by V. Briceland
Nic had felt it the same moment as she. There was some force preventing them from stepping onto the deck. In the past, Nic had seen bits of metal magnetized by a lodestone sometimes attract each other, and yet sometimes repel. It was if some invisible and unseen hand pushed the pair away.
At least, that’s what it felt like for him. Darcy apparently was having a more violent reaction. Struggling for breath, she sat down on the plank. “There’s something evil here,” she rasped out.
She was not far from the truth, Nic realized. Every surface of the ship seemed to seethe with a malevolent energy that, in the early dawn, was almost visible to the naked eye. Black and forbidding, it seemed to snake from the wood in coils, like moisture on the foggiest of days. “Something evil,” Nic echoed.
“It’s in my head. It’s so loud—I can’t …” Darcy was near tears. She began to slide down the ramp, crossbar by crossbar. “Nic, come away.”
“Sssh,” Nic said. He stepped down onto the deck, pushing past that gentle force warding him off. He trespassed, he knew, but some compulsion drew him onward.
Then he heard it. It came from a distance, but at the same time, from very close by. It might have even come from within himself, for all he could tell. “Who are you? ” it asked.
“Do you hear that? That voice?”
Darcy shook her head, though whether she was answering his question or trying to rid herself of what plagued her, he could not tell. “Make it stop,” she said, sounding tearful.
“Who are you?” Nic looked all around, trying to find the words’ source. It sounded like a woman of deep and terrible voice, thrilling in the way Signora Arturo imagined herself during a climactic scene onstage; but it was like a little girl’s inquiry, curious and without malice. At the same time, it sounded like a bell. Its echoing reverberated, growing louder and louder. He raised his hands to stop his head from buzzing, and maybe to keep it from falling off his shoulders.
“Get away! ” Nic heard Darcy yell. “Get out of my head! ”
“Darcy?” Nic could barely see now. The purple blackness coiling from the deck had clouded his vision. Across the boards he stumbled, hands to his ears, trying to prevent the voice from getting in. Who are you? it asked, over and over. Who are you? Who are you? “I’m coming back. Don’t fret. I’m coming.”
He had to let go of his ears to find the ramp by feel. He climbed atop a small crate and onto the slanted board, gripping for dear life as he let himself down. Darcy was back on the pier, trembling in a small ball. “It’s all right,” Nic assured her. He knelt down and put an arm around her shoulder. “Has the voice gone away?” She nodded, sniffling. “It has for me, too. What did it say to you? Did it ask who you were?”
“No, it …” She struggled for words. “I couldn’t understand. It kept battering at me. It wanted to know something, but I didn’t know what. It was just … not right.”
Footsteps came pounding down the pier then, accompanied by points of bobbing light and the metallic sounds of the lanterns shaking on their grips. Maxl arrived first, his face full of concern. Nic nodded at him to answer his unspoken question. “She’s all right.” He watched Maxl as he looked first at the corsair as if expecting some sort of assailant to leap out from within, and then at how his face twisted with repugnance at the site of the black galleon.
“Th-Thorntongue?” said Jacopo, wrestling to produce his daughter’s assumed name. He and the rest of the crew had caught up, drawn by the sound of Darcy’s cries.
“I’m fine,” she said. Darcy was not the sort of girl to weep in front of an audience, Nic knew. She wiped her face and struggled to her feet.
Trond Maarten pushed his way through the assembled people. “Good gods,” he snapped in as impatient a tone as Nic had ever heard him use. “You didn’t go aboard, did you?”
“Yes, signor.” Nic stood as well, and drew himself up to his full height. “I did.”
“You’re a lunatic.” Maarten swore under his breath. “Or you wish to be. Do you know how many men that ship has driven mad?”
“How in the world can a ship drive a man mad?” asked Signor Arturo.
Maarten laughed without amusement. “You spend five minutes aboard it, mynheer, and learn for yourself.”
“Don’t! ” Darcy’s voice was sharp as she reached out to prevent anyone from taking the man up on the offer. That, more than anything else, convinced Armand to step back.
“What is it?” Nic could not shake the ship from his mind, try as he might. He had to know.
The trader shrugged. “Maarten’s Folly is what they call it. Named not, as you might imagine, after me, but after my father’s grandfather, who started the business. As I was told the tale, this … this monstrosity … sailed into Gallina harbor during a storm and came to a rest.”
“During a storm? Were there no survivors?” Nic asked.
“None. There were victims aboard, though, all deceased. Pirates. From a clan that operated off the shores of Ellada. All of them died in agony—not from the storm, mind you. But from the ship itself.”
“Preposterous,” said Jacopo.
“No, it’s not.” Darcy spoke up. “I would have been dead if I’d stayed aboard. It gets into your head. There’s something wrong with it.”
“Aye,” agreed Maarten. He ran his hand over his skull, obviously concerned that the pair had so close a call. “So said my great-grandfather when he claimed it from the harbor, thinking he could resell it for a tidy profit. So said my grandfather, and his son, when it sat untouched for decades, and when they had to watch greedy men try to claim the ship as theirs go mad before their very eyes. So said I, the one and only time I set foot aboard its wicked deck. I’d offer three hundred kronen to any man who could remove its blight from my docks, but no one dares touch it. Maarten’s Folly it will remain, during my life and that of my son. It’s cursed.”
The last word should have surprised Nic, but it didn’t. Nothing else could have produced the malignancy that gripped Maarten’s Folly. “Are you all right, Signor Drake?” asked Jacopo, extending a hand in his direction. “If so, let us return to the Sea Butterfly and be on our way, so that we trouble this good man no more.” Maarten smiled and demurred, indicating that they had caused no inconvenience whatsoever.
“No.” It was Nic who spoke, not any character he played. Yet his voice was as firm as the Drake’s and as sure. “I’m sorry, Old Man,” he said, shaking his head, and then at Darcy, intending the words for her as well. He jumped up onto the plank, causing several in the assembly, including Ingenue, to cry out in caution.
“Don’t be a fool, boy!” Though Nic was only a few handspans from the ground, Trond Maarten cried out as if he were attempting some dangerous stunt from the heights of the ship’s main mast.
“You heard the man, lad.” Armand Arturo was so flustered that he accidentally trod on Urso’s foot, but the large sailor caught him before he fell sideways.
The Signora produced a hanky from her bosom, into which she sniffled, “We couldn’t bear to lose you, dear boy.”
“This ship is from Cassaforte,” Nic said, holding out his arms in its direction. He couldn’t say why he was so certain, but it made sense. It had been the familiar curves of its hull, the graceful shapes of the windows and of even the masts themselves that had convinced him. Gnarled and blackened though it may have been, no other nation could have fashioned this craft.
“That may very well be,” said Maarten. “I have heard it speculated before that only Cassaforte, with its strange magics, could have produced something so foul.”
“She’s not foul,” said Nic. He made an appeal to the group. “She’s one of us.”
“It’s a ship, boy. Not a woman.” Knave’s comment was met with a few uneasy chuckles, and at least one boo from Infant Prodigy.
“I’ve done much for you in the la
st few days.” Nic looked around at the more than dozen people of whom he was in charge. He paused to allow those of the crew who could understand him to translate for those who could not. After he’d made the decision to abandon the Tears of Korfu and leave Macaque’s unconscious body behind, he’d spoken to the entire company and given them the opportunity to leave, if they so chose. Gallina was a town where any of Macaque’s five crewmen could find employment, legal or not. All had willingly chosen to follow him. He hoped they would listen now. “Allow me to do this for myself.”
Darcy, however, looked the most distressed of all. “You won’t be able to stand it,” she warned him, coming to the plank’s bottom but daring not to venture any further.
“A zingari woman once told my master I was cursed,” Nic told her. “She said that only when I encountered one more cursed than myself would it be broken.”
Her voice cracked with worry. “Since when have you listened to crazy zingari women?” she wanted to know. “You don’t even listen to me!”
“Heed the girl,” said Maarten, still pale. “She has your best interests in mind.”
Yes, Nic realized. She did indeed. “I will return,” he told her in a low voice. She nodded, then staggered back to her father. Nic tried to reassure her silently, but she refused to meet his gaze. To the rest of the company he gave a nod. The Arturos held each other for comfort. Maxl stood and gave his best salute in pure Charlemance style, with the palm faced out and the neck and back rigid. Maarten swore to himself once more and mopped his brow.
At the ramp’s top, Nic paused, rebuffed again by the soft wall that seemed to stand in his way. Pushing through felt like passing from warm air into a pillow of cold. Scarcely had his foot touched the deck when the terrible ache behind his eyes began once more. The back of his throat tickled as it might before the worst of colds, then increased in intensity a hundredfold. He found it difficult to breathe. “Who are you?” he heard the woman’s voice asking.
He stumbled to the galleon’s center, foot over foot, barely able to stand. The pressure behind his eyes was so intense that, open or closed, all he could see were whorls of purple light. Nic’s shoulder thudded against the main mast. It felt oily to the touch. “I’m Nic,” he managed to mumble, though his lips felt as if they’d swollen and grown thick. Why had he thought that he, of all people, could break a curse? “I’m Niccolo. I’m nobody.”
The voice wasn’t satisfied. A vicious wind seemed to whip across its surface, stronger and more frigid than any storm the ship had ever weathered. He could feel its icy blast on his face as the anger of whatever inhabited this ship was unleashed in full force. “Who are you? Who are you?” The words battered away in his head, trying to break down every bastion of sanity it found there. Around him, Nic began to see the unearthly forms of men, pale as the blue summer sky and transparent as glass, mere wisps of forms writhing in pain. Perhaps they were the spirits of those who had died upon the galleon at sea, or the unfortunate crew from Ellada. Perhaps they were nothing more than the result of madness. Nic could feel the agony wracking every inch of their soundless frames. It made him grit his teeth, so intense was the rictus it caused. “I … am … Niccolo,” he fought to gasp out. “I am … Niccolo No-Name, the orphan. I am Niccolo the foundling, nobody’s pride and joy.”
“Who are you? ”
He used the mast to straighten himself, still fighting against the cold and the stabbing betrayal of every muscle. If this entity wanted to know who he was, then fine, he thought to himself, stubborn to the end. He’d tell it who he was. He’d tell it every single person he’d ever been. “I am Niccolo the servant, the dung-slinger, the sewer rat. I am Niccolo the game skinner, the boot shiner, Niccolo the digger. I am Nic of the kitchens, Nic the rag-boy, Nic who tends to the mules. I am Niccolo who sleeps in the stables with the pack animals.” With every word he felt stronger and more contrary. His voice had begun cracked and defeated, but now he spoke loudly against the zephyr’s howl. “I am Niccolo Dattore. That is the name I chose for myself. I am Nic the dogsbody, the card-fetcher. I am Nic, to be wagered at taroccho. Niccolo, the stagehand.”
The entity roared, but his cry was louder. “I am Nic the pirate-killer, the destroyer of ships. I am the Drake, feared and respected by all. I am Nic who wants to go home, and if I am blessed, I will be Nic the lover. I am Niccolo Dattore, the cursed. And by the gods, this ship is meant to be mine!”
The world split in two. Later, when he remembered the massive noise, Nic could never be sure whether or not the sound was real, or whether it had been something he’d imagined. Certainly none of those on the pier could recall hearing the mighty cracking, nor seeing the brilliant flash of light that followed. In fact, none of them reported hearing Nic’s cries against the invisible tempest at all. To Nic, though, the noise was both majestic and awe-inspiring. Never in any temple had he ever heard anything that moved him as much, nor would the sight of any king inspire him in quite the same way. Once the sound had receded into mere memory, he blinked, able to see once again.
The sun was rising. He stood upon the galleon still, alone and upright. Gulls cried overhead, arguing over their breakfasts, while in the distance he could hear the sounds of bells summoning crews to their duties. From the town was the same normal ruckus that might have been heard in Massina, or Côte Nazze, or Cassaforte itself. And as for the galleon—well, it was a ship. A mighty ship, yes, and one that had been neglected for far too long. Where before seething blackness had covered it like a mantle, now was merely a curious sort of crust. It was very like paint carelessly applied over a dirty surface, so that it cracked and peeled once dry. Nic knelt down and touched his hands to the deck. When he rubbed hard, the layer began to flake away, revealing the golden wood beneath.
His fingers ran over the smoothness under the grime. The curse’s voice, implacable and demanding, had vanished. In its place, he heard the sound of distant music, as must a fiddle player when he ran his fingers over his instrument’s strings without bowing. Maarten’s Folly sang beneath his fingers, its phantom strain a balm to his soul. Stronger now, he rose, though he itched to hear that song again.
Niccolo Dattore, owner of the galleon, leaned over its head rails to salute his astonished crew below. They gaped at him, scarcely able to trust their eyes. “What?” he cried out in a voice that was not the Drake’s, but his own. His true own. “Am I that frightening a sight? Come aboard, all, and bring the provisions. Oh, and Maarten,” he called out, planting his hands on his hips as he assumed a posture of sovereignty. “I’ll be accepting those three hundred kronen, for taking your Folly off of your hands.”
The tradesman blinked rapidly, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Certainly,” he said at last. “Certainly, mynheer.”
Nic watched him scurry away. Armand might have offered to buy him out of his indentures, but now Nic wouldn’t have to rely upon anyone else to become a free man. He had done that himself.
Of all the wars I have seen waged, those upon the sea are the most brutal and the bloodiest. Upon land at least the earth may reclaim its own, but to be lost amidst a maelstrom of blood, wind, and water seems almost heartbreakingly sad.
—Captain John Smythe-Passelyon, in a private letter to his wife
Without challenge, Maarten’s Folly had raised its sails and slid past the battalion of sixteen warships. The smallest of them had been easily twice the Folly’s size, and the Folly was no tiny craft. By mid-morning, even the most vocal of those who had not wanted to leave Gallina aboard a cursed galleon—specifically, Ingenue and perhaps more surprisingly, the substantial Urso, who proved to be surprisingly superstitious—were somewhat mollified. They grudgingly had to admit that their new quarters were fairly spacious.
If one overlooked the black crust that adhered to the ship’s every surface, they were even fairly luxurious. Though the original crew was used to the Tears of Korfu’s tight accommodations, the Arturos�
�� troupe was not. Likewise, though the actors were accustomed to late-night gossips and the shambles of what they considered their backstage area, the original crew had been befuddled by the abundance of women’s skirts and foundation garments spread around their quarters, the ever-present quantities of sewing as all the actors repurposed their old costumes for every possible piratical occasion, and most especially, the very notion of laundering. Maarten’s Folly, on the other hand, had easily been constructed for a fifty-man crew and very likely could have billeted seventy-five. In the two levels of hold below, both the real pirates and their imitations could rattle about without finding a pin cushion or an unreasonably filthy stray garment occupying their personal space. The hatches allowed far more light and fresh air below than any of the seasoned sailors had ever experienced.
As for the crust, it began to vanish almost the moment the crew had stepped on board. Some areas, such as the thoroughfares on the deck that saw greater amounts of traffic, began to shine through immediately. Water and scrubbing seemed to help. Even those areas beyond reach of a human hand began to lose their burned and sooty appearance. By the second day of their voyage, where the ship’s name ought to have been painted had begun to appear the traces of letters. LY were the only legible ones among them.
“The Sailor’s Ally,” Armand Arturo had suggested that morning, when they’d all leaned over the head rails to stare at the emerging wording.
“The Lying Fool,” Knave said, after silently sounding out the spelling.
The Signora dreamily looked into the distance. “Lena’s Lyre. That would be the most romantic.”
They all peered at the lettering as if expecting the rest to reveal itself instantly. Stubbornly, it did not. Yet over the next two days they all noticed changes around the galleon. It seemed to be melting from one shape into another, like carved ice on a warm day. The skull-like projections to the sides of every wooden door that had seemed so forbidding, so sepulcher-like beneath the black scab, were revealed to be carved vines of grapes and gourds. The fireplace in the captain’s quarters that had resembled a tortured face caught mid-scream broke loose from its black covering and proved itself an elaborate hearth of such intricacy that it had to have been carved by descendants of Caza Legnoli. It would have rivaled any hearth in the finest rooms of Cassaforte’s cazas, or perhaps even the palace itself.