Bromm VII
On the roof of a dockside tavern sat six sailors, passing between them an emptying pitcher of wine as they watched the sun sink low in the west. Their manner was subdued, for they had long lingered in port for a lack of winds to carry them away. Not far away, their ship, the
White Shepherd
, sat at anchor along the quay, manned by only a skeleton crew as the others scattered themselves throughout the port of Arram to drink, whore, and gamble until the winds returned.
The leader of the five was a black-haired young man with broad shoulders and a tall frame. He wore his hair about his shoulders and beneath a broad-brimmed black hat, and his beard was thick and wild. Green eyes glazed with the drink, he stretched in his chest and looked west toward the setting sun.
"Another day gone," Bromm sighed, and one of his companions scoffed.
"Another day wasted," grumbled Sahat. He wiped his mouth and poured himself another cup of wine. "Damn this wind! We should be halfway to Torvuls by now."
"Perhaps another sacrifice to the Anemoi?" proposed Imre, a lanky young man with fair-skin and dark hair. "Something larger this time, like a bull?"
"A hundred sailors have already sacrificed a thousand bulls," replied Lukodo. With one broad, dark-skinned hand, he took the pitcher of wine from a scowling Sahat and poured himself another drink. "The priests have delivered us nothing. More sacrifices will not free us from here."
"Perhaps we don't need wind," Imre went on, "The Zahiri are excellent sailors but are also renowned for their swift galleys. We might hire one to tow us out to sea and find some wind."
"Always with the wind," chided the youngest member of their group. Pyet was a brash lad with a scruffy face untamed by his time in port. "Arram has plenty of wine and women. Why are you in such a hurry to leave?"
"We are almost out of coin," grumbled Sahat, "And the crew is restless enough as it is. We can't keep bleeding money in port, we must find some revenues somewhere."
"Our coffers cannot be empty already! We found an excellent price on the Saeclarian salt."
"There were only seven talents of salt," replied Tahavi, the final member of their crew. Despite his olive-skin, he was having the most difficulty handling the city's heat and was glad of the coming night. He brushed his forehead dry with his green-checkered waistband and leaned forward against the table. "The price was good, but we will be in arrears soon enough if we are stuck in port much longer."
"We will find something," Bromm reassured them. "This damnable calm cannot last forever, and we can promise the crew a larger share of the eventual profits if need be. Our hold is full of coffee and cotton that will fetch a fine price in Torvuls."
"The crew did not sign on to haul crates, Bromm," Sahat cautioned, "The cargoes make fine profits in the meantime, but we have a crew of glory-hungry killers on our hands. We should forget the crates and make for the Spice Gates. Urgan and his ilk will forget their grumblings once we crack open the hull of a spice galleon."
"A spice galleon's cannons would crack us open before we ever got into range," Lukodo laughed. "While it would rid us of Urgan and his grumblers, I like my head attached as it is."
"Bromm is an excellent captain," Pyet replied, "And captains of half his status have achieved greater glories in lesser ships. Glory will make up for a lot of missed paydays."
"But it won't make up for the lack of wind," Sahat objected again. They had no response to that and simply stared sullenly into their cups. Bromm leaned over the edge of the roof and looked down to the streets. A cart laden with sacks of grain clatter by, followed by a man leading a goat to the slaughter. The nightlife of the city was coming alive even as the preparations for the next day began. Down the street he could see the façade of a brothel, where two topless women in sheer skirts leaned over the balcony rail to call down to potential patrons below.
Bromm found his mind wandering down the stairs of the tavern and to the front steps of the brothel. He began counting his coins in his head, wondering how much more expensive this establishment was than the one he had spent the previous night in. But Sahat, ever-gloomy, was once again right. They were short of coin, and in no position to spend it frivolously.
Pyet, however, seemed of a different mind. He leaned over the street opposite Bromm, his eyes intent on the two women and his mouth quirked up in an anticipatory smile. The young man reached for his purse and excused himself.
"If we're to set out to sea again, I'll need to stock up. You know where to find me, lads!" The others shook their heads as he hastened his way downstairs.
"I should say that boy has the right idea," Lukodo said, draining his cup.
"Don't go spending your money all at once," Bromm cautioned. "Who knows how long we'll be stuck here."
"You won't care much for a woman when you're starving in the gutter," Sahat grumbled as Lukodo shrugged off their warnings. He pushed his chair aside and followed Pyet downstairs.
Sahat sighed. "It's a wonder we can keep the crew under control when we can't even control ourselves," he muttered. "I should hate to see us explain the lack of coin."
"Don't worry," Bromm replied. "If things get too dire, we can fall back on my skills as a thief."
"It would require some real skills to sustain our crew on thievery alone," said Imre. "This is a small port, and has only so much to steal."
"Besides, if you're caught, they're likely to cut your head off. The emir is a harsh lawmaster, and the people delight in a public spectacle."
"Aye, Bromm. Keep your hands to yourself when you go out. Without you, Urgan's like to seize the captain's helm and send the rest of us to the depths."
Bromm scowled. The dwarf had proven a greater threat to his captaincy than he had anticipated.
"We need to score a victory soon," he said after a contemplative moment. "Nothing smooths over faults in a crew like a fresh plunder. But these winds! Damn!"
"Perhaps another sacrifice?" Imre suggested again. "More than a bull, a mare? Or a stallion?"
"Where would you find a stallion?" Tahavi laughed, "You're no faris."
"The emir's an avid horseman," Imre replied, "Perhaps he might be persuaded to part with one of his stock. He must be feeling the lack of tariffs and tolls from the harbormaster."
"Expecting an emir to care about us common sailors is a fool's errand," Tahavi sighed. "We're stuck here until the Anemoi rise from their rests once again."
"Or the djinni," Imre replied. "They live in the desert, but if we could find one, we might convince it to summon the wind for us."
"And how are we to find a djinn? They aren't a cobbler with a sign out front."
"There are sorcerers, djinnbinders, who traffic in such things. The binding and dealing of djinni is the highest form of sorcery to the Zahiri."
"And where are we to find one of them?" Sahat demanded.
"You must simply know where to look," said a voice, and they all turned to see its source.
Behind them stood a woman, shrouded in a cloak of midnight blue. Her face was pale, with full, inviting lips, and framed by long, lustrous hair the color of night. Her narrows eyes shone blue, a lighter, sky blue than her cloak, but no less enchanting. She looked down to them haughtily, but with thinly disguised curiosity on her beautiful face. She was gorgeous to behold, and smelled strongly of perfume and the indigo spice.
"Who are you?" Bromm asked in awe.
"Carella is my name, and I am a sister of the Azure Tower."
"You are a long way from home," Bromm replied, "What brings you to Arram?"
"The djinni," she replied simply. She pulled out one of the abandoned chairs and presumptuously seated herself before them. Her cloak swept open to reveal beneath it an embroidered dress of the same midnight blue, embroidered with stars and moons. Her lacy bodice framed a pale breast that shone white in the waning dusk and Bromm's heart raced faster. Carella leaned forward on her elbows, ignoring the stares of all four men as she continued to speak.
"The spirits of the land and desert are the object of my studies. In particular, I have traveled hence to learn the art of djinnbinding, by which a sorceress bargains with a djinn to gain knowledge and power, and possibly binds the djinn to serve her. The tales speak of sorcerers who used their bound servants' powers to travel across land and sea with the speed of a rushing wind, or ward off invaders from their mountain strongholds. Of particular interest to sailors, some djinnbinders used their mastery of the winds to sail as they saw fit. When you are master of the wind, there is no 'upwind.' You've no doubt heard of Thoramar? The legends say that he bound a djinn, and then none could outrun him, for they found that, wherever they turned, they were sailing against the wind, while he bore down on them with the wind at his back."
Bromm nodded in time with her story, fascinated both by her beauty and her words. The others were equally interested, and he could see their interest increase as she spoke of Thoramar and his exploits. Thoughts of sailing out of this becalmed port on a wind no others could follow excited him. He could even use such powers to attack a spicer galleon, for it would be a simple matter to becalm the ship and then approach is from ahead or astern where its armament was light.
I might become the terror of the spice gates and sleep atop a mountain of indigo and gold!
he thought with excitement.
But he tempered such excitement before it ran away with him. However alluring this sorceress was, she was no djinn, nor did he have the sorcerous expertise to do the things she described. But perhaps an alliance could be struck?
"You know how to do these things?" he asked with poorly disguised eagerness.
"I have scrolls and grimoires that speak of such spells. I require only a djinn. And, as it so happens, I know where to find one."
Bromm suddenly wondered if he had the coin required to buy a horse. If they were to go charging off into the desert in pursuit of a djinn, he would want such a mount, for the desert was no place for a man on foot. Brigands and tribal warriors alike rode mounted, and without a horse of equally fine breeding, he would be mere prey for them.
"How far away is this place where you could find a djinn? We are men of the sea, and I would not stray far from the sea if it could be avoided. Many of us have never ridden a horse before."
Carella smiled teasingly at him. "You do not even have to leave the city. As I overheard, you are a thief by trade?"
Bromm bristled somewhat at her tone. "I am a ship captain. Though, yes, I have a past profession of a different color. Your djinn lives in the city?"
"Of a sort. It is imprisoned, as I hear. Bound within a silver lamp by some past djinnbinder, long since deceased. This lamp was looted from some ruin deep in the desert and brought to Arram via a chain of interested buyers and sellers. Over some months, I have traced its route and discovered its current resting place."
