The Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates #1 (19 page)

M
ISS
G
REYSON HIRED
the fastest rowboat in all of Augusta—or so the oarsman claimed—to deliver them back to the
Pigeon
, and they clambered onto the deck without even bidding the oarsman goodnight. Although Miss Greyson did not approve of running, she proved to be a superb sprinter, and she was first to reach the door of the cabin she shared with Hilary.

Oliver was just coming out of it.

Miss Greyson skidded to a halt. “Young man, whatever were you doing in my private quarters?”

Oliver shrugged. “Sorry, ma'am. Wrong cabin.”

“Very wrong indeed.” Miss Greyson clicked her tongue and brushed past him through the door. “You may atone for your mistake by fetching us some matches. I believe I have a candle in here somewhere.”

Oliver smirked, and Hilary resisted the urge to trip him as he skulked by. “I do
not
like him,” the gargoyle muttered once Oliver was out of earshot.

“That makes at least two of us,” said Hilary. She joined Charlie and Miss Greyson in the cabin and rummaged about under her pillow until she found the treasure map. Miss Greyson produced a candle from the depths of her carpetbag. It was a new-looking candle, squat and sturdy, and unfortunately, it was purple. A white candle, or even a yellow one, would have been more piratical, but this was no time to be picky. Oliver reappeared with a half-empty box of matches, and Hilary lit the candle's wick.

Immediately, a strong scent of lilacs filled the cabin. Charlie coughed, and Miss Greyson looked embarrassed. Hilary didn't care, though; she unrolled the treasure map and held it carefully over the flame.

“What do you think you're doing?” said Oliver. “You'll burn it up!”

“No, I won't,” said Hilary. At first, however, very little seemed to happen. The map turned warm all over, and its underside began to scorch where it hovered over the candle.

“Oliver may be right,” said Miss Greyson reluctantly. “But I see what you're getting at, Hilary. Perhaps there's another solution.” She reached under her bed and pulled out her iron and ironing board.

“Please, Miss Greyson,” said Hilary, “tidiness isn't important at a time like this!”

Miss Greyson simply smiled and removed the map from the flame. Then she held the iron over the candle until its flat bottom was warm to the touch. “Perfect,” she said. “Place the map on the ironing board please, Hilary. I'd hate to scorch the floor.”

Hilary did as Miss Greyson asked, and Miss Greyson placed the iron gently on top of the map. She moved the iron slowly back and forth over the paper. As the iron traveled from one end to the other and back again, markings emerged in its wake, faint at first, but turning browner and browner with heat.

“It's working,” said Charlie. “I can't believe it.”

“I want to see!” said the gargoyle. Hilary pulled him out of her bag and held him up for a better look. “Now,
that
,” he said as he examined the markings, “is a treasure map.”

It was true. Most of the map was unchanged, but now, in the middle of Gunpowder Island, a dotted brown line began directly above the sketch of the Enchantress and traveled due north before bending like an elbow and hopping along to the west. Next to the first part of the line was a label reading “ninety paces from the statue” in the Enchantress's curled handwriting, and a label that said “fifty paces toward the ash tree” appeared along the second part of the line. At the very end of the line stood a bold and unmistakable
X
.

“An
X
to mark the spot,” the gargoyle said happily. “Just like in books.”

The only other new addition to the map was a couplet scrawled in the wide blankness of Gunpowder Bay. “Perhaps the Enchantress was a poetess as well,” said Hilary. She read the couplet aloud.

May my treasure rest with me
,

Hidden for eternity
.

“Not great literature,” said Miss Greyson, “but it gets the message across.”

Hilary wasn't so sure. If the Enchantress had really wanted her treasure to be hidden for eternity, why had she bothered to draw a map to its location? She had certainly done her best to make things complicated for future treasure seekers. Maybe Admiral Westfield had been right after all when he'd called the Enchantress a Meddling Old Biddy.

“She probably planned to retrieve the treasure herself someday,” Charlie said, “but she never got the chance.”

“And now,” said the gargoyle, “it's our turn. Arr!”

Hilary let loose a hearty round of pirate cries as well, and even Miss Greyson uttered a prim and proper “ahoy.”

“Perhaps I'll be Scourge of the Northlands after all,” said Charlie. He looked up from the treasure map, and Hilary thought she saw him smile.

“I hate to interrupt your celebration,” said Oliver from the doorway, “but you might be interested to know that Jasper's back.”

Oliver was right: Out on the deck, footsteps approached, and someone demanded to know why the
Pigeon
smelled distinctly of lilacs.

Hilary blew out the candle and ran out to meet him. “Jasper,” she called, “we did it! We've figured out the treasure map!”

Jasper beamed in the moonlight and gave Hilary a hug. His expedition to the Scallywag's Den had left him smelling of wood smoke and parrot, which was rather a friendly combination. “Well done,” he said. “I knew you'd do it. And just in time, too.”

“What do you mean?”

Jasper sighed and took his hat in his hands. “It appears,” he said, “we're not the only ones looking for this treasure.”

JAMES WESTFIELD, ADMIRAL
AUGUSTA ROYAL NAVY

FIVE-TIME RECIPIENT OF THE SOARING OSTRICH
MEDAL OF PERSEVERANCE

To Her Highness
:

I am very disturbed by your report of the magical thefts from your palace. There is no doubt in my mind that pirates are to blame: everyone knows they are treasure-grubbing, power-hungry thugs. I fear these pirates plan to challenge your claim to the throne. But do not fear: I shall personally search the High Seas for the scallywags and force them to return your stolen magic. I can guarantee this mission will be successful—in the twenty-seven years of my illustrious naval career, I have never once failed, and I do not plan to start now
.

As I have been whacked over the head with vases myself in the past, I can advise the royal treasurer to put some ice on that bruise
.

Thank you for your concern regarding my daughter. I had not been aware of her disappearance—I've been terribly busy, and I'd believed she was safely at finishing school. The education system these days is a disgrace
.

J.W.

A postcard sent to Miss Eugenia Pimm

Ahoy, Miss Pimm,

I've spotted that girl yer lookin' for. I thought she were a pint-size pirate when I saw her, but I didn't know ye wanted her then. Just saw yer sign on my afternoon juice break. If ye be travelin' to Middleby in search of her, yer always welcome for a free pint of grog at the Scallywag's Den.

Best regards,

BURLY BRUCE McCORKLE

P.S. About that reward: Do I get paid in magic coin, or in gold? I prefer magic if ye got any.

A
LTHOUGH
J
ASPER HAD
called an emergency meeting in his private quarters, Jasper himself was the last to arrive. The others huddled around a large oak table that took up a good portion of the room. No one spoke; the only sound was the grumble of stone as the gargoyle ground his teeth.

Jasper appeared at last, carrying a box packed to the brim with tins of beets. Without a word, he deposited the box on the cabin floor and disappeared again, returning a few minutes later with an even larger box of beet tins. He hurried back and forth for some time, until it was nearly impossible to move through the cabin without bumping into a beet.

“That's the last of it,” said Jasper as he dumped a dozen more tins on the floor. “Everyone still here? Fantastic.” He slid into the slightly bedraggled chair at the head of the table. “I'm pleased to report that my visit to the Scallywag's Den was most instructive. The scallywags proved to be tremendously helpful.”

Oliver glanced around the cabin. “They must have instructed you to invest in beets,” he said.

“They did not,” said Jasper icily. He popped open a tin with his sword and helped himself to a beet slice. “They did, however, have plenty of gossip to share about that navy ship, the
Augusta Belle
.”

Hilary shifted in her chair. She rather wished she could dive under the table, but such behavior wouldn't be the least bit piratical. Miss Greyson gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, but it didn't cheer her one bit.

“The
Augusta Belle
left Queensport unexpectedly a few days ago. Admiral Westfield himself is the captain, and he took care not to advertise the purpose of his journey. Some of the pirates believe it's routine naval business, nothing more. But a few of them,” said Jasper, “disagree.”

Charlie slumped down in his seat. “So he's after us.”

“Not quite.” Jasper raised an eyebrow. “Admiral Westfield is after the Enchantress's treasure.”

“But that's impossible!” Hilary suddenly found herself standing up; her face burned as she slipped back into her chair. “I only mean,” she said more quietly, “that I've heard the admiral doesn't approve of treasure hunting.”

“Perhaps he doesn't, when the treasure hunters are pirates,” said Jasper, “but he's been collecting quite a bit of treasure himself these days. I have it on good authority that he's stolen a number of magical objects from High Society households.”

Hilary could have sworn the
Pigeon
was rocking back and forth more violently than usual. Maybe the waves were to blame for her queasiness. Maybe it was the close quarters, or the strong smell of beets.

Miss Greyson frowned. “Are you referring to the string of magic thefts in Queensport? Surely Admiral Westfield has nothing to do with that.”

“My good Miss Greyson, he has everything to do with it. It seems a few High Society scoundrels are gathering as much magic as they can lay their manicured hands on—mostly through theft. And I believe James Westfield is the ringleader. A number of—well, let's call them ‘reliable sources'—in the Scallywag's Den confirmed my suspicions.”

The rocking sensation had gotten worse; Hilary was almost sure of it. If only the room weren't so warm; if only Miss Greyson weren't sitting so close; if only the cabin walls would stop leaping about and settle down properly. But no one else seemed to mind the rocking or the warmth; no one else even seemed to notice it. Hilary supposed that real pirates never fell victim to queasiness. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but I've got to get some fresh air. Please don't stand up, Miss Greyson; I'll be perfectly fine in a moment.”