The Blinding Knife(110)

“Mot is being reborn even now, pirate!” he shouts, bleeding. “Can’t you feel it? We’re here to announce his coming! Your days are over!”

Mot, the blue god. I’ve got my hands full with one blue goddess already.

My men throw the captain and his brother over the side. They land with a huge splash, and bob to the surface by the buoyancy of the barrels, but then roll underneath the water by them. Have to fight to breathe, as do we all, every day.

The Angari men in the rowboats are shouting now. The galley’s oars dip and sweep, slow.

“That’s your captain and his brother,” I shout. “Save ’em or let ’em drown. It’s all the same to me.”

Giving the men in the rowboat the choice of rescuing their captain or coming after us divides their attention, gives us another few seconds. I see a couple of muskets come up. I duck.

The rattle of muskets. Ceres, I love the sound. A few men even blow chunks out of the wood. Excellent shots.

Wish I could have them on my crew.

The first rowboat has gone after the captain, the second is coming after us.

“Droose, tiller!” I order.

He takes it, and I leap up onto the gunwale and salute the men rowing after us.

“Good day, boys,” I shout to the rowers. “You’ve just been bested by Captain Gunner. Ain’t no shame in losing to the best. You’ll tell your grandbabies about this day. And you’ll live to do so! So turn back now. Because I’m Captain Gunner, slayer of sharks and sea demons, and I’ll add you to the tally if you want.”

I’ve made a makeshift grenado, but I’d rather not use it. The fuse is a rag with a bit of black powder rubbed into it. The grenado’s a flagon full of black powder with a piece of wood shoved hard into the top. It’ll just as likely blow up in my hand or not blow up at all. I need me a drafter. Magic makes me nervous as a virgin pillow girl, but sometimes even Gunner don’t get what he wants. Sometimes you oil your bung, sometimes you oil your bunghole.

The men in the boat start cursing me. They’ve already fired their muskets, but a couple leave off rowing to charge their muskets. Good. Less men rowing means less speed.

I laugh at them, and another leaves off rowing. They’re cursing at each other, screaming to row more, swearing they’ll kill me.

The galley slaves sweep their big oars again, and again. It’s enough. We pick up speed. I remove my hat with a flourish and bow, as the galley leaves its original owners behind.

A few seconds later, I hear a couple of gunshots. Love that musket music.

I’ve already turned to my men. “Take an inventory,” I order. “Captain Gunner wants to take another ship within the week. I need to know if I’ll have black powder for the job, or if I’ll have to do it with my giant personality alone. And what the hell do these barbarians drink? Mead? Break out the mead. A measure for everyone, and two more tonight if you keep me chippy!”





Chapter 54




The thirty-five scrubs stood in neat lines, hands folded behind their backs, listening intently. Trainer Fisk usually handled their drills and conditioning, but today they were to be addressed again by Commander Ironfist. Two students had left after speaking with their sponsors about the impending war, but only two. Teia was proud of that; she was also keenly aware that being proud of ignoramuses who had no idea what they were getting into was probably silly.

Commander Ironfist walked to the front of the class, his head freshly shaven and oiled. His Blackguard garb, cotton fibers infused with luxin to make a stretchy second skin, showed the massive V of shoulders to waist, the gold piping down his sleeves emphasized arms as big around as some of his students’ waists, the thick butt of a man who could run down a horse, and legs like towers of the Chromeria itself. He was astonishingly beautiful. The man’s muscles had veins bigger than Teia’s muscles. And all loose, easy, relaxed.

Teia knew that the relaxed, loose composure of a warrior meant speed. Trainer Fisk was shorter and thicker than Commander Ironfist, but literally muscle-bound. His heavy muscles actually slowed his motion—compared with Ironfist. Compared to Teia, of course, the trainer was fast as a loosed crossbow bolt.

“Your training is the best in the Seven Satrapies,” Commander Ironfist began. No preliminaries, it wasn’t his way. “Your training is necessary and good and effective. But your training—even here, even among the best—can hamstring you. When we practice punches, we pull them short, because if we don’t, we’d lose you all to injuries. But when you pull punches ten thousand times, it’s hard not to on the ten thousand and first punch: the punch that you throw at a real attacker.