The Buccaneer's Apprentice

by V. Briceland

  “Pirates,” replied the comte. Like a hawk choosing its prey, his eyes focused on Nic for the first time. He took in the boy’s youth and the tricorne atop his head, and seemed to judge him. “And partaking of my coin, if I recall.”

  As always, the moment Nic had summoned the character of the Drake, all his stage fright vanished as the role took over. He could now match the comte arrogance for arrogance. The way the man had rubbed his thumb across his first two fingers as he spoke of coin made Nic feel dirty—just as the comte intended. “Perhaps under the previous management,” Nic drawled as the Drake. “But it is something of which I, as current captain, know nothing.”

  “Is it, now.” The comte did not seem at all amused. “Where is Captain Xi?”

  “It is,” replied Nic. He was aware that all aboard the Tears hung on to his every word. It seemed as if they collectively held their breaths, afraid to disturb the conversation with so much as a stirring of air. “It further distresses me to be the bearer of bad tidings: Captain Xi is no longer with us.” He made the traditional bowing of the head that the polite performed when speaking of the deceased, but barely enough to pay the man respect. “A pity he could not be here to answer any questions you may have.”

  “Do I know you?” the comte asked suddenly. He twisted to get a better glimpse of Nic. “I know you somehow. What is your name?”

  “I am called the Drake by those I command.” Beneath his character’s reserve, Nic began to feel a prickle of alarm. What if the comte connected a frightened boy lying on the aft deck of the Pride of Muro with the self-assured commander he was trying to portray?

  “Drake?” The comte turned over the word in his mouth as if it were something dirty and unfamiliar. “As in, a type of duck?”

  “As in the dragon. Rawr!” Nic had parted his lips to say much the same thing, minus the rawr, but his first mate had beaten him to it. Nic lay a hand on Maxl’s shoulder to restrain his obvious anger.

  The comte barely seemed to notice. He had managed to toss his poisoned barb, saw that it landed, and didn’t seem to care where. “I suppose I can hardly enforce an agreement made with a previous captain,” he said, ignoring Maxl altogether. “A lawless crew of pirates, by definition, have no honor.”

  Nic seethed. The man spoke of honor, but what honor was there in hiring freebooters to attack and kill the crew of ships like The Pride of Muro? What honor was there in allowing innocents like the Arturos and their company to be sold into slavery, or in letting a servant boy fend for himself at the mercy of a man little more than a savage? “I suppose you are an expert on honorable behavior, then?”

  “I honor my king and country,” the comte replied. He seemed taken aback that Nic would address him so familiarly. The three officers accompanying him began murmuring among themselves. “He would not question my loyalties.”

  “Nor do I,” Nic assured, smoothly. “I, too, have my own loyalties. To my own people.” Though he raised his hands to indicate his crew, Nic had a city full of individuals in mind. “I must do what is best for them. Which, for the moment, means sailing past your little … military exercise … and buying provisions where we may. Do we have your permission?”

  One of Nic’s masters once had a mastiff trained to growl at the slightest threat, real or imagined. It seemed to Nic that the comte bristled at his words in much the same way as that hound. “It is a pity you do not care to prolong such a pleasant conversation,” said the comte, oozing false regret.

  “My stay outside this harbor has been prolonged enough,” Nic said. “Three hours or more by my reckoning, and we have a good deal to do in port before setting sail on the morrow.”

  “Such a short stay.”

  “I hope it is. Unless you have more business with us?”

  The face-off between the two personalities seemed destined never to end. Neither the Drake nor the comte seemed likely to stand down. Comte Dumond regarded Nic with derision for a long moment. At last he adjusted his exquisitely-coiffed periwig and replied. “We are seeking two fugitives,” he said, eyes once again scanning the line of crewmen at the railing. “Criminals. Jacopo Miandro Colombo and Darcy Fontaine Colombo are their names.” During the stab of fear that followed the comte’s distinct enunciation, Nic thought for a moment that the Drake might vanish completely and leave standing only the cowering boy within. Yet despite the shock, Nic’s facade held. “Your previous captain had accepted an incentive to locate them, with a further bounty if he was successful.”

  Now, more than ever, Nic was grateful that he’d always referred to the Colombos as Thorntongue and Old Man whenever the ship’s original crew was about. “Captain Xi,” Nic hastened to correct, “was never my captain. Merely my opponent.” He smiled with what he hoped was a world of meaning.

  “I see. And you know nothing of the two outlaws?” Nic pulled his lips into a line and shrugged with indifference. “A pity.”

  “What did these ruffians do to merit your country’s displeasure?” Nic asked. He smiled. “Did they eat their garlic snails with the wrong fork?”

  “For that offense my king does not order death upon sight,” riposted the comte, unamused. The news made Nic shiver, inwardly. The words that followed did not ease his heart. “They are wanted for murder—the murder of the Vicomte San Marquis, in cold blood. All you need know is that the reward for their capture would set a man up for life. Or a woman,” he added, with a nod at Ingenue, in her breeches. For once, she did not respond with a batting of her eyelashes or coquettish curtsey, but merely a blank and slightly hostile stare.

  “Naturally I should be glad to inform you should I hear of the miscreants.” To his left, Nic heard motion and a cleared throat. Both he and Maxl turned slightly. Nic was certain the sound had come from Macaque. The notion disturbed him that the sailor might be aware of more than Nic realized. Macaque, however, merely spat over the railing and resumed the leaning pose he had adopted there, his face unreadable.

  “My officers have been boarding many craft entering Gallina harbor to ensure that the two are not smuggled aboard,” the comte declared, with a speculative look to observe how Nic reacted.

  Though his heart jumped, Nic refused to let fear show upon his face. “Were I a guilty man, I might inquire by what authority you do so, as Gallina is neither a principality of Pays d’Azur, nor does it answer to any authority but its own.”

  “We have every authority—!” squawked one of the officers, with a heavy accent.

  “But I am not a guilty man,” Nic had continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t heard, “and therefore my ship is yours to inspect. Come aboard if you wish. Rummage through my hold, though you’ll find it sadly empty, thanks to Captain Xi’s mismanagement. There may even be a few spare strips of dried fish for us all to enjoy.”

  By the look on Comte Dumond’s face, Nic feared that he had erred on the side of arrogance. He had pushed too far with that comment about Azurite authority, he knew. Yet the Drake had felt it right to make that comment, and what the Drake wanted to do, Nic had so far allowed. The very last thing that Nic wanted was for the comte or any of his men to set foot on the Tears of Korfu.

  The comte struggled to make a decision. Nic knew everything hinged upon this very moment—his freedom, his future, and the future of everyone aboard the ship. If caught harboring the Colombos, they could all be impounded in dungeons in Côte Nazze for the rest of their lives. They would be separated and tortured, never again to see their homeland. Jacopo would disappear for whatever he’d done. And as for Darcy … Nic had to swallow hard and try not to think about it. He needed to do something. “Maxl,” he said, forcing himself to speak. “Lower the ladders so that we might receive visitors.”

  The boatmen prepared their oars, ready to row closer. The three officers nodded, convinced that Nic had responded correctly. “Yes sir,” said Maxl, turning so that he could order the crew.

 
; “No.” Suddenly the comte held up his hand. “Such a thing won’t be necessary.” Nic and Maxl both faced him again. Nic raised his eyebrows, seeming bemused. “We are done here. Take us back to the Faucon. I trust you and your crew will enjoy your brief stay in Gallina, Drake,” said Comte Dumond, inclining his head ever so slightly. His oarsmen began slowly turning his small craft around. “But may I advise, as someone who despises dealing with the likes of pirates such as yourselves …”

  “Ah. Adventurers, I believe you mean,” Nic smiled slightly.

  The comte’s tone grew so steely that Nic almost worried he might change his mind about inspecting the holds. Now that his boat had reversed direction, he had to stand, turn, and raise his voice to make a final address. “Let me advise that in the future you take your adventures elsewhere. There are too many lawless outfits in these waters. One never knows when one might have to begin to purge the sea of its impurities. No?”

  Nic let him have the last word. He raised a hand in farewell, and then waited until the comte and his men were a respectable distance away before moving again. When he nodded at Maxl, his first mate barked out, “Back to work, all of you!”

  “Maxl? Signor Arturo?” Nic said their names low. “Please follow me below.”

  Nic’s heart was beating fast as he lowered himself down the hatch ladder and sprinted through the enclosures of the lower hold. No one was in the galley, or in the crew’s sleeping quarters, or in the forward storage rooms. But when Nic heard noises in the smaller area that the women had been using for their own quarters, he burst through the door.

  “Lah!” A high soprano assaulted his eardrums. “What brute has invaded this sanctity of maidenhood, this temple of femininity? Can I not rest in repose to cleanse my skin and soul?”

  Nic blinked. Somewhere Signora Arturo had found an enormous iron hip-bath and filled it with foamy bubbles. She reclined within, visible only by her fluttering long lashes and her wig of red curls floating above the foam. Her face was fully painted. She had even applied several beauty spots in strategic places. “It is the Captain, madam!” Pulcinella stood beside the bath holding one of the Signora’s large costumes, a flowing shepherdess gown with an enormous cone-shaped farthingale that covered most of the floor. It appeared as if she were waiting for her mistress to leave her bath and climb into the outfit.

  “Come to ravish me again, have you, blackguard? You men !” shrieked the Signora. “And you have brought others to witness my degradations! You vile, brutish—!”

  “No-oo,” said Nic, once he overcame his surprise enough to speak. “It’s just Nic. I’ve brought Maxl. And your husband.” When he looked over his shoulder, he discovered both men had caught up in time to witness the scene. Maxl looked particularly wide-eyed.

  “Oh,” said the Signora in her normal voice. She peeked up over the masses of bubbles. “Hello. Are we out of danger, then?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Armand, shaking his head. “We are, for the moment. Though you may not be.”

  “Where are Darcy and Jacopo?” Nic asked.

  Nic heard a splashing sound as the Signora poked at something within the water. The bubbles heaved up into the air. From out of the depths of the hip-bath stood Darcy. She was wet from head to toe, her hair and clothing both soaked and clinging as the bath-water streamed down into the tub. In one hand she clutched a breathing tube. At the same time, Jacopo poked his head out from beneath one side of the billowing farthingale, the lace of the skirt hanging like a bonnet to his head.

  “My dear,” said Armand Arturo. He wrung his hands as if squeezing oranges for a bowl of wine punch. “Out of curiosity for how much you throw yourself into a role, are you entirely disrobed under there?”

  “Armand!” gasped the Signora, aghast. “I am wearing a bathing shift!”

  Darcy sputtered moisture from her lips and spoke. “Not much of one.”

  Nic shook his head at them both. “The first thing we’re going to do,” he announced, “is to shut the door. And get you something to dry off with,” he added to Darcy. She tried to clear the wet hair from around her eyes. Sternly, he added, “and then it’s time you told me everything. And I mean everything.”

  Of all the countries upon this continent, Pays d’Azur is perhaps the most civilized, and certainly the most sophisticated. No one would ever question that it is the most charming. The people of its capital, Côte Nazze, are well-mannered to a fault, and fall over themselves to offer every courtesy imaginable to the weary traveler.

  —Celestine du Barbaray, Traditions & Vagaries of the

  Azure Coast: A Guide for the Hardy Traveler

  Nic had been busy. By the time all of Darcy was dry save for her hair, he had, much to the distress of the Signora, folded what few hair-curling papers the women were able to salvage from the bottom of the costume trunk. From the yellowing squares he’d fashioned a swan, a pair of paper boxes, and an entire fleet of angular miniature boats. It was one of these that Darcy picked up from the wooden bench where she slid next to her father. The expression upon her face was contrite. “We didn’t lie to you completely.”

  She had told him that before, on the beach of their deserted island. “Are you really Nuncio to Pays d’Azur?” Nic asked Jacopo, wanting to hear it from his lips. From the Arturos, Nic heard a gasp. He thought it only fair to let them sit in on this session, given that their troupe was sacrificing so much for the pair.

  “I assure you I am,” said the old man. In his oversized shirt and breeches from the costume vaults of the Arturos, Jacopo looked vaguely ridiculous as a would-be pirate. He still retained some of the pomp and posture of a statesman.

  Nic nodded, not doubting him at all. It was obviously the role to which the elder Colombo had been bred. “And she’s your daughter?”

  Darcy sighed. “Of course I’m his daughter, fool.” At Nic’s impassive expression, she sighed, and ran her fingers through her damp curls. She turned the paper boat over in her hands, examining it half-heartedly. “I’m sorry. I’m an ungrateful brat for speaking so, after all you’ve done.”

  “You can hardly blame me for asking,” said Nic, crossing his arms. “In the first version of your story, you told me you left Pays d’Azur because of a debt collector, collecting a debt with which you had nothing to do. You told me that Comte Dumond was no one you knew. Yet from his lips, I hear that he is your sworn enemy and that you are both criminals in the eyes of Pays d’Azur—murderers, no less—to be executed on sight. In other words,” he continued, staring at them both, “there’s a bit of a discrepancy.”

  Perhaps there was enough of the Drake in Nic’s voice to make both the father and daughter stare guiltily at the floor. “I told you that there were incidents after I assumed the position of nuncio,” Jacopo said, measuring every word.

  “A waxed stair, a snake. An assassin.”

  “Yes. All of that was true. They were sent by the court of Pays d’Azur.”

  The Signora, though she had promised to keep quiet, could not hold her tongue. “How horrid.”

  Jacopo inclined his head in her direction. “Why?” Nic asked.

  “Because it would have been convenient for Pays d’Azur to have no ambassador from Cassaforte,” said Darcy.

  Jacopo agreed. “The first two times they cared not whether I lived or died. Scaring us home with our tails between our legs would have been enough. But then I discovered what they hoped I wouldn’t, and the third time …”

  “The Vicomte San Marquis,” Nic guessed.

  “He was sent to kill me.” Jacopo’s voice had grown very soft as he spoke, so soft that he could scarcely be heard above the sounds of the ship’s passage through the waters and the cawing of the harbor gulls. “They thought an elderly gentleman would be no match against a young, strong courtier anxious to prove his worth to a corrupt king. And they were right, except …”

  D
arcy laid her hands atop her father’s, stilling him. She made a soothing, shushing noise. He nodded gratefully. Nic watched the two for a moment and finally caught Darcy’s glance. “You,” he said. He should have seen it before. She bore that look in her eyes of haunted reserve he imagined he now wore in his own. “You killed him.”

  “I took no pleasure in it,” she snarled. Nic recognized the reaction. It was his very own, to having to kill Captain Xi and his men. “I don’t even remember much about it. It simply happened. I had to protect my father.”

  Nic wished he could comfort her in turn, but father and daughter seemed to seek solace from each other. He remained motionless, merely saying, “I cannot blame you for that.”

  “Those days before were terrible.” Darcy’s voice was barely a whisper itself, but the ferocity of it cut through the quiet like a blade. She looked from Nic to the Arturos to Maxl. “We knew we had to leave for Cassaforte as soon as possible, but we couldn’t give any indication of our plans. We had to pretend that everything was normal, to make it seem as if nothing was amiss. Yet every moment of the day we had to keep watch for false servants, for threats in every shadow. You cannot imagine it.”

  “I believe that Niccolo can imagine it, my dear.” Jacopo had composed himself somewhat. Enough, anyway, to cut into his daughter’s narrative. “One night, the Vicomte San Marquis bribed his way into the household and concealed himself behind a tapestry in my chambers. If my daughter had not accompanied me after dinner that night … if she hadn’t seen …”

  “We’d both be dead,” Darcy said flatly. The paper boat in her lap had grown slightly damp from handling, but she picked it up by the ends and studied it.

  “Of course, we knew we couldn’t stay,” Jacopo said, easing past the difficult memories. “It was imperative that we made as speedy an escape as possible. Luckily, with the help of friends, we managed it that very night.”