Corsair by Chris Bunch

surprised manner, looked at the red seeping, just at his waistline, then screamed and fell, clutching himself.
    The other cannon was loaded, and the
Zarafshan
came about and sailed down on the pirates. They tacked away frantically as both cannon went off. The single mast on the second ship cracked, broke, and sail and shrouds fell overside.
    Again the robinets fired, and smoke curled from the stern of the first ship, flames pouring out as the fish-oil-soaked wood caught.
    “Bring her about,” the captain ordered the man at the wheel, “and take our former course.”
    “Former course, east by northeast, sir, aye.”
    A third attempt was made on the
Zarafshan
— four small boats this time. The
Zarafshan
had just struck open water, and simply outsailed the pirates. But no one rejoiced.
    The sailor who’d been shot had died.
    • • •
    Gareth had been out for a bit more than a year when he heard, in a smoky tavern, of the disappearance of the
Idris.
“Storm, maybe,” the man who told him about it said. “But one of their crew — he went overside before they lifted the hook in Ticao — told me they had orders for the far south. Too damned close to the Slavers’ land to suit him.”
    When he returned to Ticao, he thought about rubbing the icon and thinking of Cosyra, but then thought better. By now Cosyra — assuming she’d been an apprentice bawd or even a seamstress — would certainly have forgotten about him, and would hardly want to play childish pranks again.
    But he didn’t take the tiny eagle off the chain.
    When the
Zarafshan
had a cargo lined up — worked fur robes Gareth might’ve traded for on his last voyage — he was very ready for the sea.
    • • •
    The woman was certainly not much better than a whore, for who but a harlot or a barmaid would chance the harbor quarter of Irtysh by night?
    Still, whatever the three Linyati wanted with her, it should not have involved pushing, growled laughter, and the flashing hint of steel Gareth saw by the flickering taper over the taproom’s entrance.
    There was no one about, rain drifting across the streets.
    “Stop!” he shouted, and the three Slavers turned. Their laughter grew as they saw only one man, a slender youth, outlined against the night.
    One carried a sword on a low hanger. It whispered from its sheath. The woman saw it, shrieked, and darted inside the taproom. Not that Gareth expected anyone to come out and help. Not in this part of the city.
    The Linyati with the sword started toward Gareth, the other two flanking him. One had a long poignard, the third a brass knuckleduster in his right hand.
    They no doubt expected him to run, and would chase him down for ruining their sport Gareth stood his ground, feeling his breathing quicken, his vision close until there was nothing but the three men. His hand went to his back, came out with a sheeps-foot mariner’s knife not a handspan long, without a point, but honed to a razor edge.
    The swordsman laughed harder, closed on the fool. A lunge, the body tossed into the harbor, and they’d no doubt have a goodly tale when they returned to their ship.
    He flicked a lunge, but Gareth wasn’t there. He’d side-jumped to the wall of the taproom, where a small bench sat for outside drinking in better weather.
    He had the bench in one hand, and threw it hard into the face of the man with the sword. The man tried to block, was too late, and the heavy wood smashed his face. He shouted, stumbled, fell back, his sword clattering on the stones.
    The Linyati with the knuckleduster made the mistake of looking away, reaching down for the sword, and Gareth booted him headfirst into the wall. Gareth heard the crack of breaking bones.
    The Linyati slid down it bonelessly and lay still; Gareth closed on the man with the knife.
    The poignard may have looked lethal, but its tapering V-shaped blade was only good for back stabbing. The Slaver knew a bit, but only a bit, about knife-fighting, sidling in on Gareth with