SAILING FOR THREE

In the morning the mess hall served solely Fugger, his first mate missing and their hostage secured, hopefully. He wondered when her last meal was ate and considered bringing a bowl of something despite the pained wound she had nonetheless delivered unto him. Unwilling to cook, he settled on grapes and half a likely stale loaf. But before the brother, Fugger drew up to the drapes hanging between he and the navigator’s cabin, knocking on the wood wall beside. No response came. He bunched the sheet away to discover an awake Bellhound leaning his chair back having a smoke.

“The pipe is enough, thanks,” Bellhound said upon his captain’s entry.

“It’s not for you.”

“Also di’n’t say to enter.”

“My ship. Why didn’t you?”

“Cos I don’t want you here, horse’s ass.”

“No way to speak to your captain,” Fugger decided.

“So what. Toss me over, then.” He took a long drag.

“Bell...”

“Bread went bad today as well.”

Fugger stood in an awkward stance, unsure what to say next nor do with his palms, so he hovered for a few moments further before drawing back behind the curtain and exiting the navigator’s cabin, bowl still in hand. He brought the fruit and loaf to the blocked closet, resisting a knock and instead lurking near to listen. No sound uttered. With one hand he held close the offering of breakfast, his other tugging the lodged stool free allowing access to the door. Before he hit the knob however, a kick blasted the wood off its hinges and sent the ship’s captain bouncing backwards with grapes scattering wildly. Fugger recovered from his daze just in time for the knight to advance forward and deliver another blow to his head, smacking him back against the floorboards. Through a blurred lens Fugger watched the hostage make her escape, bursting down the hall until a leg extended at its end sending armor crashing against porthole glass, blood smearing, filling cracks as the brother fell slack and over. Bellhound stepped out from the shadows to investigate.

“She survived, captain--if you can hear me.”

“... Aye,” the captain groaned.

Fugger’s first mate knelt down beside him and took his head into his hands.

“Nasty welt on the back. You’ll live, though.”

“The... sh...ip’s... medic...?”

“Shut up, captain,” shot Bellhound, smiling but nonetheless returning to the unconscious heap in iron. He set about untying the ropes that bound the brother’s armor to her body, chestplate loosening and clattering to the ground--her greaves then, kilt, gauntlets, helmet--until the knight was presented in somewhat modest garments: a plain undershirt and billowy satin pants. Bell thought little of the scene to the contrast of an incapacitated Fugger managing a grin before slipping out of consciousness...

Fugger’s eyes crept open, the day seemingly unchanged, sunlight continuing to spill through circular panes. He laid back in his cabin, fancy fleurs stretching from end to end as always. Fugger’s fingers ran and pressed against his forehead in a vain attempt to subdue a tremendous headache. The memory of his injury hit him with a remnant of the force dealt as the hostage situation dawned anew, his unfortunate role regretted along with the annoyance of a chaste agreement. It seemed then to Fugger the brother’s captain intended on his being brought before His majesty one way or another, whoever this was considering he never caught His name. Fugger then hesitated, realizing he knew not the esteemed knight captain either who swore to see his execution seen through. But then, that same senior knew not “Fugger” either--”Bellhound” too, a moment further spent on his first mate’s identity. Fugger slapped his cheeks, her name as well illusive. For such an intense standoff, it seemed strange he knew only its victim. He glanced at the smeared sun through his cabin’s dirtiest porthole, taking the sleeve of his button-up and attempting to wipe the mess clean. No success. The captain left his quarters.

He came up out of the boat’s guts but stayed his looted boots from rising off the final rungs of the ladder upon noticing Bellhound gazing up at the clouds in a trance. He snuck up just behind him.

“You a poet?”

“What?” replied the startled ship’s navigator.

“You’re looking all up at the sky. Poet behavior,” his captain suggested.

“Not really,” affirmed Bellhound.

“I guess you got strong overnight.”

“What?”

“Woke up in my quarters.”

“Yeah,” came from Bellhound flatly.

“What’s up? You bothered or something?”

“I’m working.”

“You’re staring at clouds.”

“You’re loose with that damned flintlock. So what if it was Corton--coulda been you. Coulda been me,” blurted Bell.

“Wha... Surprised you remember his name,” mused Fugger.

“Shouldn’t you? Blasted his head open for gods’ sake.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“Not e’en Blackgill fired so freely. Are you really fit to be a cap’n, captain?” asked an excited Bellhound, his scrawny frame up out of its lean and erect against Fugger.

“No. But you joined me.”

“Hell! Big mistake,” the first mate admitted.

“If you want off with the girl I’ll oblige you,” Fugger offered. “All I need’s to get to ‘shore’ anyway. Once there I’ll pawn this whole stupid thing and the terminal, too, if it’ll mean a comfortable life.”

“A life of rentin’. Good luck getting housing development granted from the old bastard.”

“Who, the king? How would you know? You can’t even read.”

Bellhound delivered across his captain’s bullish expression a back handed slap. The captain stood stunned. His navigator brought his shoulder against Fugger and made his way down the deck’s ladder. Fugger shambled forward and leaned against the railing, his neck craning then to take in what Bellhound observed. He couldn’t seem to find any shape or meaning. He gripped for a moment longer until breaking the lock in his hands and too exiting beneath his billowing flags. On Fugger’s way down he continued past the reinforced broom closet banging and thumping, its enraged contents no doubt executing another escape.

In the evening the mess hall saw its master and no other. The moon was new and dark. His ankle hurt.