Where Loyalties Lie

Chapter 37 - Mary’s Virtue

There weren’t many people who could keep up with Daimen when it came to a drinking contest. He was one of the few folk to have been born and raised on the isles, and his mother, bless her eternally resting soul, might as well have breastfed him grog, he’d started drinking the stuff at such a young age. Of course, it also didn’t help that her suitors had quickly taken to giving Daimen a bottle of something strong and incapacitating to keep him out from underfoot when they came a-calling. All in all, Daimen had been drinking booze since before he was able to stand, and that, along with his natural tolerance for the stuff, made him nigh on unbeatable when it came to any sort of contest that relied on the ability to consume vast amounts of intoxicants.

Of course, his ability to quite literally drink most folk under the table had made him something of a legend among the people of the isles. And along with any reputation of being the best at something, as Stillwater had very recently learned, came challenges from those who thought themselves better.

Daimen’s current opponent, a boy with a prolific amount of hair on his neck and none on his face, named himself Caster Shallows. The lad claimed more feats, accomplishments, and miracles than Drake Morrass himself, and Daimen had never met another man quite so enamoured with himself as Drake.

“I shailed with…” Caster paused to let out an inhuman belch that wafted sour, fishy breath into Daimen’s face. “With Peregrew Fin out of Korral. Privateers, we named ourselves.”

“Aye, is that so?” Daimen put his feet up on the table and signalled the serving wench for another round of piss-flavoured grog. The tavern was merry, the music lively, the shanties were bordering on obscene, and Daimen felt like stringing the poor boy along for a few drinks longer. “I met Peregrew once. Had a face as long as me arse and looked like he’d been usin’ it to scrape barnacles off his ship.”

“Uglier shunofabitch ya never did see,” Caster agreed with a grin and a slow shake of his head.

Daimen laughed. Captain Peregrew Fin was a retired, ex-Acanthian navy officer who had been discharged for alleged piracy and had decided that if he was to be branded as such, he might as well make the claims true. He’d captured a total of one ship before a mutiny had made him governor of his own little island somewhere in the southern isles where, to this day, he remained and screamed bloody murder at any ship that came within hailing distance. For that brief career in piracy though, Peregrew had been known as “the Pretty Pirate”, due to his stunning good looks and total ineptitude in command of any vessel larger than a bucket.

The next round arrived and Daimen paid the serving wench, with both coin and a healthy slap on the arse. He pushed one of the mugs towards Caster, who looked down on it as though it were an old friend with a grudge, come to stick him with the pointy end of a five-year-long estrangement.

“I must, uh… must be ahead of you,” he slurred.

“Aye? Ya reckon?” Daimen smiled, raised the new mug to his lips, and proceeded to gulp down the entire contents before signalling the nearby wench that he required another. Caster swayed in his chair and let out a painful moan before toppling sideways and hitting the floor, already unconscious.

Daimen lifted his empty mug. “A drink to the fallen,” he shouted.

“We’ll be joining them soon,” called back a fair few of the folk nearby.

“Ya got anything stronger than this swill, darlin’?” Daimen winked at the serving wench as she came over with a new mug. “Not that I don’t enjoy a good bit o’ grog, but this stuff is weaker than piss and makes ya do just that after every mug.”

The wench shook her head. “We ain’t exactly at the forefront of many deliveries. We’re all waiting for Captain Morrass to get back an’ fix it all up.”

“Aye, we are. Well, I reckon I need to drain the monster out back. Fancy holdin’ it for me?”

The wench’s face went from all smiles to seething disgust in the blink of an eye, and Daimen took the hint well. “Reckon I’ll manage it alone then, eh.”

Without so much as a stumble, Daimen stood up and, leaving two full mugs of grog at the table, headed for the door. It wasn’t that he trusted folk in the Righteous Indignation not to help themselves to his booze, but more that he didn’t care. He’d already made more than enough from out-drinking Caster and, if he was going to drink himself into a hangover, he preferred to do it with something worth drinking.

Outside, the air was still and stagnant. Drake might have picked the most dangerous and defensible island in the Pirate Isles, but he also appeared to have picked the only one without a single breath of a breeze, even at night. It made for oppressive days followed by sticky nights, and made New Sev’relain a place Daimen would be glad to get away from.

The tavern’s outhouse was just next to the main building and set back a little from the dirt street that ran through the town. Daimen was within a few paces of the outhouse when he changed his mind about using it to take a piss. Judging by the smell that enveloped the place, it was either occupied or had recently been occupied by a dead cat, and in Daimen’s opinion, there was little that smelled worse than a dead cat. There were plenty of places for a man in need to relieve himself – a nearby building, a nearby tree, the middle of the street – but Daimen sometimes found his bladder needed a bit of coaching, and nothing made a man feel he could let go quite like the sound of the sea.

New Sev’relain was a busy little place no matter the time of day or night, and even the stagnant air couldn’t keep the people from the streets. Some might be heading to the tavern, or to the brothel, or to some midnight tryst. Daimen knew full well he had a few weirds on his own ship, but as long as they didn’t go screwing each other while at sea, he didn’t care what they did ashore. All men had needs; women had them too, as far as Daimen was aware, and whether or not he had the same needs didn’t make another man’s any less important. Even as Daimen considered the weirds among his crew, he saw one of them walking along the street with a pretty young lad from Stillwater’s ship. They looked deep in conversation and didn’t notice the approaching captain. Daimen grinned and decided to give them a bit of a ragging.

“And exactly what the shit do we think is goin’ on here?” Daimen said as the two men made to pass him without once looking away from each other. His own crewman, a man-mountain named Hert, blossomed red around the cheeks upon realising his captain had caught him in the act. Stillwater’s lad looked more worried than embarrassed.

“We was… jus’ headin’ ta the tavern, Cap’n,” stuttered Hert, his eyes downcast.

“Aye, that so? Cos I reckon…”

A distant scream drifted down the street, and Daimen paused, straining his ears for its source. Most of the folk on the street kept walking; either they hadn’t heard or didn’t care. Daimen wasn’t one of those folk.

“You hear that?” he said to Hert and his boy.

“Hear what?” asked Hert.

“Aye, Cap’n Poole,” said the boy. “Sounded like a woman’s scream, from down that way.” He pointed to an avenue leading towards the beach.

Daimen decided to take him at his word; it was likely his young ears were sharper anyway. With a hand on his sword hilt to stop it from flapping about, Daimen set off at a jog. He found it comforting that both the boy and Hert didn’t hesitate to follow.

They passed through an alley and then across another street before climbing a hillock, and still Daimen saw no sign of whoever had made the noise. He cast his eyes first back towards the town and then down towards the beach, but the clouds were thick and the darkness was thicker.

“Down there, Cap’n Poole,” said Stillwater’s crewman, pointing at the beach.

Daimen squinted, but saw nothing. He decided to trust the lad’s judgement and set off again. It didn’t take him long to see what the lad’s sharper eyes had picked out: two figures, one on top of the other. As Daimen drew closer he could see that it was a woman lying face down in the sand, her hands drawn up behind her, and a man thrusting away on top.

“You’ll have ta correct me if I’m wrong there, matey, but that don’t exactly look consentional,” Daimen said as he came to a panting stop, deciding he was a little out of shape.

“Eh?” the man grunted. He was a pirate and no mistake, yet not one Daimen recognised – which put him as one of Khan’s men.

“Consentional,” Daimen repeated. “Consent… ing? Ah, fuck it. Looks like ya rapin’ the poor lass.”

“I paid her,” the pirate insisted, but judging by the woman’s tied hands, the gag wrapped around what was visible of her face, and the rest of that face buried in the sand, Daimen doubted the truth of the man’s words.

“Hert.” Daimen motioned to his burly crewman. “If ya wouldn’t mind removin’ that bastard from the girl.”

Hert surged forwards, and the pirate quickly jumped up and away, fumbling to put his cock back in his britches. Hert paused.

“Might be best ya grab hold of him for now,” Daimen said, “’til we can reason out the truth here.”

Approaching the lass, Daimen could see dark marks on her face; he’d seen the like before, on many a whore. A good, solid backhanded slap left a very distinct wound, and hers was certainly distinctive. With a tender touch, Daimen first untied the woman’s hands and then helped her sit up before removing the gag from her mouth.

He’d seen the woman around the town and, more often, inside the brothel. She was one of the few whores the town could boast, and definitely the prettiest of them all. With a swollen mouth and a newly missing tooth, she looked a sorry state at that particular moment.

Daimen pulled a kerchief from his pocket, accepting that it was at least mostly clean and certainly the cleanest thing any of them had on them at the moment, and handed it to the sobbing whore. He looked up at the pirate, who was currently being manhandled by Hert, and frowned.

“Now generally, mate, when ya pay a whore, and she accepts that payment, there ain’t really no need ta go beatin’ on her. Well, actually, I don’t reckon there’s ever really a need for that sort of behaviour.”

“I did pay her.” The pirate was attempting to wriggle out of Hert’s grip, and only making the big man hold him tighter. “Three bits, going rate.”

The whore attempted to spit at the pirate, but with her lips so swollen only managed to dribble the spittle down her chin. Daimen wiped it away. “That true, luv?”

The woman was staring at the pirate with burning eyes. “Shoved three bits down my top and said I was paid,” she slurred. “I tried to give ’em back, an’ he hit me. Next thing I knew, I was tied and gagged.”

Daimen sighed. “Were the rules not explained ta you all when ya docked here, mate? ’Cos the penalty for rape is fairly…”

“Captain’s law,” the pirate blurted.

“Ah, fuck.” Daimen shook his head, wishing he’d never left the tavern. He looked up into the clouds and weighed his options. He could kill the pirate here and now, and Khan would want an explanation, or he could take the stupid bastard to his captain as he’d asked and see how the man dealt with him. Not much of a choice as far as Daimen was concerned; either way he had an angry piratical giant to deal with.

“Captain’s law says…” the pirate started.

“I fuckin’ well know what it says, mate. I am a captain. Got me own ship an’ everything. I’m tryin’ ta decide whether ta just kill you an’ tell your big bastard of a captain you fell onto me sword.”

The pirate’s eyes widened. “I’ll scream.”

“How manly you are. Real fuckin’ hero. First you rape a poor lass, then you go an’ scream like one.”

“He’s invoked cap’n’s law, Cap’n Poole,” said the boy. “Only right to give him to his…”

“Well, aren’t you a sweet little conscience. I can see why you picked this one, Hert. Arsehole as tight as a miser’s purse strings, I’ll wager.” Daimen barked out a laugh and carried on before anyone could further argue the pirate’s case. “Come on then, let’s go give him ta his captain an’ see what the big bastard says.”

They marched the pirate to the North Gale, where the ship’s first mate informed them in no uncertain terms that Captain Khan was sleeping and didn’t like to be disturbed. After a few choice insults, along with the threat of drowning the rapist right there in front of his own ship, the first mate went to rouse his captain. Khan eventually appeared on deck, wearing nothing but his black bandana to keep his hair in check and rubbing sleepily at his eyes. He put one giant foot upon the railing of his ship and looked down at Daimen and his captured pirate.

“Fuck’s sake, T’ruck,” Daimen said. “You mind puttin’ some britches on?”

“Why?” the giant pirate responded sleepily. “Does my cock intimidate you.”

“Fuck yes, mate. That thing would intimidate a horse, an’ a well endowed one at that. Tell me, have you ever tried stranglin’ someone with it?”

T’ruck Khan let out a deep belly laugh and squinted down at the men standing at the gangplank to his ship. “Why are you holding Oppen?”

“You can let him go now, Hert,” Daimen said, and his crewman obeyed instantly. The pirate didn’t waste a moment in charging up the gangplank onto the safety of his ship and getting behind his captain.

“Found the dumb bastard up the beach, rapin’ this here poor girl. Seems your man didn’t like ‘no’ as an answer.”

Captain Khan looked slowly from Daimen to the whore to his crewman. “Is this true, Oppen?”

“I paid her!”

Captain Khan took in a deep breath and sighed it out. “You were aware of the rules of this town, Oppen.”

“Captain…”

“They were explained to you all.”

“Captain…”

“Either you wilfully disobeyed or you were too stupid to listen to me when we arrived here.”

“Captain…”

“Did you rape that woman?” Khan roared.

Oppen staggered back a few steps, and even in the dim light Daimen could see tears in the man’s eyes. He nodded. “Aye.”

Khan turned to another member of his crew, several of whom had gathered nearby. “Rope.”

“Please, Captain,” Oppen said. “I didn’t mean to. I…”

Khan levelled a punch at the pirate’s face, flooring the man and, judging by the silence, knocked him out cold. Another crewman arrived carrying some rope and scurried up the rigging to hang it over the mast. The captain knelt down, out of Daimen’s sight, and after a few moments stood again, one end of the rope now in his hands. The giant nodded once to Daimen and began pulling on the rope.

All by himself, T’ruck Khan hanged his unconscious crewman, pulling on the rope until Oppen’s feet were dangling high above the deck. He held him there while staring down at Daimen and the whore. It was impossible to tell when the pirate finally expired – he never woke from his captain’s punch – but after a while his skin turned pale and lax. Still Khan held the rope.

“Good riddance,” the whore spat, and wandered away.

Daimen was vaguely aware of Hert and Stillwater’s boy quietly slinking off, but he felt compelled to stand there and watch until Khan considered the matter complete.