Vampirates 6: Immortal War (2 page)

In the front row, on either side of the chair temporarily vacated by Trofie, sat her husband Captain Barbarro Wrathe and her teenage son Moonshine. Barbarro looked solemn. He was the last Wrathe brother standing—the Vampirates having claimed his younger brother Porfirio’s life before finally closing in on Molucco.

Moonshine Wrathe had yet to prove himself worthy of the family name. Still, Mr. Mizzen noted there had been some improvements since last they’d met at his uncle’s funeral. Moonshine’s skin was now clear and his hair tied back from his face. His locks were as long and black as his father’s but without the lightning strike of silver shooting through them. He was neither handsome nor otherwise, and it was hard to believe the young pirate was heir to such fame and fortune as came with the Wrathe name.

On the other side of Barbarro—separated by another empty chair—sat Matilda Kettle, owner of the eponymous tavern, which had been drawing in the pirate hordes for as long as anyone could remember. Once, “Ma” Kettle’s
beauty had been the feverish talk of the oceans. She was still attractive, granted Mr. Mizzen, but
tick-tock
… He smiled ruefully. No, he thought, it was not the tick and the tock that had stolen away Ma Kettle’s looks. Molucco’s exit had done that. It was no secret that Ma Kettle had been close to the rebellious captain for many a year, and Wrathe’s sudden death seemed—if a maritime metaphor might be forgiven under the circumstances—to have taken all the wind from her sails.

Where once she might have worn a fur stole or a feather boa, now Ma Kettle sported something equally colorful but rather more unusual. Wrapped about her sinewy neck was Scrimshaw, the dead captain’s beloved pet snake. Ma had taken the snake into her keeping since the captain’s demise. The reptile’s glassy eyes were like two mirrors, reflecting the woman’s lost expression back at her.

Mr. Mizzen’s own eyes migrated to Matilda Kettle’s traveling companion—a decidedly exotic creature who went by the name of Sugar Pie. Some kind of barmaid-cum-burlesque artist, according to the notes young Mr. Splice had prepared for him. Faced with the general mood, Mr. Mizzen found Sugar Pie to be a veritable oasis in the desert. True, her face was solemn—her eyes darting frequently to her aged companion—but a dazzlingly pure light seemed to emanate from those eyes. It seemed to Mr. Mizzen as much a cause for hope and celebration as sunlight.

To Sugar Pie’s side was another empty chair. Seeing this, Mr. Mizzen was brought back to the matter at hand. His smile faded. He glanced again at Trofie Wrathe, who was still pacing back and forth. Catching his glance, her eyebrow lifted inquiringly once again.
Tick-tock
, he heard,
tick-tock
. Perhaps he would have to start after all.

Just then, there was the sound of footsteps out in the corridor. Trofie stopped pacing and turned toward the door. Mr. Mizzen’s eyes traveled in the same direction as the door opened and the young and breathless Mr. Splice entered the room, nodding reassuringly at his superior while holding open the door and addressing someone in the vestibule.

“Please, come this way. The others are waiting in here.”

All eyes turned toward the open doorway.

A figure stepped into the room, then paused, turning to face the others.

“I’m so sorry we kept you waiting,” said Catherine Morgan, Molucco’s deputy captain, most often known as Cutlass Cate. Her trademark russet hair brought to mind a dramatic sunset.

“It’s good to see you again, Cate,” boomed Barbarro Wrathe, rising to greet her. Taking her arm, his fingers briefly brushed the black armband she had sported for the past several months. She was a woman in mourning, too, but not, primarily, for Captain Molucco Wrathe.

Releasing Cate’s hand, Barbarro indicated the vacant chair between himself and Ma Kettle. Nodding and smiling
politely at the others, Cate took her seat, as Trofie sighed with relief. But, as the captain’s wife adjusted her skirt, she had a sudden realization. Cate had said, “Sorry
we
kept you waiting…”

As she thought this, a young man strode through the door. A man of equal years to her own son but whose journey had been charted across far different waters. It was Connor Tempest—the shipwreck victim who had become a pirate but, more than that, the closest thing Molucco had had to a son. Their relationship, like so many of Molucco’s, had hit the rocks and ended when Molucco burned Connor’s articles. Yet here he was, as dependable as the tide, come to take his seat beside the others. Smiling minimally, Trofie turned to face the front.

“Connor.” It was Ma Kettle who spoke first. “Of course. We should have guessed you’d be here.”

Connor looked awkward as he stepped into the room, hovering before the others as if recognizing that he was the last and least welcome guest.

“Mister Tempest,” said Mr. Mizzen, lifting his eyes from Mr. Splice’s excellent notes. “I believe there is a spare chair for you, to the right of Miss, er, Pie. Please sit down and we will commence our business.”

“About time,” hissed Trofie to her husband.

Yes
, thought old Mr. Mizzen, once more attuned to the merciless rhythm of the tick and the tock.
When all is said and done, it’s always about time
.

“I, Molucco Osborne Mortimer Wrathe, being of sound mind and disposition…”

A cackle from Ma Kettle caused Mr. Mizzen to pause and glance up from the scroll of paper in his hands. “Sound mind and disposition! That doesn’t sound like the man
I
knew these past forty years.”

Mr. Mizzen smiled indulgently then began again. “I, Molucco Osborne…”

“Wait!” Trofie Wrathe raised her right hand and, as Mr. Mizzen glanced up once more, she removed her black glove. The solicitor found himself momentarily dazzled by the sight of her burnished gold fingers and shimmering ruby fingernails. Seizing her advantage, Trofie spoke. “I’m sure no one would mind if you skipped some of the unnecessary formalities and cut to the chase.” A row
of shocked faces turned toward her, but Trofie was unabashed. “As I said before, there
is
a war on.”

“War or no war,” answered Mr. Mizzen, “certain ceremonies must be observed.”

Now Barbarro entered the fray. “My wife has a point,” he said. “We are somewhat late beginning and several of us are due at the Pirate Academy for a Council of War this evening.” Barbarro glanced carefully at Cate, then back to Mr. Mizzen. “I think we all want to ensure that we leave here in good sailing time.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Mizzen with a sigh. “I shall, as you say,
cut to the chase
.” He observed his audience through his spectacles with cool detachment. “Who gets what. Of course, that’s what you all came to find out.”

There was a moment or two of uncomfortable silence while Mr. Mizzen glanced down the scroll and then began to read once more.

“To my dear Ma Kettle, the most beautiful and exciting siren I ever had the good fortune to know across the Seven Seas. A goddess, who has been more of a comfort and balm to me over the years than she will ever know. To you, I leave the sum of five million…”

“
Five million!
” Trofie exclaimed loudly. To her exasperation, Barbarro was beaming broadly, as was Sugar Pie. Ma herself was speechless, her moist eyes trained on Mr. Mizzen as he continued.

“It was,” he read, “my hope that we would spend this money and our twilight years together but, if circumstances
have decreed otherwise, then I see no reason why you, darling Ma, should not enjoy such comfort and pleasure as I can offer you. It is my one regret that I cannot be here to toast our future in oyster champagne.”

“Mine too,” said Ma, gratefully accepting the handkerchief proffered by Sugar Pie.

Mr. Mizzen reddened as he continued. “The very best of my days and nights—ahem—were those I spent with you. Remember to spend this money as recklessly as you know I would!”

This last sentiment prompted a throaty chuckle from Ma. She nodded, smiling. Sugar Pie reached out and clasped Ma’s hand in her own. “I knew he’d take care of you,” she said.

“He always did,” answered Ma, with a squeeze of her hand. “In his way.”

Mr. Mizzen’s tone now grew more businesslike. “Molucco did not specify whom he wished to look after his beloved pet, Scrimshaw, after his demise, but it seems, Madam Kettle, that you have taken this upon yourself?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ma with a nod. “Scrimshaw will always have a home at the tavern.” Her free hand stroked the snake’s scales tenderly. “We have a connection, me and Scrim. I, too, have shed many a skin in my time.”

“Well,” said Mr. Mizzen. “Molucco set aside a further ten thousand to cover Scrimshaw’s rather particular gastronomic tastes.”

“Ten thousand?” Trofie mouthed to Moonshine. “For
pet food!” Moonshine grinned at his mother’s disbelief, then glanced over at Ma, who was nodding once more.

“Scrim shall never go short of honeyed dates or rosewater-dipped pistachios as long as he’s in my care,” she assured Mr. Mizzen.

The solicitor scanned Molucco’s will once more, then resumed reading with renewed vigor. Barbarro wondered whether he was imagining it or if Mr. Mizzen was actually trying to impersonate his dear departed brother.

“My ship,
The Diablo
, has been my home for many years—one of the few constants in my life. I have thought long and hard as to who should be the heir to my ship and I have decided to entrust it to my nephew, Moonshine Wrathe.”

All three attendant Wrathes listened carefully as Mr. Mizzen forged on. “Moonshine, I hope this ship is the making of you as a pirate captain. If rigging and cannon and old deck boards could talk, this old galleon would have plenty of tales to tell under my captaincy and—I’ve no doubt—under yours, too! Take good care of her, my boy. I trust you will make me proud.”

“Thanks, Uncle Luck,” said Moonshine breezily. “Though I’d have preferred a ship that wasn’t in Vampirate hands…”

“Presumably,” Trofie interrupted, lifting her veil as she addressed Mr. Mizzen, “the ship comes with a significant financial bequest?” Her ice-blue eyes bore into the lawyer’s.

“No doubt all will be revealed as we proceed,” said Mr.
Mizzen firmly, turning from her. He was enjoying himself now, back in his stride.

“To Cate Morgan, who has served with me in varying capacities for the majority of her maritime career and proved herself to be one of the finest piratical minds of her generation. To Cate, I leave five million…”

“
Another
five million…?” Trofie’s golden hand gripped her husband’s arm. “Are you doing the math here? I don’t like the way this is stacking up…”

“To Cate,” Mr. Mizzen resumed more loudly, “I leave five million, but with a small condition attached. I have gifted
The Diablo
to my nephew Moonshine, and it is my hope that this ship will be the making of him—but timber and sailcloth alone cannot accomplish a task of this magnitude. Cate, I had the great privilege to know you as my deputy aboard
The Diablo
. Now I ask you to resume that position, as deputy to Moonshine, for a period of three years. That should be sufficient to give him the support and grounding he needs. I hope you might stay on for longer than that, but, even if you choose not to, at the end of the three years, my gift of five million will be yours.”

Barbarro laughed. “I’m sorry, Cate,” he said. “I’m not laughing
at
you. Just thinking how my brother was an inveterate deal-maker to the very end.”

“And beyond,” Cate said. She could feel both Trofie’s and Moonshine’s eyes upon her. No doubt, they were trying to read her thoughts and emotions. She studiously
avoided glancing their way, looking instead directly at Mr. Mizzen.

“May I take some time to consider this proposition?” she asked.

Mr. Mizzen nodded. “Captain Wrathe allowed for that. He knew that you would want to weigh the pros and cons.”

“Pros and cons!” snapped Trofie with irritation. She felt her husband’s warning touch. It drew out some of her sting. “Well, really! He’s given her a fortune and all she has to do is mentor our son.” Barbarro was silent but reflected that, in Molucco’s position, he might have upped the ante still further to sweeten the deal.

“To my dear brother Barbarro,” Mr. Mizzen continued, “I leave you… nothing.”

Nothing
. The word seemed to ricochet around the conference room. The tension and surprise were almost audible.