Free Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum

blocked my lunge with ease. I knocked my enemy’s blade down and away, kicking at it with my boot. He nearly dropped it, and I closed on him, striking him hard on the temple with the hilt-end of my weapon.
    The muscular swordsman collapsed, sprawling, puddle-water quaking around him. I knelt briefly, to make sure he was still breathing, and then I rose and strode hard into the man attacking my master. I kicked this stout street-fighter hard, right in his padded breeches. He howled, and turned and closed upon me at once, scissoring one leg through mine, trying to drive me into the wet street. We teetered, and fell, and as we struck the wet street a loud snap echoed from the surrounding eaves and chimneys.
    We both leaped immediately to our feet. I knelt and plucked a sword-half from the ground. To my surprise—perhaps out of some dim, misguided sense of honor—I found myself handing this length of broken rapier back to my sweating opponent.
    â€œAh, you’re a true penny,” he panted, sarcastically. “Break a man’s sword and expect him to smith it new.”
    I made a bow, ready to recommence our struggle.
    To my surprise—and relief—he laughed. He struck me on the shoulder—hard, but with an unmistakable air of good-natured retirement. He and his fellow townsmen dragged their friend from the puddle, and vanished up a side street.
    â€œYou’re a pair of fighting doctors, by Jesus,” Jack addressed us shakily as I helped him out of the mud. “I am beyond thankful to see you.”
    â€œYou fought with your face, by all appearances,” I said, sorry to see my friend so badly battered. My master was quick in dabbing at the bridge of Jack’s bleeding face with a linen kerchief.
    â€œThere’s a woman in the tale,” said Jack with an air of jaunty regret. “She wanted silver, and I had been led to believe that her interest in me was true love. I protested, and with no further ado she called her brothers or her father, and a gang of pirates. They would have killed me.” He sniffed. “I cannot drink and keep from fighting.”
    But then Jack fell silent.
    A man in a padded doublet and jerkin that made him look massive strode down upon us through the dim lamplight, splashing puddles with his boots. He was a constable, outfitted just like the lawmen of London. He sported a high-peaked, broad-brimmed hat and stout dark gloves that stretched nearly all the way to each elbow. Instead of a sword he carried a mace, a spiked knob on the end of a short staff, a symbol of the law’s authority—and a potentially deadly weapon.
    â€œGentlemen,” he called after us, “save your fighting humors for the Spanish.”

Chapter 17
    I woke in the Elizabeth Bonaventure .
    The vessel was a noisy, exciting place at such a time. Feet pounded along the deck over our heads, commands were called out—“Quick, there!” “Heave with a will”—and other shouted orders I found more mysterious than Dutch. My master was pulling on his boots, and swallowing a cup of wine, his usual breakfast.
    He wished me a good morning, with a heartiness I had rarely seen in him before, and hurried out of our cramped cabin. His boots resounded on the companionway—the steps from one deck to another—as he ascended into daylight.
    I caught a glimpse of myself in the polished metal disk my master and I used as a looking glass. My red hair was elfed —tangled into the knots and curls folk say is the work of fairy-like creatures in the night. I did what I could with my appearance, knowing all the while that seasoned fighting men would be observing me that day, judging whether I would be a capable shipmate or not.
    A trumpet sang out.
    I thrilled. The tune was a traditional call, something I had only dreamed of hearing, a signal to all the ships in the fleet. To sea, to sea .
    I felt the scrape of the boat, and the welcoming greetings, as the