This is a fan translation of The Treasure of the Kapitana(Сокровище «Капудании») by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Vladimir Vasilyev.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Note: The Kapitana was the Russian name for the Mansuriye, an Ottoman warship in the 18th century, the flagship of Said Bey. The ship was captured and exploded in the Battle of Tendra (1790).

Chapter 1

Ralph Kingfisher, Kerkinitis [Footnote 1, summer of 864

The runner from Hartwig arrived at a perfect time, as Ralph was already wondering how to best get rid of his new girl. The girl was pretty and cheerful, with large eyes and a nice round butt. And everything else was on the level too. But, like other women, she didn't know when to leave, continuing to chatter and not noticing Ralph already frowning and deliberately coughing into a fist. Ralph didn't just want to shove her out the door since he wanted for her to occasionally come back, and women could be resentful.

And then the runner came, just in time.

"Right!" Ralph livened up. "Listen, babe, why don't you go for a walk, we need to speak! We'll meet up tonight, at the Dried Zingel again."

"Okay, Ralph!"

The girl chattered some more while gathering her scattered things (they always did that) into a beaded handbag and, finally, left.

Ralph glanced at the runner. He didn't remember his name but did immediately recall that he worked for Suz Hartwig.

"Sit," Ralph nodded in the direction of a short stool, and the kid obediently sat on the very edge.

"Suz Hartwig requests that Ralph Kingfisher stop by today at noon on very important business!" the runner spat out and sniffed.

The runner didn't look to be over ten; he was grimy and wearing tattered clothes. In their spare time, the local boys could usually be found near the port in hope of doing a task and making some coin.

Really? Ralph thought, livening up. Hartwig's even calling me to his place!

Something was clearly happening at the port, runners typically provided more details. Enough for one to occasionally pass one's agreement or refusal back with the runner. But this was just a summons.

"Here!" Ralph tossed a coin to the runner. "Report back that I'm definitely going to pay a visit to the honorable Suz Hartwig at the appointed hour. "Go!"

The kid nodded his head energetically to indicate that he understood and remembered everything and, squeezing the coin in his fist, disappeared. Only ten-year-old boys knew how to do that: blink, and he was gone.

Ralph had been able to do that too once.

There was still plenty of time until noon, so Kingfisher decided to visit a tavern, but he'd better go to the Black Seagull, not the Dried Zingel — the last thing he wanted was to run into the owner of the nice butt before tonight. However, the first thing Ralph did was go see the cassat, of course.

There was a cassatorium at the inn, otherwise Ralph wouldn't be staying here. With the pounding of his shoes, Kingfisher ran down the wooden staircase; he winked at the innkeeper's daughter who was scraping the floor by the entrance. The girl bit her lip and lowered her head as far as possible. She'd probably seen the girl from the Dried Zingel and gotten jealous. Women…

Sighing, Kingfisher came out into the courtyard and was immediately forced to squint.

The sun was blinding. It was always like that: come out from the gloom, and it pierces the eyes like a dagger.

Then again, his eyes quickly got used to the bright light.

A shaggy local dog named Bowsprit was walking in front of the door to the cassatorium. He was thin and long, matching his name, with a curious nose and attentive eyes. The dog was, naturally, afraid to get close to the cassats.

Ralph whistled, and Bowsprit eagerly wagged his tail. But as soon as Ralph took hold of the door handle, the dog hurried to get away. Animals weren't fond of cassats.

The cassatorium was nearly empty: in addition to Kingfisher's friend, there was only the innkeeper's cassat, retired long ago, just like the innkeeper himself. An experienced shtarkh in his heyday, known to every chamberer from Istros to Tanais [Footnote 2, having traveled many waters with his faithful cassat before deciding to step away from the profession and open an inn for sailors. Naturally, he'd left the cassat with him. You didn't abandon your friends.

Especially friends like that.

The innkeeper always charged only half for shtarkhs and their cassats, which was why many of them stayed here when they were in town. Ralph did that all the time.

Upon seeing his friend, the cassat growled, stood, and walked up to him. He was over a meter tall and outwardly looked like a huge tailless cat. But cassats weren't felines, as they lacked fangs and claws. Besides, those who knew them didn't even consider them animals; as for common gossip, shtakhs and sailors weren't bothered by those. Ralph stroked his friend's furry back and immediately knew that the cassat had well-rested, well-fed, and, at the moment, pretty happy. That was good.

The parted as usual, with Ralph stroking the cassat once more, while the cassat growled, letting the human go about his business. Growling wasn't a sign of displeasure or reproach. Unless asked, cassats never got involved in human affairs.

Leaving the cassatorium, Ralph Kingfisher walked out onto the street. At this time of day, it was always crowded so close to the port: vendors with carts moving back and forth, women on their way to or from the market, soldiers from the port guard patrolling the streets, muscular slaves carrying colorful litters of the nobility…

Ralph was overwhelmed for a moment. He frequently visited cities, but didn't usually stick around for long. He and his cassat spent a lot more time on water, as was their profession.

The Black Seagull was a stone's throw away — one and a half blocks. The tavern was also for sailors, but it was smaller and lacked a cassatorium, so it was mainly a stop for ordinary sailors and bosuns, as well as junior officers from the guard. Nodding at the familiar faces, Ralph made his way to the counter and ordered a beer.

The first mug was always free for a shtarkh — such was the law of water and ports.

Some scoundrels took advantage of that and spent their days going from one tavern to another, drinking only one mug in each. But even when he was short on money, Ralph always drank two, either paying for the second mug or getting it on credit. The fact that Ralph Kingfisher always paid his debts was known in every port of Taurica [Footnote 3] and beyond. As a result, Ralph often got a discount on his drinks, and the tavern owners never felt slighted.

By noon, Ralph had managed to down three mugs, after which threw another glance at the clepsydra water clock. It was time.

On the way to the port, Ralph caught a number of glances in his direction: enthusiastic ones from kids, sideways once from regular folks, and ones full of contempt from behind the curtains of the litters. Nothing out of the ordinary. Many people disliked shtarkhs. Anyone that dealt with the unknown was typically disliked and feared by the people. And shtarkhs also kept company with cassats, mysterious and incomprehensible beings. There were even malicious rumors of shtarkhs using cassats as women. It was utter nonsense. But, strangely enough, it was far easier for an ordinary person to believe in such nonsense.

Suz Hartwig lived in a large two-story house; the first floor was taken up by the shipping office he owned, while the second floor was his home. An old bosun was dozing on the porch in a wicker chair. Suz Hartwig had once prowled the water as a common sailor under his command. A massive ring glinted in the bosun's ear, and a well-worn pipe was smoking in his hand. The bosun looked out at the world through the slits of his eyelids, surrounded by a thick web of wrinkles. He noticed everything through those slits, even though many thought that the bosun really was sleeping.

Ralph greeted him. As usual, the bosun said nothing. The knock on the door was answered by one of Hartwig's henchmen, a burly fellow with a club on his hip. Ralph really was being expected because the fellow nodded without a word and stepped away, opening a passage. In the gloom of the entryway, Ralph was able to make out a table and three other men. Dice, a pile coins, and embroidered tobacco pouches lay on the table.

The door to the upper room opened, revealing a much brighter space. Several sailors were sitting on a bench by the wall, clearly waiting in line to be hired. A plump girl was washing the corner window, thoroughly wiping away the moisture on the glass.

"Torum!" the doorman boomed, and the owner's assistant, a nimble young man, popped out from the doorway that led to Hartwig's office.

"What?"

"Take him to see the boss."

The assistant was new, straight out of school. A parchment rat.

"Is he a sailor? Then put him at the back of—"

"It's a shtarkh, you moron," the doorman boomed condescendingly.

The sailors on the bench livened up, as everyone liked making fun of the clumsy solicitor.

"Oh… All right. Come."

Before Hartwig's office stood actual soft chairs rather than hard benches. Three of them, in fact. The solicitor's desk was covered in papers and parchment scrolls.

"Please, take a seat, and I'll inform the owner."

So it was "please, take a seat" instead of "sit down, you damned shtarkh." Either the lad was not from Taurica, or he was pretending to be a foreigner. Probably the latter.

Taurica was the edge of the world, why would a foreigner work as a solicitor in a Taurican port straight out of school. There were plenty of other ways of making money and a name for yourself. Better ways. More likely, he was the son of some poor fisherman from one of the villages that lay tramontane along the coast.

The solicitor shot out of Hartwig's office like a cork from a shaken jug of beer. He didn't even glance in Ralph's direction, immediately dashing to the sailors waiting on the bench in the upper room.

"We're closed for the day!" Ralph heard. "The owner asks you to come back tomorrow."

It was followed by the clinking of coins — Hartwig valued his own time, but he also valued other people's time, even if it was the time of out-of-work sailors. None of those sailors would feel slighted today. There'd be enough for a beer at an inexpensive pub and a night in a cheap inn.

"Hey, Ralph!" the owner himself came out of the office. He was tall and thin, the way a former topsail yard sailor ought to be.

"Good day, honorable Suz. Did you ask for me?"

"I did. Come in. Torum! No one else goes in! That includes you, you got me?!"

"Yes, sir!"

Suz let Kingfisher go in first, followed him, and locked the office door with a key. From here he could go straight to the second floor on a separate spiral staircase. Hartwig immediately headed towards it, even though Ralph had been certain they would be speaking in the office.

That's something! Ralph thought.

He'd never been farther than Hartwig's office before. Only the most distinguished guests got an invitation to go upstairs, and that list typically didn't include shtarkhs. Sure, a shtarkh was a specialist, a valued specialist, an expert of the waters and all that. He got hired and did his job. No more, no less. Drinking wine with Suz Hartwig was for chamberers, merchants, ship owners, and other businessmen.

Despite that, in the upstairs room, Ralph was sat at a table and poured a glass of Hetmendian wine. Apparently Suz Hartwig remembered Kingfisher's tastes and preferences. Ralph felt good.

And soon he saw his drinking companion.

A tall young man entered the room. He was about Ralph's age but clearly a foreigner. A face with a pedigree, an expensive shirt with lace, narrow pants stuffed into superbly crafted boots. Boots in this heat!

The man quickly and surprisingly familiarly sat down in a chair even before the servant had a chance to fill a second glass and shut the door to the room.

"Good day!" the stranger greeted him. "A bit hot, isn't it?"

"Hello," Ralph replied reservedly. "No hotter than usual…"

"My name is Alex," the unexpected drinking companion picked up his glass.

He did it by reaching out a hand with splayed out fingers and picking up the glass by its bottom; the stem ended up between his middle and ring fingers.

An aristocrat, Ralph realized. From the home islands. Can't he see that I'm beneath his station?

But Alex didn't seem to care about classes and titles.

"To our meeting! By the way, what do I call you?"

"Ralph," Kingfisher squeezed out. "I'm a shtarkh, in case you don't know. Forgive me, but I'm not calling you 'milord' only because shtarkhs have no lords. But I can see that you're a highborn—"

"My friend Ralph," Alex interrupted him peaceably and, at the same time, in a tone that permitted any objections. "As you have yourself pointed out, I am a stranger to these parts and may be unaware of certain things. But heat and thirst care not for whether I am a king or a common sailor. I still sweat and enjoy a glass of chilled wine. So let us drink!"

Kingfisher hesitated for a moment whether to clink their glasses by nautical custom, wondering if it would be far too familiar.

But Alex dispelled his doubts in a very original manner, by downing his glass in one go.

"Hmm…" he said in surprise. "You drink undiluted wine in this heat here? And fortified wine too rather than dry. Incredible!"

Ralph, having taken only a few sips (it was Hetmendian after all!), shrugged, "It's not that hot inside. It's cooler."

"I thought this was the usual chilled sour swill half-mixed with water," Alex informed him.

Then the door opened again, and Suz Hartwig entered, accompanied by a sweaty tall fat man dressed in a blue uniform and a tricorn hat.

There were clearly more people outside the room. A the sight of Alex, the fat man immediately pouted, "Alexander! Again you—"

"Please, Uncle!" Alex cut him off. "I was thirsty, and this was the only glass."

"But where is your jacket?"

"At the hotel, where else? Why do I need a jacket here? It's hot in just this shirt!"

"It is inappro—"

"Please, Uncle!" Alex repeated, forcefully this time. It wasn't that he had a commanding voice, but the tone precluded any objections.

The fat man pouted even more but said nothing, which surprised Ralph.

"Dear Freemer, please take a seat," the host felt it necessary to intervene. "Would you like some wine?"

"Business first," the fat man stated firmly, sitting down heavily on the proffered chair. The chair creaked plaintively under his bulk.

Suz Hartwig sat down next to him, across from Alex, between Ralph and Freemer.

"Very well, dear Freemer, if you're in a rush to start the conversation, I'm listening."

The fat man removed his had and wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

"It really is hot here," he boomed. "Right. As you no doubt have guessed, I need a pilot. The best pilot in this dump."

"He's sitting right there."

"This youngster?" Freemer snorted, throwing a glance at Kingfisher.

"He's twenty-eight years old," Suz Hartwig informed him in a slightly offended tone. "He has spent twenty of them on the water. Of course, he became a real shtarkh at seventeen, and the best of the best at twenty-four…"

"Who did he become?" Freemer placed his hat on the table and was now stroking his bald spot with the handkerchief.

"A shtarkh. Trust me, a shtarkh isn't just a pilot. It's a lot more than someone who knows the waters of the Euxine and the Maeotis [Footnote 4]."

"I've heard these local tall tales," Freemer waved him off contemptuously. "You may fill the heads of the girls in your brothels with them, but you're not going to fool this old captain. The sea is the sea, and the wind is the wind. They're the same everywhere."

"You're wrong to think that way," Hartwig sighed. "The shtarkh's name is Ralph. He really is the best in these waters. At least that's what I think."

Kingfisher was listening calmly. Suz Hartwig could call him the best shtrakh around as many times as he wanted in the process of luring a potential client, but there was no way to tell if he believed that personally.

The fat man spent some time glaring at Ralph from under his thick eyebrows.

"Fine," he grunted. "Let's say that's true. You, dear Suz Hartwig, were recommended to me as the only reliable man in this godforsaken place, so I shall have to trust your opinion. Very well, this pup will be a suitable pilot. What are the conditions for hiring him? Naturally, I expect insurance in case this lardhead runs the ship aground."

"He's not going to run the ship…" Hartwig began, then broke off. "Hold on, what ship? Yours?"

"Of course! The bark Saint Aurelius of His Majesty's Royal Navy of Albion [Footnote 5, which I have the honor of commanding, damn you!"

Suz Hartwig and Ralph exchanged glances. They understood everything, but they were clearly going to have to spend a long and difficult time convincing the other man.

"Dear Freemer…" Hartwig started hesitantly. "It's unsafe to sail such large ships in our waters.

"Why?" the fat man frowned suspiciously. "Explain yourself!"

Hartwig threw another glance at Ralph. The latter sighed and lowered his eyes.

Meanwhile, Alex poured himself some more wine, swirled the glass, and sniffed it. It seemed as if the conversation held no interest to him at all.

Finally, Suz Hartwig slapped the tabletop and stated, "Dear Freemer! I have great respect for you both as a representative of the home islands and as a captain who has sailed many seas, but I must point out the following: I can only be of use to you if you listen to advice, both mine and the shtarkh's. But if you refuse to listen to us, then, unfortunately, I can't help you."

The fat man froze in dismay, even stopping wiping his bald spot for a time.

"Do… do you understand what you're saying?"

"I do," Suz Hartwig assured him. "This isn't the home islands, dear Freemer. We may honor King Terence of Albion, but we're not his subjects, I trust you haven't forgotten that. Officially, we're your equal allies, even if the people of the home islands consider us barbarians. But, in that case, be prepared that in these parts both the mores and the customs are barbaric… As an example, would you consider appearing before your king in a raw hide instead of a uniform?"

"What nonsense is this?" Freemer straightened his back, leaning on the table. "Of course not!"

"Exactly, in the same manner we consider these waters impassable to your ships. Please accept my sincere advice: find yourself two or three local ships with at least one shtarkh and sail on them."

"As passengers?" Freemer asked in amazement.

"Exactly!"

"But… but…"

"Uncle," Alex suddenly spoke up, not looking away from his glass (having spent all this time watching the sunlight through the wine). "I think we ought to listen to these people's advice."

"What? And leave Saint Aurelius here?"

"Why not? Burbank is a reliable man to leave in command, I assure you. We need only bring the chef Ishmael Judah and a dozen guards. It will be even better this way: fewer eyes, ears, and tongues."

"On board a ship, a chef is called a cook, I've told you that many times," Freemer grumbled. It was obvious that Alexander's words had shaken his stubbornness.

"Even more so!" Alexa replied oddly. "All in all, we can investigate at first, and for that we only need to hire one local vessel. If we decide that the passage is possible, we will then return on the Saint Aurelius. If not… we will think about it."

"Damnation!" Freemer slammed his fist on the table. "This was not what I was preparing for!"

"A leader has to be flexible, Uncle," Alex informed him in a slightly mocking tone.

"I need to think," Freemer said decisively and rose. "Until tomorrow."

He put away the wet handkerchief and donned the tricorn hat.

"Come, Alexander!"

"With your permission, I will stay! I can speak with our pilot and have some more wine. Excellent wine, dear Hartwig, by the way!"

"Alex—"

"I will see you tonight, Uncle! I will be back at the hotel before dusk."

The oddly obedient fat man sighed and departed with the host. Before disappearing through the door, Suz Hartwig gestured to Ralph that he could stay as long as he wanted.

"Torum!" Kingfisher called as soon as Freemer and Hartwig's footsteps disappeared below them. "Have them bring more wine! Yes, yes, Hetmendian!"

"Excellent wine!" Alexa praised the beverage once more. "Where is it from again?"

"Hetmendy!"

"Where is that?"

"Grecale."

"Pardon?" Alex lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Oh, right!" Ralph slapped himself on the head. "I forgot. On the home islands, you call it northeast. By the way, Alex, I am not quite comfortable with being formally addressed by a highborn."

The foreigner grinned, "Just listen to yourself: 'I am not quite comfortable.' Do you really believe that this is the way all of us speak, including peasants and sailors?"

"Well… To be honest, peasants and sailors speak differently here too. Often involving curse words."

"See?"

"Yeah…"

"To your health!"

"And yours!"

The friendly drinking session that had unexpectedly started between Ralph and Alex, had long ago relocated from Suz Hartwig's home to the Star tavern, which Alex called a hotel in the Albionian manner. They were sitting in a far alcove, separated from the common area by a wall. Servants were running here via a long curved hallway, and not emptyhanded either, carrying expensive and exquisite dishes and beverages. Alexander was deigning to have fun. And only in the company of Ralph. It was strange… but Ralph liked having fun in Alexander's company. And talking to this young man from the home islands was turning out to be unexpectedly interesting. He wasn't at all like the local arrogant aristocrats. Or even like the aristocrats of Albion.

He knew how to read, for one. And he loved reading. If the former wasn't a rarity among the nobility, the latter…

In turn, Alexander was surprised and pleased to learn that Ralph was also an avid bookworm. And when it turned out that both had read and respected Kemal Saumdi, George Byron, and William Ashbless, the budding friendship between the two young men grew closer. On the way to the Star, Ralph dragged Alex into Kapran Stupka's bookshop, where the new friends spent quite a long time. Alex ended up buying six books.

"Tell me, Ralph, where did you learn etiquette? Where did you grow to enjoy books? I keep hearing an Albionian accent in your speed."

"I studied in Albion. At a naval academy."

"In Londinium [Footnote 6]?"

"No, Southampton. I actually have a navigator's diploma."

"Incredible!" Alex was genuinely amazed. "Then why didn't you say so to my uncle?"

"Why bother? If he didn't like my face right away, no diploma is going to fix that."

"I wouldn't say that! Uncle Howard is very respectful of all manner of papers. I should know."

"Then let's call it an ace up my sleeve for the future!"

"You're a cunning one, Ralph!"

"To your health!"

"And yours!"

Ralph decided not to explain that the knowledge of a navigator was largely useless in these waters, and he'd never had to pull his diploma out of its waterproof case after graduation. An ace was an ace, but there was no reason to reveal his other cards either.

"Tell me, Alex, if I may ask, what brought you and your uncle here?"

Alex smiled reservedly, "You may ask… But I'm unlikely to answer directly. Here is my evasive answer: royal will. When we actually hire you, then it will be different. But until then… Then again, I should be able to convince Uncle Howard to hire you as our pilot. To think, a navigator's diploma from Southampton! I can imagine Uncle's face when I casually inform him of your diploma! Ha-ha! By the way, may I take a look at it?"

"At the diploma?"

"Yes."

"Of course! But I don't carry it with me. It's with my things at the Chonhar Inn."

More precisely, the diploma and some of Ralph's other valuables were being kept in a safe place by the innkeeper.

"Then, if it isn't too much trouble, please bring it with you to tomorrow's audience aboard the Saint Aurelius."

"Agreed, I'll bring it."

"Waiter, more wine!"

The servant, shocked by the foreign address, hurried to obey.

"I should say that in our waters I'm the only shtarkh with a navigator's diploma. This isn't self-promotion, just a statement of fact. No one asks a shtakh for one. They're simply hired, and they do their job by safely bringing ships to their destination. Well, it's chamberers, or captains as you call them, who bring the ships, of course, while shtarkhs provide the safety. And certain conveniences on the way."

"Interesting, interesting… Forgive my foolish question, my friend Ralph! In Londinium I was told that local seafarers use magic. What do you say to that?"

Ralph spread his hands and replied honestly, "What can I say? In essence, it's true. But, if we go a little deeper, it's important to first clarify what you mean by 'magic.' I see that you're no stranger to sciences. Magic is also a science. A science of redistributing special energy and of the properties of the natural elements."

"How interesting! Like physics?"

"Well… in a way. Only the nature of the elements and energy under the consideration of physics and magic is different at the very root."

"Incredible! Would you be able to demonstrate something magical to me? Like, for example, levitating this partridge dish?"

"It's a Muscovy duck, not a partridge," Ralph corrected without thinking, his expression darkening a little.

"Whatever it is, can you do it?"

"No, I can't," Kingfisher said firmly. "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."

"Why not?" Alex continued to insist. "Is it that difficult?"

"Allow me to answer in your own style: until you hire me… no demonstrations."

He decided not to explain that Ralph wouldn't be able to call to the air elements and use their power without his cassat, no matter how much he wanted.

Because he wasn't just a shtarkh, he was a good shtarkh. Possibly the best in these waters.

Footnotes

1) Kerkinitis was a Greek settlement on the Crimean peninsula around 500 BC at the site of the modern city of Yevpatoria.

2) Istros (or Histria) was a Greek colony on the Black Sea, founded in 7th century BC. Tanais was a Greek city in the Don River delta, founded in 3rd century BC.

3) Taurica (or Tauris) was the ancient Greek name for the Crimean peninsula.

4) Euxine and Maeotis were the ancient Greek names for the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov, respectively.

5) Albion is the old Greek name for Great Britain.

6) Londinium was the capital of Roman Britain, located at the site of modern London.