The Tides of Avarice (15 page)

“Because decency dictates you should do so.”

The fox let out a guffaw of laughter. “Decency, you say? I ain't got a shred of decency in me, and I'm proud of that! Don't you know you're speaking to a pirate, oldster?”

“I'd guessed as much,” said Celadon mildly. “Now, if you'll take your hands off Miss Pickleberry …”

“A swap is all I ask,” said Cap'n Rustbane, still more amused than infuriated by the elderly lemming's challenge. “This Miss Pickleberry's life, virtue at least partially intact, in exchange for the map the renegade Levantes stole out from under my nose and gave to this naive little pal of yours. That's known as trading, that is. A business proposition.”

“Don't be so stupid,” said Celadon as conversationally as if the two of them were discussing the weather. “That's extortion.”

“Most business propositions are, if the truth be told.”

Celadon smiled, acknowledging the point. By now he was standing directly in front of the pirate captain. “Let's not quibble about niceties of terminology,” he said. “Just release her.”

“You think so?” said Rustbane.

“Yes.”

“Well, I have a nicety of terminology I'd like to share with you.”

Still smiling, Celadon leaned his head forward to hear what the buccaneer had to say.

Still gripping Viola firmly around the neck with one arm, Cap'n Rustbane carefully put down the metal apparatus he'd been wielding. He stepped toward the stooped figure of the ancient Archivist, who was only half the fox's size.

“Here's a terminological nicety for you.”

Rustbane's arm moved so swiftly that Sylvester couldn't see it, but he knew the bigger animal must have backhanded the elderly lemming across the face, because Celadon staggered backward a few paces before collapsing on a mound of spilled potatoes.

His grizzled form lay there terrifyingly motionless.

“That does it!” snarled Mrs. Pickleberry.

Sylvester was too horrified by what had happened to his mentor to have the presence of mind to stop her. She marched straight up to the front of the Snowbanks Inn. Rustbane, who'd been exchanging some jocular comment with a couple of his crew nearby, all of a sudden lost the grin from his face.

“That's my daughter.”

“It is?”

“Yes, and I want her back right now, you murderous scum.”

“Big words.”

Cap'n Rustbane looked as if he might be tempted to deal with Mrs. Pickleberry the same way he'd dealt with Celadon, but a call from one of the rats stayed his impulse.

“Take care o' that one, Cap'n! She got the sting o' a hornets' nest, she has!”

Rustbane picked up the gadget he'd laid down a few moments earlier. Even though it wasn't smoking any longer, he blew on it anyway.

“I offer you the same deal I offered the old geezer here.” He gestured toward the sprawled figure of Celadon. Mrs. Pickleberry's gaze did not waver in the slightest, still probing the fox's own like a surgeon's scalpel. “Your daughter,” explained the fox, as if further explanation were necessary, “for the map her boyfriend has.”

“She ain't got no boyfriend.”

Rustbane arched his eyebrows in a parody of astonishment. “Are you so very sure of that, Mrs. Pickleberry? Is there perhaps something the charming Viola's been failing to tell her loving mother?”

“She's gonna marry the Mayor. Mayor Hairbell. That's all signed, sealed and delivered.”

Sylvester felt as if he'd been kicked hard in the stomach, not once but several times. What was all this about? Viola had told him the other night about Mayor Hairbell directing unwanted attention in her direction and about how her father liked the notion. She hadn't seemed to take it very seriously and so neither had Sylvester. To witness the evident approval with which Mrs. Pickleberry announced the planned liaison, and the lack of dissent from the captive Viola made Sylvester wish that he should've taken it more seriously . . . 

No wonder my name got on that list for the next Exodus. It isn't to do with Mom at all. Hairbell knew or guessed about Viola's feelings for me, and mine for her, and he wanted to get me out of the picture. Celadon was being one stage too clever when he thought it was because I was asking awkward questions. Anyway, I hadn't started asking them by then; I hadn't even started thinking them. No, it was just a simple matter of sending me to my death so the field'd be clear for Hairbell.

The scoundrel!

The murderous scoundrel!

The expression on Rustbane's face became one of genuine surprise. “Then it's the young swain himself that she's been keeping in the dark,” said the pirate, glancing across toward where Sylvester stood. “My sympathies,” he added more quietly. Something in his normally highly animated gaze made Sylvester believe that the gray fox, for once, meant what he said.

Rustbane turned back to the bristling Mrs. Pickleberry in front of him.

“Watch out for that rolling pin o' hers, Cap'n,” bellowed one of the ruffians. “It's already done seen to Ragshoes Sam. 'E'll nivver go to the lavs again without taking some painkillers first, I'll warrant; and Mutt the Billybong's gonna be drinkin' 'is grog through a straw the rest o' 'is life.”

“Thanks, Pigface,” called the fox in reply. “Please, Mrs. Pickleberry, I wonder if we might both put down our weapons so we could converse in a more civilized fashion, no?”

She nodded reluctantly. Synchronizing their actions, the two put down their weapons. Well, at least Mrs. Pickleberry did, the fox just stuck the metallic bang maker into his belt.

“Gimme my daughter,” said Viola's mother as soon as she was upright again.

“Perhaps this Mayor of yours could facilitate the transaction?” said Cap'n Rustbane brightly. “I'm surprised he's not here already to rescue the apple of his existence from the clutches of the vile, foreign rapscallion.”

“You likes the sound of your own voice a lot, don't you?”

“How perspicacious of you, Mrs. Pickleberry. That aside, where is your Mayor?”

For the first time since Sylvester had arrived in the square, Mrs. Pickleberry displayed a sign of uncertainty. “I'm sure he'll be along by and by,” she said. “He's probably just busy gathering together a party of strong and sturdy men to drive you and your scummy band out of Foxglove for good and all.”

“Indeed?” said Cap'n Rustbane with the kind of courtesy that indicated he didn't believe a word of it.

Neither did Sylvester. He'd bet the last thought in the minds of Mayor Hairbell and his crony, High Priest Spurge, was the noble defense of the town. They were probably hiding in a basement, hoping no one would come looking for them.

Sylvester was wrong.

“We got 'im, Skipper!” came a cry from one of the little alleys that led off the square.

Rustbane watched with interest as a couple of his otter henchmen dragged the struggling Mayor Hairbell into view.

“Bring him closer,” said the fox in a tone of gentle encouragement, as a doctor might to the parent of a nervous child. “Let me see his face.”

In fact, Sylvester caught a glimpse of the Mayor's face before Rustbane had the opportunity. It was a mask of naked terror. Even so, Sylvester could see, beneath the rictus of fear, the signs that Hairbell was, as always, scheming. In this case probably scheming desperately in order to find some way of preserving his own hide – whatever the cost to the rest of Foxglove might be.

“So this is your true love?” said Rustbane to Viola, once Hairbell was in front of them.

Viola looked as if she wanted to throw up.

“See?” murmured Mrs. Pickleberry beside Sylvester. “Told you. She loves him.”

“It doesn't look that way to me,” replied Sylvester, his heart soaring. “Looks as if she loathes his guts.”

“That's just girlish flightiness, is all.”

“Hm.”

Rustbane, ignorant of this byplay, was regarding Hairbell with interest.

“He seems a trifle old for you, m'dear,” he remarked to Viola.

Viola redoubled her efforts to free herself from the fox's grip.

“And just a little . . . how can I put this tactfully? A little, well, fat.”

“I'll have you know—” began the Mayor before his mouth was gagged by the hairy paw of one of the otters.

“And, um, quite a bit too greasy, if you ask me.”

“Mmmfle mmmf mmmfle,” protested Hairbell.

“Perhaps ‘slimy' would be a better word than ‘greasy.' I defer to your judgement, m'dear,” said Rustbane to his captive.

“Slimy,” said Viola, then clearly regretted the impulse.

“‘Slimy' it is then. And do my nostrils detect a whiff of …? Yes, I think they do. He must be very frightened, this true love of yours. I cannot imagine why. All of us here, myself most especially, we're simply concerned for your welfare and happiness, you charming young damsel.”

Viola bared her teeth in a snarl.

They were very sharp teeth.

They gave Sylvester an idea.

“Mmmfle mmmf mmmfle.”

“Let him speak,” said Rustbane to the otter thug who was gagging the Mayor. “Oh, do let him speak, the poor fellow.”

Mayor Hairbell, as soon as his mouth was freed, took a great whooping gasp. Clearly the otter had been blocking not just his mouth but his nose.

Once he had his voice back, he said, “Welcome, your most honorable excellency, to our humble town of Foxglove.”

Rustbane's bushy tail switched, but he said nothing.

“If anyone has been offering you less than the best available courtesy and hospitality, I'll—”

“Tell me something, Mayor,” said Cap'n Rustbane, making a little gesture with his paw as if to beg forgiveness for the interruption. That the paw in question still held the metal device that produced such impressive bangs somewhat detracted from the effect, but still the meaning was clear.

“Yes, your magnificence?” said the Mayor.

“What do they use to make candles here in Foxglove?”

For a moment Hairbell was speechless. “Um … I … Well I … I suppose they …”

“Do your folk use tallow, like everywhere else, or do they simply harvest Hairbell oil?”

It took another moment for everybody to realize what the fox had just said, and then the square was filled with the sound of laughter – the raucous guffaws of the pirates but also the reluctant chuckles of the townsfolk. Even Mrs. Pickleberry grunted with mirth.

Sylvester, grinning despite himself, glanced in her direction. She was eyeing her rolling pin speculatively where it lay on the ground. He could sense she was bracing herself for some dramatic, but doomed, attack.

“Wait,” he hissed.

Mrs. Pickleberry shot him a skeptical glare, but her muscles eased a little.

“Now, Viola, I have a bargain for you. Would you like me to tell my men to skewer this mayoral paramour of yours on their cutlasses?”

Viola's eyes were begging him, Yes, please, but out loud she said, “No, of course not.”

“That was not spoken with much feeling, Viola.”

“No! Let him go. Leave him alone.”

But the voice was not Viola's.

Rustbane started in surprise as Sylvester began pushing his way across the square.

“I have your accursed map here,” Sylvester cried, pulling the tattered piece of paper from his vest pocket and holding it high above his head. “You can have it if you let Viola go.”

“A reasonable trade,” said the fox. “But not quite reasonable enough, methinks.” He mimed performing calculations on his paws. “Let's say instead that you give me the map and yourself in exchange for the fair object of your heart's desire.”

Sylvester gulped. Loudly.

“What guarantee do I have that you won't just kill me, and her, once you've got what you want?”

The fox's jaw dropped in mock astonishment. “Do you doubt my word as a fox of honor?”

Sylvester didn't bother replying to that.

The fox nodded as if he'd received the obvious answer. “Such a cynical and distrusting world we live in.” He sighed. “Well, the truth is, young Sylvester, you have no guarantee whatsoever. But, if you don't give me the map, my men and I shall most assuredly slay your girlfriend, and you, and everyone you know and love, and then we shall raze this little burb of yours to the ground, so that not one stone is left standing. And, just to be especially rotten about this, we'll spare the life of Mayor Hairbell. Is that understood?”

Sylvester nodded mutely. He was no more than a couple of paces from Rustbane and Viola now. Trying to be as subtle as he could, he caught Viola's eye and touched his paw to his teeth. Then he held his paw in front of him with three claws extended.

She got the message.

On the count of three.

“Then let me have the map, please.”

Still without a word, Sylvester held the scrap of paper out. Rustbane looked around him, tucked the silvery metal bang maker into his belt, and grabbed eagerly for the map.

“Excellent.”

Get him relaxed, Sylvester thought. Distract him. This is going to be tricky, and there's hardly a chance in a hundred I can get the timing right, but …

“What is that thing?” he asked, pointing.

Cap'n Rustbane looked down at the gadget he'd just put in his belt. “This?”

“Yes.”

“It's a flintlock pistol, since you ask. One of the only pair that's known in all Sagaria. I'm lucky enough to own both of them. The other's in my boot.”

“What's a flantick … one of those?” said Sylvester, pretending ignorance. He knew exactly what a flintlock pistol was. He'd read about them in the writings of the ancients, perhaps about this very pair. You packed one end of them with an explosive called gunpowder, and when you sparked the gunpowder it drove a metal ball at colossal speed along the barrel and out into the open air. If the metal ball hit someone, it could kill them or at least horribly wound them.