The Buccaneers' Code

For the community of writers at

Vermont College of Fine Arts,

where this story began

M
AP

I
T WAS SNOWING
hard in Queensport, and Hilary thought it might never stop. Snow covered the grounds of Westfield House, drifting against the drawing room's tall glass doors and blocking out every last glimpse of the harbor beyond. When Hilary swung her sword through the air in the figure she'd been practicing all morning, her blade lodged itself once again in the folds of her mother's best velvet drapes, and she felt tempted to leave it there until spring. “This weather,” she said, “is entirely unsuitable for piracy.”

“I don't like it one bit,” the gargoyle agreed. He'd spent the morning perched on the mantel above the drawing-room fireplace, commenting on Hilary's swordplay
technique and warming his tail over the embers. “There's no use in digging for treasure when the ground's frozen stiff. Or when half the pirates in the kingdom have anchored their ships for the week and gone to visit their relatives,” he added, giving Hilary a look.

“You know I promised Mother I'd visit. It's pleasant for her to have company during the holidays.” Hilary pulled her sword out of the drapery and frowned at the holes she'd sliced in the velvet. “Besides, we'll be back at sea as soon as the weather improves.”

“Or maybe even sooner,” the gargoyle said hopefully, “if your mother finds out you've been carving up her furniture.”

There was a knock at the drawing-room door. Hilary dropped her sword, kicked it under an ottoman, and hurried to stand in front of the tattered drapes as Bess, her mother's parlor maid, entered the room. “Excuse me, miss,” she said, “but you've got a gentleman caller at the front door.”

This sounded entirely unlikely to Hilary. She couldn't imagine what sort of gentleman might be calling on her at Westfield House—or anywhere else, for that matter. “Are you sure he's not here to see Mother?”

“Quite sure, miss,” said Bess. “I'm afraid I didn't know what to do with him. It didn't seem proper to invite him in, so I told him to wait on the front step, even though the snow is frightful. But you see, miss, he's not precisely
a gentleman.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “He's a pirate.”

T
HE VISITOR WAITING
on the front step was a pirate indeed, and a damp one at that. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders and laced the brim of his three-cornered hat. Except for the red woolen scarf wrapped around both himself and his parrot, however, he might have been dressed for a summer's day at sea. “Ahoy there,” he said to Hilary through chattering teeth. “Are you by any chance the Terror of the Southlands?”

Hilary had never seen this pirate before in her life, but he didn't look threatening; he only looked cold. She took him firmly by the wrists and dragged him through the doorway. “I am,” she said, “and you'd better come inside before your parrot catches a chill. I'm sorry Bess kept you waiting, but we don't often receive pirate visitors at Westfield House.” She crossed her arms and studied the pirate, who had begun to drip all over the floor. “Now, who are you, and what do you want with me?”

“My name is Partridge,” said the pirate, unwinding his scarf. His voice was thin and anxious; he sounded more like a shopkeeper than a scallywag. “I came here as soon as I saw your notice.”

“My notice?”

Partridge nodded with great enthusiasm. “The notice you placed in this morning's
Gazette
.”

Hilary wondered exactly how long this pirate had been standing in the cold. Perhaps the weather had chilled his brain, for he wasn't making the slightest bit of sense. “But I didn't place a notice in the
Gazette
,” she said. “I'm afraid you've made a mistake.”

“I have?” said Partridge. “Oh dear. I
am
often mistaken, you know. When I confused the grog with the lantern oil, my mates were horribly ill, and our ship nearly burst into flames.” A snowflake dripped from his nose. “Captain Blacktooth dismissed me from the League on account of it. He told me to give up piracy and try my hand at a trade.” Partridge wrung out his scarf, which dripped miserably onto the floor below. “He suggested selling jams and chutneys.”

Hilary almost felt sorry for him. After all, Captain Blacktooth had dismissed her from the Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates as well—or, rather, she had dismissed herself. It had all amounted to the same thing in the end: bone-chilling threats from Blacktooth's friends, scathing reviews of her swordplay technique in the League newsletter, and endless reassurances from her mates that a career as a freelance pirate wasn't as grim as it currently seemed. “Did you take Captain Blacktooth's advice?” she asked Partridge.

“I did my best,” he said, “but I kept confusing the chutneys with the jams, and no one wants to buy preserves from a pirate, anyway. That's why I answered the notice in
the
Gazette
—but I suppose I've got that mixed up as well.”

His parrot looked pleadingly at Hilary.

Hilary took Partridge's damp scarf and hung it from the lowest limb of the coatrack, hoping her mother wouldn't spot it there. “I may not be the person you're looking for,” she said, “but I won't let you go out into the snow until you've gotten warmed up. I'll ask Bess to bring you some tea.” She guided Partridge and his parrot across the hall into the blue parlor, where a fire crackled in the grate. “Oh, and if Mother stumbles across you, do you think you could pretend to be a High Society gentleman? I'm not supposed to let scallywags into the house.”

“I suppose I could try.” Partridge sounded slightly more hopeful than he had a moment earlier. “Perhaps she'll want to purchase a chutney.”

Then he settled himself in Mrs. Westfield's favorite chair, which was sure to smell of wet parrot for the rest of the winter, and Hilary set off to ask Bess about tea.

W
HEN SHE RETURNED
to the drawing room, Hilary found the gargoyle hopping up and down the length of the mantelpiece. “Tell me everything!” he cried. “I've been stuck up here the whole time you've been gone! Was there really a pirate at the door? Was he one of those nasty sorts from the League? Did you have to challenge him to a duel?”

“Not exactly.” Hilary picked up her sword from under the ottoman and polished a tarnished spot with her sleeve.
“There
was
a pirate, but he seems to have come here by accident. Now he's in the blue parlor, drinking tea.”

“Well, that's not very exciting,” the gargoyle said. “I hope the next one will have something more interesting to say.”

Hilary nearly dropped her sword. “The next one?”

“He's coming across the lawn right now.” The gargoyle nodded toward the drawing-room windows. On the other side of the glass, a man trudged through the snow. A belt was wrapped around his massive waist, and a glinting, sharp-looking cutlass hung at his side. “You'd better take me with you this time,” the gargoyle said. “If there's going to be a duel in your mother's front hall, I don't want to miss it.”

Hilary didn't think a duel was likely, but the man with the cutlass had arms and legs as thick and sturdy as the logs in the fireplace. She picked up the gargoyle and tucked him under her arm, just in case.

When they reached the front door, they found Bess with her hands on her hips, giving the second pirate a stern look. “They're multiplying, miss,” she said to Hilary. “Shall I tell Mrs. Westfield?”

Hilary shook her head violently.

Bess raised an eyebrow. “I'll put more water on for tea, then.”

The second pirate stepped inside without being invited.
He was so wide that he had to turn ever so slightly sideways as he passed through the doorway, and so tall that he had to remove his hat. “The Terror of the Southlands, I presume!” he said. His voice filled every spare inch of the room. When he shook Hilary's hand, he nearly lifted her straight out of her boots. “The name's Flintlock. I'm here on account of the notice you placed in the
Gazette
.”

The gargoyle looked up at Hilary. “You placed a notice in the
Gazette
?”

“I didn't!” said Hilary. “I don't know anything about any sort of notice.”

“Ah.” Flintlock winked. “I understand. You don't care to speak about your treacherous plot in public. That's very wise, Terror—the League's spies might be anywhere.” He gave a meaningful sort of nod in the gargoyle's direction.

Hilary could hear Mr. Partridge humming sea chanteys to his parrot in the blue parlor, but she did her best to ignore him. She wasn't sure she could manage more than one outlandish pirate at a time. “If you're looking for treacherous plots,” she said to Flintlock, “then you're searching in quite the wrong place. I don't know what the newspaper's printed, and I swear I've got nothing to do with it.”

“Quite right.” Flintlock winked again and lowered his voice to a rumble. “You're a convincing actress, Terror, but I didn't come here to attend a theatrical performance. Is
there a place where we might discuss your plans without being overheard?”

The gargoyle put his snout to Hilary's ear. “What is he talking about?” he whispered. “And why does he keep winking like that?”

Hilary didn't know any more than the gargoyle did, but she could tell that trying to reason with this pirate wasn't likely to do much good. “You may as well wait in the blue parlor,” she told Flintlock, pointing to the door. “I'll be there in a moment.”

The pirate bowed to her and crossed the hall. When he had closed the parlor door behind him, Hilary set the gargoyle down and began pulling open drawers, overturning trunks, and rifling through closets. “What are you doing?” the gargoyle asked.

“I'm looking for this morning's
Gazette
,” said Hilary. “I've got no idea where Mother keeps it.” Her former governess, Miss Greyson, had always encouraged her to follow the news of the day, but Hilary had been far more interested in piracy than in current events, and she hadn't seen what use a dull old newspaper could possibly be to her on the High Seas. Now, however, she wished she'd paid a bit more attention during all those blasted lessons. “Finding one strange pirate on one's doorstep is an accident,” she said, “but finding two is a pattern. I'd like to read this notice for myself so I can find out why these scallywags are here.”

The gargoyle shifted his weight from side to side.
“Actually,” he said, “I happen to know exactly where your mother put the
Gazette
.”

Hilary flipped through a stack of ancient-looking naval forms. “You do? Where is it?”

“In the drawing-room fireplace,” the gargoyle said. “It did an excellent job of warming my tail.”

“Oh dear.” Hilary stared out the window. “And there's someone else coming up the front steps.”

“My goodness!” said Bess, who was crossing the hall toward the blue parlor with a fresh pot of tea. “This house hasn't seen so many visitors since your mother's last masquerade ball. I can't imagine why half the kingdom wants to pay you their respects in this weather.”

“Neither can I,” said Hilary, “but I'm desperate to find out.” She opened the door and studied the person in front of her. “I suppose you're here to respond to my notice as well?”

“Naturally,” said the pirate on the doorstep. This one was a young woman. Her hair was pulled back in a short, tidy braid, and her coat and breeches were pressed and spotless. In one gloved hand, she held a snowy scrap of newsprint. “I'm Lucy Worthington,” she said. “I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, but I made seven wrong turns and ended up halfway across the city before I'd realized my mistake. I hope I'm not too late to help you, Terror.”

Hilary kept her eyes on the scrap of newsprint in Worthington's hand. “I think I know exactly how you can
help me,” she said, leading the pirate inside. “Is that the notice from the
Gazette
?”

Worthington nodded. “I hope it's all right that I brought it with me. I wanted to be sure of your address.” She smiled at Hilary and handed her the newsprint. “It's awfully difficult to remember where you're going once you've started on your way there, don't you think?”

Hilary didn't answer. She stared at the words in front of her, printed in letters as black and dangerous as cannonballs.

NOTICE

TERROR OF THE SOUTHLANDS
SEEKS PIRATE LEAGUE PRESIDENCY

Pirate Hilary Westfield, the Terror of the Southlands, will soon announce her intention to challenge Captain Rupert Blacktooth for command of the Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates. Captain Blacktooth currently serves as the League's president and has held this position for the past eighteen years. In recent months, however, Captain Blacktooth's connections to villainous activities have raised questions about his ability to serve as the head of an organization that claims to be honorable (or very nearly). The Terror of the Southlands resigned from the League six months ago in protest of Captain Blacktooth's leadership, for
she believes that the scallywags of Augusta deserve a captain who is a true pirate—not a cowardly criminal.