Chapter One of Thieves at the Banquet: Course Correction

The Captain

            Night closed over Stormfarer like a heavy lid. The merchant ship pitched along the chop of the trade current, and a rushing wave broke against the prow and rained down on the railing. A strange wind, rhythmic and whistling, held faint notes of a song as it rattled along the rigging. On the ship’s deck, a dense aroma of sea salt wafted around Captain Jyn as he eyed three other sailors holding their cards close to their chests.

            He’d drawn the Queen of Spades and placed her next to a lone jack. Deep in his cups, his thoughts swam along his mind in a warm pool of red wine. With a heavy-headed type of thinking, he had fumbled runs and misread tells. For this reason, he’d lost more games than he’d won, tonight. As he finally drew a halfway decent card, he smiled at his luck turning.

            Jyn eyed the watchkeeper. His weight creaked the boards as the elderly man crossed the deck. His heavy coat lifted in the wind as he glanced over at the odd card game. From a chain, he pulled out his pocket watch and marked the time, and from a different pocket, he removed a bundle of witchward. The dried hyssop, with prickly leaves and spikes of violet flowers; dried peppermint, with its veiny pale leaves; and some yellow flower, the gastronomer had called hypericum, were wrapped in a bundle with twine. The watchkeeper lifted the lid of a metal censer that dangled from a rusted hook on the mainmast, and he tossed in the witchward. The incense burned in thick gray smoke and smelled sweet and fruity, and it billowed out from the censer to help drive away any creatures lurking in the gloom. The watchkeeper stomped out of view.

            Jyn relied on his crew to perform their duties along the ship, but tonight had a strange air that kept him on edge. He returned his focus to his cards. “Ah-ha, Swain of Spades!” he proclaimed and tossed his cards down. He adjusted his signature flat felt cap, with the short gray feather. His calf-length, sea green captain’s greatcoat held big stitched-on buttons in a long row down over his bulging gut. His gray trousers were tucked into shiny ankle-high black leather boots. A heavy smile cut across his thicker, rosy face. Fanning out the cards against the woodgrain, the jack of spades held court with other royals. Bellowed groans erupted from the sailors as they tossed their cards in defeat.

Lady Luck shined upon him while sweeping the pot toward his purse. Lost in the moment of victory, the smile of his own Lady Luck, Che-Le, shined in his mind’s eye. He’d made her the same promise with every voyage—he’d always come back to her. He took it as serious as the oaths he made the day they were married or the swearing in he’d done to become a captain.

            “Why do you always say that?” the first mate, Mi’an, said in regards to the word ‘swain.’ Her black braids came to life in the wind as she guarded her cards. Skintight maroon-colored leathers provided less wind resistance on deck. A holstered flintlock dragon and gunpowder pouch rested on her hip. Furrowing her sun-freckled brow, she casted a narrow glance at the captain. The second skinfolds in crescents along her eyes gave her a fierce look. A tattoo of the sun danced on her left cheek as she spoke in an accented common tongue, “What do pigs have to do with cards?”

            A drunken laugh croaked out of the captain. “Swain. Not swine. It means a young lover.”

            “Oh, sure,” the bald boatswain, Bren, said with a snort.  “That makes more sense.”

              This time, pricks of laughter rose from everyone except Jyn.

            The dome of darkness overhead sent cool fresh salt air along the deck of the ship while these drunken sailor’s amassed around a wooden table next to the ship’s mainmast. A windwall had been placed off to the side, but a glass jar, full of carpenter’s nails, depressed down on the draw pile, keeping the cards from blowing away.

            The sailors all swayed along with the rocking of the ship. Mi’an dealt out another hand, and Bren leaned forward to look Jyn in the eyes. “Give us a story, Captain!” The boatswain said this like a child begging a bedtime story. The other sailors chuckled.

            “You know, Bren?” Jyn’s voice worked slow, partly from the alcohol, but also to punctuate every word for the benefit of the bald sailor. Though his temper flared, Jyn kept his voice even. “It wouldn’t hurt you to study something else besides knots and fish guts. Tell us a story, Captain, you jest. You want stories. Well, here, I give you history and myth. Lies and truth. The best kind of stories.”

            “Lies and myths?” muttered Bren. He curled his fingers along his palm and rudely shook his wrist. “Go ahead, stroke your ego.”

            “No one seems to follow you, Captain,” the sailsinger, Areen, said, a hair more diplomatically than his peer. He slurred his words. His loose-fitting dark pants and long-sleeved black shirt flapped as if he wore a sail himself. The magus’s single, thick braid of black hair tossed back like a wind-whipped scarf. He stroked his goatee, and on the top of his hand sat four small circular-encased sigils, he’d referred to as aema. They had been inked there in the darkest of pitch. His other hand presented four more unique symbols of his magic.

            They all tossed copper coins into the center of the table, and the money shined dully under the oily light. The lantern squeaked from a hook on the post next to the censer, still puffing out smoke that trailed off on the winds.

            “Well, you all know the suits, of course? Hearts, spades, diamonds, and clovers,” Jyn said.

            The other sailors nodded absentmindedly.

            “Do you know what they represent?”

            Areen spoke with confidence. “Four suits for The Four Dominions.”

            “Exactly,” Jyn said and gave an approving nod. “But also, the four classic elements. The reason the hearts have a flame in the center is to represent fire and the undying desert heat of Areen’s homeland, Gilmesh. The diamond proudly resembles the earth, yet also, the unearthed minerals and wealth of my Aildros. The reason the clover bends is to imitate wind, and the windswept rolling hills and valleys of Bren’s Gilean.”

            “Why do we get the spades?” Mi’an said, and she spat over her shoulder. While chewing on the inside of her mouth, a beaded lock fell across her nose.

            Jyn debated taking another swig of the dry wine in his mug. As quick as the thought came, it vanished. His resolve to end his drinking for the night trailed off like the smoke from the censer. He took a little sip before swigging the tankard’s contents down. A bit watery, but the red went smooth. “That’s a little less obvious, but it’s regarding design. Do you recognize the shape of the Arleoni ships traversing over the element of water? Hence, the jack of spades is the swain of spades or the lover from the sea.”

            Mi’an sighed. “Go on.”

            Bren visibly disengaged from the conversation and sat dazed while organizing his hand. Mi’an eyed one of her cards, probably a spade since she clicked her tongue.

            Areen collapsed his cards into his hand, bridged them in his palm, and placed his hands together. He rubbed at his tattoos out of habit. “It’s a prince, though. Or the jack, as you called it. The higher cards are the royal court. How do you gather its some lusty bachelor?”

            “I thought out of all of you, you might have heard of this,” Jyn said to the magus with a hint of mockery. He drained the last of the wine from the bottle into his tankard.

            “Well, I thought a cultured captain such as yourself wouldn’t assume all of us southerners are scholars.”

            They all drank from their respective cups. Jyn cleared his throat. “Sure, you can think the face cards as boring old monarchy—O, blood of angels. The Jack, Queen, and King might look like the stuffy lords who hide on thrones deep in sandy keeps across endless, brittle deserts. But truly, the face cards were inspired by a masquerade ball in Talron. The Summit of The Four Dominions. Here is where the king of clovers fell in love with the queen of hearts. But truly, it ‘twas a gentleman of Gilean and a lady of Gilmesh—no king and queen.”

            “And this swain?” Mi’an said as they all dropped their cards onto the tabletop. The captain’s hand revealed as a measly pair, and it didn’t distract him from his story. Mi’an held the house, and she happily scooped the triangular-shaped copper “arrowheads” into her purse. Wind danced around the sails. A shooting star sliced through the outstretched arm of the constellation of The Beggar.

            “The gentleman fell madly in love with the lady at first sight. Which is hogwash, of course. He fell madly in lust for this young woman. He ordered his servants to spy on her as he made his rounds with the high rollers of the dominions. All through the night, the gentleman’s spies whispered the happenings and whereabouts of this young masked lady. Each time, the man, who we may call Gentleman Envy, smiled to hear that she, his Lady Love, had turned down every proposal. You see, The Summit of The Four Dominions was far more about deboning rare fish and having an anonymous bone, with some far-off noble, than actual diplomacy. The gentleman settled his ravenous eyes on this lady to the point of madness.

            “He sent off his spies to snitch flowers from the free garden of the Oakwood Academy, and they darted off as Gentleman Envy closed the gap to cut off his Lady Love in her current social-bound trajectory around the room. As he made his way to talk to her, he noticed an odd someone out of the corner of his eye—a cloaked figure with a mustached masque. This figure, this ‘Sir’ Swain, remained hidden behind this cloak from head to toe. Nobleman or noblewoman, Envy could not tell. Swain stood inside the archway of a balcony, alone, and watched the room. Their piercing eyes gazed out from behind the mustached masque, and they hungrily examined both the Gileani gentleman and the Gilmeshi lady, at separate moments.”

            Wind picked up across the deck of the ship, and the sailors gripped tight to their cards to keep them from sweeping out to sea. A new strange mist, unaffected by the winds, mingled in the amber light of the lantern. The lapping of waves against the hall bobbed and bounced the ship. Stormfarer creaked and groaned as the sails billowed. The last light of dusk snuffed out at the far horizon, turning vibrant shades of blue.

            The captain stopped his story to look at Areen. “Well, sailsinger? How about some favorable winds? Get us a way from these mists.”

            “Oh, why of course, Captain,” Areen said. He looked at his tattoos as if about to draw a focus, and a demonic little smile cut across his face. As a damn near insubordinate drunk, he clapped his hands a single time as if that would generate any wind at all. With a faux sigh, he said, “My powers are all tapped for the night, I’m afraid.” His smile deepened, and his voice grew lighter. “In the morning, the gastronomer’ll whip up a mighty breakfast, I’m sure.”

            “Have you got her autograph yet?” Mi’an goaded, and Areen reddened. Ever since they’d picked up the gastronomer, the magus had been enamored by her. Famous in at least two dominions, he acted like she was royalty even though on the ship all she did was hand out ginger to the passengers for their sour bellies. She said it would help with scurvy, too, but Jyn was uncertain. He’d respected gastronomy, especially since it helped the magus channel the winds for hours longer, but he didn’t completely trust it, himself. Part of him felt it was just witchcraft in a fancy dress.

            “There’s no need to bother Wyndelyn with that sort of thing,” Areen said.

            Mi’an merely smiled at him and gave him a sideways look.

            As more mist rolled across the boat, Jyn barked orders at the other sailors on deck to lower the sails. The first mate, Mi’an, eyed the vapors and then Jyn in a nervous manner. There was a purplish hue to the mist indicating a magical residue, but it wasn’t a true starlight surge, as they called it. The air didn’t sting the skin or warp the wood on the mast, so it couldn’t be anything too dangerous, right?

            The captain took a deep breath to calm his heart that suddenly picked up speed. To Mi’an, he said, “You’ve checked the charts as many times as me. The Isle of Morn is every bit of fifteen miles behind us. We’re safe.” He gave one more look at the purplish mist before proceeding to straighten his coat collar. “Where was I?”

            “Who knows,” Bren grumbled. He picked at some dried skin on his lip and drew blood.

            Areen said, “A mysterious man.”

            “Ah, yes, the mysterious person. Envy was so distracted by Swain he missed his window to chat with his Love. She rested at some table having a glass of wine. It all happened so fast that Envy could only merely watch as Swain leaned in close to the lady’s ear. The young woman laughed and placed a hand to her beautiful breast. When Envy’s spies returned with a bouquet, Swain had gone.

            “Envy seized his chance, dashed almost childlike around some folk way more important than he, and almost threw the bouquet at the Lady Love. She saw him, sweating and panting. She offered him a seat, worried he was suffering from some severe medical condition, and she was quite pleased he wasn’t going to keel over right on her lap. They waxed romantically for the better part of the night. He promised her gifts of flowers and wine, lands and titles, and he even offered her an aetheri artifact—a Chest of Dreams. With the wave of a hand, one of his attendants placed the pitch-black box, with no visible way of opening, onto the table. Love eyed the box suspiciously through the eyes of her masque. ‘What does it do?’

            “Envy gave a wry smile, pleased his snare was of interest. ‘O, it’s only one of the greatest items of power in all the world, my dear. Two wars? No, three have been fought over possession for the Chest of Dreams, or should I say: The Shadesh Box. It is said to make your dreams come true, and it must be true because my only wish is to spend the night with you.”

            “Gah,” Mi’an articulated. “Please don’t tell me that awful line worked.”

             Jyn ignored his first mate. “For all his promises, the Lady Love gifted him with the spare key to her room and told him to meet her in an hour.”

            Areen folded and tossed his cards on the table, and the captain’s halfway decent hand didn’t keep him from dropping out. Mi’an eyed Bren for a long time trying to force a tell out of him. Her eyes watched the sailor as his lip quivered. Tossing all her money onto the table, her power move revealed. Bren grimaced at his empty purse and shook his head. Jyn merely watched the interaction with light amusement.

            “Come on,” Mi’an goaded. “I’ll be nice. Toss in that ratty shark’s tooth you have on, and I’ll call it even.”

            “Piss on your even!” Bren spit on the floorboards. He gripped the triangular tooth in his palm. “My daughter made this necklace. I wouldn’t trade it for all the treasure in The Vaults.” He hooked his leg over his chair, stood, and shook his head before abruptly stomping off.

            With the cards set aside, both Mi’an and Areen eyed Captain Jyn patiently. The regal man loaded his pipe with tobacco and used kindling against the lantern to light the dehydrated shag. Smoke filled his lungs, and he hoped the normal sting of it would calm his nerves. Though, it did ease some of the tension, he couldn’t help this feeling of apprehension in the air. Something weighed on his shoulders, and he couldn’t quite figure out the sensation. Sitting back in the chair, he crossed his leg and paused for a moment of reflection. “Remind me to tell this story to the chef, she’ll love it.”

            “The gastronomer,” Areen corrected with a sneer.

         “Regardless, Envy could barely wait to enter the bedchamber of the Lady Love. He arrived early to find the room locked. He placed The Shadesh Box on the floor in order to fumble with the key into the keyhole. Upon opening, he first noticed the window to the room wide open. A swift breeze danced the curtains along the wall. His eyes locked on his Love and Swain wrestling in a state of undress and passion. Envy dropped the spare key, and it tumbled loudly to the floor. Rage boiled over the man. He dashed to grab Swain. They engaged in an awkward bit of fisticuffs. Envy charged forward wildly and did not find his target but found the open third-story window and tumbled out.”

            A look of concern froze on Areen’s face. Mi’an howled with laughter, and she pounded the table with her open palm. The captain picked up the deck of cards and found the jack of spades, queen of hearts, and the king of clovers. Chewing on his pipe stem, he pointed a callused finger to the mustache masked face of the jack. His finger moved to the chest of the masked queen where a tattoo sat of a red heart with fiery hands gripping and pulling at it from both sides. He thumbed the dagger of the king—the pointy end disappearing into the king’s skull while a line of red dripped down.

            “Sir Swain, Lady Love, and Gentleman Envy. Or as they are now known: the Prince of the Sea, the Wavering Queen, and the Suicide King.”

            Areen softly clapped, and after a long pause, he said, “That story, it’s beautiful.”

            “Thank you, Areen.”

             “Beautiful. But not quite possible.”

            “Excuse me?” the captain said reeling back.

            “It’s all well and good, but it simply impossible for….” Areen’s voice trailed off. His facial muscles went slack, his expression as clean as blank canvas. Purple mist moved like a thin wall between them.

            Fuzziness raked and scratched against Jyn’s mind, and it was something different than the soaked-feeling of drunkenness. “Well, I would,” the captain started but abruptly burped. “Wait, why are my sails still up?”

            Mi’an also wore a blank expression on her face. The captain lifted a shaky hand and snapped his fingers right in front of her nose. He poked her sun tattoo a few times.

              At the edge of the lantern light, Bren stood perfectly still as if he walked to the edge of the light and petrified in place.

          Jyn desperately read what stars he could find through the mist. Recognition struck too late. Stormfarer must have made an unexpected course correction without him knowing. How could this have happened? One drunken game of cards cursed them all.

            The wind howled and carried a sweet note inside its noisy furls. A chilling voice, strong yet sweet, sang from some far off shore. Carrying across the waves, the sound was as beautiful as ringing bells, yet shadow surrounded every note. A flowery smell wafted about, soured by mildew. The mists curled around the censer like a hand, and condensation dripped inside cooling and snuffing out the incense in sizzling smoke.

             Jyn tried to stand but couldn’t. His limbs and head locked in place, and a scream caught in his throat, unable to escape. The face of Che-Le froze in his mind, and his fear eroded his faith in his own promise. He’d never return to her, now, his Lady Luck. He was so very sorry.

            Stormfarer listed, turned, and sailed toward the sound. The winds changed direction and dragged the ship forward into the heavy mist, into the call, and into the unknown.