How long had we been prowling those coasts? It seemed an age to me. But they had not caught us yet, not the Itaskian Navy, or the witch-mastered corsairs of the Red Isles, or the longshipmen of Trolledyngja, nor the warships of the many coastal city-states. No. We caught them, like spiders who hunted spiders. And we continued our endless hunt.
Always we hunted. For the three-masted caravel with the deadman crew.
II
"Steward!" Colgrave called.
"Half pint for all hands." The Old Man seldom spoke at less than a bellow.
Old Barley flashed a sloppy salute and went looking for the key to the grog locker. That was my cue. Grog had been scarce lately. I shuffled off to be first in line.
From behind his book Student remarked to Little Mica, "Must be rough to be a wino on the Vengeful D."
I threw him a daggers look. He did not glance up. He never did. He was not interested in observing the results of his razor-tongued comments.
As always, Priest fell in behind me, tin cup in hand. Service aboard Vengeful Dragon and a taste for alcohol were all we had in common. I suppose, though, that that made him closer to me than to anybody else. He was universally, thoroughly hated. He was always trying to save our souls, to get us to renounce sin and this mad quest for a phantom killer little more evil than we.
Priest was strange. He was blueassed hell in a boarding party. He went in like he meant to cutlass his devil right back to Hell.
The Kid and my friend Whale-boats jockeyed for the third position, till the Old Man turned his one ice-blue eye their way. The Kid did a fast fade. He was supposed to be on watch.
Kid had not been with us long.