The Tides of Avarice

by John Dahlgren

  Sylvester felt as if he’d been kicked hard in the stomach, not once but several times. What was all this about? Viola had told him the other night about Mayor Hairbell directing unwanted attention in her direction and about how her father liked the notion. She hadn’t seemed to take it very seriously and so neither had Sylvester. To witness the evident approval with which Mrs. Pickleberry announced the planned liaison, and the lack of dissent from the captive Viola made Sylvester wish that he should’ve taken it more seriously . . .

  No wonder my name got on that list for the next Exodus. It isn’t to do with Mom at all. Hairbell knew or guessed about Viola’s feelings for me, and mine for her, and he wanted to get me out of the picture. Celadon was being one stage too clever when he thought it was because I was asking awkward questions. Anyway, I hadn’t started asking them by then; I hadn’t even started thinking them. No, it was just a simple matter of sending me to my death so the field’d be clear for Hairbell.

  The scoundrel!

  The murderous scoundrel!

  The expression on Rustbane’s face became one of genuine surprise. “Then it’s the young swain himself that she’s been keeping in the dark,” said the pirate, glancing across toward where Sylvester stood. “My sympathies,” he added more quietly. Something in his normally highly animated gaze made Sylvester believe that the gray fox, for once, meant what he said.

  Rustbane turned back to the bristling Mrs. Pickleberry in front of him.

  “Watch out for that rolling pin o’ hers, Cap’n,” bellowed one of the ruffians. “It’s already done seen to Ragshoes Sam. ’E’ll nivver go to the lavs again without taking some painkillers first, I’ll warrant; and Mutt the Billybong’s gonna be drinkin’ ’is grog through a straw the rest o’ ’is life.”

  “Thanks, Pigface,” called the fox in reply. “Please, Mrs. Pickleberry, I wonder if we might both put down our weapons so we could converse in a more civilized fashion, no?”

  She nodded reluctantly. Synchronizing their actions, the two put down their weapons. Well, at least Mrs. Pickleberry did, the fox just stuck the metallic bang maker into his belt.

  “Gimme my daughter,” said Viola’s mother as soon as she was upright again.

  “Perhaps this Mayor of yours could facilitate the transaction?” said Cap’n Rustbane brightly. “I’m surprised he’s not here already to rescue the apple of his existence from the clutches of the vile, foreign rapscallion.”

  “You likes the sound of your own voice a lot, don’t you?”

  “How perspicacious of you, Mrs. Pickleberry. That aside, where is your Mayor?”

  For the first time since Sylvester had arrived in the square, Mrs. Pickleberry displayed a sign of uncertainty. “I’m sure he’ll be along by and by,” she said. “He’s probably just busy gathering together a party of strong and sturdy men to drive you and your scummy band out of Foxglove for good and all.”

  “Indeed?” said Cap’n Rustbane with the kind of courtesy that indicated he didn’t believe a word of it.

  Neither did Sylvester. He’d bet the last thought in the minds of Mayor Hairbell and his crony, High Priest Spurge, was the noble defense of the town. They were probably hiding in a basement, hoping no one would come looking for them.

  Sylvester was wrong.

  “We got ’im, Skipper!” came a cry from one of the little alleys that led off the square.

  Rustbane watched with interest as a couple of his otter henchmen dragged the struggling Mayor Hairbell into view.

  “Bring him closer,” said the fox in a tone of gentle encouragement, as a doctor might to the parent of a nervous child. “Let me see his face.”

  In fact, Sylvester caught a glimpse of the Mayor’s face before Rustbane had the opportunity. It was a mask of naked terror. Even so, Sylvester could see, beneath the rictus of fear, the signs that Hairbell was, as always, scheming. In this case probably scheming desperately in order to find some way of preserving his own hide – whatever the cost to the rest of Foxglove might be.

  “So this is your true love?” said Rustbane to Viola, once Hairbell was in front of them.

  Viola looked as if she wanted to throw up.

  “See?” murmured Mrs. Pickleberry beside Sylvester. “Told you. She loves him.”

  “It doesn’t look that way to me,” replied Sylvester, his heart soaring. “Looks as if she loathes his guts.”

  “That’s just girlish flightiness, is all.”

  “Hm.”

  Rustbane, ignorant of this byplay, was regarding Hairbell with interest.

  “He seems a trifle old for you, m’dear,” he remarked to Viola.

  Viola redoubled her efforts to free herself from the fox’s grip.

  “And just a little . . . how can I put this tactfully? A little, well, fat.”

  “I’ll have you know—” began the Mayor before his mouth was gagged by the hairy paw of one of the otters.

  “And, um, quite a bit too greasy, if you ask me.”

  “Mmmfle mmmf mmmfle,” protested Hairbell.

  “Perhaps ‘slimy’ would be a better word than ‘greasy.’ I defer to your judgement, m’dear,” said Rustbane to his captive.

  “Slimy,” said Viola, then clearly regretted the impulse.

  “‘Slimy’ it is then. And do my nostrils detect a whiff of …? Yes, I think they do. He must be very frightened, this true love of yours. I cannot imagine why. All of us here, myself most especially, we’re simply concerned for your welfare and happiness, you charming young damsel.”

  Viola bared her teeth in a snarl.

  They were very sharp teeth.

  They gave Sylvester an idea.

  “Mmmfle mmmf mmmfle.”

  “Let him speak,” said Rustbane to the otter thug who was gagging the Mayor. “Oh, do let him speak, the poor fellow.”

  Mayor Hairbell, as soon as his mouth was freed, took a great whooping gasp. Clearly the otter had been blocking not just his mouth but his nose.

  Once he had his voice back, he said, “Welcome, your most honorable excellency, to our humble town of Foxglove.”

  Rustbane’s bushy tail switched, but he said nothing.

  “If anyone has been offering you less than the best available courtesy and hospitality, I’ll—”

  “Tell me something, Mayor,” said Cap’n Rustbane, making a little gesture with his paw as if to beg forgiveness for the interruption. That the paw in question still held the metal device that produced such impressive bangs somewhat detracted from the effect, but still the meaning was clear.

  “Yes, your magnificence?” said the Mayor.

  “What do they use to make candles here in Foxglove?”

  For a moment Hairbell was speechless. “Um … I … Well I … I suppose they …”

  “Do your folk use tallow, like everywhere else, or do they simply harvest Hairbell oil?”

  It took another moment for everybody to realize what the fox had just said, and then the square was filled with the sound of laughter – the raucous guffaws of the pirates but also the reluctant chuckles of the townsfolk. Even Mrs. Pickleberry grunted with mirth.

  Sylvester, grinning despite himself, glanced in her direction. She was eyeing her rolling pin speculatively where it lay on the ground. He could sense she was bracing herself for some dramatic, but doomed, attack.

  “Wait,” he hissed.

  Mrs. Pickleberry shot him a skeptical glare, but her muscles eased a little.

  “Now, Viola, I have a bargain for you. Would you like me to tell my men to skewer this mayoral paramour of yours on their cutlasses?”

  Viola’s eyes were begging him, Yes, please, but out loud she said, “No, of course not.”

  “That was not spoken with much feeling, Viola.”

  “No! Let him go. Leave him alone.”

  But the voice was not Viola’s.<
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  Rustbane started in surprise as Sylvester began pushing his way across the square.

  “I have your accursed map here,” Sylvester cried, pulling the tattered piece of paper from his vest pocket and holding it high above his head. “You can have it if you let Viola go.”

  “A reasonable trade,” said the fox. “But not quite reasonable enough, methinks.” He mimed performing calculations on his paws. “Let’s say instead that you give me the map and yourself in exchange for the fair object of your heart’s desire.”

  Sylvester gulped. Loudly.

  “What guarantee do I have that you won’t just kill me, and her, once you’ve got what you want?”

  The fox’s jaw dropped in mock astonishment. “Do you doubt my word as a fox of honor?”

  Sylvester didn’t bother replying to that.

  The fox nodded as if he’d received the obvious answer. “Such a cynical and distrusting world we live in.” He sighed. “Well, the truth is, young Sylvester, you have no guarantee whatsoever. But, if you don’t give me the map, my men and I shall most assuredly slay your girlfriend, and you, and everyone you know and love, and then we shall raze this little burb of yours to the ground, so that not one stone is left standing. And, just to be especially rotten about this, we’ll spare the life of Mayor Hairbell. Is that understood?”

  Sylvester nodded mutely. He was no more than a couple of paces from Rustbane and Viola now. Trying to be as subtle as he could, he caught Viola’s eye and touched his paw to his teeth. Then he held his paw in front of him with three claws extended.

  She got the message.

  On the count of three.

  “Then let me have the map, please.”

  Still without a word, Sylvester held the scrap of paper out. Rustbane looked around him, tucked the silvery metal bang maker into his belt, and grabbed eagerly for the map.

  “Excellent.”

  Get him relaxed, Sylvester thought. Distract him. This is going to be tricky, and there’s hardly a chance in a hundred I can get the timing right, but …

  “What is that thing?” he asked, pointing.

  Cap’n Rustbane looked down at the gadget he’d just put in his belt. “This?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a flintlock pistol, since you ask. One of the only pair that’s known in all Sagaria. I’m lucky enough to own both of them. The other’s in my boot.”

  “What’s a flantick … one of those?” said Sylvester, pretending ignorance. He knew exactly what a flintlock pistol was. He’d read about them in the writings of the ancients, perhaps about this very pair. You packed one end of them with an explosive called gunpowder, and when you sparked the gunpowder it drove a metal ball at colossal speed along the barrel and out into the open air. If the metal ball hit someone, it could kill them or at least horribly wound them.

  Just like Levantes, he thought, finally making the connection. It must have been this swine who killed him with a ball from one of those damned pistols.

  His heart sank momentarily, then rose. Flintlock pistols fired only once before you had to refill them with gunpowder and another metal ball. Rustbane had fired twice to draw attention to his presence, and he’d been in Sylvester’s open view ever since. He’d certainly not had the opportunity to reload the weapons. However fearsome a flintlock pistol might ordinarily be, just at the moment these two were completely useless to Rustbane.

  “A flintlock pistol,” said Rustbane, “is the most wonderful armament ever invented. I’d be surprised if anyone ever invents a weapon wonderfuller than these two.” He smiled that disconcerting smile of his that showed a great many teeth. Too many teeth, Sylster reflected. “I imagine that it will be the last thing you ever see, young Sylvester, if you try to thwart me as I and my men make good our escape from here back to the welcoming home of the good ship Shadeblaze. You’ll be looking into the pistol’s muzzle, a hole that’ll get bigger and bigger as you watch it, and then you’ll see the dark shape of the ball, for just an instant, before—”

  “You haven’t let Viola go yet,” observed Sylvester.

  “Oh, haven’t I? You’re right about that, you clever little hamster. I seem to have changed my mind about doing so.”

  “Lemming.”

  “Oops, so sorry. Clever little lemming. It’s mighty hard to tell the difference between hamsters and lemmings. They’re both small, hairy, irritating and a bit smelly.”

  Sylvester stared at Rustbane, forcing himself to appear unresponsive to the insult.

  The fox seemed to realize he’d lost this particular duel of wits, because his gaze dropped momentarily.

  Not yet, thought Sylvester, hoping that Viola might pick up the message.

  She seemed to, because she made no move. If the two of them struck prematurely, everything could be lost.

  “Of course, you’re assuming I will let her go,” continued the fox. “As I told you before, there’s no particular reason why I should. Now that you’ve given me what I want, I might as well let my men have a bit of fun. It’s been positively ages since they’ve had the chance to do any looting and pillaging.”

  “You said you were a fox of honor.”

  “I’m also a pirate. A pirate of honor? No, it doesn’t sound right. A contradiction in terms. Besides, if Captain Terrigan Rustbane started keeping his promises of mercy, he’d stop being the most feared and dreaded fellow Sagaria’s ever known. People might begin daring to speak his name without bolting all the doors and windows first.”

  Sylvester winked at Viola. Get ready.

  “You’re a very extraordinary person,” he said to Rustbane. Keep this self-inflated fool talking about himself. It’ll make what I’m going to try a bit easier. I hope. “Truly extraordinary,” he added, hoping he wasn’t overbuttering the pudding of his flattery. So, the fox had never planned anything but to massacre the population of Foxglove, including Viola and, not to mention, Sylvester himself – although that seemed merely incidental at the moment. Sylvester sighed inwardly. He’d expected no better of the pirate, who was obviously a creature consumed entirely by treachery, and indeed he’d based his plan on exactly such a betrayal. Still, it was somehow disappointing to see his expectations confirmed.

  “How right you are,” the fox was saying. “Truly extraordinary. A fighter without equal and a genius in the bargain. I possess powerful alchemical knowledge as well, the kind of arcane secrets that make ordinary magicians tuck in their skirts and run for the hills.”

  “Is that so?” Just a few moments longer.

  “It is indeed. Not for nothing do some people call me Deathflash. Or Doomslayer. Or Warhammer. Or … well, I can hardly remember all the different names people call me – not even the ones you can mention in polite company, which is by far the minority – but you can be sure most of them attest to the enormousness of my powers.”

  Slowly, deliberately, making sure that Viola was observing him, Sylvester retracted one of the three claws he’d extended.

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Message received.

  One.

  “You’ll be in all the history books,” said Sylvester.

  “Certainly, certainly. I’m the richest, greatest, most powerful and most feared pirate king Sagaria has ever known.”

  Sylvester pulled in another claw.

  Two.

  “And because you’ve been good enough to acknowledge the fact, Sylvester, I’m going to grant both you and your sweetheart a quick and relatively painless death. Regarding the rest of your lemming compatriots I can’t be so sure, but you two will hardly know what hit you. Isn’t that kind of me?”

  “Definitely.” Sylvester tried to keep the tremble out of his voice.

  This is it.

  He withdrew the last claw.

  Three.

  Now!

  Obediently, Viola open
ed her mouth with its razor-sharp teeth and chomped down viciously on Cap’n Rustbane’s hand.

  There was the muffled sound of her teeth scraping on bone.

  The pirate screamed – more from shock than from pain, even though the pain must have been extreme.

  “You little—”

  Rustbane instinctively tried to shake Viola loose.

  Since this was exactly what she wanted to be, she released his paw and fled like the wind. For the moment the cutthroats were too stunned by the suddenness of what had happened to pursue her.

  Just as Sylvester had hoped and prayed, the other part of his plan came right as well.

  Rustbane dropped the map.

  It fluttered awkwardly as it began to fall.

  With a skill he hadn’t known he possessed, Sylvester plucked it out of the air.

  Then he, too, was fleeing, in the opposite direction from the one Viola had taken.

  “Get after them!” shrieked Rustbane in fury.

  His ruffians started to obey, but still their movements were sluggish. Sylvester had darted down an alley before the first of the pirates had begun to give chase.

  Thoughts raced pell-mell through his mind, scampering faster even than his feet beneath him.

  Okay, what next?

  His forward planning had gotten him as far ahead as this moment, but no further. In truth, he never thought he’d get this far without being spitted on a pirate sword. It was a surprise to him he was still alive.

  He needed to put the map somewhere where he, and only he, could retrieve it. He knew in a general sense where that somewhere was. Where his planning had faltered was in determining the particular location he should make for.

  On a warm day like today, there weren’t all that many possibilities to choose from in Foxglove.

  If, in fact, there were any at all.

  The sound of his running footsteps and frantic breathing, for a brief period, had seemed to fill the world but were now inaudible due to the racket made by his pursuers. He daren’t slow down long enough to glance back over his shoulder, but it sounded as if there must be about a hundred of them, each swearing and shouting more than the next, each wearing hefty hobnailed boots that made the echoes ring.