The Buccaneer's Apprentice

by V. Briceland

  Nic felt uncomfortable with the little ones crowding around him, hands outstretched and eyes wide. Though he couldn’t understand a word they said, he saw the need plain upon their faces. To them, he was a gentleman in fine dress. How could they know that he was as poor as they? “Are you certain?” All the stucco facades looked the same to him.

  At that moment, from the upper story window directly over the archway, a woman eased out her torso. Stays from her waist to bosom accented her buxomness; she was all but falling out of her corset as she leaned out the window. Spying Maxl’s painted face, she gave him a wink. “Oola,” she called, waggling fingertips that had been dipped into something sticky and then inserted into powdered mica, so that they seemed to sparkle. “Benado qui? ”

  Nic could have sworn that beneath the deep blue, the man blushed. After he stopped laughing, Maxl called out something in the woman’s tongue. She replied in kind, and he nodded to the group. “This is the place.” To Nic, he added in a confidential tone, “You are being young, so be taking it from Maxl, do not kiss any of the women here. Especially if they are having sores.” He touched the area around his lips.

  “I’m not kissing any of the women whatsoever!” Nic said, perhaps a little too loudly.

  The Arturos looked surprised at the outburst, but concealed their amusement behind barely suppressed smiles. Darcy’s face colored, but before she could respond, Maxl turned to her. “And you,” he said, shaking his finger as if scolding a naughty child, “if you can refrain, do not be bonking people on the head.”

  “I don’t hit everyone on the head,” she replied, sounding a little sullen.

  “Oh yes. You angry, bonk. You worried, bonk. It is always with the bonk, bonk, bonk. I am thinking, and you may be correcting me if I am wrong, that the bonking on the noggin is not the best way to solve every problem,” Maxl responded. Nic found himself nodding, and he felt sure that Macaque might agree, were the man with them and not tied up and gagged and stuffed in the Legnoli trunk, back aboard the Tears of Korfu. The Signora had insisted that they leave the lid cracked for air. Nic, even with that small mercy, shuddered at the thought of that tight, dark space.

  “It’s not completely my fault that we have to do this.” Darcy wouldn’t stand to take any of the blame. “I’ve never heard of trading in a boat. Horse carts, perhaps. But entire ships? Who has ships to trade?”

  “On Gallina everything is traded.” As if to prove Maxl’s words, a blind youth shuffled through the muck of the streets past their group, calling out for people to buy the necklaces that hung in ropes from his arms. “Even the large ships. People are coming here, they gamble, they bet what they have, including deed to ship. Yes? Sometimes they are betting things they don’t even have, yes? Am I right?”

  Maxl’s appeal to Signor Arturo caused the gentleman to cough into the crook of his elbow. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he mumbled, his hasty words drawing a look of inquiry from his wife.

  Nic turned to Knave, who had been adjusting his costume. Of all the troupe, he alone had traded in his piratical uniform for something different—a subdued ensemble they all hoped made him look more like a merchant passing through Gallina on his way to somewhere better. “You know what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Of course,” said the man. He cleared his throat. “I’m to find Signor Trond Maarten somewhere within the lounges of this … establishment.” The expression he gave the ladies of the group was of apology. “I’m to appear as if I were merely another customer. And then, when you begin negotiations, I’m to reveal myself as another merchant of stray sea craft and outbid him.”

  “But not by much,” said both Maxl and Nic at the same time. Nic continued, “Just enough to make him match your price. We haven’t much in the way of funds.”

  Knave looked offended that they had to remind him. “I’m a professional.” He adjusted the fabric around his throat, and then the cap upon his head. “Trust me.” Without another word, he strode into the building.

  Signor Arturo sighed. “He’s off script,” he sighed. “There’s no telling what will happen.”

  “There, there,” said the Signora, patting his hand. “It won’t be as bad as in Nascenza, when he forgot and thought he was in a different play altogether.”

  Jacopo watched Knave enter the establishment. “I wish we didn’t have to do this,” he sighed. “It seems so much wiser simply to load provisions and go.”

  Nic explained the rationale behind his decision once more. “Enough blood has been shed, Signor. I won’t stand for Macaque’s soul to meet its makers simply because it’s more convenient for us.” Jacopo seemed inclined to agree with him, but Nic felt the need to hammer the point home. “We cannot sail to Cassaforte with him as our bound prisoner. The Tears is too small for that type of concealment. If he is allowed to roam freely among the crew, he will cause as much dissent as possible. That we also cannot afford.”

  Darcy, when she spoke, seemed apologetic for her part in the affair. “Father, what Nic has proposed is best. We should simply abandon the Tears and leave Gallina for Cassaforte in a completely different ship. My mother’s countrymen are not inspecting outgoing craft. When Macaque is found aboard the Tears by its new owner, neither he nor they will have any idea how we left Gallina.”

  “Until they track down and speak to this Trond Maarten fellow.” Jacopo did not sound convinced. “Then they’ll have a clear idea.”

  “By which time we’ll be well upon our way and out of their reach.” Nic spoke with such authority that everyone save Jacopo seemed convinced. “The Comte Dumond is not an unintelligent man. What if, between our last encounter and now, he has remembered where he has seen me before? What if his patrol boats are watching for our return to the Tears even now? We are in too precarious a position to allow overconfidence to lay us low.”

  Amidst the street’s dinnertime cacophony—the cries, the shouts, the laughter and the drunken chorus from a nearby tavern—Jacopo’s only focus was upon Nic’s words. At long last, he nodded. “You are much changed,” he said to the boy.

  The observation rattled Nic. It was one of the few things Signor Colombo could have said to him to rattle his nerve. “I—I don’t think I am,” he stammered. Darcy was staring at him. Her scrutiny made him even more nervous. “I don’t feel different. I’m still who I was before, only …”

  “Lad.” Armand Arturo shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Not for being our savior.” Before Nic could rebut the charge, the actor announced to the group, “I think we’ve given Knave plenty of time to infiltrate. What say you we begin the latest in our series of clever deceits, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “However, I suggest the ladies of our group may wish to excuse themselves from this particular exercise.”

  Ingenue and Infant Prodigy both let out sharp cries of disappointment. Signora Arturo, for her part, let out a laugh. “And let you boys in that place by yourselves? I think not, husband, and if you think about it closely, you’ll agree to let us in there to keep an eye on you.”

  No husband could deny a wife so fervid in her expression. In fact, the actor was taken a little aback at how strongly his lady felt about the matter. “Of course, of course,” he reassured her. “I was only thinking of the more delicate sensibilities among our group.”

  “Armand.” The Signora crossed her arms. “I worked as a tavern wench. Pulcinella has been married three times. Ingenue and Infant Prodigy have seen more male backsides changing costumes in the wings than has the seat of a public privy. And as for this one …” she indicated Darcy. “She’s basically a boy in a girl’s costume, and a savage one, at that.” Darcy blinked, and seemed startled. “There is scarcely going to be anything within those doors that will shock any of us.” Point made, she raised her eyebrows in triumph.

  The actor assented. With Nic as their leader, they made their way to the darkened arch on the corner. The
moment they crossed the threshold and into the warm, close room just within, the atmosphere changed. Gone were the dismal sights and smells of Gallina’s streets, replaced by the scents and dressings of a woman’s boudoir. Everything within had been decorated in pale corals, or delicate pinks. The staircase was painted a blue the color of the Azure Sea on its sunniest days, while a rug underfoot seemed to be woven from threads dyed in the colors of the world’s most valuable jewels.

  “Oola? ” The hostess who stepped into the room to greet them was perhaps the same age and build as the Signora, yet her matronly figure had somehow been contained in a much smaller corset with a cincher that reduced her waist to miniscule proportions.

  So much of her ample favors were on display that Nic nearly averted his eyes, but at the last moment he recalled himself and stepped forward. “Ah, madam,” he said, as the Drake took over. “A hundred good days to you.”

  The hostess smiled broadly at his bow. “Such fine manners!” she replied. The language of Cassaforte was obviously not her first tongue, but in her line of work she had picked up enough of it to make herself easily understood. “Deevine! Outstanding! Oh, signor, ’ow long it ’as been since we ’ave ’ad a real gentleman in Solange’s!” She reached out and caressed Nic’s cheek in a way that quite embarrassed him, in front of the others. “And so many of you! Do they all want girls? Solange can provide! I ’ave all kinds of girls. Fat girls for you, yes?” she said, pointing to Maxl. While Ingenue steamed, Solange puffed out her cheeks and looked stern. “Fat and a little mean is what you like, yes? Skeeny girls for you,” she said to Signor Arturo with a sunny expression. The Signora’s jaw began working in outrage. “Yes, I know your type!”

  Nic firmly removed the woman’s hand from his cheek, before it wandered to any more intimate areas. He held it in his fist for a moment, then gently kissed the knuckles. They smelled of the same perfume that hung so heavy in the air. “Gentle madam, fascinating and no doubt diverting as it would be for me, or indeed, any of my party, to partake in the graces and conversation of the charming damsels under your, ah, tutelage, it is not their company we seek.”

  The woman known as Solange may not have followed the nuance of Nic’s speech, but she seemed to understand the general import. “No?”

  “No,” he said, clasping her hand with both of his before at last releasing it. “I am a man of business who has been told that a colleague I seek spends his dinnertimes within your delightful establishment.” For a moment the woman looked crestfallen at the news that not one of the more than half-dozen potential patrons in her lobby seemed interested in giving her any actual trade. Nic, however, plucked from his pocket one of the gold pieces from Captain Xi’s money box, and held it up. “Trond Maarten is his name.”

  “Oh! But of course!” Solange nearly snatched away the coin before it was even proffered. “Signor Maarten, ’e is in the pink dining ’all. I will show you, yes? Come, come.” The woman gestured to Nic. “I show you.”

  Before Solange could get very far, Nic turned to his party. “Maxl and I will go. The rest of you, stay here.”

  “May I come?”

  Darcy’s request was so solemn that Nic had to hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “But quickly.”

  The first floor of Solange’s establishment seemed composed almost entirely of parlor after parlor, all of them painted in various shades of pastel and furnished with silk-covered sofas trimmed with fringe. On the walls hung tapestries of topics that to Nic’s eye appeared quite rude. Candelabras of ormolu sat on every small table, illuminating the rooms with a warm glow. They were not brightly lit, however, and judging by many of the intimate conversations Solange’s customers were having with the women of her staff, most of them preferred it that way. At long last, after Nic had become convinced that Solange had to have bought all the stucco buildings around her own and knocked down the walls to create her feminine sanctuary, they came to the pink dining hall.

  Pink it certainly was, from the flocked paper covering the ceiling and walls to the eye-popping salmon of the sofas. Even the great wooden table that took up most of the room’s space had once been painted pink, though wear and tear had chipped its surface. Laden with food it had been, too. An enormous roast fowl of some sort glistened with a dark brown skin in its center. Only one of its breasts had been cut into and eaten. Smaller plates lay around with delicious-looking viands that Nic had not seen since serving the Drake’s table—dishes of candied carrots, of braised mushrooms, a bowl of game stew, spiced mutton and creamed rutabagas, as well as many foods Nic had never before tasted or smelled. Nic was glad to see that Knave had found his way back here. He and several other gentlemen were busily helping themselves to the provender. Some of Solange’s girls entered with full dishes and left with the empty plates, occasionally tarrying to tease the customers. “’Ere ’e is, yes?” Solange smiled and pointed.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Nic once again reached for the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I will have to show you my appreciation more fully … later.” The proprietress, apparently not immune to the blandishments of young men such as Nic, simpered like a girl, curtseyed, and then excused herself.

  The customer at the table’s end was perhaps the most teased. On his bench, to either side, sat two of Solange’s prettiest young women. One of them lifted a fork laden with food to the gentleman’s mouth. The other waited for him to chew and swallow, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Are you Trond Maarten?” Nic asked.

  “And who is asking?” The gentleman seized a chunk of turkey from his plate, stuffed it into his mouth, and then cleaned off his fingers with his lips as he studied Nic. He was astonishingly bald and did not even wear a periwig to hide his lack of hair, as was the fashion. His eyes were green and piercing, and his skin was as pale as the snows of his northern homeland, judging by his accent. “Yes?”

  “I am known as the Drake,” Nic said smoothly, striding across the room so he could address the man directly, without having to speak over the other diners. “I am a man of business. I was told that you are the man to talk to about trading one boat for another. You are a dealer in these matters?”

  One of the fillies at Maarten’s side whispered something in his ear that made him grin. He looked at Nic and said, “Trading a boat, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Smoothly, Nic proceeded. “You see, in my tradings, I find it necessary—”

  “Mynheer Drake. I have no need to know the whys and wherefores of your business. In fact, for my safety, it is much better that I do not know. So please.” Trond Maarten rose from his bench to reveal that he was a very tall man indeed. The two pretties beside him cooed with displeasure. “Spare me any fictions you may have composed about your so-called tradings. They would only bore me.” He turned to the casement behind the head of the table, and opened the doorlike windows onto the very smallest of balconies. Then he leaned down to whisper something into the ears of the beautiful dark-skinned woman who had been holding his napkin. She rose, and with lowered eyes, excused herself from the room. “Instead, tell me of this ship you need to unload.”

  Nic nodded at Maxl, who stepped forward to explain. “It is a one-masted sloop, being build fifty years before.”

  “Ship maker?”

  “I am not knowing this,” said Maxl, bowing. “But I am believing it is originally of my own country of Charlemance, probably Dubris, where ships are being made.”

  “Mmm.” At that moment, the dark-skinned beauty returned. In one hand she carried the largest spyglass Nic had ever before seen; it dwarfed the one he’d used aboard the Tears of Korfu by at least three times. Its bronze shaft was elaborately carved, though slightly worn. She handed it to the trader and began to pull down the three legs of the bundle she’d been carrying in her other hand. Once assembled, it provided a sturdy base for the spyglass, which Maarten set into the cupped receptacle waiting for it. He moved the e
ntire device next to the window, and motioned Nic over. “What is the name of the little lady?”

  “They call me Thorntongue. Why?” Darcy said, alarmed to be addressed.

  “He means the sloop, Thorntongue,” Nic said.

  “Oh.” Darcy looked as if she wished she could vanish into the rose-colored rug underfoot.

  Nic could hardly blame her for sounding so defensive. She was, after all, treading on enemy ground on this island. “She’s known as the Tears of Korfu.”

  Because the city was built on a steep slope along the base of Mount Gallina, and because Solange’s establishment was located at the highest of the three long east-to-west thoroughfares running parallel to the water, Nic found that the dining room at the building’s back had an elevated and admirable view of the bay. Looking down, he could see the rooftops of the building lining the next street over. “And where did you set anchor?” asked Maarten. When Maxl told him, the man swiveled the glass to the northwest. “Show me,” he told Nic.

  It took Nic a self-conscious moment to find the ship, unaccustomed as he was to seeing it from shore. Eventually, however, after trial and error, he managed to find the ship’s flag. “There,” he said to the man, careful to back away from the spyglass so that it didn’t shift.

  “Tears of Korfu,” read Maarten. “Aye, she’s a little beauty. Not as much wear on her as I expected, either. The type of craft sought after by those in the speedy shipping business. Or piracy.” He stood away from the glass and studied Nic and Maxl up and down, taking in the details of their costumes. “I take it you’re into speedy shipping, then,” he added blandly.

  “What can we get for her?” Nic asked, jumping right into the heart of the matter. He didn’t dare risk a look over at Knave, who he hoped was listening. “I have no wish to appear over-eager, but time is of the essence in this matter.”

  “If we were dealing in cash, I would give you four hundred and fifty kronen for her, no questions asked. That would be roughly twelve hundred oboloi. Or seven hundred Cassafortean lundri. Four hundred and fifty kronen is more than fair. You won’t have seller’s regret at that price.”