The Tides of Avarice (31 page)

“Rustbane's habit of never leaving any witnesses alive,” suggested Viola.

“Most probably so. Whatever, at the time of which Cap'n Adamite was writing they seem certainly to have been the closest of allies.”

“Figgers,” said Mrs. Pickleberry enigmatically. “Keep readin', youngster.”

Sylvester turned the page. “There's not much more to read,” he said, holding up the book so the other two could see where Cap'n Josiah Adamite's tiny, spiky handwriting came to an abrupt halt halfway down the right side.

“All the more reason to read what's there.”

Sylvester peered at Mrs. Pickleberry. What she'd just said didn't seem to make any sense. Still, he wasn't going to argue about it now. Instead, he turned his attention to the last two pages of Cap'n Adamite's journal, perhaps the last two pages the old buccaneer had ever written.

Weeks have passed since then, and it sometimes seems hard to remember the merriment with which we set out on this voyage. Two days ago we watched Cape Waste sink below the horizon behind our stern. Ahead of us is a voyage at whose end might lie, perhaps, riches beyond the dreams of any mortal alive in Sagaria.

Yet it is a voyage that I fear I shall never see.

For weeks now I have been ailing. At first I thought it must simply be one of the illnesses that can strike down seafarers unpredictably, powder monkey and cap'n alike. Yet, slowly my suspicions grew that my malaise had another cause and now I am convinced of it.

I am being steadily and systematically poisoned.

And the person doing the poisoning is that accursed fox Rustbane.

Woe the day I ever clapped eyes upon him!

Tonight I shall slip away from the Shadeblaze. I shall steal a longboat and row it into the concealing darkness of the night. I suspect this is how the dastardly creature Levantes finally escaped the Shadeblaze, however long ago that was.

Let Rustbane and those scum of the seas I once thought were loyal to me sail on, searching for the magical chest of the Zindars. Even if they find it, I doubt they will be satisfied in the discovery, for just within the past few days I have encountered in my research an account that says the Zindars' treasure is nothing that we would recognize as riches at all. That the tales of it being wrapped in precious jewels are simply myths.

Needless to say, I have not conveyed this information to Rustbane.

And there is more.

Barterley Smitt marked the island where the chest is buried with an arrowhead.

When I came into possession of the map, I carefully erased the arrowhead and replaced it with an “X.”

A trifling alteration, you might think. A mere cosmetic change.

Except for the fact that I put my “X” alongside the wrong island.

The true location of the treasure?

Let me commit to writing no more than that it can be seen only through the fall of the Ninth Wave.

Rustbane's a cunning one. His cunning may one day lead him to the magical chest of the Zindars, I'd not be surprised at all if this were so.

But, if he achieves this feat, it shall not be for any help of mine.

And, when he makes his great discovery, I will be waiting there for him.

Now it is dark. Even though the cramps created by Rustbane's poison make it seem as if my guts are being slowly ripped apart, I must tiptoe from this place, sealing the entrance so none can tell it even exists and make my way up to the longboats.

I wish I could take you with me, dear journal. You, who have been my solitary friend for longer than I can now reckon, but I must leave you here. There is a good chance I will be caught before I can effect my escape, and in such an event it would be fatal if you were discovered about my person. For then all of my inmost secrets would become known to the vile fox. Better that you remain here, hidden away from mortal sight.

Enough!

I must be on my way!

Wish me good fortune, dear journal …

Did he escape?” asked Viola urgently, leaning forward eagerly on the bunk bed. Again her eyes were aglow. “I don't know,” Sylvester replied, once more tipping the open book in her direction so she could see where the writing stopped. “That's the end of the old sea dog's reminiscences. Cap'n Rustbane told me he'd killed Adamite himself, stuck him through the liver with his sword” – Sylvester shuddered graphically – “but I'm becoming less and less certain whether I should believe a single word Rustbane tells me.”

“Still, it's the most likely thing, isn't it?” murmured Viola. She gazed wistfully at the mildewed journal. “He won't have been able to move very quickly, not if the poison was paining him as much as he says. He can't have had much of a chance of making it to the longboats undetected. Poor old soul.”

Sylvester stared at her disbelievingly.

“Poor old soul?”

“Why, yes. I mean …”

“Poor old soul! One of the cruelest hearts the seas of Sagaria have ever seen? A mass murderer? A sadist who took the greatest delight in subjecting his enemies, or anyone who offended him, to the most excruciating agonies as he watched them die? And you call him a poor old soul?”

Viola shifted uneasily. “Well, yes. I mean, hearing his account of himself, didn't you rather get to like him? Especially by comparison with that horrid Rustbane?”

Despite himself, Sylvester was forced to admit she had a point. It was hard to think of any redeeming characteristics old Josiah Adamite might have had, but alongside Cap'n Rustbane he had a certain brutal straightforwardness that one could perhaps learn to appreciate.

“That was one vital thing the old buzzard be lettin' slip,” observed Mrs. Pickleberry.

“It was?” said Sylvester, pleased to change the subject.

“'Bout him having put his “X” alongside of the wrong island, I mean,” Mrs. Pickleberry explained. “Ten to one that Cap'n Rustbane friend of yours don't know about it, even after all these years. So we know somethin' the gray fox don't know, and that gives us one mighty great wallopin' advantage, it does.”

“You're right,” agreed Sylvester slowly. They could do with any advantage they could get, if they weren't going to end their days being chewed by the fishes at the bottom of the ocean. Even so, he couldn't imagine what help it was going to be, aside from a sort of gleeful, vindictive schadenfreude to know that, even if Rustbane did lay his rotten little paws on the third portion of the map, he was going to waste weeks and months and possibly forever digging up the wrong island.

“So it's important,” continued Mrs. Pickleberry, “that we keep it a secret from the fox until we escape.”

Sylvester nodded seriously. “Quite so.”

How many days now until we reach Hangman's Haven? he thought. And, once we get there, do we realistically have more than the slightest chance of escaping?

Very deliberately, he closed Cap'n Josiah Adamite's book and stuffed it under the mattress of his bunk.

Whatever you do, Sylvester old fellow, it's important you put on a brave face when you face the world. If ever Viola and Mrs. Pickleberry realize how utterly terrified you are, they might crack up completely.

Viola, watching him, could deduce most of his thoughts.

She glanced across at her mother.

The two Pickleberries rolled their eyes at each other.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

A few hours later, the storm had died away and the crew of the Shadeblaze had finished making the myriad minor repairs and adjustments necessary in the wake of the elements' wrath. There was now a grog-swigging party in full flow on the main deck. The three captives had been invited to join in and Mrs. Pickleberry, in her persona as Three Pins, Scourge of the Sagarian Seas, had accepted the invitation with gusto. Sylvester and Viola had been a little more fastidious (“prissy!” according to Mrs. Pickleberry) and were now standing on the sterncastle, looking out at a moonless night studded with more stars than could ever be counted.

Every now and then, the rasping sound of Mrs. Pickleberry's voice, raised in song, floated up to them and Viola shuddered in embarrassment.

“She gets like this sometimes,” murmured Viola.

“Don't they all?” responded Sylvester in an attempt to reassure her, although ,in fact, he couldn't imagine his own mother ever behaving this way. Hortensia Lemmington had always, he was sure, been demure and ladylike.

He leaned forward on the rail, acutely conscious that his elbow was barely more than a hairsbreadth away from hers – a very thick hair, to be honest, but it was the principle that counted. An amiable silence descended between them into which even the boisterous carousing of the pirates could penetrate only in a sort of muffled way, as if heard through a couple of layers of cotton wool.

“Do you really think we'll be able to manage it?” said Viola softly after a while.

“Eh? Manage what?”

“Escaping from these frightful people, I mean.”

“Of course I do.” He paused to admire the confidence in his voice. “We're lemmings of Foxglove, after all. There's nothing we can't do once we've set our hearts on it.”

“That's what worries me,” continued Viola, putting a paw on his arm. “We're lemmings. We're not foxes or weasels or ferrets. We don't have the inbuilt viciousness some of the pirates have.”

Sylvester turned to look her in the eyes. He wished there were some moonlight. As it was, he could barely distinguish her face, let alone the eyes within it. He felt certain the darkness was ruining his intended effect.

“Trust me.”

“I do, Sylvester, implicitly. Of course I do, but …”

He wished she hadn't added that querulous “but …”

“Please.”

“Oh, Sylvester, if ever there was a lemming who could become a hero it would be you.”

“That wasn't what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“You were comparing lemmings to other creatures and implying we can't be as vicious as them.”

He heard rather than saw her shift from foot to foot.

“Well, yes.”

“Think of Mayor Hairbell.”

“Must I?”

Sylvester gave a snort of laughter.

Viola joined in. “If I had to choose between Mayor Hairbell and Cap'n Terrigan Rustbane …”

“You'd choose neither.”

She hooted. In the darkness, Sylvester grinned. It was good to hear her laugh so freely, as if, for a moment, she'd forgotten the terrible dangers around them, the perilous future that awaited them.

“But you saw it yourself,” Viola said, sobering. “Back in Foxglove. If there were a fight between Rustbane and Hairbell, there's no question who'd win. It'd be over in seconds and then Rustbane'd be kicking Hairbell's head around as a football.”

“That's only because Rustbane is bigger and stronger and has sharper teeth and claws. Hairbell is the meaner and viciouser. Well, he's as mean and as vicious anyway. We lemmings, Viola, we're not the cuddly creatures people tend to think we are. That's a big advantage we have. Folk tend to look at us and assume we're not going to create any trouble, and the next thing they know they're lying in the gutter counting their broken bones.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“Yes, Viola, we do have to talk about these things. Our lives might depend upon it, in the days to come. Any one of us might have to hurt someone. We might even have to kill someone.”

He'd expected her to gasp with revulsion at the possibility. She didn't.

“Besides,” he added, “if you're not overly impressed by the idea of a duel to the death between Cap'n Rustbane and Mayor Hairbell, trying imagining a fight between Rustbane and your mom.”

“That,” said Viola, “is another matter entirely.”

Sometime later, she kissed him.

Suddenly there was a moon in the night sky, after all.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

Two more days went by.

Very slowly.

Almost reluctantly.

Days are like adolescents.

It's not so much what they say as the way they don't say what they would say if they did say anything.

These two days didn't approve of the delay.

Neither did Viola's mom.

Strong stuff, that pirate grog. Got a kick like a mule.

Worst of all, with every hour the Shadeblaze traveled southward the air got hotter.

Viola was sharing a cabin with her mom.

Poor Viola.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

“Land ho!”

“Huh?” said Sylvester.

He breathed in, then recognized the stuff that was filling his mouth wasn't air but the corner of his pillow.

He spat it out and pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Land ho!” repeated the invisible pirate obligingly, somewhere beyond the porthole. Sylvester had opened it last night in the wan hope some cooler air might drift into his cabin. Despite his efforts, the atmosphere in here was so hot it felt like boxing gloves battering against the sides of his head.

There was a knock at the door.

“Whazza—” he said.

“Sylvester?”

Viola's voice. She sounded dreadfully cheerful. Her mother must have dropped off to sleep.

“Yeeurgh,” he said.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Land! We're just about there. The Caraya Islands.”

“You sure?”

He wallowed in his bunk. Knowing Viola, she'd probably brushed her teeth on the way to his cabin. His own breath, he felt certain, must smell like a compost heap. That was what hot weather did to you.

Well, did to you if you weren't Viola, that was.

He groaned.

“Can I come in?” she hissed through the wooden door. “I mean, are you decent?”

He could have done without the coy, girlish giggle that followed the question.

“I'm . . . ah . . .” he replied.

She dropped her voice to a penetrative hiss.

“The Caraya Islands, Sylvester. Don't you remember? Hangman's Haven? Our big chance of escaping?”

“Ah, yeah.”

He knew he was being stupid and hated himself for what he must be making her think about him. It was this accursed heat. It seemed to rot away his brains until there was nothing left to think with.

Pull yourself together, Sylvester! Your life may depend upon it.

With a conscious effort, he was able to focus his gaze upon the wall on the other side of the cabin. There was a knothole there the shape of a rat's head.

“I'm coming,” he said, rolling out of bed. He opened the door to find Viola looking, to his horror, even fresher and more adorable than when he'd last seen her.

“What's that word my mother uses? Lummox?”

“That's it.”

“Well, you're one of those, Sylvester Lemmington.”

“Thanks.”

Despite the awful taste in his mouth, the sight of her was making him feel better by the moment.

“Have you been up on deck yet?” he said.

“Since they started shouting about land ho, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

“How's Daphne? Three Pins, I mean.”

“Dead to the world. I was going to wake her, but then …”

“You didn't.” Who could blame her? Her mother had been like a thwarted hornet these past two days.

“I didn't,” agreed Viola. “You ready?”

“I suppose so.”

She grabbed him by the paw and tugged him toward the nearest companionway. A moment or two later, Sylvester still blinking as if daylight was an entirely novel concept to him. They were standing on deck looking out across a stretch of impossibly blue water to a distant gray smudge.

“That's land?”

“Oh, stop being so grumpy, Sylvester.”

He screwed up his eyes, hoping that somehow the smudge might get bigger and clearer.

It didn't.

“Here,” she said.

“What?”

He looked down. She was holding a leather flask in front of his whiskers.

“Water,” she said.

He grabbed the flask and took a long pull. The contents were warm and brackish, like all the water seemed to have become aboard the Shadeblaze the farther they got from land. Even so, the liquid refreshed him, made the morning seem somehow more approachable.

“Thanks.”

As they watched, the bow of the Shadeblaze slowly turned until it was pointing in the general direction of that distant gray mass. There could be no doubt as to the ship's intended destination.

“That must be Blighter Island,” said Sylvester.

“None other,” Viola replied.

“Hope it's better than its name.”

“Me too.” She took his paw in the pair of hers.

For the next couple of hours they watched as the island came slowly closer. For some reason none of the pirates thought to disturb them. Sylvester guessed the crew had other things to do in preparation for landfall.

As the details became more visible, so did the sounds. The first ones Sylvester was able to identify were bird calls, but these were birds and calls the like of which he'd never seen or heard before. There were other shrieks and cries, too. Noises he didn't believe could be produced by a bird's throat. Despite the baking heat of the day, those cries made cold flutters of fear run up and down his spine.

Viola must have been feeling the same, because she shivered and pulled herself closer to him.

Over the next few hours the Shadeblaze swung slowly around the island until a town came into view, with scores of little houses clustered on the hillsides surrounding a big, semicircular bay. The trees and plants that grew around the houses, pressing up close against them as if attempting a passionate embrace, weren't at all like those of Foxglove. Their forms were somehow squatter and fleshier, and they were a paler and brighter green than Sylvester had ever seen plants before, as if they weren't real plants but ones in a picture painted by a very young lemming.