Abhorrent Practices - Book 1

Chapter 7.2 - Downtime (Scene 2: Fight!)

Sandrine stepped out of her cabin and was immediately aware of a commotion coming from the starboard side of the ship. Yells, cheers and groans intermingled and were carried towards her on the sea breeze. The sound was unmistakable: a fight had broken out and, judging by the jeers and cheers, it had attracted a sizable audience.

She stared down at the open palm of her left hand. Her fingers still ached with a persistent stiffness when she flexed her fingers or closed her hand into a fist, but the wound inflicted by Alyss had closed and she had no further need to bandage it.

She sighed. She'd expected to be free of the Griellean woman once they left Brael but, after they'd discovered her unconscious on the floor of Skrawl's galley, they'd had no choice but to take her with them. That had been five days ago, and there'd be nowhere to put her ashore now until they reached Orrin's Rock, at least two weeks away. She consoled herself with the thought that perhaps Alyss could use that time to finish her notes on the Rite of Passing. Of course, she'd have to regain consciousness first. Marla was confident the woman would recover, but her exposure to the cold waters below Brael's slate blue cliffs had taken a heavy toll.

Splaying her fingers, testing the ache in her palm for the hundredth time, Sandrine made her way towards the sound of the fighting. Where was Naylor? Why hadn't someone sought him out? She dodged quickly between the huts and cabins on the main deck. She could hear blows now, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh punctuating the general uproar. She rounded the ship's galley, and came up against a wall of backs, two dozen or more deckhands, standing in a circle. Peering over their shoulders, she could see two men squaring off against each other in the centre.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, pushing past the crewman nearest to her.

"Just a bit of fun ma'am." The response was unapologetic, and Sandrine continued threading her way through the crowd.

Squeezing between a heavyset Ferraline paddler and a Braelishman she knew only as the Jennie's principal helmsman, she emerged at the front to find a circle had been marked out on the deck with a length of ship's rope. In the centre, two men were circling each other warily, their hands raised, their knees bent. One she recognised as Farrer, the Jennie Seaholme's first mate. The other was the wiry String Islander, the lookout they'd recruited in Tremayne. She didn't know his name.

"Is everything okay, Mister Farrer?"

Farrer kept his head tucked low into his hunched shoulders, accentuating his stocky frame.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, his eyes fixed on his opponent. "Just teaching Mister Carril the ropes." Carril. That was his name. Farrer made a lunge which the String Islander avoided easily. Carril was light on his feet and seemed to float around the first mate effortlessly. Sandrine wondered what had brought the two men to blows. She'd never known Naylor to allow fighting aboard his ship.

"Mister Carril," Sandrine persisted, "are you all right?" Carril skipped to his left, dodging Farrer's attempt to seize him by the arm. Twisting as he moved, the String Islander's sinewy arm snaked around the burly first mate's short, thick neck. A cheer erupted from one side of the crowd, and Carril began to drag his opponent over to the edge of the rope circle.

"Yes, ma'am," grinned Carril. "Fifteen shillings to the good, so far." Fifteen shillings? They were betting on this fight?

"Does Captain Naylor know about this?"

"Of course!" Naylor appeared at Sandrine's side, his large white teeth bared in a broad grin. "I've got two shillings on Farrer," he said, leaning in towards her, and pressing his lips close to her ear. "A word of advice," he whispered. "Never bet against a Mureen!"