The Buccaneer's Apprentice (19 page)

Ingenue and Infant Prodigy both let out sharp cries of disappointment. Signora Arturo, for her part, let out a laugh. “And let you boys in that place by yourselves? I think not, husband, and if you think about it closely, you’ll agree to let us in there to keep an eye on you.”

No husband could deny a wife so fervid in her expression. In fact, the actor was taken a little aback at how strongly his lady felt about the matter. “Of course, of course,” he reassured her. “I was only thinking of the more delicate sensibilities among our group.”

“Armand.” The Signora crossed her arms. “I worked as a tavern wench. Pulcinella has been married three times. Ingenue and Infant Prodigy have seen more male backsides changing costumes in the wings than has the seat of a public privy. And as for this one …” she indicated Darcy. “She’s basically a boy in a girl’s costume, and a savage one, at that.” Darcy blinked, and seemed startled. “There is scarcely going to be anything within those doors that will shock any of us.” Point made, she raised her eyebrows in triumph.

The actor assented. With Nic as their leader, they made their way to the darkened arch on the corner. The moment they crossed the threshold and into the warm, close room just within, the atmosphere changed. Gone were the dismal sights and smells of Gallina’s streets, replaced by the scents and dressings of a woman’s boudoir. Everything within had been decorated in pale corals, or delicate pinks. The staircase was painted a blue the color of the Azure Sea on its sunniest days, while a rug underfoot seemed to be woven from threads dyed in the colors of the world’s most valuable jewels.

“
Oola?
” The hostess who stepped into the room to greet them was perhaps the same age and build as the Signora, yet her matronly figure had somehow been contained in a much smaller corset with a cincher that reduced her waist to miniscule proportions.

So much of her ample favors were on display that Nic nearly averted his eyes, but at the last moment he recalled himself and stepped forward. “Ah, madam,” he said, as the Drake took over. “A hundred good days to you.”

The hostess smiled broadly at his bow. “Such fine manners!” she replied. The language of Cassaforte was obviously not her first tongue, but in her line of work she had picked up enough of it to make herself easily understood. “Deevine! Outstanding! Oh, signor, ’ow long it ’as been since we ’ave ’ad a real gentleman in Solange’s!” She reached out and caressed Nic’s cheek in a way that quite embarrassed him, in front of the others. “And so many of you! Do they all want girls? Solange can provide! I ’ave all kinds of girls. Fat girls for you, yes?” she said, pointing to Maxl. While Ingenue steamed, Solange puffed out her cheeks and looked stern. “Fat and a little mean is what you like, yes? Skeeny girls for you,” she said to Signor Arturo with a sunny expression. The Signora’s jaw began working in outrage. “Yes, I know your type!”

Nic firmly removed the woman’s hand from his cheek, before it wandered to any more intimate areas. He held it in his fist for a moment, then gently kissed the knuckles. They smelled of the same perfume that hung so heavy in the air. “Gentle madam, fascinating and no doubt diverting as it would be for me, or indeed, any of my party, to partake in the graces and conversation of the charming damsels under your, ah, tutelage, it is not their company we seek.”

The woman known as Solange may not have followed the nuance of Nic’s speech, but she seemed to understand the general import. “No?”

“No,” he said, clasping her hand with both of his before at last releasing it. “I am a man of business who has been told that a colleague I seek spends his dinnertimes within your delightful establishment.” For a moment the woman looked crestfallen at the news that not one of the more than half-dozen potential patrons in her lobby seemed interested in giving her any actual trade. Nic, however, plucked from his pocket one of the gold pieces from Captain Xi’s money box, and held it up. “Trond Maarten is his name.”

“Oh! But of course!” Solange nearly snatched away the coin before it was even proffered. “Signor Maarten, ’e is in the pink dining ’all. I will show you, yes? Come, come.” The woman gestured to Nic. “I show you.”

Before Solange could get very far, Nic turned to his party. “Maxl and I will go. The rest of you, stay here.”

“May I come?”

Darcy’s request was so solemn that Nic had to hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “But quickly.”

The first floor of Solange’s establishment seemed composed almost entirely of parlor after parlor, all of them painted in various shades of pastel and furnished with silk-covered sofas trimmed with fringe. On the walls hung tapestries of topics that to Nic’s eye appeared quite rude. Candelabras of ormolu sat on every small table, illuminating the rooms with a warm glow. They were not brightly lit, however, and judging by many of the intimate conversations Solange’s customers were having with the women of her staff, most of them preferred it that way. At long last, after Nic had become convinced that Solange had to have bought all the stucco buildings around her own and knocked down the walls to create her feminine sanctuary, they came to the pink dining hall.

Pink it certainly was, from the flocked paper covering the ceiling and walls to the eye-popping salmon of the sofas. Even the great wooden table that took up most of the room’s space had once been painted pink, though wear and tear had chipped its surface. Laden with food it had been, too. An enormous roast fowl of some sort glistened with a dark brown skin in its center. Only one of its breasts had been cut into and eaten. Smaller plates lay around with delicious-looking viands that Nic had not seen since serving the Drake’s table—dishes of candied carrots, of braised mushrooms, a bowl of game stew, spiced mutton and creamed rutabagas, as well as many foods Nic had never before tasted or smelled. Nic was glad to see that Knave had found his way back here. He and several other gentlemen were busily helping themselves to the provender. Some of Solange’s girls entered with full dishes and left with the empty plates, occasionally tarrying to tease the customers. “’Ere ’e is, yes?” Solange smiled and pointed.

“Thank you, my dear.” Nic once again reached for the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I will have to show you my appreciation more fully … later.” The proprietress, apparently not immune to the blandishments of young men such as Nic, simpered like a girl, curtseyed, and then excused herself.

The customer at the table’s end was perhaps the most teased. On his bench, to either side, sat two of Solange’s prettiest young women. One of them lifted a fork laden with food to the gentleman’s mouth. The other waited for him to chew and swallow, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Are you Trond Maarten?” Nic asked.

“And who is asking?” The gentleman seized a chunk of turkey from his plate, stuffed it into his mouth, and then cleaned off his fingers with his lips as he studied Nic. He was astonishingly bald and did not even wear a periwig to hide his lack of hair, as was the fashion. His eyes were green and piercing, and his skin was as pale as the snows of his northern homeland, judging by his accent. “Yes?”

“I am known as the Drake,” Nic said smoothly, striding across the room so he could address the man directly, without having to speak over the other diners. “I am a man of business. I was told that you are the man to talk to about trading one boat for another. You are a dealer in these matters?”

One of the fillies at Maarten’s side whispered something in his ear that made him grin. He looked at Nic and said, “Trading a boat, eh?”

“Indeed.” Smoothly, Nic proceeded. “You see, in my tradings, I find it necessary—”

“Mynheer Drake. I have no need to know the whys and wherefores of your business. In fact, for my safety, it is much better that I do not know. So please.” Trond Maarten rose from his bench to reveal that he was a very tall man indeed. The two pretties beside him cooed with displeasure. “Spare me any fictions you may have composed about your so-called tradings. They would only bore me.” He turned to the casement behind the head of the table, and opened the doorlike windows onto the very smallest of balconies. Then he leaned down to whisper something into the ears of the beautiful dark-skinned woman who had been holding his napkin. She rose, and with lowered eyes, excused herself from the room. “Instead, tell me of this ship you need to unload.”

Nic nodded at Maxl, who stepped forward to explain. “It is a one-masted sloop, being build fifty years before.”

“Ship maker?”

“I am not knowing this,” said Maxl, bowing. “But I am believing it is originally of my own country of Charlemance, probably Dubris, where ships are being made.”

“Mmm.” At that moment, the dark-skinned beauty returned. In one hand she carried the largest spyglass Nic had ever before seen; it dwarfed the one he’d used aboard the
Tears of Korfu
by at least three times. Its bronze shaft was elaborately carved, though slightly worn. She handed it to the trader and began to pull down the three legs of the bundle she’d been carrying in her other hand. Once assembled, it provided a sturdy base for the spyglass, which Maarten set into the cupped receptacle waiting for it. He moved the entire device next to the window, and motioned Nic over. “What is the name of the little lady?”

“They call me Thorntongue. Why?” Darcy said, alarmed to be addressed.

“He means the sloop, Thorntongue,” Nic said.

“Oh.” Darcy looked as if she wished she could vanish into the rose-colored rug underfoot.

Nic could hardly blame her for sounding so defensive. She was, after all, treading on enemy ground on this island. “She’s known as the
Tears of Korfu
.”

Because the city was built on a steep slope along the base of Mount Gallina, and because Solange’s establishment was located at the highest of the three long east-to-west thoroughfares running parallel to the water, Nic found that the dining room at the building’s back had an elevated and admirable view of the bay. Looking down, he could see the rooftops of the building lining the next street over. “And where did you set anchor?” asked Maarten. When Maxl told him, the man swiveled the glass to the northwest. “Show me,” he told Nic.

It took Nic a self-conscious moment to find the ship, unaccustomed as he was to seeing it from shore. Eventually, however, after trial and error, he managed to find the ship’s flag. “There,” he said to the man, careful to back away from the spyglass so that it didn’t shift.

“
Tears of Korfu
,” read Maarten. “Aye, she’s a little beauty. Not as much wear on her as I expected, either. The type of craft sought after by those in the speedy shipping business. Or piracy.” He stood away from the glass and studied Nic and Maxl up and down, taking in the details of their costumes. “I take it you’re into speedy shipping, then,” he added blandly.

“What can we get for her?” Nic asked, jumping right into the heart of the matter. He didn’t dare risk a look over at Knave, who he hoped was listening. “I have no wish to appear over-eager, but time is of the essence in this matter.”

“If we were dealing in cash, I would give you four hundred and fifty kronen for her, no questions asked. That would be roughly twelve hundred oboloi. Or seven hundred Cassafortean lundri. Four hundred and fifty kronen is more than fair. You won’t have seller’s regret at that price.”

“Four hundred and fifty, eh?” asked Nic. Knave was supposed to pipe up at this point. Perhaps he was waiting for a more strategic moment. It was difficult to know, with actors.

“Though of course, you can take in trade any craft in my shipyards of that worth or less, if you prefer.”

“I’m just not certain …” Why wasn’t Knave speaking up? Nic pretended to be thinking about it, and looked around the room. Knave had a drumstick in one hand and the other around the shoulders of one of Solange’s pretty lasses.

“Four hundred and seven-five, then. That’s … almost seven hundred and forty lundri. You can appreciate that’s a bargain. Yes?”

The man seemed fairly firm on the new price. So firm, in fact, that Nic rather doubted anything would make him change it. He looked helplessly in Knave’s direction, willing him to speak. Then, from Darcy came a loud expostulation. “Four hundred and seventy-five kronen!” she said, slamming her stage sword onto the table. All the other diners, as well as the women flirting with them, jumped at the impact. “That’s an outrage.”

“Thorntongue.” Nic shook his head.

“An absolute outrage!” she declared, still at the top of her lungs. “I’m sure that a
reputable
tradesman would give even more for such a
fine, neat craft
.”

Such an outcry could have woken the dead. It was more than enough to bring Knave to his senses. Slightly groggy from the wine that was flowing freely at the table, he rose to his feet. “Ah. Yes,” he said. “I am a reputable tradesman. I find the price you named an outrage,” he announced. His voice was absolutely flat and expressionless, and when he glanced around the room, he did so with a nervous clearing of his throat. “An absolute outrage. I will give you more than that.” He nodded at Nic as if to say,
this is going well, isn’t it?

“How much more, kind stranger?” asked Thorntongue, when for a long moment the actor said nothing else.

“Um.” His fists clenched and unclenched into balls as he thought. Finally, inspired, he raised a finger in triumph. “Four hundred! And seventy-
six
! Kronen!”

Nic wanted to groan. Maarten pulled his face into an unreadable mask as he thought about the counter-offer. “Take it,” he said at last.