The Buccaneer's Apprentice (24 page)

It was perfectly true as well that the galleon destroyed a number of the pirate’s vessels in one glorious fell swoop, though whether it was by sheer luck or some extramundane phenomenon, Nic could never say. Four of the tiny craft had pulled close together far to the south of Caza Buonochio so they could exchange more spirits and rags for the construction of infernal devices. Somehow they did not see the galleon’s blackened hull moving in their direction, nor did they hear the cry of its captain as he called out to pull up the net and extend the sails to their fullest. Nic wrestled with the ship’s wheel to bring the galleon around at a sharp angle, trusting on his instinct and the glorious singing of the ship beneath his feet to tell him how to proceed.

Only too late did the men in the boats see what was happening. “
Lyria! Lyria!
” Nic plainly heard them yelling, perhaps warning each other. Maarten’s Folly slammed its nose into the grouped vessels, crashing through three of them as if they had been matchsticks. The fourth managed to evade the impact, but in his panic, its captain failed to steer completely out of the galleon’s course. Its wide aft slammed against the little boat, sending all ten of its pirates overboard into the rough seas without taking on so much as a scratch.

The crew cheered at that maneuver, but the survivors that had been brought aboard the ship began to ask questions: who was this bold captain in the strange and unusual garb? Where had he come from? When they learned from the crew that he was known as the Drake and that he was a man of Cassaforte defending his city, their respect grew.

The galleon was not everywhere at once on that night, much as its captain wished it could be. It cut a path from Buonochio to the east, collecting more survivors close to the southern ports before sweeping past Caza Divetri. A lone pirate cutter there had pulled close to the Divetri docks at the island’s lowest point. From his high vantage point, Nic could see that the pirates aboard the vessel had lit the wicks of two infernal devices and were preparing to hurl them onto the highly-flammable wooden piers. The sudden appearance of Maarten’s Folly, however, caught the attention of at least one of the pirates. He pointed and yelled something at full volume, the only word of which Nic recognized was that word again:
“Lyria!
”

The roar of disapproval from the survivors caught the pirates off-guard. Several of those Darcy and Jacopo had rescued from the waters only minutes before dove from the sides of the ship to board the pirate cutters. Overwhelmed and totally unused to being attacked when they had always been the attackers, the pirates panicked. Some jumped. The two holding the infernal devices had the presence of mind to haul back and toss them with all their might. Twin balls of fire arced through the night onto the galleon. One hit the lower deck, crashing on impact. The spirits within caught on fire immediately, licking high into the air. A woman survivor clutching her infant son to her breast shrieked and ran, so close she had been to the explosion. The other burst near the mizzenmast, its contents roaring into a blaze that seemed to roast Nic’s cheeks. One of the pirates let out a catcall of triumph. It was cut short when a survivor, a deep-chested fisherman who had lost the means of his livelihood that evening, punched him squarely in the face.

The twin infernos flared higher. The galleon’s crew was more than ready for them, though. Maxl had earlier set some of the survivors to fetching several of the heavy bags of sand used as ballast in the ship’s depths, and given them spades. Wherever the flames licked, there the survivors scooped the sand. Infant Prodigy led the effort to douse the fires. When the blaze near the mizzenmast was gone within seconds, she swung from a rope over the quarterdeck rail, somersaulted across the deck, leapt to her feet, grabbed a free spade, and smothered the rest of the second blaze by herself.

Nic had kept an eye on the pirates as the galleon had approached. He knew which one had been shouting out orders while the others had followed commands. Over the deck rail, he pointed to the man in the water, recognizing him immediately by the pad of fabric covering one eye. “Give me that one,” he told the survivors in the water. Instantly they swam to the man and overcame him. It was only a few moments later that his drenched and unconscious body was restrained and locked in the hold. “I always knew an eyepatch was a bad idea,” Nic muttered to himself. He gave orders to those swimming below to guard the Divetri docks and not to let any of the pirates set foot in the city. The waterlogged pirates, for the most part, would rather face the wrath of the sea than that of the angry mob. They swam away into the night.

The galleon enacted a similar scene near Caza Portello’s private docks, and then prevented the depleted crews of two cutters from scaling the rocks of Caza Cassamagi. By the time Maarten’s Folly changed course once again and had swung back to the city’s southern docks, the pirates were on the run. The mere sight of the galleon coursing across the waters set the remaining cutters scattering. They vanished as silently as they had come, back to the western seas. The renegade pirates had done the damage they had intended, anyway. There was nothing Nic could do about the navy’s ships burning to ruin all around the city’s perimeter, nor about the sorry state of the city’s southern seaport.

It was at Piratimare’s extensive private docks that the galleon finally came to rest, with no less than four disgruntled and dripping pirate captains in tow. Somehow the word had spread of how to douse the infernal devices, for everywhere Nic looked he could see little piles of sand. Members of the household, noble and servant alike, stood over them with shovels. Those who had caps waved them and cheered as Nic ordered the anchor dropped.

The confusion that followed on that fateful night was to Nic little more than a blur. There was a moment when he realized that he had done what he had set out to do. Instead of feeling glad for it, though, all he wanted was to make sure Darcy and the rest of his crew were all right—but especially Darcy. He found her wet from grappling with survivors. The long waves of her hair were matted with sand. Yet she was safe, and her eyes shone at the sight of him. That alone had been worth any risk he had taken. There were the Arturos, too, and the rest of the troupe, whole and unharmed and glowing as if they’d taken six curtain calls.

Macaque’s men were cheering as loudly as anyone else assembled on shore as the crew and the survivors swept Nic down a gangplank that the people of Piratimare had with all haste brought to the galleon. And what an assembly there was. It seemed as if the entire population of Cassaforte had squeezed onto the caza’s grounds. At the sight of Nic and his crew stepping onto dry land, they all shouted and cheered. Nic was conscious of some of the survivors pointing him out to the crowd. The roar in his ears deafened him.

“It’s all for you, lad,” he heard Signor Arturo announce. When he turned to try to find the actor in the crowd around him, though, it seemed composed only of unfamiliar faces. No, there was Maxl, his blue face immediately distinguishable. Darcy was pushing her way to Nic’s side, overwhelmed by the closeness and the noise. They clutched hands, feeling more lost and stranded than they ever had on that distant, deserted shore.

Several minutes of confusion and uproar followed. All Nic could do was gape at the sheer number of people who still were crowding into the caza to see the ship that had vanquished their attackers. He felt not so much the center of a successful production as the star attraction of a freak show.
Come see the pirate boy!
the broadsides would announce.
Gape at the blue-faced man and marvel at the fat lady! Toss lundri to the girl in boy’s clothing!
It was not what he would have pictured at all, had he ever stopped to imagine this night. He and Darcy looked at each other with wide eyes and clung tight.

Some semblance of order was restored when, after what seemed like an eternity, the crowd near the Piratimare lower bridge was parted in two, divided by a crimson arrow that shot in Nic’s direction. It was a contingent of palace guards, moving swiftly in formation and coming to a stop in front of him. Despite the rigid postures of the uniformed men and women, they looked as weary as he. Many of their gold-trimmed tunics were dirty and covered with sand. To his surprise, the leader of the group saluted him. The crowd immediately hushed, anxious to hear what followed. “I am Captain Esparsa. Am I addressing the man known as the Drake?” asked the man.

“Indeed,” Nic replied, automatically in character. He was surprised that the guard knew his name. Then again, there had been more than ample time for the survivors who had stayed behind on the Divetri and Portello docks to have spread the word. “I am, sir.”

There were some spontaneous cheers. Captain Esparsa waited for them to die down before he asked his next question. “And are you the captain of this craft, the
Allyria?
”

“The … ?” Surprised, Nic turned to regard the Folly. He heard Darcy gasp beside him. Vanished were the last tracks of blackness from its hull. The galleon seemed bathed in a golden light. The figurehead, previously obscured, stared out at him from beneath the bowsprit, her face serene, her eyes stern. Where before they had only been able to make out two letters, they now could see the ship’s true name, spelt out in flowing script:
Allyria
. So that was what many of the pirates had been shouting, at their approach.

Still astonished, Nic returned his attention to Esparsa. “Yes, Captain. I am. I have brought to you four of the pirate leaders responsible for the attack.”

“Then the city owes you a debt of gratitude this evening.” Nic grinned at the words. His pleasure was short-lived, for Esparsa made a gesture that sent two guards to Nic’s side. They clasped his hands behind his back. He felt ropes digging into his wrists. “However, I regret to inform you that we have been searching for you for some time, Signor Drake,” Esparsa continued. In a more assertive voice, loud enough to be heard over the restless crowd, he announced, “By the authority of King Alessandro the Wise, I hereby arrest you. The charges are as follows: the forgery of artwork; the dissemination of stolen materials; the scavenging of Caza Portello in the days after its fall three years prior; intimidation; failure to pay taxes …”

As the list of charges went on and on, a bewildered Nic found himself surrounded by crimson and being dragged away. Such was his hero’s welcome

It is said of the pirate Fireclops that he endured nine years in a Gallina prison without complaint. What is usually not noted is that he preferred his incarceration to having to face the two mistresses, three wives, five assassins, and countless creditors waiting outside the prison gates for his release.

—Alejandro Franco,
A Life at Sea

T
o say that Nic suffered during his incarceration was something of an exaggeration. As far as prison cells went, his was most cozy. The bed was clean and its linens fresh. The compartment itself was at least as large as the captain’s quarters aboard the
Tears of Korfu
had been, and the prospect of the Via Dioro was most pleasant. He had a writing desk equipped with a quill, powdered ink, and an abundance of smooth writing paper. The guards who brought him his breakfast had been personable. One of them had even stopped in the doorway, bowed, and thanked him for saving her uncle, who had lost his shrimping boat at sea the night before. Had this been his home, Nic could have done very well in the space. It was far more comfortable than any place he’d ever lived.

However, the prospect of spending months, if not years, within the room’s four walls did not sit well with Nic. He spent a restless and mostly sleepless night pacing the room, listening to the rain and staring out of the window at the thunderheads over the sea. He didn’t know where Darcy had been taken or what had happened to the crew. Separated from the people he knew, he could have been dressed in silks and housed in the most elaborate chambers of any of the cazas and he would have been as miserable.

Thus it was with much relief that sometime after his midday meal, Captain Esparsa himself unlocked Nic’s cell, saluted, and told Nic that his presence had been requested. Where, and before whom, the man would not reveal. Nic found himself surrounded by a cohort of guards and escorted from the guards’ headquarters across Palace Square in the direction of Cassaforte’s single biggest structure. All he could do was gulp, stare up through the pouring rain at the massive dome crowning the royal house, and hope for the best.

He sat in a parlor of sorts for some minutes, watched by two guards at two of the room’s three gilded doorways. The marble floors, the intricate windows of leaded glass covered with rain droplets, the rich carpets imported from Yemeni, the display case of Catarre curiosities that dated back four hundred years—it was all lost on Nic in his nervousness. For all he knew about Cassaforte and its laws, he might have been facing his sentence and execution that very day. After what seemed like a year of waiting, the unguarded double doors opened and a girl slipped out.

She was a very pretty young woman of perhaps eighteen or nineteen years, with fair skin and hair that had been gathered into a netlike reta cap that hung over her neck. Her dress was very plain. Judging by the work apron that covered her unadorned gown, Nic might have pegged her for a servant. When he noticed that she was looking at him, Nic struggled to his feet, as was the custom. “Good day,” he said, a great deal of nervousness in his voice.

“Good day,” she echoed. For a moment she leaned against the closed doors, frankly regarding him. Her eyes were still lively when she wrinkled her snubbed nose and remarked, “What a curious getup you have on. You’re that Drake fellow, aren’t you?”

“Yes. No.” Immediately Nic felt self-conscious about the pirate costume he wore. It was fairly dirty from the night before and although he was relatively fresh according to the benchmarks of the sea, by the rarefied standards of any palace servant, he must have looked and smelled like the worst of beggars. “I pretended to be. I called myself the Drake, at sea. But I’m not the same Drake that the guards want for forgery and … um.” The young woman had a curious ability to make him quite uncomfortable. It felt as if her eyes pierced through him to see things that no one else could see. Some sort of energy shimmered around her when she moved in his direction, as if she crackled with invisible sparks after shuffling across a wool carpet on a very cold day.

Yet the day was warm, and she glided rather than shuffled to his side. “Your name is Niccolo Dattore,” she announced. Nic was so surprised that he could barely nod. “Captain Esparsa means well. But even he eventually had to concede that you looked too young to have been involved in the trafficking of stolen art for well over a dozen years. Unless,” she added, with a quirk of her lips that made her tilt-tipped nose appear quite charming, “you were an exceptionally talented infant.”

Just then one of the double doors opened again. A man stepped out, shaking his head. “How frustrating,” he said upon spying the girl. The robes he wore were expensive but not elaborate, Nic could tell. Signor Arturo would have given anything for his Hero to have worn them in the role of the ne’er-do-well son of a noble family, or as one of the many princes he played who were always disguising themselves as commoners. “They talk and talk and never decide upon anything.”

“Precisely,” replied the servant girl. She seemed glad to share the man’s opinion. “Which is why I detest these meetings. Action over debate. That’s what I advocate.”

“Yes, and—oh. Hello.” Only then did the nobleman appear to notice that Nic was in the room as well. He reached out and vigorously pumped Nic’s hand.

“Cazarro.” A mysterious smile danced across the girl’s lips. “This is the young man you were discussing. You might have seen him last night upon your docks.”

“Eh?”

“Cazarro Ianno Piratimare,” said the girl, enunciating each word as if the man were slightly deaf, or perhaps merely excited. “May I present to you the young man calling himself the Drake. His name is Niccolo Dattore. He is the clever captain of the
Allyria
, the ship that saved so many last night.”

“Was.” Nic had only just gotten over his fear of lifetime incarceration. Now he was so intimidated to be in the presence of the cazarro of Piratimare that he froze. The fellow’s face was covered with care lines. His nose was large and red, and his eyes darted up and down Nic’s narrow frame almost greedily, but he seemed like a kind man. Luckily, the cazarro seemed to be as speechless as he. “I was captain of the
Allyria
.”

“Are,” said the young woman firmly. Nic looked at her. For the first time since he had been arrested, he could feel a flicker of hope. Had she overheard something?

“But dear boy … oh my goodness, you are a boy, aren’t you?” The cazarro gaped again. “Do you know what the
Allyria
is?”

“I am not certain that any of us know what the
Allyria
truly is,” commented the girl. It struck Nic as an unusually intelligent observation.

“Well, no, of course not. You shouldn’t have been able to … it’s impossible for you to have … unless, of course, you …”

Nic could stand it no longer. “It was very pleasant to meet you,” he said with a bow. As he hoped, the formality silenced the man. Cazarro he might have been, and Nic intended to pay him the respect his family was due. Yet Nic was not required by any law to listen to anything he or any other Piratimare might have had to say. Nor did he want to hear. Not now, and not for a long time to come.

Luckily, the doors opened once again. The head of a young man thrust out. Nic saw nothing of him beyond a shock of blond hair and clear green eyes. “Listen, are you coming back in?”

The girl crossed her arms. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“In fact, I very much would,” said the young man. He was much the girl’s age, outstripping Nic by only a very few years. “I despise these meetings as much as you.”

“Ah,” said the girl. She kicked at the hem of her dress as she marched back over to the doors. “But it’s your job, and not mine.”

“I
could
order you …”

“But you wouldn’t.” She leaned forward and gave the fellow an affectionate kiss on the lips. Nic wasn’t sure where to look. Glancing at the servant couple seemed to violate their intimacy, while peeping at Ianno Piratimare seemed risky. The man was too liable to open his mouth and blurt out whatever he was thinking or suspecting. Nic merely cleared his throat and stared at the floor.

“No, I wouldn’t.” The blond-headed young man reached up a finger and chucked his sweetheart on the nose. “But I might if you don’t get back in here.” Without further ado, the head disappeared.

The girl sighed. “Good day, Ianno. I suppose I’m to be tortured some more,” she said to the cazarro of Piratimare. To Nic’s surprise, she lay both of her hands upon his own left arm and began escorting him to the double doors. “Spending my days under Ferrer’s watchful eye isn’t enough, apparently. Now I’m to be talked to death in high meetings of state as well. Come along,” she added, as she pulled Nic from the parlor into the chamber beyond.

Whenever the Arturos had portrayed a scene set in a palace, or in the estate of the Seven and Thirty or some foreign noble, they had always relied upon little pieces of glass, cut small and applied thickly, to indicate jewels. Anyone seeing any of the Arturos’ potboilers would have come away with the impression that every surface in a royal home was encrusted with jewels. The cups, the plates, the chairs, and the costumes all glittered after the Signora and Pulcinella had been at them with the pot of horse glue.

Absolutely nothing in the inner chamber into which Nic was pulled was covered with diamonds, rubies, or even semi-precious stones. He could tell, however, that the spare and impeccably dressed room was the most lavish outlay of wealth he’d ever seen. From the massive tapestries adorning the far wall, to the Buonochio paintings hanging high above, to the gold-lined mural of skies and stars upon the chamber’s ceiling—it was almost too much for a single pair of eyes to appreciate. Several figures sat around the single longest table Nic had ever seen. Like the abandoned Legnoli costume trunk, the table obviously had been carved in one piece from a single mighty blackwood tree in the royal forest. Only the tree that had been felled for this purpose was far, far larger.

Nic was so amazed at the opulence that at first he utterly failed to notice Darcy standing up from the table and making her way around it. She tripped over to meet him, and Nic wondered how he ever could have been dazzled by anything else. Her hair had been washed and brushed and shone more brilliantly than cut glass in the glare of the brightest footlight. Her blue eyes sparkled brighter than sapphires. Most impressively, the dress she wore suited her so well that Nic failed to remember that she had spent most of the last two weeks in boy’s breeches. “By Muro’s foal,” he gasped, his hands stretching out to take hers. “You’re …
glamorous
.”

“Yes, I know.” Maxl’s voice was proud. He, too, had come around the table to meet Nic, though Nic’s eyes had only been on Darcy. “The Colombos, they make Maxl clean up to see king. ‘Maxl,’ they say, ‘you are stinking like seaweed. You cannot stink so much before the king.’ I say, I am sorry, but how did I know I am stinking of seaweed? Everything on the sea is stinking of seaweed. Yes? So I had a bath,” he said with pride. “It is making me glamorous indeed, no?”

Nic had to grin. The former pirate had cleaned up admirably. His long hair had been washed and braided so that it fell in a long rope down his back. Instead of the primary paint the color of a child’s wooden toy, someone had found him blueing of a more subtle shade, like the deep morning sky. He had applied it only to the forehead, above the eyes, and to the cheeks. In the expensive clothing that someone had loaned him for the occasion, Maxl looked as if he belonged more among the damas and ritters of his own country than the crew of the
Allyria
. “Yes, Maxl. You look particularly glamorous today. That’s indeed what I meant. You look all right,” he added to Darcy, shrugging.