Sea of Stars

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

 Sea of Stars  

 By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: April, 2006 

Brogan was bored.

He sat in the common room of the Dusty Moon Inn, a ruined fortress turned caravan way station. He held a small knife in one hand and a small piece of wood in the other. An assortment of small ships, fortresses and sea animals stood in front of him. His lap and the floor were littered with curled shavings.

“Can’t you do this outside?” Larisse said as her broom whisked the stone floor. “You make too much mess.”

“Hmmph,” Brogan mumbled, concentrating on his work. A quick scrape, two pokes and the masts of a sailing ship appeared. Satisfied, he put his project down and brushed off his breeches sending more chips to the floor. “No one minds the coin for ale.”

“Why are you doing this anyway?”

“I’m bored.”

“How can you be bored? I hear there is still a lot work to be done fortifying Monroi Pass against the goblins,” Larisse said.

“My work is done.”

“What, they have no more use for Captain Blockn’ Tackle?” Larisse teased, and tousled his hair.

“Retired and at your service.” Brogan winked. He began collecting the carvings, when a band of boys burst in from the inner courtyard. Seeing him, they ran to the table and crowded around.

“What are you boys doing? It’s late,” Brogan asked, sternly.

“Rounding up chickens that got loose, Mister Captain, sir,” one answered.

“No misbehaving? Honor says.”

“No,” they murmured, and shook their heads.

“Good. Then a ship for each of you,” Brogan said, handing them one each. “These ships ply the sea of stars. Put it under you pillow and you’ll dream of adventure in far-off places. Now, choose another to give away. And no selling them this time, or you’ll get no more.”

In seconds the treasures were gone. Shouting a trail of thanks, the boys disappeared into the kitchen to beg leftovers.

“You’re good for them,” Larisse said, with a smile. “Maybe you should adopt a waif or two. Deauxama knows there are plenty of them.”

“Ahhh…no,” Brogan said, getting to his feet. He hugged her around the waist and kissed her cheek. “Will I see you later?”

“Ahhh…no.” She smiled a winsome smile and slipped away.

“Stubborn wench.”

“Smelly pirate,” Larisse laughed as she hurried to the kitchen where a resounding crash echoed.

Brogan put his knife and unfinished piece into a waist pouch and climbed the tower stairs to the third floor. Having decided to stay in Monroi Pass a little longer before heading to the eastern ocean, he had rented a small room more accommodating his needs.

He turned up the low-burning oil lamp sitting on a table. He was about to undress, when he caught sight of wrinkled bedcovers and a shirt that he had left hanging on a peg laying on the floor. Someone had been in his room. His weapons, a long sword, quarterstaff and two bandoliers of daggers, were untouched. His brow creased in puzzlement. Everyone in the Pass was trying to secure weapons against the goblin threat.

On the dresser, his small sea cask had been upended. He grabbed it up. It was still locked. The treasure was secure, but the trip door to the false bottom had been sprung. His Letter of Marque, granted to him by House Harwood, and that gave him full protection of the law during his privateer actions, was missing.

Angrily, Brogan slammed the panel shut. It had been one ordeal after another to get that document and when he found the thief there would be hell to pay.

Security at the Dusty Moon was above average. Perhaps one of the guards had seen someone other than the usual caravan outriders or local citizens loitering about. As he turned to go downstairs, he caught sight of a rope, hanging like a rat line, just outside his window.

“A game is it?” he muttered. He strapped on his sword and hung the bandoliers across his chest. A firm tug on the line proved it secure and he was out the window climbing hand over hand to the tower’s roof.

Reaching the top, he found a foothold on the old wall and, using the crenellation for cover, peered across the roof. Seeing no one, he clambered over the wall. By the light of a nearly full moon, he saw a blue swatch of fabric pegged to the wooden surface. It was a directional marker used by pirates.

Wariness pricked him as he crawled toward it. The faces of a dozen or more Bit Isle pirates who had a score to settle with him came to mind. He doubted any would waste the time to come this far east even if they knew where he was.

Nothing moved. All was silence.

The swatch was nicked on the right side. Blue indicated an indeterminate number of steps. He ran right keeping low along the wall and spotted the second blue swatch, indicating left, stuffed in a chimney crack.

The new direction took him toward the crumbled section of the old curtain wall. Beneath a broken piece of mortar he saw a deep green square. Twenty paces right. Brogan frowned and swore under his breath.

Curiosity had taken him up on that wall before. He had nearly fallen when a sizable chunk gave way under his weight. He would become a hard-to-miss target even for a bad shot and it was too dark to see the next marker. The moonlight was now a danger and little help.

Cautiously, he stepped out of the shadows onto the wall; his ears strained to hear the click of a crossbow or snap of a longbow. He would take his chances jumping to the rubble below.

At twenty paces he was between towers. Another dark green marker, another twenty paces descending along the line of broken wall and he came to the roof of the first floor of one of two ruined towers. Tacked to a blackened beam was a yellow and black checkered swatch. Climb. Another rope. Brogan furiously tore the swatch from the beam. Privateers generally used checkered squares, so which side of the law was he chasing? The game was growing old.

He looked up through the holes in the ceiling and other fallen beams that littered the crumbling floors of the decaying tower. He changed his angle once, twice, and then saw his document high above tacked to a beam with a short dagger.

“Climb?” Brogan snorted, quietly, as a smirk spread across his face. He entered the tower, climbed over charred beams and fallen stones to a nearly hidden, dark doorway and squeezed himself between wood and stone to reach the stairs beyond. In better days, the stairs had allowed soldiers to move protected and unseen up and down the towers and through the curtain walls.

Having explored the stairs in daylight and with a torch, he knew they were in good repair and quickly ran up to the third floor. Brogan paused at the open doorway and saw his man, back to him. Dressed all in black, the thief waited patiently for him to appear on the rope. Brogan had no doubt he had been watched cross the crumbling wall.

The area was tight where the man squatted. Brogan drew two daggers from the bandoliers and crept silently forward. Just as he stepped up onto a gray block, the man stretched up giving Brogan his advantage. His right arm locked the man’s neck in a strangle hold, his left hand pressed the dagger into the space between the ribs and his right knee came down on the man’s back pinning him in place. The thief dropped his short sword as Brogan’s weight hit him.

“What colors do you fly?” Brogan snarled.

“Gray and blue.”

“So you say.” The blade pressed the flesh harder.

“Brogan, it’s me, Ponti,” the man gasped.

“Convince me,” Brogan said. He was fairly sure it was, but even half strangled, one couldn’t trust a pirate.

“Lancer Three, Lion Marines, Marque of Harwood, Captain Dodd missing in action,” Ponti said.

Satisfied, Brogan let him go, but backed into a ready stance.

“Missing in action,” Brogan scoffed. Ponti retrieved his weapon and got to his feet. “That bastard scuttled the Rascal’s Edge for no good reason and blamed me. Honor says.”

“The crew still living understands he betrayed us. But from wherever Dodd is, he put a bounty on you.”

“So, Ponti turns traitor. You were the only one I told where I was going.” Brogan slid a dagger back into the bandolier and drew his sword.

Ponti sheathed his sword and grinned.

“My loyalty belongs to the first mate. You should have let us kill him a year ago,” Ponti said. He rubbed his neck. “I came to warn you.”

“Why the game?” Brogan asked, sheathing his weapons. “I could have killed you.”

Ponti shrugged. “The way was long. I was bored.”

“Were you now?” Brogan took his document down from the beam. “Nice dagger,” he said, letting his fingers wrap around the hilt. He spun. The hilt slammed into Ponti’s temple.

Surprise barely registered as Ponti crumpled into an unconscious pile. Brogan tucked the dagger into his belt and put the Letter of Marque into his pouch. He pulled out a small ship and used his foot to push Ponti into a comfortable repose.

“Put a ship under your pillow and sail the sea of stars.”

Brogan smiled as he righted the ship in a sea of Ponti’s chest hairs.

“I was bored, too,” Brogan laughed, and patted Ponti’s slack cheek.

Grabbing up the rope secured to the tower, Brogan swung out into the moonlight and disappeared into the shadows.