Rascal’s Edge, Part 1

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

Rascal’s Edge

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: August, 2006

 

Part 1

Child of the Lion

From earliest memories, Brogan knew the sea, the islands off the coast of Freehold, cool breezes, warm rain and the brilliant sun. He knew the sounds of slavers’ chains; the harsh voices of ships’ captains; the rude comments of filthy sailors; and, his mother’s weeping despair as she tried to feed and raise him to be a better man than those he saw around him.

This morning, as many a morning, she sent him outside to play dressed in tattered breeches armed with a wooden sword and a rusted bucket.

“Brogan! Hurry up!” his mother called to him. She stood waiting by the door of their tiny house, which was hardly more than a hut constructed of a platform of wooden planks with plank walls and a roof constructed of layers of matted, compressed long grass and leaves over a wooden frame.

“Sorry, Mama,” Brogan said, hurrying down the ladder of the loft where he slept on a straw billet and kept his few possessions in an old trunk. “I can’t find my bucket.”

“I have it. I put some lunch in it for you,” she said, handing it to him. She smiled as she tousled his sandy brown hair and saw the mischief in his green eyes. “There isn’t much in there today, so you’ll have to pick some fruit if the neighbors haven’t gotten to it first.”

“Lunch,” Brogan sighed, taking the bucket. Peering inside, he saw the last bit of bread they had and a piece of dried fish partially wrapped in a big leaf. “That means I have to be out all day?”

“We’ll see. I have three visitors coming this morning and at least one after lunch.”

“If Markie comes out to play, can we go into town?”

“Yes, but you better behave yourself. If I hear a story like last time, it will be the riding crop rather than my hand to your backside,” she warned.

“But I didn’t do it. It wasn’t my fault. I said that,” Brogan complained. His mother’s frown silenced him and he put his head down. He didn’t like it when she was angry or upset with him and he certainly didn’t want the crop. Only once before had she used it on him and it took three days before the lashes had healed enough to sit properly.

“And be nice to Markie and the others.”

“I am,” he whined and wondered why his mother felt like lecturing him today.

“I know,” she said and hugged him to her. “But you have to remember that you are a big boy, and big for you age, and sometimes you play too rough with them. You don’t want them not to play with you, or have their parents complain to me.”

“They always tell on me and Markie’s a sissy sometimes and—”

“Stop it!” His mother gave him a little smack on the back of the head. “You be nice.”

“Maybe I’ll just play by myself.” Brogan pouted and gave her a hug in return.

“Go on, now,” she said and gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head then pushed him out the door. “They will be here soon and I need to get ready.”

Brogan nodded.

“Bye, Mama,” he said, stepping off of the little veranda and the door closed behind him.

Brogan shoved the wooden sword under his belt then took the bread out of the bucket. He pulled it apart, put the fish in the fold and began to eat. Maybe it was supposed to be for lunch, but what about breakfast? His stomach growled as he chewed the tough fish and swallowed. Tomorrow there might be food again, but today he was on his own. He knew of a place that was farther off the path leading to the fresh water spring where berry bushes and fruit trees grew. He never took any of his friends there. Maybe his mother would tell him that was bad too, but he didn’t care. The fruit filled his hungry belly and there was always enough to take back for her.

He stopped at the spring and stuck his face under the clear, cold water flowing from a rocky pile, and drank his fill. The dry bread and salty fish had seemed to stick in his throat. He filled the bucket from the pool below and the big leaf still inside began soaking up the water. Making sure no one was watching him, he crawled through a dense patch of vines that nearly strangled the bushes supporting them, climbed down several feet of rock and leaped out into a sandy clearing still shadowed and waiting for the rising morning sun.

Brogan put his bucket down and smiled. He was getting better at keeping his balance and keeping his body under control as very little water sloshed out upon landing. He drew his sword and walked in a circle around the clearing issuing challenge to the trees.

“I am the new commander here. Who dares answer my challenge?” he demanded of the silent foliage. He slashed at a broad leaf nearly as tall as him. The top of the leaf landed at his feet. “A lesson for all of you! Now, send out your slaves and build my fortress, here.” He stabbed the point of the sword into the soft, sandy soil. “And send the women with food. My troops are hungry.”

Two days ago he had eaten all the berries he could find to the south. Today, he would see what was ripe to the east. The loamy soil was cool beneath his feet as he wandered from bush to bush eating his fill. Later he would come back and fill the bucket, but in the meantime he found a small branch heavily weighed down by a dozen ripening laupoms. Their pinkish skins would darken to purple in a few days. They would either eat them raw, or his mother would fry them in a bit of oil with some sweet crab if the sea was calm enough to allow him to dive into the caves to catch one. He tore the branch from the tree and went back to the clearing and put the fruit on the rocks so he wouldn’t forget it.

Using his sword, Brogan dug a hole in the dirt and poured water little by little into the loosened soil until he had the right consistency for building. Through the hours of the morning a fortress rose up from the earth flying the colors of yellow and purple; the only colors of flowers currently in bloom. Leading away from the western wall was a wooden quay built out of twigs meticulously laid side by side. Now comes the best part, Brogan thought as he took the hydrated leaf from the bucket and carefully tore it in half. From the bottom of one tattered pant leg, he pulled out several threads and put them aside. Taking the first bit of leaf, he folded it gently into the shape he had spent hours perfecting then, using the threads, tied the design in place at both ends. Placing the leaf next to the quay, the sides fell open and he coaxed another piece to stand so that it looked like a ship under sail.

“These are the best in a long time,” he said, quietly, with a smile, pulling up the sail on the second ship and pushed them around his imaginary sea.

A crack of thunder startled him. He looked up to see dark clouds moving in and chasing away the warmth of the sun. Big, cold raindrops began to fall. One particularly big drop hit the side of the fortress and smashed out a chunk of the wall.

“Take cover, men!” Brogan shouted. “They’ve brought in the ballista. Arm the catapults!” The rain fell faster and thunder boomed. The fortress walls began to melt. “Run! To the ships and save yourselves! We’ll get them another day!”

Brogan grabbed up his sword, bucket and the branch of fruit and climbed back up the rocks, pushed through vines and ran back down the path toward home. Coming out of the trees, his hope of escaping the rain faded as he saw three horses tethered in front of his house.

“I thought they would be gone by now,” he muttered and walked the rest of the way home. Without making a sound, he put the toys and fruit on the veranda then went back out into the little yard and stood under a tree. It didn’t keep him dry, but lessened the water pelting his bare skin.

It wasn’t the first time, nor, he knew, would it be the last time he had to stay outside in the weather when his mother had visitors. He didn’t dare stand any closer or come up on the veranda for long. If she found him there, trying to get in or peek in as she had a few winters ago, the crop would be the least of his punishments.

“Why do they always get to stay inside?” he muttered, angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the rough palm bark and glared at the horses. They stamped and weren’t any happier than he was. The older he became, the more he resented being shoved aside in favor of the people who came to see her. Men, mostly, near as he could tell. Wealthy men, today, he thought, looking at the quality of the horses’ tack and saddles.

Brogan didn’t know why today bothered him more than any other day. It was the way his life had always been, near as he could remember since coming to Isilassa, one of the five largest islands in the Lancer Archipelago. Before then, he vaguely remembered living onboard a ship and either being given over to strangers, or put into dark places that had made him afraid and cry, but she never came for him until the time suited her. After a while, he learned not to cry, but to sleep instead and it seemed that she came back for him sooner. But living here, and until a couple of winters ago, she used to tether him like an animal to the palm under which he now stood. Now that he was eleven winters, he was free to do mostly what he wanted, but still she would not let him go diving for crabs in the caves by himself. He wished she would, because then he could sell what they couldn’t eat and help to buy bread and a bit of wine for their table.

The rain fell faster and a sudden wind whipped the water about like a tempest at sea. And sail the mighty seas he would. Dare them to come out of the hut dry and pretty and face the mud and fury of the storm. Brogan splashed through deepening puddles to another favorite place in the forest that he considered his and climbed up onto a pile of flat rocks. The road to town passed by a score of yards behind where he stood. It was another place he could hide, but still keep an eye out for when it was safe to go home. In front of him the ground sloped rapidly away, lowering the tree line, and gave him a sweeping view of the stormy seas.

“Drop anchor, men, fore and aft! She’s drifting to the lee shore!” Brogan shouted into the storm. His right hand punched upward sending down a wave of water that had collected in a large cup-shaped leaf. He sputtered as the water poured over his face. His stance was rigid and commanding as the wind whipped his tattered pant legs around his shins. “Bosun, get your crew and heave to, the slackers. Drop the fore and aft! Hold the sheets on the mizzen sail.” His left hand shot up sending down another gush of water. “Hold steady, you rats! We lose this cargo and you don’t eat for a month.” His stomach growled as he whacked another leaf. Feels like I haven’t eaten for a month, he thought, the wind whipping hair across his face. But I am the Captain and I will be strong no matter what. The rain fell faster and quickly refilled the leaves. He jumped up and punched two at the same time. “We’re taking on water. Secure the bulkheads. Idiots! Batten the cargo hatch! Do I have to tell you everything?” Brogan glared down at the thick ferns, his sailors, batted around by the wind, running to do their captain’s bidding.

As quickly as the storm came, the rain stopped and in a matter of minutes the sun was back and the sea was glistening blue.

“Weigh anchor, we sail for the mainland,” he ordered and pushed wet hair out of his face.

Brogan stared out across the sea and wondered what the mainland of Freehold was like. His mother said he was born on the northern coast of the continent, but not where. He had heard tales of places like Fen Way, Deaxa, the Kalini Pass and scary stories about South Haven that was on the border of a place called the Viper Lands. She wouldn’t tell him where his father was nor who he was. Only that he was a brave and handsome man and that it was his family that drove them apart. He wondered sometimes if his father lived the way they did, with nothing and on the verge of starvation half of the time, and if he had to serve a master as cruel as the one his mother did. Brogan felt anger rise as he crossed his arms and firmed his stance. If his father had been so brave, then why had he let them come to this? Why wasn’t he dead having fought for them the way his mother fought for him? The way he would fight for her, someday.

The sea calmed and sometimes he hated the sea. It had brought them here. He often thought that if he could get some coins, going back to the Freehold continent would make their lives better. His mother said the islands were more beautiful and the weather nicer than where they came from, but he couldn’t be sure. If it was better here, then why did they never have enough to eat? Why did he have to wear clothes until they were rags? And why couldn’t she make Garth Flannery leave them alone, her in particular. She said it was because he owned them and could do what he wanted with them. She said they didn’t have food, because she needed every coin they had to buy him away from Flannery. Sometimes, thinking these things, made Brogan’s head hurt and he wished he was bigger and older then he would change everything.

Several small rocks suddenly pelted his back in rapid succession and he realized someone was calling him.

“Brogan! Hey, Brogan! Are you deaf or something?”

“No, just thinking,” Brogan said, turning around to see Markie running toward him. His friend looked up at him.

“Thinking? What for? My father says thinking never gets a man anywhere, just doing does.”

“Then how do you know you are doing the right thing if you don’t think first?” Brogan asked, jumping off the rocks. “My mother tells me I don’t think enough.” Markie shrugged.

“Awww, who cares what she says? My father says that’s why women worry and cry all the time, they think too much,” Markie said, heading for the road

“Maybe, but she knows things. Probably more than your father, because she can read. She told me she used to have lots of books – ”

“Liar!”

“Am not!” Brogan shoved him then looked over his shoulder to make sure his mother wasn’t standing on the veranda. The horses were still there. “Look, she showed me how to write my name.” He knelt and drew the letters in the mud with his finger.

“Mama’s little boy. That is what my father says you are,” Markie said as his foot ground out Brogan’s letters and he took off running.

Brogan raced angrily after him, but Markie was lighter and faster and kept well ahead. Markie didn’t stop until he reached the bread shop belonging to an old woman on the edge of town. He was safe there. She didn’t allow fighting in front of her window. He bent over to catch his breath.

Before Brogan reached the shop, he slowed to a walk. Between the words think and a crop to his backside, he let Markie’s insult go. It wasn’t often he thought this way before getting into a tussle, but it would keep him out of trouble…for now.

“Hey, where are you going?” Markie said as Brogan walked passed him.

“To the leather shop,” Brogan answered. “Today is scrap day. Maybe the apprentices have done bad work again and a pouch or two will get thrown out.”

“Not fair. You got all of them last week,” Markie complained, but Brogan only grinned. He didn’t run as fast as Markie, but the strength in his arms and body were more than double and he had shoved more than one boy out of the way to get at a profitable discard.

The cobblestones lining one of the main streets in Bourk’s Landing, Isilassa’s main city, had started to dry and people were again moving from shop to shop as Brogan and Markie walked by. As always, they heard the curses muttered against them, scoundrels, dirty good-for-nothings, and why didn’t someone do something about the filth that lived in the unsightly hovels just outside of town.

The faint tinkle of metal on stone caught Brogan’s attention and he turned around. A silver coin bounced into the gutter a few feet away and he scrambled for it. As his fingers closed around the precious treasure, he realized someone may only have dropped it and looked up and around. Leaning against the wall of one of the more expensive perfume shops, was a man dressed in the finest silks. The buttons on his vest gleamed in the sunlight as did the polished silver buckles on his soft leather boots. A fine sword hung at his waist. Something seemed familiar about him, but he wasn’t sure. Brogan watched as a pretty lady came out of the shop, stopped to whisper something to him and disappeared into the next shop. I wish Mama could dress like that, Brogan thought, watching her wistfully then realized the man was motioning for him to approach or maybe Markie as he saw Markie’s shadow come closer.

“You, boy,” the man said, pointing at Brogan and wiggling his fingers. “I don’t have all day for slow wits.”

Brogan stood and walked to him as he proffered the coin in a dirty hand.

“Give it to Ammalie. I haven’t seen her in several winters. I assume she still lives?”

“Yes.” Brogan eyed the man. Unconsciously, his jaw clenched. It wasn’t right that this stranger knew his mother’s name, but he was sure he never saw all those who visited her.

“You don’t like that I know her name, do you, boy?”

Brogan was silent. The man suddenly grabbed Brogan’s arm and stood up straight. He twisted Brogan around until he could clearly see the oddly shaped birthmark that Brogan had on his upper arm, one that looked strangely like a lion. Without warning, the man’s strong finger’s dug into the mark, pinching Brogan viciously.

“What are you doing?” Brogan shouted, jerking away. His hands curled into tight fists. His arm burned with pain and his breath came noisily through his nose.

“Did that hurt, boy?” the man asked, with an odd grin.

“No!” Brogan answered defiantly, lying.

“Good, because it will. Oh, it most definitely will,” the man said. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out another coin and tossed it to him. Brogan let it fall and Markie quickly scooped it up. “As you will,” he shrugged, “but tell your mother I would like to see her, tomorrow. Make it morning.”

“What is your name?” Brogan asked, anger in his voice.

“Tell her… yes, tell her Deauxama smiles on her,” the man answered, with a laugh and turned to follow his lady into the shop.

“Whoa, what was that about?” Markie asked, pocketing his silver.

“No idea,” Brogan answered, pulling his arm around to look at it. He rubbed at the redness and slight swelling. “Let’s just go.” He put his coin in a tattered pocket.

By the time they reached the leather shop and walked around to the back via the narrow space between the buildings, they saw they were too late to find much of possible value. The town boys had beaten them to the scraps.

“Told you we’d beat the scum,” one boy said loudly. The others with him laughed. “Look at them all muddy. Been rolling with the pigs, scum?” The boys made pig sounds.

“Shut up!” Markie shouted. “We aren’t scum.” He grabbed a rock from under a pile of scraps and threw it at them. He missed.

The boys laughed harder. One shouted, “You throw like a girl.” A rock flew back, striking Markie hard on the shoulder. More rocks flew, most missing as they all scrambled to find cover, then one struck Brogan’s forehead near the hairline. It staggered him for a moment, and then all of the morning’s angry moments roared out of him. He hurled himself at the five taunting boys, some older, some younger. None could match his size or power as he crashed headlong into their huddle. He didn’t care what his flying fists hit, only that they hit something. They tried to pig-pile him, but he only rolled taking them with him, elbows and knees slamming into their scrawny limbs. Their weight lessened and he rolled to his feet. His fists caught two more and then they were running away as Markie’s stones hit their marks.

Brogan turned to Markie, a trickle blood ran down his face. He wiped it away with his forearm, blood stained his skin.

“Are you hurt bad?” Markie asked.

“No, I’m fine.” He rubbed at places where bruises and scratches were likely to show. He was going to get beat for sure. “Let’s just look and get out of here.” As he rummaged through the leather scrap looking for anything useful, he decided it was better he didn’t find a pouch like last week. He had had a hard time convincing his mother that he didn’t steal it, but she didn’t argue with the five coppers when he sold it a few days later. “Looks like they have got a new one learning stitching,” he said, picking up a very lopsided piece.

“Come on, there isn’t anything left,” Markie said, kicking at the bits.

Brogan took his find with him, pulling and adjusting the gut threads through the holes as they walked. From the corner of his eye, he followed Markie’s legs, continuing to work on the piece until it more or less resembled a pouch. “There,” he said, finally satisfied and looked up. Markie had led them down to the edge of the dockyard where a ship they had never seen before was berthed in the deep, clear water.

“She’s magnificent,” Brogan said in awe, nearly forgetting his project. Quickly he retrieved the silver coin, dropped it into the pouch and tied it to his belt. “It is bigger and better than any ship of the line that the Archipelago has.” He ran down to the quay to get a better look at her sleek lines and appreciated the sturdiness of her masts and yards. The shrouds were all coiled and in order. Only a few men moved around the ship doing chores and others, wearing brilliant uniforms and holding polished steel, stood watch. “Where do you think it came from?” he asked, when Markie caught up with him.

“My father said that he heard it belongs to King Damu.  They say he has come to collect taxes from the governors before taking his next campaign to the lands across the sea. Maybe even take on a few sailors and soldiers,” Markie answered. “Shield your eyes and you can see the lion on the flag.”

Again Brogan wished he was bigger and old enough to sail on a ship like that. Hands over his brow, he caught sight of the black lion against the azure sky when the flag flattened in the wind. An unexpected shiver shook him as he realized the lionish birthmark on his arm strangely matched the king’s standard. He said nothing to Markie, but glanced at his arm and back up at the flag. Considering his strange encounter, he had the sudden feeling that his mother hadn’t told him everything about where he came from.

The smell of roasting meat quickly turned their attention away from the great ship. Further down the quay a brazier had been set up to feed the men guarding and loading cargo at the ship’s aft. Brogan’s stomach growled. He thought of the silver coin in his pouch. He should take it to his mother and let her buy food that would last them a week. But I’m so hungry, Mama. His mouth watered.

“Hey, Markie, go down there and see if they will let you buy us something to eat,” Brogan said, pushing him forward.

“You come with me. They look kind of scary.”

Brogan nodded, trying not to feel bad about getting Markie to spend his coin. But Markie’s father made some money and Markie at least had a shirt to wear.

“Well, boys, what can we do for you?” one of the women asked as they approached. Another turned slabs of beef and half chickens on the brazier, while another had just come back with a basket full of flatbread.

“We want to buy something to eat,” Markie said, timidly.

“What do we have here?” said a voice to Brogan’s left. He felt cold steel tap his left arm, the arm with the birthmark and stepped away quickly. The soldier grinned at him. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a Brannock bastard. Come to see the legitimate side of the family, have you?”

“Maybe he has come for a job,” the woman turning the meat said. “Wagers? Bastard of the king, or grandson?”

“He’s a looker and a big one. I’ll bet on bastard,” said the woman with the bread.

Brogan and Markie looked at them confused. Neither had any idea what they were talking about.

“We would just like to buy something to eat, if you please,” Brogan said. He nudged Markie to show his coin, which he did.

The soldier laughed and several more gathered closer.

“Listen to that,” the meat woman said. “Better manners than the lot of you. So, boy, ever thought about sailing on a ship like this?”

“Some day,” Brogan answered, but Markie shook his head no.

“What will it be,” asked the man with the sword, “bosun or rigger for you?”

“Captain,” Brogan answered and they all burst out laughing.

“That’s a Brannock for you,” the man laughed. “Cock-sure and arrogant.”

“My name is Laroult. Brogan Laroult,” he said, feeling his face flush, but he wouldn’t stand down.

“We have need of another ship’s boy. Room enough on board for another orphan,” the bread lady said.

“I am not an orphan,” Brogan said, realizing he looked worse than most he knew. “My mother wouldn’t approve.”

“I see,” said the bread lady. “Gretta, give the other one enough meat and bread for both. Put your coin away. If Damu can’t pay for one of his bastards now and then, what hope for the rest of us,” she said and motioned for Brogan to come to the women’s side of the hot coals. “Now then, Master Brogan, what does your mother do?”

Brogan was at a loss for words. How could he know when she put him outside or in a closet? He shrugged and looked back at Markie.

“I don’t really know. People visit her.”

“Like when they are sick? Does she make medicines?”

“She is not a healer,” Markie said, clutching big pieces of bread with hot meat in the middle, one in each hand. “She is a whore. My father says she is best damned whore that has ever come to this island.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Markie beamed, thinking he had said something right. Brogan lowered his head. Whatever ‘whore’ was, it was not good and he knew they were laughing at him. He also knew that for Markie’s father to have said such a thing, he must have come over while they were out playing. Brogan looked up to see the women, the three who had been manning the makeshift kitchen and three more who were better dressed with necklaces and bracelets, begin to surround him.

“Hey, boy, we have room for her too!” a sailor called out.

“What are you doing?” Brogan said, startled as the women behind him started putting their hands on him. He turned in a circle trying to push away their hands, but it was no use. They were twelve hands to his two.

“Is this handsome fellow our new ship’s boy?” one jeweled woman asked. Her hand caught his chin and held his face to the sun. “Look at those eyes. A little soap and a scrub…”

“Stop it!” Brogan jumped as fingers tickled his back. The circle tightened and suddenly he felt hands on places they should not be. He was trapped, but his mother said never hit or push a girl. He dropped to a squat and they shrieked with laughter as they tried to pull him up and back as he struggled to crawl between their skirts. Arms, hands and feet were everywhere in the confusion as he broke free. He stumbled across the quay until he got his feet under him and ran up the short flight of stairs to the street above.

Brogan looked back. The men were laughing and shouting rude things that he only half understood and some of the women were smiling and waving to him, trying to coax him back. Markie, realizing he was about to be left alone, ran after him careful not to drop their lunch. Brogan didn’t wait, but turned and ran through empty alleyways until he was back on the road leading home.

Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he slowed and walked the empty road. He suddenly understood how his mother felt when Flannery was around, demanding money, saying rude things to her, and looking at her the way the women had looked at him, while trying to put his big, filthy hands on her. Something had to change. He had to think of something. His mother wasn’t like the women on the docks. She could read, she taught him things and she had been a lady. He knew something bad had happened to bring them to this sorry place.

“Brogan, wait for me!” He could hear Markie’s voice calling from the distance. “Wait, I have your lunch!”

Brogan stopped and quickly wiped his eyes on the backs of his hands. He didn’t want to see Markie or be with him. Whatever he and his father had said his mother was sounded dirty and wrong. If only his stomach wasn’t so empty, he would have run home without it. Taking a deep breath, he turned as Markie ran up to him, but avoided looking at him.

“Here, it’s still warm,” Markie said, handing him his.

Brogan bit into the soft bread and felt the meat tear away under his ravenous bites. He felt the warmth, the substance slide down his throat and into his empty belly. Tears nearly came to his eyes again, when he realized what he was doing. I’m sorry, Mama, I’m sorry, but I can’t stop, he thought as bite after bite fell to his overwhelming hunger.

“You are eating like you have not eaten in a week,” Markie said.

“I did a lot before you came,” Brogan lied. He never admitted to any of the boys just how utterly poor they were, but knew they probably knew given his near state of undress on any given day. He shoved the last bite into his mouth.

Coming to the curve in the road where his house was, Brogan could see his bucket and the fruit branch had been taken inside. Maybe all of the visitors were gone for the day, now that it was late afternoon.

“I have to go now, but if I can come out tomorrow, I will come get you,” Brogan said.

“Good. I forgot to ask you before and my father would not tell me, what is a whore?” Markie asked.

“I don’t know,” Brogan answered, but something on the inside was telling him that maybe he had an idea. He ran the short way home and went inside.

“Brogan Laroult, what in the world have you been doing?” his mother asked, seeing him more bruised and scraped than usual. “Were you fighting again?”

“A little, Mama,” Brogan whispered and ran to her, throwing his arms around her waist as he began to cry.

His mother held him tight as she rested her cheek on the top of his head, something that soon she would not be able to do. She let him cry until his sobs began to subside then she led him across the tiny room to where she sat on a low bench and he sat on a small cushion on the floor.

“Whatever has brought this on, my sweet?” she asked, brushing the hair back from his face. She frowned seeing the blood on him, but did not ask.

“Is Laroult my real name?” Brogan asked, finally.

“Of course it is. What else would it be?” she asked, puzzled.

“Brannock.”

“Where did you hear that?” Brogan saw the surprise in her eyes.

“And what does this mean?” he asked, turning his arm and looking down at the birthmark. “Why does it look like the king’s standard and why did the people on the docks call me a bastard of King Damu? I don’t even know what bastard means, but I don’t think it is good. And what is a whore? Why do they put them on ships and why did Markie’s father say you were a damned good one?”

“Brogan, you stop right there,” his mother said, sounding angry. When he looked up, he did not know if she was going to cry or hit him. “You stop right there and tell me what you have been up to. Great Deauxama, I send you out to play and this is what comes back?”

“I went to town with Markie and this man threw a coin at me and said to give it to you. He knew your name. Then he pinched me really hard on the mark and asked if it hurt. I told him no, but really it did. He said good that it didn’t, because it was going to. What is going to happen to me?” he asked. His mother looked shocked and shrugged her shoulders. “Then he said to tell you that Deauxama smiles on you and we are supposed to go see him tomorrow morning, but he would not tell me his name. What, Mama?” Brogan asked, seeing his mother put her head in her hands.

“Tell me about the docks,” she sighed.

“There is a huge ship. They say the king is here, and the symbol on the flag flying on the topmast has the same shape as my arm. A soldier asked me if I was the king’s bastard or grandson. I said my name was Laroult, not Brannock, and they all laughed at me. They wanted me to be their ship’s boy, but I said you needed me. And when they asked what you did, that is when Markie – ”

“Stop,” she interrupted him. “Just stop.”

For a long time his mother sat on the bench, elbows on her knees, her hands clenched into fists and resting against her mouth. She stared at him in silence. Sometimes her eyes seemed to tear up and then she had the look of those times when she was really angry with him.

A knock on the door startled them. Brogan ran to answer it. Releasing the latch, the door was pushed in on him as Flannery shoved his way in.

“Don’t you ever give this whelp of yours a bath or put decent breeches on him?” he said, pushing Brogan aside.

“I could if you did not take every coin I had away from us.” Ammalie said, getting to her feet.

“Feisty tonight, aren’t we?” Flannery said. His girth and heavy footsteps made the floorboards creak. “Hear you had some upscale guests today, so I will be taking my cut.”

Ammalie scooped coins from the top of her dress trunk and gave them to him.

“That is it?” He shook them in his palm.

“For now. We need things and the price for the boy was met the last time, so I don’t owe you that sum,” she said, pulling Brogan to her. “He is free of you forever.”

Flannery raised his hand as if to strike her and she looked away. Brogan looked up into Flannery’s fat, piggish face. His beard barely covered the pink skin beneath. Brogan wished again that he was a man and could make this brute leave them alone. He knew he would grow bigger and stronger than Flannery someday; then he would dare him to hit his mother.

“Insolent boy!” Flannery said, angrily, seeing Brogan’s silent defiance. “I will see him sold to the royal ship in port!”

“Try and you will get more trouble than you want,” Ammalie said. Brogan reached up and squeezed her hand. “Rafe Harwood has been asking for him. You wouldn’t want to put the Lieutenant Governor out, would you?”

“Scheming whore!” Flannery screamed at her. “He is my property.”

“He is paid for! The documents are sealed. You can’t touch him!”

“But I can touch you all I damned well please, now can’t I?” He leered at her.

“Stop looking at her like that!” Brogan suddenly shouted and pulled himself up as tall as he could. “You have your money. Get out and leave us alone!”

Flannery looked bewildered then started to laugh. There was no humor in the sound.

“The pup finally bares his teeth. You won’t be able to control that rage in him later,” Flannery said, noticing for the first time the determined set of Brogan’s face. “You should let me have him now and save you from his bad end.”

“He is all I have left in this world. I will take my chances,” Ammalie said. Brogan felt her tremble.

“In that case, if he wants to be a man then let him become a man,” Flannery sneered and pulled Brogan by the hair out of his mother’s grasp and shoved him across the room. “Watch, boy, and see how your mother paid for you. Ask her if she can even tell you what man fathered you?”

“Stop it, Flannery, he is just a child,” Ammalie said, backing up, but she had no where to go.

Brogan watched as Flannery jerked down one shoulder of her chemise exposing one breast. She tried to cover herself, but he slapped her hands away and squeezed the soft flesh. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her face to his. His disgusting mouth covered hers as she tried to push him away. He pulled the chemise harder and it fell to her waist. Without a word, Brogan turned and went out on the veranda. He had learned more new words than he cared to that day.

Lost in thought, sitting with his back against the wall, Brogan almost didn’t hear the door come open. Flannery stepped out and took a piss as he stood on the edge of the veranda. Brogan barely glanced at him as he fumbled overlong with his breeches. Without warning, Flannery turned and kicked Brogan in the leg. Brogan swallowed the pain, unmoving, his jaw clenched in his determination to become a man. Whatever it takes, Mama, whatever it takes, I’m going to get you away from this, he vowed.

“Coward!” Flannery screamed and kicked again. Brogan rolled out of range and came to his feet. “You don’t have what it takes to be a man, boy.” Flannery grabbed his own crotch. “Try to teach you how to bed a whore and you run away. Where is the man fire in your loins that should have made you come creeping back?”

“She is my mother,” Brogan said.

“Bah, worthless piece of trash. I shoulda sold you when I had the chance.”

Brogan watched Flannery walk toward the edge of the yard, get on his horse and ride away to the other side of the shanty town where he had a shack little better than theirs.

Slowly, Brogan lifted the latch and went back inside. His mother was still lying on the bed. He could hear her crying. He blew out the one candle she had burning on top of the small stove. Through a small window, the bluish light of the rising moon filtered through. Coming to the side of the bed, he knelt down and took one of her hands in both of his and gently kissed it.

“Don’t cry, Mama,” he said quietly, but she cried more. “I promise I will do what it takes to buy you from him. Even if I have to dive for crabs all day or swim on the coldest days to find blue pearl oysters. It doesn’t matter, I will do it. Look, I have a silver coin. It is the one that Harwood man tossed at me.” He pressed it into her hand. “We can buy lots to eat tomorrow.”

“You are a good boy, Brogan. Stay that way. Don’t ever change,” she whispered to him.

“I will, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my sweet.”

Brogan looked at her, puzzled.

“Rafe Harwood is a hard man, but in a different way than Flannery. I am afraid of what he wants you for.”

“But you said I was free, Mama, how can he have any say over me?”

“He will, somehow, he will. Sleep now,” she said, and brushed her fingers across his face.

Brogan grabbed the pillow he had been sitting on and put it under his head as he lay down on the floor next to the bed. The loft was too far away.

*     *     *

Like nearly every morning in the Lancer Archipelago, the weather dawned clear, warm and bright. Brogan had gotten up early and had taken a rag with him down to the spring to see if he could get some of the dirt scrubbed off. The biggest bruise he discovered was the one where Flannery had kicked him. The welt where the rock had struck him was nearly gone and he hoped the blood was gone too as he gave his forehead an extra scrub.

He dried himself with another rag and put on the special clothes that his mother kept in her trunk. The breeches were still too long, but the linen shirt had started to fit him better. He ran back to the house and found her waiting for him on the veranda, dressed in her best dress. He saw the nervousness in her smile.

She ran a comb quickly through his hair and said, “Get your sandals on and we will go.”

The house of the Lieutenant Governor had been built on the second highest hill overlooking the broad Bay of Isilassa. The highest hill belonged to the Governor, where a large promontory had been constructed giving a nearly complete circular view of the sea surrounding the island. It took them a while to climb the hill leading up to the whitewashed mansion and both were relieved to see a well for travelers just outside the garden walls.

“You are going to have a belly ache now,” his mother laughed as Brogan’s stomach sloshed with all the water he had drunk.

Approaching the great house, the door opened before they had a chance to knock.

“His Lordship has been expecting you,” a servant girl said and quickly led them to a room with a commanding view of the sea. “I will tell him you have arrived.”

Brogan had never seen such a fine house. The furnishings, stuffed chairs, curtains, soft carpets and polished wood floors, were all things he had never seen in his life. On one wall were shelves with many books and important looking objects. He knew in his heart this was the life his mother once had and it firmed his resolve to do what he could to bring at least part of it back to her. He noticed his mother looked even more nervous. She kept winding and unwinding the lacing of her overdress around her fingers. A man’s muffled voice caught their attention.

When Rafe Harwood stepped into the room, Brogan noticed that he was dressed as finely as the day before, but somehow he seemed older than he remembered. There were touches of gray at his temples and a bit of a limp in his walk. Harwood looked at his mother with interest, but not with the overt lechery that Flannery had.

“I see there is still a hint of that famous beauty left in you, Ammalie,” he said, giving her a nod, but he did not approach to kiss her hand as Brogan knew from his lessons should have been done. “After seeing yesterday how the boy has grown, I made some inquiries. I cannot believe you would actually buy a child out before yourself, with disease, accidents, what have you. What a waste if he dies. All that money and work, forfeited.”

“He is a strong boy and has a chance for a better life,” she said.

“And what about you? What would you do for a better life?” Harwood asked. Brogan saw her face flush and knew she remembered last night.

“My life is over. What was can never come back to me,” she said, quietly. “All there is now is to raise my son to be a good man for as long as I can.”

“Ahhh, there is the crux of my new idea, my proposal for you. I have decided to assist you in this endeavor.”

“You will not send him on your ships. You know what they would do to him,” Ammalie said and pulled Brogan closer to her.

“Of course, not now, but in time. You’ve probably noticed the limp by now. The disease progresses and it is becoming more and more difficult to keep up with the management of this island, run the privateer fleets, and oh yes, spend time with my new wife,” Harwood said, with a smile.

Brogan felt his mother’s fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“I see that look in your eye, but all things in their time.” Brogan didn’t understand the exchange, but there was something odd in the way Harwood smiled, the way his eyes looked at his mother again. “As my new wife is much used to the noble houses of Freehold, much like you, there is difficulty in finding servants that understand the nuances…well, you can see my dilemma in keeping her happy. As for Brogan, I need someone who can be my eyes and ears on the docks, eventually on the ships. I need someone I can train to ensure that what I say is carried out…”

“He is an innocent boy. I won’t let you corrupt him with your ways, which I know all too well.” Brogan nearly flinched away as her fingers dug deeper into his shoulders. “You do not need him.”

“You see, Ammalie – you know, I always did fancy that name.” Harwood paused then walked to the window overlooking the bay. “As I was saying, there is a certain ‘something’ that comes in a man born of noble blood. There is no disputing that Brogan and I are both bastard-born, but you can see and sense that something in us. He has courage and strength, this boy of yours, young as he is. Come to the window, both of you.”

Brogan looked up and his mother nodded. Harwood stepped back letting them have the better view, unbuttoning his shirt.

“In the harbor is the mightiest ship of Freehold. From the line of men that caused that ship to be built, so are we, Brogan. Has your mother ever told you about that mark on your arm?” Harwood asked.

“No, sir, but the people on the dock yesterday knew what it was. They asked if I was a son of the king. They were wrong and just being mean,” Brogan answered.

“But they might be right. You mother, though, keeps her secrets. Look at my arm,” Rafe Harwood said, pulling his shirt sleeve down. “In the center is the lion, same as yours, only I have had the crest of the king’s Lion Marines, the men of the privateer and special fleets, tattooed around it. The birthmark is called the Mark of Deauxama and only men of the royal bloodline, those of Deauxama’s line, are born with this mark. Until recent times, House Brannock was a pure line, but then Damu I, and now Damu II, has taken to casting his seed whenever a pretty woman catches his eye. You and I are the result. Noble, but illegitimate, men of no standing. There is no place for us in the royal courts, so we have to make ourselves and our fortunes by our own hands.”

“They are not always honest or good hands,” Brogan’s mother said, breaking the hold Hardwood had on Brogan’s rapt attention. “Even that tattoo is a deception, hiding the truth, fouling what is holy.”

“It is a truth that must be hidden,” Harwood said, suddenly angry. “We are men of noble blood. We have value, not something to be cast out, or sold, as worthless. We are not animals to be hunted.”

“What nonsense is that? No one is hunting you.”

“Maybe not here, but I have heard the rumors. Assassins tasked with killing Damu’s indiscretions. Let him walk through life always wondering when the knife will come in the dark.”

“Brogan, you have heard enough. We are leaving,” she said, taking him by the hand.

“I think not, Ammalie. Did I tell you I find your name quite appealing?” Harwood said, his voice fading softly as he buttoned his shirt.

Again Brogan felt that something odd had just taken place.

“You see, in my inquiries, I located this Flannery fellow and paid him a visit last night. Apparently sated by you, he was loath to let you go, but we reached an agreement before he lost too many body parts.” Harwood smiled. Brogan shivered. “You belong to me now. Technically, Brogan is free, and perhaps we will see what kind of man he is in just a bit.”

“Why did you do this?”

“I believe I was clear. Now, as the boy is free, he will have to find a way to pay for his keep should he decide to stay here with you. The giving of charity is for priests and fools, neither of which I am. You will get a room, food, clothing as you need it, so with few coins, I am not sure how you will be able to feed him, and eat he will very soon, clothe him…”

“You are not a bastard, you are a daemon come back to torment us,” Ammalie said, angrily. Brogan saw tears in her eyes. “What choice have you given him? Homelessness, starvation or your twisted form of slavery?”

“I am giving him opportunity. The opportunity to learn from me, from books, to learn weapons, and to perhaps allow him to return the favor you have done him – buying your freedom,” Hardwood said, seductively.

Tears ran down her face as she looked from Harwood to Brogan.

“Please, Mama, let me try. I promised last night to find a way to make things better for you,” Brogan said.

“If only you knew, if only I could tell you what you have asked for,” she cried and hugged him to her.

Harwood walked across the room, sent word with the maid and in a short time three burly sailors were shown into the room.

“So, Brogan, will you take my offer, or has your mother scared you into walking back into the streets…alone?” Harwood asked.

“I will stay,” Brogan answered, trying to find the courage his anger had given him yesterday.

“Good, then shall I pour for him, or you?” Hardwood said, walking to a decanter of spirits.

“He is too young for that.”

“Suit yourself. Brogan, shirt off. Gentlemen, I believe you know what to do.”

From the hall, the three men brought in several stools, a small table and a bench then quickly set them up near the window where the light grew stronger as the sun rose.

“C’mere, boy. We’ll do this while the ink gets ready,” one sailor said. He held up a small board and put it under Brogan’s arm, while his comrade tied Brogan’s arm down so he could not move it. Another rope tied arm and board to his waist further immobilizing it. “We’re gonna fix ye up just right, so’s ye’ll be one o’ us. ‘Course fer now, till ye gets taller than yer mama there and learns a few sword tricks, guess we’re gonna have t’ call ye a lion cub.” The men laughed, but not unkindly, and took turns tousling his hair and patting his back.

“Rafe, he is too young for this. Let him grow a bit,” she said, watching as the men helped Brogan to lie down on his side on the bench.

“He will always be too young as far as you are concerned. I suggest you bring him a pillow, and for today, help yourself to the spirits. As you won’t let him have any to dull his senses, you will need it for your nerves. I suspect he will last about an hour, then the crying, then the screaming will start,” Harwood said, a glint in his eye, and left the room.

*     *     *

Brogan woke not knowing where he was, but too utterly exhausted to open his eyes to find out. He didn’t care. There was softness beneath him. His head rested on a pillow vaguely scented with a flower he didn’t recognize. There was pain. His arm felt heavy, swollen, on fire like something that should be cut off and cast aside. He couldn’t move it, but could feel the bandages bundled around it. A poultice of herbed honey had been lavished on the tattoo-blackened and tender flesh. His throat and eyes were raw and tender. He had struggled against losing himself, against being less of the man he wanted desperately to be. His mother’s repeated requests for the sailors to leave off until another day were refused by Harwood. Why? He didn’t know and finally lost to the anguish of the process.

He heard someone approach the bed and lay a heavy hand to his forehead then it reached beneath him and lifted him enough to drink from the cup put to his lips. He nearly sputtered out the spirits that burned his throat and set fire to his belly, but he drank knowing that for a time again he would sleep and the pain would be less. Laying on a bed, surrounded by comfort for the first time in his life, Brogan dreamed of becoming that man Harwood said was inside his blood and of seeing his mother finely dressed and shopping at the finest stores in Bourk’s Landing.