The Buccaneer's Apprentice (30 page)

“And the bonking on the head,” she agreed, entwining her fingers in his. “Always with the bonking on the head.”

Ianno Piratimare’s eyes darted from one to the other, uncertain if they were teasing. “Yes. Well. I’ll let you be on your way, Captain.” He paused and thought to himself for a moment, then bowed. “A good voyage to you both.”

Perhaps it was kindness that moved him, or perhaps it was purely the spirit of the moment, but on impulse, Nic reached out and grasped the cazarro in both arms. While Ianno seemed unable to decide what to do, Nic clutched the man tightly for a moment, and then thumped him between the shoulder blades. “Many thanks again for your generosity, cazarro,” he said at last, releasing him. He took Darcy’s hand once again. “I’ll see you when I return.”

The cazarro stumbled away, a happy man.

“Thank you,” Darcy said, once they’d set foot on the Allyria. Below, several Piratimare workers danced up to remove the gangplank.

“For what?” asked Nic.

“For being nice to him.”

“Ah.” Nic nodded. “You were right. It didn’t cost me anything.”

“No, it didn’t.” Darcy watched as the workers shielded their eyes against the sun and waved at them. She waved back with her free hand. “You know, he told me the youngest of his six daughters ran away some years ago.”

“Darcy.” Nic yanked at her hand. “Enough.”

“I’m just saying that he has a lot of fatherly affection he wasn’t able to bestow! It’s natural that he treats you like the son he never had.” Nic shook his head, unwilling to speak on the subject. They stood by the rails and listened to the racket of the hammers, saying nothing for a few moments. “Are you going to miss it?”

“Miss what?” asked Nic, though he knew what she meant.

“Cassaforte. All of this. You just got home.”

“I don’t really have a home,” Nic said. “I love this city, but I’ve had so many masters …”

“And now you’re your own.” Darcy seemed to understand. “I barely know Cassaforte,” she admitted. “And I can’t go back to Pays d’Azur. I suppose I’ve no real home, myself.”

Nic regarded her shining face and said exactly what was on his mind. “Then let this be our home,” he said, gesturing to indicate the
Allyria
. “And here,” he said, bringing their knit fingers up to their faces. He kissed her hand. “Wherever we can do this, together. That will be our home, too.”

That morning, her hair was so golden it outshone the medallion Nic wore on his chest. Her eyes were bluer than any ocean. When she smiled, it was as if the gods had lit him his own personal sun, burning brightly over a private island they alone shared. “Yes,” she breathed. “I’d like that very much, Captain.”

From behind them, Nic heard someone clearing his throat. It was Armand Arturo, lingering on deck. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, coughing awkwardly.

“You aren’t.” Nic let go of Darcy’s hand. She winked at him and skipped off to change into her more comfortable boy’s clothing. “I promise you, you aren’t.”

“Ah good.” The actor watched Darcy depart, a knowing look in his eyes. “Lad, I have one question before we set sail,” he said in a soft voice. He studied Nic carefully, as if it were particularly tricky in nature. “Niccolo. Son. You
will
get us to Orsina this time, won’t you? No pirates? No shipwrecks? No skullduggery?”

So nervous did his old master sound that Nic couldn’t help but chuckle. “That I will, signor,” he assured him. “No harm will come to you under my command. You’ll have the audiences eating out of your hands by week’s end.”

“Good lad. I’m glad. And I believe you. Thank you for saying so.” Armand seemed relieved as he strode in the direction of the hatch. His step gained a little spring. He even whistled a bit before turning. “Of course, if something perchance did happen, not that I wish it would, of course …” The actor shrugged. “I’m certain it would be interesting.”

Nic’s chuckles turned to laughter. “I wager it would. Maxl!” he cried, excited to be off on his own. “Hoist anchor! We’re off to Orsina!” The
Allyria’
s bell rang, and its new crew began to assemble on deck.

“It would be most interesting, indeed.” The actor laid a finger aside his nose and smiled to himself as he tossed the crook of his cane onto his wrist. “To say the least, lad. To say the least!”

About the Author

V. Briceland wanted to be an archaeologist when he grew up. Instead, he has worked as a soda jerk, a paper-flower maker in an amusement park, a pianist for a senior citizens’ show-tunes choir, an English teacher, and a glass artist. He likes writing novels best of all. He lives in Royal Oak, Michigan, where there is a sad lack of ruins to be excavated. Visit his website at www.vbriceland.com..