by V. Briceland
“Not all of Pays d’Azur is corrupt.” Darcy’s defensive words, and the lilting accent in which she spoke them, reminded Nic that she was half of that country.
“No,” agreed Jacopo. “There are still many who do not support the current court. But they have no voice as strong as the Comte Dumond.”
“Who has the king’s ear in all matters,” Darcy finished. She stared at Nic and at the others as if she dared any of them to judge her. “The rest of what we told you is the truth. A member of the court whom we trusted offered us a very small craft and a man to sail us from Côte Nazze to Gallina. We escaped by dead of night with nothing to our name, and only the provisions already laden on the small boat, only to be met by more treachery.”
“The servant who was to guide us to Gallina demanded payment to keep us out of the hands of the Comte Dumond.” Darcy sounded bitter again. “Payment to follow his master’s wishes.” Nic began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Darcy on the beach, in which she’d offered him a reward in exchange for helping them and he’d accepted. Did she think the less of him for that?
“And you killed him?” Nic asked.
“Are you getting all this, my dear?” the Signora murmured to her husband. “It’s good stuff.” He nodded with vigor.
From above deck, someone called down the hatch. Maxl rose. “We are arriving in Gallina. I need to be above.”
“Go do what you must,” said Nic, motioning him away. He intended to stay until all his questions were answered.
Darcy did not reply until Maxl had left the tiny room. “I did not kill him. Nor did my father,” she said. “Though we should have.”
“Darcy showed the man mercy and forced him off the boat, allowing him a small crate of biscuits for flotation,” said Jacopo.
“It was a cork float,” Darcy corrected. “I thought we might need the biscuits.”
“You had a sailboat?” Nic asked, muscles still aching as he thought back to that long night in which they had rowed for hours to reach the Tears of Korfu.
“Had, in the sense that we lost it. Neither of us could sail, you see,” said Jacopo. He was beginning to sound evasive again. On the main deck, sounds of heavy footsteps and shifting crates began to creak the wood above their head. Nic heard a cry as Maxl ordered the anchor lowered.
His daughter was more blunt. “I wrecked us, after we came too close to a reef, off of the island.” Apology was in her eyes when she looked at her father. “By the time you came, it was beneath twenty feet of water, in two pieces.”
Nic had distrusted the pair’s tale before, and he’d been correct to do so. Though the skeleton of their story had been factual enough in spots, the fleshing out had been too sketchily done, too hasty to swallow. Now that there were more details, he believed them. One essential element still hadn’t been explained, however.
Nic opened his mouth to ask a final question, but Armand Arturo beat him to it. “But what’s the motivation?” he exploded. Heretofore he’d done an admirable job of remaining in the background during the interview, but the actor could contain himself no longer. “I’m sorry, lad, but while it’s a gripping tale of skullduggery and treachery and all the elements that sell out the upper stalls, it’s lacking that thing, that essential element that ties it all together.”
Nic nodded, agreeing with the man. He returned his attention to the Colombos. “What was it you found out that made you such a threat?”
Here again the pair began to look uneasy. “The court of Pays d’Azur has always regarded Cassaforte in the way an older brother might regard a sister ten years his junior. That is, pretty enough and sometimes an asset, but never an equal. They think of Cassaforte as a tiny principality worth acknowledging. However, our independence and general unwillingness to do the things Pays d’Azur wishes, simply because Pays d’Azur wishes them, has long irritated them. If they seized Cassaforte, they would be one step closer to controlling all the nations bordering the Azure Sea.”
Again, Darcy cut to the point. “They intend to invade Cassaforte. The Comte Dumond is to lead a fleet of warships upon the city and lay siege to it, as Pays d’Azur did during the Azurite Invasion.”
Behind Nic, the Arturos gasped. Neither were old enough to have lived through the Azurite Invasion, but the collective memory of it had lain like a shadow across the interceding decades. Half a generation of young men had been lost during the two years when Cassaforte had been cut off from the rest of the world. “I’m afraid my daughter is correct,” said Jacopo. A thud from the deck above caused them all to jump, so great was the tension in the room. He settled himself again. “I fear the results would be worse, this time. Pays d’Azur has learned from its prime tactical mistake of beginning the invasion when Cassaforte was at its strongest. Our people were unified then, and we had a strong monarch and military force. Now, we have a king they regard as enfeebled.”
“Ridiculous!”
When Nic and the Arturos began to protest, he held up a hand. “I know. King Alessandro has been much improved by the Olive Crown and the Scepter of Thorn. Even an old man such as I regard him as a very old man indeed. Cassaforte’s guards were weakened after many of its ranks were expelled for following Prince Berto during his coup. When Pays d’Azur heard that Alessandro had named Milo Sorranto, a commoner, as his heir, they assumed he was mad. That he was weak.”
“But it was thanks to Milo Sorranto and Risa the Enchantress that Cassaforte stands,” said Nic.
“Yes, but there are whispers that many among the Thirty would rather see a bastard child son of Prince Berto assume the throne than a mere commoner. Please, take no offense,” said Jacopo, looking at his audience. They all murmured politely. “Pays d’Azur sees Cassaforte as a weak country made even weaker by internal dissent, and ripe for the plucking. And believe you me, they intend to pluck it and make it their own. Which is why, Niccolo, we still need to return home with all possible speed. The warships are still here, as is the Comte Dumond. If we arrive in Cassaforte before them, perhaps we will have enough time to summon the good will of Vereinigtelände to aid us in the resistance.”
“How would we live during an invasion, Armand?” The Signora was almost in tears. She daubed at her eyes with a handkerchief and leaned into her husband for comfort. “The theaters would be closed. I can’t be a tavern maid again. It’s been too long, and I’m too fa-aa-aaat!”
“Sssh, sssh,” the actor replied, comforting her as he rubbed her back. In his eyes, though, Nic could read concern.
“You must aid us,” said Jacopo to Nic. “The need is as urgent as ever. Maybe even more so.”
“Help them, Niccolo,” implored the Signora, sniffling.
“Please help.” Darcy added her appeal to the others. Nic looked around the group, astonished. They seemed to be confusing the Drake that he’d been portraying with his actual capabilities. His mouth worked impotently for a moment, before Darcy added, “We’ll see to it that you’re rewarded well.”
Those words alone decided him. “Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, rising from the chair where he sat. Little boats fell from his lap and scattered. The contempt in his voice was, for once, not an imitation of a voice he’d heard before. It was his own. It flowed from some angry place within, in abundance. To be so judged, after so much! “Do you really suppose I would put my life in danger—put all of our lives at danger—for a bit of gold in my pocket? What sort of person must you be, to conceive that only people like you—people of means and power—have a sense of … of duty? Of decency? Oh, Nic’s only a bit of a scrub. We have to give him luni to make him do the right thing. It doesn’t work that way.”
The girl’s blue eyes flew open. Perhaps she was ashamed of what she’d said. Perhaps she was merely taken aback. “Niccolo. I didn’t mean …”
“We have not known each other for long, Da
rcy Colombo, but I pretended to myself that after these experiences we at least knew each other well.” He studied her up and down, and tried to harden his heart. “I see I was wrong.”
He wheeled around and opened the cabin’s door. “Niccolo?” he heard Jacopo call out.
“I’ve got to see to the provisions,” Nic growled. “If we’re to set sail as soon as possible, there’s much to be done. Don’t worry. I’ll be getting us all back to Cassaforte.” He stopped in the doorway for a moment. “It’s my country, too,” he added, and then slammed the door behind him.
Through the galley he marched, stomping so hard that several of the tin plates on the dining table rattled. Never before had he been so angry that it actually seemed to impede his vision, but at that moment every blood vessel in his eyes seemed ready to pop. Was this what throwing a tantrum was like? Because if so, Nic required lessons from no one.
He was about to step onto the bottom rung of the ladder above when a noise caught his attention. Someone was standing in the entryway leading to the male crew’s sleeping quarters. “Macaque,” said Nic, freezing in place.
Everything about this situation was wrong. Macaque’s bunk in the cabin had been stripped. His few personal belongings had been stuffed into a gunny sack slung over his shoulder. As Nic stared at him, waiting for an explanation, Macaque’s lips pulled into a sour expression. “I’ll be going, if you please,” he said.
Nic didn’t move from the ladder. The man would have to push past him. The timing of Macaque’s defection made him uneasy. “Why?”
Macaque struggled for a moment. At the last, he seemed to make the decision to come clean. “You know why,” he said, grinning. He strode around Nic and into the galley. On the table lay several mugs that he examined until he found the one that was his. Into the gunny sack it went, and along with it, his personal plate. “I know what you’re hiding.”
“What am I hiding?” The voice that came out was more Nic than the Drake. He attempted to correct the oversight by drawing up his posture and sneering.
“I know what your game is, Drake.” While Nic began to sweat, Macaque hauled the sack over his shoulder again, and stood in the galley entryway. He was an imposing man, larger than Nic by far. “Keep the girl and her father for yourself. Collect the reward. Abandon your crew and sail off, happy as a duck.”
That hadn’t been his game at all, Nic knew, but he played along. “What reward?”
The laugh that Macaque let out was nasty. “I bain’t stupid, and you bain’t as fine a card player as you pretend. Maybe I didn’t see it when you stepped on board with your precious cargo in tow, but when you were talking to that fancy-pants, the comte, and invited him aboard, I recognized a bluff when I saw it. Even if he didn’t.” He spat on the floor. “Move.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Nic asked, refusing.
“To collect the reward myself. You might have him and her for now, but I’ll be damned if I let you collect the gold. Move out of my way.”
“Listen to me, Macaque.” Nic was fully the Drake now. He tried to sound reassuring. “We can work this out between us, man to man. Perhaps we can come to a gentleman’s agreement.”
Nic’s brain raced as he tried to come up with some kind of way to stall. Unfortunately, Macaque didn’t seem to be about to give him the chance. “We won’t be making one of those.”
“Then I’ll stop you,” Nic said, aware that he was dangerously close to babbling.
“With what? Your mighty muscles?” Macaque laughed.
“I’ll have Maxl stop you. Maxl and the rest.”
Macaque shook his head. “They won’t stop me. Not if you’re down here dead.”
Nic felt a meaty hand on his shoulder, seeming to crush the bones within. He looked up, and saw Macaque’s tiny eyes diminishing to slits. His other hand drew back into a fist that aimed for his face. Nic winced, knowing what was next to come.
A hollow sound of metal reverberated throughout the hold. Like a small gong, it rang. Nic opened his eyes, surprised and relieved to find his head still connected to the rest of his body. Macaque still stood before him, but his neck was twisted to the side at a curious angle. His grip on Nic’s shoulder lessened, then vanished completely. His body fell to the ground in one massive, graceless, crash that made Nic leap back to avoid being knocked over.
Darcy stood in the spot behind him. In both her hands she held one of the galley’s massive iron frying pans, which still vibrated from the impact it had made against Macaque’s skull. The Arturos and Jacopo were behind her, looking shocked.
Darcy and Nic stared at each other for a moment over the pirate’s unconscious form, until at last Nic summoned enough breath to wheeze out, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, sounding equally surprised and exhausted. They regarded each other with a mixture of emotions—appreciation mingled with wariness.
Finally Nic wiped his face on his sleeve and began to compose himself. “I now think,” he said, looking around their little group, “that we could use a slight change of plan.”
The plans are complete. I have sent guards to deliver them to the cazarro, but I know, as I have known with so many other of our pet projects, that I will never live to see this one come to fruition. My dear, it is pitiful that I must ask this question—but when did you and I become so old?
—Allyria Cassamagi, to King Nivolo of Cassaforte,
in a private letter in the Cassamagi archives
Had Gallina several hundred years to establish itself, it might have been deeper than three or four dirt streets spread wide across the beachfront. Had it attracted more permanent residents, or a less shady population, its architecture might have rivaled Cassaforte’s graceful bridges, spacious temples, and deep canals. Had it fewer donkeys and more sewers, it might have smelled a good deal better.
Yet it hadn’t. Once Nic was ashore, he found himself disappointed with the city. From the deck of the Tears of Korfu, Gallina had given the impression of being a bustling metropolis. Its ports had been alive with flurries of craft smaller than their sloop moving in and out of the complex rows of docks that surrounded Gallina on every side. Back and forth they shuttled from the larger ships belonging to merchants and adventurers alike, anchored further out in the harbor, their colorful flags flapping sharply in the breeze. Shrouded in the mystery afforded by a layer of the white ash-cloud befogging its streets, the city had almost appeared beautiful—just as the thinnest layer of snow could render picturesque the most rank pile of stable dung.
“Pfaugh!” Nic’s face momentarily twisted with distaste as, for the second time since he had set foot on shore, he narrowly escaped a cascade of slops descending from a second-story balcony. Behind him, Ingenue shrieked and leapt back several feet. The sensation of firm land underfoot after days aboard the sloop were disorienting enough as it was. All of his party walked as if they were slightly inebriated.
As it turned out, the air of intoxication made them fit in quite well among the populace of Gallina. Of all the stucco-covered buildings lining both sides of the muddy street, every other one seemed to be a tavern of some sort. Grimy men and squalling women reeled in and out from the entryways, laughing and yelling in dozens of different tongues. Some of them still clutched their tin mugs of ale as they sallied to the next public house. Only Maxl, among their group, seemed unaffected by his sea legs. One hand on Nic’s shoulder, he pointed at the archways of the taverns. “No doors, see?” he said. “There is no shutting down here. Everything is open all hours of the day and night. They call Gallina the city that is never sleeping.”
“Well, if this is what a city that isn’t sleeping looks like, I would advise a good forty winks!” When she had been told she would have to carry all her possessions from now on, including her own clothing, the Signora had at last abandoned her skirts for a more practical pair of breeches and a
wide leather belt. Without her wide farthingale, she looked considerably slimmer, yet somehow in her fluttering she managed to convey an imminent and most feminine case of the vapors.
“It’s very small,” complained Knave as he peered about. “Do they even have any theatrical establishments?”
“Is the docks,” Maxl said. “They are being larger than city itself. They are having warehouses and merchants there, as well, yes.”
“You know,” said Pulcinella. Like her lady, she had also consented to don boys’ breeches, though she was more used to them from her clownlike roles on the stage. “If we were ever to strike out on our own, this might be the very place. New audiences every night.”
“But they wouldn’t speak the language,” Knave pointed out. He turned to wink at a bawd flaunting her wares from a high window. Thoughtfully, he added, “Though they might not necessarily have to.”
“We’ll have no talk about disbanding the company.” Armand Arturo comforted his wife with a pat on her arm. “We may be small, but Armand Arturo’s Theatre of Marvels has not seen its last performance.”
The section of Gallina through which they moved would have been any other municipality’s shadiest area, bustling with the poor and the pock-marked and echoing with the raucous sounds of laughter, shrieks, slaps, and crude language. Drunkards lay on the wooden porches of the taverns, passed out in their tracks. Cassaforte had its own similar neighborhoods—though perhaps not quite as extreme or as rancid—near its docks and river gate. However, the problem with Gallina, as far as Nic could see, was that the seedier areas weren’t confined to any specific sector. They were the entire town. Through the street Maxl drew them onward, pausing every now and again to recite from memory the instructions given to him. At last, at an intersection where a group of small children ran up to them, begging in a foreign tongue for coin or food, he halted. “This is it,” he said, nodding at an open archway to the northeast.