by V. Briceland
“It worked, didn’t it?” Darcy raised an eyebrow. Nic thought he saw a flash of a smile play across her lips, but he couldn’t be sure. “Now, listen,” she added, all business once more. “Go find that boat. I know he has one.”
“Wait. You listen.” Nic leaned in close. He wanted the girl to hear loudly and clearly what he had to say. “Don’t ever do anything like that to me again.” When she didn’t respond, he wanted to shake her. Instead, he decided to unsettle her with words. “I know you and your father lied to me last night. I don’t know who the Comte Dumond is, or what relation he has to you both, but I know there is one. I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You don’t know me from the King of Indee. That’s fine. Keep your secrets for now.” Nic looked the girl square in the eye.
“Yes. We lied.” Darcy’s blue eyes had turned cold and hard during his speech. Nic was surprised that she admitted the deceit without shame. “I suppose you think you’re clever to have noticed.” Nic shrugged. That hadn’t been what he’d thought at all. “Let me tell you this, though. My father and I are on a mission of extreme urgency. It’s vital to Cassaforte. The faster we all return home, the better.” She paused to let that sink in. “If you aid us, I’ll see that you’re rewarded.”
Nic couldn’t help but think of enough of a reward to cover the work debt of his indentures. And just as quickly, he tried to forget it. They were all stuck here, and needed each other. He would have lent his aid without reward. “Fine,” he said, resolving to inquire no more. “But if you want my help, you’d by the gods better be honest with me in the future. Both you and your father.” He waited a moment for it to sink in. “Understood?”
She nodded. “I understand.” For a moment, Nic thought she would have some retort to make, but instead she merely bit her lip, trying to decide something. “Just get the boat,” she said at last. Then she raised herself on tiptoes once again and did something unexpected. Nic felt her lips first on one cheek, and then on the other, as soft and delicate as the brush of butterfly wings.
Then she was gone, sprinting off into the fog. It was just as he’d observed, the first time he’d seen the mild-mannered, quiet man who had taught him to play draughts transform into broad, villainous Knave once he stepped into the footlights. Sometimes the biggest performances came from the most unexpected sources.
Yes, but if pitiful Cassaforte were ours, no pirates would dare come near the might of Vereinigtelände nor its armies.
—Baron Friedrich van Wiestel,
in a secret missive to the spy Gustophe Werner
Maxl’s eyes were still big when Nic returned. “Where is girl?” he wanted to know.
“Gone.” Nic’s voice was gruff as he walked around the tree. Darcy had restrained the pirate there with a single rope, looped into a number of complicated and not-at-all-professional knots. For Nic, who had learned proper knot-tying under a number of his masters, it was a relief to know the girl wasn’t super-competent at everything.
“You save me.” Maxl strained to turn his head to look at Nic. “I thank you hundred by hundred times.”
Nic couldn’t help but notice the gratitude in Maxl’s eyes, which were as big and brown and liquid as any hungry puppy’s. “You’re welcome,” Nic said. “We had a talk. She won’t do it again.” He felt confused about what had just transpired. If the man hadn’t been in any real danger, had Nic really saved Maxl at all? It certainly didn’t feel like it. But then again, no matter how feigned Darcy’s intimidation might have been, at least Nic’s reactions were real. That had to count for something.
With a single strike of his sword, Nic chopped the rope in half. Maxl grunted in surprise at the sound of the impact the blade made as it dug into the tree trunk, but once his hands were free, he fell forward, scrabbled in the grass and sand until he regained some control over his muscles, and then rose to his feet. Nic was still trying to work his blade from the tree when he saw Maxl charging at him. Had it been an attack, there would have been nothing he could have done to defend himself—but the pirate was merely enveloping him in a tearful bear hug. “I thank you thousand by thousand times,” he snuffled into Nic’s shoulder. “You are true friend!”
“Ah. Everything’s … all right.” Nic was unused to giving anyone comfort. Awkwardly, he patted the pirate on the back. For the first time he noticed what a bundle of bones Maxl really was. Though he gave the impression of being wiry and strong, it seemed as if Nic could feel every ridge on the man’s spine. “You’re okay,” Nic said, trying to put some conviction behind it. “She won’t hurt you now. So long,” he added, trying to sound firm, “as you show us where that boat is.”
Maxl not only believed Nic’s words, but he seemed to be accepting his authority. “Yes, yes, show you everything,” he agreed, nodding fervently. “You trust me now, yes?”
He looked so pitiful that Nic couldn’t help but agree. “Yes, I will trust you.” Maxl’s eyes lit up. “But only,” Nic added, impressed with his performance enough to push it a little further, “if you swear that you’re no longer with your crew. That is, swear you’re not a pirate any longer, and that you won’t betray me. The man who saved your life.”
Would Maxl agree? After a flicker of hesitation in what surely had to be the time it took for the words to translate into his native language, the pirate opened his mouth. “I serve you now,” he said. Nic’s mouth parted with surprise. “Maxl call you master.”
“No!” Nic’s reaction arose from genuine shock. He hadn’t at all wanted to be anyone’s master. It was the one role for which he was thoroughly unprepared. “Not your master. Not that. We … we work together. You and me. Friends. Yes?”
Maxl stared at him for a moment. He stood taller. The expression around his eyes seemed to change into something new. Nic hoped it was respect. “Friends,” he agreed. Without warning, he cupped his right hand to his mouth and spit on his palm, then held it out to Nic.
Nic balked. When he held out his own hand, Maxl shook his head, and then pantomimed spitting. It took an act of will not to wince as Nic dribbled into his own hand. The pair shook heartily. Only when Maxl embraced Nic in another hug did Nic dare to wipe off his hand on his pants, where the pirate couldn’t see. “And now I show you, my friend, yes?” Maxl said, once the ritual was over.
“Let’s go!” said Nic, gesturing for Maxl to lead the way. Nic kept a firm grip on his sword, though, just in case.
The sun was beginning to rise, and its brilliance was already burning away the fog. Enough of the dense mists remained to confuse both Maxl and Nic when they emerged from the low-hanging fronds. It took several moments for them to orient themselves. The Colombos’ camp was to the south, and the rest of the island stretched ahead to the north. Along the beaches they traveled, walking on the firmer land where the sands ended and the grasses began. Nic let Maxl lead the way. Despite their sworn declaration of friendship, he felt better knowing the pirate was not at his back. Maxl scarcely noticed. He was too busy working free the sundered ropes hanging from his wrists, and reveling in his new freedom.
Maxl slowed down his pace when the woods at the island’s center became visible through the last of the mists. Like a hound sniffing the trail of its fox, he looked over the grasses until he saw something. Nic followed when he sprinted forward. He too could see the trail Maxl had left over the fields. Though the winds had revived the bent grasses nearly to their natural, upright shape, enough of the stalks were broken that anyone looking for the serpentine path up the slopes might see it. “Is this way!” Maxl called back, his voice excited.
Nic was slightly out of breath before they were halfway across the field. “Why in the world did you drag it all the way inland?” he wanted to know.
Maxl had managed to free both his hands, by that point. The remnants of the rope twisted around his neck. “Grass too short in hiding,” he said, as if the answer were obvious. “I cannot leave on beach. Float away.” His hand
curved through the air, imitating a bobbing boat, Nic supposed.
Fine. That made sense, but the longer Nic traipsed along the path Maxl had left the day before, the crazier it seemed for a single man to drag a boat. Nic had in his mind a vision of this miraculous craft. It would have at least a sail that would allow them to catch a breeze and navigate back to civilization. While it might be a little cramped for four people, at least with enough provisions for a few days, they might leave behind this isolation and uncertainty. If they had to push all afternoon to get the sailboat back to the shore, he’d do it, just for the hope of escape.
Maxl hummed to himself once they reached the forest’s edge. He pointed to one of the trees. “Trail.” He pointed to his temple. “Smart, yes?”
Nic peered where the pirate had pointed. The tree’s bark had been carved away in a fashion that was invisible to the casual eye, but readily apparent to anyone who might be looking. Other trees on either side of the path they made through the woods had been similarly marked. Though the trunks here were fairly far apart, they were close enough that Nic found himself revising mentally the size of this wondrous sailboat that would be taking them away from this place. Surely it was narrower than he’d imagined. Perhaps it was an exotic build of craft he’d never before seen.
He wouldn’t have long to wait, however. Shortly after the last of the marked trees, Maxl gave a cry of triumph and lunged forward to a mass of greenery. Sharpening his eyes, Nic saw that the pirate had used some of the large-leafed fronds growing at the forest’s edge in order to cover up what he’d wished to hide, and then stacked it with brush. Babbling in his own tongue, Maxl pulled off some of the debris from one end of the camouflaged lump, revealing the boat’s pointed bow. Over the edge he dove, his rump high in the air as he searched for something. Moments later he emerged, triumphantly brandishing a small bag.
“What’s that?” Nic asked, running over to begin removing brush from the boat. The elephantine fronds Maxl had draped over it were still supple, even damp from the morning’s fog.
“My things,” Maxl said, still excited. He immediately sat cross-legged on the ground and opened his cache, pulling out a small mirror with which he examined his face. Nic watched with curiosity as Maxl touched his cracked lip, and then grunted with dismay at the sight of his bruised face. Instead of complaining, though, he reached into the bag and produced a small jar. After unstopping its cork, he dipped two fingers into the paste within. He smeared it on his right cheek, leaving behind a trail of deep blue.
Nic stopped working as he watched the pirate rub the goo around one side of his face with practiced efficiency. “Why are you doing that?” he asked. It seemed curious to him that of all the things Maxl might choose to do with his newfound freedom, bluing his skin would take first priority.
“Is what we do in Charlemance,” Maxl explained as he dipped out more of the mixture for his forehead and other cheek. “Custom. Even the damas and ritters, they blue in my homeland.” He traced over his eyes, then his forehead, to show where they applied the paint. “We are warriors. This is what we do to show.”
“I know,” said Nic, confused. “But pirates—you said a pirate was a man without a country. Don’t you leave all those customs behind when you join a crew?”
He’d touched a nerve, he could tell. “I am not pirate no more,” Maxl said for what felt like the hundredth time.
Nic cocked his head. “I think you never were a pirate,” he said. “Not deep down inside. You talk about Longdoun like it was still your home. I’ve heard you reminisce about Fat Sue.” The pirate’s reaction, almost guilty, convinced him he was right. “You still blue your face. You consider yourself of Charlemance. You probably wish you were back there. You’re not a man of no country.”
“Is not crime,” Maxl muttered, quirking his lips as he checked out his results in the mirror. Nic couldn’t say that the bluing had really done the man’s looks any good, but at least it had concealed the bruising. “Especially not being pirate no more.”
“How long were you a pirate, Maxl?” Nic asked. He began removing brush once more, excavating the boat beneath the debris.
“One year,” said Maxl, putting the cork back in his precious jar of dye. “Subtracting two moon-months. Before, Maxl was slave. Dive off coasts, deep waters. Wrecked ships. Not coming up for hours, looking for the what’s-it. Cargot?”
“Cargo,” Nic corrected. Some of the brush was unexpectedly thorny, which made grappling with it slow going. “Hours? How could you breathe underwater for hours?”
“Dome of air,” Maxl explained, making a cupped shape with his hands. “In water. I am breathing from it.”
“A diving bell?” Nic had heard of such things, but had never seen one.
“Many men die from the deeps, if they come up too fast from them. I pretend I am very sick once, being sold to pirates on Tears of Korfu. I do what they say. But never really pirate. You are right, Niccolo. Smart boy.”
Just as Signor Arturo used to, Maxl put his finger alongside his nose. The gesture made Nic curiously homesick. Much as he’d relished the sense of dominion he’d experienced upon landing on this island, he missed the sights of home—the way the palace dome glowed come sunset as Cassaforte’s horns began sounding through the dusk. The crowded waters afloat with gondolas, the busy market squares. He missed the scents of roasting fowl and spiced wines, and even of the musty waters of the back canals. He choked down the lump rising in his throat. “And why did you leave?” he asked, changing the topic.
“Because of man from Pays d’Azur,” Maxl said. He regained his feet, tucked away his jar in the tattered sack that had carried it, and began to help Nic. “Bad man.”
“Bad man?” Nic asked, his attention arrested. “Do you mean the Comte Dumond? Tall man? Ah, spot here?” He pointed to his cheek, indicating where the comte’s mole had been.
“Yes! Bad man!” Maxl agreed. “He say to Captain, ‘If you attack this ship, this one, and that one, I give you gold. More gold for finding special cargot … cargo.’ Captain say, ‘Yes, is more easy to take money from you than be real pirates. We do what you say, grow fat, hah-hah!’” He sneered, then turned his head so that he could spit on the ground. “That is when Maxl say, these men, they not real pirates. Real pirates are men without country, answering to no one except captain. These men with their greedy fingers, they are little thugs.”
Nic’s mind was working a mile a minute. He had witnessed Comte Dumond ordering about the pirates who’d boarded the Pride. What Maxl said made sense, in a twisted sort of way. A crew acting on its own whims had its own, well, romantic independence. It was the type of thing that Signor Arturo had written plays about. A criminal-for-hire, though, was someone that no one respected. “And you didn’t want to be a thug.”
“I am not being a little thug!” Maxl sounded indignant at the idea. “There were handful on Tears of Korfu who are agreeing, but only I am brave enough to say no. When night is coming, I take boat and leave, come to island to decide what next. Who is knowing where I end? Not Maxl. Could be slave again. Could be stranded. Could be dead.” He shrugged. Enough of the boat was clear that the pirate could climb in. He sat down inside. “Better than being thug.”
Nic was fascinated. “So this Tears of Korfu, it was nearby?”
From his gunny sack, Maxl produced a handful of some kind of nuts. He hungrily feasted on them and said, through a mouthful, “There is a good chance it is still.”
“Why?”
“No captain.”
“No captain?” Nic repeated. “What does that mean, no captain?”
“When there is no captain, crew decide who new captain is being. Can take days. There is lots of pounding of chests, big talking.” Maxl sighed and let the last of the handful of nuts trickle from his hands into his mouth. “Fighting. Long. Puts me to sleep.”
The information inter
ested Nic no small amount. Was it beyond sense to hope that aboard the Tears of Korfu there might be some trace of information of what happened to his master and the rest of the Arturos’ company? Perhaps he might find where they were taken, so that once they had returned to Cassaforte, he could notify the authorities. Perhaps even Signor Colombo, with all his connections, might be able to help trace and rescue them from slavery. If they were even still alive. The faint spark of hope made Nic almost giddy. “Why is there no captain?”
Maxl regarded him as if he were daft. “He is dead.”
“How do you know? You left the ship before they began …” Maxl was nodding with his head at Nic’s side, causing him to break off his sentence and look down. “What?” he asked. All he had in his hand was the sword. “The shivarsta?”
Maxl’s head nodded up and down, as if the answer were obvious. “You have the shivarsta. This is meaning one thing. You kill Xi. Xi was captain. If you was pirate, you would be captain now.”
“Oh.” Nic took a deep breath, and looked at the sword, then back at Maxl. For the first time, he actually noticed the vessel in which the man was sitting. It was scarcely longer than a grown man’s height. Though it had two planks set across its width to accommodate passengers, the fit for four people, he realized, would be cramped. “Maxl,” he said, trying to temper the disappointment he was suddenly feeling. “This isn’t a sailboat. It’s a rowboat.”
The man erupted into laughter. “Very funny! Of course is not sailboat.”
Any visions Nic had of speeding across the sea with the wind at his back vanished in the face of reality. “But we can’t get back to Cassaforte in a rowboat!”
In one fluid motion, Maxl leapt to his feet and planted his hands on his hips. A ferocious grin almost split his blue face in two. “No,” he agreed. “But in Tears of Korfu, we travel in style. Yes?”
Ingenue: My life is naught! Who is to save me