The Buccaneer's Apprentice (22 page)

The entity roared, but his cry was louder. “I am Nic the pirate-killer, the destroyer of ships. I am the Drake, feared and respected by all. I am Nic who wants to go home, and if I am blessed, I will be Nic the lover. I am Niccolo Dattore, the cursed. And by the gods, this ship is meant to be mine!”

The world split in two. Later, when he remembered the massive noise, Nic could never be sure whether or not the sound was real, or whether it had been something he’d imagined. Certainly none of those on the pier could recall hearing the mighty cracking, nor seeing the brilliant flash of light that followed. In fact, none of them reported hearing Nic’s cries against the invisible tempest at all. To Nic, though, the noise was both majestic and awe-inspiring. Never in any temple had he ever heard anything that moved him as much, nor would the sight of any king inspire him in quite the same way. Once the sound had receded into mere memory, he blinked, able to see once again.

The sun was rising. He stood upon the galleon still, alone and upright. Gulls cried overhead, arguing over their breakfasts, while in the distance he could hear the sounds of bells summoning crews to their duties. From the town was the same normal ruckus that might have been heard in Massina, or Côte Nazze, or Cassaforte itself. And as for the galleon—well, it was a ship. A mighty ship, yes, and one that had been neglected for far too long. Where before seething blackness had covered it like a mantle, now was merely a curious sort of crust. It was very like paint carelessly applied over a dirty surface, so that it cracked and peeled once dry. Nic knelt down and touched his hands to the deck. When he rubbed hard, the layer began to flake away, revealing the golden wood beneath.

His fingers ran over the smoothness under the grime. The curse’s voice, implacable and demanding, had vanished. In its place, he heard the sound of distant music, as must a fiddle player when he ran his fingers over his instrument’s strings without bowing. Maarten’s Folly sang beneath his fingers, its phantom strain a balm to his soul. Stronger now, he rose, though he itched to hear that song again.

Niccolo Dattore, owner of the galleon, leaned over its head rails to salute his astonished crew below. They gaped at him, scarcely able to trust their eyes. “What?” he cried out in a voice that was not the Drake’s, but his own. His true own. “Am I that frightening a sight? Come aboard, all, and bring the provisions. Oh, and Maarten,” he called out, planting his hands on his hips as he assumed a posture of sovereignty. “I’ll be accepting those three hundred kronen, for taking your Folly off of your hands.”

The tradesman blinked rapidly, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Certainly,” he said at last. “Certainly, mynheer.”

Nic watched him scurry away. Armand might have offered to buy him out of his indentures, but now Nic wouldn’t have to rely upon anyone else to become a free man. He had done that himself.

Of all the wars I have seen waged, those upon the sea are the most brutal and the bloodiest. Upon land at least the earth may reclaim its own, but to be lost amidst a maelstrom of blood, wind, and water seems almost heartbreakingly sad.

—Captain John Smythe-Passelyon, in a private letter to his wife

W
ithout challenge, Maarten’s Folly had raised its sails and slid past the battalion of sixteen warships. The smallest of them had been easily twice the Folly’s size, and the Folly was no tiny craft. By mid-morning, even the most vocal of those who had not wanted to leave Gallina aboard a cursed galleon—specifically, Ingenue and perhaps more surprisingly, the substantial Urso, who proved to be surprisingly superstitious—were somewhat mollified. They grudgingly had to admit that their new quarters were fairly spacious.

If one overlooked the black crust that adhered to the ship’s every surface, they were even fairly luxurious. Though the original crew was used to the
Tears of Korfu
’s tight accommodations, the Arturos’ troupe was not. Likewise, though the actors were accustomed to late-night gossips and the shambles of what they considered their backstage area, the original crew had been befuddled by the abundance of women’s skirts and foundation garments spread around their quarters, the ever-present quantities of sewing as all the actors repurposed their old costumes for every possible piratical occasion, and most especially, the very notion of laundering. Maarten’s Folly, on the other hand, had easily been constructed for a fifty-man crew and very likely could have billeted seventy-five. In the two levels of hold below, both the real pirates and their imitations could rattle about without finding a pin cushion or an unreasonably filthy stray garment occupying their personal space. The hatches allowed far more light and fresh air below than any of the seasoned sailors had ever experienced.

As for the crust, it began to vanish almost the moment the crew had stepped on board. Some areas, such as the thoroughfares on the deck that saw greater amounts of traffic, began to shine through immediately. Water and scrubbing seemed to help. Even those areas beyond reach of a human hand began to lose their burned and sooty appearance. By the second day of their voyage, where the ship’s name ought to have been painted had begun to appear the traces of letters.
LY
were the only legible ones among them.

“
The Sailor’s Ally
,”
Armand Arturo had suggested that morning, when they’d all leaned over the head rails to stare at the emerging wording.

“
The Lying Fool
,” Knave said, after silently sounding out the spelling.

The Signora dreamily looked into the distance. “
Lena’s Lyre
. That would be the most romantic.”

They all peered at the lettering as if expecting the rest to reveal itself instantly. Stubbornly, it did not. Yet over the next two days they all noticed changes around the galleon. It seemed to be melting from one shape into another, like carved ice on a warm day. The skull-like projections to the sides of every wooden door that had seemed so forbidding, so sepulcher-like beneath the black scab, were revealed to be carved vines of grapes and gourds. The fireplace in the captain’s quarters that had resembled a tortured face caught mid-scream broke loose from its black covering and proved itself an elaborate hearth of such intricacy that it had to have been carved by descendants of Caza Legnoli. It would have rivaled any hearth in the finest rooms of Cassaforte’s cazas, or perhaps even the palace itself.

As for the ship’s figurehead, which had the look of gnarled roots twisting from a thirsty tree to a river’s edge, by the evening of the second day of the voyage, its face was visible from beneath the knobby morass. Smooth and feminine it was, with eyes that seemed to pierce the falling darkness to find the way home. Staring at her, Nic could almost imagine that the gilded wooden carving had been the source of that relentless questioning voice that still at times haunted his thoughts.

Maxl had assured them that, according to the maps he’d brought with him, Maarten’s Folly should reach Cassaforte on the morning of their fourth day. It was on the night before that Darcy knocked upon the door of the captain’s quarters and let herself in. “There is something very odd about this boat,” she announced.

Nic cocked his head. He had been sitting at the captain’s writing desk, which had been stocked full of paper. One of his boats, delicate and intricate in its folds, was still in his hands. “Please don’t tell me you’re just now noticing.”

Darcy reconsidered her words. “Odder than … what we’re used to. Did you know that Maxl says it should take at least forty men to do the work that ten of us are doing?” Nic nodded. Maxl had repeated the same words to him many a time, usually with befuddlement in his voice. “Our anchor is enormous, Niccolo. You saw it. By all rights we should still be back in Gallina, still trying to shift it from the harbor bed. Ingenue and Infant Prodigy and I aren’t exactly Ursos in size, you know. Yet it came up as if we’d been trying to winch nothing more than a bundle of wet wool.” She began moving around the room, examining its rich mahogany paneling. Her fingers ran over the weathered table in its center. “When we do that thing with the sails to rein them in …”

“When you trim them?” Nic automatically supplied the correct term. Not that he’d known, two weeks before.

“Yes, when we’re trimming the sails, it’s something that Infant Prodigy and I can do ourselves. Nic, that shouldn’t be. It took twice as many to rein in those sails on the
Korfu
, and the winds are stronger here than they were in that part of the sea.” She wasn’t exaggerating. The waters closer to Cassaforte had been stormy and sometimes wild. “It’s almost as if—Nic, what do you know about the blessings and signs? You know, what the Seven and Thirty do. It’s what sets them apart from the rest of us. In return for their service to the country, the seven families of the cazas and Cassaforte’s thirty noble families of craftsmen are trained in the appropriate prayers and signs of the gods to make.”

“For their enchantments, yes.” Nic didn’t understand why Darcy was telling him things a child of two knew, in Cassaforte. “It’s what made the Legnoli costume trunk different from any old chest. It held more because it had been blessed to enhance its natural purpose.” Nic still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he thought of the present he’d left behind for Trond Maarten, in that trunk aboard the
Tears of Korfu
.

“But listen. When we had the fire at the nuncial house, last year, workers from Caza Portello came to Côte Nazze to oversee the repairs in the damaged rooms. Do you know how long it took? Less than a week.” Nic shook his head. It was all mildly interesting, but he didn’t see where Darcy was going with any of it. “Much of the damage they didn’t have to repair,” she told him. “They laid their hands on it. They made the signs and whispered the prayers. Niccolo, the wood slowly repaired itself. It was as if … I don’t know, exactly. It was as if the blessings returned what was taken away by the flames. The tapestries, the windows all had to be replaced—they weren’t Divetri windows—but everything that had been of Portello, the
structure
, seemed … healed.” She waited to see if he drew any conclusions.

Nic thought about it. “And you think this ship is like that? Healing itself?”

“No. Not at all. I think you’re right about the ship being of Cassaforte. That much is obvious. As you said, look at it. It was made by craftsmen.” She gestured all about the room, indicating the ornate curved ceiling, the vault over the bay window with its wood-sculpted seat, and then the table itself, with its gryphon-shaped legs gazing fiercely in every direction. “I think the ship has been blessed. Perhaps I’ll sound mad when I say this, but I think it knows who we are. I think it’s trying to help us get home.”

Nic was so startled that he stood up from the desk. He remembered the voice insistently demanding his identity. He’d even told it he’d wanted to return home. “No,” he said, hushed. “I believe you. You’re right.”

“It makes sense. It’s the only way it could be working so smoothly with only a skeleton crew. I think this ship could find its way home even if we were all simply sitting on the deck having a picnic and playing taroccho. It was built with the enchantments, and it’s simply fulfilling its natural, primary purpose. It was built by Caza Piratimare, of the Seven.”

Darcy’s theory was so logical that Nic was astounded he hadn’t thought of it before. No one had really spoken aloud about the galleon’s strange way of correcting mistakes and making labor as easy as possible, perhaps out of a fear that drawing attention to it might cause it to cease. “I’m not of the Seven and Thirty,” he said slowly. A chill spread up his spine, and dissipated right above his collar, making him shiver. “Nor have I ever had much to do with their enchanted objects. So I don’t know what I think about that. It’s spooky.”

“It is a little spooky, but it shouldn’t be. It’s just what this ship was built to do, by the craftsmen of Piratimare. It’s what it is.”

“Why did you tell me about the nuncial house, though, if you don’t think the ship’s repairing itself?” Nic asked.

For the first time that voyage, Darcy looked at him with mingled pity and scorn. “The ship’s not repairing itself,” she sighed. “Don’t you see? I think
you’re
repairing it.” Nic blinked, stunned. “Look around!” she said. “What parts of the ship have come back to life first?”

“The deck, I suppose,” he said slowly, thinking about it. “The captain’s quarters.”

Her voice was like a stern school teacher’s. “Correct. The quarterdeck, where you spend your days. The quarterdeck, where you stand at the ship’s wheel and make adjustments to our course, and see that things are done. And the captain’s quarters, where you sleep and eat. In other words, the two parts of the ship where you spend the most time.”

As Darcy talked, Nic flexed his fingers. He remembered the way the deck’s wood had seemed to sing beneath his fingertips, the first time he’d touched it. It still sang to him now, every time he took the wheel. “That can’t be.”

“What do you know of your mother? Your father?” Before Nic could speak, she supplied the answer. “Nothing. Who’s to say that one of them wasn’t of Caza Piratimare? Perhaps your mother was a disgraced cazarrina who left her insula because she was large with child? Or what if you were the bastard son of a cazarrino who never knew he’d gotten his lady love pregnant?”

A flush had crept into Nic’s face the moment Darcy began talking of his parentage. “Every poor child dreams that his parents are princes and princesses. This is the sort of invention you might find in one of Signor Arturo’s plays.” To Nic’s surprise, his throat sounded more choked than he would have supposed. He took a deep breath and tried to continue. “It is not my life.”

“Oh, of course.” Darcy stood upright and curtsied with mock formality. She crossed the room to the door, and let her hands rest on the latch. “Of course it’s not your life. Your life is much more mundane. Shipwrecks. Pirates. Deserted islands. Curses on ships that only you among scores of men can dispel. Forgive me for assuming you are anything special, after so much normality.” Noting that she’d left him speechless, Darcy opened the latch to let herself out. “Oh, Niccolo?” she asked, all innocence. “What is that in your hands, anyway?”

“Why … just a paper boat.”

“Oh, I see. A paper boat. Like every other paper boat you’ve built?” Her eyes traveled around the room, taking in the little paper sculptures that lay upon every flat surface. “Like the paper boats you’ve made ever since I’ve known you? How long have you been making those paper boats, Nic?”