Barefoot Pirate (18 page)

Nan made a face into her potato peelings. Olucar could
shriek all she wanted about not eating, but everyone in that room knew she’d
eat just as well as ever. It was the servants who would get no bread for the
days they were out of flour, which meant just nasty vegetable mush three times
a day, except for what little else the cook permitted the kitchen staff to
have. The rest of the girls would be out of luck—unless their kitchen friends
sneaked them some extra scraps.

Olucar whirled around again, pointing at Telin, who stood
silent and wooden, the scarlet finger marks on her face plain to see. “You’ll
begin your week with my message to Commander Nitre, after your shift here. And
you’ll bring me back an answer tonight.”

“Yes, your ladyship.” Telin curtseyed.

Olucar whirled again, and this time her mean little eyes
turned Nan’s way. “You. Thief. I suppose you are in league with these pirates.”

Was that a question? If it wasn’t, Nan would get extra
punishment for speaking out of turn. If it was and she didn’t answer, the very
least she’d get would be a slap or hit.

Nan opened her mouth.

“Well?” the woman goaded.

“I’m no thief, your ladyship,” Nan said, keeping her voice
slow and stupid. “Another prentice took the shirt. I didn’t.”

Olucar’s face tightened, and she raised a hand. The cook
said, “That one’s a good peeler, your ladyship. Said she was a cook’s helper
before, and I can vouch for it. Peels even, no waste, and I don’t have to spend
half a day watching and instructing.”

“Does she sass?”

“No, your ladyship.”

Olucar smirked, her mood changing. “Well, then, girl, you
keep to your work, and if you don’t incur extra bond-time for wastefulness, you
might just earn the privilege of promotion to free servant in a few years. That
means pay, and days off. Would you like that?”

Nan curtseyed. “Yes, your ladyship.”

“Then you keep that goal in mind.” And she stalked out.

Everyone, except Cook, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
Cook turned away from Nan, and pointed her ladle. “Giula, sometime today you
might consider finish cutting those onions.” Ignoring the red-head, who
flounced back to her cutting board, she said quietly, “I’m sorry, Telin. Here. Take
this apple—I’ve one too many for the sauce.”

She dropped the fruit into the girl’s hand and walked back
to her side of the kitchen. So she didn’t see tall, pinch-faced Hortia stick
out her hand and Telin drop the apple into it. Hortia whisked it beneath her
apron and went right back to kneading dough. Telin, who had remained
stone-faced through the unfairness from Lady Olucar, now had tears dripping
down her face as she bent to her task.

No word had been said, though some of the older girls
exchanged looks. Either Telin had been caught saying or doing something by
Hortia, or else had promised a trade in food for help with some chore—either
way she wouldn’t get a bite of that apple.

Nan stooped down, picking up another potato. Her hands moved
automatically as she cored the eyes out, then began the peeling. Praise for
being a good peeler! She wasn’t grateful, she was angry. For a few minutes the
furnace of rage burned brightly in her. Just her luck, to leave an entire
world—only to be stuck doing exactly the same sort of chores in the next one. Only
it wasn’t her fault—

She caught herself up on that.

It is my fault, she thought fiercely. It’s my fault that I
lied. Mican wouldn’t have set me up if I hadn’t pulled that stupid princess
trick. Never forget that.

She took a deep breath, finished her potato, dropped it into
the waiting salt-water, then picked up another.

She was still having nightmares about that morning in
Nitre’s office. Not the threat of hanging—she had since learned that Nitre
threatened everyone but didn’t actually hang kids—but her fear that after
another day or two of starvation, she might have talked herself into giving in.
How many days would she have really lasted? Honesty compelled her to admit, if
only to herself, that she was not sure.

That has to be just how villains get started, she thought. I’ll
bet even the old beast Olucar doesn’t wake up every day and say, ‘I’m a great
villain, har har!’ She has excuses for everything she does. She’s talked
herself into believing she’s right, and everyone around her is wrong. Giula,
too. She always has excuses for tattling. If they starved me long enough, would
I have talked myself into thinking it was right to tell on Blackeye, explain
the plan, and what she told me about Noss?

No. She wouldn’t think like that. Instead, she’d remember
what she was there for, and make herself listen to the others’ talk. One of
these times someone was going to say something that would give her some clues
on exactly where Prince Troial was kept, and how she could get to him.

She smiled grimly at her potatoes.

“They’ve got a prisoner,” Warron said. “He’s our age. Toff.”

It was very early in the morning, but everyone had woken up
before dawn to find Warron waiting for them.

Blackeye frowned. “Where are they keeping him?”

“High tower.” Warron grinned. “Green stair side.”

Blackeye looked at the rest of the group. “If we rescue him,
we’ve got to decoy the pursuit so they don’t search here. We can’t risk anyone
finding out about our hideaway.”

“Thought about that on the run back.” Warron jerked his
thumb at Kevriac. “We can take the skimmer. There’s a good wind—I can outrun
that big warship, especially if Kevriac here makes us fade in and out of view. Lead
’em northward and lose ’em among the little islands.”

Blackeye turned to the magic worker. “Want to?”

Kevriac gave a nod.

“Well, then, let’s get to it.”

Soon they were running single-file along a narrow path into
the close growth of the island. “Be shorter if we could paddle round the rocks,
but they’d see us,” Tarsen said, running just behind Joe. “We can only go that
way at night.”

Joe nodded, not talking. He knew they’d be running uphill
soon, and he wanted to pace himself. Nothing winded you, he’d discovered, like
talking while on a long run. Instead, his fingers went to the knife hilt at his
side, an unfamiliar weight that made his heart start thumping faster. Blackeye
had said matter-of-factly, “Warron, arm everyone with knives, not swords. We
don’t want a fight; we don’t want to be seen. Knives for in case.”

‘We don’t want a fight’ I sure as heck don’t!

Joe loved the practice sessions, but he felt ambivalent
about the idea of sticking a knife into anyone for real. If the warts had been
a bunch of evil orcs or monsters, like in his computer games, he thought he
could blow them away and keep as cool as a guy in action movies, but a real
person? Especially since not even Warron pretended that all the warts are
rotten. Most of them seemed to be just regular people doing a job, and didn’t
concern themselves with what the bosses were doing, since they couldn’t change
them anyway. That sounded an awful lot like his parents’ jobs back on Earth.

“Look sharp,” Blackeye said a while later, after they’d run
silently uphill a good long stretch. “Here’s the passage. Tarly, guard us
here.”

The centaur waved a hand and trotted daintily into the
shadows of an overhanging tree.

The rest turned to the secret entrance. Joe followed closely
after Tarsen, squeezing through a scratchy bush that felt like holly, and
falling through a narrow crack between two huge rocks.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of dust. Someone lit a
candle, and Joe saw in its wavering light everyone hunched down because of the
low ceiling. The crevasse led in one direction. Blackeye went first, holding
the candle. They followed. The soft dirt beneath Joe’s feet gave way to rock
before long, and as it was uneven, he put his hands out to help balance. The
light from the candle threw weird shadows around that danced and flickered,
distorting further the already strange proportions of the tunnel.

Straight up, and they reached a real passage where the air
was cool and moist, and the ground was mossy. Blackeye gave an exclamation of
satisfaction, clapped, and the steady cool white light of a glowglobe banished
flickers and made the shadows retreat to dark corners.

“Now for some nasty sweatin’,” Tarsen whispered. His voice
echoed, sounding like snakes. Tarsen grinned at the spooky sound, and Joe
grinned back, but he felt the skin on the backs of his arms tighten.

But nothing happened as they made their way upward. It was a
long, tiring climb, and Blackeye kept them moving quickly; her grin matched Tarsen’s.
Joe had noticed that she seemed happier, somehow bigger when in the middle of
action.

At the top, Blackeye paused, and looked around at the gang.
She flashed a grin, stuck her thumb up, then doused their light.

A tiny noise sounded like a pistol shot as she cracked open
some kind of door. Her silhouette blocked the pale light beyond, then she then
threw it wide. They passed into what smelled like an old store room, and she
held up the candle. Twin flames glittered in her dark eyes as she motioned them
in a tight circle around her.

Joe heard everyone’s breathing, fast and sharp like his. He
gripped his knife-hilt with a sweaty palm.

“Sarilda, with me. If anyone comes along, you take the form
of the Lorjee duchess.”

Sarilda gave a horrible grimace, which caused Tarsen to
snort a muffled laugh.

“Bron, I want you and Tarsen guarding our line of retreat. Joe,
you hold this position. If anyone else comes along, hide. Then take a position
farther up so you can warn us before we come back this way. When we come down,
we’ll use one of the signals.” She whistled softly.

“Got it.” Joe’s guts seemed to be full of butterflies.

“Then let’s get to work.”

The others filed out one by one, their bare feet noiseless
on the stone flooring.

Left with the flickering candle, Joe felt more scared than
ever. He propped the door open just a half-inch, so he’d hear anyone coming
down the hallway outside, then he made himself do a bunch of pushups. When his
arms ached, he did some of the other exercises Warron had taught him. Anything
was better than sitting around listening to his own heart pound in his ears.

Time stretched on, and when he was tired, he caught up the
drips from the candle and made little balls from the wax. He was beginning to
wonder if the others had all been captured or worse, when he heard a sound.

He rushed to the door, and sighed with relief when
Blackeye’s whistle echoed down the hallway. A few moments later the others came
running in, Sarilda and Tarsen snickering breathlessly. In their midst was a
short boy in a snazzy outfit that reminded Joe of something out of King Arthur.

“Now,” Blackeye said, pulling a long dark scarf from a
pocket. “We’ll have to blindfold you.”

The boy lifted a hand, then stood still as Blackeye tied the
scarf round his eyes and checked it to make sure it was secure. Sarilda and
Bron took his hands, and everyone slipped into the secret passageway.

They retreated back down the tunnels and ran through the
forest until they got to the hideout. The boy ran with them, his head low. He
stumbled once or twice but never complained. Sarilda and Bron kept a tight grip
on his hands.

When they reached the hideout, they clambered down the
tunnel and collapsed onto the pillows. Tarly, who’d had the easiest job, and
who could outrun any of them without even slightly disturbing her breathing,
said, “I’ll fix something hot to drink,” and disappeared into the galley.

“We’re here,” Blackeye said, pulling off the kid’s blindfold.

Joe looked curiously at the kid they’d rescued. He was
stocky. His arms, and the calluses on his palms, hinted at plenty of practice. His
hair was long and blond, braided back and bound with a glittery thing.

He gave a great sigh as he looked around at the gang. His
face changed when he saw Bron. “Fared!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were—”

“Dead,” Bron said, smiling sourly. “So I am to my family—and
so they are to me. My name is Bron now. Fared Thauvan is dead.”

The boy nodded soberly. “All right, then. Bron. Forgive me
if I forget and slip; it will not be advertent.” And he bowed.

To Joe’s surprise Bron bowed back, his twisted body managing
to look graceful. “I understand.” Then Bron turned to face the rest of the
gang. “This is Liav Senna.”

“Senna!” Tarsen exclaimed. “Then—that’s your castle, isn’t
it?” He flapped a hand northwards.

“Yes.” Liav’s friendly face went grim for a moment. “Lorjee
thought it a poetic touch to hold me in our own castle. Not that he ever said I
was a prisoner, of course. They kept gloating about how I was their ‘guest,’
taken away from the noise and bustle of Fortanya for my ‘health.’”

Blackeye said, “Tell us what happened.”

Liav sighed, dropping onto one of the pillows. “I don’t
think I’ve slept a night through since the Duke first arrived with his
‘invitation’—and twenty armed guards.” He rubbed his eyes. “Here’s the truth.
You might know that my older sister was supposed to marry the prince when she
turned eighteen.”

Bron nodded, but no one else did.

“She’s eighteen now, and they want her to go through with
it,” Liav went on.

The others exclaimed in surprise.

“What?”

“But he’s—”

Liav made a sour face. “We all know he’s under some kind of
weird spell, though no one has the guts to say it out loud where Lorjee or
Todan or any of their people can hear it. Including me—until recently,” he
added matter-of-factly. “I just kept up with my sword training and
book-learning, pretended I didn’t see or hear anything, hoping someone would do
something about the whole mess before Alitra turned eighteen.”

“How does she feel about this?” Sarilda asked.