The Moors

Charlotte’s Public House was renowned for being the only place in the Isles where a ceasefire was universally acknowledged. Aged and weather-worn maps were nailed to the wood-slat walls. A silky golden light soaked the room, which became warmer the longer your visit. A baritone hum lingered in the air as sailors exchanged war stories of varying credibility. The tavern sat in the centre of the Island, down the street from the busy Merchant Quarter where goods were bought, sold, and stolen. Wagons rolled down the road, bottles clinking as the tires struck the potholes along the way. Although it was another typically sunny day outside, the tavern was dimly-lit and the windows were covered by thick drapes, letting hardly any light in.

Inside the tavern, a little black book was smashed onto the table by a firm hand. A crooked, enthusiastic finger pointed repeatedly at the cover. The rest of the tavern seemed unphased by the disturbance, glossy eyes continuing to drink heavily from their tankards. Edger stood straight up and removed his callused finger from the book.

He was a barrel-chested man with leather skin and a wiry beard. Age in these parts were nothing more than a calculated guess, but everyone agreed he carried himself with the lightness and energy of someone half as young. He squinted at the sun-kissed woman across from him. “I’ve foun’ it.” He smiled, broadcasting a collection of silver and gold teeth. “I’m tellin’ you I’ve foun’ it, right under the noses of the Rogues.”

Rue leaned back in the chair. “Thanks, Char,” she said, tipping a slightly tatterend tricorne. Charlotte, the barkeep and tavern’s namesake, had glided to their table.

“Some drink for you, Edger?” she smiled.

“Of course, Miss Charlotte,” came the husky reply.

She placed two more tankards, filled to the brim with a foamy honey-gold liquid on coasters in front of them and floated away.

Rue folded her arms and looked at her partner across the table. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that from you, Edge.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Rue. Righ’ here -” he unfolded the pages as delicately as possible, given his sausage fingers, and ran them smoothly across the words that unfolded on the table top. “Righ’ here, Miss. The Lost Cache, written by -” he lowered his voice as some eyes began to look in his direction. Rue smelled the ghost of alcohol veiled by some spices hanging on his breath as he leaned his face in - “written by Elio Mensk himself.”

Rue’s arms uncrossed and met the tabletop, framing the book in front of her. “Alright, Edge. I’ll give you a chance. Where’d you find it?”

Edger grinned again. “I can’ give you all my secrets, now can I? Just trust that this was a very… motivated source.” He rubbed his knuckles, which Rue noticed seemed a little redder than usual. Rue scowled.

“C’mon now, lass, i’s hard to restrain oneself when the treasure’s 20,000 coin.”

“Always the motivator, aren’t you?” She stood up. Grabbing the tankard, she tipped her head back, downing the contents, and slammed the empty receptacle back on the table. “Miss Charlotte, thank you very much!” Rue slipped eight gold coins out of her coinpurse and onto the polished wooden surface. “I believe this should cover it,” she said.

“Always does, Miss Rue,” Charlotte called from across the bar.

Rue stepped into the sunlight, taking a deep breath in as her eyes watered from the adjustment. She curled her upper lip into a smile. “So have you decided who exactly you want to bring on this voyage?”

Edger smirked again. “Tha’s the problem I’ve been havin’, Rue. You see, we need two types. A crew we can trust…”

“... and one we can afford.” Rue finished.

“Never one in the same,” Edger replied. “Always one traitor on board. But listen, if this is truly ‘is treasure, Elio’s,” - Edger checked over his corner and spoke more quietly - “Elio’s, I mean, then we can’t exactly broadcas’ that’s wha’ we’re going after.”

Rue put her finger on her chin. “Is this the only copy?”

“As far ’s I know.”

“Hawthorne owes me a favour,” she thought aloud, rolling her tongue in her cheek as she went. “He’s owed me ever since I got him out of that pinch in Sargasso. I’ll ask him to drum up a crew and give us a contract.”

Edger nodded, beginning to see the plan.

Rue continued, “stash that somewhere safe. I don’t want to keep it on us. Too risky.”

“I can give it to Miss Charlotte.”

Rue gave a coy grin and continued. “I’ll get that contract, I’ll meet you at dawn at the Moors tomorrow. It’s a Sunday, so we should be the only ones there. If it goes well, we’ll be meeting our crew.”

***

Rue leaned against the mooring post at the sun shyly peered over the horizon. Fog hung in the air like a stain on the landscape, refusing to move even when the sun was threatening to come out at any minute. The docks stretched long along the coast and into the water. The dock where the Nova, a modest schooner, sat along the eastern boundary of the Moors. Once reserved for the wealthy elite of the island, the eastern Moors were visited almost exclusively by gulls and rodents. The boat had been unattended, not having set sail for a few seasons.

The Moors were empty on Sunday. Even heathens needed a day of rest. She couldn’t help but feel some nerves as her hands went over the thick parchment Hawthorne had given her. He’d promised a handful of bright, young sailors capable of moving the load.

Edger was the first to arrive. He carried little with him but a flintlock pistol secured at his hip.

Soon came the rest of the crew she was promised: a meagre cast of three. One of them was a broad-shouldered woman who must’ve just been on the precipice of adulthood. With a firm shake, she introduced herself as Vera.

Another was a grey-haired man with trim spectacles. “James,” he said, his voice crackling under the stress of too many years at sea - likely a scout, Rue thought, noting his posture and piercing blue gaze. But underneath the sailor’s shirt was conditioned muscle.

To round up the group was a woman Rue’s age, trim and light on the dock as her feet avoided stepping on gaps. “Superstitious,” she smiled. “Anne.”

Rue and Edger stood across from the trio. “I imagine it’s time to give you all a briefing,” Rue started. “Mr. Hawthorne has given us command of his ship, the Nova, on special assignment.”

“The banker?” James asked.

“Aye. As banker, it’s his responsibility to make sure appropriate bank notes, fleet ownerships, and other special items are transferred between islands. It’s our duty to protect these at all costs - even staking your life on it.”

Edger took the lead. “These crates ‘re in pristine condition. The insides haven’t even seen sunlight yet, fer God’s sake, so keep yer grubby hands off of ‘em. If all goes well we’ve got a good payday for each of ye. Hawthorne’s a respectable man and he’s ensured a handsome salary for each of ye, should it make it to the Beaches safely.”

“The beaches?” James asked. “With only five of us?”

“The size of the crew may change,” Rue said. “It’s a dangerous path but I’ve been told I can trust each of you.” She pointed at a wagon that was just off-dock. “We’re going to take everything from that wagon and stow it safely in the hold,” she instructed.

“What’s in them?” Anne asked inquisitively.

Rue thought for a moment. “I can’t say, to tell you the truth. I know that the contents of these boxes are invaluable to Mr. Hawthorne. He emphasized that they cannot, under any circumstances, be opened. Understood?”

A nod came from the trio.

“Be aware, it’s a bit tight in the hold - so just one at a time.” Edger added. “We’ll all be helping out. No one man or woman on this crew is above the other, that goes for myself and Captain Rue as well.”

Rue smirked, appreciative of the gesture. “Aye. Let’s get underway, then, shall we?”

***

They hadn’t lied; the hold truly was a tight squeeze, enough for one sailor to clamber down the staircase and set their crate between the stacks which were taking form slowly. One at a time each sailor faithfully put them in their place, one by one, piece by piece.

“How many notes are in these?” Vera asked jokingly, breaking a sweat. “I swear I’ve never had this much trouble moving paper.”

Rue laughed back, “I don’t think any of us sailors have, Vera, but that doesn’t stop us from trying.”

Vera and Rue had good chemistry, Edger thought. James was a quiet, diligent worker, and Anne had yet to take a break. “We’re doing well, I think,” he called over to Rue, who was coming back with one of the last few crates.

“Extremely,” she said. “I may think this crew might be the -”

And with that, an explosive ripple echoed across the water as the front of the ship splintered and exploded, popping like a balloon and sending shrapnel everywhere. Edger and Rue ducked low, covering their ears and squeezing their eyes shut.

Eventually, the dust began to settle. Her ears were still ringing, but Rue managed to get a hold of what was going on. Her eyes found Edger first, who was standing and looking around just the same. James was huddled behind the wagon, a dropped crate in front of him. Vera wasn’t far off, as she’d been returning from the ship when the blast happened.

Vera began to run toward the ship when Edger’s heavy hand on her shoulder held her back. “She’s gone, lass.”

Rue turned to Edger. “Mr. Hawthorne’s plans are barbaric, but effective.”

“Aye,” replied Edger, massaging his temples. “Seems like Anne couldn’t keep her hands to herself.”

Rue nodded. “I’ll get back to Mr. Hawthorne with the news. Our crew is ready.”