Rose’s Champion

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

  

Rose’s Champion

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: May, 2007

“You’re a damned liar, Martin!” Brogan said, angrily. Frustrated, he pounded his fist on the highly polished counter in front of him, glaring at the uniformed man sitting on a stool behind it. Guards scattered around the Office of Maritime Commerce roused only slightly at the sound much accustomed to the rough men who frequented the office. “Two more privateer ships entered the harbor the day before yesterday. You can’t tell me they don’t need new crew.”

“Well, they don’t. And fines for harassing crews and captains are in place,” Martin said, dressed in a deep blue coat with polished brass buttons. “Too many of you half-pirates roaming the streets these days. My advice – come clean and sign on with Navy Fortson before they make a sweep of the streets and you end up as a galley rower.”

“Navy Fortson,” Brogan snorted. “They helped sink my ship that sailed with a legal Harwood charter. More like you’re holding out for the bribe you think I’m going to pay you for a captain’s name and rooming location.”

“You’re a lot smarter than the lot roaming the streets,” Martin said with a smirk. He leaned forward, brow raised in anticipation.

“Scurvy bastard!” Brogan swore furiously and shoved Martin harder on a shoulder than he intended as Martin half-stumbled, half-fell off the stool.

“Navy Fortson will be looking for you,” Martin shouted back, angrily, to Brogan’s back as he strode across the room.

“I’ll slit my own throat before letting them at me,” Brogan muttered as he kicked the door open and went out. Not the first to have done so, a long splinter flew off the door from previous damage. He skipped down the steps and back onto the pier in search of his former shipmates from the recently sunk Rascal’s Edge.

The long pier was in shadows as the sun went down behind a long row of warehouses, shipping and receiving stations and various governmental regulatory offices. The water shimmered darkly silver in Fen Way’s harbor where many ships were moored at the docks for loading and unloading and many more were anchored further out waiting their turn. Among them were half a dozen privateer vessels all supposedly not needing crew replacements.

Heading back in the direction he’d come, Brogan spotted Wren and Kaleb. Like himself, they were tall and heavily muscled and made up the weapons team that operated the heavy aft ballistas aboard ship. They leaned against a thick pylon, while Ponti, an all-around deck hand stood in front of them talking animatedly to three women. Brogan’s ire rose again. The coin salvaged from their vessel was nearly spent and they didn’t need to spend the last on whores. The rest of their captured goods lay at the bottom of the Meridian Ocean.

He wondered where Bart, his topsman, was. Out of habit he looked up into the rigging of a merchant vessel being unloaded and spotted Bart’s familiar bright red shirt moving through the tops. Small and wiry, yet strong as an ox, Bart could move through a ship’s lines faster than anyone he knew. Spotting Brogan, Bart waved. Brogan answered with an impatient hand signal to come down.

“I leave all of you for less than twenty minutes and already you find trouble,” Brogan said as Bart slid down a line and landed on the pier. The women looked at him, smiling, tugging down their blouses. He was in no mood for their games. “Ladies, whatever they promised you, they can’t afford it. Come on, you dogs.”

“Maybe they can’t, but you can, Captain,” one said, stepping in front of him and stopping him with a hand to his chest. Her fingers tickled up his bare skin showing through the deep V-shaped rip in his tunic.

“No, I can’t,” Brogan said, removing her hands as the other two latched on to his muscled forearms.

“You don’t even know the bargain,” the first woman said, her hands back inside his tunic.

“Give a listen, we’re hungry,” Ponti said, pointing at their bread baskets. “A kiss for each and they’ll give us the bread not sold. Already getting hard and we need it more than the gulls.”

Brogan frowned at all of them. His temper not abated.

“What? None of you knows how to kiss a woman?” he asked in a surly tone.

“Who wants to kiss a rat?” Wren said, planting a boot on Ponti’s scrawny backside and shoving him out of the way. “Or a bird?” he added as Ponti collided with Bart’s equally diminutive and slender form.

“You are young and have all your teeth,” Kaleb said, grinning to reveal several empty spaces. Wren grinned too, his smile also in disrepair.

Brogan reached down and lifted the linen cloth covering the basket of the woman in front of him. Three large, toasty brown buns lay on the bottom. His stomach growled suddenly betraying his hunger to them.

The women laughed. Three giggling voices became two as Brogan silenced the first with a long, languorous kiss that left her sighing and weak in the knees as she lifted the basket’s cloth.

“Not bad for ten minutes work,” Wren smirked as they walked down the darkening pier tearing off pieces of bread and stuffing their mouths. “Maybe we should look for them tomorrow.”

“With luck we’ll be aboard ship sometimes tomorrow,” Brogan said, a grumble lingering in his voice.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Kaleb said, elbowing him. “They were comely enough. Besides, once we’re aboard it could be a month or longer till we get pay and women.”

“Maybe it would be better to split up. Easier to find one or two positions rather than five,” Brogan suggested.

“You worry too much,” “Wren said. “We’ve got enough coin for another week and with that luck of yours, something will turn up.”

“Here’s something I found up in the rigging of the merchant ship,” Bart said, reaching inside his tunic and pulling out a small pouch. He tossed it to Brogan.

Coins tinkled as he caught it and raised a brow to Bart, who shrugged with a bit of a smile. “Clever hiding place,” he said.

Brogan considered the pouch and decided there was no good way of returning it. He quickly emptied the coins into his pouch and tossed the other into the sea’s gentle swell.

“Next time, leave it,” he said. “We aren’t thieves.”

“Honor at sea,” Kaleb said. “But in Fen Way, only a fool passes up opportunity.”

As a group they turned down the cobbled street leading to the flop house where they stayed, sharing one room on the top floor, which spared them some portion of the reek that rose up from the filthy streets when the morning sun warmed the fluids trickling in the gutters.

“Evening, gentlemen,” came the whispered murmurs of a group of whores coming out of the shadows. “Will you stop tonight or turn us down again?” one asked as she swayed toward them.

“Still down on our luck, sorry,” Kaleb said, pulling his arm free.

“Since when do pirates run out of luck or coin?” she asked.

“Not pirates,” Wren said, pushing up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo of a lion rampant surrounded by a scrollwork crest. “We are privateers. We work long and hard to protect the king’s vessels and honest merchants. As such, we are willing to accept your charity.”

“Charity? Surely you jest,” she scoffed and started to turn away when she paused to consider Brogan. “Are you all privateers?”

To a man, they pushed up their sleeves.

“Maybe we could discuss this over drink or two,” she said, running her finger over Brogan’s arm.

He rolled down his sleeve, pushing her hand away, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Them first. And draw your lots elsewhere. Makes them feel bad.”

“Fine, we’ll join you in—”

“Laroult! Brogan Laroult!” came a shout from behind. “Wait up!”

Turning, they saw the silhouette of a man running toward them. Their hands found their weapons and the women hurried back into the shadows.

“You! I have nothing to say to you,” Brogan said angrily, recognizing Martin. His uniform was muddy and his nose bled.

“I need your help, please!”

“Like you helped me?” Brogan turned, motioning the others to follow.

“No, please,” Martin said, hurrying in front of him. “Help me and I will secure that first officer position for you and places for the others. I swear.”

Brogan eyed him suspiciously.

“Your word in nothing to me.”

“Privateers fight pirates and that’s what I need you to do,” he said.

“Call the town guard. We have no jurisdiction on land,” Brogan said and saw Martin’s surprise. “Don’t take us all for sun-rotted fools.”

“The town guards fear these men,” he said. “Most are likely paid to look the other way. Please, I can’t pay the ransom on my salary and they will sail with my wife in the morning.”

Wren shook his head. “You let your wife walk these vile streets unescorted?”

“He deserves what he gets,” Kaleb said.

“Most surely he does, but she doesn’t,” Brogan said, looking at his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. His men knew he thought of his mother forced from her home by an illicit love affair. The two of them sold into slavery in Fen Way many winters ago, when he was just a babe, his fate coming full circle. “Do you know where they are holding her?”

“Six blocks north of here is a row of warehouses marked with a yellow sunfish on the upper walls,” Martin told them. “I’m sure she’s in one of those.”

“But you’re not positive?” Brogan asked.

“No, but fairly sure. When I came to, I had this in my hand,” he said, pulling a yellow piece of cloth from his pocket. “It’s the only yellow mark I know of.”

“You’ll be dead men if you go in there,” one whore said, coming back out of the shadows. “They say the Brethren, the thieves guild, runs part of that operation and they have sharp swords and long memories.”

“Can you get us aboard a vessel come morning?” Brogan asked.

“Consider it done,” Martin said, tears glittering in his eyes.

At midnight the moon was only a sliver, giving Brogan and his men a cover of darkness as they made their way to the vacant warehouses across the street from those marked with the sunfish.

“I don’t trust that man,” Wren said, looking left and right for guards. “Even the Brethren can’t be so sure of their locks as to not post guards.”

“My guess is they are locked inside,” Brogan said. “Remember, that’s how our old boss used to be with his best warehouses.”

“Do we have weapons enough to take them out?” Ponti asked, armed with only a couple of daggers and a whip that was deadly in his hands.

Brogan adjusted the bandoliers crisscrossing his chest that held seven daggers each and pulled his sword belt tighter.

“I hope so,” he answered as Wren and Kaleb spanned their crossbows.

“Just mind your shot and don’t shoot me,” Ponti said, looking at Kaleb whose eyesight was poor.

“Stay out of the way then,” Kaleb said.

“Avast,” Brogan growled at them. “There’s Bart. Now we’ll see what we’re up against.”

Bart crouched down in the shadows and wiped the sweat from his lip.

“Found them. Three men, two women, but I don’t know how we’ll get them out. They are inside a cage in the center of the room. Seems there are six or seven guards. They stay mostly in a small room near the front gambling, but every so often one gets up to wander through. Similar arrangements in the other buildings. If we could take them out all at once, it might be possible to work the lock or find keys before an alarm was raised,” Bart reported.

“What about from below?” Kaleb asked.

“No water underneath. We’re too far north,” Bart answered.

“Cage have a top on it?” Brogan asked.

“No.”

“Let’s pull them through the roof. We have enough gear.”

“We could, but you’ll be grounded, Captain,” Bart laughed. “That roof is nearly rotted through and I don’t trust the trusses.”

“We’ll see,” Brogan said with a grin and shoved Bart into the thin moonlight to lead the way.

Ponti and Bart emerged from a hole in the roof and slid down the lines to the street.

“As long as the beams don’t crack too much, we’re good,” Bart said. “Unfortunately, I think we’re going to have to send you in after all and hope for the best. I’ve rigged the pulleys best I can, but one of the men is big and he seems panicked. Ponti and I won’t be able to control him.”

Brogan nodded. “Go,” he said to Wren and Kaleb. They went up the lines and disappeared inside to take up defensive positions to cover them. “Owl hoot for warning,” he said to Ponti.

Hand over hand Brogan climbed up the line Bart indicated and eased himself onto the roof and through the hole. The beam directly over the cage looked sturdy enough and Bart’s skillful rigging would help distribute the captives’ weight. The captives feigned sleep as a guard made his round unaware of the eyes that watched him. When the laughter of their game resumed, Brogan quickly dropped the rope. The heavy man grabbed it first, but the others shoved him back with angry gestures and glares and quickly tied one of the women beneath the arms. Brogan pulled her up assisted by Bart, who helped her cross the beam and go through the roof to Ponti. Her arms locked around his neck, he took her to the ground where she gave his cheek a peck and fled into the night.

The other woman struggled as the men tied the rope around her and Brogan hoisted her before she had the chance to undo the knot.

“Stop!” Brogan whispered harshly at her, when her wiggling caused the beam to crack. The men waiting below fell to their sleeping positions. The guards ignored the sound. “What’s the matter with you?” he whispered, pulling her onto the beam.

“It’s the only way out of this town for me,” she said.

“Trust me, there are better ways than the slavers’ auction block,” Brogan said and shoved her toward Bart.

She resisted and turned his head to get a better look at the earring he wore; a golden rose whose thorny stems wrapped up and around his ear. “I didn’t think House Rose had men brave enough to do something like this.”

“I’m not a Rose man. I’m from the Lancer Archipelago,” Brogan said and pushed her again toward Bart.

She dropped an object into the top of his boot. “For later,” she said and did as he asked.

The two leaner men were up the rope as fast as Brogan could drop the line and raise them. Like the first woman, they were away into the dark streets as soon as their feet touched ground. Brogan motioned for Wren and Kaleb to move back toward the opening. The man below was going to be trouble. His hands trembled as he tied the knot and paced back and forth.

“Wrap yourself around once and wrap your arm and wrist,” Brogan whispered down to him thinking the knot would not hold. “Hold on.”

Slowly the man’s feet left the floor as Brogan strained to lift him. Bart hurried forward to wrap the trailing rope around a vertical stay. If Brogan lost his grip, the man would only fall part way and they would all hope he didn’t pulling the roof down on top of them. Kaleb disappeared through the opening.

“Pull faster!” the man hissed, kicking his feet.

“Hold still,” Brogan grunted and the beams creaked. He felt a slight tremor in the wood beneath his feet. The ropes dug into the man’s flesh, tightening around his ribs, causing him pain and he struggled all the more to catch his breath. “Hold still!”

The man reached out for the beam just as a roar of laughter issued from the guards’ room. The panic in his eyes grew as they heard chairs scrape and men got up.

“Swing a leg up,” Brogan whispered, trying to steady him as voices came close to the door. It was no use. The man was too weak and too fat to control his own body.

“Get me up!” the man said too loudly and the voices quieted.

Brogan glared at him. Bart went through the roof and Wren moved to just under the opening. Brogan breathed easier as the voices continued their banter, just coincidence. He reached out and managed to grab Bart’s safety rope and wrapped his leftt arm, gripping it in his hand. “Hold onto the beam. I need to let go of your rope.” The man complied and Brogan reached down with his right hand to grab the man by the belt and haul him to the beam. Straining to lift the nearly dead weight, he could feel the give in old wood. Just a little more and he’s up, Brogan thought feeling the blood pounding in his neck as he held his breath and pulled harder. Idiot! The man’s legs flailed, still unable to lift one high enough to wrap around the beam. The wood groaned. Dust filtered down from the roof.

“Brogan, leave the fat bastard!” Wren hissed.

“No, no, you can’t!” the man suddenly wailed and heaved an ankle onto the beam. Wood cracked. Pieces of wood torn from higher up rained down on them and clattered to the floor.

“Hey! What was that?” a voice shouted as a shadow ran out of the guard room. “Intruders!”

“Damn you!” Brogan hissed, breathing heavily, and pulled again. The man rolled up onto the beam and grabbed hold of Brogan’s shirt. “Let go so we can move.”

“No, you’ll leave me to them!”

The beam vibrated wildly as he struggled to pull himself up and tugged the shirt tighter over Brogan’s shoulders further limiting his movements. Wren’s crossbow fired. A guard fell, but two more bowmen took his place. With no hands for weapons, Brogan counted on the darkness and the maze of supports for cover. A quarrel thunked into a beam several feet away. Brogan stepped toward the opening, dragging the man with him as more timber fell. The beam swayed beneath his feet, his sea legs responding quickly for balance.

“It’s coming down!” Brogan heard Wren shout down to the others.

“Where is this tied?” Brogan muttered as he continued to wrap slack safety line around his arm, but unable to look up for the dust and splinters coming down. He tugged at it. It still felt secure.

“Up there!” a guard shouted. A quarrel struck the beam near the man’s face. He jerked away, howling in terror. The beam collapsed. Brogan felt his arms nearly dislocate as he tried to support both their weights as debris pelted them. Dust made him choke and his eyes teared with grit. With nothing beneath his feet and no way to climb, the man was on his own. Brogan let go.

“Noooo!” he screamed as fabric tore away and he fell toward the floor. More timber broke away as his binding rope jerked to a halt then fell again.

Unable to see, Brogan went hand over hand up the rope until he felt an arm in his way and groped for the opening. Pulling himself through, he rolled off the edge of the roof as more of it gave way. His calloused hands still felt a burn as he let the rope slide through them, coming rapidly to the end.

“Can’t see. How far?” he shouted, gripping the end of the line, his feet finding only air.

“Six feet,” Wren answered. He steadied Brogan as he hit the ground and grabbed the back of the bandoliers to guide him as they ran.

Someone shoved a bandana into his hand and Brogan wiped the dirt from his eyes and face. He blinked repeatedly as they came to a stop several blocks away. Only Wren, Bart and the woman remained with him.

“Who sent you?” the woman asked, breathlessly.

“Your husband,” Brogan answered.

“You lie!”

“Honor says.”

“I don’t have a husband,” she said, looking furtively around.

“Always trust the gut,” Brogan muttered. He grabbed her hand and ran away from the warehouse district. Wren and Bart followed weapons ready.

“Stop right there!” Martin ordered, coming around the corner of a building ahead of them. He was out of breath, but his crossbow was armed and steady. “I’ll take her now.”

Wren and Bart ran ahead, shielding the woman.

“Rasduu’s demons take you, Martin!” she screamed at him, tugging away from Brogan. “I won’t pay your debts any more. I’m sick of it! Do you hear me? Sick of it!”

“You heard the lady, leave her be,” Brogan ordered.

“She’s no lady. She’s a common whore,” Martin said. “Give her to me, or you don’t get those papers.”

“Whore?” she shouted, sobbing. “I’m your sister, damn you! He gambles and he’s a loser. He sells me to men to pay his debts. I won’t go back!”

“In that case, sister,” Martin sneered as three more men stepped behind him, “which shall I kill first?”

“I can take him. You run with her,” Wren whispered over his shoulder.

“Worth a try,” Brogan agreed, holding out a hand to her.

“And let worthy men fall for a wretch like him,” she said, lunging forward and grabbing a dagger from Bart’s belt. Before Brogan realized her intent, her hands filled with blood, the dagger deep in her belly. She let out a shuddering gasp as she began to shake and sink to the ground.

“Brogan… I…,” Bart stuttered in shock as he turned, all of them stunned.

Brogan caught her in his arms and eased her to the dirty street. There was no saving her.

“Op… opposite,” she stuttered, looking up at Brogan, blood trickling from her mouth.

Suddenly Martin was beside her, clutching her by the throat.

“Where’s the key, you slut?” he screamed in her face. His hands thrust into her pockets, into her bodice searching for the key as he fought off Wren trying to pull him away.

Her face and body contorted in agony, but at last she forced a grim smile. “Ware… hou…” She was gone.

Martin went limp and Wren tumbled backwards pulling the stunned man on top of himself then shoved him off. Martin rolled to his feet. Even in the faint light, his face looked pale and his hands trembled.

“We should kill you for what you’ve done,” Bart said, picking up Wren’s crossbow.

“Leave him be,” Brogan said.

“Since when do we let bilge-rotted scum like him live?” Wren demanded, getting up.

“We are on land. Leave him be!” Brogan ordered, harshly, glaring at Martin. “Let him live with the evil he’s done for as long as he can.”

“But—” Bart froze, seeing the anger in Brogan’s eyes.

 “Then hang for murdering her,” Martin sneered. “Guards! Guards!” he shouted, running back to his men.

“Brogan, this way,” Kaleb’s voice called out.

Brogan scooped the woman in his arms and they ran, following Kaleb through a twist of short alleyways. The smell of water and bleach growing stronger until they entered a small, partially walled courtyard hung about with linens gently waving in the breeze.

“What happened?” Ponti asked. Eyes wide, he pulled a sheet from a line and spread it on the ground.

“Killed herself,” Wren answered as Brogan put her down, pulled the weapon from her and handed it to Bart.

“We don’t even know her name,” Bart said, sadly.

“We might,” Brogan said, thrusting his hand down his boot and pulling out a small parcel.

“What’s that?” Wren asked as they all gathered closer.

“The key,” Brogan answered, untying the ribbon and unrolling the parchment.

“But she said it was in the warehouse?” Bart said, confused.

“She lied,” Brogan said with a little smile and reached out to push the hair out of her face. “She gave this to me in the warehouse. I suspect there is coin at the end of it. She must have walked right into the slavers’ hands thinking she might return someday to claim it once Martin thought she was gone for good.”

Wren gave a little laugh. “Let the bastard think about this while he can. He won’t last long owing what I suspect he does.”

“What is Rinaldi’s?” Brogan asked, holding the parchment oddly to catch the faint light. “Says Rinaldi 14. Rose Morgan.” He looked at the men, but they shrugged.

“Bet for another kiss the bread ladies will tell you,” Ponti suggested.

Brogan sighed and put the items into his pouch. “Come, let’s make a shroud for her.”

“Then what?” Kaleb asked. “We’re too far from the sea to send her to the bottom.”

“Just have to leave her here, I guess,” Brogan said, looking around. “Maybe on that bench over there. At least it’s off the ground.”

“Nice surprise the washer women are going to get in the morning,” Kaleb said, tying the last binding. He and Wren carried her to the bench and laid her down gently.

Brogan kicked through the ash pile beneath an empty laundry vat and found a charred stick. Using the end of it, he wrote her name on the white linen shroud. “Come on. We’ve got a long and watchful path to tread going home.”

*   *   *

Two days later Brogan stood in front of a stately stone building in one of the few sections of Fen Way considered decent. Rinaldi’s Commerce and Trust was carved into the black marble façade that stretched the length of the building. He was sure it was only a pretense of honesty and respectability as everything in Fen Way seethed with the graft and corruption that rolled in at night with the tide; the consequences pulled out into the deep come morning.

Face and body clean, boots polished and wearing somewhat newer clothes, he went up the steps and entered a huge hall, cool and bathed in shadowed light. Even as a former slave, he had received a fine education, but still had no idea what to do in such a place. A bank they said it was. To appear anything less than knowledgeable might raise suspicion and he walked with confidence to a long counter where several men stood helping other customers.

“May I help you?” one of them said as he approached.

“I would like to retrieve the contents of this container,” Brogan said, handing him the parchment, but kept the key firmly in hand.

“I do not believe your name is Rose,” he said, raising a brow.

Brogan smiled, his eyes twinkled with humor. The clerk relaxed without realizing it.

“My sister has a unique sense of humor. My name is Morgan Rose. Distant relation to proper House Rose folk,” Brogan said, letting the man catch a good glimpse of the golden earring, though he had no idea what it meant. But whatever it meant, caused the man to become more attentive, less suspicious.

“Ah yes, right this way,” he said, leading Brogan behind the counter to another large room, its walls covered with many small doors with single keyhole locks. “May I?” Brogan handed him the key. The man knelt near the floor, the lock clicked and the door swung silently open. The clerk’s face looked puzzled as he pulled out a single piece of parchment. Brogan was surprised too, but recovered himself by the time the man stood.

“Were you expecting…” the clerk’s voice drifted off as he handed Brogan the small document.

“As I said, a unique sense of humor,” Brogan said with a shrug and unfolded the sheet. “Could I trouble you to read it for me?”

Again the man frowned at him.

“Distant Rose relation,” Brogan reminded. “It’s the navy over schooling for most of us, but I had hoped for coin to buy a better position. Seems she is still angry with me.”

“So it would seem.” The man looked at the note and read, “Next winter brother it says. An apology might be in order.”

Brogan nodded in agreement. “Aye, that it is. My hands and shoulders feel stiff already from the oars.” He shook hands with the clerk and exited the building.

“Next winter brother, my arse,” Brogan muttered to himself, smiling, as he went to find the men waiting for him in a small grassy, tree-lined park adjacent to the town’s main water well.

“Don’t see pockets bulging with coin,” Wren said, twirling a wildflower stem between his fingers.

“Not yet, but later with any luck,” Brogan said, sitting down next to them. “Just as I thought. These bankers, or whatever they’re called, are only more respectable looking thieves.” He pulled out the sheet and unfolded it. “Told me it said, “next winter brother”, when it clearly says “purple moon tower”, but as none of you can read, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Watch it, pup,” Kaleb growled. “Might take all of us, but we can still take you.”

Brogan grinned and tucked the parchment away. “Just before she died, Rose whispered the word “opposite” to me. So what is the opposite of that?”

“Only purple tower I know of is the lighthouse,” Bart said.

“Then while we figure out the rest, let’s watch all the thieves in Fen Way go on a treasure hunt,” Brogan suggested and they looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Might we remind you the Brethren have long memories and sharp weapons,” Wren said, following behind.

It was late afternoon by the time the lighthouse stopped receiving more visitors than it had seen in quite some time.

“I think they are all gone now, and our opposite of moon sun is almost gone,” Bart said, standing to stretch. “We won’t have time to prowl the rocks to find a cave. Tide is coming in.”

“How could she have put something down in a cave?” Ponti asked. “Most women can’t stand the water.”

“Seems like she went to a lot of trouble to hide whatever it is we’re looking for, so why not a cave? Unless the lighthouse has a cellar or something,” Wren said.

“Naw, too much water seepage for that,” Kaleb said, pulling food out of a pack and passing it around. “Besides, you can bet every inch of that tower has been thoroughly inspected by now.”

“And I didn’t see anyone, who looked like they were carrying anything, or happy for that matter,” Bart said. “Wonder if any of them will come down here in the morning?”

“Doubt it,” Wren said, pouring ale into five cups from a small keg. “Thieves and other land folk don’t tend to be swimmers. Probably scour the town looking for some other tower that might be considered purple.”

“Come to think of it,” Brogan said, picking up a cup, “the office where Martin works, or maybe that should be worked by now, has a fair amount purple paint on the façade.”

“Too risky to hide something there if you ask me,” Wren said.

“Are we sure the opposite of purple is black like the inside of a cave?” Brogan asked.

“Wouldn’t the opposite of color be no color?” Ponti suggested.

They shrugged. To a man they took their cups to the dregs and grinned at Wren to fill them again. It was going to be a long, chilly night’s sleep out on the rocky promontory.

*   *   *

“I’m getting too old for adventures like this,” Kaleb complained, crawling out from behind a sheltering rock to find Brogan wearing only breeches and sitting at the very edge of the water waiting for the sun to rise higher. “How many times have you been back and forth along these rocks?”

“Not many, but I think the time for best looking is noon. The water will be lowest then,” Brogan said. “And not much farther than this. She certainly seemed a spunky type, but as Ponti said, most don’t like the water. My mother was always afraid I’d never come back up when I dove for crabs and pearls.”

“And she could see you,” Kaleb said. “The water here is so rank and dark compared to the crystal blue of the archipelago.”

The hours crept by. The water receded from the rocks and neither Ponti nor Bart, positioned higher in the rocks, whistled a warning for cover. No one came to the lighthouse.

“Go swim. You’re making me crazy,” Wren said, when Brogan pelted him with yet another miniature driftwood carving.

“You didn’t even look at it.”

Wren found the little piece in a fold of his shirt, held it up and rolled his eyes. “Sometimes you are disgusting even for a privateer.”

Brogan laughed, skipped down the rocks and dove into the cold water. He swam back toward the beach, but saw nothing of interest. He swam passed the spot where he entered the water and continued around to where the sun shone the brightest against the juncture of rock and sea. A sudden patch of bright yellow caught his eye. Maybe yellow was the opposite of purple, not black. He swam closer and thought he might have to admire Rose’s spunk yet once again. Yellow, glistening solar worms clung to the damp stone. Once ensconced in a particular location they rarely left it unless a heavy storm scoured them from the rocks and deposited them elsewhere.

He cupped his hands together and shoved a hard wave of water at them. Again and again he blasted the large patch of wriggling creatures until he spied some sinking into a deeper crack.

“Did you find it?” Wren asked climbing down to him, when he realized Brogan had stopped moving.

“I think so,” Brogan said, pushing water against his chest to detach several worms stinging and burning his skin. “Damn these things hurt.”

“You’ve got some on your back.”

“I know. Give me a sword,” Brogan said, sending more water into the crevice that turned out to be a hole with a rock wedged into it. Nothing nature could do on its own.

Brogan took the sword and scraped the edge along his back to rid it of the burning beasts then used it to pry the rock from the hole. More worms fell into the water and he swished them away in the direction of the tide’s drift, glad they couldn’t swim back to him as welts rose on his body. Treading closer, he shoved the blade into the hole using it to tap out sounds. Rock, rock, metal on metal.

“Here, take the sword and toss me my shirt,” he said, handing up the blade and wrapping his hand and forearm as protection against the stinging creatures. He didn’t have to reach far until his hand closed around the box and drew it and more worms out of the hole. He wondered how long ago it was she put the box there as too many stings to her slender body could have killed her. The patch was probably smaller then and he swished the box through the water to remove the unwanted pests. “Hurry, take it so I can get these things off of me.”

Ponti and Bart had come down by the time Brogan got out of the water, his torso and arms spotted with red, pulsing welts.

“I think I’d be crying about now,” Ponti said with a shiver as Brogan knelt beside him.

“I’m thinking about it,” Brogan said, shivering from the toxins beginning to enter his system. “Open it so I can pass out.”

“Hang on, not down here. The sun will boil you,” Kaleb said, prying at the rusted lock.

The lock snapped and the lid popped up slightly, the rust clamping the hinges tightly. Kaleb forced the lid back and shiny gold sparkled out at them.

“It’s a real treasure,” Ponti said, voicing what the rest couldn’t manage to say.

Brogan scooped the gold pieces into the lid. At the bottom lay a necklace with a pendant similar to his earring, a pair of diamond earrings and a gold band with the initials RM and CK engraved on the inside.

“If Martin isn’t hanging somewhere by his balls by now, I swear I’ll do it myself,” Wren said, angrily.

“It’s a dowry, isn’t it?” Brogan asked and Wren nodded. “Then I say to honor Rose and the gift she gave us, we use this for rooming, food, whatever, but not for women. It isn’t right to take pleasure in what he forced on her, from a life destroyed. Honor says.” The men hesitated. “I’ll throw all of you in the water with the worms and make you say it.”

“Honor says,” they agreed reluctantly and Brogan passed out.

“You know, gold is best spent on the living,” Ponti complained, putting the coins back and closing the box. “Think if we sold him to the pirates for a while he’d stop being so damned honorable all the time,”

“Nope,” Kaleb said, getting to his feet. “Remember, his tattoo really is the Mark of Deauxama. Nobility is in his blood and Wren is just the man to carry the bastard home.”