The Buccaneer's Apprentice (20 page)

“What?” Nic and Maxl and Darcy all spat the word at once. Darcy looked with disgust at Knave. In turn, he looked terrified.

“Take it!” Maarten sat back down on his bench and helped himself to a mouthful of meat pie. “You won’t get a better offer than that. The man’s obviously a trading genius!”

“I … I …” Maxl, for once, was speechless.

“Take it!” said Maarten once more. “It’s a much better deal.”

Nic tried to smooth the matter over. “I don’t know that man,” he assured the trader. “It’s only a single kronen. And it was your custom I sought. Not his.”

For a long, long moment, Maarten stared at him. Nic held both his breath and his cool, hoping against hope that Knave hadn’t ruined the scene. After what seemed like an eternity, Maarten opened his mouth and let out a bay of laughter. Though they obviously had no idea what was so funny, the women who had been attending him began to laugh as well. “Mynheer Drake,” he said, through a mouthful of the pie. “I am a seasoned tradesman. I make my home on Gallina. I have seen enough to know when someone is trying to make me raise my price with a plant. That fellow is no more a ‘reputable tradesman’ than I am a poet.”

“That he is not,” Nic assured the man. “I apologize. I was not aware there was a man of honor upon Gallina.”

“There are a few. I am one. Four hundred and seventy-five kronen is a very good deal.” Maarten plucked a small bone from the recesses of his gums, then directed it at Nic to drive home his point. “I have a caravel that would be specially suited for your purposes. It is worth five hundred kronen, but I will trade. Would you see it?”

“I would.” Nic heaved an internal sigh of relief that their subterfuge had not ended in disaster, after all.

“Then have your people come to my shipyard at dawn,” said the man, pushing back the bench and adjusting his waistcoat. “We’ll have you back on the seas by breakfast.”

Nic bowed low. “We shall see you there. Come,” he said to Darcy and Maxl. Once his back was turned to Maarten, Maxl nodded, grinned, and gave Nic a thumbs-up sign. Nic sighed and motioned to Knave at the door. “You too.”

Knave looked sheepish as he took his leave of the meal and the ladies. Aware that his comrades were all glaring at him after they left the room, he shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I froze! I didn’t know my motivation. Ask Armand,” he said to Nic. “He’ll be the first to tell you I don’t do well without a script.”

Nic’s response was little more than a growl. “That much is obvious.”

Actors, like vermin, produce nothing but filth and excrement. Both eat anything in plain sight, fair or foul. The only
difference between an acting troupe and an infestation is that
I have had infinitely more entertaining evenings chasing lice.

—The philosopher Racell Cloutier,
in
Purging Society as a Basis for Clean Government

I
t’s small.” Nic’s first reaction to the
Sea Butterfly
was the same as it had been when he’d spied it. Nestled as it was in the middle of Maarten’s private docks, surrounded by the hulls of so many larger craft, it somehow appeared even tinier—like a child’s play sailboat, set upon the canals of Cassaforte with a string at one end.

“Aye, small but fleet.” Maarten held up his lantern so that it spread its light over the marvelous little craft. “A newly built caravel. A mere ten years old. No damage. She can easily carry fifteen sailors. Uses lateen sails for speed. You’ll be anywhere you care to be as quick as a wink in this little beauty.” He strode up the ramp from the dock and began to wander around the deck. “Sturdy, too,” he commented, kicking the foremast.

“Speed is good,” said Jacopo. He, along with the rest of the crew, stood upon the docks with Nic. After the debacle at Solange’s, Maxl had sent Knave to summon the rest of Macaque’s original crew with the cart containing the provisions, and to meet them at the town’s far end, where they had all lodged the night in a barn. Maarten owned or leased a considerable amount of the waterfront docks there, and they were crammed full. It was difficult to conceive of so many ships abandoned by, or taken from, their owners, but here they were. Rowboats of all sizes and for all uses lay piled near the building Maarten used as his office. Small sailboats used for fishing or as pleasure craft were dry-docked closer to land. They were standing on a mazelike complex of piers that extended into the water and seemed to lead away in every direction. The purple dark of Gallina’s harbor before sunrise sometimes made it difficult to see the details of every ship in their vicinity, but Maarten had provided lanterns to anyone who wanted, so there was light enough. “We need as much speed as possible,” he reminded Nic.

“I know. I know.” There was nothing wrong with it as far as he could see, and Maxl was already striding around the deck, leaning his blue face in to examine the ropes and riggings, his expression positive. He ordered several of the men to unfurl the squared sails so he could inspect their condition. Nic didn’t even want to set foot onto the little caravel, though. It almost seemed to him that to stride aboard would be to claim it as his own, and he wasn’t prepared for that, yet. “It’s just so small.”

“It’s only a half-dozen spans shorter than the
Tears
,” called out Infant Prodigy, who had already skimmed to the top of the rear mast, out of the lanterns’ reach. Her voice was a pinpoint in the early morning sky.

“It is small,” said the Signora. “I shudder to think of the lack of privacy below.”

“But my dear,” said her husband, reassuring all fears. “If we speedily make our way across the bonny waters, the inconvenience will be only short-lived.”

“He speaks the truth, dama.” Maarten stepped from the deck onto the ramp again to address her. His hand automatically ran over his smooth head, as if he still had hair to slick back. “You could reach the mountains of Tariq and the ocean in a matter of days if you so chose. Do you know,” he said in an entirely different tone. It was as if he could no longer hold back the observation. “I’ve seen many a crew of … speedy shippers before, and I must say that yours is the most unusual upon which I’ve ever laid eyes.” Nic felt dismayed at the man’s words. He’d hoped to attract as little attention as possible. “It’s not good or bad. Neither fish nor cheese, as we say in my land. But I will tell you. Any other crew of speedy shippers in the market for a little beauty like this wouldn’t hesitate.”

Nic sighed. He knew he should take the boat. Speed was of the essence, and he could tell from the many unspoken signs Maxl was giving him that so far there was nothing wrong with the caravel. Yet there was something he couldn’t quite articulate that held him back from agreeing. It wasn’t that his ego was struck a blow by having to command a craft shorter and stouter than the
Tears of Korfu
, for it had been no grand ship in the first place. It wasn’t pride that held him back, nor fear. Something undefinable simply wasn’t right about the
Sea Butterfly,
and for the life of him, Nic couldn’t have told anyone what it was. “And there’s nothing else available?”

“Not that would suit you. Not in your price range.” Maarten seemed firm on that. “I am not cheating you, Drake. This little caravel could keep you afloat for many years to come.”

Nic’s lips curved into a Drake-like smile. “I appreciate your concern for the longevity of my career,” he said, bowing. “Now please. Allow me to think it over.”

“Certainly.” Maarten withdrew with a little bow, and went back aboard to point out to Maxl the little ship’s more compelling features.

Despite the early hour, Gallina’s harbor was not completely dark. Reflected sun from Muro’s face streaked across the bay, which was already spotted with countless little lamps and lanterns from the hundreds of craft that had set anchor overnight. It was as if someone had thrown a net into the sky, captured the stars, and let them settle onto the gently bobbing water. Nic walked so that he was out of reach of the lantern-lit stretches of pier, pretending to study the hulls of the neighboring boats.

Really what he wanted, though, was a chance to be alone and to think. Not since the night on the deserted island had he enjoyed a moment to himself. Every moment of every day since, he’d been bluffing and scraping by, trying to find a way home. Now that he’d been handed the means to return to Cassaforte, he found himself balking. Why?

Was it the fear of returning to the city? Signor Arturo had promised an end to his work debt, so that couldn’t be it. Was it that he feared being ordinary once again? There was something in that theory. Despite the fact that Nic could have lived quite happily never to witness violence or death again, he was able to admit to himself that part of him had enjoyed parts of the preceding week. He’d been respected. People had sought his opinion, and still did. They’d relied upon him, and not simply to bring their hot water or their breakfasts upon a tray. Maybe the old Nic could have returned to Cassaforte happy to start over as the stagehand for a minor and unnoticed theatrical troupe—or even as its young Hero—but at that moment, Nic still wanted something more. To hop aboard the
Sea Butterfly
and return home would set him free, but something within kept speaking to him to say that it wasn’t right.

He saw the light from the solitary lantern, spilling an orange-white glow on the green-stained wood before he heard the voice speaking softly behind him. “Are you furious with me?”

“Darcy,” he replied, shaking his head, “I can’t stay furious with you for long.” That didn’t seem to be quite the answer she’d hoped for, but she nodded and stepped forward to join him. “One minute you’re driving me absolutely insane, and then the next you’re saving my life.”

“If it’s any consolation,” she said, biting her lip as she stared out at the lights of the harbor, “my father has always said that I’m a handful.” Nic laughed at that. Darcy took a deep breath and began speaking in a rush, as if she’d thought out what she’d planned to say, and meant to say it as quickly as possible. “I know this is all my fault. You’d never be in this mess if I hadn’t dragged you in and appointed you our guide home. Oh, I certainly can talk about how my sex is as capable as yours. I’m bossy, true. Yet perhaps I’m not as competent as I thought, relying on you so much.”

“Am I so terrible to rely upon?” Nic asked. He didn’t dare face her.

“No! That’s the crux of it, you see. We’ve put so much faith in you, and not once have you let us down. And what do I do, every time I open my fool mouth? Insult you, through my arrogance and rank. My father’s rank, really. I’ve no privilege of my own to speak of.” She cleared her throat, and over the lantern let her liquid blue eyes contemplate him. “Regardless of how I insulted you, I think—I think that we’re all born with some kind of moral compass that we carry with us all our lives. Some people ignore them. You don’t. Niccolo, I think you and I have our compasses pointing in the same direction.” Her voice had grown soft, as if she were saying words she might regret later. “I’m very glad of it.”

Nic’s voice was gruff as he responded. “In what direction are they pointing?”

With her free hand, Darcy reached out for his. She nodded out at the harbor, and the sea beyond it, and said simply, “Home.”

It was strange, how many and unexpected were the sensations her fingers around his could create. His heart beat as if he were in danger, though he felt no fear. His skin prickled as if he stood in front of a fire, though there was none nearby. These feelings, at least, felt right. With these feelings he could have kindled more flames than burned on the waters that morning. They stood side by side, saying nothing more but clutching each other’s hands as if afraid to let go.

While he regarded the silhouettes of Maarten’s stock against the lightening eastern sky, Darcy asked a question. “Those girls at that woman’s place. Solange’s?”

“Hmm?” asked Nic, distracted. His attention had been diverted by the shadow of a large ship in the middle distance.

“They’re not … I don’t know why I’m asking you this. Is that the type of girl you like?” When Nic didn’t immediately answer, Darcy’s voice grew noticeably more nervous. “If it is, fine, that’s the way it is, but I’m not …” She sighed. “You know, I
am
a girl. Despite what she said.”

“Who said?” The longer he stared at the dark shadow, the more curious Nic felt. He took a step forward.

“Your Signora. She said I was basically a boy in a girl’s costume. I’m not. Say. Are you even listening to me?”

By that point, Nic was not. “Do you see something strange?” he asked, pointing into the darkness. “There,” he said. “That ship. The one over there. On the very edge of the docks.”

“No, I don’t. I can’t even see—hey! I’m trying to talk to you.”

In his curiosity, Nic yanked her forward. His feet sprinted as he searched for a connection to the next pier that ran parallel to his own. They ran past the
Sea Butterfly
once again, not noticing or caring that several of the crew, including Darcy’s own father, witnessed them hand in hand. A narrower walkway connected to the second pier. They jogged down its length until at last Nic stood before the galleon he had noticed.

It loomed above them, tall and proud against the purple sky, its bowsprit jutting above the pier. Overhead, where once had been a figurehead of some sort were thick knots and gnarls, like the trunk of an old and twisted tree. Where the ship’s name should have been painted was nothing at all. In fact, the longer Nic looked at the ship’s hull, the more curious it seemed. When he dropped Darcy’s hand and lifted the lantern to get a better look, the mystery deepened further still: the ship’s hull was blackened, almost as if it had been charred and burnt beyond recognition. It wasn’t painted, though, nor had it met with conflagration. “Odd,” he murmured.

“It’s awful,” said Darcy. Her face was contorted with disgust as she craned back her head to take in as much of the galleon as she could. Its foremast disappeared into the sky, though Nic’s eyes could make out the forestays running from its upper reaches to the bowsprit. The ropes seemed cobwebbed with age, or perhaps disuse.