Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (4 page)

“What’s wrong, you?” One of the sailors shoved him from below. “Keep going—we’ve all got to get up-deck!”

“Sorry,” Cobiah said, abashed. Quickly, he stepped up his pace again and climbed out of the berth and onto the deck. He pushed forward with the others, seeking the end of the nearest row so that he could join the line.

The youth beside him grinned unevenly, his smile a dashed line broken by two missing teeth. He was only a little older than Cobiah, with dark brown hair pulled into a short ponytail at the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispered conspiratorially. “It seems like a lot of nothing would be boring after a while, but it takes a bit of getting used to, wotcher?”

“Yeah.” Cobiah smiled in return.

The morning wind was steady and rippled the sail above him. He felt its cold fingers tug on the blond shag of his hair. Suddenly chilly, Cobiah pulled his sleeves down and wrapped his arms around his rib cage, trying not to shiver while the last of the sailors joined the lines on deck. Soon, the crew stood six rows deep in rough formation beneath the mainsail. They kept their backs to the forecastle and faced the quarterdeck, looking toward the stagelike balcony at the rear of the ship. “Her point’s in the wind, sir!” came the call from the crow’s nest. The bosun’s whistle blew again, and the sailors stiffened. Not understanding, but willing to follow their example, Cobiah did the same.

On the high quarterdeck, three figures emerged from the shining oak doors of an interior cabin, stepping out onto the polished decks. Their yellow coats, set off at neck and knee with green striping, glittered brightly in the sunlight. Vost stepped forward and blew the bosun’s whistle in a sharp, military pattern, snapping his arm down after the last blast of his signal. Cobiah stared. He’d
never seen the rough-and-tumble bosun act with such formality, and he found it a little disconcerting.

On the balcony, an older man stepped forward, hemming and clearing his throat uncomfortably. In a long-winded, cheerily pompous sort of way, he introduced himself as Damran, the ship’s pilot. With his black hair slicked over his forehead in a swoop from one side to the other, Cobiah thought he looked very much like a crow. Damran peered past a thick pair of spectacles to check names in a large book, which he read out one by one to be sure everyone was aboard and accounted for. Every time a sailor answered to his name, Damran would squint at him and scribble notes on the manuscript pages.

The second of the three officers on the balcony was a woman, stern-looking and hawkish, her brown mane tied back with a ribbon to keep the wind from mussing her near-immaculate curls. On her lapel she proudly wore the Krytan service medal that marked her as an official member of the king’s military. She spoke for only a moment, demanding good behavior and condemning “scoundrelous activity” to punishment and the brig. As she spoke, her eyes raked each man below like a tiger sharpening its claws. When she stepped back, Cobiah breathed a sigh of relief. “Who was that?” he whispered to the youth beside him. “Is she the captain?”

“Naw, that’s First Mate Chernock,” the other sailor muttered, shushing him. “Don’t let her catch you talking in line. She means what she said about the brig.”

At last, the third man on the balcony stepped forward to address the sailors. He was square jawed and burly, though he stood at least a head shorter than his lanky first mate. His pale coat had cream-colored ruffles at the wrists and neck, and over that he wore a wide baldric of emerald green. The baldric shone with trinkets and
military honors, markers of this sea crossing and that port, and the man’s heavy black boots were shined to a mirror polish beneath his clattering spurs. The man walked with a stiff, self-conscious gait, furrowing his brow quite purposefully to show an attitude of intense concentration. Sweat touched the powdered forehead beneath his three-pointed green hat. He looked so pompous and so silly that it took effort for Cobiah not to laugh.

“Captain on deck! Full attention for Captain Whiting!” Vost called out. Cobiah stiffened a bit and looked around at the other sailors. This was as close as such a rabble ever came to full “attention.” Interesting, but where was the—

Wait
. Cobiah suddenly realized what Vost meant.
That prancing ninny’s the captain?

With a nervous gait, the squat little man approached the balcony rail, staring very fixedly over everyone’s head toward the front of the ship. The captain glanced about idly, looking at the masts and the rigging, then the ocean all around them, until at last he turned to the side and murmured something indistinct to the first mate. Cobiah strained to hear the words, hoping that the captain would say something inspiring like the great sea captains he’d always heard about in sailors’ tales.

Instead, Captain Whiting spoke quietly to his first mate and then to his pilot and seemed completely uninterested in everything else. After a moment, he stepped back from the railing, wiping his hand on his sleeve with a forgetful sort of sigh. Without even a word for the assembled sailors, the captain turned his back to the crew and strode through the rear door of the forecastle, heading back into his quarters.

“Dismissed!” cried Vost, lifting his whistle to his mouth again to blow the call to disperse. The two other officers congratulated themselves on a successful muster
and followed the captain through the brass-studded door. Cobiah could feel the tension lift from the crowd, and sailors began to talk in too-loud voices, praising themselves or calling out for work to be done. Most of them didn’t even look up toward the balcony again after Vost’s whistle. Cobiah stared hard at the ornate door as it closed, wondering what was beyond it.

“That’s all?” Cobiah couldn’t help but blurt out. He colored slightly as others looked over in annoyance. It all seemed silly: the captain’s preening strut on the quarterdeck, the sailors all in a row. What had been the purpose of it all?

“That’s it. First-day assessment,” said the youth in line beside him, nodding. His ponytail bounced with the movement. “They just need to count heads so they know how much money we’re to have when we make landfall in Kaineng City. That, and warn us against ‘scoundrelous behavior.’ Just like they do every time.”

Despite the world-weariness of his tone, the other fellow didn’t seem much older than Cobiah’s sixteen years. Eyeing him warily, Cobiah asked, “You’ve been through this a lot?”

“Three times.” The other boy puffed out his chest and tried to look jaded. “I’m an experienced deckhand. Don’t worry, you will be, too, once you get your sea legs. It’s a good life here on ship, and despite what it looks like, the cap’n pays fair, and the bosun spares the whip even when we screw things up a bit. You’ll see.”

“But—Captain Whiting . . .” Cobiah glanced up at the balcony once more. “Doesn’t he do anything?”

“Like what?” The young sailor laughed. “Cook our meals? Swab the decks? Sing shanties while we repair the sails? Grenth’s imps, no! And we don’t rightly want him to. An officer trying to do honest work on a ship’s like a
monkey trying to paint the king’s picture. Poop everywhere and a right mess to clean up after!” He laughed, and despite himself, Cobiah joined in. Clapping Cobiah on the shoulder, the youth continued. “Captain Whiting doesn’t care about us. He just cares about
paying
us. With luck, we won’t see him nor his officers again ’til the next dock’s in sight.

“See? That’s why sailors call him ‘the gull.’ When you catch a glimpse of the cap’n’s fluttery white wings”—the boy flapped his hands in the air to mimic the captain’s ruffled sleeve cuffs—“it’s a sure tell we’re close to landfall.”

An older man interrupted their jocularity. “On with you, Sethus.” The sailor shoved both youths firmly, pushing them toward the fore of the
Indomitable
’s three masts. “There’s work to be done. You there, ya green stripling, go with Sethus. Help him with the ropes.”

“Sethus, huh?” Cobiah stuck out his hand. “My name’s Cobiah.”

“Posh-sounding name for a scrub. You got any others, bit more fit for a sailing man?” the dark-haired lad said, looking skeptical.

Nodding, Cobiah answered, “Coby.”

“Right, then—Coby it is. Let’s get to work before Vost hangs us by our heels on the yardarm.”

The
Indomitable
was a hundred and a half feet long, thirty-eight feet across the beam, and more than eighteen feet from the main deck to the bottom keel. She had two lower decks resting beneath the main planking, one for the sailor’s berth and one below for ballast, cargo, and stores. Three masts full of huge, square-rigged sails fluttered boldly against the wind. She was armed with thirty cannons below and twenty-six smaller carronades above to each side, for a total of one hundred and twelve
guns—a solid ship of the line built in the proud shipyards of Lion’s Arch. As he worked, Cobiah explored, studying every hatch and timber and learning every line of the rigging from the massive topsails to the broad, triangular jibs that stretched out over the decks.

For the rest of a very long day, Cobiah followed Sethus through the ship. He caught a moment of rest whenever the work slowed, which wasn’t often. Sethus taught him to wrap rough sharkskin straps around his palms and climb the rigging of the ship like a monkey, throwing down cast-off ropes as they were replaced with new ones. Below, less agile sailors picked up the ropes and twisted them along the length of their forearms to bundle them away. It was a struggle to keep up with Sethus, but Cobiah managed.

Before he knew it, Vost was blowing the bosun’s whistle for change of shift. Arms aching, legs sore from keeping his balance, Cobiah headed gratefully down to the crew’s berth. Sethus went with him, chattering about the things they could look forward to when they docked in Kaineng City. “We’re carrying cotton bales to the Canthans,” Sethus said as he hopped ahead. “Like a cargo of gold, that is! There’s a bit of extra pay in it for us if the ship makes port early. We always pray that Grenth keeps the pirates off our route and the wind on our course . . .” He slowed, and Cobiah pushed past to see what had gotten his light-footed friend’s attention.

Another sailor, a bit older than them but far more weathered, stood at Cobiah’s cubby in the crew hold. In an instant, Cobiah could tell the man had been going through his things. “What’s this, then?” sneered the older boy, pulling the worn rag doll from under Cobiah’s blankets. As he spoke, the sailor shook the rag doll lightly. “You brought your
dolly
to sea?” A rough burst of laugher
erupted from the assembled sailors, and Cobiah felt his face grow flushed.

Angry, Cobiah reached across the netting and grabbed the doll’s legs. “Give me that. It’s none of your concern.” They tugged it back and forth for a moment before the sailor let go. With a flip of his hand, the other boy laughed.

Sethus chuckled good-naturedly. “Leave Cobiah be, Tosh. This is his first passage.”

“It’ll be his last if he’s that much a sissy.” Tosh had long, greasy hair pulled into a thin ponytail that snaked between muscular shoulders. His face was pockmarked and unpleasant. Although his clothing was worn, it had no patches, not even on the elbows of his belligerently crossed arms. As the other sailors laughed again, Tosh’s brown eyes, narrow as a terrier’s, mocked Cobiah’s obvious embarrassment.

“C’mon, Cobiah.” Sethus tugged at his sleeve. “Tosh’s a big bully. Dinner’ll be waiting in the mess hall . . .” Sethus tried to pull Cobiah away, but he ignored it and kept his eyes on Tosh’s jeering grin.

“Dolly.” Tosh considered, rubbing his chin. “Maybe that’s what we’ll call you, eh, new fish? Are you a little dolly, too?”

“Shut your mouth,” Cobiah growled between gritted teeth. Quickly, he shoved the doll into his pillowcase. He rolled that into the hammock and tucked everything back into his small cubby. There were a few other things in there, mostly because of Bosun Vost’s charity: another shirt, a spare pair of woolen socks, a fork, a bowl, and a thick wooden mug. “If Vost finds out you’ve gone through my things, you’ll get a day without rations.”

“Yeah, you just try and tell him that through a pair of swollen lips, Dolly.” Tosh pushed, shoving Cobiah back.
Thick, ropy muscles stood out on his arms from years of labor aboard the ship. He grinned again, defying Cobiah to talk back.

By now, several of the other sailors had begun paying attention. “Dolly,” singsonged the ponytailed youth, laughing. “You cry at night, Dolly? Maybe Mate Chernock’ll be your mommy. Want me to ask her?”

Cobiah’d been in fights in Lion’s Arch. When a new kid came to work on the docks, the others picked on him ruthlessly, like the packs of wild dogs around Lion’s Arch testing to see if a new stray was strong enough to join their pack. The streets of Lion’s Arch were tough on a kid alone. More so when your mother was a penniless drunk. He wasn’t the best fighter, or the strongest. But he knew how this worked. The idea of a beating didn’t bother Cobiah. He’d had worse at his mother’s hands than they could ever give. But if these men thought he was weak, well, then the humiliation would never stop. There was nowhere to go, nowhere he could run or hide from the bullies, and portage to Cantha would take nearly eight weeks. What was he going to do, avoid Tosh? For months? On board a
ship
?

Staring at Tosh’s smarmy face, Cobiah let his anger go for the first time. He was sick of losing. Sick of being picked on. Sick of fighting for the things he loved, only to see them taken away. He missed home. He missed Biviane, and that doll was all he had left of her. They weren’t going to take it from him, and he wasn’t going to hide it because he feared them. He wasn’t going to be the stray. All the anger that he’d held back when his mother was taking things out on him, all the frustration of Biviane’s death, suddenly rushed through Cobiah’s veins, channeling itself into pure, cold rage.

“Dolly, Dolly,” Tosh sang, still trying to grab Cobiah’s bundled blankets.

Cobiah snarled sudden resoluteness. “My name is
Cobiah,
you stupid, prancing
sot.
Coby, if you’re my friend, but you’re not, so shut your stupid mouth and keep your filthy hands off my things.” Then, as if announcing that he’d nothing at all to fear from Tosh, Cobiah reached out and shoved the pockmarked sailor as hard as he could, nearly knocking the surprised sailor over. “If you touch my stuff again,” Cobiah threatened, “I’ll toss you into the sea.”