The Buccaneer's Apprentice (12 page)

“You’re back, are you?” The man known as Macaque spoke in Cassafortean, following Maxl’s lead. It was obviously not his first language, but his words carried only the slightest of accents. “Thinking you can best me?” For someone seeming confident, his looks at Nic and the Colombos were nervous enough.

“Would not be difficult,” said Maxl, sniffing.

“Well, you’re too late. We’re setting sail in the morning—with me as captain. Isn’t that right, boys?” The other two pirates nodded with less enthusiasm, though they made sure to stand well behind Macaque.

“We are setting the sail in the morning, yes,” Maxl said agreeably enough. “But with
new
new captain.”

“You?” Macaque spat on the floor of his cabin. “A scrawny skeleton? Not bloody likely.” Maxl shook his head. For answer, he merely bent at the waist, inclining toward Nic.

Nic hesitated as all attention turned in his direction. “This
boy
?” asked Macaque. He laughed, and dropped his hands. “That’s a good one, Maxl. I’d soon as put a kerchief on a sheep and let it take the wheel as pay attention to any boy like that.”

Before anyone knew what was happening, Darcy strode forward. “Mind your manners, signor!” She planted her feet in front of Macaque, then hauled off and slapped his face, hard as she could.

The round-faced man recoiled in shock. His mouth dropped, and then his hand rubbed his jaw. “Bloody hell! I’ll have your skin for that, you little bitch.”

“Lay one hand on her and you’ll pay for it.” Nic was surprised at the voice that came slithering from his lips. It was quiet, yet firm. Its syllables were almost sinister in their intent. He’d heard that voice before, from someone else. Darcy, too, seemed surprised. She resumed her place beside him.

“Says who?” asked Macaque, his face reddening with anger.

Nic took a step forward and thrust his fist in the man’s face—not to strike him, but to bring the hilt of his short sword within Macaque’s vision. He saw all three pirates noticing, for the first time, the carved bone and the tuft of human hair hanging from the end. At that moment, he knew he had their attention. The slightest of smiles spread across his lips. He remembered where he’d heard the voice that had come from his lips once before.

Recalling Signor Arturo’s advice, he stood tall. He drew a deep breath. And he became the person he wanted them to believe. “My name is not important,” he reassured them with oily smoothness. “You may address me as the Drake … or Captain, if you prefer.”

Speak the words given to you by the playwright, and those words only. Do not improvise. Do not interpret. Do not allow stage business to interfere with the text. Stand erect and declaim them loudly, suffering not that any of the words the playwright has taken so much toil to produce be lost upon the audience.

—Advice to the Actors,
by the forgotten playwright Carmina Spaldi

D
uring his inglorious reign as Western Cassaforte’s most prolific trafficker of stolen goods, the Drake had cultivated a number of mannerisms that told the world at large that he was not to be trifled with. Though he was not of the Seven or even the Thirty, the Drake had adopted their posture—shoulders back, head high, right leg extended slightly forward as if perpetually posing for a Buonochio portrait. Though he had not been born into riches, he knew the secret language of the wealthy, and knew how to shine among those who prized gold and possessions above all else. It was amazing how readily Nic recalled those idiosyncrasies for himself, as he stretched and adopted the postures and traits of the cruelest of his former masters. Without fear of being attacked, he strode around the cabin and inspected its meager charms, regarding it as though he might a rival’s pigsty. “Disgusting,” he pronounced at last. “But it will do, for my purposes.”

“For your purposes, eh?” Macaque’s sneering tone, Nic noticed, was not as confident as before. He’d been taken down a peg or two.

“Indeed.” Nic tilted his nose and stared at the man, then used the tip of his
shivarsta
on the substantial seat of Macaque’s pants, turning him around as if inspecting the cut of the man.

“And what purposes might those be?” asked Macaque.

He was obviously resentful of being handled like cattle, and knowing it amused Nic. Had the Drake felt so smug and glad of it when he treated those around him like dirt? “My purposes?” Nic spun Macaque back around, and began pacing across the room once more, this time to take in Macaque’s companions. One of them was a dark-skinned man with fine features, probably hailing from the Distant East. The other, though no longer young, stood a full head above anyone else in the room. His mass and muscles made him seem almost sculpted from clay and brought to life solely for destruction, like a golem from a child’s story. “Glory,” he said, not bothering to raise his voice. Let the pirates strain to hear him. “Riches. Infamy.” The dark-skinned man licked his lips, and almost seemed to nod. “The same things as you.”

Maxl had been quiet for several moments, seeming as stunned as anybody at Nic’s transformation into a creature he’d never before seen. Now he found his voice. “Listen to this man, this Grake,” he agreed. “You are fools if you not.”

“Drake,” Darcy corrected through clenched teeth.

“That is what I am saying,” Maxl assured everyone. “Drake.”

“Drake as in mallard?” Macaque was not the sort of man who took humiliation lightly, Nic could tell. “A duck? Quack, quack?”

With a graceful move, Nic let his
shivarsta
slice through the air in an arc, and then slipped it through the notch in his belt. “Drake as in dragon,” he explained, again softly, this time circling Macaque with the slow pace of a panther. “A fire-breathing … deadly … ravenous creature that few have actually seen, but which all fear.” He saw Jacopo raise his eyebrows and blink. Even Darcy, though she was keeping a stern look upon her face, seemed startled at the transformation.

The only important reactions, though, were from Macaque and his men. Macaque had almost audibly gulped during Nic’s speech. Now he seemed fixated on the short sword hanging at his side. “You and your men. You killed Captain Xi?”

“I alone killed Xi. We fought man to man, and I bested him,” said Nic. He let his fingers play over the
shivarsta’
s bone handle. “My crew and I—” He nodded at Darcy, to let her know he acknowledged her gender. “My crew and I have come to claim our due.”

Macaque spread his lips into something that resembled a smile, though it was not in the least friendly. “Have you, now? And what’s to say my other men aren’t without, ready to slit your lily-white throats?”

“What’s to say we haven’t already taken care of these other men?” Nic asked, maintaining the Drake’s maddening calm. “The handful you have left, that is. My understanding, Signor Macaque, is that you’re at least five men down. Is that even enough to run such a concern?”

Macaque’s flinty eyes darted in Maxl’s direction. “Traitor,” he growled. “You’ve told them all you know, haven’t you?”

When Maxl shrugged, Nic cocked his head. “Don’t blame the man for knowing on which side his bread is buttered,” he assured the pirate leader. “He’s only acting in his own best interests. As should you.”

The tension in the room was palpable. Maxl was still crouched and ready to spring if necessary, as were both of Macaque’s flunkies. The Colombos both had their stage weapons drawn and at the ready. Only Macaque and Nic stood in any posture that resembled relaxation, and Macaque seemed decidedly ill at ease. Smoothly as the Drake’s personality came oozing out of him, Nic wouldn’t have been at all surprised had Macaque suddenly ordered his men to attack. After a long pause, however, he crossed his arms. “What are you proposing? Because if you think …”

As had the Drake so many times before, Nic raised a hand to silence the man. “I am proposing that, for the sake of your life and the lives of your crew, you accept me as your captain.” Macaque’s lips pursed at that demand, as if he tasted sour lemon. “I also propose that we rendezvous with the rest of my fleet. Once united, you will see what true piracy is—and true riches.”

“And where is this fleet?”

“Docked at Cassaforte,” Nic replied smoothly. He only had to carry the charade that far. If Macaque were to find no pirate fleet once they were all safely home … well, the city guards could take over the problem at that point.

“Cassafort City, eh?” Macaque raised his eyebrows. “We’d have to pick up provisions in Gallina to make it that far.”

“Well then. What say you?” There was a tense moment as all three of the pirates looked over the impostors. Macaque took in the fashions that Nic and the others had created using the Arturos’ costume chest. His eyes lingered over the clean whites of the men’s shirts, the carved jet black and newly replaced feather of Nic’s tricorne, and the rich red of Darcy’s blouse. He seemed to compare Jacopo’s and Darcy’s shiny, elaborate blades with his own battered sword, and to study the costume jewelry they sported on their fingers and necks. “I ask you this, Macaque,” said Nic in the Drake’s sinuous tones. “Which is better? To be the captain of a rag-tag ship so poor that it has to accept bits and bobs of work from Pays d’Azur, or to serve under another and know riches enough to buy a lifetime of pleasure?”

Nic suspected he’d had Macaque the moment the man had asked his proposition. When the man licked his lips at the mention of riches, he knew it for certain. “If you are as powerful as you claim, then you know there are customs,” he at last said, after clearing his throat.

“Nothing worthwhile is ever gained without struggle,” Nic replied with a smile.

“You’re old enough to know that, then. How shall we do it? By the blade?” Macaque’s voice grew louder and more intimidating.

Nic suspected the fool was trying to work up the courage to fight, face-to-face, with the youth who had somehow bested his captain. Only Nic knew that it had been a combination of sheer luck and opportunity working in his favor. “No.”

Macaque cracked his beefy hands together. His knuckles cracked like kernels of corn over a hot fire. “Bare hands? Revolvers? How would you like to meet your maker, boy?”

Nic’s eyes flickered in Darcy’s direction, meeting her glance. She shook her head with so slight a motion that even anyone studying her closely might have missed it. Was she warning him? Or did she not want him to take the risk? Nic couldn’t help but wonder. His voice was barely a murmur as he wandered over to the table where the coins and cards still lay, abandoned mid-game. “Signor Macaque. Your sloop is already many hands down. Surely we both realize that your loss would be much grieved?” With a smile, Nic added before the man could protest, “What I had in mind would result in a casualty less. How good a player of taroccho are you, sir?”

Ah, yes. He had appealed to the man’s greed as well as his vanity. “None better,” Macaque assured him. He strode around to the other side of the table and swept the cards together. “Are you suggesting we settle our differences through a game of chance?”

“Three games,” Nic replied. Macaque seemed to be confident of victory. Nic, however, had month upon month of the Drake’s victories at cards in mind. His former master would have eaten the would-be captain as an appetizer for his dinner. “When I win two of them, you’ll cede the title of captain to me.”

“Three games,” agreed Macaque. “And when you lose two of them, boy, I’ll put you and your comrades to work like you’ve never been worked before.”

Nic’s only reply was an icy smile meant to imply that the like would never come to pass. “Master Drake,” said Maxl. Nic noticed that his voice was more strained than usual. “Having word with you, please?”

“Of course. Excuse me,” he said to Macaque, and began to stride over to the room’s far side.

The man nodded, then handed off the collected cards to the brawnier of his men. “Urso.” He rattled off a series of instructions in a foreign tongue, sending the man lumbering in the direction of a desk in the cabin’s corner.

“What did he say?” Nic murmured in Maxl’s ear, once they had a small amount of privacy.

“He is asking him to get the more fresh cards,” Maxl replied. His hands dug into Nic’s shoulder. “Are you knowing what you are doing? This man, he loves his taroccho. He always is winning.”

“Is this wise?” Jacopo asked. He, too, seemed concerned. “I appreciate the vigor with which you have invested yourself in this endeavor, but it seems a dangerous caprice.”

“You are gambling with our freedom,” Darcy growled, more to the point. “Not just yours. Mine and my father’s as well.”

Nic dropped the character of the Drake to speak to his friends, but some semblance of the man remained in his tone. Perhaps it was the testiness of his voice that came through most strongly when Nic said, “I know what I’m doing.”

“How can you?” Darcy demanded. “What has made you such an expert on games of chance?”

“You will have to trust me,” Nic replied, his words low and even. “I wouldn’t have wagered our futures if I wasn’t confident I might win.”

“Might? What if you don’t win? What if we’re worse off than we were on the island?”

Darcy was angrier than she’d ever before been. Her eyes flashed with fire, and though she modulated her volume so that she couldn’t be heard beyond their little circle, Nic could tell she meant business. “How could you be worse off?” he asked, sounding a bit impatient himself. “Were you really enjoying your diet of fruit and sea-soaked biscuits that much? Do you want to hop back onto Maxl’s rowboat and head back to that oh-so-comfortable cave where you were living?” From her stubborn expression, Nic knew he was getting through. “Then trust me to win this bet.”

“What if you lose?” Darcy wanted to know. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, still looking worried himself.

“Macaque is very, very good with the cards,” Maxl repeated, seeming almost as worried as she.

“If I lose,” Nic answered, watching Urso return to the table with a cleaner deck than the grimy set Macaque had given him, “then we’re still off the island. We can try to sweet-talk Macaque into thinking he can take over the rest of my fleet.” Darcy snorted, though Nic could tell she was weakening. “If he won’t take us to Cassaforte, then we’ll wait until we dock at a major port. We’ll escape. The point is that we’ll be on the move, which is more than when we were holed up on that island.”