The crew snorted, and Ebba shook her head. Served him right if Delight booted him off the limestone cliffs. A girlfriend on each island. It would come back to bite him in the tenders sooner or later. The one-eyed Locks wasn’t known for his patience though—she blamed him for her temper. He didn’t like to wait between times for just one girlfriend.
At a fork in the road, the group separated in two.
Ebba trailed after Plank and Stubby to the marketplace, jumping to watch the rest of their crew disappear into the throes of the crowd. Barrels had business to deal with in town; as the quartermaster of the ship, he looked after their investments and the trades. Locks was off to visit with Delight. And Peg-leg would head straight to Sherry to drink tea, Grubby in his wake.
She, Plank, and Stubby would meet them at the tavern later, but later never failed to feel like a long time away. Their crew splitting up always felt as odd as walking on land. Ebba rubbed her chest in an attempt to quell her nerves.
“Watch et!” Someone jostled her roughly.
She snarled at them and gripped the butt of her pistol. The person squeaked and scampered away.
“Play nice,” Stubby said, pulling her to his side. Her back snapped into a straight line despite the loving gesture. It always did when Stubby used that tone. Ebba grinned impishly, not in the least sorry for doing exactly what a pirate should. Especially because Stubby taught her that particular trick at age five.
Vibrant splashes of color dotted the marketplace before her.
Bright banners hung across the square space in every direction, and through them Ebba could see drunken seamen and large-busted women waving and leaning out of the windows. A spattering of sand coated the bare ground, even after the fifteen-minute walk inland. Market stands littered the square in no particular order, and the merchants guarded their goods with eyes like hawks. Why wouldn’t they, with the vagabonds and thieves skulking about? Ebba kept one hand on her cutlass and the other on a dagger. Damn thieves had nimble fingers and were nigh impossible to detect. She’d lost at least one possession from a past visit to Maltu.
The Maltu locals lived in shacks dotted across the island, but the rich lived in grand double-story wooden houses, like the houses here. Despite the wealth bordering the marketplace, she passed all manner of people at its center: merchants, servants, fishermen’s wives, snot-nosed children, and other pirates—even fancy gentry men in their padded doublets. They’d be picked dry of any money before they reached their quarters. Landlubbers.
Soon the bustling crowd was so thick Ebba could scarcely move. She stuck close behind Stubby, whose evil look sent the inhabitants of Maltu skittering away. The same trick he’d just scolded her for.
Ebba crouched as Stubby suddenly ducked right. A navy man had to be close by. Keeping low, she weaved behind him, checking over her shoulder to make sure Plank was in tow.
After several minutes in this fashion, Stubby stopped in front of a tool merchant. As Felicity’s boatswain, he replenished the tools needed to upkeep the ship. But tools were the last thing she wanted to look at. She only had three days to have enough adventure to last her weeks at sea.
Grabbing Plank’s hand, Ebba yanked him in the direction of a fabric merchant. She’d spent all her coin in Kentro when they were filling Felicity’s hold with produce. Wheedling new trinkets out of the fashion-conscious Plank was easier than Stubby. Plank wasn’t the youngest of her parents, but sure looked it. His mass of coiled hair hadn’t grayed from raven black, and his lean frame was as straight as Felicity’s mast. Ebba thought it might be because he spent half his time in a humming daydream. Not that Plank was idle. He’d just mastered the art of dreaming while working.
Ebba moved from stand to stand, picking up brooches and pins, and letting soft materials flow through her fingers. She lingered at an ancient woman’s stall, staring wistfully and purposefully at the collection of beautiful beads there. Imagine having all of those. She loved her beads. Each of them was a memory and held great meaning. But there was always a tiny temptation to buy handfuls of them. A pirate with beaded hair? Landlubbers would run screaming at the sound of her rattling approach. She’d be as fearsome as Buckle O’Pigswill—the first pirate to ever live. However, the sentimental side of the beads were far more important to her, so she was willing to wait to fill her dreads one bead at a time.
She smiled to herself, reaching out to stroke a white bead.
“Which do ye favor, little nymph?” Plank asked her.
“This white one,” she said. “It’s like those oyster pearls we came across in Pleo.”
Plank smiled, saying softly, “So it is. Trust a water nymph to pick a pearl.”
He turned to the crinkled woman and began to haggle.
Another bead! Ebba withheld her smile, already thinking about where she’d start the third strand. She couldn’t make the wrong choice, though luckily on Felicity she had nothing but time.
The sun had lowered and the crowd thinned as Maltu locals headed home for their evening meal. Her eyes passed over a vomiting navy man, who’d clearly celebrated being ashore too much, and fell on the sauntering movement of two young men, one of which they’d just left at the beach.
The ugly mug, Swindles, and his best matey, Riot, were strutting through the marketplace.
Many in the crowd watched the men’s passage—though the smart ones watched from the corner of their eyes, lest they attract the wrong sort of attention. That was the effect Malice had. Their cruel reputation preceded them.
Ebba made sure to blend in as they strutted past, curious to see their heads were held together like Stubby’s and Peg-leg’s when they spoke of the brandy stash they thought her ignorant of.
As the pirates moved away, she tracked their passage, curiosity smoldering in her innards.
. . . They were the kind of people that needn’t whisper unless they had something to hide.
Ebba cast a furtive glance at Plank, who was still engaged in a haggling battle with the old woman, stingy bugger. Depend upon it, he’d cheat her out of any kind of profit on the bead and would waste an hour saving a dime. Meanwhile, Stubby was yet to leave the tool merchant’s stall. They’d be in exactly the same position in ten minutes’ time.
She ducked between stalls and dodged through the thinning crowd. Thirty feet ahead, Swindles and Riot swaggered, their heads still close. They stopped abruptly and scanned the market.
Skidding to a halt, she picked up a brass trinket from a stand, pretending to study it closely. Ebba watched from the corner of her eye. After one last scan, the burly pair disappeared down an alley.
Anyone with sense knew nothing legal-like happened in an alley. Something was amiss, all right. And she was going to find out what it was. Abandoning the trinket, Ebba took off in pursuit once more.
Were they stealing? That wasn’t so bad if they’d tried to get the bounty the right way first. Her crew were stole-traders—meaning they tried to trade honestly and if that didn’t yield enough, they stole the rest—so Ebba could hardly judge Swindles and Riot for doing the same.
Or was a shady deal underfoot? She’d love nothing more than to wipe the smarmy grins right off Malice’s faces by ruining a dodgy trade. A tiny payback for their earlier comments to Grubby. A grin spread across her face; Ebba wouldn’t be a real pirate if she didn’t attempt to listen in.
At the entrance to the alley, she hesitated for the barest second before peeking into the darkness after the two pirates. There was more sand in there than the marketplace; the double-storied houses had trapped the white granules drifting in the wind. Two sets of footprints in the sand trailed down the main alley and disappeared around a corner.
Ebba touched her beads absently, noting the long shadows and littering of broken glass before her. Five minutes must have already passed, but taking a breath, she took a step into the sandy alley. Her fathers would still be exactly where she left them.
A rat scuttled across her path, and a scream lodged in her throat.
> Just a rat, ye coiled eejit.
Hugging the wall made slimy by constant damp heat, Ebba skimmed across the alley to the corner at the end. Or she tried to skim, blasted clunky boots. Reaching the corner, she sank down into a crouch and pressed herself against the grimy wood of a barrel, listening hard.
“I’m tellin’ ye, Pockmark has found it.”
Oo, that sounded like good stuff. Staying low in her crouch, Ebba shuffled along the barrel to peek around the corner. A smaller alley branched off the one where she huddled, extending thirty-five feet or so. Swindles and Riot stood across from each other in the dark space by the far dead end. Riot played with the tip of his dagger while a wide-eyed Swindles tried to hold his attention with the gossip.
She eased back behind the safety of the wall, hunching to make herself as small as possible.
“Aye, he’s found it afore, though, ain’t he? Four years we’ve been searchin’ for the bloody spot,” said Riot dismissively.
“This time it be real.”
“How do ye know that, Swin? He ain’t told us what he be seekin’. Ever.” The words were laced with bitterness. “We just search and search and search.”
Four years. No plunder seemed important enough for that long a quest. It had to be something really valuable. Ebba tensed at a scuffing sound, letting out a shaking breath as she realized it was only one of the pirates kicking at the sand.
There was a long pause. “Ye swear on Davy Jones’ Locker you won’t say nothin’?”
“Aye,” Riot answered quickly.
“Well, I don’t rightly know what it be, but Pockmark told me if we plunder this one treasure, none o’ us need ever work again. He said there be enough for each o’ us to buy an island.”
Ebba’s jaw dropped.
The treasure had to be a whole cave full of gems and gold. Malice had a crew of one hundred and each of them would be able to afford an island? She couldn’t even imagine that plunder split between a crew of seven. Her fathers wouldn’t have to keep working on their secret plan anymore. They’d be able to explore the seas instead of constantly steal-trading.
“There ain’t that many islands to be had,” Riot said flatly. “And why did he tell ye this, and not me?”
Ebba’s leg began to tingle from the cramped position. She shifted slightly and froze as her belt scraped against the barrel behind her.
“What was that?” Swindles demanded.
Her eyes sought the mouth of the alley, and her muscles coiled to dash back to the safety of the crowd. If the pirates discovered her listening to a conversation about un-plundered treasure, it’d mean a bullet lodged in her innards. She didn’t dare breathe as the silence around the corner thickened and extended. Were they creeping closer?
A second rat scuttled across the alley.
“Just a rat, ye plonker.” Riot snorted. The young men sniggered loudly. Ebba slowly unfroze and inhaled again, suddenly wishing her leather jerkin was looser.
“All right, Swin. I’m all ears. What be the latest?” Riot said in a resigned voice.
Swindles’ voice lowered. Even with the echo caused by the narrow alley, Ebba had to lean closer to hear. “Pockmark holed up a soothsayer last night. The one down the east end of Maltu.”
“The one with two heads and three arms?”
“So they say. I ain’t sure. Pockmark said the soothsayer couldn’t tell him where the treasure were—”
“Told ye—”
“—But afore he killed her, she screamed o’ a secret tree. Ye eat the tree’s fruit and ye can be askin’ any question and get the answer. That be how we’ll find the treasure.”
Riot scoffed. “A magic tree. O’ all the things. Ye’ve lost yer wick.”
Swindles reply was indignant. “It be true! Pockmark told me himself. Ye doubtin’ the word of our captain?”
Riot’s reply was hasty. “No, course not. Never have, never will, and don’t ye be tellin’ lies to the otherwise.” The fear in his voice echoed through the shadows and he hurried on. “So where be this magic tree then?”
They dropped their voices to barely above a whisper.
“Neos. . . .”
Ebba strained to hear the rest of their muffled conversation, startling when their voices rose once more.
“How do we be gettin’ through all that jungle then? The tribespeople will fillet us one by one,” Riot mused.
Swindles chuckled. “That be the easy part—we’ve always had the right guide for the job; we just didn’t know the magic tree was there to begin with. That cocky bastard Jagger’ll lead us right to it. He’s from Neos, been to the mountain afore and everythin’. Pockmark will eat the magic fruit and ask where the real treasure be. Lo and behold, not long from now we’ll each be havin’ our own island.”
With a second jolt, Ebba realized their voices were getting louder. They were moving back into the main alley.
She rose silently, ready to dash away when her gaze landed on the sand underfoot . . . the sand now imprinted with three sets of footprints, not just two. Sink her! They’d know someone had been here listening, and then they’d waste no time going for the treasure.
She wanted the treasure. For her fathers, and to put an end to the cruel comments about Felicity and their crew once and for all.
Working frantically, Ebba slid her cutlass free, grimacing at the slight hiss as it left the sheath.
Ignoring her rapid heartbeat, she began to smooth her trail away with the flat edge. The men’s voices grew louder as they approached the main alley from around the corner.
She frantically swished the cutlass back and forth, shuffling back with tiny steps.
One of the pirates laughed, far too close. Halfway would have to do!
Ebba placed her boots in her old prints as though she’d just arrived and shoved her cutlass into its sheath. She may not have book smarts like Barrels, but she prided herself on being conniving when the situation demanded it. Her fathers called it ‘survival smarts’, but they were a scant bit bias.
Swindles and Riot rounded the corner, talking excitedly.
The two pirates didn’t notice her immediately—boots in her old footprints, knees at an awkward angle to keep her balance. When they did notice her, the pirates jerked to a halt and she took another step forward.
“Didn’t know the alley were oc’upied,” she blurted. “I’ll be leavin’.” Fighting one or two of Malice’s crew in broad daylight with her six fathers as backup was far different from meeting two of the jeering pirates in a dark alley. Alone.
Before they could answer, Ebba spun in the direction of the marketplace, eager to tell Stubby and Plank what she’d overheard.
There was just one tiny problem.
The mouth of the alleyway was no longer empty. Planted firmly in the middle of it, the dying sunlight illuminating his burly frame, was a man everyone who wished to survive knew to avoid.
Pockmark. The captain of Malice.
Three
Fear lodged in her throat and her feet slowed of their own accord. Not good, not good, not good.
“What do we got here?” the captain of Malice taunted, taking a swaggering step toward her.
Ebba made no answer. Instinct told her to keep as quiet as possible, to attempt the impossible and meld into the building if she could. In that moment, Ebba needed no help understanding that she was a seventeen-year-old pirate, and he a twenty-something hardened criminal.
The tiny scars marring his face had earned him the name, and Mercer Pockmark was as unsightly as he was reputedly brutal. There was no village he wouldn’t pillage, no person he wouldn’t slit from ear to ear for enough gold, or even copper. But the young man truly earned his reputation four years ago, when he gutted his own father to seize control of the black-and-crimson Malice. Such a misdeed was abhorrent to her every thought and sense.
Where his crew wore all black, with the single dark red sash, Pockmark dressed entirely in black with a tricorn hat embroidered with gold upon his head. So man
y gold jewels and chains draped across his person that determining the number of them from where Ebba stood was impossible.
A whisper of moving sand alerted her to Swindles and Riot’s presence behind her. She spun and put her back to the left wall, fingering a pistol and a dagger.
Pockmark inhaled the air. “Smell that, boys? Fear.” He smirked and his two lackeys echoed the expression.
“It be fish-lips from that wreck o’ a ship,” the captain said, taking one predatory step in her direction. “Whatsit called, lads?”
“Felicity,” Swindles answered, yellowed eyes gleaming.
Riot smirked, showing his gold-plated teeth. “Aye, the one with all those old men.”
Ebba licked her lips and searched the area behind Malice’s captain. The crowd had dwindled further during her time eavesdropping. The rays of the sun were weakening in preparation of disappearing completely, and her fathers had probably gone to the town center to search for her.
Pockmark took another step forward, his black boots catching one of the last rays of sunlight. “Ye know what I think happens on that rowboat?” he whispered. “I reckon they all take turns with ye. I bet ye’re a real nice whore.”
Blood rushed to her face, and her temper unlocked her speech. “Don’t be speakin’ that way about my fathers.” She glared at Pockmark.
“Wait, ye think they’re all yer fathers?”
Her face burned. No, she didn’t. She just didn’t care about any of that. All of them were her fathers.
Pockmark threw his head back in malicious laughter, and Ebba seized her chance. She lunged for the opening of the alley.
Malice’s captain stopped her movement with one outstretched arm around her waist and threw her back without noticeable effort. She staggered, wheezing to fill her chest with air again for another go—now she’d shown her intention.
Ebba-Viva Fairisles: Immortal Plunder (Pirates of Felicity Book 1) Page 2