The Blacktongue Thief

27 That Bitch Death’s Cunny

The next day was a day for paying debts.

I was on deck, and I got a hard biscuit from the quartermaster, which, like every hard biscuit on this ship, was shiny with whale blubber. I was just biting into it, hoping today wasn’t the day I’d lose a front tooth, when I saw Malk making hard eyes at me. Galva leaned against the rail near, frowning over her biscuit and sipping wine from her skin to soften the crumbs she’d chiseled off into her mouth. I knew from the look on her face it was just starting to sour—the merchant who sold her it in Pigdenay will have lied about its freshness, but there was no surprise. Sailors likely to return got the fresh wine, while unknown travelers and passers-through got the soon-to-sour. She should have asked me to haggle for her, I could have charmed the sweetest barrel the merchant had off of her, and gotten her a discount besides, but she insisted on going on her own because, of course, as a Spanth, it was her birthright to know every tossing thing about wine. Point is, she wasn’t paying attention when Malk moved in.

I knew it was coming.

The captain and Korkala were getting bored with each other and had no need of a fiddle. The whale was stowed in barrels, its teeth carved for scrimshaw, the mess of its butchery and meltdown as near to cleaned as it would ever be. The winds had stopped, and we were calmed and idle, anchored to keep us off the rocks near a barren island by the southern tip of the Gunnish Islands. Now was the time when the crew’s grudges would bob up, and Malk’s was not the least of them.

When he saw his staring was getting nothing but blank billy goat eyes in return, he said, “Are you staring at me, Kinch Na Shannack?”

“Nah,” I said. “You’re standing in front of what I’m staring at. Would you please move?” Several of the crew laughed at that, which of course did nothing to soothe Malk’s humor, but I’m a religious man, and my little ginger god demands mischief.

“Funny one, you are,” he said. “I remember that about you. I remember the great joke you had on us all when you were called to war and others went in your place.”

“Well, you won, didn’t you? You think my feeble attempts to heft a flail would’ve helped you?”

“You’re no brute, I’ll give you that, but I’ve seen stronger than me die and weaker than you live,” he said. An Ispanthian standing near him, a short, black-haired man with a badger pelt and a wild look in his eye, raised his chin at that, which I took to mean, I agree with my friend that you can go fuck yourself. Spanths are gifted at nonverbal aggression. And this fellow was no one to trifle with—the pelt likely meant that he had been a Badger, one of the poor, mad bastards they sent into abandoned goblin hives to make sure they were actually abandoned.

“Besides,” Malk continued, “your bow might have saved me this,” he said, showing me a missing finger, “or this,” he said, pointing at a bite-scar on his forearm, “or you might even have saved my father getting piped off by Samnyr Na Gurth.”

“I wasn’t good with the bow yet. I’d have shot your da by mistake,” I said, but I knew how weak and flippant it sounded. I knew where this was going. I’d had a look at that ship’s charter you’ve heard about. Any sailor can call out another to duel if he’s willing to do that sailor’s duties in the event of death. In the event of his own death, his goods become the captain’s property. If I waited for him to call me out, I could choose the weapons, but I couldn’t stand his goading much more. Both had to agree if it was to be first blood—if either said death, to the death it was. Death didn’t really scare me that much. Besides, it occurred to me, if he killed me, I wouldn’t have to deal with the Takers Guild again.

“Maybe yes and maybe no,” Malk said. “We’ll never know, will we? Nor will we know how many men got thrown into that bitch Death’s cunny for want of one more to stand with us. I saw the hand tattoo on your cheek. Crawled off to thieves college. Couldn’t even keep your promises to that den of snakes, could you? And now every Jon-salt in every kingdom in the world gets to slap you like the whore you are, and you never raise a hand.”

At that, Bully, who had made an unprecedented trip up to the deck, raoed and did that creepy smile again. Malk ignored him. He was building up to it. Think what you will of the Galtish, we’ll never be accused of leaving our feelings a mystery.

“A thief, of all things. A crawler in windows and a stabber by night. Your sort might enjoy the protection of the all-feared Guild of sneaky cocksuckers on dry land”—Bully raoed again at that—“but out here it’s two-tailed Mithrenor who rules, and he likes strength.”

I saw that Galva was paying attention now, staring stony-faced at Malk. Malk waited here. He wanted me to challenge him so he could pick his own weapon. He knew “our sort” were often deadly with a small blade and, for all his bluster, wouldn’t want to throw me the advantage of engaging me knife to knife. I could choose knife against his spear or cutlass, but good luck to me if I gave away that much reach to a trained fighter. What would he pick? Spear, of course, being a Coldfoot guard—he’d been drilling with poles and long, sharp sticks since a boy, trained by his da. If he didn’t want to seem too much advantaged with the spear—for a public duel is theater and the quality of the show affects reputation—he might just nod to his new life as a sailor by choosing cutlass. Something he could get his muscles into and beat me down with. He needed to goad me again to make me challenge or attack him. He needed to find a sore spot.

“What would your own father say to see you brought so low? If your father he was, for he seemed an honorable man.”

“He was honorable,” I said. “But your comment suggests otherwise about my mother. You want to know what my da would have said? He would have said, ‘Whatever mistakes you make, son, let no man call you a coward.’ And he would have said, ‘However poor a supper you put on your table, let no man you can make answer speak ill of your family.’ You have done both, Malk Na Brannyck, and you’ll answer for it with your blood.”

I was a better fighter than Malk thought, but I wasn’t at all sure I could beat him at cutlass—that’s a weapon for strong arms and tall men, which I haven’t and I’m not. And if he said spear, I might as well impale myself on one and save everyone the trouble.

But.

My eyes cut to Galva, because her face had changed.

Her mouth turned down at the corners as her eyebrows jumped up, an expression of appreciation I’d seen her make many times. She even nodded, barely perceptibly, assessing me not as a fighter, I think, but as a man.

Malk said, “Is that a formal challenge?”

Before I could say yes, the Spanth spoke up.

“I formally challenge you, Malk Na Brannyck, to fight me to the death with the weapon of your choice.”

I almost brayed out a laugh. I couldn’t let myself, because people would have thought I was laughing to see my hide saved, but really, it was just because Spanths can’t say Galtish names. Well, “Malluk Na Braneek” looked very put out indeed to have matters so complicated for him. He couldn’t challenge me without answering Galva. But he could seek clarification first.

“What?” he said. “Whatever’s your grievance with me?”

The Spanth said, “I am proud to take ship with another who fought in the south, and I enjoy to play cards with you. But this man is my companion, and we have important work to do, more important than my affection for you. I did not wish to help him if he was a coward, which I began to wonder, but his offering himself to death against a strong man has satisfied me.”

“That little wanker knew you’d help him.”

“No, he did not, but still he did right. It is right to answer an insult to family, which you have unfortunately made, with blood. But even if I did not know this man, I would have called you to answer, for you have insulted Death, and she is my most beautiful and serene mistress.”