The Blinding Knife(109)

“Gimme a number, Captain.”

“Wh-what?” A sudden look of fear.

“Ceres’s tits, Gillan!” the brother says. “Pick a fookin’ number!”

“Rinky, sinky, dinky, doe.” I pull out my pistol and point at each man in turn as I singsong the words. “Once was a pirate by the name of Slow. Picked a sinner as a winner, and here’s the way ’twould go—”

“Three!” the captain said.

“One…” I stick the barrel of my pistol against the captain’s forehead. Cock it. Watch him shiver, go blank. Grit his teeth in defiance an instant later.

“Two…” I release the hammer and bring up my knife with the other hand, to the brother’s throat. I draw the knife up to his chin through his thick braided blond beard. His eyes are squeezed tight shut.

“Three…” I pull the dagger back. “And this is the way it shall be.”

“No no no!” the third man yells.

I poke him hard in the forehead with one bony finger instead of stabbing him. He tries to keep his balance, but I keep pushing. He tumbles off into the water.

“Cap’n, we ain’t got much time,” one of my men tells me.

I look at him. “This is me hurrying,” I say. He swallows and shuts up.

“Gimme a number, Captain,” I say. I aim the pistol at him first. Odd numbers will land at the captain, evens at his brother. Easy to figure, if you’re figuring straight.

“That man had a family! He survived the—”

I start, “Rinky, sinky, dinky—Ah, fuck it.” I shoot his brother in the knee.

A lead ball the size of your thumb hitting a kneecap and squishing will basically tear your leg off. I have to grab the brother to keep him from tumbling off the gunwale.

I say, “I’m tired of this game. Last chance, or I kill you both and fight. I like fighting. Tell me, and you live.”

“In my cabin, above the doorframe,” the captain says.

Worst hiding spot ever. If I had more men, I’d shoot one of them for missing it.

My first mate is already running for it.

He emerges a second later and heads belowdecks with a couple of others. They’re following the plan. Should make a good crew. It’ll take perhaps half a minute. We’ll make it.

“You’re going to kill us now, aren’t you?” the captain says bitterly. His brother is barely conscious. I’ve heaved them both back onto the deck.

“Told you I wouldn’t,” I say. “And I’m the son of a whore and an apostate luxiat. My word is my bond.” I grin crazily at him.

He goes white.

I tie a narrow rope tight around his brother’s leg to stop the bleeding. “You want your brother to live a cripple, or die?” I ask.

He swallows. “Live.”

I take the captain’s sword—odd Angari thing, it’s fat down at the point, sweeping broadly so there’s no way you could put it in a scabbard. But I’ve used more awkward things to kill a man.

I slash the blade into the brother’s leg, just above the knee and below the tied rope. I’m wiry, but I’m strong, and I know how to put a lot of speed into a blade. It lops the limb clean off.

Not clean clean. It still bleeds, of course. Tourniquet only does so much good.

The man screams and kicks. The captain looks like he’s about to vomit. I toss the blade aside, check the progress of the rowboats. The men in those boats realize something is wrong; they heard my pistol shot, and now they’re rowing with purpose. It’ll be a near thing.

I roll One Leg over and pour black powder on his bleeding stump. He’s whimpering, thrashing weakly. It takes three tries before I can get a spark to catch. Then it flares, filling the air with smoke and the smell of frying pork, cauterizing the stump. Odd how appetizing cooking man smells.

One Leg passes out. The captain is looking at me like he doesn’t know what the hell I am.

“Lash ’em to barrels,” I order those of my men who are just standing about. “Empty barrels, you morons!”

They do, just as fifty oars on each side rattle out. Triple sweeps. Puts more oars in the water, gives you more speed. I jump on the tiller—no wheel on this boat, sadly, just a straight tiller. Raiders can’t be choosers, I guess.

Captain Burshward is staring at me still, shaking and shivering, but now with fury. “The old gods are being reborn,” he says. “All of this is dying, pirate. The Everdark Gates will open, and we’ll descend on you like the Raptors of Kazakdoon. We won’t be exiled forever, thief. The White Mists will part for us. Our time is—”

I punch him across the face. Motion to my men.