Blow Me Down (17 page)

“Be ye doomed, then, Amy?”

“Me? Probably.” I smiled at the hopeful look that flickered across the boy’s face, giving in to the urge to rumple his thick black hair. Now that he was cleaned up, deloused, and fed a few days’ worth of steady meals, he was starting to look more like a normal kid and less like a small parody of death. Bran the raven squawked and nudged my hand with his heavy beak. I snatched my hand back, thinking he was going to bite me.

“He likes you,” Bas said. “Ye don’t have to be afraid of him. He don’t hurt people he likes.”

“Ah?” I eyed the ratty-looking bird, then gave his head a few cautious pets. Even after a couple of baths, the bird was still less than majestic, but he was at least clean. “Nice bird. No biting.”

Bas gave me a juvenile eye roll.

“Just ignore me, Bas. I’m a bit wimpy about things today.”

“What sort of things?”

We continued past the church toward the town square. “Oh, various and sundry issues. For one, Bart thinks he’s sending Corbin a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but the truth is I’m no more a wolf than you are.”

Bas looked thoughtful. “Wolves eat people. I wonder what it feels like to be eaten.”

The memory of Corbin’s mouth on my breast bloomed to full-color, surround-sound, feel-vision, delicious life in my mind, making my stomach go all quivery. With much grit and determination, I dragged my attention back to the subject at hand. “The whole thing is ridiculous. It’s not like I can actually do anything to make a difference.”

The square was bustling with the usual group of women at the well in the center, various children, dogs, and assorted livestock running around, and a few white-haired men who were all that were left to manage the shops after the massacre. I paused at the edge of the square, in the shade of a tailor shop, frowning as I looked around. “Bas, someone mentioned a mine on the island.”

“Aye. Emerald mine. ’Tis in the belly of the Turtle.”

I glanced behind me at the humpback center of the island, the rounded hemisphere bearing a resemblance to the shell of a turtle, hence the name. “Emeralds, huh? So a lot of the men work there?”

He shook his head. “They’re all dead now. Black Corbin killed ’em. Cap’n Bart, he brought in more men, but they’re not many, and they’re busy in the crew foragin’ and keepin’ Black Corbin from slittin’ our throats while we sleep.”

A protest that Corbin would never do anything so nefarious rose on my lips, but I bit it back, instead looking along the arms of the crescent that formed the harbor. On either side, crude wooden structures had been built, upon which even now men swarmed, working to install the new bigger cannons that would be used to protect the town.

I looked back at the square, the pleasant, ordinary scene in front of me contrasting violently with the vision of the cobblestones running red with the blood of the remaining inhabitants of the island.

If what Corbin and Bart said about the blockade was true, then the people of Turtle’s Back needed my help.

“I have to write a letter,” I said, making a decision. “Who has parchment, do you know?”

Bas’s eyes widened in surprise. “Ye be wantin’ to write a letter? To a person?”

“Yeah. Yes . . . er . . . aye. I do. An important letter. I don’t have any reales, so I need someone who would be willing to barter something for a bit of parchment, a pen, and ink.”

Bas continued to look stunned by my request. I gave up hoping for a suggestion from him and scanned the shops around the square, finally settling on the largest merchant shop as being the wealthiest in town, and thus the most likely to have extravagances like parchment and ink.

Two hours later I emerged from a nearby sweltering out-building, sucking at a blistering spot on my left palm, my right hand just as sore, but triumphantly clutching a rolled-up scrap of parchment, a cast-off quill, and a minuscule amount of ink in a stopperless bottle.

Bas, who had been napping in the shade of a nearby coconut tree, got up and shambled after me as I headed for Renata’s house. “Ye got yer letter, then?”

“I churned enough butter to clog up the arteries of half the town,” I said. “And, yes, I got the parchment and ink. Now, for a few quiet moments to write the letter. Oh, are you busy? No? Would you mind staying around the square? I want you to watch for someone.”

“Who?” Bas asked, his head to the side as Bran ruffled through his hair. I avoided looking at both of them, knowing the bird had probably found feasts there in the past.

“A friend of mine. He’s . . . er . . . he looks like a leper. Or a deranged man. But he’s neither; he’s perfectly harmless, I assure you . . .” My voice trailed off. Reassurances weren’t necessary. The minute the word
leper
left my lips, Bas’s eyes lit up.

“If you see him, go up to him quietly, without drawing any attention to yourself, and tell him I have a message for him to deliver. You got that?”

He nodded. I parked him in the square, gave him an apple I’d confiscated for my lunch, and hurried back to the small room that Renata had let me use.

It took me a few tries, and much of the remaining shaft of the quill, to get a point that would write even remotely legibly, but at last I sat cross-legged on the floor, a board on my lap, the rumpled bit of parchment stretched out on it. I teased my chin with the feather end of the quill as I thought about what I wanted to write.

I read the letter over, yearning for my handy Wite-Out pen to remove the worst of the inky blotches, splashes, smears, and fingerprints, but in the end, I shrugged and figured Corbin would just have to decipher it as best he could. I used a bit of plain old candle wax to seal the rolled-up parchment, then went in search of Bas, and, I hoped, Holder. I hadn’t heard any hue and cry indicating that one of Corbin’s men had been caught, so I assumed he was lying low until night, when he could slip out of town.

Night was just falling when we finally found him.

“Psst! Amy!” Holder hissed from an alley Bas and I were passing. A woman and her children walking next to me paused to look down the alley.

“Argh, me beauty, ye’re a fine-lookin’ wench. Be ye lookin’ to play hoist the anchor?” Holder said, doubling over and drooling as he shuffled toward us. The woman hurried her children away quickly. Holder glanced around as he straightened up, grabbing my arm and hauling me into the shadow of the alleyway.

“There you are. We’ve been searching everywhere for you. I’m glad to see you haven’t been caught, although, really, is the drool necessary?”

“Every good lunatic drools,” he answered, flashing me a smile. “Hoy, Bas. How’s tricks?”

Bas’s face fell when he realized that the lunatic was none other than Holder in disguise, a fact I’d kept from him in case he inadvertently let it slip that Corbin’s first mate was lurking about town. “Oh, it’s ye. Cap’n Amy said ye were a leper. I don’t suppose ye are?” he asked hopefully.

“No, sorry, lad, no leprosy, although I get a horrible rash on my belly if I eat nachos. Something in the cheese, I think,” he answered, idly scratching the body part in question.

“Can we discuss your rashy stomach another time? You need to get out of town. Bart’s men are seriously building up defenses, and it’s not safe for you to be here. I have a letter for Corbin.” I gave him the rolled-up parchment. He eyed it. “No peeking. It’s sealed.”

He grinned and saluted me with it. “Aye, aye, m’lady. Corb should be coming back for me just before the moon is high, so he’ll have it before the night is over.”

“Thanks. Be careful. From what I can tell, feelings are running pretty high over you guys.”

A curious look crossed his face, part puzzlement, part interest. “Really? Because of the blockade?”

I gaped at him for a moment or two, making a mental readjustment in my image of him. I hadn’t thought he would be so callous as to totally disregard the number of men he and Corbin and the rest of their crew had so coldbloodedly killed, but even knowing they did it in the spirit of the game, I was taken aback enough that I said nothing other than to repeat my warning to be careful leaving the town.

Hours later I was snuggled into my bed, dreaming about skeletons that danced on bleeding hearts. A hand clapped over my mouth was the first indication that all was not right. The second was the (now familiar) black sack that was shoved over my head and torso, confining me into a helpless blob of sleepy woman.

My mouth worked, however. The kidnappers didn’t say anything to my scathing estimates of their parentage and ancestry, but I was not in the least bit surprised when, ten minutes later, I was deposited on a hard wooden seat on a rocking platform.

The sacking was unwound from my body and lifted off, the sudden rush of sea air—as well as the man seated across the rowboat from me—confirming my suspicions.

“Hello, luv,” Corbin said. “Ready to get married?”

—Ibid, Act I

“Dearly beloved—”

“Corbin, you’re mad. What on earth were you doing on Turtle’s Back?”

“I figured it was safer for you to be with me. Bart is my enemy, after all . . .”

“The key words in that sentence being
your enemy,
not mine. Besides, I have work to do there interviewing everyone. And it’s way too dangerous for you to be on Turtle’s Back right now. Don’t you know that Bart is after your head? He’s promised three ships to any man who can bring in proof of your demise. If he’d seen you—”

“—we have gathered here today to witness the virtual bonding of this pirate to this pirate—”

“Sweetheart, it’s traditional for the bride to stand next to the groom during a wedding. I’m not sure what the etiquette is about holding a sword to the groom’s throat, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it’s not quite kosher. Especially when it’s the groom’s own rapier.”

I withdrew the sword tip from where I had pressed it against Corbin’s neck and handed it back to him. “You weren’t listening to me. No one is listening to me. I had to do something dramatic to make you pay attention.”

“—within the confines of the game, naturally, although I personally happen to think Corb and Amy are made for each other.”

“You may be on to something,” Corbin told Holder before grinning at me and holding out his hand. “Shall we, my dear?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and tucked in my hands. “No, we shall not. I told you I wasn’t saying I’d marry you. And don’t pull that ‘I’m safer with you’ crap. Bart is no threat to me, and I still have people to talk to on Turtle’s Back, so I’m staying there.”

“As the midnight blue water of the Seventh Sea flows eternal, so shall the (virtual) love of these two people. Corbin, do ye take this woman to be yers?” Holder, back in his monk garb, was clearly getting way too much into the ceremony that I never agreed to. He looked as happy as a shopaholic on Rodeo Drive.

“I do,” Corbin said, still grinning.

“No, he doesn’t,” I said, adjusting my arm so the pearl Corbin had given me to stop seasickness was hitting the correct pressure point. Amazingly enough, it seemed to keep me from feeling the least bit queasy.

On the main deck a collection of twenty or so men, including Bas, stood in a semicircle around the trio of Corbin, Holder, and me.

“Do ye promise to stoke her guns, and her guns only?”

“I do,” Corbin repeated, gently pulling me over until I stood facing him.

I glared. “No one stokes my guns without my permission,” I snapped, losing the slim hold I had on my temper.

“I’d never think of stoking without your express consent,” Corbin told me.

“Do ye promise to hoist no other mainsails than hers?” Holder asked.

“Oh, for God’s sake . . . this wedding is ridiculous! I never said I’d marry you!” I yelled, waving my hands around in frustration. “Why is no one listening to me?”

“I’m listening to ye, Amy,” Bas said. Bran squawked his agreement.

“Aye, I do so promise,” Corbin told Holder.

“Gah!”

“Amy, do ye take this man to be yers?” Holder turned to me.

I transferred my glare from Corbin to him. “No, I most certainly do not. I would never marry a man who didn’t listen to me. Been there, done that, got the alimony, thank you.”

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t break me heart,” Corbin said, grabbing my hands and giving them a gentle squeeze.