The tiny candle bathed the interior of the hold in a caramel-rich glow, sending tall, elongate shadows up the wall to dance and parade like puppets at a theatre. It was perfectly quiet; home to nothing more than a stock of nails, cotton bolts and some empty porcelain jars, it was infrequent that anyone was called to this store to retrieve something. It made it the perfect place to take some unwarranted, but mostly riskless, additional recreation.
The two mammals relaxed around a table, improvising seats from small barrels and flour sacks. One of them, a jackal with a gauze patch over one eye, produced a pair of carved wooden dice and a cup, while the other uncorked a ceramic jug, pouring a rich, golden spirit into two waiting flagons. It filled the room with vanilla and treacle sweetness.
"I mean, can you believe it?" the leopard said, topping his companion's cup generously. "48 barrels of the stuff! Aged and dark; probably worth thirty gold maura a barrel! And the Captain just turns it over to us!" He put the cup to his lips and took a deep, satisfied swallow. "I'll never drink this well again!"
"The Captain has Bronhelm's personal spirit stores, Harley," the jackal pointed out, taking his own cup and sniffing it. "I doubt she cares how much of this poor-mammal's treasure we drink."
"And this is what those rank porkers were drinking all the time!" Harley continued, oblivious to his mate's complaining. "They must have restocked from the distilleries on the other side of Blackrock, while we were taking on barrels of that bloody formaldehyde. Saints, that stuff could curl the tacks in your boots! Meanwhile, they were suckling on this golden nectar. Maybe I was born in the wrong country after all. Signing up under the Porcine sails is sounding better and better."
"All the hogs we've run into lately are either dead or locked in the brig," the jackal said, shaking his head. "The times hardly seem favourable for a career change. Besides, they wouldn't take you anyway, you hairy mouse-catcher."
"Eat my rump, Lars. What are we playing for?"
"I've got silver arga to spare. Nothing above that," Lars said.
"Why are you suddenly such a miser?" Harley teased. "We're survivors of the crew that struck down the Porcine renegades! We're bloody heroes! You don't think there's a bonus waiting on top of our salaries when we return home?"
Lars shrugged, sipping his rum.
"Moreover, what happens when you pass your Lieutenant examinations?" Harley continued. "You'll have your pick of commands to serve under. Every captain sailing from here to the Whitewastes will want an officer who saw Bronhelm get skewered like a roasting marshmallow."
"Would you do it?" Lars asked. "Would you transfer out of Captain Hopps' command?"
The question caught Harley off guard, and he went to his drink instead.
"I…no, no I suppose I wouldn't" he finally conceded. "I know that things are said behind her back, you know? I know there are whispers, and I've done my share of whispering, too. It was too hard not to. I mean, a rabbit, right? I guess I was just an ignorant lackwit. She's…she's a fine commander."
"We'll learn a lot from her," Lars added, stirring the dice in his cup. "A thing or two about swordplay, for a start. I've never seen faster bladework. Mind if I take first roll?"
Harley waved in assent, putting his silver coins on the table. Lars rattled the dice and then tipped them onto the tabletop.
"Seven," he said, grinning.
"Bastard. Double on your next. I'm not letting you win the first roll," Harley muttered.
Lars' grin broadened, and he scooped the dice back into the cup.
"I'll tell you something else," Harley said, leaning back in his chair. "That damned fox of hers? Now that was some show. Talk about sword skill. I've never seen anything to match it."
"Nine," said Lars. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. He's a real artist with a sharp edge. A steel poet. Credit to his kind."
Lars sat back, looking doubtfully at his drinking buddy. "I've seen brigands fight before. Trickery is their watchword. Blinding powder, bootheel razors. There's no honour in that kind of fighting."
"You weren't there," Harley said, fixing Lars with a hard stare. "I saw the fox fight. He was no sneak-sword, no. He was no dishonourable thug. I saw him; he'd been pumped full of shot, he was fighting with his left arm, and he took on three of those swine at once. Three! I watched him. He drew them back so the most aggressive hog took the lead, and then he carved his throat without a wink of effort!" He drew his thumb across his throat for effect. "Then he had the second, and then the third. With his left, mind you; I can't bloody well stir a pot with my left hand! If it had been me out there, I'd be dead in a bag with my blackcoin, like all those other poor sods."
Blackcoins were a part of traditional Zoohavenite funeral rites; a blackened gold coin, arranged in the clasped hands of the departed, serving as payment for the celestial ferry that ushered souls to the Afterworld. At the mention, Lars leered across the table.
"Well, you can talk up the Redcoat's brilliance all day if you like," he grumbled, "seen as how you had such a grand view of it. Meanwhile, here's me, nearly missing an eye from one of those mud-wallowing bastards' axes." He gestured to the clump of gauze pressed over his left socket. "Next time I'll join you at the balcony seats and watch from a safe distance."
"Hey, I fought just as hard as any other," Harley snarled. "Just roll the dice, and quit your bitter whining."
Lars tipped the cup over, and sucked a breath through his teeth.
"Serves you right," Harley said, and reached for the pile of silver. "You want double odds to win it back?"
Lars shook his head, and Harley took the cup and dice. "And anyway, if a rabbit can sword-dance with perfect form, why not a fox?"
"I'll believe it when I see it with my own eyes," Lars quipped.
"There'll be a rather long wait before I go repeating any such heroics," came a voice from the shadows, "so between your half-sight and my slow recovery, perhaps you should put your trust in the fellow with two eyes."
Harley and Lars bounced out of their seats in surprise, the coins and dice clattering to the floor. A pile of empty sacks in the corner of the room shuffled, and Nick rose out of them, giving the startled mammals a look.
"You two appear to have seen a ghost," he exclaimed. "Well, perhaps I am dead and risen. It certain feels like it."
Mistaking Nick for a spirit was not such a stretch; his prodigious wounds had required an exorbitant amount of bandaging, and though much of it was disguised under his brown longcoat and cleaned cotton shirt, plenty of his white dressings stood out.
"Lieutenant!" Harley cried, saluting, and giving his goggling mate a sharp elbow to do the same. "Sorry, we didn't know you were down here, sir!"
"And I'd wager no one else knows you're down here, either," Nick observed. "Personally, I like it because its peaceful and dark; a nice place to be while I get over being very nearly dead."
"Sir, my apologies. If we'd known you were resting here, we'd have taken pains to be more quiet. Also, sir, my comrade here would like to admit his regret for any untoward remarks he might have made. He has been drinking, and lacks the good sense not to talk at the same time…"
Nick waved Harley quiet, still smiling. "First of all, Harley – is it Harley? First of all, stop calling me sir. Sirs have money and land and superiority complexes, and I'm sorely lacking at least two of those. Second, if you think the worst I've heard levelled at foxes is that we're dishonest cads, then I'll have you know that treads very close to being a compliment." He turned to Lars, whose eye was very deliberately searching for things to stare at that weren't Nick. "Although, to your sceptical friend here, I do have to put the question of how, if not in the melee, I acquired so many cuts on my person. A shelf of a knife-maker's wares fell on me, perhaps? It must have been a grand accident, in any case."
Lars swallowed. His gulp echoed in the room, like a heavy stone thrown down a well.
"Well, gentlemammals," Nick finally said, grinning at the palpable tension, "I know better than to interrupt a game of chance for too long. I reckon my convalescence will proceed just as well on deck." He offered a stiff bow, and the pair of officers fumbled between bows and salutes themselves. Then, before they could broach the topic of their likely flogging and demotion, Nick slipped out of the hold and headed for the weather deck.
The clamour on the decks was beyond belief; forty mammals, sailors, soldiers and other crew, rushing here and there, doing the work of twice their number. Their eagerness, however, had no genesis in the threat of death or fear of the lash. It was instead exaltation at their triumph, a raw and genuine excitement, that sent the crew to work with demonic fervour, smiling and whistling as they went. The joy showed no sign of abating, even ten days on from the legendary engagement, which was useful since there was much aboard the Tribunal that needed setting right before she would be fit to sail again.
It had been evident, after the smoke cleared and wounds were stitched, that the Implacable had seen its last day. The fire had not consumed it entirely, but had left substantial harm that may have been beyond the means of a complete crew, a dry dock and the necessary equipment to repair. Trapped here, on the remote face of the world, with two damaged vessels, Judith had decided to cannibalise the valiant Zoohavenite warship for the parts needed to repair the Tribunal, on which they would make their return to Zooport. Bronhelm had, after all, offered them free use of his ship.
Now the Implacable sat, sadly charred and pock-marked, moored in place while crew saw to shifting its undamaged foremast and mizzenmast over to the Tribunal. Perhaps watching the slowly disintegrating Implacable, and working aboard the vanquished enemy's ship, served as a constant reminder of how far they'd come and over what odds they had triumphed, hence the jubilant activity.
Felix was taking no part in the reconstruction. Following Bronhelm's memorable departure, the Deck Paws had found him sprawling on the ground in a spreading bloodpool and taken him below deck on a stretcher. He'd spent four days in the infirmary; or rather, he had been in the infirmary for such a stretch of time, for he could only recall a few pain-racked hours. Felix detested hospital stays more than anything; he could not abide the stink of recuperation, of festering wounds and sterilizing solutions, or the constant moans of other invalids. After an additional two days of consciousness in the ward, he could stand no more, and despite the surgeon's protests he decided he would make his return to good health in the open air.
He had found a relatively deserted location on the ship's gun deck, which he had made comfortable with pilfered blankets. Here he sat all day, like a meditating monk; eye's closed, ears twitching towards the various sounds, his jacket unbuttoned to let the cool air at the poultice that covered his chest wound. The surgeon had done his best, and frankly it was a miracle that the wound hadn't become infected and taken his life. Felix wouldn't, however, escape without a jagged grey scar from his shoulder to his waist. While he wasn't exactly buoyed by the thought of this permeant memento of his tussle with a Porcine sword, he found he only really cared that he returned to his former constitution without tax to his speed or strength. And so he sat, and moved as little as he could manage.
He was in such a position, cross-legged and hands resting on his knees, when he smelled a familiar scent.
"Shouldn't you be resting in the infirmary, fox?" he asked.
"You know, there is no place worse suited to the concept of recovery than an infirmary," Nick said. "It's the noisiest place on the ship entire. All that moaning and gasping, the doctor pouring rancid tonics down your throat. You've better chance getting good rest under the barrel of a cannon during gun drills."
"You could have died, I suppose," Felix muttered with a shrug. "I'm told the Afterworld is very tranquil."
"An interesting proposition. I'm sure there's plenty who'd be pleased if I went searching for peace and quiet on a different plane of existence. A shame I'll have to disappoint them."
Felix opened one eye, giving the pirate a look. He was honestly surprised that the fox hadn't been one of the crew placed in a bag and dropped over the ship's edge. He had taken the most astounding quantity of damage Felix had ever heard of, and yet here he stood, mobile enough to find and irritate whoever he pleased. "Is there something you want, Redcoat?" he asked.
"Well, a moment's pleasant conversation; the same as any upstanding gentlemammal could want. But since you clearly need beauty sleep in some abundance, I'll be content if you can direct me to the Captain. Save me meandering up and down the deck looking for her."
"I don't know," Felix sighed, "but you will probably find her supervising the repairs. Perhaps at the bow end of the ship."
Nick gave him a clunky, graceless bow, and turned to leave.
"Nick…" Felix began. He immediately he saw the fox stiffen, and regretted the familiar address, the implication of friendship. But it needed to be said. "You might be a thief and a hateful brigand, and the very thing I signed up to eradicate as well. You might be. But what you did for the Captain…that was true bravery. There's not many who serve under the Zoohaven flag who could find such reserves of courage."
Nick had turned to face Felix, and watched him silently, no trace of emotion on his features. Felix closed his eyes again.
"You'll never be one of us. Never a patriot. You'll always be an outlaw, deep down." He shifted slightly, taking a deep breath and drinking in the salt air. "Maybe that doesn't matter."
Nick stood for a moment longer, and when it was clear that the panther had no more to say, he smiled with a snort, and made his way to the front of the ship.
"How is it coming, Samuel?" Judith called over the ship's bow.
The steady thunk of hammer and chisel against timber came to a halt, and there was a grunt from the carpenter who was dangling in a rope harness over the side of the ship.
"I've knocked the ugly smile right off the snout of the fair Porcine maiden that was there,' came the badger's gravelly reply, a voice made rough by years of hard toil and harder drink. "She'll not be missed. I mean praise the saints, if that's what passes for beauty in that mudhole of a country, I reckon it's a question for the ages how any of them pigs breed. I'm half-blind, and I'd nay touch her with a six-foot pole and enough whiskey to kill an elephant."
"You put something fine in its place," said Judith, a smile creeping across her face. "Something for the fine folk of Zooport to cheer at as we sail in to dock."
"I've half a mind to carve Bronhelm's fat arse up here. Put the spear in it and everything," Samuel muttered, taking up his tools again.
"Now that would something worth immortalising," said Nick, coming up the stairwell. Judith cocked her head at his voice, and smiled a little wider.
"Lieutenant Wilde," she said.
"It can take its rightful place in the Royal Museum afterwards, hey?" Nick continued, offering a sketchy salute with his working arm. "Nobles will come from miles about to marvel at its import. And a painting to commemorate it, as well. The Vulpine and the Swine's Behind. I'm sure the Royal Navy will patronize the arts this once."
"How are you recovering?" Judith asked.
"Well, I am well enough to stand on two legs, and happy with that at this juncture," Nick said. "The surgeon assures me I won't suffer any permanent reduction of my ability; my arms and legs should all bend the same as they used to. I fear my looks, however, are unlikely to make any such recovery." He lifted his arms slightly, as if to survey his own body. "I've a scar or two more than I feel comfortable with. I'll just have to pray that vixens find blemished skin irresistibly attractive."
"I saw you when they carried you below deck," Judith said, ignoring his levity. "You were ragged and blood-spattered. Your tongue was lolling in your muzzle. You had the look of a dead thing, and I feared the worst."
Nick fell quiet. Judith was looking right through his charade, peering at the fear underneath. He suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable, like a liar before a judge, moments from having his falsehoods unravel. Moments away from her discovery of what exactly it was that he feared, and what it would mean.
"Yes…well, I am equally ecstatic at having survived," Nick muttered. "I'm sure it won't be the last time I stare death in his ugly, unblinking face. And pray though I might for a body of iron, no such miracle seems to be forthcoming; even if it did, I'm sure fate would conspire to knock me overboard and suffer me to sink eternally."
"Ever the realist, hey?" Judith said with a smirk.
"Mostly though, I am just glad that we have triumphed, and that you escaped with nothing so damningly awful as my own scars," Nick said. At that, Judith reached up and touched the faint cleft in the fur over her brow, a small testament to the glancing shot that, had it struck an inch over, would have killed her.
"And you dare to speak of blemished skin," she joked, "now that I'm as hideous as a hunchback mole. No suitor could dare gaze upon me without vomiting."
Nick laughed, and struggled to hide the spasm of pain it sent coursing through him. "You're right, Captain," he managed. "Truly, you are irredeemably grotesque now, and will have to settle for a marriage to the navy. Which I somehow suspected you would do anyway…"
The silence lasted a beat too long.
"And Nick, honestly," Judith said, setting her amethyst stare on his own emerald-green eyes, "I am glad you're still alive. You and Felix, both. You are soldiers under my command, but you are more besides. Really, I'm not sure what I would do if either of you were gone."
It put a dent in the carefully-erected armour around Nick's heart, and panic began to seep through.
For he had had comrades before, and betrayers, and adversaries, and rivals, and nemeses, and even the strange, argumentative relationship between himself and Hopps when she had first taken him under her command had been familiar enough to him; had possessed a comfortable distance.
Now he felt something else, and what was this feeling? Something unfamiliar, and yet instantly recognisable. Something dangerous. Impossible. Incendiary
But before he could speak, Judith started off from the forecastle, and gave Nick a wave to follow her.
"Come with me. There's something I'd like to show you."
