Other Lives(13)

The boy shifted his feet and looked down. “If you give me five coppers I’ll take you to an old pirate cave. Authentic, I swear.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? The pirates? Look, you go around people here will show you whale bones and tell you it’s a sea monster. But I’m honest. I swear, it’s a real pirate’s lair. Everyone’s interested in pirates. And it’s cheap, I’d charge double but you’re a knight,” the kid stood in front of him, barring his way. “It’s the least you can do, you know, seeing as you’re cheating me of a good pair of shoes.”

Lysander had to laugh at that. The wind was picking up a bit, flapping his torn cape around him. Lysander knew if he agreed the kid would try to sell him a mermaid next, but somehow he felt like taking a peek at the lair. He pretended he was a pirate when he was a child, wishing for a ship with black sails to take him far from home. In the end Lysander had left, but he was not to become a pirate king or a hero or any of the other things he’d once fancied.

“Very well,” Lysander said.

“It’s close,” Endric replied.

***

The pirate’s lair was in fact a rather small, damp cave. Endric lit a lamp that lay next to the entrance and then took him on a tour of the meagre quarters. Some sleeping mats on the floor, a couple of tin cups and a pile of dirty clothes made the magnificent pirate’s den Endric had boasted about all the way. At the back of the cave was a stone with several drawings on it.

“This used to be where they came after their raids,” explained Endric, tiptoeing around the sleeping mats. “And that, it was their altar to the god of thieves. They used to place gold coins and necklaces in front it. But the gold’s gone now.”

“It looks like a rock,” Lysander said. “Some scuff marks on it.”

“Well, that’s how much you know about pirate altars. Iraerson made those marks, he was a mighty water-wizard and the companion of a great pirate, Sheadril. Iraerson, he was a priest you see, and had a statue made all of gold to his god. Put it on a pedestal, on that very stone. But they took the statue along with the rest.”

“Who?”

Endric shrugged. “Fish folk, thieves, other pirates. It was a long time ago this I’m telling you. Before I was born. There’s no pirates here anymore.”

“No, there’s not,” muttered Lysander, looking closer at the marks. They extended to the wall and in fact seemed to be letters and drawings. Most of them images of fish and fantastical animals; a mermaid swimming next to a dolphin.

“I have a collection of pirate things. Things that I’ve found. Even a knife and a skull. It’s only half a skull, but good as new. The jaw only,” Endric touched his own jaw to illustrate his point. “But it’s in great shape. I can show you, but you’d have to pay double.”

“This is fine,” he moved towards the entrance.

“I thought you like pirate stuff.”

“Not really.”

“Why are you here then? Nobody comes here except for the pirates. I’ll show you another pirate lair, come on.”

“It’s fake,” he glanced outside at the relentless drizzle and the sun hiding behind thick clouds.

“What?” the boy blinked.

“Your pirate lair, it’s fake,” he muttered, tired of it all, the conversation and the bleak sky grinning at him. “It’s a fisherman’s cove. They would keep their boats here, their nets and sometimes they’d salt their fish.”

“How would you know that?”

“I grew up here.”

The boy leaned against the cave’s entrance and wiped his nose with a bony hand. He was thin from watered fish broth and stale bread. Probably half a dozen brothers and sisters as skinny as him hovering around the table. Meagre food, only a pair of shoes for them all and plenty of blows to quiet them down. Lysander used to hate the fish broth more than the blows.

Lysander shook his head, unsettled. He no longer wanted to think of pirates or fish folk.

“Why, you don’t say, the fisherman’s son became a gent?” said the kid in open mockery. “I’ve never hear of a fish-boy being no knight.”

“Mercenary,” he grumbled under his breath.

“What?”

“A mercenary,” he said loudly and stepped out, heading back the way they’d come, hoping to lose the boy.

But he was not an easy one this kid. Sticking to him, matching his pace.

“That’s true?”

“Yes, it is,” said Lysander.

“You’re from here? Were born here?”

“I played in that damn cave myself.”

“A real sword-brother,” said Edric in awe, looking him up and down. “Then you can do tricks and such, and have a horse. My uncle’s got a mule, but no horse. Have you been in a big city?”

“Some.”

“Which ones?”

“Some.”

“Did you work for a great lord of a city?”

“Will you leave me alone?” he bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

It was the kid’s fault. He’d been pestering him, hanging behind him like a shadow. He wasn’t used to it, to people like that. It was too much. The damn smell of fish, the rain and the sand clinging to his clothes.