A smile crept up at the corners of the child's mouth as he tried out the sound of the name. “It b-be pleasing.”
“Then Pico it is.” Bartholomew reached out and shook his hand. Before he let it go, he asked, “Pico, do you know who you work for?”
“C-Captain Barbarossa.”
“Do you know who he works for?” He released his grip and looked directly into Pico's brown eyes.
“No one. He b-be our captain.”
Mona Lisa shook her head.
“No?” Pico looked confused.
“He works for the enemy,” she said.
The child raised one eyebrow then the other like a perplexed puppy. “The Spanish?”
“If only it were someone as gentle.” Bartholomew sighed.
Pico blinked.
“Who are the worst of all?”
“Not…” He brought a hand up to his mouth.
“Yes,” Bartholomew paused so the next words would sink in. “The Shadow Swine.”
Pico gasped, and his legs buckled beneath him. Bartholomew held out an arm to steady him, but the poor boy shook so much he could barely stand. “No! It c-can't be!”
Mona Lisa uttered a few soothing words, but her effort was cut short by a shout from the stern.
“Stupido! Feed them prisoners and get up here!”
Cringing, Pico stumbled toward the sneering pirate. When the little guy rushed past, the turbaned man cuffed the back of his head. Bartholomew felt his temper flash and opened his mouth in protest. Then his anger sparked an idea. He exchanged a glance with Mona Lisa and she nodded.
A solution to their problem just fell into his lap.
Literally.
Chapter 37
Keeping his head bowed, Sludge rubbed honorific spittle into Lord Sickhert's taloned feet until they shone like polished bones. “You may rise,” Lord Sickhert murmured contentedly. Sludge got to his feet but kept his eyes downcast. “Report!” Sickert commanded.
“They have rounded the island of Sicily without incident.”
“The young Deliverer? Has he been a problem?”
“Barbarossa brothers say he just sits there, shaking like a fly in a web.” Sludge smiled, imagining a horrified Bartholomew in chains.
“Good, good.” Sickhert rubbed his ashy hands together. “And the other?”
“We have been unable to locate the second.”
“What! You have but one task. Get Mona Lisa to the portal.”
“She is on her way,” Sludge protested.
Lord Sickhert's white eyes narrowed to slits. “But she is not there yet, and you know all too well what will happen if she fails to arrive.”
Sludge squirmed beneath his cloak as the welts on his back rubbed against the fabric. Those correction chamber's burns would blister for weeks. “But I have planted seeds of fear in his companion,” he said quickly. “The girl will betray him.”
“You don't know this. Humans are unpredictable.”
“I invaded her dreams many times,” Captain Sludge argued.
“Insufficient.”
“Ahh, but in the forest, I made things. Shall I say clear?”
Lord Sickhert leaned closer. “And she shivered in terror?”
“Like a lamb in a tiger's jaws.” Sludge took a deep breath, enjoying the memory of a quivering Gwen.
Lord Sickhert didn't seem to share his pleasure. He gave Sludge an even stare. “As gratifying as human suffering may be, do not let it deter you from the mission.”
Sludge tried to straighten his hunched back. “Of course, my lord.”
Sickhert warned, “These Deliverers can create weapons here that even I have no power against.”
Sludge knew the truth of this quite well. He may have been defeated once by their true art, but not this time. Now, he would be victorious. This time, the humans would be the ones with welts. Then he would rule at Lord Sickhert's side.
“Now go,” Sickhert said. He rubbed his boney feet together and leaned back against his shining black throne.
“Yes, my lord.” Sludge bowed before marching down the twisting stair.
Outside of Sickhert's stalagmite castle, Sludge strutted to the steaming River of Lies. Here other soldiers paused from their dream draining to salute. He nodded to a few of them before stopping briefly in front of some new recruits. “You call those nightmares? Why they wouldn't scare toddlers, much less teens.”
“But my captain, it a big dog,” a soldier with an unusually small hump explained.
“Oh, a sweet puppy. How terrifying. No. Make it wolf-like with red eyes and dripping fangs.”
The small-humped soldier blew, and a wisp of smoke shaped like giant wolf escaped from his mouth. With snapping jaws, it took shape and lunged at the floating image of a teenage girl who ran in terrified circles to escape. Sludge knew there was none.
With a curt nod, he continued downriver until he found a boiling eddy. Here, gray steam rose and snaked across irregular stones. He bent over a flat outcropping of shale and breathed in the sulfuric fumes to fuel his journey. He pictured the long oars, lateen sails, and gun batteries of Redbeard's ship.
The vision grew clearer in his mind, and Sludge faded. He raised a muddy fist in the air. “Terror. Horror. Panic. Fear. Make nightmares of what they hold dear.”
The frenzied grunts of the Shadow Swine filled the cavern as the nightmares continued.
Chapter 38
Alex leaned over the railing of the Vento Buono. The blue Mediterranean reminded him of Bartholomew's eyes, his friend held captive with Mona aboard the Red Raven.
Like glaucous gull wings beating the sky, the mainsail flapped in the wind above. Higher still, attached to the top of the mast, Gwen stood lookout in the crow's nest. With cupped hands, she shielded her eyes from the sun as she scanned the horizon. I'm coming, B-three. You just hang in there.
Although they'd seen plenty of fishermen in rowboats, merchant vessels, and even a frigate, there was no sign of Barbarossa's galleon. Their own Vento Buono—the “good wind”— was a caravel explorer. Its three masts were a mainmast at the center, a foremast at the bow, and a mizzenmast at the stern. The two forward sheets were square, but the mizzen was triangular. Alex learned that the triangle was called a lateen sail, designed so ships could travel upwind.
He also was proud of learning that the sides of a ship had special names. Left was port, right starboard, while the front was the bow and the back the stern.
In any other situation, Alex would have been thrilled to be sailing across the sea. Since their ship looked exactly like the Santa Maria, he should feel like Columbus on his famous voyage across the Atlantic. But he wasn't looking for a shortcut to the Orient. He was tracking his best friend, and he had no idea if Bartholomew was okay. Had those pirates hurt him or tortured him in some horrible way? Alex grimaced until a rustling sound made him turn.
“Your friend still lives. Fear not, young Deliverer,” Venus said resting a milky white hand on his shoulder.
Alex wished he shared her optimism, but too much had happened this past year. Bartholomew caught stealing, Mom still weak from a terrifying heart attack, Dad trying to hide his worries about Mom by quoting Dr. Bock at every opportunity. Why does everyone I care about have to suffer? “Yeah, well,” Alex grumbled, wanting to step away from her kind touch. “What does that homing power of yours tell us now?”
Venus breathed in slowly as her eyes took on a faraway look. She exhaled with a soft whistle. “South. The pirate ship sails south. Islands many it has passed, and they approach another. It is…” She paused and laid a second hand on Alex's other shoulder. “Sicily. They are near Sicily.”
Chapter 39
Bartholomew munched thoughtfully on a grape and watched the pirates work the galley. It was fascinating to observe the sailors pull on the ropes attached to the sails. When he learned how each had its own name, mainsheet, halyard, or backstay, he imagined shouting commands as he captained his own ship. His triangular lateen sails would billow
like great clouds while he cried, “Ease the mizzen!” or “Trim the mainsheet!”
Bartholomew shook his head. Stop daydreaming.
Knowing he needed an ally, Bartholomew tried to gain the ship boy's trust, but every time he started a conversation, someone would order Pico back to work. Mona Lisa didn't fare much better, although the small boy did seem less nervous around her.
Bartholomew wasn't surprised. She enjoyed a calming effect on everyone. Heck, even the pirates sneered less when they walked by her. Every time he looked at her beautiful face, he was filled with a sense of peace.
But nice feelings wouldn't help them get away.
He watched Pico take flasks of water to the pirates. Even though they treated him like rotten squid skin under their boots, he seemed to sincerely care about his fellow sailors.
When one corsair tripped and scraped his knee, Pico sprinted to him to pour fresh water on the wound. “Get away, Stupido!” the pirate growled, knocking him back with a swipe of his arm.
Bartholomew could relate to Pico. He tried to please Hygenette his whole life, but no matter how many baths, he was never clean enough. He looked down at his hands, so black with grime. If Mother saw him now, she'd faint. Hunching over, he rubbed them on his now gray slacks.
“H-how b-be you, Photograph?” Pico asked.
Bartholomew lifted his gaze to Pico's puppy face. Without thinking he answered, “Not good.”
“S-sick?” Pico lifted one eyebrow, then the other.
Bartholomew blinked. No, he wasn't sick, but maybe if he pretended to be, he could finally win this little guy's confidence. Trying to make his voice sound scratchy, he coughed twice.
“W-where h-hurts it?”
Sell it, Bartholomew thought. He took a slow labored breath and winced. “Everywhere.” It wasn't a lie. He'd made such a mess of Mona Lisa's rescue, it physically pained him to think of it.
“P-poor Photo.” Pico pulled free a rag tucked into his belt and dipped it in a bucket of water. Wringing it out, he applied the stained compress to Bartholomew's forehead.
Fighting his revulsion, Bartholomew summoned a thankful look. Pico's soft brown eyes met his and they both smiled. It was a beginning.
For the next two days, Bartholomew put on his best sick act. It wasn't hard; he'd done it many times before. Mother was so terrified of germs that she believed every story. Heck, he could say, “Ingrown toenail,” and she'd put him to bed. It was how he got some privacy. No Mr. White droning on about some boring math problem, maids dusting around him every five minutes, or Mother scolding, “Start acting like a proper Borax.”
Now Pico came running with every sniffle. Bartholomew had no idea why, but this boy seemed to think that grapes were the cure for everything. If Bartholomew's stomach hurt, Pico advised to eat a green grape. If a headache was the complaint, Pico shoved a purple one in his face. Whenever Bartholomew coughed, black grapes ended up in his lap.
Bartholomew popped the dark fruit into his mouth. Maybe Pico was right. The sweet juice did make him feel better. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Then a shadow fell over him, and he raised a shackled hand to shield his eyes.
Redbeard stood above, waving his velvet cloak dramatically. He glanced over his shoulder, and as if on cue, all the pirates stopped what they were doing and leaned against masts, rigging, and cannons.
“Well, Photo. Never let it be said that Captain Redbeard Barbarossa isn't a man of his word.”
“Of course not, sir,” Bartholomew gushed.
“Ha. Ha.” Redbeard puffed up his chest.
“Tell 'em, Cap'n!” three pirates cried in unison.
“A battle you wanted. A battle you'll have.”
“Really?” Bartholomew made his eyes wide. “Wow!” He searched the pirate's face to see if he was laying it on too thick, but Redbeard was obviously so conceited that Bartholomew could have told him he was the handsomest man in all Artania, and the man would believe it.
“A merchant vessel is just beyond the horizon.” Captain Barbarossa pointed over the port bow and waited for every eye to fix on the sea. “Full of rich booty. Gems. Spices. Silks.”
Bartholomew nodded enthusiastically.
“All is ready,” said a shorter pirate who looked a lot like Redbeard. “Just give the word.”
“Photo, meet my brother, Hizir.” Redbeard put his arm around the corsair.
“Honored, sir,” Bartholomew said with a bow of his head.
The younger Barbarossa didn't even acknowledge Bartholomew. Obviously, he wasn't as easily flattered as his vain brother. Instead, he adjusted his faded brown turban and repeated his report.
“Hizir.” Redbeard chuckled and patted him on the back. “All business.” He grinned at Bartholomew and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “But in this case, he's right. I didn't win all those battles on my good looks alone.”
“So?” Hizir drummed his fingers on the hilt of the curved sword strapped to his waist. “When?”
“We will strike at dusk when the setting sun is in their eyes.”
“From the west?”
“Of course. All they'll see is a cool shadow.”
Hizir grinned, showing his five remaining teeth. “But they'll feel the heat of our blades, eh?”
“Aye, brother.” The captain turned on his heel and called to the gathered pirates. “Ready the ship! There are riches to be had this day!”
Cheering, the pirates bustled about with a new-found intensity. As the sails caught the morning wind, they burst into song. With a half-smile, Bartholomew glanced at a trembling Pico who clung to the main mast like a drowning child.
Poor little guy. He hates battles … probably imagines that each is his last.
Bartholomew had a thought. How do pirates attack?
Pico's pale face answered his question.
Bartholomew wanted to slap himself. He hadn't thought about the people on the other ship. They could be hurt— or worse.
Not if I have anything to do with it, Bartholomew vowed.
Of course, his resolve only left one question. How?
Chapter 40
Gwen woke with a start, her hammock swaying. Holding out a hand to steady it, she squinted in the dim light of the hold. People on wooden bunks snored beneath flickering oil lanterns.
Bump! There it went again, unmistakable this time. Heart pounding, Gwen slipped out of the netting and tiptoed to Alex's bunk. “Hey. Wake up,” she whispered.
He groaned and tuned over. “Leeme alone.”
“Get up.” She shook him.
“What?” Blinking slowly, he covered one eye with the back of his hand.
“I heard something.”
“This ship's always noisy. Go back to bed.” He pulled the gray blanket over his head.
Gwen tugged it back down and crossed her arms. She'd wait until sunrise if she had to.
“All right. Jeez.” Alex threw off the cover and trudged to the ladder leading topside. He climbed two rungs, but when Gwen stayed next to his bunk, he raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
She shrugged, afraid of what she might find.
“Are you coming?”
She'd didn't want to go up there, but Mitch Obranovich hadn't raised a wimp, so she swallowed her fear and followed Alex up. The previous afternoon, they'd dropped anchor to load supplies in the bay and the deck had been full of chattering work. Now, with everyone asleep, it was quiet. The loose folds on the stowed sails flapped in the warm breeze, and water lapped against the wooden hull.
Gwen glanced up at the clear sky. A map of stars so perfect that they must have been measured to the millimeter twinkled overhead. On the horizon, the crescent moon was setting, its sickle shape reflected on the Mediterranean Sea.
Alex paced back and forth on the wooden deck where nothing so much as moved. Not a single rat scurried along the rigging. “See? Everything is fine. Can I go back to sleep now?”
Gwen would have said yes if that prickling at the nape of her neck wasn't there. “C
an you look just a little more?”
Alex groaned, but Gwen knew he'd stay. She'd been friends with him long enough to recognize his sounds. This one meant he may not like it, but he'd chill a few minutes more. Anyhow, Alex never said no to someone who needed help. At school, if a kid got hurt, Alex was the first one there asking if the injured party needed the nurse. If Ty and Con were shoving in the lunch line, it was Alex who ordered them to cool it. If some creep was hanging around the skate park, Alex would insist on accompanying Gwen home, not leaving her side until she was safe at her front door.
Wishing for Dad's big arms, Gwen hugged the mainmast. She couldn't shake the feeling that something horrible was waiting just beneath the calm waves.
Alex stepped next to her. “I don't see anything, Gwen. Probably just a dream.”
She could tell his patience was wearing thin. “No, it wasn't.” She shook her head. “I definitely heard something.”
“There's nothing here,” he said in a controlled voice. “I'm going back to bed. You can stay up here if you want.”
Alex lifted the chain for the access hatch when suddenly the ship lurched. Arms akimbo, he tumbled back, bouncing on his butt as it slammed shut. “What was that?”
“The nothing,” Gwen said hugging the mast tighter.
The calm surface became a stormy sea. Huge waves splashed onto the deck in trickling snakes. As the foamy serpents made their way toward Gwen, she curled her toes back.
Dashing to the port gunwale, Alex peered over the edge. He shouted for her, but Gwen could barely hear his words over the crashing water. “Come here!” he cried again.
She didn't want to let go of the solid mast. It was her security, her safety from whatever was lurking below. Yet Alex needed her. Tensing every muscle, she released her grip and took a step.
Bump! The ship lurched again. Gwen fell to her knees. The leaning ship now felt like a steep mountain. Scooted on her rear over the slippery floorboards, she made her way toward Alex. “What is it?” she asked, grabbing the railing.
Eyes glued to the sea, Alex shrugged.
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