* * *
Clarice was dressed in her finest clothing, and Dominick wore Sprunt’s embroidered vest beneath his blue jacket and had donned a plumed tricorne hat. He’d wound a long sash around his waist and stuck a set of pistols into it; Clarice hoped they wouldn’t need to use them. Or her sword.
They sailed to shore as the last light of sunset faded from the sky.
Mr. Thompson had given them directions to their meeting place. As Clarice had suspected from the moment of their arrival, the House was high on the hill. It must have a good view of the harbor from that height. And yet it cannot be seen. Soon enough, I suppose, we shall discover how that trick is managed.
They beached the little skiff and found the path Mr. Thompson had indicated. The dockside establishments were noisy and full of people, but as they climbed, they passed into what was clearly a residential district and left the noise behind. The path became a road lined with houses that were clearly the permanent residences of well-off individuals. Lights were on in some of the windows, and once Clarice heard the tinkle of a piano. But they saw no one.
Who lived in these grand houses? Who supplied their needs—everything from wine to candles to beef? If Dorado was more than a free port for pirates, how much more? Were some of the people who lived here not actually pirates—nor involved with them? And if so, who were they and what did they do? Clearly they had no objections to being ruled by pirates, or they would not be here … would they?
And most of all, precisely how many real pirates were they dealing with?
“And here we are,” Dominick said. “Or … we’re somewhere, at any rate.”
Clarice looked up.
The road ended in a set of gateposts. Atop each pillar of them stood a lantern that burned with a waving blue flame; not sorcery, this (though any viewers might be tempted to think so), but lamps burning alcohol instead of oil. Between the gateposts, a narrow path led into the jungle. Nothing could be seen beyond, and the track itself vanished into the shadows after just a few feet.
“Charming,” Clarice said. “But not very welcoming.” At least nobody is waiting here to pounce on us and take us prisoner, she thought hopefully. But why would they bother? After all, we intend to walk right into their den.
“Perhaps there are better accommodations farther on.” Dominick offered her an ironic bow, doffing his hat and sweeping it low. “After you, my dear fellow.”
“You just want to see if they’re going to shoot at me,” Clarice said archly, and strode forward.
The path rose steeply upward. Once her eyes had adjusted, Clarice could see it was marked, after a fashion. Masks were attached to trees at the edges of the route. They (like the lamps) were meant to frighten; they glowed with phosphorescence and bore a family resemblance to the gargoyles that graced the heights of Swansgaarde Cathedral.
“Demon masks,” Dominick said dismissively. “And no magic needed to make them glow, either, but I imagine they’d scare off anyone with a guilty conscience.”
“Fortunately ours are clear,” Clarice said dryly, and Dominick chuckled.
The undergrowth rustled as they passed, and Clarice kept her hand on the hilt of her sword. After a few more moments’ walk, they saw the glow of firelight up ahead, and shortly thereafter, they stepped out into a clearing.
“Well,” Clarice said after a moment’s pause. “If the masks and the lanterns didn’t scare everyone off, this certainly would.”
The courtyard was ringed by flaming torches. Among them, the figureheads of dead ships stood like watching demons. The building at the far end of the courtyard was made not of stone or planks, but of whole logs that raised it twenty feet off the ground. The enormous tree-trunk pillars were decorated with garlands of human skulls interspersed with bizarre and disturbing trinkets. A child’s doll. A lady’s hat. The remains of a clock. Light spilled from the building’s open windows, the shutters were thrown back. The window frames held no glass, but though Clarice could see the shadows of moving figures within, the night was eerily silent.
And that is thaumaturgy, she said to herself. Dr. Karlavaegen spoke of such enchantments, and I think there was one on the council chamber in the castle, though of course I never tested it. But no one outside will be able to eavesdrop upon anything that goes on within. Or even know what it might be.
She looked to see if Dominick had noticed, but his gaze was fixed on the open level above the building proper. It was nothing more than a roof supported by pillars with a low wooden rail around the edge. As she followed his gaze, she saw the barrel of the enormous signal cannon jutting outward over the edge of the rail, a spyglass on a tripod beside it. She’d known this must be some sort of vantage point, and she’d expected the signal gun, but she had not expected the smaller guns that flanked it. She could see that those could be aimed toward the courtyard below.
“My,” Dominick said mildly.
“Courage,” Clarice muttered under her breath as they started forward.
At the top of the stairs two enormous doors flared in the torchlight like mirrors, for they were covered in pure gold wrought in a design of piled skulls. As they reached the doors, the right-side one swung open, flooding the night air with the sound of talk and laughter from within. The door was held by a man who might have sprung out of a picture-book drawing of a pirate. The monkey on his shoulder bared its teeth at them and shrieked; the man smiled, exposing a gap-toothed expanse of brown teeth.
“Welcome!” he said, bowing them inside with a theatrical gesture.
“Ah! Here’s the pretty captain and his pretty boy!” Melisande Watson called.
Clarice was about to remove her hat as she entered, but seeing that Dominick did not remove his, left it as it was. The interior was dominated by the largest table Clarice had ever seen. The building must have been created around it, for it filled the room—and the room was thirty feet across.
The table was round, and in its center was a golden compass rose, the twelve points of the compass marked out. Save for that, the whole surface was a map made in colored stones, but a map such as Clarice had never seen, for the continents seemed like afterthoughts. She recognized the coast of New Hesperia, and the scatter of the Hispalides that led to it. A single crystal struck hot fire from the lamps hanging overhead; Clarice was certain it marked the island upon which they now stood. But the map was dominated by the sea, depicted in a thousand shades of blue and green, filled with fanciful sea monsters and ornamented with personified winds.
She’d taken in the table and its surface with no more than a glance, for the table was surrounded by a score of chairs, and more than half of them were filled.
But there are only two ships in the harbor besides ours! she thought in panic. When I heard we were to come and give an account of ourselves, I thought it would be only Captain Watson and Captain Harrison, and a few people from the town, perhaps. Oh, I was so confident that we would be able to fool a little handful of people, even pirates, but this is …
She wanted to think Dominick was as aware of the danger as she was, but he gave no sign of it as he made for a chair in the center of the empty side of the table. Clarice quickly sat down beside him. At least I see no sign yet that they mean to kill us out of hand, she told herself hopefully, striving for calm. And I do not see Reverend Dobbs, either, which is more to the point.
“I am Dominick Moryet of the brig Asesino,” Dominick said coolly. “Who is it who asks me to give an account of myself?”
Four women were here besides Captain Watson. One of them was enough like her to be her twin. The other three were far less flamboyant, and if not for her own practice in disguise, Clarice might have taken at least two them for youths. All of them regarded Dominick with cool professional interest.
“Why, it is the House of the Four Winds itself which asks, my fine young fighting cockerel.” The man who spoke wore opulent, even princely, garb, from a gold-laced coat of claret velvet to the ransom in gems that gleamed upon every finger. If Clarice had seen him on the
streets of Albion or Vinarborg or Heimlichstadt itself, she would have been certain he was some visiting prince.
“Edmund Bell Fairfax, master of Sirocco, at your service, sir,” he added. “And these are my fellow Sea Lords—and Ladies, of course.” Six other men were seated at the table—Ifrani, Caribe, even one with the unmistakable copper-bronze skin of a Hesperian. As Clarice surveyed them, she noticed that each displayed a talisman identical to the one nestled under her own shirt.
Captain Watson nodded, smiling at the acknowledgment. “Let us introduce ourselves to our new brother, and then we can all be friendly. I have already made myself known to him. And here is my sister Aubrianna, mistress of the Lusty Leman.”
Melisande’s twin nodded slightly, her unsmiling gaze fixed on Dominick’s face. “And yet, I ask which of them is our brother, for our good Captain Moryet seems a bit … underdressed,” she said at last.
“This is what you want to see,” Clarice said, taking the talisman from around her neck and setting it on the table between her and Dominick. “As for why I carry it and not he, I do not think that is any concern of yours.”
“Well spoken, young sir!” Fairfax said. “He shows a proper spirit, doesn’t he? Let us drink to his health!”
There was a general roar of assent, and as if that were a signal, Fleta appeared at Fairfax’s side, carrying a silver tray with tankards stacked upon it in a precarious pyramid. Behind her came the doorkeeper, his arms full of bottles, and another man behind him, his arms wrapped around an enormous cut-crystal punch bowl nearly large enough for Clarice to bathe in.
“The punch!” Captain Harrison roared, and the cry was taken up by everyone in the room. “The punch!”
At first Clarice had regarded the bowl with relief, thinking that at least she would not be called upon to drink an entire quart of rum. But as the ingredients were added to the bowl, she began to wish that simple wholesome rum was what was being offered.
First, a boxful of golden sugar lumps was thrown into the bowl. The ingredients must have been prepared beforehand, for next, the doorkeeper returned with a kettle of boiling water and poured it over the sugar. Next came a bowl of fruit—lemons, limes, and oranges—all cut into chunks.
Then Fairfax began pouring in the liquor. Clarice lost count of the number of bottles it took to fill the bowl, but she caught the scents of brandy and rum, and even a couple of bottles of claret.
“We should have brought them a few bottles as a guest gift,” Dominick murmured, leaning close to speak into her ear.
Then came a platter of something diced too small for Clarice to identify. It looked like roots. She hoped it was ginger—and not mandrake.
At last the bowl was full to brimming. Fairfax got to his feet and gave it an enthusiastic stir with the barrel of his pistol—slopping a good portion of the dark liquid onto the table—then reached into his coat for a small bottle that gleamed black in the lamplight. He drew out the cork with his teeth.
“And now—” He upended the bottle over the steaming, swirling liquid. The bottle’s contents splashed out. Though it looked like nothing more than water, at its addition the surface of the bowl burst into flames. The others, who seemed to expect this to happen, cheered.
It is only a small enchantment, Clarice told herself firmly. A party trick. I have seen similar things a score of times.
The flames had not yet begun to die down when the tankards were plunged into the bowl, their holders heedless of the flames. As the tankards were filled and passed around, the other members of the council made their own introductions. None of their names meant anything to Clarice, but from Dominick’s expression she was alone in her happy ignorance.
Since the bowl was on the far side of the table—or perhaps because they were guests?—Captain Fairfax filled a pair of tankards and shoved them across the table. The heavy objects slid freely across the slick, wet surface, and it took an alert pounce on Clarice’s part to keep both herself and Dominick from getting doused in punch.
When she raised her tankard to her lips and sipped, she could barely discern any hint of alcohol. The punch was warm and tasted of oranges and—oddly—cherries. But she’d seen what had gone into it and intended to be cautious. At least no one intends to poison us, she thought hopefully. Only to get us very drunk.
“Now, here we are all matey,” Captain Fairfax said heartily. “And our ears itching, one and all, for a rousing sea story, full of blood and adventure!” He regarded Dominick expectantly.
“Then I’ll tell you one.” Dominick took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, in a far country, there lived a very wicked man…”
The pirates leaned forward, with varying expressions of interest or malice on their faces.
The story Dominick told seemed, at first, to be a nursery tale, for it involved a great pirate who had no ship at all, and yet was the most successful buccaneer in all the Nine Oceans. After a few minutes, Clarice realized he was telling these people the story of Samuel Sprunt.
Who survived the sinking—or loss—of five ships: Aglaia, Queen Gloriana, Pride of Albion, Atlantis, and Sirocco. Captain Fairfax’s ship is named Sirocco! Oh, Dominick, I do hope you know what you’re doing.
All she could do was keep her face still and smooth as he spoke. He held the medallion in his hands now, turning it over and over in his fingers as his voice went on, as light and cheerful as if he really were telling a story fit for children. The heavy gold chain slithered and twisted against the stone table.
“… and the wicked man, a sea captain of broad fame and noble repute, plied his trade wherever he chose, and the joke of it was, men paid him good gold angels to take their ships from them. He had a handpicked crew, and a merry one, and for their sport he would incite the good, honest men on his stolen ships to mutiny. But you know the rest of the tale, I’m sure…”
“I do not!” Captain Fairfax said instantly. “Pray conclude it, my good friend. What became of this terrible, wicked man?”
“He talked a great deal,” Dominick said with a feral smile utterly unlike his normal expression. “And in the wrong places. You see … to take ships here in the West is a dangerous thing—though rewarding, I grant you. But sail East, and turn your guns on the ships of the Great Cham, or the argosies of the princes of Hind, and you may sail West again just as you please, your hold full of spoil and yourself nothing more than an honest trader. And so my master did these many years—you may ask after him in Albion, for he sails for Barnabas Bellamy, whom all men know.”
Oh, that’s a nice touch, Clarice thought sardonically.
“But I regret to say my master and I fell out,” Dominick said. “I wanted a ship of my own, and he swore I would not have it while my skills were of such great use to him. It was then I chanced, by happy fortune, to make the acquaintance of … the late Captain Samuel Sprunt.”
“And is this the terrible, wicked man of whom you spoke?” Captain Watson asked with bright interest.
Dominick smiled at her. “Why, the very same, dear madam! I knew of him by reputation, of course, and thought that to congratulate him on his seafaring luck might cause some of it to attach to me. And … he told me it was not luck at all.”
“That seems unlike our dear Samuel,” Captain Harrison murmured gently.
“He was a friend? My condolences,” Dominick said with fulsome insincerity. “But knowing him as you do, you will agree he was a man of great appetites.”
“He drank like a porpoise,” Aubrianna Watson said flatly.
“Why, so he did!” Dominick agreed cheerfully. “And he had been drinking all that day, you see, and after I heard what he had said, we drank together all that night, with me pressing him for his story the entire time. I let him know enough to know I had been in the same trade, and that oiled his tongue nicely. He said the Eastern trade my master had founded was all well and good, but that a man might also sail the Western seas and do just as he liked … if he had a good port to call home. Why, I signed articles with him tha
t very day! Asesino sailed not a week later, and … here we are. He meant to sail Asesino here, after all. I thought my friend and I would save him the trouble.”
“Just like that?” It took Clarice a moment to recollect the speaker’s name. Nigel Brown, captain of the Tamerlane. In this company, his clothing, though of fine quality, was subdued to the point of dowdiness; he wore a blue coat with modest gold piping, and a buff weskit beneath it, and no jewelry other than the medallion. He looked like a kindly grandfather. She doubted he was one.
“He didn’t object much after I put a yard of steel in his gut.” Clarice needed to convince these people that she, too, was a hardened pirate. “Of course, in my own defense, he was trying to put us all over the side at the time.”
Captain Fairfax nodded as if this all made perfect sense. “And what of his companions, little man? Did you slay them all?”
“Certainly not!” Clarice said, pretending indignation. “We set them adrift.”
“They might still be out there,” Dominick said helpfully. “Ah … somewhere. I didn’t make any particular note of where we left them. But you might be able to find them if you cared to look.”
“To the locker with them!” Captain Harrison said roundly. “They were fool enough to be taken. Let the sea be their fate. And it’s better than swinging.” He fingered the noose about his neck. “I can say that for certain.”
So much for the “brotherhood” of the Pirate Brotherhood! Clarice thought.
“A pretty story,” Captain Watson said, “from a pretty lad. But … ladies and gentlemen of the Four Winds, what proof is there of it beyond his bare word? He and his companion come bearing the proper token, but … there are other ways of coming by one of these.” She fingered her own medallion.
“Yes,” Clarice said. “I could have bought it in a pawnshop.” She plucked it from Dominick’s hands and slipped the chain over her head again. “But I didn’t.”
“No…” Another of the brethren sat forward. He wore no hat, and his head was shaved clean. His white teeth were brilliant against his black-coffee skin as he smiled. “You might have had it from the hangman—or from one of the Albion Sea Lords, along with your commission. Sad to say, drink isn’t the only thing to make a man sing. The whip—the rack—hot irons—any of them will do, you know.”
The House of the Four Winds: Book One of One Dozen Daughters Page 17