The Buccaneer's Apprentice (15 page)

By the time dawn’s edge had begun to redden the horizon, Knave was snoring heartily in one of the chairs around the table, while Infant Prodigy had tumbled to a stop atop the dirty mattress. Signora Arturo had fallen asleep, exhausted, in an upholstered armchair near the captain’s desk, with Pulcinella snoozing at her feet. Ingenue had long ago given up on Maxl, after he failed to notice her many comments about his muscles during the retrieval of the costume chest from the waters, and had chosen to take a nap in a corner. Only Signor Arturo and Nic were still awake, and they had chosen to exit the cabin and confer at the ship’s prow. Behind them, Maxl barked out orders to those remaining of Macaque’s crew, preparing them to set sail. They bustled around without question. One of them even whistled as he set to his job, providing a cheerful counterpoint to the silent majesty of the sunrise.

“We’ll all pitch in, you know,” Armand assured. He thumped the boy on his back. “You won’t be short-handed on our account.”

“I couldn’t ask that.”

“Why not?” asked the actor. “None of us are afraid of hard work, lad. You know that.”

“I know. I don’t want any of you to …” Nic shook his head. He didn’t want to have to complete his sentence. He didn’t want any of the troupe to have to labor unduly because of the trouble he’d gotten them into. No matter how many times he heard it, no matter how many people said the words, Nic simply couldn’t shake the conviction that his curse had caused it all. “I know you don’t believe me,” he started again. “There’s something about me that causes trouble for people. Some flaw in my nature. I don’t know whether it’s because of my birth or …” Nic sighed with the deepest of frustration. “I’m afraid even to stand close to you, Signor! A roc might fly down and swoop away with you. A leviathan might swallow the ship whole.”

“Unlikely,” commented Armand. “Besides, lad … ah, I shouldn’t be calling you that. You’re more of a man than I, with all the combat you’ve seen in the last week.”

The sun’s leading edge made the sea’s waters glow as the light rippled its way in their direction. “None of which I wanted.”

“You’d be a fool if you did crave such ugliness. A damned fool. And I’m glad you aren’t.” Signor Arturo stared out to sea for a moment, then regarded Nic with kindly eyes. “But it’s happened, and it’s part of you now.”

“Like the Drake.” The words tasted bitter in Nic’s mouth. At his master’s upturned eyebrows, he explained. “I never thought I’d be anything like him. He’s so much a part of me, though, that when I opened my mouth in front of Macaque, he came bounding out.”

“That’s acting, son.”

“No, you don’t understand.” The man whistling as he swabbed the deck turned his head at Nic’s raised voice, though apparently he didn’t speak enough of the language to understand. He smiled slightly and nodded with respect at his new captain before returning to work. “I wasn’t pretending. I
was
him. I talked like him. I thought like him. I even moved like him and not like myself at all.”

“That’s acting,” repeated the expert in the field. Armand stood back and leaned against the railing as he regarded Nic. “When you took to our little company so readily, standing in the wings and memorizing every line of every one of my plays, I wondered if you might have the gift. It would make sense. All your life you’ve had to stand to the side and observe, haven’t you? You’d be a very dull lad indeed if you hadn’t picked up on what made your masters unique. Why, I’d be surprised if you couldn’t do a very good Armand Arturo, king of actors and actor to kings!” When Nic started to think about the various tics that he associated with his master, Armand seemed to notice. “Though don’t, lad. The mirror of truth can be disconcerting for as vain a soul as I.”

“I never wanted to be an actor,” said Nic, slowly.

“Didn’t you? Pity. I thought you’d be a good addition to the troupe.”

“As what?” Nic shook his head. “A replacement for Knave? That’s what I seem to be suited for.”

“I rather thought you’d make a good Hero. Eventually.” When Nic lifted his head in surprise, Signor Arturo smiled. “Don’t embarrass me, lad. I can only stuff myself into Hero’s tights for so long. Vain I might be, but even I can look into the glass and realize that audiences will accept me as the dashing young lad for only so long. Besides, if I had a new Hero, we could at last produce some plays with Vecchio in them.”

“You’re not old enough for Vecchio,” Nic protested. “And I could never play Hero. I’m not … like that.” Emotion prevented him from saying anything else. Surely Signor Arturo was the kindest man ever to be born.

“You’re loyal to say so, lad. Many thanks to you.”

“No, I mean it. The audiences love you as Hero.”

“That they do. Indeed they do, lad,” sighed the Signor, though with enough of a touch of whimsy that Nic knew he was joking.

The humor grounded Nic somewhat. Although he was leagues from any place he’d ever known and never really had a place to call his own, the chuckle welling inside him made him feel a little like he’d come home. “Besides,” he said. “You don’t want one of your servants up there on the boards.”

“Oh, Nic.” Any amusement in the man’s voice had vanished. “You don’t imagine that I still wish to be your master, do you?” Nic blinked, not certain what the man was saying. Did he mean he intended to sell his work debt once more, when they returned to Cassaforte? Armand must have seen traces of fear in Nic’s eyes, because he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “How can you think that I ever intended to be anything other than your
last
master?”

Nic swallowed, hoping that he understood aright. “Truly?”

“Truly. The moment we’re back home, you and I will darken the doors of the debt registry, haunting the foul place until the denizens within take my ill-gotten coin and erase your indentures. You shall be a free man at last. Did you ever think I intended otherwise?”

Nic felt nearly choked with gratitude, but he knew he had to refuse. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. Not after you’ve lost everything because of me.”

“Niccolo Dattore.” The actor crossed his arms and leaned against the rail. “Neither I nor my good lady would have anything at the moment, were it not for you. When I write my memoirs, our little adventure will make a pretty chapter. Most importantly, it will not be my last chapter, which is the most important thing. Eh?” Before Nic could blush any more deeply from the sheer pleasure of the news, Armand changed topic. “Now, tell me about the girl.”

“The girl?” Nic asked, not comprehending at first. Then, on seeing Armand’s knowing, raised eyebrows, he managed to redden even more. “What about her?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Armand in the confidential tone of two friends talking about the fairer sex. “What about her?”

“I … I haven’t seen her in a while,” Nic sputtered. He was so confused of his own feelings about Darcy that he thought it impossible anyone else had noticed them. He was surprised to see Armand raise his hand and point.

Up against the a blue sky streaked with pink, where the stars still held forth against the encroaching daylight, Darcy stood in the crow’s nest in her breeches and boy’s shirt. Her blond curls had come loose from her kerchief, and hung loosely down her back. One of her hands clutched the top of the mast while the other worked a rope through some sort of pulley. Once it had been threaded through, she called down in Azurite to Urso below, who sent up enough slack so that the rope could feed through back down to the ground. With Darcy’s help, Urso managed to catch the tip and tie it down again. Darcy, in the meantime, turned round and, upon seeing the pair looking at her, waved to them both. The smile that made her face captivating, however, was only for Nic.

“You’ve seen her now,” Armand commented knowingly. “And she’s seen you.”

Nic’s feet struggled to keep himself in place. He wanted to run and tell Darcy his good news. “It’s not like that,” he explained, trying to believe it himself. “This isn’t one of your stories, Signor. Life’s not always about a boy and a girl.” In the end, he lost the battle against his feet. As Darcy lowered herself from the last rungs of the rope ladder down and jumped down to the deck, he first shuffled, and then took quick steps, to meet her.

Armand Arturo watched him go. At the last, he laid a finger aside his nose. “Oh, yes,” he said to himself with no little degree of amusement. “Indeed it is.” Still laughing to himself, the actor shook his head and strode back to the captain’s quarters, so that he might awaken his wife with a kiss.

The dread pyrate MacKeephir, known far and wide as the Blighte of the Seas, was not hung for his crymes when the monarche of Ellada captured his foul vessel. Instead, he was most thoroughly gutted, then while still crying out for mercy, had each of his limbs tied to chains which were dragged in the four directions of the compasse by quarter-horses set to full gallope. His head was decapitated by a silver blade and the entiretie buried beneath a crosseroads by the light of a double fulle moon.

—From
Tall Tales of the Wide Sea: A Nursery Primer

O
f all the strokes of good luck granted Nic during his ill-starred time upon the Azure Sea, surely the most fortunate had been in meeting Maxl. Through observation and experience, his blue-faced friend had been involved at some point in his life with every aspect of a sloop’s day-to-day operation. He knew how to set a course using both a compass and a sextant. He knew the intricacies of the rigging, and the correct ways to repair a sail. He knew which parts of the
Tears of Korfu
needed to be kept clean, and on what schedules. He managed to talk Ingenue into making an inventory of the poor stores in the ship’s galley, in order that Nic could make a list of what was to be prepared for various meals as they sailed to the port city of Gallina—and more importantly, so they would know what to purchase upon docking, so they could make the rest of the trip to Cassaforte.

In fact, so marvelously organized was Maxl that Nic had little to do in his role as ship’s captain. The pair of them would retire to the captain’s quarters after each meal so that Maxl could inform Nic what had to be done in the next few hours. Nic, in turn, would memorize the assignments and make an appearance to give out orders, while Maxl trailed along behind to give translations when necessary. “But what do I do?” Nic had asked, the first day.

“You are giving the orders,” Maxl had told him, shrugging.

“But I can’t do that and not do any of the work.”

Maxl didn’t seem to understand Nic’s protest. “But that is what masters do,” he said, puzzled. “Is what they are good at. Is why they are the master, no? You do everyday work, they think you one of them. You work beside them in emergency, then they respect you.” The more Nic thought about it, the more right it seemed. The Drake gave out orders enough, but would never have been caught dead doing any of the actual labor. He wouldn’t have muddied his hands extracting valuables from the wreckage of Caza Portello, after its fall. In fact, he would have been as far from the scene as possible, letting his servants muddy themselves. Training himself to think like the Drake instead of being helpful, like Nic himself, was going to be the most difficult aspect of this entire job.

Particularly so when the Arturos’ troupe had thrown themselves so whole-heartedly into the endeavor. Not a single one of them had disagreed with Signor Arturo’s plea that they treat Nic as their captain and address him as the Drake in front of the
Tears of Korfu
’s original crew. None had turned up their noses at the tasks Nic and Maxl had assigned. Ingenue and Pulcinella had taken to galley cooking duties with great enthusiasm, rendering the salted fish and meats tastier than anyone would have believed possible given the scarcity of ingredients left in the pirates’ cupboards. Infant Prodigy, once freed of her skirts and little girl’s attire, scampered up and down the ropes as swiftly as any boy, and developed an acrobatic knack for swinging between them to attend to any duties that involved climbing the rigging. Signora Arturo cleaned and scrubbed every surface without complaint, while the men attacked the hard labor as if they’d been born to it, thanks to a little instruction from Maxl and a little coaching from Signor Arturo telling them they were all performing the roles of their life.

In fact, the first two days at sea went so smoothly and without incident that Nic found himself breathing more and holding his breath less. When at first the
Tears of Korfu
’s sails had been hoisted and they’d begun skimming across the sea in the direction of Gallina, Nic had been convinced that between what he pretended to be and what he actually was lay a gulf so wide that no bridge could ever span the two. After two days of salutes and nods and deferential inquiries into his health and desires, even from among Macaque’s men, he was beginning to wonder if it even mattered. Seeming was just as good as being, to them.

Then there was Macaque himself. Nic had developed a tendency of avoiding the man when he could. There was something about the way Macaque would stare at him with baleful eyes whenever the two were in the same vicinity of the tiny ship. It was unpleasant enough that, when Nic realized he’d have to encounter the man, Nic would keep moving in order not to have to exchange more words than a few pleasantries. This morning, for example, Nic could see Macaque staring at him as he worked upon the foredeck with Urso and Qiandro, repairing a net riddled with tears. It was too late to return to his cabin, and besides, the day was fine and he had no desire to cramp himself up indoors. He nodded at the trio as he sauntered by, hands behind his back.

“Morning, Drake,” said Macaque, regarding him with his tiny, black eyes. Somehow he made the words sound mocking.

“
Kapitan
,” murmured Urso and Qiandro in a more subdued tone. Urso even nudged Macaque with an elbow, reproachful of his lack of respect.

The Drake would not have spent time educating Macaque, and neither did Nic. Instead, he merely kept his eyes cold as his left hand casually tickled the hilt of the
shivarsta
, and raised his eyebrows. He stared long and hard until Macaque cracked under the pressure. “I mean, good morning, Captain,” he muttered.

Nic relaxed his stance somewhat, without actually becoming friendly. “Good day.”

Before Nic could move past, Macaque looked up from his coiling to remark, “We’ll be in Gallina before the afternoon, most like.” Nic nodded, agreeing with what Maxl had told him the night before. “I was wondering if me and the boys might have a little shore leave,” Macaque winked. “A little drink of the good stuff, a little gambling, a little wenching. You know.”

“Do I?” asked Nic. Several days of pretense had helped him hone the Drake’s frosty language to a fine edge. “Do the tavern keepers of Gallina have a higher tolerance for cheaters than I, then?”

Macaque colored, then translated quickly for his comrades’ benefit. Both of them snickered at Macaque, a reaction he clearly hadn’t expected. He reddened even more. Nic knew that having Maxl spread the word that Macaque had been cheating at cards had done a world of damage to the man, as every remaining member of the crew had lost at taroccho to him at one time or another. “Is that a yes, then, Captain?”

“We are setting in to Gallina for provisions only,” Nic responded. “Not …
wenching.”
Nic managed to pronounce the word with the utmost distaste. “I’ve given my first mate onshore duty assignments,” he said, realizing even as he spoke that he’d have to inform Maxl that he’d made such a claim. “If he feels that they are done in a timely and efficient
fashion, and there are hours enough left in the evening for recreational purposes, then I care not what you do with them. So long, that is,” he added, staring Macaque up and down, “as my crew is back in plenty of time to set sail on the morrow. And free of love bites, if there’s a wench on land who’ll have the likes of you.”

Macaque had, out of habit, been translating for his companions as Nic spoke. His friends laughed outright at the conclusion, probably at the sight of a boy laying out so plainly a man many years his elder. Urso punched Macaque in the arm, a gesture that Macaque shrugged off with a scowl. Nic thought the matter closed, but Macaque barked out, before he could continue his stroll, “So, Captain, tell me about this fleet of yours. The one up north,” he added, at Nic’s upraised eyebrows. “The mighty fleet of pirates we’re supposed to be joining.”

“Macaque.” From the hatch below, where he’d been breakfasting later than the rest of the crew, Maxl had appeared. He vaulted up the ladder and walked over. “Why are you bothering our captain with your questioning?”

The implied threat in his voice didn’t put on ice any of Macaque’s insolent tone. “I don’t believe our captain said it was a bother, Maxl,” he replied, all innocence. “It’s not, is it, Captain? I was simply curious about this mighty pirate fleet that we’ll be joining. And while we’re at it, Captain, what were you doing in the Dead Man’s Strait? There’s little enough treasure to be plundered there. Why so far from your mighty armada, if there is one?”

It was obvious that Macaque intended to sow dissension among the ranks, however he could. Though he hadn’t translated for Urso and Qiandro, the two pirates obviously were over-familiar with Macaque’s grating tone, because they simply gave each other a certain look of suffering, then lowered their heads to continue with the mending. “Tell me, Macaque. Do you care?” Nic asked. With Maxl at his side, his confidence always bolstered.

Macaque sniffed. “Of course I care. I want to know what kind of concern I’m joining, don’t I?”

“I’m surprised to hear that, frankly.” Nic widened his stance, and kept his hands behind his back when he talked. The Drake never moved without purpose, never fidgeted, and never let himself appear ill at ease—no matter how much the boy inside him might have quailed at Macaque’s questions. “Because from what my first mate tells me, Macaque,
concern
is one of the things you rarely show. Hmm? Concern in your duties. Concern in your manners. Concern in your mode of …” Nic sniffed before concluding the thought, as if catching a whiff of offal, “… your mode of dress. If you showed more concern in any of those areas, or in all three, I might have witnessed the kind of improvement I expect from my crewmen.”

“Straighten up,” barked Maxl, punching Macaque to correct his posture. He added a further cuff to the head to knock the pirate’s grimy, wide-brimmed hat to the deck. “Be showing a little respect!”

“Sorry,” mumbled Macaque, sounding genuinely contrite, or at least sorry for having opened his mouth unwisely. His eyes, though, told another story. Nic feared the lingering hatred behind them. “Sorry, Captain.”

Nic took a step forward. “You know, Macaque,” he murmured in a low voice, “if you don’t desire to continue with your mates, you can feel free to make your stop in Gallina more permanent. You don’t have to say a word. Just pack what belongings you have and disappear. “

“Captain!” From above, in the crow’s nest, a cry from Infant Prodigy pierced the air, shrill and clear. She had recuperated most of her voice, though it still sounded raspy at some pitches.

“I hear you,” Macaque replied to Nic.

He still appeared sullen, but at least Nic wanted to make sure he got his message across. “I won’t mind in the least, if you disappear, you know.”

“He is understanding, Captain.”

Maxl placed a hand on his arm and tried to tug Nic back, but he was too far gone as the Drake to stop. “In fact,” he hissed in the man’s ear, “it would be so pleasant for me to see the last of you, Macaque.”

“Captain!” It was not Maxl’s intervention that caused Nic to turn, but Infant Prodigy. Like the acrobat she was, she skimmed down the ladder on fleet feet, spun around the mast, then did a triple-somersault until she landed directly at Nic’s feet. In older days, it was the sort of performance that might have garnered a hefty round of applause from an appreciative audience. As it was, only Urso clapped, his stone face momentarily lit up with delight until he caught Macaque’s glare and went back to his mending. Infant Prodigy proffered the spyglass she’d been using. “I believe you’ll want to see this.”