Blue Sea Burning (17 page)

“It's a bit complicated,” he said. “But in a nutshell . . . when I started out, years ago, I plundered everything I could get my hands on. Rovian, Cartager, Gualo, Ildian . . . Didn't matter what flag a ship was under. If it was worth taking, I took it.

“The other pirate crews were the same. There were a handful of us, all based out of Deadweather. Mostly working alone. None of us too choosy about who we attacked.

“The trouble with that was, if you plunder the ships of four different countries, eventually you've got four different navies out gunning for you. And when it came down to it, stealing from Rovians never did put the spring in my step that stealing from Cartagers did.

“So I went to the Rovian Governor-General—not this one, but the man who had his job before him—and offered him a deal. Rather than my stealing
all
his silver every chance I got, he could simply pay me a fraction of it, on a regular basis, and I'd let him keep the rest. He was willing, but only if I could hold all the other pirates to the same deal. So I brought them in, and it worked out quite well for everybody.

“Then the Barker War came. Rovia and Cartage went at it, which at first looked like grim news for Rovia, since the Short-Ears had a
much
better navy. But we pirates realized it'd be awfully bad for business if Cartage won—so when the Short-Ears sent their navy to take Edgartown and Sunrise, it was the pirates who turned them back.”

“I think I saw that battle,” I said. “From the cliffs by my house.”

Healy smiled. “That was it,” he said. “Right off Deadweather. It was a fine day. And afterward, the Rovian government and I were thick as thieves. Privately, of course—if word ever got out that they were in league with the likes of me, the whole arrangement would have blown up in their faces.

“We had a good thing going—until two very different men came along and botched the whole thing.

“First, Roger Pembroke decided Sunrise Island wasn't big enough to hold his ego and his true destiny was to rule a whole continent. About the same time, Ripper Jones started questioning the arrangement from the pirates' side. He was a Short-Ear himself, and he never could abide the rule against sacking Rovians. It got to the point where I had to personally escort every ship that left Sunrise so he wouldn't pinch it. A couple months back, a ship full of Rovian noblemen coming back from some island holiday turned off course in a fog—and by the time I caught up with them, the Ripper'd had his way with her.”

I'd been on that ship, the
Earthly Pleasure,
when the Ripper attacked it. In fact, it was me, not the fog, that was the whole reason it had turned off course—because its wicked cruise director had decided to maroon me on a deserted island as a kind of entertainment for the
Earthly Pleasure
's rich and cruel passengers.

For a fleeting second, I thought about mentioning this to my uncle. But he was still talking, and it took all my concentration to follow his story.

“I did my best to smooth things over,” Healy continued, “but since the Ripper was a Cartager, Pembroke latched on to his attack as a pretext for launching his grand plan and invading Pella Nonna. He persuaded the Governor to go along with it—on the theory that Cartage was weak enough in the New Lands that if we knocked out their big military ships, they'd be finished.

“But when we got to Pella, the men-of-war weren't there. Pembroke thought they'd sailed back to the Continent. But he miscalculated. Now—thanks to you—
Li Homaya
's about to give him a nasty surprise. And the Rovians are in a right awful mess.”

My head was still swimming from trying to understand the situation. There was a knock at the door. It was a waiter, bringing Healy another drink. He tipped the man a gold coin, and we were left alone again.

Healy took a long drink and shrugged. “I think I'll sit the rest of this one out. I've had just about enough of trying to rescue men from their own stupidity. Now—what's that favor you wanted?”

I'd gotten so distracted trying to understand the tangled mess of Rovians, Cartagers, pirates, soldiers, governors, and businessmen smacking each other all over the Blue Sea that I'd nearly forgotten why I'd come to see my uncle in the first place.

“A friend of mine's in jail,” I said.

“Already? What did Guts do?”

“It isn't Guts.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Not Kira?”

“No.”

“Who am I missing?”

I gulped. “Millicent Pembroke.”

“Savior's sake!” He got a look on his face like he'd just bitten into a bad piece of meat. “How on earth did
that
happen?”

“She went to the Governor-General and told him she had evidence they were using slaves in the silver mine—”

“Oh, for —'s sake!” It was only the second time I'd ever heard my uncle curse. “You're not opening
that
can of worms, are you?”

“What can of worms?”

“The silver mine.”

“I have to,” I said. “It's wrong.”

“So are a million things in this world. You can't right them all. I thought you just wanted to get rid of Pembroke.”

“It's his silver mine—it's him doing the slaving.”

Healy slumped back in his seat with an exasperated look. “Haven't you done enough?
Li Homaya
's marching on Pella as we speak. That was your doing! And if Pembroke loses that city, even if he gets out alive, he'll be bust. The Governor and the rest of them will never listen to him again. They might even manage to take the silver mine out of his hands.”

“Would that fix it?” I asked.

“Fix what?”

“If Pembroke loses the silver mine, will they stop using slaves in it?”

My uncle grimaced, like I'd just told a bad joke. “Not remotely, son. Pembroke or not, there's far too many people making far too much money on that mine for anything to change.”

I thought about that. The rottenness of it made my stomach turn.

“Don't you think we've got to do something about it?” I asked.

“No. I don't. You've done enough. Let it go. Sit back and eat some chocolate.”

I tried to imagine doing just that. I couldn't.

Watching me, my uncle sighed. “Do you even like chocolate?”

“It's okay. But . . . we can't just let it go. We've got to
do
something.”

“Why? Pembroke's on a knife edge now. Why do
you
have to do anything else?”

“Because I want to be worth ten million gold,” I said.

He winced. But as he kept staring at me, a smile slowly spread across his face.

“Joke's on me, then, isn't it? What can one say?” He raised his hands, palms up, like he was admitting defeat. “I admire your nobility. And best of luck.”

“So you'll help me?”

“Oh, heavens, no.”

“Please! I just need you to go down to the jail and—”

“Son, the
last
thing I'm going to do is bail Roger Pembroke's fool daughter out of jail. You're on your own with that one.”

The Map

I WOULD'VE HEADED
straight back up the hill to Mr. Dalrymple's house, but my uncle insisted I have a bath and eat lunch first. He set me up in a big room at the hotel with three beds in it, and while I was soaking in what I had to admit was a delightful warm bath, a frazzled-looking man in a hotel employee's uniform dropped off two sets of new cotton shirts and trousers for me and Guts, along with a pretty red dress for Kira.

The hotel man collected my old clothes for washing, encouraged me to call the front desk for fresh bathwater once “the other lord and lady” arrived, and bowed to me when he left. I dried off with a big, fluffy towel and put on the new clothes, which were so comfortable that wearing them made me want to take a nap.

Then I went to the dining room, where I ate a ham sandwich as big as my head.

It was all very pleasant, although I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn't spent the entire time brooding over how Millicent had ripped my guts out, and racking my useless brain for ways to get her and that Cyril ape out of jail.

Bribing the guards was the best I could come up with. Second best was hiring a few of the Healy pirates to storm the jail, although I was pretty sure my uncle wouldn't stand for that. Neither idea seemed like a winner, but they were all I had.

I trudged up the hill toward Mr. Dalrymple's, hoping my friends would have better ideas and trying to cheer myself up with the thought that even if they didn't, they'd like the warm baths, clean clothes, and cannonball-sized ham sandwiches waiting for them back at the hotel.

It took me a while to find the place—the twisty, hilly streets were confusing, and I hadn't taken the time to get decent directions from Kira. By the time I stumbled on the right house, I'd gotten so turned around that I was heading downhill. And I would have walked right past Mr. Dalrymple's house if Guts hadn't called out to me from the porch.

“Oy! Egg!”

He was sitting on the front steps with a glum look on his face. “Where ye comin' from?”

“The hotel. I got lost.”

“Got a bath, too, looks like. New clothes.”

“My uncle made me. There's plenty for you and Kira, too. Where is she?”

He jerked his head toward the closed door behind him. Then he twitched and scowled.

“What's the matter?”

“Got the map translated.”

“Really?” My stomach started to flutter. “What does it say?”

“Nothin' good.”

I went inside, my head buzzing. Ever since Roger Pembroke had declared it worthless, I'd mostly stopped thinking about the Fire King's map.

But it was the whole reason for everything.

If it weren't for that map, I'd still be living with my family back on Deadweather. My fool sister would be there, too, instead of lounging atop an Okalu temple in the New Lands, preening in a six-foot headdress while a bunch of Moku fed her chocolate and schemed to make her a human sacrifice.

Burn Healy wouldn't be anything more to me than the name of a ruthless pirate I'd heard stories about.

I wouldn't even have heard of Roger Pembroke, or laid eyes on his daughter.

And my father would still be alive.

Now, finally, I was going to find out what all the trouble was for.

KIRA WAS SITTING
at the kitchen table, her eyes red and swollen from tears. Mr. Dalrymple was refilling her teacup from a pot with a knitted holder, his lips pressed together in a sad look.

A man I'd never seen before sat next to Kira. He was Okalu, with the same broad nose and full lips that she had. His skin was wrinkled and spotty with age, and his Continental-style clothes hung loose over a bony frame.

All three of them looked up at me when I entered, and I felt like I'd barged in on a funeral.

The old man asked Kira a question in Okalu. She answered him. Then she wiped her nose with a handkerchief and introduced us as he stood up from the table, using a wooden cane to support his weight.

“Egg Masterson, Makaro Uza.”

“Hello,” I said. He held his free hand out, and I shook it. It wasn't like that Cyril fellow's handshake—Makaro gave me a good grip, and he held it firmly but not too tight.

“Greetings,” he said. His accent was so thick it was hard to understand him. “I thank you for your service to my people.”

“You're welcome,” I said. Although judging by how sad they were, I didn't think I'd done anybody much of a service.

Makaro sat back down next to Kira, leaning his cane against the table. The copy of the map that I'd made for her back on the
Grift
was sitting on the table next to the teapot.

“So you know what it says?” I asked.

Kira began to cry. Makaro put a fatherly hand on her back to comfort her, and she buried her head in his shoulder.

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say.

Guts had come in behind me. Mr. Dalrymple gestured for us to sit down.

“Please, please,” he said. “Sit.” There were only four seats at the table, but Mr. Dalrymple insisted we take the last two while he fetched a high stool from the other room.

Kira was still crying into Makaro's shoulder. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded, straightening up as Mr. Dalrymple returned with the stool and took a seat just behind Makaro.

“I'm sorry I was so rude earlier,” I said to Mr. Dalrymple.

“Oh, quite all right,” he said. “Rather extraordinary day, I think. Puts us all at sixes and sevens.”

Kira wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “You want to know what it says?” she asked me.

I nodded.

She exchanged a few words in Okalu with Makaro. He pulled the map toward him and lifted a finger, shaky with age, to hover over the first line of hieroglyphs. Then he began to speak Okalu in a low voice, his finger moving across the lines as he spoke.

Kira took a deep breath and started to translate the century-old words—the ones I'd copied down from the tomb wall and carried with me, over weeks and miles and endless trouble, without knowing until now what they meant.

“‘I am Cromazol the scribe,'” she began. “‘Servant of Hutmatozal Fire King—man-god, instrument of Ka, father of the Dawn Princess. His body here dead, his soul eternal. This is the story of his end.

“‘Two days before solstice we Okalu traveled in large number to the Place of the Sunrise, to give to Ka his bride the Dawn Princess, and the gifts of her dowry.

“‘The Stink-Men waited there in a trap. They slaughtered us by hundreds. Hutmatozal Fire King raised his Fist, but Ka gave no answer. Our magic failed, our princess was slain, our tribe was shamed.'”

It was just as Millicent had described the legend: the Okalu had gone to their temple on Sunrise Island for the yearly Marriage of the Sun ceremony, bringing a treasure with them as an offering . . . and were ambushed by Cartager soldiers.

Kira continued the translation.

“‘Five of us remained, with the body and the dowry of the Dawn Princess. We followed the Fist across the water to the Sweat-Place, where lived Thunder God Ma, the Death-Lover.'”

That must have been Deadweather. What with the volcano and all, I guess it was as good a place as any for a thunder god to live.

“‘Hutmatozal Fire King offered the Dawn Princess and her dowry to Ma the Death-Lover in his sacred place, atop the Red Cliff, above the Valley of the Choke Plants.'”

Makaro used his finger to circle the middle section of the map—the squiggles, shapes, and dotted lines that I'd always figured weren't hieroglyphs but an actual map. Until now, I'd had no idea what place it depicted.

“Makaro says this is a map,” Kira said. “Of what, he does not know.”

“I know exactly what that is,” I said. “There's a valley in Deadweather, below the south slope of the volcano. Full of thick brush. That must be it here”—I pointed to the map—“and above it, between the valley and the volcano, there's a lot of bare rock, in a funny reddish-pink color. The pirates in Port Scratch call it the Devil's Pimple.”

I pointed to a large mark on the map. “Looks like they left the dowry halfway across the top of the pimple. If that's where it's buried, we can find it.”

I couldn't help smiling. But no one else did.

“That's good, isn't it?” I asked.

Instead of answering, Kira nodded to Makaro. He started reading again, at the spot below the map where the hieroglyphs began again. Kira echoed him in Rovian.

“‘Hutmatozal Fire King swore allegiance to Ma in return for his help. We left the Red Cliff and waited for a sign.

“‘Thirty days we remained. We ate of the tasteless fruit. Two men died, and we gave their souls as gifts to Ma.

“‘When Ma growled from the earth, we returned to the Red Cliff.

“‘Ma had ignored our gifts, shaming us further. Hutmatozal Fire King cried out in anger. He demanded of Ka and Ma that they listen—and he pledged the devotion of all Okalu to whichever god would help us.

“‘Ka and Ma ignored him again. He cursed them as false. He cast away the Fist of Ka, and buried the dowry in ash. Then he took his own life.'”

Kira paused to take a deep, shaky breath.

“‘We carried Hutmatozal Fire King's body to this place, that his soul would observe the sunset for eternity. I die here also, with Zamozol his lieutenant, to serve him in the beyond.

“‘This we swear as truth: the man who seeks rescue from gods will die in bitterness. Neither Ka, nor Ma, will save him. The only savior of man is man.'”

Kira was crying again, silently this time.

I could understand why. I'd long since given up hope that the Fist of Ka would help anyone. Finding out, once and for all, that the map didn't hold the secret to some magical power was only the third most depressing thing I'd learned that day.

But until now, Kira had believed, deep in her bones, that finding the Fist of Ka would mean salvation for her people. And the truth was devastating to her.

We sat for a long time, with nobody saying much of anything except for Mr. Dalrymple, who couldn't stop refilling everyone's tea.

I wondered if I should be doing, or saying, something. I traded looks with Guts for a while. He kept jerking his head, but I couldn't figure out if he was trying to get a point across or his twitch was just acting up.

Finally, I decided to speak. “There's a hot bath and clean clothes waiting at the hotel,” I told Kira. “Plenty of food, too. Might make you feel better.”

“Sounds like a good idea, dear,” said Mr. Dalrymple, patting Kira on the hand.

She nodded but didn't move. Mr. Dalrymple and Makaro exchanged a few words in Okalu. Kira joined their conversation for a moment. Then the two older men got up and shuffled toward the door. Makaro had a bad limp, and his cane made a loud
clack
on the floor with every step.

“Just shut the door behind you, dear,” said Mr. Dalrymple. “No need to lock up.”

“Come later,” Makaro added. “We sit together.”

The men walked out, leaving us alone. Kira sighed and pushed her chair back from the table. “I need a bath. And a meal.”

“Where the others goin'?” Guts asked.

“Makaro wants to drink something stronger than tea,” said Kira. “And Mr. Dalrymple thinks he knows of a pub that won't have pirates in it.”