Tinker's Justice by J.S. Morin Page A

been in a smaller vessel. But with cards in his hands and rum in his belly, he was willing to overlook a great deal. The outside world faded away, leaving just a circle of lantern light over a table hazy with pipe smoke, surrounded by killers.
    The killers didn’t worry Tanner; he’d been around their sort most of his life. Cutthroats, alley-stabbers, soldiers, and coinblades, those had been Tanner’s people. A pirate was a bit of an odd duck; most of them just sailed a ship, while some did little between boarding actions but drink and lose their share of the plunder at cards. It took a hard man to fleece a crew of murderers at Crackle, and Tanner was just that sort of man. He didn’t go in for alley work, but he’d been a soldier and a coinblade since he was old enough to hold a real sword. Any scum with a sharp blade could sneak up behind someone and slit a throat, but it took real skill to kill men who knew you were coming. Despite all that, Tanner lost more money than he made at Crackle. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but because Denrik Zayne seemed to attract the sort of sailor that knew his cards.
    So there was a bright spot in Tanner’s heart as he looked at his cards and saw that he held two kings and a four. The four he would toss to some unlucky sap at the first pass, but he could hold a pair of kings all hand. The coins in the waning pile in front of him were about to gain new friends. “I raise,” he said. He lifted a bottle of eight year old Takalish rum to his lips lest he grin and ruin his chances of getting calls.
    One scruffy, alcohol-soaked sailor after another tossed in his cards, until one held up the game thinking over his play. Tanner’s mind started working out how much coin he could squeeze out of the pirate, a man named Skapp.
    “Ya in or ya out?” one of the other players griped.
    Skapp looked up from his cards, firing a scowl at the offending player. “Gimme a minute.”
    Take all the time you need . Tanner took another swig of his rum. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.
    Boots pounded down the steps from above. An interloper was joining them from the deck, and it was someone in a rush. Tanner squeezed his eyes shut. Not now …
    “Mr. Tanner, Cap’n wants you.”
    “Just as soon as I’m done this—”
    “ Now , Mr. Tanner. Cap’n doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
    I’ve known him years longer than you, Smickens . Tanner drained the last of his rum as he stood. “I know how much is there,” he said, pointing to the pile in the table. With a pat on his sword hilt, he let his eyes sweep over the players, letting them know he’d remember who he was gambling with.
    The floor had a little extra wobble in it as Tanner followed First Mate Smickens up to the deck. “He say what he wants?”
    “Does he ever?”
    Tanner sighed, wishing he’d brought a bottle with him.
    Captain Denrik Zayne was known as the Scourge of the Katamic, and had been for nearly thirty years. He had sunk more ships than most navies during that time, and killed more men than a fever plague. It was easy for Tanner to dismiss the man’s reputation as overblown, now that he knew him, but facts were facts. He was going to live as long as Denrik Zayne had a use for him … and if it weren’t for the pirate’s sorcerer son, Tanner probably would have run the scoundrel through years ago.
    First Mate Smickens hustled ahead and knocked on the captain’s door, knowing that Tanner would just barge in if he got there first. “He’s here, Cap’n.”
    “Very good, send him—”
    Tanner pushed through the door, stumbling as the ship rocked beneath his feet.
    “… in.”
    “How’s the weather?” Tanner asked. He hated bland greetings, but he could have used the reassurance that the present angry seas might subside before he needed solid food in his gut.
    “I don’t have time for your usual nonsense, Mr. Tanner,” Denrik replied. He sat at his writing desk, a pair of spectacles, a visible concession to age