The Buccaneer's Apprentice (3 page)

The pirate’s smile faded. His attention raced between Nic and the torch he carried, keeping a careful watch on both. “
To mallo nasquinta
,” he growled, making the words sound like an oath. “
Ved si?
”

This time, when he jabbed forward with his blade, Nic was alert and ready to counter. The pirate leapt back when Nic’s torch swung out. Sparks from its blaze flew into the air and flared into nothingness under the pirate’s nose. With his free hand, the pirate rubbed his face, making sure his short whiskers weren’t alight. “Oh, you’re afraid of the fire, are you?” Nic jeered, taking another broad swipe with the torch. He was pleased to see how wide a berth the pirate gave his makeshift weapon. “That’s right. You keep away from me. Got it?”

Whatever triumph Nic might have felt for having the upper hand quickly evaporated, for in the distance came a wail from the still waters of the Dead Strait. It sounded so much like the pirate’s shrill vocalization of moments before that for a fraction of a second Nic wondered if some vast sea monster had surfaced from beneath the masses of Sea Dog’s Deceit, managed to swallow whole the terrible sound, and then, a minute later, belch back its echo. But no. Another high-pitched, piercing cry joined the first. Then another. Soon the night was filled with the sound of screeching voices. The pirate, Nic now understood, hadn’t been trying to frighten him. He’d been summoning his comrades with some pre-arranged signal. Now they were on their way back. How close were they, and how soon might they arrive?

In the brief moment Nic took to look back over his shoulder into the darkness, the pirate made his move. From the corner of his eye Nic caught sight of a flash of metal and heard the man’s premature chuckle of triumph. It was pure instinct, and no small amount of luck, that sent Nic whirling back around. The blade came crashing down onto the center of the torch’s stock with such force that, in the seconds that followed, Nic was certain the bones of both his arms had been shattered. The pain of it caused moisture to spring to his eyes. He blinked it away and looked down. Somehow he still managed to clutch the torch with both hands—and the short sword was buried tightly in its hilt.

The pirate seemed just as surprised as he. With a twist that made Nic feel like his palms were being skinned, the man savagely tried to wrench the blade from the wood. Nic’s arms flew into the air at the motion, but still he held on, stubbornly refusing to relinquish his one weapon. Again the pirate gave another savage yank. “I don’t
think
so,” Nic growled. This time, in the moment after the man’s brute force failed again, he yanked back. To his surprise, the pirate released his grasp; Nic almost lost his balance as both the torch and the sword embedded in its length came away in his hands.

A snarl crossed the pirate’s lips. He seemed as startled at losing the upper hand as Nic. His fingers curled into fists, and a wild gleam appeared in his narrowing eyes. This, Nic realized, was the look of a man with nothing to lose, and such men were the most dangerous of all. Nic knew what was coming next.

When the man lunged into the air, Nic knew he had only one chance left. A silent prayer to the gods on his lips, he raised his torch high into the air, stepped to the side, and with as much strength as he could summon into his numb and bleeding body, he used the torch as a club. It swung and struck his attacker’s skull in mid-air, connecting with a sickening thud that once again nearly jarred the torch from Nic’s sore hands. Nic heard, rather than saw, the man’s body collapse onto the deck. It spun back over front until at last the pirate rested with his face to the planks, motionless. Nic lurched forward, feeling as unsteady as when he’d first stepped onto the
Pride of Muro
for the first time. When he held up the torch, he saw that the pirate’s eyes were wide open and lifeless. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose and was coagulating on the wood beneath him.

The pirate was dead.

There was no time for self-congratulation or relief. Scarcely had Nic time to absorb what he’d done when a face appeared over the railings. Like the man he’d just killed, this pirate had the same sunken cheeks and withered appearance, though he only sported one eye. The space where the other should have been was a mere concavity with a half-smile where his lids had been sewn together. He had more teeth than his comrade, though, and he bared them in a hiss as he sprang, pantherlike, onto the deck.

“I killed your friend,” Nic announced, brandishing the torch. Ridiculously, it still sported the short sword. Staring down the new arrival, Nic reached up, grasped the handle, and tilted the blade back and forth until it worked free. He felt more confident with the torch in one hand and the sword in the other. “I’ll kill you too.”

The new pirate might not have understood Nic’s words, but his tone was clear. The man’s tiny, black eyes glittered in the torchlight as he studied his fallen comrade and then the boy who’d brought him down. At last he did the unexpected. He laughed. Then he turned and said something into the darkness at his feet. Nic heard more laughter in reply, from the man’s unseen allies. One, two, and then three pairs of hands appeared over the railing.

Nic was outnumbered. He’d barely been able to fend off one man. He knew he was no match for four. Though the man who had first boarded the boat was weaponless, two of his cronies carried blades—one short like Nic’s own, the other curved and cruel-looking. The third fellow, taller and broader than any, carried both a torch and a whip of some sort. Its ends glittered with tiny pieces of metal embedded into the leather. As Nic stared at it, the man smirked and fondled its folded length.

There was no help for him. Nic did the first thing that came to mind. He ran.

Across the deck his feet carried him, around the pumps and over a coil of rope that had unspooled from the mast. The torch singed his hair as he looked behind to see if the men were following. They were, shouting at each other to coordinate every move as they pounded after him. Nic took the ladder to the hold in very nearly a single leap, unable as he was to grip its sides with his hands full. The area below deck was a shambles. The pirates had ransacked the galley for its food, taking the caskets of dried meats and flour for themselves. A glass container of wine-purple olives lay shattered on the floor, and tin plates and utensils were strewn all over. Two bodies lay huddled on the ship’s port side as Nic pushed his way deeper into the boat’s recesses. Though he didn’t stop to look, he was certain they were both of the
Pride
’s crew.

When Nic threw himself down a short flight of steps into the lowest section of the ship’s hold, it was no less ravaged than the deck above. The troupe had been quartered here for their voyage. Though it was by no means spacious, the tiny space had been the troupe’s own, shared only with the ship’s emergency supplies. If it had been less dark and airless, Nic might not have been sleeping above that night. Unlike the rest of the troupe, who were used to close accommodations, he had spent most of his life sleeping outdoors. Every container, every trunk, every private reticule that any member of the troupe had possessed seemed to have been ripped open and dumped onto the floor during the pirates’ search for valuables. Baskets of props had been upended. One of the troupe’s painstakingly painted backdrops had been slashed into ribbons. It lay unfurled and trampled in the floor’s center.

During the sea voyage, the shuttered portholes along the hull had been nailed shut. Two of them had been forced open during the earlier assault, creating a cross-draft that caused Nic’s torch to flicker wildly. Clearance was low in this section of the ship, and Nic was tall and lanky enough that the top of his head would hit the ceiling above if he stood upright. He kept his neck bent and blade at the ready as he watched the men stalk down the stairs toward him. They weren’t in any hurry, either. They actually seemed to enjoy playing this cat-and-mouse game.

Nic backed through the clutter and mess, stumbling over little trinkets and fake weapons from the Arturos’ prop boxes, until at last his back was against something hard and wooden. One of a collection of barrels, it felt like, near the ship’s prow. It had been pulled away from the others, as if the pirates had attempted to move it but found it too heavy. Nic realized that it was back here, more than likely, that Infant Prodigy had attempted to hide when the ship had been boarded.

“
Valla te que
,”
said the large man with the whip. Its length lay uncurled at his side now, and the little pieces of metal embedded in the ends scraped across the floor boards whenever the man twitched his wrist. Another man gestured, pointing for Nic to come to them.

He shook his head. He wouldn’t go willingly. Especially not as the last person left alive on the ship. “I won’t.”

“
Valla te que
,”
said the first man. Nic knew the man’s icy tone meant business.

Desperately Nic looked around, hoping to find some way out. He brandished the torch in his left hand, twirling it as if hoping it might give him inspiration. To his surprise, the four men’s eyes collectively widened at the motion. One of them, the smallest, held up his hand and gasped. “What?” asked Nic, not really expecting an intelligible answer. “What did I … ?”

He looked to the side, following the men’s glances. On the thickest part of the barrel, in script traced in black and painted in with gold, were the words
Yemeni Alum
. Suddenly Nic understood.
Yemeni alum
was a fine, gray powder, imported from the far east, that could be used for any number of explosive purposes. Festival celebrants used it to create katarin wheels, fiery circular display pieces that shot sparks into the air as they propelled themselves around and around. Warships used it for their cannonados, packing the powder tightly behind heavy stone balls. Even the Arturos used small amounts of
yemeni alum
for small explosive effects that left their audiences speechless and mystified. Four pirates collectively six times his size were frightened of him—and all because he stood near a barrel of powder with an open torch. Of all the absurdities!

“I see,” he said, almost enjoying the moment. “You probably don’t want me to do this, then.” Nic knelt down slightly to place his blade on the floor. It was the less important of his two weapons, now. With his newly free hand, he yanked off the barrel’s top and discarded it with a clatter. Again, the smallest of the pirates recoiled, almost seeming to want to flee. The man with the whip stepped forward and blocked his access to the stair, however. Nic nodded at their reaction. “And very likely you wouldn’t want me to do this, either.”

All four of the pirates leapt back slightly when Nic suddenly switched the torch from his left hand to his right, moving it a finger-width above the barrel’s lip. The smallest began to babble excitedly. He was immediately shushed by the others. “
Valle te quantro oso yemeni
,” said the first man who’d boarded the
Pride
, flicking his fingers at Nic. He spoke in the quiet, soothing voice of a man trying to address a mad dog.

Nic shook his head. Of one thing he was certain: this would be his only chance for escape. His right arm outstretched so that the torch still hovered over the open barrel, he edged his feet toward the open starboard porthole. The men kept their eyes on his trembling hand, not on his footsteps, just as he’d intended. Nic had no idea how quickly the
alum
would catch alight, but he had no other choice. He was now the one with nothing to lose in this mad enterprise, and one thing to gain: his freedom. “May the gods help me,” he murmured.

By the time he had willed himself to let go of the torch, he knew exactly how far to stoop in order to thrust his head and shoulders through the portal. One desperate scramble later and he was plunging out into the darkness, tumbling head over heel until he struck the water with his back. Something wet and scratchy clung to his face—tangles of the seaweed that covered the stilled waters.

He heard the first explosion seconds later, followed very quickly by a second, and then a third. His ears were filled with water and the Sea Dog’s Deceit, but even with that buffer, the noise was deafening. Behind him he felt heat and flame, and heard screams of agony. By the time he had managed to turn himself over in the strands of thick growth and to clear his eyes, the ship had already begun to burn. Nic began to kick his feet, hoping to float on his back away from the increasingly furious blaze.

He’d done it again—ruined everything, that is. Perhaps the particulars had changed, because it was true that never before had he been stranded alone, in the dark, in the middle of the Azure Sea next to the burning hulk of a ship. Yet once more, however, he’d lost another master and mistress—and these had been the kindest he’d ever been fortunate to find. “It’s the curse,” he mourned aloud in the direction of the western moon. “It’s my bloody curse, haunting me to the end.”

Scarcely had he said the words when there was a final explosion, the largest of all. To Nic, it thundered loud enough to crack the ship in two. For a moment he had a confused impression of motion and speed as small objects and pieces of burning wreckage flew around him and into the water. At the last, something heavy hit his head, and he knew nothing more.

In my travels I have seen how the poor and indigent of other so-called civilized nations are all but invisible to those fortunate to have the advantages we share. How much I hope that our future society of artisans and craftsmen will recall their duties to those without our privileges.

—Allyria Cassamagi, to King Nivolo of Cassaforte,
in a private letter in the Cassamagi archives

L
ong before even his blurriest, earliest memory, Nic had been orphaned in an inn near the river gates in the northernmost neighborhoods of Cassaforte. The inn’s mistress, saddled with the expense and inconvenience both of having to dispose of a lifeless woman and feed her squalling child, promptly had a student clerk draw up papers of work debt for the as-yet-unnamed infant. They obligated Nic to remain in her service until he had paid off not only the cost of the physician who had been summoned to attend his mother during his birth, but the cost of her funeral, the cost of his wet-nurse, and any expenses incurred thereafter.

When the inn’s mistress died from choking on an olive pit, Nic’s indentures went up for sale. At the age of four, he had served a master who daily tied a rope around his middle and sent him into sewer pipes too small for any but the youngest of boys, with instructions to retrieve any lundri or small valuables that might have washed there. When that master fell into the canals and drowned, clutching a bottle of plum wine that could not be pried from his fingers even after death, Nic’s papers were sold to a hoodlum who trained dogs to fight each other. The man had his throat ripped out by one of his prize mongrels in less than three months.

By the time Nic had reached his tenth year, he had been through as many masters. By the age of sixteen, he had swept out stables, spent months gutting fish, and learned to remove semiprecious gems from their settings and replace them with less valuable glass imitations. He had collected rags from the households of the Thirty, and cleaned the cages of a small traveling menagerie that had spent a summer touring around the towns of the Northern Wilds. He had diced pork for mincemeat, tended the hooves of cart mules, and collected ribbons from dustbins to be trimmed, ironed, and sold again to the unsuspecting.

There were only two constants in Nic’s life. The first was that sooner or later—though usually sooner—his new master or mistress was sure to pass away from some violent means. They didn’t die in their sleep, or of old age, or from quiet illnesses that made themselves known only at the last. No, Nic’s masters met their makers in the most gruesome means possible. Poisoning, garroting, stabbing, drowning in a bowl of chicken and fig soup … after a procession of masters who’d met their ends in untimely ways, nothing seemed too absurd.

When Nic was sixteen, he had discovered the reason for this strange series of events. It occurred shortly after the ascension of King Alessandro to the throne after the attempted coup led by Prince Berto. To celebrate the victory of Risa Divetri (or as she was universally hailed, Risa the Enchantress) over Prince Berto, small fairs had sprung up all over the city in the days following. The only one Nic had been permitted to see by his master at that time had been the massive festival outside the city’s temple. Though the Temple Piazza was usually a wide-open space where vendors congregated to sell snow-white doves and garlands of moonflowers only on high holy days, for three solid weeks after Prince Berto was delivered to justice, the broad tiled expanse housed the largest bazaar that anyone in Cassaforte had ever seen.

As Nic followed his master, known as the Drake, he had stared at a quartet of savages from the Azure Isles, with their ritual face scars and almost indecent lack of clothing, as they carved sharp spears and clever flutes from shoots of hollow bambua. He had blinked and gawked at the rich carpets from the far east. His nose had twitched with longing in the direction of the open-air spits and ovens from which one could buy all manner of food—meat pies, roasted fish on skewers, hot potatoes caked in rock salt, and even dainty pies bubbling with fruit juices. He must have visibly licked his lips, or let the hollow rumbling of his stomach become audible, because when they had passed a cheerful, plump woman selling handfuls of roasted sweet nuts, the Drake had reached out and given a mighty cuff to the side of Nic’s head. “Eyes in front, dunce,” his master had snarled.

“Yes, signor.” Following years of custom with other, similar masters, Nic had managed to learn the type of servility required of lowly domestics like himself. His masters liked it when he hunched over to hide his height, or pulled his cap low over his chopped black hair. He peered out at the world with quiet and unobservant green eyes, and rarely spoke, unless spoken to. He was a shadow, a nobody.

“Gentlemen.” The Drake inclined his head in the direction of two members of the Thirty, of the house of di Angeli. It was they who removed their red caps to him; the Drake’s own liripipe hat remained artfully draped and untouched. “Ladies,” he’d intoned to their richly dressed wives, as their hands flew to fuss with the gaudy ribbons lacing their bodices. Nic had seen others pay deference to his master before, but never on such a large scale. The demand for stolen fine goods must have been more popular than Nic had ever imagined.

One of the di Angelis had finally summoned the nerve to step forward. “Pray, Signor Drake, forgive my interruption of your enjoyment.” Nic had always assumed that the members of the Seven and Thirty groveled to no one, but here was a di Angeli truckling to the Drake. “It occurred to me to inquire, however … ?”

The Drake had nodded to Nic. It was his signal for Nic to step forward and gesture for the di Angeli to approach. Once the man had come closer, grateful, Nic held out his arms to keep anyone else from intruding, so the two could have a private conversation. “Speak,” said the Drake.

“It’s only that I was wondering …” Signor di Angeli’s voice had seemed higher than a young boy’s, so excited and nervous was he. “They say,” he’d murmured in a low voice, “that the painting of Crespina Portello executed by Parmina Buonochio was recovered from the wreckage of Caza Portello and has made its way into your most esteemed hands …” By the end of the speech, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

“I am fortunate to have in my inventory a fine
reproduction
of the Parmina Buonochio painting,” the Drake had announced, his dark eyes narrowing to a slit. “Of much the same proportions and qualities as the original, intact and in mint condition save for …” The Drake let his words trail into nothingness, and sniffed. With meaning, he’d concluded, “… a small amount of dust.”

“A reproduction. Ah yes. Of course. It is this
reproduction
in which I am interested.” Signor di Angeli had bowed in apology, buying into the Drake’s fiction. Nic knew the painting had been looted from the wreckage of Caza Portello not three days prior, in the dead of night. He had been the one running the stolen loot to the Drake’s waiting gondola, from where the Drake’s diggers had recovered it from underneath fallen roofs and bridges.

The Drake had barely seemed to notice that the man was present. “I take it you are interested?”

“I am indeed. Highly interested. Crespina Portello was an ancestress of my house.”

The man should have revealed less of a stake in the painting, Nic realized. His greed for the stolen merchandise was so obvious that now the Drake could squeeze an extra few hundred lundri out of him. “I like you,” said the Drake. His voice was devoid of anything approaching actual appreciation. “You appear to be a man who knows on which side his bread is buttered. Come talk to me during business hours. I’m certain we can come to a … reasonable agreement. That is, if there are no other bidders.”

“Ah yes. No other bidders. Of course. If I might …”

The Drake had raised a hand. Nic bowed low and indicated that Signor di Angeli should step back. His kinsman and their ladies all bowed and curtsied, and they were on their way again. From his position a few steps behind, Nic had witnessed the crowds part before the Drake as he strode, giving him his due. Even the merchants behind their stalls bowed or tipped their hats as he passed, pausing their conversations until they could see his back. And how did the Drake respond to those who paid deference? He’d ignored them in much the same way he’d ignored Nic, taking it all in, but not acknowledging a thing.

Through the festival they had marched, past booths and open spaces where dancers performed and jongleurs frolicked, past orators denouncing the evils of greed and benches where people washed themselves with lilac-scented water so they could enter the temple cleansed. Perhaps sensing the wall of aloofness the Drake had projected wherever he went, no one spoke a word to them.

That is, until they had reached a section of the festival less opulent than the rest. It was on the northern edge of the fair, close to the Temple Bridge, where the crowds were less thick and the attractions less vivid, that a woman had stepped out and directly into the Drake’s path. “Your fortune for a lundri, signor,” she said. The woman appeared old behind her actual years. Her face was lined and pock-marked, her lips thin, and her dark, curly hair streaked with gray. A black-and-white dog limped beside her. It took Nic a moment to realize that the poor hound was missing one of its hind legs. The Drake had done nothing save stop in his tracks, recoil, and raise an eyebrow. It was enough to make the woman drop her price to ten percent of that she had previously named. “Ten luni, then,” she said, her long hoop earrings dangling as she spoke. “A bargain for a gentleman such as yourself.” Her accent was not of Cassaforte, Nic had realized. Perhaps she was one of the
zingari
who roamed the continent in small bands—or a charlatan who wished to give that impression.

“Woman, I make my own fortune.” The Drake’s tone was dangerous. Nic wanted to warn her to avoid angering his master, but could not.

“I see great riches, signor,” she’d wheedled. Her fingers played with her hair, and then danced across the space between them until they landed on his chest. Stroking the Drake like a cat, she had purred, “Don’t you want to hear about the future I see for so great and mighty a man?”

“I do not.” The Drake hated to be touched. When the
zingara
had dared lay hands on him, he had flinched back. His right hand curled into a fist and rose into the air, ready to strike down the woman with a mighty clout. Though she did not see, her dog most certainly did. The lame hound let loose with a howl that was nearly deafening.

It was nothing, however, compared to the screech the woman had let out. She was not wailing over the Drake’s upraised hand, which had been arrested in mid-swing, but at Nic himself. She had pointed at him with a shaking finger. “The boy!” she’d cried.

Nic had looked behind himself. But no, he was the only boy in the immediate area. Surely the
zingara
couldn’t be talking about him, however. He was only the Drake’s dogsbody, the lowest and most disposable of his many servants. He wasn’t supposed to be noticed. Nobody in the entire festival had paid him the slightest attention, skittering behind as the Drake cut his way through the crowd. Drawing the Drake’s displeasure might have meant a beating, or a whipping, or worse, and there was no guarantee the man would wait until they were back in his home.

“My boy?” asked the Drake, merely turning to look at Nic, as if for the first time.

Relieved that she’d arrested the Drake’s temper, the woman began to babble. “He is surrounded by the black humor, signor. He is cursed!” The Drake studied his servant while Nic tried to seem as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. “No good will come to him, nor to any master he might have!”