Blow Me Down

Chapter 2-3

“Ship,” he countered, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “A ship. A sloop.”

I had no idea what a sloop was, but so long as it wasn’t a rowboat, it sounded like a good bet. “You’re on. En garde again, Captain Corbin.”

He was surprisingly good, light on his feet, his ripostes following lightning fast after his parries. Although I hadn’t fenced in years, the muscles in my quadriceps complainingly obliged when I assumed the correct fencing stance—elbows in, knees bent, wrist straight, toes slightly turned out, back straight. The rhythm of advance, retreat, advance, retreat—with occasional lunges thrown in to try to score a point—quickly returned, as did the reason I quit fencing.

I really, really disliked it.

“Tiring already?” Corbin asked as I sluggishly parried a particularly quick lunge.

“Not even,” I answered, rallying a riposte that had him stumbling backwards. His men sat on nearby tables, yelling encouragement as we danced the peculiar advance, retreat fencing dance. After about five minutes of traditional fencing, he suddenly went Errol Flynn on me, leaping onto a nearby table and yelling a war cry as he flung himself off it. I, having had a fencing instructor who was also an expert in self-defense, stuck my foot out and tripped him. Yes, it was a move clearly against the rules of classical fencing, but so were wild leaps off tavern tables.

Stunned silence filled the room as his two henchman sat in disbelieving horror.

“I’d like my ship delivered now, please,” I said as Corbin rolled himself over onto his back. His entire front side was coated with dirt from the unfinished floor, a tiny trickle of blood from his nose indicating that he’d hit the ground harder than I’d anticipated. The tip of my rapier pressed against the flesh of his neck, right next to where his pulse beat strong in his jugular vein.

He spoke very carefully, without moving a single muscle. “If you reach into the leather pouch hanging from my belt, you’ll find a deed to a ship named the Saucy Wench.”

“The Saucy Wench,” I said happily, pulling a battered bit of parchment from the pouch strapped to his hip. The handwriting was difficult to make out, but the name of the ship and a pen-and-ink sketch of her were legible. “I like it.”

“It suits you,” he answered, still not moving. “You cheated.”

“So did you, Errol.”

He started to protest but I added the tiniest bit of pressure to the tip of the blade. His eyes opened wide. I enjoyed the moment for as long as I thought prudent, then swept the blade from his neck with a grand gesture.

“Well, this has been fun. Am I an officer now?” I asked the two still silent crewmen. They stared from the sword I held to their captain, who had risen from his prone position and was dusting himself off.

“Eh . . . ye beat the cap’n,” the one who was grossly misnamed Bald Bob said, blinking in surprise. “None has ever done that afore.”

A rush of air swished around me as someone flung open the door. “Hoy, Corb, scrape the barnacles off yer a*s and let’s get crackin’. Bart and his crew will be back . . . Well, hello, there, m’lady.”

The man in the doorway had shoulder-length curly brown hair and an eye patch and wore long brown monk’s robes. He bowed to me, sweeping his hand in an elegant gesture that wasn’t at all matched by the lascivious grin on his face. “First mate Holder McReady at yer delectable service, ye toothsome beauty. I did particularly well with the rags, yes, yes, I did. Don’t you think I did well, Corb?”

“No. Go away, Holder.”

“Your first mate is a priest?” I asked Corbin.

“No, he’s not. He’s mad. Ignore him.”

“Oy!” the monkish mate protested. “Don’t be mockin’ the monk’s robes. I’m thinkin’ this is the best outfit yet. Ye wouldn’t believe the sense of freedom it gives ye to have yer block and tackle right out in the open—”

“Holder!”

“Yarr. Me apologies. Now, then, what’s been goin’ on here while I’ve been out stockin’ the ship?”

“An omen as black as the inside of the devil’s belly is what’s been happenin’,” Leeward Tom said. His eyes narrowed on Corbin. “The cap’n has been beaten in a duel. Never has a wench done such a thing. It fair boggles the mind. Ye be soft on the lass, Cap’n? Ye be lettin’ her win?”

Holder’s dark eyes widened as he looked from me to Corbin. “What? Someone beat the cap?”

“Aye, Mr. Holder, the wench there,” Tom said, turning his gaze on me. “Be she a witch, do ye think?”

“You know, I really dislike being talked about like I’m not here,” I said. “And for the record, I am perfectly capable of winning on my own. I was the alternate for the college fencing team three years in a row, and you don’t get that unless you’re a pretty darn . . . sufficient . . . fencer. So let’s have none of that ‘be lettin’ her win’ crap, and more telling Erika if she’s now an officer.”

“Nay, ye’re not,” Tom said, back to watching Corbin.

Holder blew a low whistle, his eyes also on Corbin. The two seemed to be exchanging some sort of meaningful glances, the translation of which I wasn’t privy to. Fine. Let them gaze at each other all they wanted. I had things to do, people to see, legs to hoard. “Oh. Pooh. I suppose I have to do the leg collecting before I reach that level?” I asked, setting the sword on the table before retrieving my wooden leg. “Well, then, I’d best get to it. Later, gentlemen.”

As I strolled to the door, Holder said, “Ye just goin’ to let her go?”

“Holder, keep out of this,” Corbin snapped.

“No one is letting me do anything,” I tossed over my shoulder. “I make my own destiny, thank you.”

Holder gave his captain a not very subordinate shove. “Go on, ye great lug, say somethin’ before ye blow it.”

“Will you stop it? I do not need your help—”

“Hoy, lass? Erika, was it?” I paused at the door and looked back to where Holder was standing. “Ye wouldn’t happen to fancy our cappy here, now, would ye?”

I rolled my eyes. “What I fancy is a couple more legs.”

“Eh,” he said, glancing at the leg in my hands. “Kind of an odd hobby, but we can work with it.”

“It’s not a hobby,” I said at the same time Corbin snarled to his mate, “No, we can’t. Now, go away, ye rat-infested bilge bucket.”

“Whatever,” I said and opened the door, intending to go find myself some more legs, but Corbin’s voice stopped me.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable on my ship, lass. I’ll be wantin’ her back . . . as well as a few other things.”

Holder slapped a hand to his forehead and shook his head in mock sorrow. “No style. I’ve tried to teach him, but he remains utterly clueless.”

“Pricked your pride, did I?” I grinned, ignoring Holder to salute Corbin with the leg, a tiny bit surprised at how much I’d enjoyed the encounter with the computer pirate. “I think you’ll survive the blow to your ego, Corbin. It’s a game, after all. None of this really matters. It’s all just pretend.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not,” he said mysteriously as I marched out the door into the bright tropical sunshine.