The Rogue Crew

Shekra passed the singer a beaker of grog. “Aye, ’tis right, mate, but once ye follow the sea, there ain’t no goin’ back. I know ’tis too late now, but tell me, wot would ye have done, if’n you’d stopped ashore? Been a farmer mayhaps?”

The old stoat chuckled humorlessly. “Wot, me be a farmer? Huh, sounds too much like ’ard work. I would’ve liked t’live the easy life, in some sunny ole place. Aye, with others to cook me vittles, an’ a nice soft bunk t’sleep in. Where yore sheltered from storms an’ cold in the winter, wid a big roarin’ log fire to toast me whiskers by. Ah, that’d be wot I’d ’ave liked!”

Shekra nodded, her brain working furtively. “It sounds good t’me. Wonder if’n there is such a place.”

A youngish searat offered a suggestion. “That big stripedog mountain place, where all the rabbets lives, that looked alright t’me.”

The vixen sounded scornful, knowing which way she was leading the conversation. “No chance of gettin’ anywhere near that mountain. Those rabbets are warriors, just like the wavedogs. Ye’d be slain afore ye knew it. Now, the Red Abbey place, that’d suit me. D’ye know it?”

The youngish searat shook his head. “Red Abbey place?”

The cook, a fat greasy weasel, dipped a tankard into the grog barrel. “Aye, I’ve ’eard tell of it. Ain’t it rightly called the Red Abbot place?”

Shekra nodded slyly. “Right, mate. Wot’ve ye ’eard tell?” The cook finished half his tankard in one swig and belched. “Somewheres in mid-country it is, with a forest growin’ round. My granpa saw it once. Said it was all built o’ red stones. Woodlanders, treemice, ’edgepigs, mouses an’ such lives there. They ain’t short o’ vittles neither.”

Shekra added her own embellishment to the cook’s narration. “Aye, somebeast once told me there’s orchards there with ripe fruit ’angin’ off all the trees. Strawberries too, blackberries, enough honey to sink a ship, a big lake full of fishes, birds an’ eggs, many as ye please!”

The old stoat singer shook his head wistfully. “The Red Abbot place, eh? Sounds wunnerful. Why ain’t we been there? Woodlanders ain’t warriors like wavedogs’n’rabbets.”

The vixen shrugged. “’Cos it’s in mid-country an’ ships couldn’t reach it. Corsairs don’t go nowhere widout their ships. But wot am I talkin’ about? This Greenshroud can go anyplace now—land or sea, it don’t matter, do it?” An air of excitement suddenly pervaded the galley.

“We could go there, I’d wager we could!”

“Hah, wouldn’t be no trouble slayin’ a load o’ woodlanders!”

“Aye, an’ it’d all be ours, just for the takin’, mates!”

“We’d live like cap’ns an’ . . . an’ . . . er, kings. I wonder if’n their grog’s any good, Shekra.”

Now she had sown the seed, the vixen left the galley, calling back to her shipmates, “They’ve prob’ly got cellars loaded with barrels o’ the finest drinks, or they should ’ave, wid all that fruit juice. It might taste nice an’ sweet!”

She wandered out on deck. It was a fine spring night, with a hint of summer promise on the breeze. Jiboree came down from the stern deck. “Ahoy, vixen, where’ve ye been? Cap’n Razzid wants ye.” Wordlessly, Shekra followed him to the master cabin.

The Wearat was taking supper with Mowlag and Jiboree. Wiping moisture from his damaged eye, he glared at Shekra through his good one. It was always unnerving to be scrutinised by his cold stare.

Shekra tugged an ear in salute, unsure of why she had been summoned. “Cap’n?”

Razzid put aside the grilled herring he had been nibbling, keeping Shekra waiting as he wiped his lips and drank from a fine crystal goblet of good-quality grog. He spoke just the one word: “Well?”

Shekra swallowed hard, her paws trembling. “Did ye want me, Cap’n?”

The Wearat continued to stare, knowing the effect it had.

“Well, yore my Seer, ain’t ye? Tell me wot ye see.”

The vixen breathed an inward sigh of relief. “I’ve been waitin’ on ye to ask me, sire. A moment please.” She shook out the jumble of stones, wood, shells, feathers and other objects from her pouch. Selecting what she required, she began murmuring.

“Voices of wind and water, say

what fate may bring this Greatbeast’s way,

Omens of earth, of wood and stone,

is thy message for him alone?”

She cast three stones upon the table, two of common grey, one a black pebble, pitted and marked. The grey stones bounced from the table onto the deck. The black one stayed on the table, close to Razzid.

Closing her eyes, Shekra spoke. “I speak to none but you, Great One.”

The Wearat dismissed his aides. “Leave us.”

Both Mowlag and Jiboree shot hate-laden glances at the vixen. They left the cabin—though, once outside, they pressed their ears to the closed door in an effort to learn what the Seer had to say.