The Buccaneer's Apprentice (11 page)

The sea lapped gently at the boat’s hull as they quietly rowed near. The cargo they had been towing behind the rowboat drifted with the pull of the tide. So they would not drift, Darcy used a rope to fasten their craft to a hook sunk deep into the hull. Both Maxl and Nic set their oars into the boat’s bottom as quietly as possible. To produce little to no noise seemed to be everyone’s goal.

Maxl put a finger to his lips. It was an unnecessary gesture. “Stay here, until I say so.” Careful not to rock the rowboat, he slipped over the side and into the water with barely a splash. His form disappeared into the depths. Before it seemed humanly possible, he surfaced a dozen feet away near the ship’s bow, snorting water from his nostrils. Liquid ran down his long mane and his back as he pulled himself up. After letting the reflected moonlight bounce for a few moments from the waters, Nic realized that Maxl was climbing up a chain—probably for the anchor. Like some sort of monkey he ascended, scampering from the water’s surface into the air, then lunging up onto the deck as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Of course, knowing Maxl’s history, Nic suspected he probably had.

After his disappearance, they had to wait in the shadows, on the side of the boat away from the moons. They could all be killed at any moment, Nic knew. Vengeance hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind when he’d formulated this plan.

No, he’d come up with it out of necessity. He and the Colombos had to return home with as much speed as possible. Earlier that day, when Maxl had uncovered the rowboat and mentioned that the
Tears of Korfu
was anchored so close to their own island and unlikely to move until a new captain has been settled upon, Nic had instantly dreamt up the most unlikely of plans. It was so outrageous that the scheme might have been ripped from the pages of one of the Arturos’ potboilers. Yet it was improbable enough to work. His mind had raced as he’d asked, “Maxl, exactly how many of you pirates were aboard the
Tears of Korfu
?”

“Perhaps making ten and two?”

There in the woods, by the little rowboat, Nic had performed some rapid subtraction in his head. Twelve pirates, and Nic had already taken out the captain and three more. Maxl had defected. So there were seven, more or less, and four on Nic’s side. True, one of Nic’s proposed invasion force was an old man, but not all problems had to be solved with brute force. He had the advantage of two strong young people and an inside informant. Hopefully, the sheer surprise of it might catch the remaining mates off-guard. “Maxl,” he said, knowing he was making more work for them both. “We need to take the long way ’round the island to where I came ashore, on the trip back.”

When Nic and the former pirate had finally paddled their way across the outgoing tide to the Colombos’ camp, Darcy and Jacopo had waded out into the waters to help them draw in the rowboat. Darcy had scowled at the sight of the Arturos’ costume trunk, bobbing along on the water on a rope tied to the boat’s end. “I hope those are more provisions,” she had commented. When Maxl had then produced the fish caught in the traps Nic had laid out his first day, she and her father had been mollified.

“I can’t believe you were actually supporting his ridiculous argument,” Darcy now said, bringing Nic back to the dark and the present.

“I wasn’t!” Nic replied, keeping his voice low. “I agreed with you.”

“You agreed with
him
.” Though he could not see Darcy’s face, Nic certainly could imagine the storm clouds gracing it.

“The only part I agreed with was that if you had two men to row for you, why would you want to take an oar?”

“Because I can. And because I might want to. Isn’t that enough?”

“Sssh.” Jacopo reminded them of the danger nearby.

“Fine, you can row next time,” Nic told her, returning his voice to a whisper. “I would love the opportunity to relax.”

“Because it’s so relaxing to sit about helplessly while everyone else does the important work for you.”

“It might be,” Nic said, trying to ignore the irony in her voice. “I wouldn’t mind, once in a while. If you knew what real work was …”

“Oh, very well. I see. You think of me as a pampered lapdog as well, do you?”

“Darcy, my dear …”

Yet Jacopo’s daughter was too heated to silence herself. “I thought we were allies,” she scolded Nic. “I thought we were working well together.”

“At times. When I know what you’re doing,” he agreed.

“Didn’t I agree that we would go along with your plan? Didn’t I agree to play … dress-up?” Yes, indeed she had. Nic had been able to tell, however, once he’d opened that Legnoli-crafted trunk how very unlikely she thought the plan to succeed. She had curled her aristocratic lip at the sight of those much-used costumes as though he’d presented her with a chest full of bull droppings. “Then the least you could do would be to agree with me when I require it.”

“Humbly do I beg your pardon,” Nic retorted, at his most formal. “Though to me, it seems a bit funny for someone who dislikes being treated like a lapdog, to treat others that way.”

He felt a stab of satisfaction when she couldn’t reply. It took a moment before Darcy opened her mouth again, and when she did, her father intervened to stop her. “I think silence,” he suggested in a tone that was not to be challenged, “may be advisable in this situation.”

“Fine,” Darcy replied. Nic sensed, rather than saw, her crossing her arms.

“Perfectly fine,” he said, keeping his hands in his lap.

“Shush,” said Jacopo. Not eight feet overhead, at the edge of the sloop’s railing, they heard the sounds of footsteps. For a split-second, Nic hoped it was Maxl, ready to help them up. When the footsteps continued, he merely hoped that whoever it was had not heard their petty squabbling. Whoever was above them began to whistle. Imperceptibly, all three in the boat below relaxed. Nic realized he’d been holding his breath.

It was ironic that at that moment, a fish leapt from the water high into the air, falling back with more of a splash than Maxl had made either leaving their rowboat or boarding the
Tears
. The whistling ceased. Nic sensed all three of them stilling themselves and leaning even further into the shadows. “
Oi?
” said a voice from above. “
Kella stas veni?
”

Nobody
, Nic thought to himself, hoping the answer might somehow transmit to the man.
Nobody but us pirates
.

Perhaps it worked, for after a moment they heard a chuckle, as if the patrol realized he’d become alarmed at nothing. He began whistling again, but only for a moment. What quickly followed was the sound of an impact, followed by grunting. Moments later, something dark and heavy fell from the deck into the water, resounding with a mighty splash as the body hit the sea sideways. Nic recoiled, not from the water splattering his face, or from knowing what had caused the sound, but from something unexpected striking his face. Instinctively his hands reached out, only to find themselves grasping some kind of hemp surface—a rope net stretching from the deck down to their boat. “Master Nic! Come!” he heard Maxl whisper. “Missy Colombo! Old man! Now is time!”

Nic’s heart began to pound at a reinvigorated rate, once he had scaled up the net that left his hands scratched and punctured. Maxl had assisted him over the railing, and then turned to help Jacopo while Nic leaned over to pull up Darcy. “I’m fine,” she snarled, as she neared the summit. Nic noticed, however, that she clung to his forearm when he offered it, and grunted a brusque thank-you once she’d regained her feet on the deck. “What’s the status of the crew?” she asked in a whisper.

“Three are in captain’s cabin.” Maxl’s arm was still damp, when he set it on Nic’s shoulder. “They are still waking. One is swimming with fishies. He a bad man. You are not wanting business with him. Others are below deck, but you wish I am locking hatch in case they are waking?”

It took Nic a moment to realize that Maxl was addressing him. He was so used to having someone else give the orders that it seemed unnatural to be deferred to. “Oh,” he said, remembering he was supposed to be in charge. Enough light spilled from both the moons and the deckside porthole to the captain’s quarters that he could plainly see Darcy’s raised eyebrows. Gods, he must look like such a bumbling fool to her. “Yes. Locking the hatch, please. I mean, er, lock it.” Maxl leapt to follow the order.

“And now?” Darcy asked.

He didn’t know what he was doing. This plan, while all his, needed someone who was actually
able
to execute it. Nic wasn’t a pirate. He had none of the know-how. Even with Maxl’s coaching, he wasn’t going to be able to follow through. They were doomed. “I think it’s time we addressed those who are awake,” said Jacopo. One of his hands went to Nic’s damp shoulder. In a soft voice, he said to the boy, “You know, my friend, often in my line of work, the only thing necessary for me to do is let the nuncio’s robes of state do the talking. Dirty they might have been when you met me, but they were designed to impress.”

“They were a costume,” Nic said, understanding. That had been the reason he’d wanted to board the
Tears
dressed as buccaneers, rather than in the rags they’d been sporting. “I know.”

“Exactly.” Jacopo took the liberty of removing Nic’s tricorne, then fishing something from Nic’s shirt pocket. It was a small patch of fabric affixed to a dark ribbon pulled from one of Signora Arturo’s fine dresses. “I could remain silent and not have to say a word, and by the virtue of my robes alone, be called a philosopher, a wise man, a judge, or a saint.” His fingers trembled slightly as he laid the patch over Nic’s left eye, then pulled the ribbon around the back of his head. “And you, by virtue of a few leftover scraps and a little bit of inexpert basting …”

Once Jacopo had tied the ribbon with a knot, Nic turned around to face him. He retrieved his tricorne—once Captain Delguardino’s, washed up with so much flotsam onto the shore—and put it on his head again. “I am a dread pirate, come to wreak vengeance.”

“A dread pirate indeed.” Jacopo smiled. “As for the vengeance … well, try to leave a few of the crew alive. I think only Maxl has any idea of how to sail a ship, and he can’t do it all by himself.”

This was it, then. Of all the trials Nic had faced in the last few days, in many ways this was the most frightening; it was a path he had chosen, rather than one he had been herded down. The balance of their combined futures lay on his shoulders, and it was all he could do to force himself to take a step forward. Then he saw Darcy, standing to the side, watching him. He half-expected a sneer from her, or some kind of sharp jibe. Instead, all she did was stare. Was she nervous, too? Perhaps on his account?

He didn’t have a chance to ask. Maxl returned from battening down the hatch. “We are going now,” he said, striding forward and pulling Nic behind him. “Is better we surprise them, than other way around.”

“All right,” said Nic, before he could think. “Wait. My name. I don’t have a name.”

“Why, you are being Master Nic!”

“No, my pirate name.” He hadn’t thought far enough ahead. He didn’t have a character. At the moment he was just Niccolo Dattore, playing dress-up, like Darcy had said. He hadn’t transformed himself into anyone else.

Worse, it might be too late. They were standing outside the captain’s quarters, and Maxl had his hand on the latch that would open the door. There was a sense of urgency in his voice as the former pirate urged, “Are you ready?”

“He’s ready,” said Jacopo.

Nic wanted to disagree. Whatever Jacopo said, a flowing shirt, a tricorne, and a patch over one eye did not a pirate king make. In fact, he couldn’t cope with the patch at all. Hastily he grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket, just as Maxl flung back the door.

They all were nearly overcome by the scents of pipe tobacco and the smoke from burning coals, and the dark, sweet aroma of rum. The men within were crowded around a table covered with coins and cards. At first they didn’t turn or even notice that strangers and not comrades had entered their space. With startled shouts, though, they suddenly dropped their cards and leapt to their feet. Nic’s hand instinctively reached for his
shivarsta
. It sliced through the air as he pulled it from his belt. To his side, Maxl sported a dagger, and Darcy a stage sword that looked impressive enough, though it would retract into its hilt with the slightest pressure upon its tip.

The largest of the three pirates began to curse in a foreign tongue. “Maxl!” he cried, and then followed it up with a few choice swear words. As he withdrew, hands raised, Nic caught sight of himself and his friends in a looking-glass that hung over the tiny grate opposite the door. Perhaps they were more fearsome than he imagined. Maxl was a sight as he leered through his blued face and gestured with his dagger for the pirates to keep away. The Colombos, likewise, looked suitably sinister in their costumes—especially Darcy, who scowled convincingly as her eyes darted around the tiny cabin.

And as for Nic … well, he scarcely recognized himself. The last few days had completely transformed him. His black crop was wilder and fuller as it spilled from beneath Captain Delguardino’s tricorne. His thick eyebrows seemed determined. A few days in the sun had rendered him less pale and sheltered. He’d left Massina a boy, and now in his costume looked every inch a man. “Macaque,” Maxl was saying to the large man who seemed to be leading the trio. His face was ruddy and full, and his eyes seemed sunk deep into his skull, as if he peered out at the world from a distance. “Is nice to see you again.”