Deadweather and Sunrise: The Chronicles of Egg, Book 1

by Geoff Rodkey

  “He’ll die if you maroon him.”

  “But not while we’re watching. There’s a fine line between entertainment and barbarism. Now, get it done! I’ve got LOADS of planning to do.” Pilcher opened his cabin door and motioned for the captain to exit.

  “For the record, you’ve ordered this action against my judgment.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. That’s fine. Cover your backside. Just do it! Shoo!” He waved his hands, and the captain trudged out, still shaking his head.

  Pilcher shut the door. Then turned and leaned back against it, smiling at me like a cat with a mouse under its paw.

  “My, my, my… I’m going to make you SUCH a nasty little pirate.”

  IT WAS JUST AFTER BREAKFAST, and four hundred pairs of eyes were glued to Pilcher—pink-faced and sweaty, his voice booming from the dining room stage as he narrated the breathtaking, although completely untrue, tale of my discovery and capture.

  “Seaman Grimsby lay crumpled on the deck, bleeding and unconscious, clinging to life, as the bloodthirsty cur secured the knife in his teeth and leapt to the rigging…”

  I was the bloodthirsty cur. I stood next to Pilcher, legs in chains, my head and arms locked into a makeshift stock the ship’s carpenter had built on such short notice that fresh splinters dug into my neck every time I tried to shift my position.

  “The pirate climbed, catlike, up forty feet of ratline to an errant rope, from whence he swung, like some terrible ape of the darkest jungle, over the heads of Leeds and Austin and onto the poop deck.

  “Austin’s blood ran cold as he realized the object of the pirate’s design—the swivel gun! If he reached it before them, their death was assured—the bowels of our intrepid young seamen would be splattered about the deck like a drunkard’s vomit…”

  Next to me were the heroes of the story, the three handsomest crew members Pilcher could find. Grimsby’s head was heavily bandaged, Leeds had his arm in a sling, and Austin had a bright red cut down three inches of his cheek that had taken Pilcher an hour of careful work with a theater makeup kit to make convincing.

  “There wasn’t a moment to spare! Austin searched out Leeds, locking eyes with his compatriot across the fog-shrouded deck. Leeds’s arm, broken and useless, hung by his side like a salami. But one arm—and the brave heart of a hero—was all he needed. He drew his sword…”

  I had to admit, Pilcher told a good story. Everyone was entranced. A few of the ladies in the crowd were swooning. The men and boys glared at me with hate.

  I would have tried to speak up in my own defense, but Pilcher had warned me that every time I opened my mouth during the performance, he’d add another ten lashes to the twenty he’d already promised to lay across my back before the marooning. I’d read about the lash in a history of the Rovian Navy—in experienced hands, thirty lashes could drain enough blood to kill a man.

  So I kept my mouth shut. Pilcher built the story to a brilliant climax—apparently, I would have come out on top if Grimsby hadn’t woken up and distracted me at a critical moment in the final sword fight—and finished up with my confessing to him my fiendish plan to slit the throats of the captain and crew and send up a signal flare to trigger the final, fatal ambush by my dark master.

  “And who was this evil puppet master, his greedy eyes coveting our fair prize from across the Blue Sea? Why, it was none other than—”

  Pilcher stepped over to me, grabbed my hair in his fist, and pulled my head up violently, exposing the flame tattoo he’d inked onto my neck an hour ago.

  “BURN HEALY!”

  There was a collective gasp. Toward the back, a woman gave a terrified shriek and fainted into her pastry.

  Pilcher nodded grimly. “Cast your eyes upon him, ladies and gentlemen—this emissary of the devil.”

  One of the brats from the gun deck, the ten-year-old with the cruel face, rushed the stage, yelled “EVIL!” at me, and spit in my eye.

  There was a tense pause as the audience looked to Pilcher for his reaction. None of them had captured a pirate before, and they didn’t seem to know if spitting was appropriate behavior.

  Unfortunately for me, Pilcher smiled approvingly at the brat. “Right you are, son! He’s the devil himself!”

  This unleashed a wave of hate, all of it directed at me. A crowd of people rushed the stage, and in the several minutes before Pilcher had enough and called out for order to be restored, I was slapped, punched, kicked, pelted with food and hot coffee, and spit on by at least a dozen people, young and old, men and women alike.

  “Fear not, my good people!” he called out as they returned to their seats. “This incorrigible fiend will have his reward! We’ve set sail for the nearest uninhabited island! Upon sight of it—in accordance with the laws of the sea—he shall be tied to the mast, given twenty lashes, and marooned with no possessions but the mercy of Our Savior!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd. Pilcher beamed with pleasure.

  “The shovelpuck tournament will begin immediately afterward. Thank you! Enjoy your morning!”

  ONCE THE DINING ROOM had emptied, two crew members pulled me out of the stocks, chained my wrists together, and took me down to the hold, where they tossed me inside a tiny storeroom with no light. I heard the clank of a lock being put on the door, followed by their footsteps fading away up the stairs.

  I wiped the spit and the blood off as best I could in the dark. Then I cried. Not from the pain, although there was plenty of that, but the humiliation. The way I’d been treated made me feel sick and dirty inside, and the fact that it had been done by some of the finest members of Rovian society was almost impossible to believe. Even Adonis, vicious as he was, rarely spat on me.

  And while I could imagine things like that happening in Port Scratch—in fact, I’d SEEN things like that happen—I’d always consoled myself, when I dreamed about life outside of Deadweather, with the thought that somewhere there were better, more civilized people, who wouldn’t turn into a pack of snarling dogs because a man who was good with words had whipped them into a frenzy.

  In its way, this was worse, and more demoralizing, than learning Roger Pembroke was evil and wanted to kill me. Because he was just one man. This was a whole boat full of the best sort of people, and when I was chained and helpless, they’d treated me like an animal.

  And there was worse to come. I was going to be flogged, probably halfway to death, and then left alone on a deserted island with no food or water.

  They might not even bother to unchain me first.

  I tried not to think about it. Instead, I thought about Millicent’s smile. And playing catch with Mung when I was little. And jelly bread. And Millicent again, not just her smile, but her laugh, and her walk, and the way the sunlight got caught in her hair…

  I drifted into sleep. I’m not sure how long.

  I woke up to a distant booming that I thought was thunder. I hoped the rain wouldn’t delay my marooning, because I wanted to get it over with.

  But it wasn’t rain—I never heard the thunder again. Instead, I heard stranger things. The heavy footfalls of people running on the deck above. Distant shouting. More footfalls—dozens of them. A pounding so fierce I could feel it through the floorboards.

  Then there were screams.

  Then the rising thrum of feet, spreading down through the boat like a flood, bringing with it the crash and thud of objects breaking by the hundreds, accompanied by loud, rough voices sprinkled with rum-soaked laughter.

  The mayhem went on for an hour or more. Finally, I heard footsteps clomping down the stairs to the hold.

  An ax head struck the door, making me jump back in terror and opening a thin crack of light near an upper hinge. The ax struck twice more at the hinges, and the door fell away.

  I was looking up at a scarred, ugly, heavily bearded man. He wore a bright blue velvet topcoat that he must have acquired recently, because it didn’t match up at all with the filthy breeches and soiled shirt underneath.

  Seeing me on the
floor in chains, he burst into laughter. Then he called out to someone over his shoulder:

  “Sully! Come look! ’Ey’ve got some kind o’ prisoner!”

  A second man joined him, equally filthy and unkempt, except for the powdered wig that sat crookedly on top of his head.

  He laughed, too. Then gave me a wink.

  “Good news, boyo—ship’s under new management.”

  GUTS

  I stared up at the two pirates, wondering what their smiles meant. Were they friendly? Or just happy to find someone already in chains, making me that much easier to torture and kill? If they tortured me, would they use that ax?

  As I sat there worrying, the one with the ax got impatient and kicked me on the underside of my foot.

  “Get up! Liberation Day! Need an invitation?”

  He staggered off, and a second later I heard the chunk! of his ax taking down another storeroom door. The other pirate, the tall one called Sully, held out his hand and helped me up.

  “Come on, boyo. Get ye a drink.”

  I followed him up to the dining room. It had been ransacked. The furniture was broken and overturned, and big chunks of the wall plaster lay in crumbled piles on the floor. Half a dozen rough-looking pirates, all in rich men’s clothes they must have taken from the passengers, clustered around the open galley door, its contents spilling out over the floor like a cornucopia.

  They were mostly ignoring the food in favor of a barrel of wine they dipped into with pewter mugs. Judging by the way they swayed on their feet, they’d been at it awhile.

  Sully picked up two mugs from the floor on his way to the barrel.

  “Look what Barney found in the hold!”

  The pirates turned as one and broke into laughter at the sight of me standing there in chains.

  “Wot? This a slave ship?”

  “Nah. ’At’s what ’appens round ’ere when ye use the wrong fork at dinner!”

  “Probably didn’t wipe ’is nose with a kerchief. Mummy put paid to you, eh?”

  They laughed some more as Sully handed me a mug full of wine. “Drink up. Look like ye need it.”

  I took a polite drink, holding the mug with both hands because the chain between my wrists was only a few inches long. Almost immediately, I felt the warmth spread through my empty stomach.

  Then I sort of stood there feeling awkward. The pirates had gone back to their drinking, ignoring me. They didn’t seem to care one way or another what I did.

  I looked at the food strewn over the floor in front of the galley. “Mind if I eat?”

  “’Ave at it. World’s yer oyster.” The pirate nearest the galley door stepped aside to let me in.

  I entered. The galley had been ransacked even more thoroughly than the dining room, but I found some bread and dried beef and had my fill.

  When I rejoined the pirates, they were arguing amongst themselves.

  “Shouldn’t ’ave put ’em off. Valuable ’ostages is what they are.”

  “More trouble than it’s worth. Where d’ye ransom ’em? Sunrise? And sail in range of them shore cannons?”

  “Yeh! And be ’angin’ around when His Majesty’s frigates show up.”

  “Stuff it! Rovian Navy ain’t put an oar in the Blue Sea since the war ended.”

  Sully noticed me standing there. “Want to get them chains off? Find Big Jim. Got a ring o’ keys might fit. Think ’e’s up on deck.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and started to shuffle off, my leg chains clanking.

  “Wait!”

  I turned around. Sully was looking at me funny. He stepped over to me, staring closely at my neck.

  “That a Healy mark?”

  Hearing this, the other pirates immediately grew interested. And a lot less friendly.

  “Are ye one of ’em?”

  “No! I’m not—”

  “Is ’e tattooin’ young boys now? Run out o’ real men?”

  “Might ’ave to slit that throat of yours.”

  “I’m not one of them! It’s drawn on! Really!” I stammered, rubbing at the spot where Pilcher had drawn the tattoo. “It’s not real! The ship’s director drew it on me so the passengers would think I was a pirate. But I’m not! It was like a play. I was the villain.”

  They were staring at me, confused and suspicious. This explanation wasn’t going over well.

  “Is it coming off?” I licked my fingers and rubbed the spit furiously into my neck, but I couldn’t see the tattoo, so I didn’t know if it was having any effect.

  “Not much.”

  “Can you put some wine on it or something? My hands are, you know…”

  Sully reluctantly dribbled wine onto my neck. I rubbed it into my skin, the chains on my wrists knocking painfully against my collarbone.

  “Is it fading? It’s only ink! Really.”

  Sully shrugged. I could see from his face he wasn’t sure whether to believe me. “I’d stay away from the Ripper if I was you.”

  I CLANKED UP the stairs in my chains, my chin tucked into my chest, trying to keep my shirt collar hiked up to cover the mark as I passed various marauding, drunken pirates.

  “The Ripper” almost certainly meant Ripper Jones, and I dreaded what might happen if he saw the mark. He was legendary for his viciousness—like most Blue Sea pirates, he was in and out of Deadweather, and when he left, there were usually bodies in his wake. Two years ago, we came down the mountain to buy supplies and found three burnt, headless corpses swinging in the air over the main street. One of them had played dice with the Ripper and made the mistake of winning. The second had argued for the first one’s life. And the third was a tavern keeper who’d asked the Ripper if he’d mind not stringing up the corpses quite so directly in front of his tavern entrance.

  And everyone knew Ripper Jones hated Burn Healy. I didn’t know why—professional jealousy, maybe. But while most of the pirate captains and their crews mingled freely in Port Scratch, as friendly as pirates can be, the Healy and Jones crews kept well apart, drinking in different taverns and only crossing paths to murder each other.

  If Ripper Jones was in charge, I decided it’d be best to try and get off the ship as soon as possible. But first I had to get the chains off my arms and legs, which meant I had to find Big Jim, whoever he was.

  I passed the cabin decks, which were getting loudly ransacked, and the gun deck, where two pirates had found the shovelpuck sticks and were using them to pummel each other. Finally, I stepped out into the sunlight of the main deck. The fog had long since lifted, and although the sun was well on its way to setting, it still felt hot on my face.

  The first thing I noticed was the massive pile of clothes in the middle of the deck, easily five feet high and three times as wide. A few pirates milled around it, trying on outfits.

  One was wearing a ball gown. That seemed odd.

  But less odd, I guess, than a boy in chains. As I approached the pile and started to search it—I’d had an idea, and I wanted to get on with it before someone stopped me—the men gradually noticed me and began to stare with their mouths open.

  “’Oo are you?” asked the one in the ball gown.

  “I was a stowaway.” As I searched the pile, I kept my chin tucked down into my neck, which probably looked strange, too. “They chained me up to put on a show for the passengers.”

  “Then don’t mind thankin’ us. And wave bye-bye to the fancy folk.”

  He pointed across the deck to the sea. I looked over the railing. Starting about a hundred yards from the ship, I saw a string of eight longboats—the Earthly Pleasure’s entire set of launches, each one stuffed full of passengers.

  They were all stripped down to their underwear.

  The ones in the nearest boat were just close enough to make out their faces. I might have been imagining it, but I could swear I saw the bony-shouldered captain glaring daggers at the pale-skinned blob of a sobbing Pilcher.

  My mind flashed back to those few terrible minutes in the stocks. And for a moment, I foun
d myself thinking maybe the pirates weren’t all bad.

  “Thank you,” I said to the one in the gown.

  They all grinned. One of them clapped me on the back. “Pleasure’s ours, mate.”

  I went back to searching the pile. After a few minutes, I found what I was looking for—a long, red ascot, unknotted and badly wrinkled. Trying not to clonk myself with the chains on my wrists, I managed to get it around my neck and tie it off, covering the Healy mark.

  When I finished, I looked up to see the pirate in the ball gown watching me with amusement.

  I shrugged. “Always wanted an ascot.”

  “It’s yer lucky day, innit?”

  “Do you know where Big Jim is? Someone said he might have a key to these.”

  “Try the poop.”

  He jerked his head toward the elevated deck at the aft of the ship, over the cabins on the quarterdeck. I headed for the ladder up to the poop deck, passing the door to Pilcher’s cabin.

  From inside it, I heard a scream.

  It was a horrible sound, so anguished and pitiful it made my stomach sick. I wanted to open the door and try to stop whatever was happening in there, but I knew I’d only get killed for my trouble. So I hurried up the ladder, having to make awkward frog leaps from one rung to the next because my chains were too short to climb it properly. Even so, I got up it awfully fast, because I was desperate to get away from that sound and stop feeling ashamed that I’d ignored it.

  And I knew I’d been wrong about the pirates. Friendly as they might have been to me, they were all bad. And the sooner I could get clear of them, the better.

  There were a handful of men on the poop, smoking cigars and passing bottles of what looked like whiskey back and forth. A little pile of clothing lay on the deck behind the ship’s wheel, which was tied off and unmanned.

  Seeing me, the men made a fresh round of jokes about my chains. I told them I’d been a stowaway, was looking for keys, and had heard Big Jim might have some.

  “Jim!” one of them barked, kicking the little pile of clothes, which turned out to be the tiniest man I’d ever seen. He was the size of a small boy, but his limbs were thick and muscular, his face was as grizzled as any of the others’, and when he staggered to his feet, it was clear he was more than typically drunk.