was sympathetic to his swordarm’s wrath, but punishing the gunner’s recklessness by endangering everyone else only compounded the problem. The captain drew his own zephyr, but Teg suddenly folded to the floor, revealing Nakvin standing behind him brandishing her poisoned dagger.
“He needed the rest, anyway,” she said.
“Is he dead?” Crofter asked, still standing on one foot.
Nakvin shook her head. “I just gave him a scratch. He should come to sometime tomorrow—unless we leave him on his back and he chokes on his own vomit.” The caveat sounded closer to a suggestion than a warning.
Jaren’s order emerged in a harsh monotone. “Get him to his quarters.”
“We've got a Guild courier coming in hot from the west,” Deim said from the Wheel.
Jaren turned to the young steersman. “Get us out of here.”
“Where to?”
“I don't care. Away from here. Anywhere.” Jaren slumped back in his chair and watched pillars of smoke rising from the fires that consumed his dream of an independent Tharis.
9
The weeks that followed the Melanoros raid blurred into a series of narrow escapes from the ever more remote hideouts where Jaren and his crew sought refuge. No matter how far they ran, the Guild was always close behind. The constant ordeal pushed crew morale to the limit.
Seeing Ambassador's Island through the Shibboleth’s bridge canopy made Jaren feel at ease for the first time since fleeing Tharis. Despite it singular name, the old way station was actually two asteroids joined by a bundle of girders, ducts, and walkways. The dual structure hung idle in space, its knobby surface dark.
Jaren thought back to his last visit. Back then the Island had sustained a mid-sized customs office plus numerous shops, eateries, daily and hourly rate lodgings, and a theater. He’d since heard that a collision of two celestial bodies had placed the Island at the expanding edge of a rubble cloud. Now that he saw the tumbling debris field wryly dubbed the Pebble Mill, Jaren understood the station’s abandonment.
This place is about to get a whole new clientele, Jaren thought with growing excitement. His plan to gather a pirate army and liberate Tharis had gone up in flames, but Dan had salvaged his dream from the ashes with a simple change of venue.
“Take us in,” Jaren told Deim. Realizing that his junior steersman hadn’t been to the Island before, he added, “The entrance is in the middle of the bigger rock.”
Deim found the dock with no trouble. Most of the berths were filled: for the first time in years, to judge by the look and odor of decay.
“Nakvin, Teg, and Deim will debark with me,” Jaren told his twenty remaining crewmen. “The rest of you stay put and lock up tight till we get back.”
Jaren led the way through a transparent tube extending through space to the smaller asteroid, where only a decrepit bar remained open. He strode through the door and into the raucous, liquor-soaked heart of the first pirate conclave since time out of memory. The freelance community had shrunk in recent years. As a result, most of those present knew each other by reputation if not by appearance.
A scattered chorus of grunts and applause greeted Jaren as he took a seat at the bar with his senior crew. Though he didn’t expect many more attendees, custom demanded that stragglers be given time to arrive. Fielding the crowd’s questions about internal politics and swaying fence-sitters who doubted that anyone could beat the Guild gave Jaren plenty to do in the meantime.
Half an hour later, Teg was on his fifth round of rye liquor. Deim was nursing his second beer, and Nakvin still sipped idly from her first glass of red wine. Jaren's mug of mead stood full on the dirty counter while he scanned the motley crowd.
Jaren's eyes kept wandering back to Dan, who held forth at a corner booth playing cards with the Oison brothers and some newcomer—a Kethan, by his speech. Dan’s laughing eyes never left his table
“He needed the rest, anyway,” she said.
“Is he dead?” Crofter asked, still standing on one foot.
Nakvin shook her head. “I just gave him a scratch. He should come to sometime tomorrow—unless we leave him on his back and he chokes on his own vomit.” The caveat sounded closer to a suggestion than a warning.
Jaren’s order emerged in a harsh monotone. “Get him to his quarters.”
“We've got a Guild courier coming in hot from the west,” Deim said from the Wheel.
Jaren turned to the young steersman. “Get us out of here.”
“Where to?”
“I don't care. Away from here. Anywhere.” Jaren slumped back in his chair and watched pillars of smoke rising from the fires that consumed his dream of an independent Tharis.
9
The weeks that followed the Melanoros raid blurred into a series of narrow escapes from the ever more remote hideouts where Jaren and his crew sought refuge. No matter how far they ran, the Guild was always close behind. The constant ordeal pushed crew morale to the limit.
Seeing Ambassador's Island through the Shibboleth’s bridge canopy made Jaren feel at ease for the first time since fleeing Tharis. Despite it singular name, the old way station was actually two asteroids joined by a bundle of girders, ducts, and walkways. The dual structure hung idle in space, its knobby surface dark.
Jaren thought back to his last visit. Back then the Island had sustained a mid-sized customs office plus numerous shops, eateries, daily and hourly rate lodgings, and a theater. He’d since heard that a collision of two celestial bodies had placed the Island at the expanding edge of a rubble cloud. Now that he saw the tumbling debris field wryly dubbed the Pebble Mill, Jaren understood the station’s abandonment.
This place is about to get a whole new clientele, Jaren thought with growing excitement. His plan to gather a pirate army and liberate Tharis had gone up in flames, but Dan had salvaged his dream from the ashes with a simple change of venue.
“Take us in,” Jaren told Deim. Realizing that his junior steersman hadn’t been to the Island before, he added, “The entrance is in the middle of the bigger rock.”
Deim found the dock with no trouble. Most of the berths were filled: for the first time in years, to judge by the look and odor of decay.
“Nakvin, Teg, and Deim will debark with me,” Jaren told his twenty remaining crewmen. “The rest of you stay put and lock up tight till we get back.”
Jaren led the way through a transparent tube extending through space to the smaller asteroid, where only a decrepit bar remained open. He strode through the door and into the raucous, liquor-soaked heart of the first pirate conclave since time out of memory. The freelance community had shrunk in recent years. As a result, most of those present knew each other by reputation if not by appearance.
A scattered chorus of grunts and applause greeted Jaren as he took a seat at the bar with his senior crew. Though he didn’t expect many more attendees, custom demanded that stragglers be given time to arrive. Fielding the crowd’s questions about internal politics and swaying fence-sitters who doubted that anyone could beat the Guild gave Jaren plenty to do in the meantime.
Half an hour later, Teg was on his fifth round of rye liquor. Deim was nursing his second beer, and Nakvin still sipped idly from her first glass of red wine. Jaren's mug of mead stood full on the dirty counter while he scanned the motley crowd.
Jaren's eyes kept wandering back to Dan, who held forth at a corner booth playing cards with the Oison brothers and some newcomer—a Kethan, by his speech. Dan’s laughing eyes never left his table
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