Chapter 64: The Gates of Hell Part 3

Paul looked up and red ran across his face before he waved her over. Cal shook her head and smiled, then took a table in the corner.
"What will you have, Sir?" The server took another look and flushed red. "I'm sorry, sorry."
"Don't worry about it." Smiling up at the woman, Cal thought of Merica and her babe halfway around the world. "I'd like something different from what I've been eating on board, but not something that will lay me out sick."
"I know the perfect thing. It is chicken crusted with spices and roasted all day."
"Sounds lovely." Cal thought for a moment. "Bring a glass of wine or tankard of ale, whichever is better. After that, I'd like water."
"Yes, Ma'am." The server bobbed her head and disappeared into the kitchen.
Cal's fingers itched. As Captain, she didn't have much time to draw. Maybe if they laid over here for a few days she could break out her satchel full of her sketchbooks and pencils.
"Here, Ma'am." The woman placed a platter in front of Cal which held half a chicken along with some baked roots and brightly-coloured vegetables she couldn't name. "If the spice is too hot, dip bread in the oil and eat it." She pointed out the tiny bowl and a plate with several flatbreads.
As Cal dug in, the skin of the chicken burned fiery hot in her mouth, but the oil quieted it. The flesh of the bird was fall-off-the-bone tender with a unique taste. The roots and vegetables were a good complement. The roots bland, the vegetable sharp and a bit sweet. Before she realized, Cal had emptied the platter and washed the last of the bread down with the final swallow of her ale.
Paul had a new crowd around him. He'd drink free all night telling stories, his voice carrying across the room as he got into his tale.
"We steamed through the Gates of Hell." He shook his head at the disbelieving looks from the listeners. "I know, I know, crazy, right? But this nob wanted to see it for himself. We was strapped in morning to night with maybe a few minutes to do the necessary. Passengers likely regretted it after the first day."
"Don't get many who sail that deathtrap." A white-haired Congu peered skeptically at Paul.
"Wasn't so bad at the start." Paul didn't see or ignored the look. "Rough, but no worse than other storms we'd been through. After a day and half of pounding waves, we sheltered in the lee of this black island. Nothing grew on it." He shuddered.
"Sea Devil's Island." The Congu looked at Paul with respect. "He's the real deal, only people who've seen that place talk about it."
"After the island, it went from rough to insane, as if two hurricanes were battling. Waves came from all directions. Captain strapped herself to the helm and we steamed without stopping through the night." Paul nodded vigorously as if to prove his Captain's mettle. "We hit a patch which was only rough, not we're-going-to-go-down-any-minute rough. So then the nob decided to go out on deck."
"No!" Someone in the crowd of listeners shouted. "Why sail all that way to kill yourself?"
"Oh, he didn't want to kill himself. He's one who figures he's so important, death will make an appointment to see him. The Captain gave us a few seconds to go out with ropes and fetch him in, but a wave struck and washed him overboard."
"You can't mock death," the old Congu said.
"Now here's the part you're not going to believe, but I swear on my mother's grave it's true." Paul waited for the mixed reaction of his listeners to die down. "That wave swept him overboard and almost carried me and my mate with him. Then the Captain spun the ship and put her on her side halfway up this mountain of a wave. We hung on for dear life, sure we'd seen the end. The ship slipped down the wave and picked up the nob as neat as you like. Dropped him right in our arms. We hauled him in and dogged the hatch. Got the nob tied down, though he wasn't happy. The next wave got my mate. Hit the ship and tossed him like a rag doll down the passageway. Broke his neck, poor bloke. Don't think there was a finer sailor than Thomas." Paul took his cap off and paused. Everyone in the crowd followed his example.
Cal would have thought it was showmanship if she hadn't seen the tears on Paul's face as he lifted the board to send Thomas to his final rest. She put her hand over her heart with the rest. When the moment passed, Paul was inundated with a babble of questions, and people pushing drinks at him.
"Quite the tale," a man with rough stubble on his chin, dressed in canvas and leather addressed Cal. He spoke with an undefinable accent. "Vryot Czrmen." He grinned and his blue eyes twinkled. "Most Anglians call me Bri Curzem."
"Cal Shillingsworth." She put out a hand and he shook it firmly. Paul and the others looked halfway to three sheets to the wind, but all three would react to any threat. Besides, Cal didn't get an impression of threat from the man.
"Not old Shillingsworth's daughter? My uncle used to talk about him all the time. I guided for the man any time he came to Harasah."
Cal waved him into the seat across from her. Bri entertained her with stories his uncle told about her father. Not once did the conversation touch on either of their reasons for being in this country. She did finally place his accent. He came from the Kershian Empire.
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