The Tides of Avarice (43 page)

It was only then that Sylvester noticed the ship's carpenters had made an addition to the Shadeblaze while the lemmings had been incarcerated in the hull.

Jutting out over the water from the edge of the deck was a long, terrifyingly narrow piece of wood.

A plank.

Sylvester couldn't see the sea from where he and the others stood under the watchful eye of Cheesefang's rusty cutlass, but lemming instinct told him it was crowded with prowling sharks.

And he, Sylvester Lemmington from Foxglove, was going to be forced to walk along that plank and off the end, so that he plummeted into the mercilessly cold waters where, soon as anything, he'd be torn limb from limb by the mighty jaws of …

He shuddered.

Cap'n Rustbane chuckled. “I know what you're thinking, Sylvester Lemmington, and you got it all wrong. I ain't going to make you walk that plank, no sirree.”

You're not? Oh, joy, joy, boundless joy!

“It's young Viola Pickleberry here I'm going to send along it,” Cap'n Rustbane added.

WHAT?

“That is, unless you give me the coordinates I'm looking for,” the pirate finished.

“You brute!” shrieked Viola.

Two of the crew, at a signal from their skipper, grabbed her.

Mrs. Pickleberry looked around her for some weapon she could use. There was none to be seen. The pirates had finally had the sense to confiscate her rolling pin and lock it inside Rustbane's cabin. Without it, she was nothing.

“You'll not get away with this, you f-fiend!” snarled Sylvester.

“Oh, yeah? And who's going to stop me. You, muscleboy? I think not.”

“I'll … I'll—”

“Do what? Hold your breath and scream?”

“Don't fall into his trap!” Viola yelled, her voice half-muffled. She'd bitten deeply into the wrist of one of the pirates who'd been attempting to tie her up. It wasn't going to do her any good, but it was satisfying to hear the big stupid raccoon howling in agony. “It's a trap, Sylvester, I tell you, a trap!”

“I'm perfectly aware of that,” said Sylvester, trying to sound calm. A trap? Is it?

“The moment he gets those coordinates out of you, he'll kill us all,” Viola cried. Two of the pirates were arguing as to who should risk gagging her. Those little lemming teeth of hers had proven unexpectedly sharp. Meanwhile, the injured raccoon was leaning with his back against a lifeboat and trying to bandage his arm.

I suppose Rustbane could do that, thought Sylvester.

“But I won't let him,” he said aloud.

“And what do you plan to do?” said Cap'n Rustbane. He'd produced a toothpick from one of his numberless waistcoat pockets and was casually putting it to use. He seemed amused rather than anything else.

Sylvester glared at him. “I'm not so stupid as to tell you in advance.”

“Well, I'll tell you what you could do.”

“What?” Any straw to grasp at.

“You could give me those coordinates and then we'd just forget the whole argument. How about that? It seems the easiest course to me.”

“Don't let him trick you,” shouted Viola. The two pirates had decided not to gag her after all.

“Don't worry.” Sylvester gave what he hoped was a supercilious sneer. “I'm on top of this one.”

Cap'n Rustbane smiled. “So you're going to give me those coordinates?”

Sylvester made a decision. He set his jaw. “Yes.”

“You are?”

“I am. And after I've done that, you're going to set Viola and her mother here free. I want your word on that, your word as an old sea dog.”

“Sea fox, to be precise. But, yes, I'll give you my word on that.”

“Don't believe him, you nincompoop!” bellowed Viola. She was being forced out on to the plank by the two pirates, both of whom had drawn their cutlasses. The blades and points of the weapons looked horrifically sharp and horrifically close to Viola's exposed skin. Not that there was very much of it exposed. In their nervousness, the pirates had used about five times as much rope to bind her as was strictly necessary. She resembled nothing more than a windlass with a pair of feet sticking out the bottom and a head sticking out the top.

The ship rocked in the ocean swell and she teetered precariously on the plank.

“Don't believe him,” she repeated, panic beginning to infect her voice. She glanced down at the waters beneath. Oddly enough, the sight seemed to calm her. “You can't trust the word of that monster. He'd sell his grandmother's soul for a pint of ale.”

“A whole pint?” mused Cap'n Rustbane aloud. “You overestimate my love for dear old Grandma.”

Viola staggered again.

A fresh crop of sweat broke out on Sylvester's brow.

“I'll tell you the coordinates,” he said again.

“You will?” said Cap'n Rustbane, looking at him quizzically. “Even though you know you can't trust my promise further than you could throw it?”

“Even though I know I can't trust your promise further than …” Sylvester ground to a halt. “Even though you're a lying sack of … of …” he amended.

“I'm so glad to hear it,” said Cap'n Rustbane. He flipped the toothpick over his shoulder, and Sylvester lost sight of it as it went spiraling away over the deck rail into the ocean. In the same movement, it seemed, Rustbane produced from yet another waistcoat pocket a grubby piece of parchment and a pencil. He eyed the tip of the pencil critically, his eyes crossing as he held it up just in front of his nose.

“A bit blunt, if you ask me, but it should still be of service.”

He scribbled for a moment on the parchment, then passed both it and the pencil to Sylvester.

“There, Lemmington. There you have the coordinates for where we are now, which, according to my calculations is exactly twenty knots due west of Cape Waste. I need to plot a course from here to the island where dear old Cap'n Adamite buried his treasure. You just write the coordinates of that island, as you remember them from the map, and we'll all be happy little sandpipers, won't we? Any attempts at delay or trickery, and your pudgy little sweetheart goes straight to the fishes, of course. And if you give me the wrong coordinates, thinking you should be able to find another chance of escape before I discover the deception, think again. You three furballs are going to be with me here on the Shadeblaze until the moment my spade, digging down into the sand, goes thunk on the top of Cap'n Adamite's chest. Are we understood on that?”

“We're understood on that,” said Sylvester in a low voice.

“Then write down them coordinates!”

“Don't listen to him, Sylvester!”

Mrs. Pickleberry, who'd been uncharacteristically silent, pinned Cap'n Rustbane with a piercing stare. “If so much as a hair o' my daughter's hide gets harmed—”

“I assure you, Madame Three Pins, that not one of her hairs shall be harmed if only her tubby little paramour could get a move on and write down a simple string of numbers and letters for me.” The gray fox spread his paws as if he were an actor appealing to some unseen gallery. “I ask you, what could be more innocuous than a few numbers and letters? They don't even join up together to make somebody's name.”

“Be quiet,” Sylvester snapped. “You're making it hard for me to concentrate.”

The pirate made a big display of slapping his forehead and casting his gaze heavenward in shame for his own stupidity. “Oh, how enormously inconsiderate of me. What a knucklebrain I am. Of course you can't get the numbers and letters straight in your brain. You do have a brain, don't you? Just checking. Don't mind me. Where was I? Oh, yes, of course you can't get the numbers and letters straight in your mind if there's an empty-headed fox prattling on about inconsequentialities not half a yard from your earhole. How could you be expected to? It's a plain matter of common sen—”

“Shut up.”

Shocked by the sudden authority in Sylvester's voice, Rustbane stopped talking.

“If you want your coordinates, keep your trap shut.” Sylvester tried to focus his eyes on the sheet of parchment in front of him, but the numbers Rustbane had written seemed to be performing some madcap dance. The trouble was there'd been so much more on the original map than just the coordinates. In fact, it'd have been easier if Rustbane had asked him simply to draw the map.

“And get Viola off that plank right now.”

Rustbane gestured to one of his crew, who lowered his cutlass and prepared to step on to the plank behind Viola.

“No,” she said. Her voice was quiet but firm.

“Whaddya mean, no?” said the beaver who'd been sent to retrieve her.

“Don't come any farther.”

“But the Skipper tol' me to.”

“I don't care what your disgusting boss told you. Stay back.”

The beaver looked over his shoulder to Rustbane for guidance. Before the gray fox could say anything, Viola spoke again.

“I've decided it's better for all concerned if I,” she swallowed, “if I just … give myself to the waves.”

These last words acted on Sylvester like a bucket of ice water thrown over him.

“Wh–what?” He gaped at her.

“If I'm gone,” she said in Rustbane's direction, “there'll be no reason for Sylvester to give up the location of the treasure of the Zindars.”

“Ahem,” said Mrs. Pickleberry. No one paid her any attention.

“He can die in agony knowing it's for a good cause,” Viola continued.

I can? thought Sylvester.

“Ahem,” repeated Mrs. Pickleberry.

“You have something to contribute, Three Pins?” said Cap'n Rustbane, sticking his jaw out, a vicious glint coming into his green eyes.

“All this palaver ain't gettin' yer them map coordinates any faster, is it?”

“That's hardly my fault.”

“Damn well is.”

“Hmmf!”

“Get my daughter back off that plank, sit all three of us down somewhere comfy and give us a drink or three to relax us, then maybe young Sylvester'd be able to get his sorry apology for a brain in gear and give yer that info ye wants. Savvy?”

Cap'n Rustbane stroked his chin. “You may have a point. But the young, er, female seems not to want to be rescued from her watery fate. Does rather throw a spanner in your works, don't you think?”

“Then I'm goin' with her.”

“Me too,” said Sylvester.

The fox raised a paw. “Not you, Lemmington. By the nose of the triple-breasted goddess, any dying you're going to do is going to be considerably nastier than getting eaten alive by sharks. But I'm tempted to let Three Pins here have her chance as a shark snack.”

Mrs. Pickleberry pre-empted him by pushing her way past the crewmen who'd been set to guard her and joining her daughter on the plank. Like Viola, she looked surprisingly cheerful in the face of imminent death.

“Look, you two, you don't have to do this,” Sylvester yelled. “I'll give him the coordinates!”

“It's no use,” Viola said. “We escaped once, and Rasco came to our aid. But lightning doesn't strike twice. To escape a second time from the cunning Cap'n Terrigan Rustbane? The very idea's preposterous.”

“Farewell, cruel world,” said Viola, rolling her eyes toward the sky. Quite deliberately, she stepped off the plank and vanished.

Cap'n Rustbane took off his hat and pressed it to his breast as he regarded the empty space where Viola had just been. He sighed. “So young to die. But at least she was able to call her mother. Someone tell Bladderbulge that from now on Viola's breakfast rations should be added to my plate.”

“You monster!” said Sylvester.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Pickleberry with a leer, “one o' these days you sewer rats will come to understand me.”

With a bob of her head and a shake of an imaginary rolling pin at them, she too stepped off the plank.

Sylvester dropped the sheet of parchment. The ship around him and the surly, threatening pirates disappeared as his eyes filled with tears. Even though, a moment before, he'd been convinced Viola knew what she was doing, that she'd become aware of some way out of the impasse – other than going to a watery grave, it didn't reduce the tide of grief that hit him. So far as he could tell, she was gone. She could be dead or even worse, at this very moment suffering a hideous death as savage sharks fought over her limbs.

He threw himself down on the deck and let out a high, keening wail.

“By the beard of the triple-breasted goddess,” swore Cap'n Rustbane. “I do so hate it when they blub.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” said Jeopord, looking down at Sylvester as if he'd discovered something on the underside of his shoe.

“And I hate it also,” added Cap'n Rustbane, his voice rising, “when my captives despatch themselves. Where's the fun in that, I ask you?”

Sylvester started sobbing even harder, even though he was thinking fast. From the way Viola and Mrs. Pickleberry had behaved while casting themselves off the plank—

But any further thoughts he might have had along those lines were interrupted by a cry from far above, a cry from the bat who dangled from the crow's nest and scanned the horizon with a dilapidated telescope.

“Ship ahoy!” yelled the bat, pointing a wing. “Ship ahoy!”

Everyone looked upward to where the bat hung, even Sylvester. The shriek of the bat froze the tears in his eyes. “Ship ahoy!” the lookout cried a third time. “What the dev—” Cap'n Rustbane began, then interrupted himself. “Give me an eyeglass, damn you, Jeopord.”

Obediently, the Mate passed over a copiously scratched brass telescope. Rustbane grabbed it and leaped round the forecastle to the far side of the Shadeblaze, the direction the bat's wing indicated. The other crewmen who'd been attending their skipper at the plank followed him.

Left alone for the moment, Sylvester got to his feet, dusted himself off and went to peer over the side of the vessel at the gray waters beneath. All he could see were the eddies of the Shadeblaze's own motion. But something told him that Viola and Mrs. Pickleberry were somehow all right. He didn't know why he should be so certain of this, he just was.

He rubbed his forepaws together, then scuttled after Cap'n Rustbane and the rest.

“Well, smack me in the gob for sixpence,” the cap'n was saying when Sylvester reached the group on the far side of the ship. The gray fox was holding Jeopord's telescope to his eye and, to judge by the expression on his face, positively glaring through it.

It wasn't hard to work out why the pirate was so incensed. Less than a mile away there was another ship, larger and in better shape than the Shadeblaze. Even from here, without the aid of the telescope, Sylvester could make out the banner flying proudly from the top of the new ship's mainmast. The design on the banner was of two lions rearing up on either side of a shield. Below the shield was a scroll with writing on it that Sylvester couldn't make out; above the shield were two crossed swords.

“Damn,” muttered Cap'n Rustbane. “Damn, damn and double-damn twice over.”

“We'll sink her, take whatever booty she carries and be on our way,” said Jeopord casually. “What's so difficult about that?”

“What's difficult—” Rustbane began, then took a very, very deep breath before starting again. “What's difficult, as'd be obvious to anyone who didn't have guano for brains, is that ship, that other ship,” he pointed dramatically, “is only the blasted Queen of Spectram's ship, isn't it?”

“Ah,” said Jeopord.

Sylvester nodded, as if to himself. He'd read much about the Queen of Spectram in the archives back in Foxglove. There were even whole books dedicated to her kingdom, and her predecessors on the throne there. Spectram was probably the most powerful and important kingdom in the whole of Sagaria. No other nation would be willing to stand against the Spectram army. In addition, the kingdom also had a navy, whose main task was to police the seaways, and it must be one of the ships of that navy which had gotten onto the trail of the Shadeblaze.

The lemming grinned inwardly. This could be the end of his captivity, his and the Pickleberries'. The Spectram crew would doubtless be only too willing to return the hostages to their home.

If, he thought, sobering, Viola and Mrs. Pickleberry are still alive.

Turning and lowering the eyeglass, Cap'n Rustbane saw Sylvester standing there. “Well, what in tarnation are you doing here?”

Sylvester couldn't think how to answer.

Luckily, he didn't have to, because Cap'n Rustbane spun impatiently on his heel and began striding away down the deck, the little band of sailors fluttering along behind him like the train of a bridal dress. Shrugging, Sylvester followed too.

“Is they after us, Skipper?” puffed Cheesefang, struggling to keep up.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” responded Rustbane sarcastically over his shoulder. “No, of course they're not! They were just sailing along on a honeymoon cruise in the middle of waters where there are more pirates than sharks, and they thought it might be friendly to invite us over for afternoon tea. Why the devil do you think they're here, you nincompoop?”

“Because … ah, seein' as you phrase it like that …”

Jeopord sneered at the rat, then addressed himself to the Cap'n. “They looked well armed,” he observed.

“More than well armed,” agreed Rustbane tersely, coming to an abrupt halt. It was only by dint of some energetic gymnastics that the others didn't go caroming off the back of him as he leaned once more against the rail and raised the telescope to his eye. “She has cannon up and down both sides of her, three levels of 'em, and all manned by plenty of Her Majesty's loyal subjects, I'll have no doubt. Hooks and grapples a-plenty too. I can see it all from here. We've a pretty fight ahead of us, mateys, I can tell you that. If we weren't the most courageous, blackheartedest pirate crew that ever sailed the seas, I'd be betting we'd be at the bottom of the ocean by nightfall. As it is, my hearties, it'll be the queen's men who're breathing with the fishes tonight.”

His heavy laugh sounded a bit forced to Sylvester.

“We're all awaiting your commands, Cap'n,” said Jeopord smoothly. There was something in the ocelot's voice that made Sylvester pay special attention to him. Surely it couldn't be possible that the treacherous First Mate had drawn the Spectram vessel down upon them?

Cap'n Rustbane cackled again. “My dear friend and loyal shipmate, Jeopord,” he said, “I've got a little something special for these lubbers this time, a little surprise that'll have them ruing their decision to put on clean underwear this morning.”

Jeopord grinned back at him. “And this would be?”

“Just keep our course the way it is and let them catch up – but slowly, slow-ell-ee, mind, so it don't look to them as if we're doin' it deliberate, like. We want 'em to think that they're catching us because of their own skill in pursuit. We're setting a trap for them, you see, with ourselves as the bait.”

The ocelot's eyes gleamed. “Understood, Skip.”

“And while you're doing that, dear Jeopord, I'll be preparing my little surprise.”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n.”

“You two,” said Cap'n Rustbane to a pair of rats, “Thickskull and Sneezeball, come with me and help me get things ready to teach those navy troopers a lesson.”

He swirled his cloak about him and was just about to make an exit when his eye fell once more on Sylvester.

“As for you, Lemmington, you and I will resume where we left off, once I've sent all these soldier-boyos to the tender mercies of the waves. If you show yourself willing to fight bravely alongside my crew, perhaps I'll take pity on you and spare you a lingering death.”

With that, he was gone.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

Slowly, the Specter of Justice, the great three-masted ship of the Queen of Spectram, drew closer to the pirate vessel and then abreast of it. The distance between the ships as they sailed alongside each other was short enough that Sylvester felt he could have hurled a stone across to the Spectram crew, whom he could see manning their various stations about the deck.

Two ships more different in appearance it would have been hard to find. The Shadeblaze was a scruffy denizen of the sea. Every part of her looked as if it had been patched and repatched a dozen times or more, and even then was kept from falling apart more by faith than by reason. Even so, she gave the impression of being a tough tyke of a vessel, one you wouldn't choose to pick a fight with. The Specter of Justice, by contrast, was immaculately tidy. Gazing at her, it was hard not to be reminded of the auditorium of some splendid theater, with galleries rising above galleries, all gilt paint and polished brass. This impression was enhanced by her officers, who were resplendent in their own right. Their uniforms were a dark salmon pink in color, trimmed wherever there was an edge to trim with impeccable gold braid. Brightly hued cockades ascended above their hats and swayed in the sea breeze. The hats themselves were shaped like upended soup tureens and seemed to be made of black velvet. Even the crew, scurrying hither and thither, were smartly attired – unlike their counterparts aboard the Shadeblaze, who couldn't have cared less about their appearances and often had to be reminded to dress themselves at all.

The Junior Archivist and Translator of Ancient Tongues within Sylvester yearned to be a part of the complement of the Specter of Justice, where everything and everybody seemed to know its correct place, rather than here aboard the Shadeblaze with its captain and crew of villains and cutthroats and its air of dilapidation and decay.

He sighed. Maybe after this battle was over …

Of course, the fact that the personnel aboard the Specter of Justice appeared to be human made it less than likely a lemming would be welcome.

The Spectram vessel was certainly the bigger of the two, and it looked to be the better equipped and armed, so there was every reason to think it would triumph in any encounter.

For the first time, it crossed Sylvester's mind that he might not survive the imminent battle. That, though innocent, he could all too easily be caught in the crossfire between the two hostile forces.

And how do I feel about that happening? he thought, leaning against the deck rail and gazing at his opposite numbers on the Specter of Justice with what he hoped they'd interpret as a friendly expression. If it's the truth that Viola is dead, then how much does it matter to me that I might die too? The old superstitions say we live on after death in a better and happier place. If that's the case, then dying may be the only way for me to be reunited with her, and dying here would be the quickest and easiest way to bring that about. But no one with a lick of sense believes that sort of codswallop. When I go I'll … go. All I've got to look forward to is an eternity of nothingness.

He brought himself up short, then resumed his musings. Besides, I'm convinced Viola's still alive. As she dropped off the side of the ship she looked like she was starting out on some amazing prank, not as if she were going to her doom. And the same with her mother, although it's harder to tell with Mrs. Pickleberry – what with her face looking the way it does, beaten up by those bastards back at Ouwinju. It's enough to turn milk to cheese even at the best of times.

He found that, despite the awfulness of the situation, he was smiling. If Mrs. Pickleberry could get even a hint of what he was thinking, he'd be picking rolling-pin splinters out of his skull for months.

Cap'n Rustbane had reappeared on deck while Sylvester had been lost in his thoughts.

The gray fox's timing could not have been better.

“Ahoy there, Shadeblaze!” came a voice across the water.

The voice sounded oddly thin as it competed with the brisk sea wind. Sylvester glanced over at the other vessel and saw that one of the Spectram officers had raised a big silver megaphone to his lips.

“Ahoy there in the name of the Queen of Spectram!”

The gray fox cupped his hands in front of his mouth. “You want me to tell you where you can put your ahoy?”

The officer lowered his megaphone and spoke briefly and inaudibly to the people around him. Whatever they decided it was impossible to tell, because when he hailed the Shadeblaze again it was simply to call “ahoy!” once more.

“Darned idiots!” snarled Cap'n Rustbane to Jeopord, beside him. “Whimpering little lapdogs. All of them doing what their mommy tells them. Impale me on my own mizzen if I ever look like doing the bidding of a woman.”

Sylvester reflected that he wasn't the only one lucky to be out of Mrs. Pickleberry's earshot.

“We have a warrant for your arrest, Terrigan Rustbane,” came the officer's voice again.

“You hear that noise like crossbones rattling?” called Cap'n Rustbane. “That's me knees, shaking in terror!”

“Prepare yourselves for boarders, Shadeblaze!”

Cap'n Rustbane put his paw to his mouth and made a great show of gnawing his claws in fear. “An' how're you planning to do the boarding, eh, my hearties? Swing across here like a bunch of monkeys? Grappling hooks and ropes? You'll all find yourselves swimming if you try that!”

“Cease your parlay, Shadeblaze. I repeat, prepare for boarders!”

Sylvester began wondering if he ought to display the better part of valor and find somewhere good and secure to hide. There was no point in being rescued by the Queen of Spectram's navy if he was dead already from the fighting. Cap'n Adamite's secret writing chamber seemed to offer as good an option as any, if only he could reach it without being spotted.

He was just about to tiptoe away when he was unlucky enough to catch Cap'n Rustbane's eye.

“And where are you off to, you piggy little furball?”

“The bathroom.”

“The what?”

“The bathroom. Er, the head. The jakes. It's all the excitement, you know.”

“A pirate never goes to the lav before a battle, does he, my lads?” cried Cap'n Rustbane.

“No!” yelled the crew around him loyally.

“He saves it for when it's really needed, don't he?”

“Yes!”

Sylvester's mind boggled. What in the world could Cap'n Rustbane mean?

“So, you just stay here beside me, young Sylvester Lemmington,” said Rustbane, reverting to his normal voice. “You'll learn a lesson as good as any lesson learnt at sea could possibly be, a lesson in the way we scurvy knaves treat those pompous lords who would try to haul us home to face Jack Ketch.”

He put his arm round Sylvester's shoulders as if to reassure him. Sylvester thought there could be no other gesture so threatening. Jeopord looked on with a sardonic smile twisting his lips.

“Just come a little closer, my beauty,” breathed Cap'n Rustbane, addressing the Spectram vessel. The churning of the waters was becoming almost deafening as the Specter of Justice, charging through the waves roughly parallel to the Shadeblaze, drifted nearer and nearer to Rustbane's ship. “Come a little closer to your Uncle Terrigan. He's got a little gift for you.”