Merrick’s crew hopped out of his way as he stomped across the boards. This was supposed to be a quick stop in the tropics; whoever was responsible for holding him up would be at the receiving end of his full wrath.
He spotted it immediately, the reason for all the fuss: the gaff-rigged sails of a schooner, moored in the water not fifty feet from where the Jewel now cruised. A crimson flag billowed from its mast, a black silhouette of a bear on all fours prowling across the fabric.
Pirates — and because of their ursine epigraph, Merrick knew exactly which ones.
Cheapshot Charlie came up behind Merrick, his eyebrows furrowed into a line. “Should we open fire?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Merrick said. “Pull up beside her.”
As the Jewel neared the bobbing schooner, Merrick could see its crew. They were the olive-skinned pirates of the eastern mainland, patterned scarves tying back their twisted, sea-gnarled hair.
A bearded man stood at the helm — their captain, judging by the way his tunic hung, its fine Molvanian thread shimmering gold. He gaped as the Jewel moved closer, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
As though he had tunneled through an abandoned mountain mine and stepped into a dragon’s lair.
And here comes the dragon, Merrick thought.
“Hello, there!” He waved jovially with his free hand. The other still clutched his pistol.
One of the pirates crossed herself and muttered a prayer.
“Fine afternoon, isn’t it?” Merrick said. “These tropical seas are like stained glass; such pleasant sailing.”
The other pirates still said nothing.
“How strange it is, to see unfamiliar faces along this stretch,” Merrick continued. “And the Rasculat is such a long way from Molvania! Are you here for the fine fishing?”
The Jewel’s crew tittered behind their captain, hands finding their various guns and blades. Merrick the Monstrous was frightening enough when he brooded or raged, but when he was polite, when the adder pretended to be a friendly garden snake who wanted only to slither up your arm and ride on your shoulder like a pet … that’s when he was most dangerous.
That’s when he struck.
“Captain,” Bloody Elle called from the lower deck. She hauled a soggy, sputtering pirate up from the side of the Jewel and over the railing. “He was in the water!”
“Please,” the half-drowned man cried, the sea dripping off him as Bloody Elle dropped him onto the deck like a trout. “I was only checking our hull for barnacles.” The pirate pulled off his soaked paisley headscarf and wrung it between two nervous hands.
“Tell me,” Merrick said quietly, trusting the breeze to carry his words. “How in the world did you manage to find it?” He fiddled with his silver hoop earring, his entire face the epitome of boredom. “You Molvanians don’t usually loot this far south, do you?”
“N-no,” the pirate admitted, “but we keep a cache on one of these island: food barrels and coin and rum, for emergencies. The navy’s pulling some sort of blockade — Bridgewater’s got thirty galleons parked between here and the cocoa route — so we took the long way round, and …”
“And you found the cave,” Merrick finished.
“We weren’t looking for it, I swear! Someone spotted a glint in the waves. As if the sun itself was shining from under the water. Captain sent me down to investigate, and I — I saw it.” He dipped his head back, the seawater on his forehead glistening like pearls. “None of the reef fish would swim past the opening. I knew right away what it was — I’ve heard the story so many times.” The pirate didn’t have to recount the story. Every sailor alive knew it by heart and by gut: a cave filled with treasure. More treasure than a man could spend in a lifetime, more treasure than a man can conjure up in his mind. A gemstone for every grain of sand on the beach. A gold coin for every star in the sky …
“Well.” Merrick broke the pirate from his spell. “You found it. Most sailors don’t get this far. I hope you feel lucky.”
Still trembling on his knees, the pirate refused to look at Merrick.
“As if heaven itself directed your sails.” Merrick suddenly cracked into a smile. “So go get it.”
The pirate whipped his head up, alert.
“Get the treasure,” Merrick said. “I won’t stop you.”
A sound rose from the pirate’s chest — part whimper, part sob. “No,” he started, “no, I don’t want —”
Merrick scratched his chin with his pistol. “You know the stories, which means you know what guards my treasure.”
“Yes,” the pirate whispered.
Merrick closed the gap between him and the pathetic, quivering pirate. “Perhaps you thought those parts of the legend were an elaborate lie? Exaggerations of my cruelty?”
“No!” the pirate cried. “No, I —”
“Because let me assure you.” Merrick touched the barrel of his pistol to the man’s temple, gently; it could have been the wind, tickling his face. “I am as monstrous as they say.”
The Rasculat’s captain and crew tensed, their weapons ready.
The poor pirate clenched his eyes shut. “I — I thought it would be worth the risk.”
“And now?” Merrick said, twisting the gun’s barrel, leaving a rut in the man’s skin. “Now what do you think?”
“Now,” the pirate said, and finally peered up, right into Merrick’s eyes, “I wish we had taken our chances with Bridgewater.”
Merrick’s blue eyes burned. “Too late.” He yanked the pirate up to a standing position and pushed him to the railing, the pistol still digging into the man’s temple. “You wanted to see the great treasure of Merrick the Monstrous, so go see it.”
The captain of the Rasculat finally spoke: “Please, pralipe. We did not mean — We’ll sail away now and never speak of what we have —”
Merrick cocked the pistol — a deafening click. “You’re going to swim into the cave,” he told the pirate shaking at the railing, “and you’re going to get the biggest jewel you can find. You’re going to bring it back up here. If he surfaces without it,” he ordered his crew, “shoot him on sight. Turn him into shark bait.”
A wail escaped from the pirate, guttural and saliva-choked, a horrible noise to come from a feared robber of the sea. He protested, and begged, and tried to bargain, but Merrick motioned impatiently and Bloody Elle lifted the man with one arm and tossed him into the sea.
Minutes of ghostly quiet followed. Both vessels floated, waiting, the captain of the Rasculat frozen. The white foam from the pirate’s dive faded, and the ocean calmed itself back into turquoise glass.
One of the Rasculat’s pirates bravely called, “He has a family, you know. Two boys, ten and six. The six-year-old lost an arm last year in a fire —”
“Then pray they grow up to be smarter than he” was Merrick’s response.
Bubbles finally trickled up, those of a man desperate for air, and the pirate kicked through the surface gasping, a pale-pink diamond the size of a melon under one arm.
“What have I done?” he cried, swallowing air with loud gulps. “What will become of my family?”
The captain of the Rasculat motioned for his men to reel the pirate back into their schooner.
Merrick waited until the man stopped his cries. “You’re going to take that diamond to the first market you find, and you’re going to sell it. Sell it and buy everything you’ve ever wanted. Retire from the pirate’s life. Spoil those two sons of yours, and buy your wife the most expensive dress she can find.” The wind once again brought his words right to the pirate’s ears. “And then buy yourself a headstone.”
The Rasculat left first, speeding away from this nightmare as quickly as they could. Then the whole episode was nothing more than fading ripples on the sea.
The Jewel’s crew dropped their recent plunder down into the cave — the finest of precious stones, rare obsidian blades, and yes, enough gold coins to create their own constellations. Down,
down, sinking down … Straight down through the water and into the mouth of the cave. They worked fast, knowing their captain would punish anyone who couldn’t make up for the squandered time with the Rasculat.
When the hold was empty of its riches, Bloody Elle turned to Merrick for his orders.
“Chart a course for the market,” he said after a moment.
Bloody Elle raised her eyebrows. “Someone is expecting you,” she reminded him.
He swung his pocket watch by its chain, as if it were a yo-yo. As if time itself were nothing but a plaything. “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”
She frowned. “We just raided half a dozen cocoa ships and a luxury cruiser. Wasn’t there anything —?”
“No,” he cut in. “There wasn’t. Nothing worthy. We’ll stop by the stalls before we head to the grotto.”
Bloody Elle started to leave, then turned back and lifted her finger, rubbing the embroidered collar of his greatcoat — tiny spots of blood smeared across the white stitching, remnants of an earlier skirmish. “You might want to get cleaned up before your big date.”
The sound of Bloody Elle landing loudly on the deck woke Fidelia with a start.
“Morning, sunshine,” the pirate said, reeling a rope around her wrist and elbow. She wound it into a tidy bunch, then tossed it onto a pile of fat wooden pulleys, all of them splintered.
“Morning?” Fidelia sat up on the bench and glanced at the sky, then sank back in relief when she saw the thin blue light of midday. Arborley Island was barely out of sight, then — a recent memory on the horizon.
No sign of the Undertow. Not yet — the clouds were wispy now, thin and clear as ice — but Fidelia knew better than to believe a calm sky at this time of year.
“How long was I asleep?” she asked, and checked her bag. All three observation books were safely tucked inside: her mother’s, her father’s, hers.
“We’re about twenty knots from Arborley,” Bloody Elle called from halfway up the mainmast. “And you snored through all of them.”
Fidelia stood, and immediately felt her legs quaver. Her mouth pooled with hot saliva, her stomach pitched, her head spun …
“Oh, cobbers, you’re green as a bog.” Bloody Elle dropped back down onto the deck and guided Fidelia back to the bench. “Lost your sea legs, have you?”
Fidelia defiantly rose back to her feet. “No, I haven’t, I just …” She closed her mouth quickly — her digestive system was threatening to reverse itself. “I just … need a minute.”
“Breathe through your nose.” Bloody Elle pointed over the railing. “The head’s that way.”
Sucking in cool, salty air slowly, Fidelia waited for the world to stop spinning and tried to forget what Bloody Elle had said about losing her sea legs. Just a minor adjustment, she thought. A few more minutes, and I’ll be right as rain.
A seasick Quail — it was as ridiculous as a shark swimming backward.
But the whirlpool in her belly couldn’t be blamed on the ship: the Jewel met every swell with the confidence of a racehorse — head-on, galloping, smoothing out the bumps for its passengers. Impressive for such a raggedy ship.
No, this was all Fidelia. She was woefully out of practice for life at sea, drooling and strung out, her eyes dead-fish glassy.
Bloody Elle offered Fidelia a blackjack of water and a bit of dried ginger root.
“Ginger root … is for landlubbers,” Fidelia muttered, her stomach still pitching, but she took it and held it to her nose, inhaling. Almost instantly her tummy calmed its storm, and she was able to breathe without gagging on the briny air.
Bloody Elle refastened a splitting line, her fingers quick with the rope. Her sleeves were pushed up, showing her tattoos: those thick black lines around her wrists, and that swallow flying across her left hand.
“What do they mean?” Fidelia asked. “Your tattoos?”
Bloody Elle wrapped the rope around itself, tying a complicated knot. “Have you ever been to Canquillas?”
“Just the lagoons,” Fidelia said. The teardrop-shaped country jutted out from the mainland north of Her Majesty’s Sovereignty. Its coasts were rich with weaver fish and beds of sea urchins; Fidelia had driven the Platypus along the continental shelf many times while Dr. and Dr. Quail dove for samples.
“Well, in Canquillas we have a saying.” Bloody Elle finished the knot and secured its loose ends. “No essa suetro problemita.”
“And what does that mean?”
“‘Mind your own business.’” Bloody Elle snapped her fingers at Cheapshot Charlie, and pointed to the mast — he immediately climbed the mast to check the rest of the lines. A branch of leaves, dried to crunchiness, fell to the deck. Fidelia looked up and frowned.
“Where has this ship been?” she wondered aloud.
“Pretty much everywhere,” Bloody Elle said with a smack of pride. “A snow cave up north. Inside another big ship. We hid her in a forest once. Hence the leaves.”
Fidelia squinted at the mizzenmast — fuzzy green fibers coated the beam. “Did you hide her near a lake?”
“Not near a lake, in a lake,” Bloody Elle said. “How’d you know?”
“Pine mold,” Fidelia said, pointing to the mizzenmast. “Did you say you sank this? A whole ship? How?”
“Sealed off her chambers with clay and piled her with sandbags. Captain’s idea.” Bloody Elle glanced across the deck at Merrick, who was checking a winch near the stern. “He wasn’t sure if we’d ever see the Jewel again, or if she’d be rotting at the lake bottom until kingdom come.”
Fidelia stared at the wrinkled, patched sails, the lines crossing at all angles. “But I don’t understand. Why hide a ship at all?”
“The navy wants the Jewel as much as they want Merrick the Monstrous. She’s a trophy to the admiral. A symbol.” Bloody Elle peeled away a splinter from the railing. “Like those hunters who skin a lion to make a rug.”
“But why not let them have it? Why not take another ship?” Fidelia asked. “You’re pirates, aren’t you?”
“Because this is my ship.” Merrick suddenly stood a foot away from Fidelia, her glasses reflected in the liquid of his black-and-red eye. “And I don’t sail without her.”
His peacoat was off, draped over the railing — how shockingly small he looked, without his layer of heavy wool. A pirate captain should be strong, shouldn’t he? At least strong enough to scale a mast or man the pump. Merrick didn’t seem steady enough to stay upright in the wind.
“Elle, are we gossiping over tea, or are we sailing a ship?”
Bloody Elle hardened her face at once and gave her full attention to the mizzenmast.
Fidelia thought about the sailors who docked in Arborley, the ones she’d known for years. Every captain had his own set of superstitions. Ratface never allowed bananas on the Anemone, for fear of bad luck. Stinky Jane, boatswain of the Tinderbox, never changed her socks between voyages, which made her awful company during the Undertow. Perhaps the Jewel was Merrick’s own unique superstition — not a single voyage without his lucky ship.
She unfolded her legs and tested their strength — this time, they let her stay standing. She took a few cautious steps across the deck, watching Cheapshot Charlie billow out the canvas sails with his thick arms, Bloody Elle testing a half-rotted pulley, and Merrick … Merrick was doing twenty tasks at once. He plugged oakum in the seam between two planks, straightened a line of empty barrels, and consulted the ship’s compass.
“Where is everyone?” Fidelia asked.
“Everyone who?” Merrick said.
“The rest of the crew,” Fidelia said.
Merrick checked a line in silence.
“How can you possibly man a ship without any men —?”
“Tell me.” Merrick yanked the line, his hands white-knuckled — skeleton’s hands. “Did your parents actually enjoy your incessant questions?”
Fidelia blinked. She had expected the physical dangers that came with pirates
— gunfights, mutiny, scurvy — but less so any emotional rocks they would throw. She jutted out her chin and recited, defensively, “‘Knowledge is a vessel deeper than the sea. A fool splashes in a pond and thinks he has the answers, but a wise man knows that the only way to reach its depths is to ask questions.’”
“A quote from a beloved Dr. Quail?” Merrick asked with a sneer.
“No.” Fidelia folded her arms. “From my aunt Julia.”
He stopped cold, staring out at the water. “Another one of your scientists?”
She shook her head. “A librarian.” She was surprised at how fiercely the sadness struck her as she thought of her sweet aunt. Sadness and guilt; Aunt Julia had been trying so hard to make a new life for her. A life of comfort and safety — and this morning, Fidelia had snapped at her for it.
Where was Aunt Julia at this very moment? Fidelia wondered. On the library steps, waiting for Fidelia to come home for dinner? Was she out on the streets of Arborley, searching for Fidelia in the dark? Had she already called the constables? Aunt Julia would be all alone tonight — with another missing Quail to mourn.
Fidelia closed her eyes and wished she was back in the loft, seated at Aunt Julia’s little green table. She’d even choke down a bowl of that vile turtle soup as an apology for their spat. You probably think I’m gone forever, she messaged her aunt telepathically. But I promise I’ll find a way home.
Home. Fidelia still didn’t know where that really was.
“I have a question for you, Dr. Quail.” Merrick’s mocking broke clean through Fidelia’s thoughts. “Have you figured out how you’ll get to the bottom of the sea?”
Fidelia adjusted her glasses. “No.”
He pointed to a bench below a group of shrouds — where he could keep a close eye on her, she noticed. “Then get to work.”
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. ARTHUR QUAIL
May 11
Today Ida’s studying the migration of the pink crabs on Crabmoore Shore. We’ve been waiting here for six hours; the only critters we’ve seen so far are dozens of oysters, a few limpets in a tide pool, and the molted shells of black-tailed shrimp. Fidelia’s trying to be patient, but it isn’t easy for a young girl. “The crabs will come when they’re ready,” Ida keeps reassuring us, but then she taps her own foot when she thinks we’re not looking.
Race to the Bottom of the Sea Page 8