by Kevin Hearne
The firebird flew straight into the foresails and erupted in white-hot flames. Once the sails caught and a hole had burned through, the fiery orange edge of it climbing upward, the machine flew on to the mainsail and duplicated the procedure, then onto the mizzenmast and its host of sails, until they were all alight and the crew was scrambling for buckets and rain barrels.
The white clouds churning over The Puffy Peach receded, Ramekin wisely recalling them to deal with the fire on his ship, but the gnomeric firebird wasn’t done. Not satisfied with lighting all the sails aflame, Morgan had instructed it to fly up near the crow’s nest and explode, which it did in a horrific pop of streaking flames. Balls of fire dropped down all over the deck, igniting both wood and sailors.
And then the screaming began.
Already the sails of the clipper ship were shriveling to blackened ashes, and Luc knew he’d won, at least for the moment. But he worried about that last explosion—or, rather, he worried that Ramekin would be hurt by it. He had to know if his old perch was safe.
“Sail on, Feng,” he ordered. “Make forrrr Cape Gannet. I’ll be back soon. Unless I’m not, and then Qobayne is captain, ye underrrrstand?”
Feng knew better than to argue. “Aye, Captain.”
Filthy Lucre launched himself off his current perch in search of his former one. The one who’d melted, rebuilt, and then broken his tiny parrot heart. His plumage was a riot of red and yellow against a canvas of dark sky, clouds of gunsmoke, and sheets of rain. He found Ramekin aflame and rolling on the bowsprit, trying to put out the gnomeric phosphorous fires in his robes when nothing would.
“Rrrramekin! Rrrramekin, why did you do it? Why did you leave me?”
Ramekin gritted his teeth. “Augggh! Come to gloat, have you?”
“No, no, no! I only meant to burrrrn the sails. I didn’t intend you to get hurrrrt. I didn’t want any of this.”
“Yes, you did! You were plotting against me. Keeping me from greatness. Now look what you’ve done! Arrrrgh…!”
“No, you did this, Rrrramekin! You should be with me on an endless quest for booty! Instead, you let some rrrrecruiterrrr seduce you to darrrrkness!”
The young man snarled, baring his teeth. “You were always jealous of me! Of my power!”
“No! You werrrre my chosen one! You werrrre supposed to destrrrroy the Rrrroyal Navy, not join them! Brrrring balance to the seas, not leave them to capitalists!”
Ramekin’s skin popped and hissed as flames licked at his limbs. “I hate you!” he cried.
“You werrrre my perrrrch, Rrrramekin! I loved you!”
The battle wizard made no reply but only screamed as flames consumed him and he tried to summon more rain to extinguish the fire. With a last mournful squawk, Filthy Lucre banked around in the air and returned to The Puffy Peach, his feathers pelted by rain, the sky deepening into a dark cobalt as the last sliver of sun sank into the sea.
The Royal Navy would put the Clean Pirate Luc at the very top of their MOST WANTED list now. Reward fickels would skyrocket. He’d be a hero to some pirates for incensing the navy to such measures. But other pirates wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in. He might have survived this battle, but there would be no safe harbor for him now. And he was about to sail directly into the most heavily patrolled waters in Pell: the Seven Toe Straits.
Perhaps this resourceful girl Morgan would prove useful there as well. She was the opposite of Ramekin, now that he thought about it: Raised in the highest echelons of privilege and comfort, she now wanted to tear that all down instead of defending it.
It was too bad that her shoulder was too bony yet to serve as a decent perch, and that she was still very raw as a sailor—disobedient too, which had to be dealt with. But shoulders could be built up. And seamanship could be learned.
Yes.
There could be another.
Even down below, in her bunk, where Qobayne had sent her as soon as Captain Luc had flown away, Morgan could tell the exact moment that the battle was over. The ship seemed to still, and several voices cried out in triumph. Not the captain’s, though, she noted. Her firebird must’ve worked. But the success, she knew, would be as ephemeral as a moth party around a campfire. The manual had made it very clear what happened to pirate crew who defied their captain during a battle. There would either be many lashes across her back, her wrists bound around the mast, or there would be plank-walking, her component pieces gobbled by sharks and crabs. Either way, the heavy steps headed her way were not going to bring thanks and her flesh would not fare well. She’d have to be taught a lesson, or else her insubordination would spell out mutiny.
Sensing her trepidation, Otto chittered and skittered into a corner. She didn’t blame him.
The footsteps turned out to be Feng’s, and the captain was perched on his shoulder, his one eye moist and gleaming in the lantern light. “Well, lass. Ye’ve won us the battle,” Luc began, grudgingly. “An’ prrrrivately, I’m grrrrateful. But forrrr the sake o’ the otherrrrs…”
“I have to be punished.”
“Rrrright. But that can wait until morning.”
Luc flitted down to a chest of drawers and Feng excused himself, clomping up the stairs. The captain regarded Morgan with a sad eye and shifted around on the chest, either out of nervousness or a dislike for the surface.
“Is something else bothering you, Captain?” Morgan ventured.
“Aye. Me hearrrrt is heavy today. That battle wizarrrrd…Well, the two of us have a historrrry. And that firrrrebirrrrd ye sent saved The Puffy Peach but also ensurrrred we’d neverrrr have a futurrrre togetherrrr.”
Luc radiated pain, and Morgan teared up on his behalf. “He’s dead?”
“As good as. Unless he’s got a heck of a magical healerrrr with him, orrrr possibly a fleet of gnomerrrric inventorrrrs, therrrre ain’t much left of him to piece back togetherrrr. I’ll admit to ye, and only because we’rrrre alone, that I’m not quite surrrre how to go on.”
Morgan sat, giving her captain her full attention. His feathers were puffed out, his beak clicking nervously, his eye not quite meeting hers.
“The same way anyone does, Captain. One foot in front of the other. Or one flap of the wings. Whichever hurts less.” She paused and looked down. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Luc bobbed his head several times. “No no no no no. Saving us all was the rrrright thing to do. But enforrrrcing ship’s discipline is also the rrrright thing to do. Now, go to sleep, if you can. Tomorrrrow morrrrning, be it sunny, you’ll take yourrrr punishment. Betterrrr to get all the pain overrrr with quickly.”
“Not the plank, then?” Morgan asked, voice trembling.
Luc squawked, almost a laugh. “And waste a fine sailorrrr who saved me ship? Neverrrr!”
He flapped away and up to the deck, and Morgan spent most of the night awake and dreading the next day. The rest of the sailors stayed up awhile to celebrate with an extra cup of grog as their adrenaline ebbed, and when they tumbled belowdecks in the early morning, she feigned sleep so no one would say anything kind or damning.
The next morning, as soon as the sun kissed the sky, she rolled out of her hammock and forced her posture from meekness to a straight back and stubborn chin. For all the times she’d disappointed her father, she’d never felt this bone-deep shame. Perhaps it was because he represented a set of values to which she could never subscribe, and therefore disappointing him was not only inevitable but the proper thing to do. She hated disappointing Luc, though, because she respected him and wanted to be like him someday. But she’d take her licks and endeavor to earn the trust of the crew again. Even if it hurt, even if she would have scars, it would be worth it to stay on The Puffy Peach.
As she climbed the ladder to the deck, she was surprised to find fresh blue skies and fluffy white clouds, the oppressive storm clouds fled with the night and presum
ably the demise of the battle wizard. She took up her day’s duty of swabbing and swabbed her heart out. When the other sailors rose, hungover and exhausted, to stare at her, she noted who looked apologetic, who looked avid, and who looked crafty, judging their future mischief based on how her insubordination was punished. When Luc gave him a nod, Qobayne walked to stand, hands clasped and face grim, beside the mast; Luc perched on Feng nearby. Morgan didn’t need the captain’s nod to know that was where she had to go. Tempest hurried to her side and they wound their arms together, while Al joined them but kept his distance.
“You did the right thing,” Tempest assured her in low tones.
Morgan sighed. “Yes, and as you know the law, you know I must be punished.”
“But not too horribly,” Al added. “We would’ve died if you hadn’t acted. Like, in chunks, nibbled by barracuda. And eventually even smaller chunks, inhaled by whales and filtered through their baleen and possibly honked out as ambergris.” The elf shuddered, having grossed himself out.
As they passed by Vic, he clasped Morgan’s hand, and when she opened it again, she found a tiny, dainty pastille in striped colors. When she popped it in her mouth, it seemed to have a soporific effect, and her nerves calmed like the sea on a still day.
“Morrrrgan, forrrr insuborrrrdination, you will rrrreceive ten lashes,” Luc said, his voice loud and ringing.
She reached Qobayne and held out her wrists. He indicated that she should wrap her arms around the mast, and he bound her wrists together on the other side with rough rope, whispering, “On behalf of the ship, I thank ye,” so low she thought she imagined it. Tempest gently pulled up Morgan’s new jerkin, exposing her back to the crew. A few sniggered, low and mean, and she remembered that too.
And then she felt the whip on her skin for the first time.
She set her forehead against the weathered wood, clenched her teeth, and accepted the pain. She wouldn’t have done anything different. Ten strokes, even and sure. Not shirking, but not excessively deep either. Whatever was in Vic’s pastille helped soften the pain.
When the lashes were over, the crew cheered. Not because they reveled in her punishment, but because it was over and she had borne it well. Looking up, she found Qobayne smiling with tears in his eyes and Luc fluffing his feathers in relief. Tempest pulled down her jerkin for her and put a warming hand on her back, and after a moment the pain ebbed out of her completely.
“Tempest?” she asked in wonder.
Tempest looked away, scratching at a dark, raised patch of bark like a scab on her wrist. It was the second such mark on her warm-brown skin.
“I hope it wasn’t too horrible,” she said.
“It feels fine now,” Morgan told her. “Thank you.”
But her friend hurried away to her bunk, and Morgan was left feeling loved but confused. What had Tempest just done? For Morgan…and to herself?
* * *
After that, the crew treated Morgan differently. She felt less like an outsider, more like a real pirate. Old Milly Dread cuffed her on the shoulder and gave her an extra splash of grog. Mort tried to tell her a dirty joke but forgot the punch line and started crying about Frij and Queefqueg instead. Feng dropped a tube of Bimli’s Bearded Nation Skin Laceration Maceration near her feet, a popular dwarvelish remedy, and told her to use it thrice daily on her back until it was gone. She was promoted to a slightly bigger cannon. Apparently public ritual embarrassment was tantamount to popularity as a pirate. She should’ve gotten herself beaten weeks ago.
Her relief wasn’t to last, however. Some days later, she awoke to the clabber of the ship’s bell as Captain Luc squawked, “All hands on deck! Evasive maneuverrrrs! It’s the POPO!”
Morgan yawned and looked over to where Milly Dread was dropping out of her own hammock.
“POPO?” Morgan asked.
Milly spat on the deck, then helpfully rubbed it in with her shoe. “That be the Pellican Ocean Patrol Office, lass. Private navy of the merchant oligarchs, trying to protect their interests from pirates in the Seven Toes since the Royal Navy don’t do such a good job on its own. If they get their tidy paws on us, we’ll be in the brig, or hangin’ from the gibbet! If ye love yer otter and treasure, ye’d best help move the Peach around!”
The old woman darted upstairs, spry and vital, and Morgan followed with Tempest and Al. Up top, the deck was a jumble of work, with sailors adjusting sails and generally doing their best to make The Puffy Peach move, slick and sure, through the glistening waters.
As no one shouted orders at her, Morgan went straight to the captain, her friends trailing behind her and Vic creeping in to listen.
“Captain, what can we do?” she asked. “Blast holes in their hull?”
Luc squawked irritably and didn’t look away from the spyglass Feng held to his eye.
“Shootin’ at the POPO’s suicide. Speed’s the only thing forrrr it, lass. If we can find an island beforrrre the POPO finds us, we can claim sanctuarrrry. They can only take our booty and heads if we’rrrre asea, though sometimes that doesn’t stop them. Still, we have no booty to defend, only ourrrr lives. So we shall head to land as fast as possible.”
“One of the Toes?” she asked, as she’d always wanted to see the Seven Toe Islands for herself.
But Luc shook his head. “Not close enough. We’ll have to hit something small, a barrrr island. Most likely uninhabited. All we need is a bit o’ sand.”
Morgan joined the crew in following whatever orders Qobayne gave, her heart racing. She considered everything in her Chekkoff’s gunnysack but couldn’t think of anything that could help the situation like the firebird had. The sails puffed out and the ship cut through the water like an angry parent’s words through a playground. An island soon materialized up ahead, and it looked like a veritable paradise, like the Toes Morgan had always dreamt of. Sugary white sand; swaying palm trees; a black volcano rising in the center, sizzling and sighing white smoke over the lush jungle.
As she and Al climbed the rigging to help with the sails, he said, “I’ve heard of islands like this. Wild places full of stranger dangers. Sometimes they’re inhabited by folks who’ve never left their lands, who don’t even know that the rest of Pell exists.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” She shielded her eyes and peered at the swiftly approaching island. “We can’t be the first Pellicans to land here. It’s not like the island is hiding. It’s just across the strait from Cape Gannet. The POPO patrol here.”
“They’re savages on that island!” Mort called down from the crow’s nest, his eyes a mite wild; he’d been drinking a lot, after losing both Frij and Queefqueg. “The ladies wear naught but coconuts over their bubbies, and the men wear fig leaves over their danglies, and they all has bones through their noses! Some of ’em are cannibals even!”
“Uh, that’s super ignorant,” Morgan said, looking up at the leering man. “You can’t just assume that every place that isn’t your hometown is weird and backward. Or equate clothing and accessory choices to a lack of civilization.”
“I been to islands like that plenty much,” Mort shot back, all sniffy. “Weird piercings and everything. So seems to me like you’re the ignorant one, Miss Never Been to a Toe Before.”
“I only hope they have fresh fruit and no elves,” Al said, more privately. “We must be ever vigilant against the twin evils of scurvy and glitter.”
Morgan huffed a sigh. “We’ll find out soon enough. I’m sure they’re just people, like anywhere else.”
“Spoken like someone who ain’t never met cannibals,” Mort growled from overhead.
Things happened quickly after that. The Puffy Peach ran aground, which was really more of an abrupt push into the white sand like a ten-year-old belly-flopping into a pile of sugar. Luc ordered the crew off the ship and into the shadows of the trees, urging them to scatter. Morgan zipped down the rope ladd
er with Tempest and Al and hurried across the beach and into the jungle. Poor Vic was left on ship with Qobayne to bribe the POPO, as there was no way to lower the gangplank for him to disembark. Without a dock it was too steep, and Morgan tossed the nervously jigging centaur an encouraging smile and wave as Feng and Luc led the crew deeper into the island’s interior.
“Qobayne knows what to do,” Luc said as the Pellican cruiser pulled up and let down its anchor. “That wasn’t me, Officerrrr. How fast was I going? The ship isn’t mine. Holding it forrrr a frrrriend. ’Tis an old dance, ye see. No way they can pin anything on us now. But let’s go a bit inland, just to be surrrre.”
Morgan would’ve expected the island to be hot and sticky, with mosquitoes everywhere, but it was balmy, with fond breezes and no biting bugs. They soon found a neat trail cut through the heavy trees and ferns, and she ran a finger along the straight, clear slice in a broad leaf. It reminded her of her father’s cadre of gardeners who spent their days trimming the hedges into perfectly symmetrical lines.
“This is a pretty well-maintained trail for uncivilized people, eh, Mort?” she said, holding up the leaf.
“Anybody can wield a machete,” he scoffed. “They just do it gooder here.”
When smooth paving stones appeared, she didn’t have to say anything. Mort’s jaw was already dropped. The trail became a road, and the road eventually led up to a grand gate set between flawlessly smooth stone walls with attractive seashells set into the mortar. A beautifully hand-painted sign read: WE WELCOME ALL TRAVELERS TO THE CITY OF CLAN NABI.
A guard in flowing red robes opened the gate, bowing. Morgan noted that he wasn’t wearing armor—or any weapons. So maybe he was more of an usher than a guard.
“D’ye speak Pellican?” Captain Luc growled.
The man smiled. “Of course. We are people in the world. Welcome, visitors, to the City of Clan Nabi!”
Morgan would’ve expected someone born in the sunny islands to have darker skin tones, but the guard’s skin was as white as hers, covered up by his loose robes and headdress.