Godslayers

I’d half expected for my team to give me a bunch of shit for taking a shift on the oars, but nothing materialized. In particular, I’d had a vivid mental image of Val sneering at the idea of doing slave work while wearing an Eifni uniform.

And it was slave work. The oar deck’s benches all had chains on them, and some of my fellow rowers were shackled to them. Back when the ship had belonged to Captain… its former captain, this whole deck had probably been full of captives taken from their various raids. Now that the Fool’s Errand was commanded by a devout Varasite, they’d freed the victims of piracy and replaced them with victims of poverty. Estheni slavery wasn’t exactly like American slavery—technically, you weren’t property, but your labor belonged to whoever owned your debt.

The shackles, I’m sure, were no less restrictive for that distinction.

Erid had Enochletes show me to my bench. I interpreted her choice of guide as an olive branch, given that the kid was as threatening as a puppy and just as puntable—that is, you could do it, but you’d feel guilty afterward. He waited with that creepy intensity of his while I took off my hakmir and folded it neatly on the bench. We were moving under sail power now; the oars had been retracted, lying across the laps of the those—whether slaves or sailors conscripted from the crew—occupying the benches.

The benches sat two; mine already had an old guy on it. My soon-to-be neighbor looked at the hakmir with interest, then at my arm. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt underneath the hakmir; removing it revealed the knife strapped to the inside or my forearm. He gave me an assessing look. I experienced a flash of irritation when he made eye contact, but suppressed it—my comm wasn’t picking up any sexual interest, and he wasn’t Estheni.

The man’s skin was a deep brown and his face was wrinkled. Salt-and-pepper fuzz grew where his hair and beard had been. Shaved, to illustrate his debt status. He wore no shirt, exposing a collection of scars across his well-muscled torso—including a nasty-looking one went right across his throat.

He finished sizing me up and spoke with a hoarse rasp. Evidently that throat wound had damaged his vocal chords.

“You’re wasted here, warrior.”

I liked this guy.

“I skipped my morning exercise today,” I shot back, almost adding a reflexive ‘godsmile’ but smothering the impulse before it got out. “What’s your story?”

He smiled philosophically, giving his chains a slight shake. I followed their path through the loops in the bench to where they were fixed to the wall.

“Hey, Enochletes,” I said. “You guys have keys for these, right?”

“For the shackles, yes,” he replied, furrowing his brow. “Why?”

“There’s like fifty benches in here,” I said. “What if there’s a fire or the ship sinks or something? You’d never get everyone out in time.”

The man at my bench chuckled before Enochletes could reply. “No one sings a pirate’s mourning song. If Lord Horcutio calls us to the deep, to the deep we will go.”

Enochletes looked at the old guy with distaste. “If you find your burial shawl uncomfortable, weave a better one.”

I felt a rush of anger at that. Easy for you to say when Kives is tossing you opportunities every time you pick up a seashell, you little twerp.

“Hashtag blessed,” I said scathingly, very deliberately taking a seat beside the old pirate. “Go report to Erid or something.”

Enochletes blinked and hovered awkwardly for a moment, looking down at—seriously? He’d pulled out the fucking seashell necklace again. But apparently he decided it wasn’t the right time to tell me his oh-so-important life story and scuttled off.

“They call me Danou around here,” I said. “Haven’t picked a better name yet.”

“Dal Salim No-clan,” the pirate replied. “I remember you.”

I peered at him, trying to remember. “From where?”

“The day this ship was taken,” he said. “The maiden from the deep, with the weapon of undoing. You honor this bench of mine.”

“Oh shit, you’re from the original crew!”

“Not original,” Dal Salim rasped. “A crew is a living thing; we come and go. I was not first. Now, all of us have gone.”

“Til Horcutio calls you home, eh?” I rested my hands on the oar, trying to find a comfortable posture. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. What was it like? Being a pirate?”

Dal Salim contemplated.

“Good to be part of a life,” he concluded. “The winds blew me out of Parmad. Ship life taught me to accept them.”

“Gonna be honest,” I said, patting him on the shoulder, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

The old pirate laughed. “Was a cobbler’s son, in Parmad. A strong young bull, thirsting for life. Too strong, too young. Too much life to bow to the clanfathers. The winds blew me out to sea. Now I am a sailor and a no-clan.”

I nodded politely. The general gist of his story was clear, but otherwise it was all completely opaque. Even with comm support, it was basically word salad that didn’t mean anything.

“Ever thought about becoming a poet?” I asked.

“I haven’t the eye,” he said, whatever that meant.

“Our loss.”

I turned toward the ocean to avoid continuing the conversation, then blinked. Each bench had a small window in the hull, about one and a half feet square, with a fixture to hold the oar in place.

Ours had that, and also a small octopus. It was staring straight at me.

“Operative Lilith,” it addressed me.

I jerked backward in surprise before I could remember myself.

“Are you well?” Dal Salim asked.

“I’m fine,” I said hurriedly, awkwardly trying to turn while keeping my body between him and the octopus. “Had to sneeze.”

This seemed to satisfy my benchmate, so I turned back to the—apparently Velean—octopus and pinged his comm for identification.

“Commander… Blackfin,” I subvocalized. “I didn’t expect you here.”

The Face Sponge’s commander was not at all what I was expecting. For one, he didn’t have fins. For another, he wasn’t black. His skin was a mottled sandy yellow color, spotted with bright blue rings that almost seemed like they were glowing—and for all I knew, they were. They had bioluminescent tattoo technology on Veles.

I also didn’t expect him to be, well, tiny. His little tentacles were only inches long. It looked like he could have comfortably curled up in my hands, and I probably would have felt compelled to offer it if the idea didn’t set off loud alarm bells ringing in my subconscious. One of my brothers had a phobia of insects, and I’d always thought it was dumb to be scared of something smaller than you were. Now I was reconsidering.

On some subconscious, animal part of my being, I was completely convinced that Blackfin could kill me and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

“I wanted to assess you in person,” he said. “You were not present for the coordination meeting.”

His voice was flat, almost without connotation. I’d read that, of all the uplifted animals, octopi had the most difficulty with communication due to a lack of social behavior in their evolutionary history. There was never any reason for them to communicate their intents and feelings, so they’d never developed the capacity. I wondered what that implied about Val’s childhood.

Anyway, human or not, I was talking to a Velean. Anything that looked like weakness needed to be addressed immediately.

“Had to prepare for this insertion,” I replied. “I hope we’ll have more opportunities in the future.”

“It is possible,” Blackfin said. “Face Sponge has accomplished its objectives. We have decided to assist Ragnar with your current campaign before we return to Veles.”

“Shit,” I said. “That was fast.”

“We completed it within expected parameters. Our tasks are not comparable,” Blackfin replied. “This is a first degree variant of Veres. The oceans on first degree worlds are a marginal battleground at best. This oracle who troubles you does not even seem to realize we are here.”

“Ab—” I caught myself barely too late. The commander was a he now; he’d changed his name. “Aulof speaks highly of your effectiveness. I’m sure you accomplished your tasks with distinction.”

“I am not here for glory,” said Blackfin. “FaceSponge lost two operatives on its last deployment. My objective was to use the mission to effect cohesion, and I have completed this as well.”

“Oh.” I nodded uncomfortably. “Uh, good job?”

“Octopus psychology has no mechanism for attentional reinforcement,” Blackfin said. “Your overtures are noted, but futile. I am going to transition to the purpose of this visit.”

“You wanted to assess me,” I said.

“I did that while participating in your conversation,” said Blackfin. “Commander Aulof requested that I deliver a bag of coins to you.”

“Oh.”

“Now, Whimsy,” Blackfin said.

“Whimsy?”

Suddenly, Blackfin moved, darting out of my line of sight, presumably to cling to the outside of the hull. A jangling noise grew louder until suddenly a dripping sack flew in through the window, landing on the oar. Dal Salim grunted as the wood carried the impact to his thighs.

Somewhere outside the ship, a dolphin was laughing. I hate dolphins. That wasn’t even funny.

Sandy, blue-ringed tentacles wrapped around the oar window, bringing one of Blackfin’s eyes into view.

“Commander Aulof, our delivery is complete. I approve of your trainee. Whimsy and I are returning to FaceSponge.”

Blackfin slipped away. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Aw,” I subvocalized to the team. “The tiny little killing machine likes me.”

“That tiny little killing machine has twenty-seven Red Daggers,” Aulof said drily. “For an asocial being, he’s an excellent judge of character. For both of those reasons, you should feel honored.”

“Holy shit,” I said aloud.

“I do not think so,” Dal Salim said. “It was the sea’s gift, yes? That’s a smile from the deep. Only Varas would shit coins.”

I laughed despite myself. “I’m surprised you’re blaspheming Varas, considering whose ship this is.”

“It is Lord Horcutio’s ship,” Dal Salim said calmly. “It wanders his sea and yokes his winds.”

“I mean,” I said, tapping the oar across our legs. “Not always.”

“And whose men work the oars?” Dal Salim said, smiling. “Varas’s coin pays for wood and swords and sailors, but that does not make it Varas’s ship.”

Something about that resonated with me. That feeling grew alongside something else—contempt, I guess. Dal Salim was a man of faith. It was easy to see how he’d gotten there—exiled from his family, learning to embrace the whims of fortune. That simple devotion helped him feel like he was in control, even though he was chained to the oar of an enemy vessel. It was sad and compelling in equal measures.

I didn’t begrudge him his comfort in the face of the unendurable. But unfortunately, there was a god on the other end of that comfort, and I was here to kill it. The Luchenko Process meant convincing him, and every other salt-bitten sailor on these waters, that the inexorable Varasite machine had driven their way of life into extinction.

I stood up, grabbing the bag of coins.

“One day, Dal Salim,” I said, “these will be Varas’s seas and Varas’s winds. And it will be because of wood and swords and sailors.”

“Many think themselves wind tamers,” Dal Salim said. “All are overcome.”

I hefted the bag of coins, considering him. “How much is your debt?”

All around me, people began shouting their debts, thinking I was offering charity and begging me to free them.

But Dal Salim knew, somehow, that this was a devil’s bargain. The look on his face was considering.

“Fifty drobol,” he replied. “With wages tallied against the cost of my living, according to the old Varasite joke.”

“Then, Dal Salim No-clan, I give you my word that I will purchase your freedom,” I said. I drew the knife from my wrist holster, activating its internal translation engine. “Then, if you choose, you can follow me—and I will show you how the wind is tamed.”

I slashed down, cutting his chains from the wall.