Free Masks of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers

horrible predicament. Cwopanifer had kept up a string of orders, the gale had broomed upon them, the ship had lost her spars and her masts, and then the damned Pandahem voller had leaped on them. It had all been over before most of the crew were aware.
    Looking up to the rearing side of the flying sailing ship, I could see the hands already hard at work. They were carefully cutting the tangled lines and hauling spars and yards inboard. If I knew my sailors of Vallia, they’d be jury-rigged in no time. I turned to Dayra.
    “Ros. Can you take command here? I must go across to have a word with the lady Vylene Fynarmic.”
    “Of course. And tell Sosie from me she is getting fat.” Dayra laughed. “No. Better not. Her Claw is ferocious!”
     
    “This Ship-Hikdar,” I began. “Is she—?”
    “No.” Ros shook her head. “She is a Sister of the Sword.”
    “And they’re a right tearaway bunch!” I said, whereat Dayra looked at me as though demanding to know how I presumed to such knowledge of any secret society of women.
    She went into the steering cabin to conn the voller herself as we rose above Val Defender’s deck. I slid down a rope and dropped exactly plumb less than three feet from Vylene Fynarmic.
    She looked at me calmly.
    “I believe we owe our escape to you and to Ros the Claw,” she said in that firm hard voice. “You have my thanks, sincerely. Although,” she added matter-of-factly, “we were ourselves maturing plans for a break. Those cramphs would not have held us for long.”
    “That is true, lady—” I was saying.
    She interrupted. “I am told you are called Jak. Can you hand, reef and steer? We can use you aboard.”
    “I am not exactly at liberty at the moment—”
    “Nonsense! You’re a Vallian. Well, then. That is settled. Report to the Ship-Deldar. He will post you to a watch.”
    “But—”
    “That is enough, Jak! We are an emperor’s ship!”
    It had to happen, I suppose, sooner or later.
    A strapping fellow clad only in a red breechclout was lustily hauling on a spar as it was angled inboard.
    The jagged end lashed and he staggered back into me. I caught him and stood him up on his feet. He turned, already shouting his thanks. He was florid, handsome, with bright eyes. He saw me. He knew me.
    I knew him.
    “Majister!” At once, crack, up he went into that rigidity of attention the old hands can always muster.
    “Majister! Lahal and Lahal!”
    “Lahal, Nath the Cheeks,” I said. And then, and I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help it, I said: “And now I suppose everyone will know I’m the blasted emperor.”

Chapter six
“The Emperor of Vallia is aboard!”
    “The emperor!” The buzz went around faster than the wine cups on pay night. “The emperor — the Emperor of Vallia is aboard!”
    You had to give this lady, Vylene Fynarmic, full credit. Oh, she was a splendid person! A Sister of the Sword, first lieutenant of a proud sailing ship of the air out of Vondium. She looked me straight in the eyeball.
    She said: “I give you the lahal, majister.” Then, still in that same hard voice: “So you are Dray Prescot.”
     
    She stood there on her own deck, in command, and I had some inkling of what must be in her mind. She saw Nath the Cheeks standing as stiff as a lance at our side.
    “You! Nath the Cheeks! Get the lead out! About your business, you fambly, and no lollygagging!”
    He was about to rap out a reply when I said in a carefully neutral tone: “Oh, Nath the Cheeks and I are old campaigners. We were together in Vela at the Battle of Jholaix. Nath was a nipper, then.”
    He bellowed: “Quidang, majister!” and fairly bolted back to putting his weight into shifting the splintered spar... Vylene looked after him with a grim set to her jaws.
    She turned to me. “You had best come below, majister. They are fixing my cabin last, when we are airworthy once more. But I can find you a stoup.”
    “When,” I said as we descended the companionway, “did you