankle was throbbing, and his head had begun to ache. He sipped at the wine.
“Winner take all, eh?” said the squire, glancing at Sylva. “Don’t suppose that means you’ll have my daughter?” he joked.
Paethor gazed at him, a slow smile spreading over his face, and turned to look up at Elian.
“If she’ll have me,” he said to her.
Elian colored, and said, “We’ll discuss it when you’re better,” but he read her answer in her gentle eyes. He leaned back, letting the wine dull his senses, and felt his past glide away from him on silent owl’s wings.
Luck of the Draw
Michael A. Stackpole
As far back as I could remember, I’d never had a hangover this bad. Of course, with my brain pounding as if Vulcan himself were cold hammering it into a fit for my skull, my memory was decidedly unreliable. I did feel certain, however, that the heaving motion and the shrieking creaking of my bones were so remarkable that I would recall having been in such a sorry state before.
Knowing I was placing myself at risk for greater pain, I opened my eyes. The agonizing lightspikes I expected to pin my eyes to the back of my skull didn’t come. I considered that a minor victory because I’d not been a willing participant in the drinking that left me so sorely used and addle-brained. It struck me as right and just that I not suffer as much as I might have, had I been the one pouring liquor down my throat.
The pallet on which I’d been laid out felt as if it were rising, and I decided to let it impel me into a sitting position. As I came upright, my forehead slammed into something above me in the dark. Sinking back on the pallet, I saw stars explode, each one shimmering away into a legion of aches. Then the hurt from the hit started to pulse through me. Served me right, I supposed, since I had willingly participated in sitting upright. Something rustled above me, and I idly wondered if I should speak or just feign death-which was not much of a reach for me at that point.
The thing from above me landed solidly on the floor and unshuttered a lantern. I even faintly recollected having seen that dirty face before. I would have been certain, but he kept bobbing up and down and swaying ever so slightly from side to side.
“Where in the seven hells am I?” I croaked at him.
“M’lord, you are on your flagship.”
“Flagship?”
“Aye, m’lord. She were the Starfish, but at the duke’s order we renamed her the Barhead Shark to give her the proper aspect to frighten the pirates.” The man-barely that by the curly wisp of beard at his jaws and the unseamed flesh of his face-smiled the proud smile of patriotic fervor. “We’ve got the Leviathan and the Swordfish in our wake, sir, and we’re stealing up on the Pirate Isle same as the sun steals up on dawn. Just as planned, m’lord.”
“As planned by the duke?” I looked at the boy imploringly.
“Aye, sir. I’m Marlin, m’lord.” He smiled. “Me brothers Hal and Doc are topside tending sails and tiller. The duke entrusted you to our care, and we’ll die before we let your mission fail.”
I wanted to ask how many men my fleet had, but something deep down inside told me I really didn’t want to know the answer. “Very good, Marlin.”
“Count Callisto of Fishkylle will find his men stouthearted and brave, m’lord.”
“Yes, lad, I mean aye. He, I mean I, I mean we have no doubt of your loyalty.” I tried to think of some more nautical words to spew at him, but pain forked through my brain. “Now, how about your just turning this, ah, Barhead Shark around and head back to Fishkylle?”
Marlin grinned. “Good, m’lord, you’re playing your part proper like, just as the duke said. I’ll be refusing that order, sir, so it will look like you were kidnapped, as per the plan, sir.”
“Marlin, that is an order from the Count of Fishkylle.” I tried to put an imperious tone in my voice, but it just started my head aching horribly, so I gave up. I could not tell from the foolish grin on the man’s face if he really understood the sort of danger into which we were sailing, or if he somehow thought-encouraged by Fabio, no doubt-that I would somehow keep him and his kin safe when we reached Pirate Isle. “Please. I, we, implore you. Put the ship about.”
“Thank you for making it official, m’lord. Don’t you go worrying about your men, m’lord, we’ll not be causing you any trouble, nor will we get in your way.” Marlin smiled as he headed for the cabin door. “You know, of course, we are doing this out of love for you, and not the reward his Dukeness offered us. I’ll go tell the men we’re to hold steady on our course to Pirate Isle.”
“Do your duty, lad.” I shielded my eyes as he opened the-I gather hatch is the right word-and beyond his skinny outline I could see the first blue traces of dawn on the horizon. The hatch closed behind him, leaving me in the lantern-lit cabin. In the dim light I came upright, but ducked my head so I’d not again bash it on the bunk above mine.
Then again, mayhap I should have done just that, as cracking my head open would likely be less painful and just as fatal as the encounter toward which we sailed. “Duke Fabio actually got one up on you this time, Cal. Antonia will look wonderful in mourning gowns, and the duke will get the money he wants to build his fleet.” I started to shake my head, but the drunken woozies warned me off.
I levered myself to my feet and noticed two things immediately, though they warred between themselves for supremacy in my spirit-steeped brain. The winner was the thought that the queasy disequilibrium I felt came more from the pitching and rolling of the ship than it did from my hangover. Though equally as unpleasant as being hung over, I found being seasick somehow more dignified-despite the fact it made me wish I was dead.
The second thought, which probably conceded victory to the first out of sheer perversity, was that I would likely have my wish come true. Fabio had taken great delight in laying out his plot for ridding himself of me, and had crowed about my sister’s approval of same. I knew he tossed that in to hurt me, but I also knew Antonia had the sort of intellect that made each new dawn a wondrous experience, largely because she’d forgotten the previous one. Not terribly bright, my sister, but kind, loving, rich, and our father’s heir by virtue of her birth coming four minutes before mine.
I took a staggered step forward, keeping my head ducked. The fact that I kept my head down was more a commentary on the cosy closeness of the cabin than on my size. Indeed, had the cabin been in scale to the rest of the world, I would have been a giant and would never have found myself in this predicament.
Alas, I am not a physical giant, and therefore I found myself on a moaning fisher boat bobbing my way to a confrontation with pirates who plied the coast and demanded tribute from the Duchy of Newgrave. All my life some sort of pirates had raided in the area, but these corsairs had become a substantial threat to Newgrave commerce roughly around the time my father died and Antonia’s husband Fabio became Duke-Regent.