Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo (14 page)

I
SCRAMBLED TO MY FEET
, leg throbbing. The Zu-Zu was trying to stand, but Elodie was pummeling her so mercilessly that she couldn’t get up. Elodie was small, but fike, she was tough. I whistled Flynn away from the downed pirate he was licking—he’s a bloodsucker, all right—grabbed a fire bucket, hauled Elodie away, and dumped the bucket over the Zu-Zu. Oops, it wasn’t a fire bucket. It was the pig’s slop bucket. The Zu-Zu howled. Wait until she saw what my Curse had done to her; then she would really howl. Her hair was now a sickly glowing green, visible even under the slop.

“Come on! Hide!” Elodie shouted. I followed her as she darted between boxes, Flynn skittering behind me, until she stopped so suddenly, I almost ran into her. Ahead, the way was blocked by a very large pirate with a revolver in his hand.

I pushed Elodie behind me, and told him, “Take another step and I’ll blow you both to the Abyss.”

“With what, lovely? You ain’t got a gun.”

“I got this whip!” I hoped the pirate wouldn’t realize he was out of its range. He did and laughed. Reinforcing my decision not to throw in with the Dainty Pirate’s crew, he then made an extremely rude suggestion that I hoped Elodie did not understand. Alas, she did, and yelled her own rude suggestion back, adding a comment about the pirate’s mother for good measure.

“Shut up, Elodie!” I hissed. With a roar of rage, the pirate raised his pistol. I hoped he had terribly bad aim or that his powder was wet or that it wouldn’t hurt too much and that he would hit me and not Elodie and—

The pirate crumpled to the deck as though he’d been hit by an anvil. Sieur Wraathmyr stepped over him and said, “I’m leaving. You can come if you want.” As far as I could see, the only weapon he had was his bare hands, but apparently he had a punch like a mule kick.

“Leaving? How?”

“The lifeboat,” he said impatiently. “Now.”

“Let’s go!” I turned to Elodie, but she was already climbing the rigging. High above, Theo dangled, shouting encouragement.

“We can’t leave her!” I followed Sieur Wraathmyr. “We can’t leave her and Theo to the pirates!”

“Get the dog,” he ordered, tossing something heavy and ropy over the side. I hoisted Flynn up, and then Sieur Wraathmyr picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.

“Hey! Hey ...
Hey!”

“Hold on.” He climbed over the railing and down the rope ladder that was banging and twisting against the ship. With one hand, I clutched his furry shoulder; with the other, I kept a death grip on Snapperdog, who had, fortunately, gone limp with fear. Salt spray blinded me and I closed my eyes, buried my face in Sieur Wraathmyr’s furry jacket, and tried not to think about what would happen if he missed his footing. The ship would probably squash us before we could drown. Very little consolation.

Sieur Wraathmyr dropped into the little boat, then dumped me on a seat. I kept the death grip on Flynn, now trying to crawl into my lap, and grabbed the side of the boat with my other hand. The boat was heaving and bouncing in a very wet, sick-making way.

“What about Elodie and Theo?”

Sieur Wraathmyr cut a rope, then reached out an oar and pushed away from the
Pato
. “The pirates are retreating now that they have what they came for. I’m pretty sure those kids can take care of themselves. Can you row?”

“Not really.” At the Barracks, I had considered joining the rowing team, but two practices had convinced me that yanking on two giant paddles was not my idea of fun. Now I rather wished that I had stuck with it.

“Move to the bow.”

I crawled to the bow, hauling Flynn with me, and Sieur Wraathmyr took the oars and began to row. The
Pato
vanished into the dark night, and the sounds of pirate havoc dampened and then faded away completely Now we were surrounded by darkness and water, swelling, rolling water. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this was worse than pirates. “We aren’t going to drift further out to sea, are we?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I have been to sea before,” Sieur Wraathmyr said shortly. Well, Varangers were supposed to be famous for their seafaring ability. I hoped Sieur Wraathmyr was true to form. Otherwise, we were shark bait.

The oars looked heavy, but he didn’t seem to have any trouble pulling them. The sea was not rough but the waves were high, and despite the stiff breeze and salt spray, my head began to lurch in time to the ocean’s swells. Flynn huddled on my lap, shivering and hacking.

Sieur Wraathmyr didn’t say anything, just rowed and rowed. My rage was wearing off, replaced by a horrible queasiness. I had made a hasty decision to jump ship and now I was sitting in a rickety boat in the middle of the ocean with a wer-bear, who had good reason to want me dead, and a puking dog.

Well, too late, that sorrow
, Nini Mo said.

Anyway, better a wer-bear and a puking dog than faithless Udo and his equally conniving pirate friends. And Buck! Yet another betrayal. From here on I would trust no one but myself. And Flynn, of course.

Sieur Wraathmyr rowed, never tiring, never flagging. Neither of us spoke. His face was closed in concentration and my tum was too queasy for talk. Flynn subsided into a shivering, panting dog; he was bony, but at least he was warm. Eventually, the stars began to fade and the darkness took on a white tinge. Then one edge of the horizon turned pinky yellow, the colors slowly spreading until the bowl of the sky was filled with dawn.

“What’s that noise?” I asked Sieur Wraathmyr.

It took a moment for his concentration to break. “Surf.”

I turned around and craned my neck. Ahead of us a line of white frothy waves was emerging from the early morning fog. It was another half hour before we landed, a half hour in which I thought any moment I’d be swimming, Flynn beside me, tempting the sharks. The boat pitched over the breakers, nose so high at times that I could barely keep from being tossed out. But Sieur Wraathmyr kept pulling at the oars and we made it through. I was never so glad in my life when the hull of the lifeboat scraped ground.

Sieur Wraathmyr picked me and Flynn up and swung us out of the boat, then carried us through the surf and up onto the beach. He set us gently on the damp sand, which seemed to heave and swell beneath me. Snapperdog scrambled to his feet, shook himself, and ran over to piss on a piece of driftwood. That reminded me that I needed to do the same. I staggered to my feet, muscles stiff and cold, and staggered behind the driftwood, which luckily was rather large. My hankie was already damp but I didn’t care.

When I came back, I found that Sieur Wraathmyr had beached the boat and pulled it far up onto the sand. Pigface, he must be strong. The morning sun was burning the fog off; above us, wisps of blue began to emerge through the white tatters. Landscape was also emerging from the fog. We were in a curved bay about a quarter of a mile long. The beach swept upward, sand turning to rocks, rocks terminating in a fringe of scrubby deformed cypress trees. Except for us and a few darting birds running along the water line, the cove was empty of life.

Sieur Wraathmyr had climbed back into the boat; now he tossed one of the emergency kits onto the sand and jumped after it. He offered me my dispatch case, which I took, asking, “What now?”

“Rest.”

He hoisted the kit and set off across the beach, away from the water. Flynn and I followed. Halfway up the hillside, just below the rocks and in the lee of an enormous driftwood log, he threw the kit down and began to scrabble a shallow impression in the sand.

“Take off your boots and socks,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“You should never go to sleep with wet feet.”

I glanced down and realized that his feet and legs, below the knee length of his kilt, were bare. I took my boots and socks off, rubbing my cold white toes. Sieur Wraathmyr unpacked the emergency bag from the lifeboat and lined the impression with a blanket. I lay down, Flynn squirming at my feet. Before I could protest, Sieur Wraathmyr lay down next to me and pulled the other blanket over both of us.

The sand was hard, my back ached, my tummy surged. But I was asleep in seconds.

I
WOKE UP WITH
F
LYNN
snuffling my neck. The space beside me was empty. The sky shone a brilliant blue, and the sun was warm on my face. My hands still burned, my back still ached, and my tummy was still empty. But the awful heaving seasick feeling was gone. I closed my eyes again, drowsily listening to the distant rumble of the waves, the thin whistle of the wind. But eventually my bladder became too insistent to ignore.

A scrim of fog still drifted over the trees on the cliffs above the beach. From the angle of the sun, it was midmorning. I felt as though I’d slept for a week, but it had probably been only two or three hours. The surf was now very high, waves smashing thunderously onto the beach. Thank the Goddess we weren’t trying to make landfall through that thunder; we never would have made it.

A few yards away, a small fire burned in a sandpit, but there was no sign of Sieur Wraathmyr himself. My bladder was getting painful, so I headed toward the edge of the beach, where a stunted cypress tree provided a potty screen. Then I washed my face and hands in the stream that wended its way across the beach before it vanished into the ocean. Back at the fire, still no sign of Sieur Wraathmyr, but there were his furry jacket, boots, and satchel, and also my socks, propped up on two sticks before the flames. While I put them on—nice and toasty—and then my boots, I looked at Sieur Wraathmyr’s coat, so tempting, and at the satchel, even more tempting. My map had to be in one or the other. It’s not nice to go through other people’s belongings; it’s even less nice to steal. But it had been my map to begin with, and you can’t steal your own property.

Just as I was about to reach for the jacket, I heard furious barking. Flynn, who had wandered off while I was pottying, was bounding toward me, tongue lolling. Sieur Wraathmyr strode behind him, a writhing crab in each hand. Flynn flung himself on me. He was wet and smelled of salt.

“What are those crabs for?” I asked, pushing Flynn down.

“Breakfast,” Sieur Wraathmyr answered. He wore only his knee-length kilt, made out of a dark blue-and-red checked fabric. No shirt, no weskit, no stockings, nothing but his own skin. But what skin! Almost every inch of Sieur Wraathmyr that I could see—and that was a lot—was covered in an intricate web of black lines. Dark crosshatching covered his shoulders and sides, and a series of rings encircled his arms. A diamond pattern was etched on his chest. More crosshatching marched down his legs. Only his face and the backs of his hands were bare. I’ve seen a lot of tattoos, but none like these. They were geometric, almost mathematical in their precision. I couldn’t help but wonder if the parts of Sieur Wraathmyr that I could not see were also inked, and at that thought, I felt oddly spoony. I switched my gaze to the crabs.

“Where did you get those?”

Sieur Wraathmyr looked at me as though I was an idiot. “It’s easy enough to get crabs. The rocks are full of them.” He dropped one of the crabs onto the sand, unsheathed the very large knife thrust into the waistband of his kilt, and plunged it into the crab he still held. The crab wiggled one last time, sadly, and was still. The other crab scrabbled through the sand, making a break for freedom, but it got the knife, too, and then both were wrapped in seaweed and set on the fire to roast. A can of condensed milk was already half-buried in the coals; Sieur Wraathmyr fished out the hot can with the edge of his kilt and offered it to me.

“There’s no coffee,” he said. I drank and offered the can back, but he shook his head. As I finished the warm milk, Sieur Wraathmyr snatched the crabs off the fire and dropped one in front of me. He dismembered the other and fed it to eager Flynn.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I have already eaten,” he answered.

I almost made a snappy comment about being as hungry as a bear, then decided to keep my trap shut until I had the map back. And until I had a chance to make sure my revolver and rounds were dry. We were alone on a beach, and no one knew where I was. Sieur Wraathmyr could easily get rid of me here. So best be sweet—and on guard—until I knew his intentions.

“Thanks for the chow.”

“You are welcome.” Sieur Wraathmyr tossed the last bit of crab to Flynn. He pulled his pipe out of a pocket of his furry jacket and tried to light it, but the wind was strong and kept blowing the match out. I threw my crab carcass into the fire and scrubbed my hands in the sand.

“Here, cup your hands around the bowl,” I said, digging my match safe out of my pocket. He sheltered the pipe as I had instructed, leaning toward me. I struck the match on the sole of my boot and quickly brought it up to the bowl of the pipe, cupping my hand around his. His hands were warm, his palms heavily callused. He’d pulled oars before. He puffed on the pipe stem and the tobacco flared and caught.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Sieur Wraathmyr stared off into the blue horizon, puffing on his pipe. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make any conversation, so I said, “Where do you think we are?”

“The ship was just off the coast of Moros when we were boarded,” Sieur Wraathmyr said. “Factoring in the tides and the drift, I would say we are a few miles south of there now. That puts us about fifteen miles north of Cambria. Angeles and Cuilihuacan are another sixty miles south.”

I asked, “Why did you leave the
Pato?
The pirates were leaving. You’d have been fine once they were gone.”

“The
Pato
will have to dock at Moros and make a report, and there will be hearings and newspapers and inspections, and much commotion. I have no time to waste on commotion.”

I suspected that Sieur Wraathmyr did not wish to bring himself to the attention of the authorities; considering his true nature, I did not blame him. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go south to Cambria,” he said, “to file a claim with my insurance company. You can catch a boat back to the City from there. I am assuming, since you abandoned the
Pato
, that you are not eager to get back onboard her.”