Carrie Vaughn: Steel

The men in the rowboat got to work tying ropes to cleats. The ropes looped over struts attached perpendicularly to the masts. Men on deck started pulling, ropes started creaking, and the rowboat lifted out of the water.

The rest of the men were climbing up the hull of the larger ship as lengths of rope were passed down to them. Instead of a ladder there were thin wooden slats nailed into the hull to use as toe holds. Not very helpful, Jill thought.

The bald man handed the end of a rope to her. “Climb,” he ordered.

Was he kidding? She didn’t know if she could, but she thought she’d better try. She watched the others expertly pull themselves up, hand over hand, using their feet to balance against the hull. Under other circumstances—like if this really was a party boat and she was supposed to be here—she might have had fun with it. But everything about the situation was wrong. Nobody checked to see if she was okay, and nobody was smiling.

She gripped the rope and started climbing.

The climb took forever, it seemed. She was shaking from the shock of falling in the water, and her muscles felt like rubber—too soft, too stretchy, like they did after a full day of fencing. And she didn’t know what was going to happen when she reached the deck of the ship. But she climbed, slowly, one step at a time, remembering to breathe.

The bald man rode in the rowboat as it was hauled up the side.

Finally, she reached the side—made of plain, weathered wood, like the rowboat. She hooked her arms over it, managed to swing one leg up, then rolled onto the new ship. She sprawled out on the deck.

The boards under her smelled like mildew, rotten with salt and damp that was never going to go away. There were cannons on wheels lined up along the side and lashed into place. The ship creaked—wood bending, ropes twisting, waves lapping against the hull. She heard this because all else was silent. The deck was filled with people, all shapes, sizes, colors. All men. And all of them looked angry. Or hungry. They were all staring at her. They’d left a space open around her, but in a second they could close that space, they could close in on her . When they pressed forward, she could feel their steps under her hands, where she crouched on the deck. She stood clumsily.

“Guess the salvage wasn’t a waste after all,” one of them said.

“Not at all, we found ourselves a nice bit of cargo,” said the bald man, and the rest laughed. They leered with rotten and gap-toothed grins.

“She’s a bit skinny, in’t she?” This one poked at her, pinching the flesh of her forearm. She slapped at his hand and lurched away, but another set of hands were there, grabbing at her. This only made them laugh more.

This wasn’t a party boat. This was something else.

Whoever these people were, whatever was happening, they held their bodies like predators ready to strike, and their gazes showed wicked, murderous desire. She felt light-headed.

Thinking she’d be better off jumping right back into the water, she glanced behind her. A couple of the men had moved along the side, blocking her escape that way. So she was stuck. Trapped. Screwed .

Except that she recognized something else in the situation: Several of the men carried swords with long, slender blades. Rapiers. Besides the cannons on deck she didn’t see any more serious weapons. Nothing like handguns. Only long knives. She understood rapiers. Jill could make a feint. Show them she wasn’t easy pickings. It might even work.

Swinging back, she made toward the side, as if she planned to shove past the men and dive over in a spectacular and stupid bid to escape. A shout went up, and as she hoped, the men behind her reached out, grabbing at her to hold her back and keep her from jumping. She’d noted which one of them had a rapier—he kept it down, out of the way so as not to impale anyone while they hauled her from the side. Having misdirected them, she dug her shoulder into this one’s chest, ripping herself from the others’ grips in her sudden change of direction. With both hands, she grabbed the rapier’s solid steel guard and yanked. The yelling around her was louder than the ocean’s waves.

She took hold of the rapier and swung it point out, sweeping an arc around her. The shouts turned to surprise and panic, and a space cleared around her. Holding the sword level, point out, her grip on the handle steady, she stared at her enemies over the edge of the blade. Now she could handle herself. Now she felt a little bit safe and in control.

The men backed away, keeping a good distance around her, as if not sure what to make of her. Some were still chuckling, like this was a game. Several of them had raised their own swords, but made no move toward her. Maybe waiting to see what their bedraggled refugee would do next.

Then things got even stranger.

Across the deck came a shout and the sound of heavy footsteps, hollow on the wood. The men looked suddenly alert—maybe even nervous, and the crowd parted.

The figure who approached, who the rest of the mob respectfully made way for, wasn’t tall and didn’t seem powerful like most of the men. She was a woman, sturdy, wearing a long coat belted around her waist, her curly cinnamon hair left loose over her shoulders. She wore a black three-cornered hat and polished boots. Her scowl was hard, angry.

“What have you louts fished up then, eh?” the woman said. When she saw Jill, she frowned, glancing at the bald man from the rowboat. “You found her in the wreckage?”

“Yessir.”

Back to Jill now, she said, “What happened, then? How’d you survive the Newark ’s sinking? Or maybe you were on Heart’s Revenge ?”

Jill couldn’t open her mouth to speak, but she shook her head, wondering when she was going to wake up, wondering if she was still underwater, hallucinating or unconscious. So much for feeling safe.

“Speak up, then,” said the woman—she must have been the captain here. “Who are you and where’d you come from? Say something, wench, or I’ll throw you to these bloody dogs.”

At that, the men laughed and growled, like the dogs she’d called them. Jill swept the rapier again, trying to keep that clear space around her. Trying to give herself space to think.

The woman’s scowl turned into a half smile and she said, “You think you can use that, then?”

The sword was much heavier than Jill’s épée at home. Her arm trembled with the weight of it, and her breaths came in gasps. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to fight. But she would fight. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good. Henry!” the captain called. “You feel like a bit of a game?”

“I do at that, sir.” A young man stepped forward, and Jill’s heart jumped a little. He was cute . Athletic, skin the color of a rich brown wood, short black hair, and a wry smile. Like all the rest, he wore a loose white shirt, loose pants, and went barefoot. And he held a rapier.

He swung the weapon through a few circles like it didn’t weigh anything. The crowd, including the captain, pressed back, leaving a wide circle of open deck for them to fight in.

A duel. A freaking duel. She’d lost her last bout—why did she think she had a chance now? She almost dropped the rapier and begged them to have mercy, to not hurt her. But this Henry didn’t stop smiling. He even looked like he was laughing at her. That goaded her. The burning, competitive anger that rose up in her was the only familiar thing about the situation.

Henry stood, right foot pointed forward, arm lowered so the rapier’s point rested on the deck, and waited for her.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Easier said than done when she could feel the floor shifting under her, rocking back and forth unpredictably with the movement of the waves. She reminded herself of her pre-bout mantra: stay calm, keep breathing, don’t panic, don’t let her opponent fluster her. But she didn’t know how she could be more flustered. Which made it all the more important that she keep breathing and stay calm.