Chapter 5
When Killian came to himself again, he was standing on deck with a ring on his right index finger that he didn't put on. It was simpler than the maiden's ring, and the oval stone was black. He could see this in the moonlight—the clouds had cleared, and the crone was gone, but what he couldn't see or reason out he just knew: this was his, and it was given by the sea crone.
What was left of his crew all stood present at the helm, including Cookson.
"The girl's in the crow's nest, but the ladder's blown away," Cookson said. "Captain, what's happened?"
"What are we to do now?" asked Teyente, stepping over a knocked-out boatswain.
Killian said, "Chekhov, Foggerty—take Flint to the brig."
Flint gave a sarcastic laugh and attacked. With a gesture from Killian, a cloud of dark magic glowed around him, causing Flint to cry out in pain and fall to his knees.
Killian said, knowing it to be true, "As long as I am captain and you are on my ship, Flint, I am standing between you and the curse of the sea crone. Could you bear more of this?"
Flint choked, "No!"
"That's what I'm doing right now."
"All right, I'll go into the brig! Just stop!"
The dark magic dissipated. Chekhov yanked Flint's vest collar up so that Flint was forced to his feet, and Foggerty pushed him onwards.
"Murphy, Teyente—take the Boatswain to his quarters. I trust he'll give you less trouble..." Killian steeled himself. "The rest of you set the funeral linens out."
Killian brought the bodies up himself. Mullins was found to be merely wounded, and Cookson attended to him because Thomas the Surgeon was definitely dead. Thus, five bodies, not six, were wrapped in shrouds and dropped into the ocean at moonset. Killian himself corrected their course and continued to sail for Port Barrie.
The maiden stayed in the crow's nest, whistling up exactly the right sort of wind.
At dawn, Teyente took over as helmsman. Killian went to his quarters to see the Boatswain scrubbing the floor.
"At ease, Sir de Ray," said Killian, using the name by which the Boatswain went, when they still sailed as the crew of The Jewel of the Realm.
"It's Blackbeard, Captain," said the Boatswain, as he got to his feet.
"There's many a pirate named Blackbeard, now," said Killian. "It's in imitation of a legend, isn't it? Common, I always thought, but as it was you, I accepted it."
The Boatswain set his jaw and said nothing.
"Landlubbers have legends, too." Killian continued, "I remember quite a ghastly one, of a man with a beard so black that it appeared blue. He would wed a free-spirited and curious lady, give her the keys to every room in the castle—and forbid her from entering one particular room. When she would be true to herself, she would find him false to her, having kept a room full of the dead bodies of his previous wives."
"He wouldn't have been false to her, then, if they were dead," said the boatswain. "If you ask me, she was false to him—breaking his rules."
"Rebellion never comes about for its own sake, I know that well." Killian paced the room. "Perhaps she was trapped, and suspected the forbidden door to be an escape route. But it wasn't."
The Boatswain smiled. "How deeply you feel for these stories."
"I like the stories. They're hopeful," Killian said. "The legend goes on that one of these ladies begged this monster to lock her in a tower, so that she could make her peace with her fairy godmother. He thought that his dark magic would keep away even Reul Ghorm, so he did as she begged him to—so that he could feed on her helplessness and despair. Instead, she signaled to her family to save her. And they did.
"But that never happened, did it? That's something that the knights tell each other, when they find a castle full of corpses and can never put the murderer to justice. The families of the victims can only remember one detail, and that can be well-hidden with a shave. 'Someone must have been clever enough to stop him', they all tell themselves and each other. They hope, and they tell the story. Isn't that right?"
The Boatswain shrugged. "How should I know?"
"You would know, Bluebeard," said Killian. "You lied to me. You have done much, much worse under the service of the king!"
"And you think my becoming a pirate reined me in?" The Boatswain began to laugh. "Or have I a girl in every port?"
Killian seethed, "You're a monster, Gil de Ray. Bluebeard."
"The magic has addled your mind, Captain. When did I stop being the loyal boatswain, who you always had to make sure his vest was buttoned on properly? Whose rum you took so that he wouldn't get drunk? Who cleans your room after your own slaughter—"
"I didn't tell you to."
"But wasn't it right? I gave you your brother's satchel, and was the loudest to cheer for Captain Jones. By Ursula's cauldron, I would have you remember my humanity, not the monstrosity. You do see it, don't you," urged Bluebeard, "That's why I'm not locked up in the bilge while Flint is…"
"Maybe I thought of a worse fate for you," said Killian. "Why would you scrub the floors of my quarters, Bluebeard? I thought you liked blood. Or is it some Ursulanian compulsion for cleanliness?" He began to glow with dark magic. "Or is it that you know the power of a blood sacrifice in Ursulan witchcraft?"
A portal opened up under Bluebeard's feet, to a dark tunnel lined with many doors that would lead nowhere, and a formless presence that would hound anyone within. Bluebeard caught himself on the edge.
"She isn't one of us!" Bluebeard argued, "How could you do this?"
"I'm the bloody Captain," said Killian, drawing his sword and tracing Bluebeards fingertips with it. "You'll follow my rules. My justice, my vengeance...because I have become one with your victims, Bluebeard, and I will never be so helpless again." He drove the tip between the nail and the quick of Bluebeard's hand, the Boatswain flinched and jerked his hand back—and then he fell.
When the portal closed, all the bloodstains were gone from the captain's quarters. It wasn't an entirely other world, Killian knew, it wasn't a Neverland, more like a pocket in the world—or a pouch, that he'd sewed up from a kerchief in a moment and tied the drawstrings.
Killian never had much interest in magic. He would see the sparks and glowing coloured clouds, and think that was what it was about. Whatever he was wielding tied directly to his own emotions, and the ease by which the magic manifested was certainly cause for anxiety. But the ring refused to come off.
When Killian went back on deck, Murphy was there to meet him.
"We'll be in Port Barrie soon," he told the captain, breathlessly. "We thought the ship wouldn't need gunmen, so we'll handle the riggings—Chekov and Foggerty and I."
"Very well," said Killian. "I'll boatswain for Bluebeard—sorry, Blackbeard…since he's…indisposed, at present." He twisted the ring on his finger again.
"Captain," said Murphy, "Would you conduct a marriage before docking?"
"The maiden's taken your fancy, and you thought this the more honorable way to take her—rather than getting her opinion of you? Is that it?" Killian's mind was still on Bluebeard and his wives.
"The maiden's got nothing to do with it," said Murphy. "It's for Cookson and I."
"Each of you with whom?"
"Cookson and I," Murphy repeated.
Killian paused. "Ah. I thought you were related to each other by blood...?"
"Cookson is white," Murphy told him, meaning no.
"Stranger things have happened." Killian reached for the flask of rum at his side.s
"Such as a codfish wedding?"
Oh, thought Killian, So that's what 'codfish' means. "Such as friendship between men. We thought you must have been blood brothers because you both seemed so close." He got the cork loose, and toasted the air. "To you and Cookson. Four winds bless you. Was that enough?" He took a gulp, then passed it to Murphy. "Just hand that over to Cookson if it wasn't."
"We're Ursulan, actually…me and Cookson…"
Killian gave a whining groan of complaint.
"It would send a message to the rest of the crew," Murphy insisted, "Cookson and I had hid it all this time because we thought they would kill us for it. They almost killed you for it, and you're not even really…well…"
"I doubt that it would be so simple," said Killian. "But go ask the girl in the crow's nest. She's a priestess." He turned to go.
"I do have a brother on this ship," said Murphy, "Or I did."
Killian stopped and turned to him.
"Jack," Murphy answered the unspoken question. "It's all right. Well, it's not…but, he never would have stood for this, my being...Well, perhaps be already knew, which was why there was nothing I could say to talk him out of what he'd done to the wench, and what he tried to do to you. He was in such a hurry to grow into a man, that he forgot his ambition to be a good person."
But now you'll never know what he would have been, thought Killian. "Have I begun a blood feud, Murphy?"
"No, no," he replied, "But married or not, Cookson and I won't be part of your crew any longer. When we dock at Port Barrie, that's where we'll settle."
"So give us something to remember," said Killian. He whistled the chorus of 'Granuaile's Thousand Heroes' to catch the maiden's attention, which worked. With her magic ring, she floated down from the crow's nest onto the deck.
Communicating why he had called her down proved complicated. An Ursulan Wedding tended to be complicated, which was why Killian groaned to hear it. First, a length of rope was knotted—from one end by Murphy, four times; from the other end by Cooksoon, also four times. They would say their vows as they did this, naming four virtues each that corresponded to one of the eight winds, and these were virtues that they pledged to keep in their marriage. They held hands for the priestess to loop the rope thrice about, speaking ritual bindings of the sky, land, and sea—this ritual speech is quite long in the common language. The maiden's language either had far more elaborate grammar, or elaborate vocabulary, or she spoke slowly, but it had to have been the same pronouncement. In any case, they were already at Port Barrie before the wedding finished. Finally, a circle of salt was scattered on the ground, that circle on which both would-be spouses stood in the center of, and then the priestess poured rainwater over both their heads until the salt was washed away.
Killian mustered up quite a lot of cheer that he didn't mean—he'd even changed into his red longcoat with the gold hem, and wore a funny wide-brimmed hat with a large feather in it just so he could take it off his head and throw it in the air as he cheered. The curse kept him solemn, behind his face. Still, his men found the cheer infectious, even Jukes with the eyepatch and Mullins with the stitches on his neck. Flint, who attended the wedding in fetters, not so much.
For her priestessly service, Killian gave the maiden a bag of gold pieces, which she accepted. She gave him her ring, the stone of which turned black in his hands, and then she disappeared into the crowd of the town.
Killian slipped the ring onto the ring finger of his right hand.
They all went to drink at the first tavern that they found, even Jukes who should have had his eye looked at by a proper surgeon and not a cook. Teyente elected to take care of Flint.
It occurred to Chekhov and Foggerty that their crew was shrinking, and they improvised a pub jig to call for recruits. They'd had to wait until two very short people who were not dwarves had finished singing about a red pony as they danced on the table; and then an announcement that a distant princess of an allied kingdom would wed the king. Her name was Buttercup, which Killian thought sounded familiar. And then it was the gunmen's turn:
"You'll love the life of a thief!
You'll relish the life of a crook!
There's barrels of fun
enough for every one,
and you'll get treasures by the ton
So come and sign the book!
Join up with Captain Jones!"
"Not sure about those last two lines," said Teyente, as he sidled up to Killian at the bar.
"Could you say 'no' to this face, Teyente?"
Teyente considered for a moment, then said, "I'd say no to anyone who would let themselves get distracted by your face, sir. We sail quite rough seas, if last night was any indication, and I'll welcome women on board again but not silliness of any sort. And no sorcery. Not that being under a curse would count, of course." He added, "Nor teapots..." He had one of his own in the quartermaster's master quarters.
Killian changed the subject. "Aren't you supposed to be taking care of Flint?
"Oh, Flint's taken care of, sir. Drunk himself to death, just like Barbecue said he already had. The dreamshade thorn didn't help him either, I don't think. Mutiny's not to be tolerated."
Killian raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to be Captain, Teyente?"
"Not for the world would I take your burden. Quartermaster's fine by me."
"Just tell me next time you want to borrow a dreamshade thorn," said Killian. "There's not much left, and who knows when we might really need it."
Teyente laughed. "Finally, forgiveness is easier to get from Killian Jones than permission. How we've grown."
The kitchen knave came about with another round of drinks, and fresh-baked bread rolls.
"Teyente," said Killian, "Do you remember Cookson's sister's friend?"
"Which one?"
"The one…" Killian sighed. "The one with the nose."
"Elena Harper," Teyente said immediately. "Family legacy of bards. How disappointed her parents were that she went for a knighthood."
"Disappointed…at a knighthood?" Killian frowned. "But that's a high honor if it weren't impossible for a woman—"
"She went to school for it in The Woods, they do things differently there." Teyente added, "She's killed dragons. Oh, but then she died in the attempted conquest of the Sunset Isles, I heard."
"Not so differently done, then," said Killian.
Teyente, understanding his meaning, raised the mug. "Here's to the fools who die for their kingdoms." He drank deeply.
"To the fools who die from their kingdoms," Killian said, finally moving his mug to toast—but Teyente had gotten distracted by a game of find-the-lady being played at another table.
Killian kept drinking.
Another man approached the bar, asking or a cup of coffee with cream and caster sugar on top.
"I wouldn't trust the caster's coffee around these parts, mate," Killian remarked. "The sugar might not be properly bespelled, but rather than leave it be, they'll try anyway."
The man turned to him. His face broke into a smile. "Can it be? Master Jones?"
Killian never forgot a face, especially not one of his favorite students. "Charles Turley. What brings you to these parts? How fares our Mistress?"
"Mistress Amara's doing very well—" Amara, of course, being the name of the courtier who had taken Killian under her wing. Turley continued, "I'm just looking for adventure. I don't suppose your pirate crew could use a steward?"
At one point during these festivities, Killian remembered being enamored with a woman whose long, dark hair curled like melted candles.
"You have the hairiest love," Killian slurred, when he meant to say 'you have the loveliest hair', "Why, if I were a lass, I'd grow my hair that long and curl it—curl everything! Eyebrows! Mustacheses!"
He thought he was being very funny.
The next morning, he awoke outside of the tavern.
His red longcoat with the gold hem had been stolen, and he was enveloped in a cloud of pixie dust.
"We're so sorry, Captain!" Foggerty said, "We would have let you rest a little longer, but…"
"A little longer, here?" rasped Killian. "Couldn't any of you have dragged me back to The Jolly?" He blinked hard and forced his eyes open. Foggerty wasn't alone—Murphy was with him, and an old woman who looked to be from the Dawnlands, a young man who had four sparkly wings growing out his back, a girl dressed as a boy, a dwarf, and a man in rags with a noble way of standing.
"That's the problem," said Foggerty, "The rest of the crew did something for a joke that we think is going a mite too far…Remember the mother you were flirting with last night?"
"Whose mother?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Murphy interrupted, "But the child's with Cookson now, somewhere—Cookson's abandoned us."
"Just a joke, I'm sure they'll be back!" Foggerty objected.
"We've been saying that since last night, Foggerty."
"Who the bloody hell are all of you?" Killian asked the others.
"The new crew," said the man with wings. "Well, except for me. The name's Skylights."
"You're a fairy," Killian observed. "Why pixie dust? I've had enough of magic to last a lifetime—" He looked down at the rings on his own hand, the stones of which had turned red. "When did that happen?"
Murphy and Foggerty exchanged guilty looks.
"If pixie dust broke my curse, then I should thank you," Killian told Skylights.
"Why don't you meet the rest of your crew, first?" Skylights suggested.