The Buccaneer's Apprentice (29 page)

“Still.” Darcy held out her arms, offering comfort. Risa gratefully accepted.

Which left Nic to address Milo. The young man hadn’t said a word since he had entered the room. “Do you need something?” he asked. He’d never seen anyone so pale. “A drink? Water, or something stronger?”

Milo smiled weakly, and waved off the suggestion. It seemed as if he was trying to will himself anywhere else but here. “Risa,” he said at last, looking away from Alessandro. The old man still looked as if he was only taking the shallowest of slumbers, and might waken any moment. “I can’t do this. I can’t be king. I’m
not
a king.”

“You’re not king until the cazarri meet to give you the crown and scepter,” she reminded him.

“Those people all like me. They’re not going to refuse. They’re going to do it and then I’ll be king and—oh, gods.” He gasped for air. “They’ll expect me to be kingly. It’s too much. It’s just too much.”

Nic was no stranger to stage fright. In the wings, he’d seen many a young actor afflicted with it. His mind flashed back to a time when he himself stepped into the captain’s quarters of a ship for the very first time, and how he seemed to freeze from the sheer ponderousness of it all. “Milo,” he said, confidentially. “Can I call you that?” He crooked his arm around the heir’s neck, and walked him across the cabin. “When I was much younger, a very wise man told me something that I’ve taken to heart ever since. Acting is something you do every day. You do it when you sit at a council of war and pretend to agree with someone when in reality you don’t. You do it when you’re frightened beyond all reckoning for the girl you care for, and don’t want it to show. Sometimes
seeming
to be a thing is all your audience needs to get by. And if you seem to be a thing long enough …” He patted the heir on the back. “It won’t matter that it’s not who you once were.”

They were close to the exit now. Through the broken porthole, Nic had spied all the crew assembled on the deck beyond, kneeling and facing the door. They waited for news. Nic knew that it would be best if it didn’t come from him. “So what do I do?” asked Milo, listening intently. His eyes were still wide and scared.

Milo repeated the same words that had been given to him, long ago. “You take a deep breath. You stand straight. You become the person you want them to believe in.”

“And then?”

“And then,” said Nic, “you go on.”

Milo thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded, thanks in his eyes. Nic heard him take a deep breath, and watched as he corrected his posture and thrust back his shoulders. He was still pale, but more composed. “I think I might be ready,” he announced, nodding at the door.

“Then you are.”

“But I don’t know what to say. Those people outside will be looking to me, and I don’t have any words for them.”

With his hand on the heir’s back, Nic opened the latch. Into the dawn’s mist and fog they stepped together, side by side. “The lines will come,” he assured Cassaforte’s new king. “Believe me, they will come.”

Appearing tonight only, after their heroic feats upon the Azure Sea! Arturo Armand’s Theatre of Marvels, performing not one, but both of the plays that have brought them international acclaim, written by the lauded Armand Arturo himself : “Infernal Mysteries of the Bloody Banquet: A Tale of Blood and Woe!” and “School for Strategem: A Rollicking Comedy!”

—From a broadside pasted upon Cassafortean lampposts

B
e nice to him. It won’t cost you anything.”

Darcy’s fingers stung where they swatted him, causing Nic to rub at his shoulder. “I am nice to him,” he protested, knowing the words were a lie.

“You flinch like a kicked puppy whenever he looks your direction,” Darcy chided. “He’s trying to be kind in the only ways he knows how.”

“I know. But he’s been kind all morning. Over and over again.” Nic had thought, after the last half-dozen spurts of conversation, that Ianno Piratimare would be returning to his work. As it was, the sounds of hundreds of hammers against wood in every single one of Caza Piratimare’s dry docks made it nearly impossible to talk. With all the repairs and rebuilding of the city’s warships left to be done, Nic thought the man would have a better occupation than hovering. Now he was painfully aware that the cazarro had spun around at the bottom of the nearest ramp and was returning. “Oh, gods,” he muttered, trying to force a friendly smile onto his lips.

“You, stop.” Darcy had stored aboard the
Allyria
a trunkful of breeches and boys’ shirts for later, though for the moment she wore one of her prettiest gowns. The breeches were more practical at sea, Nic had to concede, but he preferred her as she was now. Radiant, golden, and gleaming—much like the remarkable galleon behind them. “Cazarro,” Darcy murmured as she gathered her skirt and curtseyed.

“Cazarro,” said Nic for what felt like the dozenth time that morning. He bowed yet again.

“No, no, no need for such formalities among—yes. Well.” Ianno Piratimare colored. “One more thing occurred to me …”

“If it’s about the crew you’ve so generously provided, Cazarro, my first mate has already learned their names. They’ll be well-taken care of,” Nic assured him. From fear of what the man might have to say, Nic always felt compelled to take control of every conversation they had.

The cazarro blinked, as if that had been the furthest thing from his mind. “Oh. Naturally. Yes. Your … Maxl is a good man. A very good sailor. A shame he’s so … blue. Yes. Well. And naturally, it will be an honor for them all, learning the workings of the marvelous craft my forefathers built. Yet what I wanted to say …”

Nic coughed. “And of course, the provisions you have provided will see us through quite handsomely.”

Ianno Piratimare bit his lips, interrupted again. “I can’t claim credit for all of that, my boy. All the merchants of Cassaforte want to be able to say the
Allyria
set sail with their donations aboard. No, what I’ve been meaning to tell you all morning, though I haven’t really found the courage …”

Even at the height of the battle of the Azurite armada, Nic’s heart had never pounded harder than it did whenever the cazarro of Piratimare seemed about to make some kind of confession. His heart in his throat, Nic stammered out, “You … you really have been too good to so common a fellow as I, signor. I can only thank you again, and hope that I am not intruding upon your pressing duties.”

The cazarro, taken aback, looked up at the seagulls shrieking loudly in the sky. After a moment, he lowered his head again. Nic could have sworn that his eyes were swimming with tears, though it might have been from the sun. “Niccolo Dattore …” Ianno might have allowed Nic some leeway thus far, but he was one of the Seven. As such, he was no stranger to administering discipline, and it was in a stern voice that he continued. “You will hear me out on this matter. All I have wanted to tell you is that if ever in your life’s journey you find yourself without a place to rest—if you have nowhere to go of your own, that is—well. You are always welcome at this caza, for as long as any Piratimare lives here. There it is, then. It’s said.”

“That is most handsome of you, Cazarro,” said Nic. “Most handsome indeed.” He was aware that his voice sounded choked. He sniffled, and immediately colored. “There’s much sawdust in the air, this morning. I think it’s making me a bit sneezy,” he said, trying to sound casual about it.

“Yes,” agreed Ianno. He seemed to be feeling the effects of the sawdust as well, and drew a handkerchief from his pocket so that he could blow into it. Once they both were composed again, he smiled. “Farewell, young man,” he said, kissing the tips of his crossed fingers and raising them to the heavens. He then shook Nic’s hand, and pressed his lips to the back of Darcy’s knuckles. “I pray you both a swift and safe journey.”

“We’re only going to Orsina,” laughed Darcy. “Not the ends of the world.”

As if on cue, the members of Armand Arturo’s Theatre of Marvels began parading down the ramp. Quite a spectacle they made as they approached, followed by a donkey-cart carrying their many trunks and set pieces. A number of the workers transporting armfuls of wood and other supplies to the building sites stopped to gawk at the carnival-like display of color and costume. “Why, a gracious good morning to you, Cazarro!” Armand Arturo, in a new liripipe hat of bright red and the deepest of purples, bowed so low that it appeared his forehead might scrape the wood beneath his feet. From somewhere he had appropriated a cape embroidered with gold and silver threads that made him look like royalty, and an ivory-handled cane. When both the cape and the liripipe’s tail slid over the back of his head, he jumped upright and wrestled wildly to escape.

In fact, all the troupe had appeared to have gone on a shopping spree. Knave also sported a new cape, though it was far shorter and not as engulfing as the Signor’s. His tights were of an eye-popping orange, and his shoes bore buckles of pure silver. Pulcinella’s normally colorful gown had been exchanged for one of a diamond pattern in so many hues that it seemed as if she’d been eaten by a lacy patchwork quilt. Ingenue was dressed in the purest white, but her necklace flaunted a large pale blue jewel that matched the one pinned into her coiffed hair. Infant Prodigy seemed determined to wring out another two years of early adolescence before she turned thirty, and had found a dress so frilly and babyish that any normal girl would have scorned to wear such a juvenile thing.

The Signora, however, outshone them all. Her gown had so extreme and stiff a farthingale that her waist appeared to be mere inches wide, while her skirts and bust had expanded to larger proportions than ever before. Her hair had been curled and dyed a dark red. Rings glittered on every finger, and a large opal sat in the middle of her forehead. And from somewhere she had acquired two tiny twin dogs, which she clutched against her bosom. “Cazarro!” she trilled, stooping a bit in lieu of a curtsey. Then, in the same thrilling alto, she added, “Darling Signorina Colombo! Niccolo! Or should I say, Captain Niccolo?”

“Signora.” Nic gasped slightly as he found his former mistress embracing him, smothering him with perfume and hair and puppies. “I see you’ve packed for the occasion. Had to hire people to carry all your new trunks, did you?”

Nic nodded at the men and women straggling behind, who grappled with the troupe’s luggage. The Signora allowed Nic to breathe again. “Not at all!” she exclaimed, smiling at all and sundry. “They’re our new actors.”

Armand Arturo made the necessary introductions. “This is our new Vecchio,” he said, throwing his arm around a young man gone prematurely gray. “And we have a Braggart! Think of the scenes I can write! And these two will be our Scholar and our Columbine. Every troupe could use a saucy servant character, eh?” he asked with a wink at the latter girl, which immediately he pretended was a mote in his eye for fear of being seen by his wife. Confidentially, he added, “We’ve added eight new players in the last week. We’re the troupe to be seen, now. Most of them defected from Filippo Fianucci’s Cavalcade of Comedy.”

“I told you that Filippo swine would rue the day he called me a third-rate actress,” said the Signora, not without some satisfaction.

“And you’re still Hero, signor?” asked Nic, grinning.

The actor seemed sheepish. “Well. I still have a year or two left in me, lad. And naturally, the audiences in Orsina want to see Armand Arturo in the role that made him famous, don’t they?”

“We may not have made our original engagement due to pirates and sieges and such,” said the Signora, kissing both her puppies in turn, “but after all that, we’re practically famous! They’re itching for our international tour,” she told the cazarro.

“Hurry now! Be coming!” called Maxl from the bottom of the gangplank, where he’d just planted his big boots. Now that he’d had a few good meals in him, he looked less skeletal and more handsome than ever. His blue face beamed as he regarded the troupe. “You!” he cried, pointing to Braggart. “You are looking strong. You are sent to be my new deck boy, yes? Swabbing all day? We tie rope to your waist and dunk you in sea, upside down, to catch fish for suppers. Yes?”

“Me?” squawked Braggart, appearing suddenly to regret having defected from the Cavalcade of Comedy.

“Yes, you, actor-boy. No, I am making the joke. You would make shark bait and be eaten in two bites. Hah! Hah!” Maxl paused as Ingenue reached his side.

“Hello, Maxl,” she murmured, her eyelashes fluttering demurely. “It’s good to see you again.”

Now that she was substantially cleaner and dressed in finery, it was difficult for Maxl to ignore Ingenue’s charms any longer. He gulped, then used his hands to smooth his hair and his long ponytail. “
Oola
, miss,” he murmured.

“Suave,” Nic pronounced, slapping him on the shoulder. Maxl looked affronted and made a face. “Very suave, my man. Have the crew help the Arturos with their things, would you? We’ve a port to make by week’s end.”

It only took a whistle for Maxl to summon some of the men and women Caza Piratimare had supplied. They swarmed down the gangplank and immediately began to tackle the Arturos’ belongings. Ingenue stuck like horse glue to Maxl’s side as he pitched in with the crew, until at last they were up and aboard the
Allyria
.

“Don’t be long, Niccolo,” cooed the Signora. “Armand has been working on my five-act drama about Zanna the Huntress and I want to run a few ideas past you. You’ve a head for these things. Cazarro.” She tottered, turned, and dipped once more before Ianno Piratimare, who lingered. Nic had almost forgotten he was still there.

“Fantastical woman,” said the cazarro, shaking his head as he watched her attempt to navigate her wide skirts up the gangplank. “You seem to have a talent, Niccolo, of surrounding yourself with the most improbable individuals.”

If there had been one thing Nic could not have predicted the cazarro might say, it would have been that. He snorted. “It used to be a curse,” he said. “But in the end, it might have turned out to be a blessing.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. They’re all very nice people. Very engaging. But … odd.”

To the cazarro, Darcy said, “Fret not. I’m neither nice nor engaging, signor. I count myself the lucky exception.”

As Ianno began to splutter, gallantly ready to contradict her, Nic found himself agreeing. “No, she’s not exactly nice. Bit of a temper.”

Darcy screwed up her face and nodded. “I still haven’t shown you how to throw a proper tantrum, have I?”

“And she has a little problem with that violent streak.” Nic gazed at Darcy with fondness and reached for her hand.