Riven Isles

38 | Poison and Passion

Cobbe pulls a small gun from his waistband. A strange one, from his specialty collection. After shoving a fresh gob of plug against his tongue, he pulls a long lever on the device until it clicks.

"What is this?" I ask, peering over my spectacles.

"Eayers."

"Ears?"

I jump as he fires, fingers splaying away from my rifle's trigger. A conical end slithers through the air on a rope, propelled from the barrel of Cobbe's peculiar weapon. The cone arcs, near silent, as graceful as a fallen handkerchief, down to the small square below. It bounces twice and stills at the side of a twisted clay tower, just around the corner from our targets of attention.

"What do you mean, 'ears'?"

The saliva and tobacco juices swish so loudly as he chews that I nearly retch, feeling a clench in my chest of sheer revolt. Swish, swill, suck, squish, chew, gurgle, gargle, spit. As if he were attempting the Aquian tongue. I shudder and return my attention to the sights of my weapon, to the circling pirates.

Cobbe opens a compartment at the top of his gun and pulls out the other end of the long rope coil to expose a cone, identical to that which was thrown. He places it on the ground between us and shuffles forward on the ridge, wounded hand close to his bony chest. He licks his lips, squinting.

"I spied you and your ship through my glass, Hank," I hear.

Startled, my eyes gape at the cone.

Cobbe gestures to it. "Eayers," he repeats. "Get yeur eyes on her. I heard the Witch's the only one in the world to beat the captain in a fair swordfight."

"Then why are we not permitted to intervene?"

Cobbe shrugs. "It's the code. Her crew ain't gun' interfur either, not until some'un cheats. And if we cheats, we's dead."

"You're tired, hon," the woman purrs, her voice honeyed, rich. Her hands fall over Captain Avery's shoulders, massaging him. Long crimson nails hover a hair's breadth from his clavicles. Maybe they are painted with blood. Some appear browned in the same way blood turns as it dries, some gleaming red as if fresh from flesh. "If you give me the painting and the map and the heir... I'll call off my men. We'll call it a misunderstanding and wrap it up in two shakes. We can all drink and be merry and share this land. There's no need to lose any more lives. No need to lose another crew, is there, Henry?"

"Ha!" Captain Avery brushes her off and casts her aside, turning his pointed nose up. Its strong bridge reflects what is left of the sunlight beneath the black vortex overhead. His jaw comes forward with tension. "Do you mean livestock? As if you care for lives, you heartless wretch. I will never drink with you again."

The woman's face hardens behind his back, then softens instantly as he rounds on her. Manipulative. Playing to his weaknesses. From slits, her eyes widen to dinner plates as his land upon them. Her plump lips simper and part, exposing a gap between her front teeth.

"I demand," Avery continues, "that you take your dastardly crew away from these isles and find some other land to terrorize. The heir is under my and my crew's protection, as is the location of the treasure."

"Well. I am not going anywhere, nor is my operation. We are rolling in cash, Hank. You could join us. You're a fine sailor, a fine swordsman. A strong pirate. We could dig up the treasure together. We would be powerful. You and I, ruling the seas."

"Bitch. If I wanted to rule the seas, I could do it by myself."

She straightens sharply and flashes him that same arrogant grin that he had bared to her minutes before. There is madness to it. A crazed glint in her eyes as her blade draws from its sheath with a menacing scrape. "Then, we fight? You on... a crutch?" She laughs. Like the trill of bells, but sharper. As if those bells prickled with rust. "You'll lose another crew!"