The Buccaneer's Apprentice (23 page)

“All …” He gulped. “All my life.”

“Interesting,” she said, her voice level. “It comes so naturally to you. I wonder where you get the urge? Hmmm. Well. Good night.”

She had made her point. Nic tossed the scrap of paper that was in his hands onto the table, as if it burned. That hadn’t been fair. Building the little boats was simply something he did with his hands, to keep them from being idle when he was alone. It was harmless. It didn’t mean anything. It only transformed unwanted scraps into something better. Something no one else ever imagined for them.

By the time Nic thought to follow Darcy, to contradict her, she had vanished from the deck and gone down below. He didn’t make pursuit.

Darcy had been unfair, to set his heart aflutter like that. She’d been unwise to give him such hope. It would be marvelous to be of Piratimare blood. To have sprung from one of Cassaforte’s famed Seven families would be an immense reversal of fortune. He wandered outdoors in the direction of the ship’s prow, his hands idly tracing the railing as he walked. In his mind’s eye he could see the scene as written into one of Signor Arturo’s dramas. Hero would wander across the Caza Piratimare bridge in the humblest of his clothes, while the Piratimare family (played by Signor Arturo as Vecchio, and the Signora in her most resplendent and waist-cinching of dresses) waited with open arms and tear-stained faces at the bridge’s end. Pulcinella, as the family’s housemaid, would have prepared a feast that could have fed most of the city. Infant Prodigy would have the role of the younger sister, given to performing cartwheels around the massive table. Even the most hardened of men would be hard-pressed not to reach for his handkerchief, at the sight of so many sunny faces and so happy an ending as that.

A sudden break in the waves brought Nic back to reality. The galleon had run into choppy waters, throwing him off-balance. From the quarterdeck, illuminated by the stern lights, Maxl threw his captain a cheerful wave and began whistling. He pointed in a direction beyond Nic, then curled his fist and pointed his thumb to the heavens. Nic turned to see what Maxl had been so happy about. In the distance he finally spied lights. Small clusters of them, steady and unmoving, burning brightly against the dark. Cassaforte.

They were nearly home. Nic’s heart pounded at the realization. That scene he’d imagined moments before could be a reality before the week’s end. He could easily be that prodigal son returned to the Piratimare fold, loved and accepted, finally enfolded within the embrace of a family. A noble family at that. But to what end? The ship lurched uncertainly in the rough waters as he thought about it. The family he’d gain would all be strangers to him. Likely they would shut him up in some sort of insula to teach him the craft of shipbuilding, the moment he joined the clan—though wasn’t there some kind of ritual selection process for that, and wasn’t he too old for it? He knew so little about the Seven. Certainly he’d never have the opportunity to see the Arturos again, nor Maxl, nor even Renaldo and Michaelo if he’d been able to track them down once more. Hadn’t they been more family to him during the worst of times than any Piratimare?

What else? To Nic a roast fowl leg and a mug of hard cider was feast enough. The costume he wore now, with its high boots and white shirt, had suited him fine. And was it really his fantasy to vault from servant boy to commander of servants? He couldn’t envision it, try as he might. He knew too well what it was like to endure the commands of those bent on satisfying their own pleasures, ever to have servants of his own. His captaincy had been different; he had been alongside the crew the entire time. The orders might have seemed to come from him, but he was working just as hard as they to achieve their common goal. No, if becoming one of the Seven meant accepting the ministrations of servants, he could never join their ranks.

The galleon heaved up and down as it sailed forward, bringing closer the lights of his home city. Cassaforte looked peaceful by night. Hundreds of lights dotted its shores, from boats at rest and, higher, from the cazas upon the seven islands surrounding the city. Even more shone from the city’s center, setting the sky before him aglow. Nic grinned at the sight, so glad he was for it. He also laughed a little at himself, for allowing himself to be seduced with the vision of a life that would never—could never—be his own.

He ran his hands over the rails so he could feel the wood beneath his skin sing out at his touch. This galleon, wherever it had come from, needed him. For now, that was all he needed to know about who he was.

For several moments he watched the dancing lights from the city and listened to Maxl’s cheerful chanty, whistling in the background. Then he cocked his head, curious. Some of those lights should not have been dancing at all. “Maxl,” he called, snapping his fingers. “Bring me the spyglass.”

It was in his hand a moment later. “I am never being to Cassafort City before,” Maxl announced, looking over Nic’s shoulder. “I am hearing it is beautiful, for a city of savages and magicians.”

Nic spent a moment adjusting the glass. The lights he’d seen shouldn’t have been there. He swore an oath beneath his breath, but refused to panic. He’d been brought home for a reason, and already he’d found it. “Sound the bell,” he commanded Maxl. “All hands on deck immediately. Cassaforte’s on fire.”

Soft living does not a brave man make.

—An old Cassafortean saying

I
cannot believe it has come to this.” Jacopo Colombo slumped against the rail, one hand pressed to his forehead. He looked as if he might be about to weep. “It is beyond all dreaming.”

A stiff crosswind had sprung up to match the roiling waters. The galleon’s crew went stumbling toward the aft as the ship pitched up. The main mast sails began flapping crazily as those who had been adjusting them lost hold of their ropes. “Trim those!” Nic barked out, a split second before Maxl could. “And stand ready. We don’t know all that’s happening yet.” Signor Arturo, Knave, and Urso scrambled at his command.

“Pays d’Azur has besieged the city!” Jacopo protested. “We are too late!”

Nic paused only so that he could address Jacopo directly. “That is impossible. You know very well that Comte Dumond’s warships could not have reached Cassaforte before us. Take a look.” He thrust the spyglass into the old man’s hands so that he could see for himself. Six of the city’s magnificent naval vessels burned where they had been anchored. It was their sails and masts that flamed so brilliantly against the night sky. Great clouds of black smoke were beginning to billow to the heavens from their hulls, blackening the purple and brown silk banners flying from their masts.

Alight too was the southern port complex, and many of the boats docked there. Though the waves and wind obscured any sounds that might have been coming from shore, Nic could imagine the chaos. Smaller boats as yet untouched by the fires had been loosed from their moorings and drifted, unmanned, to collide and drift away from danger. Merchant ships desperately trying to escape the conflagrations pushed between them. Nic could only pity anyone caught in the confusion. “Good gods,” muttered Jacopo.

Darcy happened to be running by with a coil of rope in her arms just then. “Every hand is needed now,” she informed her father. She grabbed the spyglass from him and thrust it back at Nic as she passed. “Especially in a time like this.”

“Go,” Nic told them both. Then, to Jacopo, he said, “We’ll get through this.” The nuncio nodded, though he didn’t seem convinced when he accompanied his daughter to the foremast.

Once again the ship pitched up in the water, then plunged down. This time, the crew was not caught off-guard. Nic was so attuned to the galleon’s motions that he managed to stride to the quarterdeck without clutching at anything for support. He sprinted up the stairs, took hold of the ship’s wheel, and adjusted the rudder. Maxl watched, then commented, “You are not wanting to go into the city?”

“Into that pandemonium? Not likely.” Nic peered through the glass again, focusing on the outer edge of the upheaval.

“No huzzah, huzzah, whupping the Azurites? No paying the back?” Maxl sounded a little disappointed.

“Those aren’t Azurites,” Nic said. From time to time he could see little arcs of fire shooting from small craft to their targets. “I think they’re pirates. I’m willing to wager that the
Tears of Korfu
was not the only band of buccaneers the comte approached to do his dirty work.” Another small arc of twirling fire flew from a little cutter. The vessel had sliced its way through the waters to the side of one of the merchant vessels, where it had launched its deadly missile. Nic saw an explosion of flame aboard the merchant ship’s deck. There was a flurry of motion as its crew scattered to escape. Several appeared to jump overboard. Nic lowered the glass and handed it to Maxl. “What manner of weapons are they using?”

It took Maxl a moment, but very soon he had an answer. “I am not knowing what to be calling it in your tongue. For us, we call it the Device Infernal,” he said. “But it is a bottle, yes? Of glass? And it is filled with spirits? Pure spirits, very easy to catch on fire. The top is stuffed with a rag. The rag is set on fire, so when it is thrown the bottle is breaking and
sploosh
.” Maxl made an exploding motion with his hands. “Very dirty fighting, it is being. No honor to it.” He spat on the deck. “Pirates from Ellada, it is their invention.”

Nic got the general idea of the infernal device. “Very dirty indeed,” he agreed. He thought things over for a moment. “We’ll go after them,” he said at last. “It’s clever of the comte, sending a fleet of scrubby pirates to do his dirty work for him. No offense intended.”

“I am not taking any,” Maxl agreed, amiably enough.

“He’s taking out the naval boats, of course.” Nic could map the strategy in his head, plain as anything. “A quick surprise strike. They might not be completely destroyed, but they’d be useless for several days, if not weeks. Then they’re creating bedlam at the ports.” It was too far to tell if Cassaforte’s western shipyards were under attack as well, but Nic would have wagered his own freedom that they were. “In and out, unannounced, under cover of darkness, no one to see them coming or going. People will say to themselves, ‘Oh, it was only pirates,’ tote up the losses, and let their guards down. Then the real battle fleet from Pays d’Azur moves in, and Cassaforte is helpless against them. If we capture one of the pirate cutters, we can find out from its captain when they intend to attack.” Maxl let out a huff of air through his nose. Another followed. Soon the man was laughing. “What?” asked Nic, irritated. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No. That is not what is funny. “ Maxl gestured at the city’s horizon. “All you are wanting, all this time, is this being home again. You bring the girl and her father as you promised. Your job is ended. You can drop them here, say bye-bye, then sail off again and keep yourself away from siege. So why, Master Nic? All this swashbuckling—you are not having to be doing any of it.”

Maxl had been the last man he’d expected not to support him. The betrayal stung. Through clenched teeth, Nic replied, “I am not doing it because I have to. I am doing it because I can.”

To Nic’s surprise, Maxl laughed louder. “Good, good!” he cried. He clapped a hand on Nic’s back, and nodded his blue face in approval. “You not thinking now like a boy. You thinking like captains are doing. This is what honor is being. Yes? That is why I am laughing, my friend. Come!” he said, indicating that Nic take the ship’s wheel. “We are chasing pirates now.”

It was with a flush of pride still animating his face that Nic stood at the fore of the quarterdeck a moment later to sound the ship’s bell. He had never used the pattern before that indicated the crew to fall in and assemble. Macaque’s men knew well enough what it meant, and the actors followed. Once they were in place, waiting and expectant, Nic looked at the faces below him. They were all silent, waiting for him to speak. He hoped that what he had to say would not disappoint. “My crew,” he said. “My comrades.” Nic paused while the pirates who had a grasp of Cassafortean translated for the others. “This journey we’ve taken together has been strange indeed.” A few people nodded in agreement. “I … I must thank you for your remarkable service. We would not be here tonight were it not for each and every one of you.”

“Hear hear!” shouted Signor Arturo, doffing his hat.

Thus far that night, Nic had not made any declamations as the Drake, or as anyone else. He was simply being Nic Dattore, captain of the galleon and leader of its crew, speaking from his heart. Not one of the men or women gave any indication that anything more was necessary. “This place—this city of Cassaforte—is my homeland. It is the homeland to many of you before me. I know that we pirates are men without country. We answer to no king, no comte, no counselor, save that of our own hearts and senses of honor.” He looked around the assembly. By now, the faces were as familiar to him as his own. “What I am about to request of you is not anything Captain Xi would have asked. It is nothing that Macaque would have asked—had you been able to pull him away from his cards.” A ripple of laughter sounded throughout Macaque’s old crew at that joke. “No, what I am asking is much more dangerous.

“There are men out there, pirates under the pay of the Comte Dumond, who are setting afire this country’s harbor using infernal devices. I believe they are trying to weaken the city so that it will be defenseless against the armada of warships we saw in Gallina’s harbor.” At the mention of the infernal devices, a number of Macaque’s men shook their heads and made signs to warn off ill spirits. None of the Arturos’ troupe knew what Nic meant, for such things were alien to Cassaforte. “Cassaforte’s ships of battle are burning even now. They are unable to defend themselves against these ruffians. But we can help.” Having to project so loudly in order to be heard over the water and wind was taking more energy than he knew. Suddenly Nic had a great deal of respect for the Arturos, who often had to struggle with noisy and unappreciative crowds. He paused and took a deep breath. “I know that asking pirates to come to a country’s aid is not usual. It’s unconventional, yes. But there is honor in it, and I cannot turn my back on my homeland. Anyone who chooses to help will receive my deepest gratitude. Any man—or woman—who wishes not to be a part of my plan may retire below deck. Neither I nor anyone else will think unkindly of it.”

The whispered translations ceased seconds after Nic finished speaking. He indicated the hatch closest to where the crew stood, and gestured to it. Though heads turned to see if anyone would step away, no one did.

After a sufficient wait, Nic nodded. It was difficult not to smile, so at long last, he allowed himself to. “Thank you, friends.”

From beside him, Maxl punched his fist into the air. “Are we being cowards?” Like a lion he roared, his long mane of hair tumbling as he shook his head in defiance. “Or are we being the kings of pirates?”

“We are pirates!” shouted the Arturos at the top of their considerable lungs. The second time, they were joined by Infant Prodigy, Ingenue, and the rest of the troupe. “We are pirates!” On the third cry, many others joined in. Nic, however, only had eyes for Darcy. Her tear-streaked face shone as she looked up from below. “
We are pirates!
” Over and over the crew shouted the three words as loudly as they could, joined in by even the men who did not speak the language. They appreciated the sentiment, well enough. “
We are pirates! We are pirates!
”

“First Mate Maxl,” cried Nic, ringing the bell in the pattern that dismissed his crew back to their duties. “Bring the ship ’round.”

Enough accounts were later told of that night to confuse any save those who were actually there. Ardent historians trying to make sense of the tales of sailors who witnessed the battle—stories told largely in taverns over increasingly large flagons of ale, it must be admitted—might have arrived at any number of baffling conclusions. Some said Maarten’s Folly had swooped down upon the ships burning on the outskirts of Caza Buonochio, rescued those stranded in the waters there, then swung back around to the east in order the purge the southern ports of attacking freebooters. Others would have told of a galleon captain with a shining sword and a thirst for vengeance, who ferreted out the pirate cutters with an almost supernatural accuracy and sent them all to a watery grave. Some said that the captain’s galleon swept from Caza Buonochio all the way to Caza Portello, leaving ship after pirate ship as nothing but splinters and driftwood in its wake. A few argued that the galleon set course around the entire city, from the Insula of the Penitents of Lena in the east all the way around to the Insula of the Children of Muro in the west, before coming to rest to an applauding and adoring crowd.

The real facts were these.

There were indeed many refugees stranded in the waters of the Azure Sea around Cassaforte. Some had jumped from the burning warships, but more had attempted to take their small fishing or merchant crafts away from the infernos and had been stranded or capsized in the heavy waves. They were difficult to rescue without stopping, but even more difficult to leave behind. It was the Colombos who hit upon the notion of employing a length of netting suspended from the port deck. To its perimeter had been woven a number of air-filled bladders that caused it to float, allowing strong swimmers to fling themselves into the net, cling on, and, despite the galleon’s speed, climb up and onto the deck. Darcy and the Signora and Pulcinella saw to the bedraggled victims. Many were angry at their attackers, and experienced sailors at that; they immediately began pitching in with the sails and running down the hatch to fetch whatever Maxl ordered. Those with little experience aboard a sailing ship aided as best they could with helping other survivors to safety, so that their masses swelled aboard the Folly’s deck.