Mulligan Stew.
Okay, so it didn't have to make sense or fit the old man's personality. Remo doubted whether he had named the boat himself, and who cared if he had? More interesting, by far, were the two men awaiting Humphrey on the deck as he approached.
They didn't look like the role-playing pirates he'd run into that morning. No swords or flintlock pistols were in evidence, no eye patches, peg legs ...and yet, there was a certain air about the men that would have marked them down as criminals in Remo's mind, regardless of the circumstances. From ten yards away he eavesdropped on their conversation and was glad he had decided not to trounce Humphrey the minute the old man emerged from his little house.
They were about to embark on a sail to the pirate's island. Finally his lousy luck was starting to reverse itself.
There was some unpleasantness as Humphrey informed the two roughnecks he needed some supplies and convinced them to fetch the items in the interest of time. It was all a lie; Remo heard it in every syllable the old man uttered. Ethan Humphrey got his way, however, and the other two came down the gangway, moved along the pier with angry strides, passed Remo without seeing him and split up to move in opposite directions as they left the waterfront.
Humphrey had the Mulligan Stew to himself, but he was clearly in no hurry to leave, certainly not without the shipmates he had taken pains to send on some errand that got their blood up. He wouldn't sail without them; Remo was convinced. Whatever the charade Humphrey was playing, it looked more like something he had thought up to amuse himself.
Laugh while you've got a head to laugh with, Remo thought. You never know when somebody might find a good reason to remove it.
Chapter 14
Chiun had cooked rice so many thousands of times in his lifetime he could intuit the readiness of the water by breathing the steam and could sense its doneness by the richness of its aroma.
The man assigned to watch him was a toady with no intellect to speak of, surely nothing that would pass for functional imagination. He had watched Chiun build the fire and put the water on, offering no help as Chiun filled a bucket and brought it back from the stream. It gave Chiun the opportunity to moan and stagger slightly, listing to the right as if the pail were nearly too heavy for him to carry.
Chiun was smiling on the inside, and he made another sound, too quiet for the toady to hear: "Heh-heh-heh."
It said much of his present adversaries, Chiun decided, that they could behold a Master of Sinanju and believe that he was powerless. He was enjoying himself, although such clandestine behavior was well beneath his dignity.
There was just one reason he was willing to go along with it-and it was not because his adopted white son with the bulbous nose asked him to protect Stacy Armitage.
Oh, he would protect her. She would not be tortured or defiled under his watch. But as far as going on a killing spree and sending this bunch of pretenders from centuries past to their deserved graves, that would wait. When Remo came, they could perform the cleaning up. They'd have a better chance of saving all the prisoners on the island with two of them on the job.
But why kill the pirates now? They might serve a purpose still.
If this was the correct island, the place that had been known once as the Island of Many Skulls, it was not a small patch of land. Even a Master of Sinanju would have difficulties finding a treasure that had been buried here-a treasure buried centuries ago. Buried deep. Buried, in fact, by a Master of Sinanju.
If these pirates had some of their history, then maybe they could help him locate the landmarks described in the Sinanju scrolls. The nature of some of those landmarks made it unlikely that they still existed.
Chiun would know soon enough.
He began to add the rice, sifting a handful at a time into the boiling water from a heavy burlap bag the pirates had provided him at his request. The shellfish-peeled and deveined already, piled up in a wooden bowl, within arm's reach-would be the last addition, when the rice was nearly done. Meanwhile, he had time to observe his enemies and find them wanting in the skills that might have saved their worthless lives, once Remo was available to finish them.
It would take time, of course, for Remo to discover where the pirates were. Chiun wasn't precisely sure how that would be accomplished, but he had no doubt that Remo would succeed.
Remo didn't come across as one of great intellect. Or cunning. He wasn't prone to great feats of mental dexterity, or even mediocre ones. Some had even labeled him a simpleton.
But somehow Remo always failed to live up to others' expectations of idiocy. Somehow, like unexpected lightning, the flashes of insight would always come to the young white Reigning Master. Or he would simply worry the thing to death. Or meander aimlessly, so it seemed, into the solution. But the most important thing was that the solution was always reached. Chiun thought that there just might be-and he would never in a thousand generations admit this to Remo or another living soul or even dare notate the thought in the sacred scrolls of Sinanju or even think it too loud for fear some wandering mind reader would happen across it and blurt it out-but there just might be a streak of, well, brilliance to be found in there. Somewhere. If you really looked for it.
Chiun took a wooden ladle and began to stir the rice with lazy, counterclockwise strokes, putting a palsied shake into his hand just for added effect. His watchdog lit a hand-rolled cigarette and started puffing clouds of smoke into the air. He was within arm's reach of Chiun, a killing distance, but it wasn't time to start the deadly dance.
But first, the search.
"YOU'VE BEEN HERE HOW long?" Stacy asked.
The woman who had earlier identified herself as Megan Richards glanced at her companions in the dingy, thatch-roofed hut. Felicia Docherty frowned and shrugged while the other, introduced by Megan as Robin Chatsworth, sat still and said nothing.
"Four, five days," said Megan. "I'm not exactly sure. Time runs together here. You'll find out what I mean."
Stacy was hoping that she wouldn't be among the pirates long enough that she lost track of time, but anything was possible. With Remo gone-not dead, she told herself, please, God, just don't let him be dead-there was no way of knowing how or when she would be rescued from her captors.
"And they killed your boyfriends? Christ, I'm sorry."
"Not exactly boyfriends," Megan said. "It was a shame, though."
Megan Richards didn't sound as if it were a shame, but Stacy knew that people dealt with grief in varied ways. Or maybe there had been no more between these women and the dead men than casual sex. Less than that, perhaps, if they had just been "friends." Such things were not unknown.
"And what about your boat?" asked Stacy. "What was it, again?"
"The Salome," Felicia Docherty put in.
"Is that some kind of Arab name, or what?"
"I couldn't tell you," Stacy said. "Did you have anybody else on board?"
"Like who? You mean a chaperon?" Megan was close to laughter, but it sounded more like hysteria in the making than any real vestige of humor.
"No," said Stacy. "I was wondering if you had hired a guide, or anyone to help you with the boat along the way."
Meg and Felicia shook their heads as one, while Robin sat and stared. "Nothing like that," Felicia said. "The guys knew all about that stuff, okay? We didn't have the room, besides, and who wants witnesses?"
To what? Stacy was on the verge of asking, but she checked herself. She knew what the young woman meant, and what she had in mind. A college fling was easily forgotten, but it might come back to haunt you if your parents heard about it. From a stranger, for example, who had watched and listened, maybe asking you for money that would keep him quiet in the days and weeks ahead. Trust no one, if you didn't know them going back to grade school.
But it hadn't saved these three. Not even close. Their young men of the moment had been killed, three more lives wasted in addition to God knew how many that had gone before, and from the evidence before her, Stacy knew these thr
ee had suffered in captivity. The faded shirts and baggy, twice-patched pants they wore weren't the clothes they had been captured in; she would have bet her life on that. And from the bruises on their skin, the shadows underneath their eyes, the silence Robin held before her like a shield, Stacy was sure the men who stole their clothes had taken much, much more, as well.
"Do you have any idea where we are?" Felicia asked.
"Not really," Stacy said. "They kept us down below after they took the Melody."
"That's not much better than the Salome," said Megan. "Jeez, where do they get these names for boats?"
"Who's the old man?" Felicia asked before Stacy had time to answer Megan's question.
Stacy wondered how much she should tell these strangers, and decided there was little they could do to help her, even less that they could do to help Chiun.
"He was my husband's friend," she said, preserving the fiction for what it was worth. "They've known each other from when Remo was a boy."
"Remo?" Felicia said. "What kind of name is that?"
"Armenian," Stacy replied, ad-libbing as she went along. "His great-grandparents came from Eastern Europe."
"Oh. Yeah, right."
"What happened? Can I ask you that?"
"They made him, uh, jump overboard," said Stacy. Even as she spoke the words, they had a kind of unreality about them, as if it were more of Remo's cover, something he had taught her to repeat on cue.
"That's rough," Felicia said. "Same thing they did with Jon and Barry. Did they shoot him, too?"
"Felicia, Jesus!" Megan sounded angry.
"I was just asking, for God's sake!"
"There was no shooting," Stacy said.
"Well, who knows?" said Felicia. "Maybe he's okay, then."
Megan glared at her, making Felicia shrug, but Stacy was already thinking, Yes, maybe he is. Maybe he is all right. And wouldn't that be something?
She would have to keep her fingers crossed, to wait and see. If Remo came, he came. If not... well, there was still Chiun, his promise to destroy the pirates on his own, if it should come to that.
With a start she saw the path her thoughts were taking. Crazy thoughts! Stupid dreams. She was losing touch with reality just as surely as poor old Chiun.
Remo was dead. Chiun was living in a fantasy world. He was a hundred years old-he was not going to start kicking pirate ass. If she let herself start believing all this make-believe stuff, she would never be able to think her way out of this situation.
She had to take care of herself.
The thought left her trembling with a sudden graveyard chill.
CAPTAIN THOMAS KIDD had a decision to announce. There were procedures to be followed, certain risks involved, but he had made his mind up on the crucial point, and there would be no turning back. If there were any challenges, then he would have to meet them as he always had before-head-on, with all his might and courage.
It wasn't the easiest decision Kidd had ever made, but he had weighed it carefully, examined all the angles and potential arguments against his choice, before deciding that he should proceed at any cost. The time was right; he wasn't getting any younger, and the notion was entirely logical when viewed from that perspective.
It was time for Captain Kidd to take a wife. A queen, more properly, to help him rule the kingdom he had carved out for himself. In other circumstances, bygone days, there would have been a chance for him to shop around, survey the prospects in the islands-maybe even sail away to Florida and try his luck among the coastal cities-but the modern pirate life had more severe constraints. The captain was required to make do with the stock at hand.
Most times, Kidd would have seen that limitation as an insurmountable impediment to courting, but Fate had a way of sneaking up on him sometimes. He was accustomed to the flow of captive women moving through the camp, few of them lasting long. A year or so had been the maximum for most; they had a tendency to die from tropical diseases, overwork or sheer despondency. A handful killed themselves, and one-the wench Billy Teach had captured aboard the Solon II-had actually managed to escape. Most were attractive in their way, some of them stunning, but they lacked a certain quality of majesty.
Until today.
Granted, she could have used a better name. Stacy was not a monarch's name, granted, but Captain Kidd was willing to ignore such minor flaws. It was the way this woman carried herself, defiance flashing from her bold green eyes, refusing to be cowed by her surroundings, even now.
She hated him, of course. That was a given, and he understood the feeling. What else could a kidnapper expect at first? Kidd knew it would take time for her to come around, but once she recognized her destiny, the transformation process could begin.
And there was no time like the present to proceed. Kidd armed himself and left his quarters, moving purposefully through the compound to a central point, beside the cooking fire. The captive Chinese cook glanced at him in passing, his head jittering from side to side from some sort of disorder of the nervous system, and turned back to his stirring of the large, fire-blackened kettle.
Captain Kidd stopped walking when he reached a kind of minigallows that had been erected near the center of the compound. It stood shoulder high, and where a body might have hung if it had been full-sized, a twisted triangle of rusty metal was suspended from a chain. Above it, on the crossbar of the wooden structure, lay an old screwdriver with a wellworn wooden handle and a twelve-inch blade.
Kidd took the screwdriver in hand and rapped the blade repeatedly against the rusty iron triangle. The clamor echoed through the pirate camp, bringing men from their huts, from their chores, one or two hobbling back from relieving themselves in the bush.
He waited until most of his men were assembled, roughly surrounding him, jostling one another for position. Several called out questions, which Kidd ignored, giving his rowdy brothers time to quiet down. When they were as silent as Kidd could expect, he raised his voice in order to be heard by everyone.
"I'll waste none of your time," he said by way of introduction to his plan. "The time has come for me to take a wife. A queen, in fact. A woman who will give me sons and raise them in the grand tradition of our brotherhood."
That brought a murmur from the crowd, more than a few of them regarding Kidd with curiosity or frank suspicion. They were skeptical of change, and with good reason, since most alterations in the daily lives of outlaws brought them to a jail cell or a rope. A few of them were also wondering which woman he had chosen for himself, Kidd knew, and calculating how his choice would slash the list of wenches otherwise available to the community at large.
"The woman I've selected is the captive known as Stacy," Kidd announced. "We'll marry in accordance with the laws of our community, and life will go on as before, except with prospects for an heir."
No one among Kidd's audience suggested that the woman might have anything to say about the union; that wasn't an issue in such cases, when a pirate chose himself a mate. Still, some of them were muttering, and Kidd paused, biding his time, waiting to discover if a man with courage would reveal himself among the crew.
"What's that leave for the rest of us?" a harsh voice challenged Kidd from somewhere in the ranks. He didn't see the man who spoke but thought he recognized the voice.
"Who asks me this?" Kidd scanned the rows of faces, waiting for the one outspoken buccaneer to show himself.
A tall man shouldered through the press to take a stand in front of Kidd, perhaps ten feet away. As Kidd had thought, it was scar-faced Rodrigo, standing with his feet apart, hands fisted on his hips. Kidd knew without having to check that Rodrigo was wearing a dagger sheathed on his belt, behind his right hip, where he could reach it swiftly as the need arose. He was no mean hand with the weapon, either, if memory served.
"I ask it," said Rodrigo. "And I wager that I'm not the only one who's thinkin' it."
Rodrigo glanced around to see if anyone would second him, and while a number of the others stared at Kidd, as if e
xpecting the performance of a special drama for their entertainment, none was forward enough to support him in words.
The shortage of support didn't appear to cow Rodrigo. If anything, he seemed emboldened as he turned once more to face his captain, fists still planted firmly on his hips. Had the pirate's right fist edged closer to his knife?
"It is a captain's right to choose his mate," Kidd told Rodrigo and the rest. "Who would dispute this time-honored law?"
"I would," Rodrigo said without a moment's hesitation, "if it means a shortage for the rest of us, where nookie is concerned. I, for one, have been going without long enough."
"You've not been idle with the other hostages from what I hear," said Kidd.
Rodrigo frowned and cleared his throat. "That's neither here nor there," he blustered. "Whether these curs will 'fess up to it or not, I'm speaking for the lot of them. We want the redhead shared out with the rest. When we have wenches enough to go around, then it'll be time enough to think about your wedding plans."
Kidd smiled and clasped his hands loosely behind his back. "And is there aught else on your mind?" he asked.
Rodrigo hesitated for a moment, glancing back to left and right once more, then nodded to himself. "There is, indeed," he said. "This business of an heir is something some of us don't hold with absolutely, either. Any pirate's law I ever heard of called for captains to be chosen from the brotherhood, by challenge. When did we start breedin' 'em?"
"A question worthy of reply," Kidd said. Behind his back, the fingers of his right hand curled around the grip of a .38-caliber revolver, which he wore tucked into the back of his stout leather belt. In one smooth motion, Kidd drew the side arm, thumbing back the hammer, and thrust it out in front of him. The three-inch barrel was on target before Rodrigo knew what was happening, and Kidd squeezed the .38's trigger a heartbeat later.
The bullet struck Rodrigo squarely in the middle of his forehead, flattening on impact and toppling him over backward in the dust. Before the echo of the shot had died away, Kidd had another challenge for his men.
"Who else disputes my right to choose a mate?" he asked in his most reasonable tone.
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