The Broken Eye
Page 7
Twenty paces made a good story. Forty was suicide. Gunner might be the best shot in the world. It didn’t matter. Even with an identical charge of powder, and wadding tamped down to exactly the same pressure, and a perfectly round musket ball with no flaws from its casting—even with no wind, and no lurching deck, a musket was only accurate to within a space maybe as large as Gavin’s head at forty paces. Some men liked to believe differently, but the truth was that if you hit a smaller target at that range, it was purely luck. Gavin knew how good of a shot Gunner was. He didn’t believe the man’s story of killing a sea demon, but if anyone in the world could have done such a thing through accuracy alone, it would have been Gunner.
And there’s the problem with arrogance wed with excellence and insanity—a marriage with three partners is already overfull. Reality’s intrusions were unwelcome. Gunner had spent the last twenty years convincing others that he was unable to miss; now he seemed to have convinced himself, too.
“Gunner got given a gooder gun than, than, than…” The pirate devolved into curses, angry at not coming up with an alliterative way to say ‘than he had twenty years ago.’
It wasn’t full-on rage, merely frustration, but Gavin had seen Gunner shoot a man because he was hungry. Gunner was going to go through with this.
Gavin’s stomach sank. What could he do without drafting? Maybe knock out each of the two sailors next to him—and what? Jump off the ship? There was no shore in sight. They’d simply turn around and pick him up. And trusting his body to be strong enough to take out these two sailors and jump before Gunner could shoot him was optimistic at best. He might not even be able to swim with how much abuse his body had taken recently.
He was overcome with a weariness more than physical. This? This was to be his end?
Gavin had been in too many battles to believe that there was some force that protected the men who should live. One of the greatest swordsmen in the world had been killed next to him, while out of sight of the enemy—a freak ricocheting bullet had caught his kidney. A stallion worth satrapies had stumbled on a body after the battle was done, and broke his leg. A general got dysentery because he’d shared his men’s water and meat, rather than eat at his high table. A thousand indignities, a thousand tales that ended without moral or meaning, merely mortality.
War is cause, all else is effect.
Gavin took a bite of the apple. It was sweet and tart. The best apple he’d tasted in his entire life.
Pride, you wanted some little piece of me? Here. Take the whole fucking thing. Gavin spoke in his orator’s voice: “Captain Gunner, I don’t think anyone in the world can make this shot. You think you’re this good? I don’t. I think you’re better. You make this shot, and you’ll be a legend forever. You miss it, and you’re just another pirate who talks big.” Gavin put the apple in his mouth, held it in his teeth, and turned his head to the side, giving Gunner only a profile view.
All activity on the deck stopped.
So I die with an apple in my mouth. My father would have some words about this, no doubt. And Karris will be rightly furious.
Because he’d turned, Gavin couldn’t see how Gunner responded, if he was furious or amused. Gavin couldn’t see any of the other sailors’ reactions. He only saw gray sea and gray sky. The only light granted to him was ugliness. He was only beginning to regret that he’d wasted his last words taunting a pirate when something wet splattered across his face.
He wondered if it was his teeth. There was that momentary delay, when you’re hurt badly and you’re not sure what’s happened. Was he dead? That flash perhaps the spark of his cranium exploding? He didn’t hear the musket bark, but that happened sometimes.
Cheers erupted around the deck. The apple was gone.
One of the sailors picked up a few chunks from the deck. He fit them back together. Held them up. He shouted, “Cap’n Gunner cored it perfect!”
Gunner seemed oblivious to the cheers. He set the white gun-sword across his shoulder and swaggered over to Gavin. That swagger scared Gavin more than Gunner’s normal insanity. It meant Gunner was surprised he’d made the shot, too. Orholam’s balls. “Not one man in the world could make that shot,” Gunner announced. “Cap’n Gunner made that shot!”
“Cap’n Gunner!” the crew roared.
Gunner stood over Gavin, triumphant. He twisted a bit of his ratty beard and chewed on it. “Manacles!” he barked to the sailors beside Gavin.
They slapped Gavin in chains once more, but he was barely aware of it.
Thank Orholam, if he’d gotten himself killed Karris would never have forgiven him. In fact, when he got free, this was going to be one story he wouldn’t be telling her.
Gunner laid the musket-sword across his palms. Showing it off, now, so Gavin supposed it was safe—advisable even—to show appreciation. The blade was a thing of beauty, covered with some kind of white lacquer, Gavin guessed, and adorned with gems so large they had to be semi-precious stones. Gavin was no expert at swordsmithing, but it looked like a parade piece rather than a warrior’s tool. The gems appeared to go all the way through the blade—weakening the structure—and painting the blade white with black whorls? You’d have to keep an artisan on hand to repaint it constantly. A single cutout in the blade gave a hand rest to steady the gun when firing, weakening the blade further. But Gavin saw no frizzen, no pan, no hammer, no way to balance the butt to achieve any sort of accuracy or to absorb the kick. Was this a jest? It was too thin to be a credible musket anyway.
“I don’t even load it,” Gunner said. He knew that Dazen had shared his appreciation for masterwork firearms. “It makes its own bullets, and they’re more accurate than—well, you saw. Trigger pops down here when it’s loaded.”
“How … how?” Gavin asked. It was an impossibility, of course. But he’d just had an apple shot out of his mouth at forty paces on the deck of a rolling ship. He found himself quite credulous at the moment.
Gunner grabbed the pommel, twisted, pulled it back. A small, smoky chamber was revealed. Gunner poured black powder into it from a powder horn, pushed it back in, and then pulled the pommel back out. It unfolded to make a small buttstock. He grinned like a first-year discipulus who’d gotten away with a prank.
And there it was again, that hint that the crazy was at least half for show. Gunner had spoken without a hitch. It made sense immediately, once Gavin thought about it. Gunner was eccentric. He’d always chosen words wrong. Being thought eccentric or stupid would mean being the target of ridicule among the hard men he led, so instead he had to be absolutely crazy. Men get nervous around insanity, wonder if it’s catching, and keep their distance. Perfect for a new captain who not only wanted to continue being a captain, but wanted to become a legend.
“How accurate?” Gavin said.
“Hit a scrogger at four hundred paces. Ball don’t wobble. It’s better magic than all the magic you once called yours, Giggly Guile.” Gunner lifted the musket to his shoulder and tracked a seagull on the wing two hundred paces out. He fired, just as it swooped lower—and missed. “’Course, she still won’t do it all for you. Makes me respect her the more. She demands excellence, like the sea.”
And there’s the problem with arrogance wed with excellence and insanity—a marriage with three partners is already overfull. Reality’s intrusions were unwelcome. Gunner had spent the last twenty years convincing others that he was unable to miss; now he seemed to have convinced himself, too.
“Gunner got given a gooder gun than, than, than…” The pirate devolved into curses, angry at not coming up with an alliterative way to say ‘than he had twenty years ago.’
It wasn’t full-on rage, merely frustration, but Gavin had seen Gunner shoot a man because he was hungry. Gunner was going to go through with this.
Gavin’s stomach sank. What could he do without drafting? Maybe knock out each of the two sailors next to him—and what? Jump off the ship? There was no shore in sight. They’d simply turn around and pick him up. And trusting his body to be strong enough to take out these two sailors and jump before Gunner could shoot him was optimistic at best. He might not even be able to swim with how much abuse his body had taken recently.
He was overcome with a weariness more than physical. This? This was to be his end?
Gavin had been in too many battles to believe that there was some force that protected the men who should live. One of the greatest swordsmen in the world had been killed next to him, while out of sight of the enemy—a freak ricocheting bullet had caught his kidney. A stallion worth satrapies had stumbled on a body after the battle was done, and broke his leg. A general got dysentery because he’d shared his men’s water and meat, rather than eat at his high table. A thousand indignities, a thousand tales that ended without moral or meaning, merely mortality.
War is cause, all else is effect.
Gavin took a bite of the apple. It was sweet and tart. The best apple he’d tasted in his entire life.
Pride, you wanted some little piece of me? Here. Take the whole fucking thing. Gavin spoke in his orator’s voice: “Captain Gunner, I don’t think anyone in the world can make this shot. You think you’re this good? I don’t. I think you’re better. You make this shot, and you’ll be a legend forever. You miss it, and you’re just another pirate who talks big.” Gavin put the apple in his mouth, held it in his teeth, and turned his head to the side, giving Gunner only a profile view.
All activity on the deck stopped.
So I die with an apple in my mouth. My father would have some words about this, no doubt. And Karris will be rightly furious.
Because he’d turned, Gavin couldn’t see how Gunner responded, if he was furious or amused. Gavin couldn’t see any of the other sailors’ reactions. He only saw gray sea and gray sky. The only light granted to him was ugliness. He was only beginning to regret that he’d wasted his last words taunting a pirate when something wet splattered across his face.
He wondered if it was his teeth. There was that momentary delay, when you’re hurt badly and you’re not sure what’s happened. Was he dead? That flash perhaps the spark of his cranium exploding? He didn’t hear the musket bark, but that happened sometimes.
Cheers erupted around the deck. The apple was gone.
One of the sailors picked up a few chunks from the deck. He fit them back together. Held them up. He shouted, “Cap’n Gunner cored it perfect!”
Gunner seemed oblivious to the cheers. He set the white gun-sword across his shoulder and swaggered over to Gavin. That swagger scared Gavin more than Gunner’s normal insanity. It meant Gunner was surprised he’d made the shot, too. Orholam’s balls. “Not one man in the world could make that shot,” Gunner announced. “Cap’n Gunner made that shot!”
“Cap’n Gunner!” the crew roared.
Gunner stood over Gavin, triumphant. He twisted a bit of his ratty beard and chewed on it. “Manacles!” he barked to the sailors beside Gavin.
They slapped Gavin in chains once more, but he was barely aware of it.
Thank Orholam, if he’d gotten himself killed Karris would never have forgiven him. In fact, when he got free, this was going to be one story he wouldn’t be telling her.
Gunner laid the musket-sword across his palms. Showing it off, now, so Gavin supposed it was safe—advisable even—to show appreciation. The blade was a thing of beauty, covered with some kind of white lacquer, Gavin guessed, and adorned with gems so large they had to be semi-precious stones. Gavin was no expert at swordsmithing, but it looked like a parade piece rather than a warrior’s tool. The gems appeared to go all the way through the blade—weakening the structure—and painting the blade white with black whorls? You’d have to keep an artisan on hand to repaint it constantly. A single cutout in the blade gave a hand rest to steady the gun when firing, weakening the blade further. But Gavin saw no frizzen, no pan, no hammer, no way to balance the butt to achieve any sort of accuracy or to absorb the kick. Was this a jest? It was too thin to be a credible musket anyway.
“I don’t even load it,” Gunner said. He knew that Dazen had shared his appreciation for masterwork firearms. “It makes its own bullets, and they’re more accurate than—well, you saw. Trigger pops down here when it’s loaded.”
“How … how?” Gavin asked. It was an impossibility, of course. But he’d just had an apple shot out of his mouth at forty paces on the deck of a rolling ship. He found himself quite credulous at the moment.
Gunner grabbed the pommel, twisted, pulled it back. A small, smoky chamber was revealed. Gunner poured black powder into it from a powder horn, pushed it back in, and then pulled the pommel back out. It unfolded to make a small buttstock. He grinned like a first-year discipulus who’d gotten away with a prank.
And there it was again, that hint that the crazy was at least half for show. Gunner had spoken without a hitch. It made sense immediately, once Gavin thought about it. Gunner was eccentric. He’d always chosen words wrong. Being thought eccentric or stupid would mean being the target of ridicule among the hard men he led, so instead he had to be absolutely crazy. Men get nervous around insanity, wonder if it’s catching, and keep their distance. Perfect for a new captain who not only wanted to continue being a captain, but wanted to become a legend.
“How accurate?” Gavin said.
“Hit a scrogger at four hundred paces. Ball don’t wobble. It’s better magic than all the magic you once called yours, Giggly Guile.” Gunner lifted the musket to his shoulder and tracked a seagull on the wing two hundred paces out. He fired, just as it swooped lower—and missed. “’Course, she still won’t do it all for you. Makes me respect her the more. She demands excellence, like the sea.”
