Sink or Swim

Chapter Thirteen

"I want to learn how to kill a man," Junia announced.

Katherine's braying laugh ended on a sudden and abrupt note. The other conversations died as quickly. Everyone turned to the figure sitting at the very end of the table. It was the first time she had spoken all night; she sat ramrod straight and stiff, the plate of food before her untouched, the hollows beneath her piercing eyes still black with the bruises of her ordeal.

"Probably a good idea," Harry said lightly. "You'll need to know how to fight—things can get mighty hairy out here."

"Not just fight," Junia said. "I need to know how to kill. They murdered my husband. Stabbed him and threw his body overboard like he was trash. I intend to do the same to them."

She regarded the women—and single man—who had given her shelter, food, and new clothes. They had tended her injuries and listened to her story, and had even offered her a permanent place on board if she wanted it. What she truly wanted, more than anything else, was revenge. Could they give her that?

Perhaps Lizzie—she had muscular arms that spoke of physical labor. She had to know how to handle herself in a fight. Or Katherine, the logical choice when it came to brawling and bashing a man's brains out through his ears. Harry herself was reputed to be a hellion with a long sword. Or maybe—

"I'll teach you."

Jo regarded her calmly, seemingly unmoved by her passionate pledge. In the few days she had been on board, the first mate had struck Junia as someone methodical, precise, and coiled like a big cat about to pounce. She moved with economical grace; she wasn't one to waste energy with wild gestures or undue emotion. But there was something Junia sensed beneath her unruffled exterior: a potential for explosive violence that could be unnerving.

She wondered if the others had noticed this, or if she was just imagining it.

"Jo's our best swordswoman," Harry said. "After she's done, if there's anything you don't know about handling a sword, then it ain't worth knowing."

"Perfect," Junia said.

*~*~*

"Third move," Jo ordered.

Junia adjusted her stance, shaking her head to dash the sweat from her eyes. Her grip on the hilt of her borrowed blade was becoming uncertain—her palm was too wet and slippery from the heat.

The Sappho had been sitting on water as smooth as glass for two days now. The wind had disappeared, the waves had abandoned them, the sun was doing its level best to roast them all alive. Junia had never experienced such a calm ocean before; she would have been more demoralized by it if not for the rigors of her training.

"Fifth," said Jo.

The sword fell to the deck with a clatter, slipping free of her fingers like a frantic fish.

"There are ways to adjust for that," her teacher said before she could explain; those sharp brown eyes didn't miss much. "You can rub powder over your hands to improve your grip and reduce sweating. Chalk dust works well, though that's in short supply on a ship. Barring that, I recommend wearing a glove on your dominant sword hand. We can ask Kai to make you one of shark and sealskin—that will serve a dual purpose. It'll absorb sweat to improve your grip, and also provide a small layer of protection against your opponent's blades."

"I've seen swords before with fancy basket hilts," Junia said. "It must be easier to hold onto one of those."

"Yes, but that type of sword may not be well-suited to your purposes," Jo said patiently. "Most blades made like that are intended for fencing or dueling, fine-tipped and meant for inflicting minimal damage. You aim to kill, not wound. And if your opponent is skilled at disarming, your fingers can get caught in that fancy hilt and break. If you're determined to be thorough, we'll find you a fencing rapier and I'll teach you the best way to handle it. But for now, let's focus on the saber and the cutlass—then we'll move to the scimitar and the dao."

"I had no idea there were so many different kinds of swords," Junia said, taking advantage of the brief pause to drink from the bucket of water Maddie had left for them. "I used to just think of a sword as a bigger knife."

"Each design has its strengths and its weaknesses. The cutlass and the dao are wider and heavier—better for chopping movements, which is why so many executioners favor them." Jo swung the sword in a sure arc, and Junia could almost see the invisible convict before her. "The scimitar and the saber are lighter, longer, better when you want to keep your enemy at a safer distance. These swords slash and stab quicker than the heavier, curved blades. They require less shoulder strength and more dexterity at the wrist and elbow. Now, let's work on parrying and defensive stances."

"Did you pick all of this up in your travels," Junia asked as their blades clashed and clanged. "Or did you have a teacher?"

"My mother. As soon as I could stand straight and hold a sword up. She told me it was a hard and dangerous world, and that a woman needed to know how to defend herself."

"And how did your mother know all of this?"

"She was an amiral in La Royale," Jo said, tongue slipping smoothly around the French, assuming the accent of one taught the language from birth. "She sailed with the French Navy for fifteen years."

Junia almost dropped her sword again. "I thought women weren't allowed to enlist!" she said, wide-eyed.

"They aren't," Jo confirmed. "So she disguised herself as a man. Instead of Francoise Duveau she was Francois Duveau. Worked her way up the same as any man. When she achieved the rank of amiral, she decided she was tired of playing pretend. They didn't believe her at first—everyone knew Francois 'Le Panthère' Duveau was a brilliant tactician, and leader, and swordsman; he couldn't possibly be a female—so she tore open her uniform to convince them. She said it made one of the old commandants almost swallow his tongue."

"What did they do to her?" Junia asked, dreading the answer.

"They had just promoted her—to strip her of rank and discharge her from the military at that point, to have to admit openly why they were doing so, would make the entire French Navy look like fools. She had a nearly spotless record and an impressive list of achievements and medals to her name. They sent her on an extremely far-flung mission to the Solomon Islands, assumed that she'd be eaten by the cannibals there, and washed their hands of her."

"But she came back," Junia said with a smile.

"Yes, with a treaty signed by Chief Waganu promising that his tribe would not attack or eat anyone sailing under a French flag. The Navy took the treaty and begged Mum to retire. By then, she was pretty tired and ready to settle down, so she agreed. Left La Royale with full honors and a pension. Married Dad, had me, and opened the pub."

"Amazing. Is she still..."

"Throwing rowdy drunks out every night and complaining about the price of English beer? Yes."

"I'd like to meet her," Junia said. She looked down at the sword in her hand. "She was incredibly brave to do all of that."

"No braver than you."

"I—" She stopped herself. Thought for a long pause. "I wasn't brave," she said finally. "I was stupid. And it cost Landon his life."

"Junia, look at me." Harry might be the captain, but Jo could be plenty commanding herself. It was a tone of voice that couldn't be disobeyed. "What they did was not your fault. They murdered your husband and threw you overboard out of sheer superstitious cruelty. Men like that use any excuse to exert power over others. They kill because they enjoy it. And someday they will pay for what they've done. Even if you never find them and never put them to the sword, God Himself will give them their due and they will suffer for eternity. Of that I'm certain."

Jo's dark eyes burned, and Junia tore away from them with difficulty. She swallowed thickly, mouth abruptly dry, and blinked away the sting of tears. Her words had rung with truth—she wanted so badly to take them to heart and believe them.

But when she closed her eyes she could still see Landon's face in that last moment, could still hear the sword as it went through his body and the splash as he sank beneath the waves. It wouldn't have happened if not for her. Her tall, golden, kind-eyed husband would still be sailing and laughing and whistling if not for her.

His death was a debt that had to be repaid. The men who took it would pay it—and if she died in the process, so be it. But there would be a reckoning in the end.

"Show me that disarming technique again," she said finally, her voice steady and her eyes dry. "I think I've almost got it."