Dragonfang by Paul Collins

Jelindel’s head as she sprang to her feet, but she ducked, slammed her cane into his stomach, then tapped him on the head with the brass tip as he doubled over. He collapsed.
    The regular crew, having foreknowledge of Jelindel’s prowess, stood idly by. Some even clapped or whistled when the scuffle ceased. The rest of the sailors were backing away hurriedly. There was a cry of surprise as one Baltorian backed over the edge of the pier and plunged into the dark water.
    Jelindel exhaled and quickly breathed in the tangy salt and iodine air. Out of practice, she chastised herself. But, at least, she hadn’t resorted to sorcery.
    ‘Just as well none of you managed to strike me,’ she said softly to the gathered men. ‘You know what the penalty for striking a ship’s officer is.’
    The penalty was not death, but it was known to be fatal from time to time. There was a stunned silence as the men picked up their gear and moved off. She realised with a start that the initiators of the fracas were the Hamarians from the night before.
    ‘Uh, sir?’ said a submissive voice behind her.
    ‘Yes?’ said Jelindel, turning to face the boy she had saved from the purported initiation.
    ‘That – that was fabulous, sir, my thanks to you,’ he babbled.
    ‘Lesson one, never show fear, it only encourages them,’ Jelindel said, putting a hand on his shoulder and gesturing to the shifting gangplank with her cane. She scanned the moorages for hidden assassins. The sudden appearance of the Hamarians had been too coincidental for her liking.
    ‘What were they going to do?’
    Jelindel paused. She decided on the best course of action, and went with it. ‘The crew? Snatch your rollpack, rip off your trousers, drop you off the pier into the water, then vanish aboard the ship, take everything of value from your pack, and divide it among themselves. By the time someone threw you a rope, your trousers would be flying from the top of the mainmast, and your first lesson in climbing the rigging would involve fetching them down. That all assumes you can swim, of course. Can you swim?’
    The boy looked worried.
    She glanced over at the men as they hauled their friends from the water. ‘It’s not a prerequisite, but it’s best to learn. The previous cabin boy didn’t, and he fell overboard.’
    ‘Did he drown?’
    ‘No, sharks ate him before the question of drowning arose – mind the railing – but in case there are no sharks, trust my word and learn to swim. Purely academic if we sink of course. Few mariners survive wrecks, swimmers or not. Welcome aboard the Dark Empress . My name is Jaelin. And you are?’
    ‘Hargav,’ said the boy. ‘I am the only son in the family, and the youngest. My mother and nine sisters came to see me off. My father went to war before I was born, and never came back.’
    ‘A familiar enough story – I’m sorry. Mind your head, and down here. This is where the officers sleep, and you will sleep here too. That’s so you can come running all the quicker when they call for you. See that cupboard with the sliding doors?’
    ‘I – I suppose that’s where I sleep,’ said Hargav humbly.
    ‘No, it’s where I sleep. You sleep in the locker underneath. Drop your rollpack there now, and I’ll show you around.’
    ‘Is – is it –’
    ‘Secure?’ A pang of sympathy swept Jelindel but she pushed it away. ‘Hargav, anything in your rollpack worth more than about ten coppers will be stolen within the first week. Trust my word on this. Got any plum cake?’
    ‘I – I –’
    ‘Cabin boys always come aboard with plum cake. Get it out. I’ll help you eat it now, before it’s stolen.’
    They went back out on deck, and Hargav took one last, lingering look at D’loom. He noted that a drunken group of men were staggering along the pier, cursing, shouting, smashing bottles, and even fighting among themselves as they went.
    ‘Who are those unspeakable rowdies?’ he asked Jelindel, with a snort of