Chapter 2: Pirate Hospitality
The first pale light of dawn crept through the cabin's porthole, painting a golden stripe across the rumpled sheets. Tanna Sharp woke with her face buried in a cascade of white hair, one arm draped possessively over Captain Nell's waist. For a moment she forgot where she was, and then the memory of the night before flooded back, warm and wanton, and she smiled against Nell's shoulder.
Nell stirred, her blue eyes blinking open with the guarded suspicion of a woman who had spent years trusting no one. Then they softened, just a fraction, when they landed on Tanna's face.
"You're still here," Nell said. It was not an accusation, but it hovered close to one.
"I am." Tanna propped herself up on one elbow, tracing the line of Nell's collarbone with a fingertip. "Unless you're telling me to go."
Nell's jaw tightened. Her voice came out stiff, almost military. "I don't... I rarely do this. Ever. I'm not sure what the protocol is."
"Protocol," Tanna repeated, grinning despite herself. "For waking up next to someone you shagged senseless?"
"For anything," Nell said, and a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I run a tight ship, Tanna. That includes my personal affairs. Or it did, until you came along and made me throw discipline overboard."
"Well then." Tanna leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, until Nell's rigid posture melted beneath her. "Congratulations on your mutiny, Captain."
Tanna's grin softened into something more uncertain. She let her fingers trail through Nell's hair, then stopped, as if she had touched something too delicate. "I'm not... used to this either, you know. Not the shagging, exactly. But this." She gestured vaguely between them. "The waking up together. The soft words."
Nell raised an eyebrow. "You seemed confident enough last night."
"That was different." Tanna looked away, her cheeks colouring. "Before Polly and Tulip took me on as bodyguard, I was... well. I was a virgin, Captain. Never been touched, never touched anyone. I spent my whole life training to fight, and I thought that was all I was good for. Then Ulrika assigned me to bodyguard duty, and I watched Polly and Tulip together, all that love and tenderness, and I didn't know what to do with any of it." She let out a shaky laugh. "I liked the way you ordered me about last night. It was easier. Someone telling me exactly what to do, instead of me fumbling around trying to guess what was expected."
Nell studied her for a long moment, then reached out and took Tanna's chin between her fingers, tilting her face up. "Kiss me," she said, her voice crisp and commanding.
Tanna's breath caught, but she obeyed, pressing her lips to Nell's with a hunger that surprised them both. When they broke apart, Nell was smiling, a rare genuine smile that transformed her stern face.
"Then I shall continue giving orders," Nell said, "since you like them so much. You'll find I'm very good at them."
"I've noticed."
Nell swung her legs out of bed and stood, stretching her arms above her head. The morning light caught the curve of her spine, the taut muscles of her back, the perfect tight swell of her arse. Tanna watched, mesmerised, her mouth going dry. She wanted to reach out and touch, to cup those firm cheeks in her palms, but she dared not. Not unless ordered.
Nell glanced over her shoulder and caught Tanna staring. A flicker of smug satisfaction crossed her face. "Eyes up, bodyguard."
"Yes, Captain." Tanna scrambled to find her clothes, which had been discarded in a trail across the cabin floor the night before.
They dressed in comfortable silence, Nell's movements efficient and practiced, Tanna's slower as she tried not to stare. A knock at the door interrupted them, and Greta the Grubgirl, the ship's orcish cook, bustled in with a tray heaped with toast, a pot of marmalade, and a platter of boiled herring that filled the cabin with a pungent, fishy aroma.
"Breakfast!" Greta announced cheerfully, setting the tray on the table. "Boiled herring, just like me mam used to make. Boil 'em for three hours and they're lovely and soft."
"Thank you, Greta," Nell said, with a diplomatic smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Greta lingered for a moment, eyeing the mussed sheets and the two women with undisguised curiosity, then bustled out again. Nell sat down and spread marmalade onto a piece of toast with precise, economical movements.
"Now," she said, in the tone she used for giving sailing orders. "During the day, you will attend to your duties. Polly and Tulip need their bodyguard. But every evening, you will dine with me in my cabin. And you will sleep in my bed."
Tanna's heart hammered. "Every evening?"
"Every evening." Nell's voice was steady, but her eyes flickered with something uncertain. She looked down at her plate. "But only if you want to, Tanna. I won't force you. I don't... I don't know how to do this gently. I only know how to order."
Tanna crossed the cabin in three strides, took Nell's face in both hands, and kissed her. Not because she was told to. Because she wanted to.
"I want to," she said against Nell's lips. "I want every evening. And every morning. And I'll learn this slowly, if you'll teach me."
Nell's hand found hers beneath the table and squeezed tight. "And tonight ... you can touch that arse that so captivated you," she promised breathlessly.
A tiny giggle drifted through the open porthole, high and bright as a struck bell. Tanna froze mid-kiss, her lips still brushing Nell's, and turned her head. There, perched on the sill with her wings buzzing faintly in the morning light, sat Honeymuff. The six-inch pixie had her hands cupped around her face, peering in with all the subtlety of a child watching a street performer.
"Ooooh, Captain," Honeymuff sang, her voice carrying through the cabin like a beam of sunlight. "The crew's going to be ever so disappointed. I told everyone you had a heart of ice, and here you are, holding hands and making goo-goo eyes over boiled herring."
Nell stiffened. Her hand released Tanna's faster than a snapped rope. "Honeymuff. Were you spying on my cabin?"
"Spying?" Honeymuff fluttered inside, her gossamer wings leaving a faint shimmer of dust in the air. She landed on the breakfast tray, feet planted squarely on the marmalade pot, and put her tiny fists on her hips. "I prefer to think of it as keeping a watchful eye on morale. And morale is looking very, very good this morning." She winked at Tanna. "You've got that freshly shagged glow about you, darling. The Captain's a fast worker. I gave her the hint last night, you know. Told her you were lonely."
"You what?" Tanna blinked.
"Just a little nudge in the right direction." Honeymuff preened. "I'm a matchmaker. It's a gift. Like how I matched myself with poor confused It last night. Now there's a creature who knows how to use its tentacles. Ooh, the things it did to me." She shuddered, a dreamy smile spreading across her face. "I'm going to need more milk in my diet. The little one's going to hatch with tentacles of its own at this rate."
Nell pinched the bridge of her nose. "Honeymuff. What do you want?"
"Nothing at all, Captain. Just to say congratulations." The pixie did a little curtsy. "And to let you know that Lord Tragic-Poetry is out on the bow again, writing verses about a sea bird he saw. Something about 'her wings, like scissors, cutting the sky's blue cloth.' It's dreadful. Somebody really should stop him before he makes the gulls seasick."
"Thank you for the intelligence." Nell's voice was dry as ship's biscuit.
Honeymuff blew them both a kiss, her grin widening. "Enjoy your breakfast, darlings. And Tanna, when the Captain gives you night orders, you make sure you follow every single one. It's the only way to learn." She buzzed backward out of the porthole and was gone, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon.
Tanna stared at the empty porthole, then at Nell. "She's... a lot."
"She's a menace." Nell let out a breath she had been holding. "But she was right about you. She's right about most things, damn it. It's insufferable."
"Did she really tell you to come find me?"
Nell's cheeks coloured. A rare and charming sight. "She mentioned you were watching the horizon with a sad look about you. That was all." She reached for her toast, as if the matter were closed.
Tanna smiled, reached over, and stole the toast from Nell's fingers, biting into it with deliberate slowness. "I'm glad she did."
Nell's eyes darkened, a flash of something hot and possessive, but she said nothing. She simply watched Tanna chew, and the silence between them was heavy with the promise of tonight.
The silence between them was heavy with the promise of tonight.
Out on the bow, Lord Dravion of the House of Nightshade struck a pose that he felt was suitably Byronic. One boot upon the coiled rope, one hand pressed to his breast, the wind tugging at his silver hair. He had been staring at a gull for the better part of an hour, waiting for the muse to strike, and the gull had eventually flown off in disgust. But now his dark elf eyes alighted upon a far more inspiring subject.
Scoffer the orc lay sprawled across the deck like a beached walrus, his enormous green belly rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of the waves. He wore only his leather posing pouch, his red rubber nose, and his clown shoe, which he had kicked off and was now resting on the rail. One massive hand was scratching idly at his chest, and he was humming a tuneless ditty about a pig and a priest.
Dravion's lips curved into a smile. Here was a muse of a different order. He cleared his throat, adopted a suitably tragic expression, and began to declaim.
"O Scoffer, vast and rank and grand,
Whose mighty sceptre fills the land,
That rod of flesh, that holy lance,
Which made the good physician dance!
When Sindy Sawbones saw thy pride,
She cast her scalpel all aside,
And cleft-to-cleft, with joyous thrust,
She quite forgot to slice thy crust.
Her fingers trembled, knees went weak,
She could not amputate thy cheek,
For thy great member, heaven-sent,
Had bless'd her with such merriment
That foot and bone and gangrene too
Were quite forgot for pleasures new!"
Scoffer's face had undergone a remarkable transformation during the recitation. At first, he had simply blinked, slow and bovine. Then a grin had spread across his green features, revealing a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth. He sat up, scratching his belly in appreciation, nodding along as the poem described his manhood in terms usually reserved for cathedrals.
"Aye," he rumbled, pleased. "That's a good 'un, elf. Tell it again, slower. I want to remember the bit about the lance."
Dravion, flushed with artistic triumph, bowed deeply. "Why, gladly, noble Scoffer. I shall immortalise thee in verse for all the ages. Let me but recall the final stanza..."
And he did. He launched into the second recitation with even more fervour than the first, his voice soaring as he described Sindy Sawbones' abandonment of her duty. Scoffer was grinning ear to ear, slapping his thigh, until Dravion reached the final lines.
"Yet hark! The gods, who see all sin,
Knew well what glories lay within,
And so they sent a favour true,
To bless that mighty shaft anew.
But should a poet dare to sing
Of what that shaft to Sindy brings,
Then by the gods, he shall be smote
And left to choke upon his quote!"
Scoffer's grin vanished. His brow furrowed. He rose to his full height, which was considerable, and cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping timbers.
"Hold on," Scoffer said darkly. "Are you saying the gods'll smite me for what I did with Sindy?"
"Not at all!" Dravion took a hasty step backward. "I merely thought to add a dramatic flourish, a warning to lesser poets not to overstep—"
"Because it feels like you're calling down holy retribution on my knob," Scoffer growled, pointing a thick green finger at his own crotch. "And I'll have you know that knob has never been smitten by anything except the pox, and I got that cleared up."
"My dear orc, the poem is a tribute!"
"It's a threat!" Scoffer advanced, his clown shoe still off, his bare feet thudding on the deck. "You're threatening my holy member with divine smiting, and that's a bloody grave offence, that is. I'll have you smote instead. I'll smite you myself. I'll pick you up and smite you into the sea so hard you'll bounce."
Dravion backpedalled, waving his hands. "I shall never speak of it again, I swear! The poem is stricken! Gone from memory!"
"Too late," Scoffer rumbled, and gave chase around the mainmast, with Dravion's silver hair streaming behind him like a flag of surrender.
Polly Panzerfaust leaned against the starboard rail, nursing a chipped mug of Wee Minnie's famously strong tea. The steam curled up past her green mohawk, and she watched the spectacle unfolding around the mainmast with the lazy satisfaction of a cat observing a mouse that had not yet realised it was doomed. Beside her, Tulip sat on a folded sail, her round belly a comfortable mound beneath her loose dress, both hands wrapped around her own mug as if it were the only warm thing in the world.
"I give him three more laps," Polly said, taking a sip. "Look at him. He's flagging. The elf's got no stamina."
"He's a poet, love," Tulip said softly. "They save their stamina for complaining."
Dravion shot past them, his silver hair plastered to his forehead, his fine boots skidding on the deck. Behind him came Scoffer, moving with the tireless, relentless gait of a creature who had spent his whole life chasing down slow-moving prey. The orc was laughing now, a deep guttural boom that shook the rigging.
"Should we stop them?" Tulip asked, with the mild concern of someone watching a tree fall in an empty forest.
Polly considered. "In a minute. Let him get another twenty or so laps in first. He'll be too winded to recite for a week. That's good for all of us."
Tulip nodded sagely. "You're a wise woman, Polly Panzerfaust."
"I know. And damn sexy with it, luckily for you." Polly grinned and raised her mug in a toast.
Dravion stumbled past again, clutching his side. His face was a mask of aristocratic despair, the expression of a man who had just realised that dramatic exits require more cardiovascular fitness than he possessed. Scoffer, by contrast, was barely sweating, and had begun to sing a jaunty sea shanty about the many uses of a length of rope.
It was then that Tanna emerged from the direction of the captain's cabin, walking with the careful, measured tread of someone who had spent the night being very thoroughly ridden. She was adjusting the straps of her armour, and her cheeks still carried a flush that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
Polly's eyes narrowed. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She nudged Tulip with her elbow.
"Morning, Tanna," Polly called, her voice sweet as stolen honey. "Rough night guarding something important, was it?"
Tanna froze mid-strap. Her head snapped up, and her blush deepened by several shades. "I was... on watch."
"On watch," Polly repeated. "Right. And what exactly were you watching, with your armour off?"
"My armour's not off," Tanna said, too quickly.
Tulip, ever gentle, reached out and plucked something from Tanna's shoulder. She held it up between finger and thumb: a single long white hair, gleaming like a thread of moonlight. The silence that followed was louder than Scoffer's shanty.
"Oh," Tanna said faintly.
"Sore?" Polly asked, with the bluntness of a woman who had seen everything and judged none of it. "You're walking like you've been on a horse for six hours. And not the kind with hooves."
Tanna opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Captain Nell and I were... discussing strategy."
"Strategically shagging," Polly said cheerfully. "That's the best kind. I've done hours of strategic shagging in my time. Got medals for it."
Tulip smacked Polly's arm. "Polly! Be nice. She's clearly embarrassed enough."
But then Tulip rose, with a little grunt of effort, and waddled over to Tanna. She wrapped her arms around the knight, pressing her round belly against Tanna's armoured torso, and held her tight. Polly followed, wrapping her wiry arms around both of them, and the three of them stood there in the morning sun, a tangle of leather, wool, steel, and pregnant warmth.
"You silly goose," Tulip murmured against Tanna's shoulder. "We told you. We're happy for you. We want you to have this."
Tanna's eyes grew wet. "I didn't know if... I mean, you and Polly have each other. I didn't want to intrude."
"You're not intruding," Polly said firmly. "You're family. And family gets to be happy. Even if it is with a stuck-up captain who uses the word 'protocol' during foreplay."
"Polly," Tulip warned.
"What? She does. I heard her through the wall last night. 'Protocol,' she says. 'There will be procedures.' Bloody terrifying, if you ask me."
Tanna laughed, watery but genuine. "She's not terrifying. She's..."
"Stiff?" Polly offered.
"Careful," Tanna said. "She's careful. With everything. But the thing is, underneath all that starch, she just wants someone to hold. So I held her."
Polly and Tulip exchanged a look, one of those silent married looks that contained entire conversations. Then Polly reached up and ruffled Tanna's hair, ruining the careful neatness of it.
"You've got our blessing," Polly said. "Both of you. If anyone gives you trouble about it, point them at me." She flexed her knuckles. "I know how to have a word."
"And if the Captain ever makes you sad," Tulip added gently, "you come straight to us. We'll feed you, and Polly will punch something, and everything will feel better."
Tanna sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of one gauntlet, and managed a wobbly smile. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't... I don't deserve you."
"Don't be daft," Polly said. "Everyone deserves a bit of love. Even knights."
Behind them, Dravion let out a strangled cry as Scoffer finally caught him, lifting the dark elf bodily over one shoulder. Scoffer ignored Dravion's protests about dignity and family honour, carrying him toward the stern like a hunter with fresh game.
Polly watched them go, then raised her mug. "Now that's what I call a successful morning. I suppose I'd better intervene before we lose the bard completely ... though some losses might be considered a gain." She sighed, set down her mug, and strode off to rescue the Dark Elf.
Polly had taken exactly three strides toward the struggling poet when a voice boomed down from above, loud enough to rattle the rigging.
"SHEEP! OFF THE PORT BOW! BIG SHEEP! WITH A FLAG!"
Everyone on deck froze. Scoffer stopped mid-carry, Dravion dangling upside down over his shoulder. Tulip's tea sloshed in her mug. Tanna's hand went to the hilt of her sword.
Polly craned her neck upward. High in the crow's nest, a massive bovine shape shifted against the morning sky. Grakthor the minotaur was pointing one enormous horned head toward the horizon, his deep voice carrying across the water.
"IT'S GOT A BLACK FLAG! WITH BONES ON IT! AND... THINGS!" He squinted, hoof shading his eyes. "STRANGE THINGS! CROSSED LIKE SWORDS, BUT NOT SWORDS!"
Captain Nell emerged from her cabin at a run, her pristine uniform already buttoned, her long white braid snapping in the wind. She seized a spyglass from the rack by the helm and pressed it to her eye. Her face went through several stages of disbelief before settling on grim resignation.
"Pirates," she said flatly. "That's the Jolly Rogerer. Skull and crossed dildoes. The Crimson Mary's personal standard."
A ripple of alarm ran through the crew. Scoffer dropped Dravion, who landed in a heap and immediately scrambled to his feet, straightening his doublet with as much dignity as he could muster.
"The Crimson Mary?" Polly said, rolling the name around her mouth. "Sounds like a bad tattoo."
"She's the most dangerous pirate queen on this coast," Nell said, her voice tight. "And she operates according to a very strict code of piratical conduct. There's a book. A large one. She follows it to the letter."
"A book of rules?" Polly's grin widened. "So we just need to point out when she's breaking them. That sounds easy."
Nell gave her a look that could have frozen seawater. "The book has over nine hundred pages, Miss Panzerfaust. The Crimson Mary knows every single one by heart. She has arbitrated pirate disputes in twelve kingdoms. She once sued a rival captain for breach of etiquette and won a fleet of ships and three islands in damages."
"BRUTEHILDE!" Grakthor's voice boomed down again. "I CAN SEE THE PIRATES! THEY'RE WAVING! I THINK THEY'RE BEING POLITE!"
Brutehilde, who had been below deck breaking her fast on a whole ham, burst through the companionway with ham fat still glistening on her chin. Her iron-plaited hair swung like maces as she stomped to the rail and glared at the approaching vessel.
"Grakthor! Get down here this instant!" she bellowed, pointing a finger the size of a sausage at the crow's nest. "You're the lookout! You can't be waving at pirates!"
"RIGHT! COMING DOWN!" Grakthor turned, took one confident step, and stepped directly off the platform into empty air. He fell the full height of the mainmast, a hundred and fifty feet of horned, muscular minotaur plummeting in a spiral of flailing hooves and panicked bellowing. He hit the deck with a crash that shook the entire ship, splintering three planks and sending a barrel of pickled fish spinning across the boards.
The crew stared at the groaning heap of bovine flesh. Grakthor lay spread-eagled, his eyes rotating in opposite directions, his horns having carved two fresh furrows into the oak.
"I couldn't find the proper way down, Brutehilde," he moaned thickly. "There was no ladder that way."
Scathach Scarface, the ship's mate, appeared from the hold, took one look at the situation, and sighed through her teeth. Her scarred face, already weathered by years of sea and brawling, added several new lines of resignation.
"Right." She hooked her arms under Grakthor's massive shoulders. "Sindy! Get your bag. We've got a broken minotaur and I'm not carrying him alone."
Sindy Sawbones came running from the direction of the surgery, her medical satchel bouncing against her hip. She skidded to a halt beside Grakthor and dropped to her knees, checking his pupils with practiced efficiency.
"Multiple contusions, possible concussion, probable fracture of the left horn," she announced. "Let's get him to the surgery. Scathach, take his legs."
"You take his legs," Scathach grunted, heaving at Grakthor's shoulder. "He weighs more than my entire childhood."
Between the two of them, they managed to haul the groaning minotaur across the deck and through the door to the surgery. As they passed, Nell fixed Sindy with a stare sharp enough to flay paint from wood.
"Sindy. Absolutely no amputation. I don't care how much his leg looks like it needs removing. You will not cut anything off him."
Sindy's face fell in obvious disappointment. "But Captain—"
"Nothing. Off. Him." Nell's voice was granite. "If his leg falls off naturally, we'll reconsider. Until then, you will treat him with rest and cold compresses and nothing else."
"Yes, Captain," Sindy muttered, and the surgery door swung shut behind them.
Nell turned back to the approaching ship, now close enough that the Jolly Rogerer was clearly visible. A crowd of figures lined the pirate vessel's deck, all waving enthusiastically. One figure, taller than the rest, appeared to be reading aloud from an enormous leather-bound book held open by a small gnome in a sailor's cap.
"Quite polite," Nell said through gritted teeth. "They'll be even politer after they've robbed us blind and made us sign a receipt."
The pirate vessel hove alongside with a grace that spoke of years of practice, its hull creaking softly against the fenders they had thoughtfully lowered. Ropes were thrown, caught, and secured with professional efficiency. No raiding cries, no cutlass-waving, no threats. Just a line of grinning sailors, all dressed in immaculate striped shirts, all watching the Sea-Nymph's Revenge with the cheerful anticipation of tourists arriving at a promising inn.
A gangplank was laid across the gap, and a woman strode aboard. She was tall, with a mane of fiery red hair that spilled from beneath a tricorn hat, and a smile that had probably launched a thousand legal disputes. Her coat was deep crimson, her boots polished to a mirror shine, and at her hip hung a cutlass with a gilded hilt. She doffed her hat with a sweeping flourish and bowed.
"Good afternoon, fine folk of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge!" she called, her voice rich and warm. "I am Captain Mary of the Crimson Mary, at your service. What a simply delightful day for a voyage, is it not? The wind, the sun, the smell of the sea. Magnificent."
Behind her, the little gnome clambered over the rail with the enormous book clutched to his chest. He landed on the deck, staggered under the weight, and set the tome down reverently on a nearby barrel. It was bound in what looked suspiciously like shark leather, its pages edged with gold, and it opened with a creak that sounded like a dungeon door.
"Now then," Mary continued, pulling a smaller ledger from her coat and flipping it open with practiced ease. "Let me just check my records. Ah, yes. Here we are. The Sea-Nymph's Revenge, Captain Nautical Nympho Nell." She glanced up, her grin widening. "Lovely name, by the way. Very evocative. Now, under maritime law, section seven, sub-clause forty-two of the Great Code of Piracy, I find that I have sufficient credit on my annual piracy quota to rob this vessel. I do hope that's convenient."
Nell's eye twitched. "You're asking if it's convenient?"
"Good manners cost nothing, Captain," Mary said, beaming. "And I find that a well-mannered robbery is a more pleasant robbery for all involved. Now, let's see. The quota requires that I take at least one chest of gold, a crate of something valuable, and the ship's figurehead. Though I'm willing to negotiate on the figurehead if you have sentimental attachment to it."
Polly, who had been watching with her arms crossed, let out a low whistle. "She's good. I almost want to let her rob us just for the entertainment value."
"Don't you dare," Brutehilde rumbled, stepping forward with her iron-plaited hair swinging. "Nobody robs us. I'll break her bloody ledger over her head."
Mary's eyes lit up with genuine appreciation. "Ah! Brutehilde of the Knee-Knocking Damsel! I've heard so much about you. Your tavern's reputation is legendary. I once had a crewman who claimed he drank there and woke up married to a dwarf. We thought he was jesting, but the dwarf showed up the next week looking for him, so apparently not."
Brutehilde blinked, momentarily disarmed. "That... would have been Brenda. She's a handful."
"I can imagine." Mary snapped her ledger shut and tucked it under her arm. "But business before pleasure, I'm afraid. However, I'm also a reasonable woman. Let us discuss this like civilised folk. I hear you have a tea room aboard?"
Nell's expression flickered through surprise and settled on wary intrigue. "We do. Wee Minnie's establishment. She serves a very strong blend."
"Excellent! I do love a proper cup of tea while conducting negotiations." Mary gestured to the gnome, who had already begun hauling the great book toward the companionway. "My clerk, Pumble, will accompany us to take minutes. I presume you have no objection?"
Nell exchanged a glance with Tanna, then with Brutehilde. The massive woman shrugged, her iron-plaited hair clanking against her shoulders.
"Fine," Nell said at last. "The tea room. We'll negotiate there." She turned and led the way below deck, her spine rigid as a mast.
Polly watched them go, then nudged Tulip. "Did you see that? The pirate queen wants to negotiate over tea. This is the politest robbery I've ever witnessed."
"Aye," Tulip agreed, her hand resting on her belly. "I think I like her. She's got lovely manners."
"Of course you'd say that, love. You'd get on with anyone who offers you a biscuit."
"Aye, there's truth in that," Tulip admitted, settling back against the sail. "Still, I wouldn't say no to a biscuit if one were offered."
The pirates had begun to amble aboard in earnest while the negotiation went on below. They came across the gangplank in a steady stream, all grinning, all immaculate in their striped shirts. Most of them were perfectly pleasant, tipping their hats to the crew and complimenting the ship's lines. One even offered Scathach a salted plum as she emerged from the surgery, which she accepted with a grunt of wary thanks.
But a handful of them had clearly been celebrating something. They stumbled across the deck in a trio, reeking of rum and wearing the glassy-eyed grin of men who had started drinking before breakfast and never saw a reason to stop.
The largest of the three, a barrel-chested brute with a gold earring the size of a doorknob, spotted Tulip where she sat on the folded sail. He stopped dead, swaying slightly, and jabbed a finger in her direction.
"Oi," he said, his voice carrying across the deck like a foghorn. "Look at that. A fat elf. Never seen a fat elf before, 'ave you, lads?"
His two companions turned, squinted, and burst into wheezing laughter. One of them, a scrawny fellow with a patch over the wrong eye, elbowed his mate. "Reckon she's eaten a few too many pies, eh? Or swallowed a barrel whole."
The big one ambled over, emboldened by rum and the absence of any immediate consequence. He reached out and prodded Tulip's pregnant belly with a thick, grubby finger.
"What's in there, then, lass?" he slurred. "A whole roast pig? Or did ye just—"
He did not finish the sentence. Polly's fist connected with his jaw with a sound like a cleaver hitting a haunch of beef. The pirate's eyes rolled back, his head snapped sideways, and he dropped to the deck as if his strings had been cut, a spray of teeth arcing through the morning air like a scatter of small white dice.
His one-eyed companion had barely begun to process what had happened before Polly's brass-knuckled fist came around in a hook that caught him square on the temple. He folded without a sound. The third pirate, his rum-soaked brain finally catching up, took a clumsy swing at Polly. She ducked under it, stepped in close, and drove her knee into his groin with a force that lifted him clean off his feet. He landed in a heap, wheezing like a punctured bellows.
The deck fell silent. Every pirate who had been happily ambling about froze mid-stride, their grins dying on their faces. One dropped the second salted plum he had been about to offer Scathach. It rolled across the boards and came to rest against a coil of rope.
Polly straightened, shook out her hand, and flexed her knuckles. Her green mohawk seemed to bristle. She looked down at the three groaning pirates at her feet, then at the ring of horrified faces, and smiled with the serene satisfaction of a woman who had just tidied up a mess.
"Anyone else want to comment on my wife's figure?" she asked pleasantly.
A pirate with a neat beard and spectacles, who had been watching from the rail, took a hesitant step forward. His voice was barely a whisper. "We're... we're terribly sorry. That was... that was not piratical conduct. At all."
"Bloody right it wasn't," another chimed in. "Section nine, sub-clause seventeen! 'No rude remarks about a lady's person, under any circumstances, including but not limited to pregnancy, stature, or choice of hat.'"
"And clause nine of the preamble!" cried a third. "'A pirate shall conduct himself with the utmost decorum, especially when in company that might include expectant mothers.'"
A furious rustle of pages drew everyone's eyes to the companionway. The gnome Pumble had thundered up the steps, the great book clutched in his arms, his face red as a boiled beet. Behind him came Captain Mary and Nell, both moving at a run. Mary took one look at the three unconscious pirates, the scattered teeth, and Polly's satisfied expression, and her face fell through dismay into something approaching grief.
"Which section?" Mary demanded, her voice strained.
Pumble had already found the page. He read aloud, his voice quavering. "'Upon any vessel where the pirates are guests, any breach of etiquette, including but not limited to rude gestures, coarse language, or unsolicited touching, shall require the offending party to pay compensation to the aggrieved vessel. The compensation shall be calculated as three times the value of the robbery they were about to commit, plus a sincerely apologetic letter.'"
Mary closed her eyes. She took a long, slow breath, the way a woman does when she is counting to a very large number. "Three times," she repeated. "Three times the value of what we were about to take."
"Yes, Captain," Pumble confirmed, shuffling his feet.
Mary opened her eyes, and for a moment she looked at Polly with something like respect. "You've just cost me a fortune, Miss Panzerfaust."
"He prodded my pregnant wife," Polly said simply. "He got off light."
Mary bowed her head. "He did. And I apologise most sincerely for my crew's behaviour. It was shameful. Unpardonable. It will not happen again." She turned to Pumble, who had already produced a quill and was scribbling furiously into the margins of the great book. "Prepare the compensation chest. The gold we took from the Tarkan merchant convoy. All of it."
Pumble's pen skittered to a stop. "All of it, Captain?"
"All of it, Pumble. The rules are the rules. We don't get to pick and choose which ones to follow."
Within the hour, a chest of gleaming gold was lowered onto the deck of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge. It was a fine chest, banded with silver and carved with scenes of maritime triumph, and it landed with a satisfying thunk that made Brutehilde's eyebrows rise. A formal apology was also delivered, written in Pumble's impeccable hand, signed by Mary herself, and sealed with a dollop of crimson wax.
Mary stood at the gangplank, her tricorn hat in her hands, looking like a woman who had just lost a war she hadn't known she was fighting. "I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive us," she said, addressing the crew at large. "And, Miss Panzerfaust, if you ever find yourself weary of honest work, there will always be a place for you aboard the Crimson Mary. I'd be proud to have a woman of your standards."
Polly grinned. "Thanks, but I'm taken. And I don't do rules."
Mary laughed, a rueful sound, and gestured for her pirates to retreat. They went in silence, their heads bowed, their immaculate shirts seeming somehow less bright. The three unconscious ones were carried off by their mates, who apologised to Polly individually as they passed.
As the Crimson Mary pulled away, its sails sagging in the wind like despondent laundry, Brutehilde watched from the rail with her arms crossed and her iron-plaited hair swinging. Let out a long, slow breath, and shook her head.
"Well, I'll be damned," she said. "Robbed us clean, then paid us three times over for the privilege. And all because a drunken fool couldn't keep his hands off a pregnant woman." She glanced at Polly. "Good punch, by the way."
"Thank you," Polly said. "I've had a lot of practice."
Brutehilde grunted, spat over the rail, and turned back to the ship. "Aye, well. It could only happen at sea."