The Nature of a Pirate

by A. M. Dellamonica

  “It’s a symbolic representation of a winter storehouse, isn’t it?” Sophie said. “The hole in the ground where you store excess harvest to get through the darkest, coldest months.”

  “Less symbolic than you might guess,” Cly said. “The stores are real enough.”

  “It’s a working larder?”

  “Such places are our traditional hedge against a return to the days of war and starvation, when the Havers would raid us across the Butcher’s Baste. Our fields were once quite poor for agriculture, before we drained the swamps.…”

  He was dressed in his full Fleet Judicial colors: cape, sword, sash, and gleaming, newly polished boots. Added to this was one accessory she hadn’t seen before: a stonewood gauntlet, worked to resemble an alligator. It ran from his forearm to just beneath his left hand, leaving the fingers free. The spikes on the green-tinted plates were barbed. It was exceedingly ornamental, appropriate to a fancy dress party. It also looked pretty lethal.

  Extra weapons for the wedding.

  “I think our table might be over here.”

  The banquet tables were overhung with chandeliers, arrays of milk-white candles arranged so the flames formed a crescent moon. Each table setting was laid with a shallow bowl that held a bluish, moon-pocked cheese. Cly glanced at the place cards, confirming their table arrangement, and then drew Sophie back into the crowd, indicating with a gesture that Garland should follow.

  “Allow me to introduce you to some people,” he said.

  “What people?”

  “Sylvanners who think as I do.”

  “Slow-mo abolitionists, in other words?”

  “Quietly, please. People who may elect Fralienne and her political allies, tomorrow.”

  “When can I free Kev?”

  “After the soup, before the meat.”

  “Seriously?”

  “There is a speech as well.”

  She had been obliged to check the wilting Kev at the entrance, as if he were a coat. He had been one of a roomful; more than fifty people were slated to be freed tonight.

  There was nothing to do but let Cly swan her around, making introductions. “You know a lot of people here,” she said.

  “I was schooled in Winter for a time,” he said. “It is a more politically active place than Autumn. Less rustic.”

  “Town mouse, country mouse,” she said.

  “Yes, if I understand your meaning.”

  At least a lot of the elite spoke Fleet. The conversations were shallow: Oh, so you’re Cly’s Verdanii daughter. How terribly quaint! It was better, though, than wondering what they might be saying about her in Sylvanner.

  Suddenly, Cly let out an “Aha!”

  Sophie’s muscles bunched as he put a hand on her shoulder, turning her slowly.

  Bram and Verena were just stepping past a uniformed waiter. Verena was wearing Verdanii traditional dress, a drapey green sarong. Bram was, as usual, rocking the Gap catalog.

  “Surprise,” Cly said, his voice warm.

  “Oh!” She loped over, best as she could, to bundle them both into an embrace.

  “That’s quite the getup, Ducks,” Bram said.

  It really was. Cly’s tailor had worked up a close-fitted bodice of deep-blue velvet, shot through with silver threads—little flecks intended, she imagined, to look like stars. The skirt got darker as it belled down to her feet, coming to black at the bottom, an obvious representation of the darkening night sky. A clangy belt of silver moons was latched around her hips.

  For Garland, Cly had acquired a private captain’s sailing uniform: longcoat, breeches, and boots, all in black. He’d been primped and combed, as she had, and looked as though he’d wandered away from a fashion shoot. The only reason he wasn’t blinding to look at, straight on, was that gorgeous was so very much Garland’s default.

  She shut out everything, locking eyes with her little brother. “How’s it sitting?”

  “The news about Daimon?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize.”

  “I didn’t either. Bram, seriously, are you okay?”

  A mix of emotions crossed his face. “Okay … ish. Three okay.”

  “If you need anything…” she began, and he squeezed her hand.

  “How did you come to be here?” Garland asked Verena.

  “Cly had us bumped to the front of the inspection line,” she murmured in English. “The better to keep an eye on us?”

  “What’s the game?” Bram added.

  “Chicken. If Cly can get me to admit there’s something hinky in me marrying Garland, he wins. If I can free Kev and wiggle off the nuptial hook, I win.”

  “Is there a grand prize and a new car?”

  “If I get married here, like this, I’m a proper Sylvanner woman, at least on paper. If I get caught, I’ve committed fraud, broken my oath, and Cly’s got leverage.”

  “Leverage for what?”

  She glanced around. “Not here, okay?”

  “Well. I brought you a wedding present.”

  “Jerk!”

  “You don’t want it?” He grinned, dangling a new DSLR camera. “Look, now we’re both in debt.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “I have something for you, too, as it happens.”

  “Gifts. For moi?”

  Cly had given her a purse of sorts, to go with the gown. He’d been conceding to the obvious, since she never went anywhere without, at minimum, her book of questions and a few test tubes. To these basics she had added the skull containing the magical followbox Bram had made, more than a month ago, back in Fleet. It was bulging out the line of the purse, clonking into things, and seemed every bit as indestructible as advertised.

  She pulled it out, extracting it from a wrap of linen napkins. The skull was blackened, fragile looking, disturbingly square and smelled faintly of long-dead moss.

  Bram touched the skull, quietly mouthing the ram’s name. The bone crumbled away, adding a burned odor to the reek. All that remained on his palm was the small stone box.

  He opened it.

  Inside, unaffected by time, as far as either of them could tell, were the bone, the piece of lava, and a folded piece of messageply. On the paper were two words: TIME CAPSULE.

  Sophie’s mouth actually watered as she looked at the rock and the bone. Something they could carbon-date, at last! As for the paper …

  “Shall we?”

  Bram vibrated like a tuning fork. “Got a pen in your handbag, milady?”

  “Don’t tease.” She held one out. He wrote ZOMG!

  Sophie opened up her book of questions, paging through until she found the right page of messageply. ZOMG! had appeared on the page, right under TIME CAPSULE.

  SOPHIE OPAL … PARRISH, Bram wrote. The words formed on the second sheet as he wrote.

  She snatched the pen and wrote back, JERKY JERK.

  “K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” he muttered.

  The paper felt hot in their grasp, as if it was about to burst into flame.

  “That’s it,” she said. “It’s truly our world that turns to all … this.”

  “That, or the parallels are so close they might as well be the same.” He sounded breathless.

  “Never mind the hairsplitting, Bramble.”

  “Things go boom.”

  Boom. Gone. All of America east of Memphis. New York underwater. San Francisco … She swallowed.

  “We have to find out when the comets hit,” Bram said. “If it’s within our lifetime—”

  “If it’s even comets—”

  Before they could power up a full-blown shared anxiety attack, bells rang throughout the hall. Cly returned, herding them back to the table.

  Marriage. Right. Getting abandoned at the altar. One disaster at a time.

  “Sophie, you’ll sit beside me. Parrish, on my other side. Bram is to be seated beside Sophie, and Verena by Parrish.”

  Then he froze, momentarily floored by, apparently, the sight of the camera.

  “You okay, Cly?”
>
  “It’s exactly the same as the other!”

  “That’s Erstwhile manufacturing for you.”

  “For as long as it lasts,” Bram muttered.

  “What a marvel!” Cly let his finger drop to the lens cap. Then, recovering, he got them arranged at the table as a stuffy-looking older woman claimed the podium, declaiming in perfectly modulated Sylvanner.

  “I should translate the speeches, don’t you think?” Cly said.

  “Is it worth it?” Sophie asked.

  He blanked. Then his face took on a quizzical expression as he weighed the question.

  It was a weird moment, Sophie would think later, a tiny capture of everything about her birth father that seemed so dangerous while simultaneously leaving her with a thread of hope. That initial expression, quicksilver fast, that blank, Does-not-compute reaction that made her sure, deep down, that at least part of Cly was emotionally hollow. Then the quick reversion to a real face: raised eyebrows, and so much apparent good humor.

  And then? Was he trying to parse her idea of worth? Looking for a socially acceptable answer? Trying to score points in their ongoing game?

  “You’ll be less likely to act out if you know what’s going on,” he concluded, and with that he began to murmur along with the speaker, offering up a text that had all the character of a graduation address.

  “Young people! This is an important day. As maturity beckons and you stand on the verge of commitment, remember your civic responsibilities and the debts you owe to your nation.…”

  What I owe my nation, Sophie thought, is to find out if it’s going to get pulverized by comets anytime soon.

  She caught Verena stealing a look at Garland. There was a sadness in her expression, but the desperation seemed to be gone. She met Sophie’s gaze and raised three fingers, whispering as she quoted Bram. “Three. Okay … ish.”

  “Glad,” Sophie whispered back. “Five glad.”

  Despite the weird, foreign, and incredibly formal setting, there was a sense of rightness, solid comfort in being together, with everyone in sight, safe, and accounted for. Bram was listening intently to Cly’s translation of the prewedding speech. No doubt he was practicing his Fleet and comparing the Sylvanner vocab, even as he mathed or practiced inscription or did who knew what other work with the remainder of his brain.

  “How are the parents?” she whispered to him.

  “I sat them down and said I knew it was tough but you’d discovered something important. Manhattan Project important. Discovery of penicillin—”

  A thrum of gratification. “And … what? They should just suck it up?”

  “I didn’t use those words.”

  “How’d they take it?”

  “How do you think? They’re sad we’ll be gone so much, and incredibly proud of you.”

  She tried to imagine that. “No other break-ins at the house?”

  He shook his head. “The spell took.”

  Magic. Another thing Bram was going to be good at. The thought didn’t come flavored with the angst she’d have felt even a year ago.

  Garland was looking, with apparent touristy interest, around the room. Figuring out escape angles and ways out of the hall?

  I’ll have to give him his chance to run before we get marched to the … well, it’s probably not an altar.

  After the opening remarks, table slaves appeared, clad in monkish robes that made them nearly invisible in the dim light. They poured carrot-colored soup over the moon cheese. There was a hiss and a rush of bubbles.

  “At least taste it,” Cly said.

  Sophie shook her head. It had a faint scent of the weird peaches, and a whiff of hot pepper.

  Garland and Bram likewise demurred, but, to Sophie’s surprise, Verena took a token sip and uttered a ritual-sounding phrase in Verdanii.

  They had to wait for everyone else at the banquet to finish the soup before the decumbering could take place.

  Finally, finally, the slaves began to clear the bowls. Cly indicated a line of couples forming at one end of the room. He handed Sophie a slip of paper. “The text of your declaration, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  She had memorized the syllables, but it was a peace offering, and she seized it gratefully. “Thank you. Come on, Garland.”

  Freeing Kev entailed picking him up at the coat check and then lining up for a turn at the speaker’s platform. There, they waited in line as earnest young adults read property transfers, decumberings, and other transactions.

  The waiting slaves, Kev included, were in white smocks that made them—men, women, and children alike—look like a bunch of extras for a movie set in ancient Rome. Like the others, he was holding a sash; once he was bonded, he would be required to wear the designation of a freedman. His belly strained against the smock, and he seemed almost dopey. Dark circles bruised his eyes.

  “You’re going to be arrested,” Garland told him. “It’s apparent you’re involved in an intrigue to influence the Sylvanner election.”

  “Arrested? It’s not straight to the axman?”

  “Once you’re liberated, your right to a fair trial is restored. You’ll have a defense adjudicator.”

  He slumped a bit. Disappointed?

  “A few months ago, you were all about not getting beheaded,” Sophie said. “What changed?”

  “Back when this began and I freed Jalea, I thought myself a gamer.” Kev shook his head. “I was never but a piece on the board.”

  “You could still help us catch Pree.”

  “I’ve crossed that Golder twice already,” he said. “Time to leave well enough alone. That way, there’ll be a small mercy, when they catch me.”

  “I’d be more worried about the Sylvanner justice system.” Sophie looked back at the banquet table. Verena was making determined chitchat with Cly—from their gestures, they were talking about swordcraft. Bram was examining Kev.

  Catching his eye, Sophie puffed out her cheeks, then raised her eyebrows. Asking: Just taking in the weight gain?

  He nodded.

  “I think it’s our turn,” Garland said.

  Kev paused at the base of the platform, head bowed, as they climbed up together—two kids, in the eyes of the law, added up to one responsible adult. The officiator looked at them skeptically. His gaze passed them, moving in Cly’s direction, and he stiffened to utterly proper attention.

  Bet Cly bared his teeth or something.

  The officiator gestured for the two of them to take hands and go ahead. Sophie read the decumbering.

  There was no fanfare, no thunderclap. In a world so awash in magic, you would think at least that Kev’s symbolic shackles would fall off. But all that happened was that the officiator nodded.

  “I think you’re free now,” Sophie said.

  She untied Selwig’s ribbon. Kev bowed, clumsily. “Kir Sophie.”

  The emcee was shooing them.

  Garland drew them off before the next couple could elbow through. “If you would like us to contact an advocate on your behalf—”

  Kev shook his head. “No need.”

  They walked him past the lineup and back in the direction of the coat-check. Two Hoarfrost police constables were waiting.

  “Hold on,” Sophie told them, digging out a robe and sandals Cly had given her, for after. “Let him dress before you haul him off in irons.”

  Kev shuffled into the sandals, then donned the robe. He smoothed the identity sash over his chest, emphasizing his gut. He was all gut—his legs and arms were still skinny.

  She looked at Garland, at the open shaft leading out to the rest of the Institute. Would he take off now?

  Let the jilting begin! She was about to suggest it, then he bowed. “Your Honor.”

  Cly, naturally, had come along to see Kev turned over to proper custody. “Well, Lidman? Is freedom everything you imagined?”

  Sophie gave her birth father a Shut up scowl. “It’s not too late, Kev, honestly. If you leveled with us now, as a free man, we’d still
try to help you.”

  “I was never free. But at least now I’ll do no further harm.” Kev shook his head. “It’s done, Kir Sophie. My family can— Thank you for trying. And for all your kindnesses.”

  He turned his back on her, lumbering away, stoop-shouldered, with the guards.

  “He’s no longer your problem, dear one. Come.” With that, Cly ushered her and Garland back to the banquet, to watch as the Sylvanners devoured eight more courses of premarital midwinter fare: roasted mushrooms, a salted fish dish, a pickly thing that smelled of kimchi with cherries—and not in a good way—and alligator flesh. They didn’t seem to do dessert at the end of formal meals; instead, there was a tiny mouthful of cookie or cake after every dish.

  “This is how they feed you before sending you off for a wedding night? How do you move, let alone—”

  “Don’t be coarse,” Cly said, but his expression was indulgent.

  Of course he was amused. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Garland was fixing to bolt.

  I’ll have to look for a chance to be extremely distracting.

  Garland himself seemed calm enough, undisturbed by the prospect of being frog-marched down the aisle.

  “At home we call this a shotgun wedding,” Verena said.

  “Wrong,” Bram said. “Shotgun is when you’re pregnant.”

  Garland coughed. “There’s no question of—”

  Pregnant. An uneasy roil of thought within Sophie’s mind.

  “What’s up?” Bram asked, reading her expression. Garland and Cly had leaned forward in the same instant, probably to ask the same thing.

  “Daimon,” she said. “Or Smitt. Whatever we call him. Frightmaker. Specialist in gross pregnancy spells.”

  “Daimon?” Bram said. “What about Daimon?”

  “Go on,” Cly said.

  “The bleeding ships,” she said. “Amniotic fluid and birth stuff. The mare full of cat monster. She was fat.” Nobody was following her. “I’m just thinking … Kev … He’s been belling out.” She held her hands out from her gut.

  Cly arched an eyebrow. “Is this a ploy?”

  “I thought it was inactivity, stress eating.”

  “You changed his name, child. He can’t have been inscribed after he was enslaved and pacified.”

  “The bigger the fright spell, the longer it takes to bake,” she said. “He was getting bigger … Seas, as far back as Docket.”