The Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates #1 (22 page)

Charlie and Miss Greyson were holding their own against the dwindling band of sailors, and even the gargoyle took occasional breaks from cheering to bite those naval officers who were unlucky enough to wander past his perch. Jasper, however, was still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the Terror of the Southlands had decided to run and hide in the captain's quarters—or perhaps he was actually in trouble. Hilary made her way around the edge of the deck, tripping a few naval officers along the way, until she reached the door to Jasper's cabin. The door was open, and inside, two people were arguing. One of them was Jasper. The other was Admiral Westfield.

“Halt!” said a voice behind Hilary. She whirled around to find Orange Mustache pointing a very shiny, very sharp sword in her direction. “Back away, pirate fiend,” said Orange Mustache. Hilary was pretty sure he was trying to look threatening, with his eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl, but his mustache spoiled the whole effect. “I've got orders to protect the admiral from the likes of you.”

“Surely,” said Hilary, “the admiral can protect himself.”

In response, Orange Mustache sliced her beard neatly from her ears. Her left cheek stung where the officer's sword had grazed it. Hilary winced and pressed a hand to her face. At least Orange Mustache didn't seem to recognize her; he had been in the habit of gazing several feet above her head whenever they'd passed each other at Westfield House.

“Thank you, officer,” she said. “I hear being clean-shaven is all the rage this season. Perhaps I'll return the favor.” She held her sword to his nose and trimmed a few unruly hairs from the ends of his mustache.

“How dare you!” Orange Mustache cried, and the duel was on. Unlike his fellow officers, Orange Mustache was very handy with a sword—much handier, even, than Charlie. As Hilary dodged Orange Mustache's blade and attempted to whack him with her own, she performed several waltz steps, a twirl, and a handful of improvisational moves that would have sent Miss Pimm's dance mistress into hysterics. She was more nimble than Orange Mustache, and equally fierce, but he showed no signs of wanting to jump into the sea as they dueled up and down the deck of the
Pigeon
. Even worse, he showed no signs of running out of breath. It turned out that sword fighting was far more exhausting than treading water for thirty-seven minutes, and Hilary could feel her strength leaking out of her and sloshing onto the deck. At last, she fell back against the ship's rails, breathing hard. Behind her was the open sea, and to either side tall stacks of beet tins barred her way. Orange Mustache stood in front of her, with his sword at her throat: he had her cornered.

“Drop your sword, pirate scum,” said Orange Mustache. Hilary dropped it, and Orange Mustache kicked it away, out of her reach.

“Very good.” His mustache twitched in the breeze like a small and curious rodent. “You're a fearsome little fighter, and it would be a shame to kill you. Perhaps I'll take you hostage. I'd be the toast of Queensport with a pirate hostage of my very own. Or perhaps I'll adopt you and civilize you! Wouldn't you like to be civilized?”

“I'd prefer not to be, if you don't mind,” Hilary said. “They've already tried to civilize me at finishing school, but I'm afraid it hasn't stuck.”

Orange Mustache took a step back. “Finishing school? But you're a pirate! Whatever do you—?”

Before he was able to complete this line of questioning, however, Hilary struck him in the head with a well-aimed tin of beets. The tin popped open, and purple juice trickled down his forehead as he slumped to the deck. Hilary tossed a second tin at him just to make sure he'd stay unconscious; the splattered beets made a pleasant pattern on his bald head. She felt a little guilty—Orange Mustache didn't care for mess, and now he was lying in a thick pool of beet juice—but he had wanted to civilize her,
and
he had destroyed her beard in the process. That sort of behavior simply couldn't be tolerated.

She stepped over Orange Mustache, taking care not to slip in the beet juice, and retrieved her sword from the deck. The argument in the captain's quarters was louder than before, and Hilary wasn't quite sure whether to barge in to defend Jasper's honor or run as far away from Admiral Westfield as possible. Running did seem to be the more practical option, but pirates didn't run from villains or parents, did they? Perhaps pirates stood awkwardly outside open doorways, trying to gather up their courage.

“I swear to you,” Jasper was saying, “I don't have your blasted map!” This was true enough, Hilary realized; the map was still tucked safely under her pillow. “And I don't appreciate having power-mad government officials abuse my crew for sport.”

Hilary ducked behind a crate of beet tins as Admiral Westfield pushed his chair back from the long oak table. “You expect me to believe,” he said, “that you're not after my treasure?”

“You have my word,” said Jasper.

“And what is a pirate's word worth to me? You're nothing but scamps and liars, the lot of you.” The admiral scratched his chin. “But you swear the map's not on board.”

“I do.”

“In that case,” said Admiral Westfield, “there's nothing to prevent me from blasting this ship to smithereens.”

Jasper spun his magic coin on the tabletop. “Just like you blasted the
Cutlass
?” he said.

Behind the beet crate, Hilary clutched her sword. Hadn't Charlie's parents been aboard the
Cutlass
when they'd been sunk by the navy? Surely her father couldn't be villainous enough to send an entire pirate crew to the ocean floor.

“I'm not here to discuss the
Cutlass
,” said the admiral. “The whole event was regrettable. But they refused to give up their treasure, and I had no choice but to sink them. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have my men prepare the cannons at once.”

“Hold up!” said Jasper. “You don't want to sink this ship.”

“I don't?” Admiral Westfield paused. “Whyever not?”

“Because,” said Jasper, “I've got your daughter on board.”

Hilary gasped, feeling rather like she'd been hit with an exploding beet tin herself. Had he known all along? Had he seen the signs in Middleby? Regardless, Jasper was discussing her now as if she were some sort of hostage, and Hilary did not care for it one bit. If Admiral Westfield sliced him to ribbons right then and there, she wasn't entirely sure she'd mind.

But Admiral Westfield refrained from slicing anyone to ribbons. Instead, he merely sighed. “So that's where she's run off to. Foolish child.”

“It would be rather unseemly to sink one's own daughter,” said Jasper. His coin clinked to rest on the tabletop, and he set it spinning again. “I doubt they go in for that sort of thing in High Society.”

“They certainly don't.” Admiral Westfield put both hands on the table and leaned toward Jasper. “Look here, Fletcher, I don't have time to deal with my daughter's little pranks. You'll have to return her to Miss Pimm's at once. With all of her limbs intact, if you can manage it.”

“We make no bargains,” said Jasper, “until you remove yourself from the
Pigeon
. And take your band of sycophants with you, please.”

“Very well.” The admiral plucked Jasper's spinning coin from the tabletop. “But I'll be taking this with me. Can't leave my enemy with a magic piece, you understand. And if I catch you near my treasure—”

“Believe me, Westfield,” said Jasper, “you won't catch me anywhere.”

H
ILARY STAYED HIDDEN
behind the beet crate as Admiral Westfield marched out of Jasper's quarters, but she soon realized that she needn't have bothered to hide: her father did not seem at all interested in searching for her. Instead, he caught sight of Orange Mustache lying in a pool of beet juice and nudged the officer with his boot. Soon enough, all the naval officers had departed the
Pigeon
, and the
Augusta Belle
sped away in a flurry of blue and gold. It should have been a relief, but the sight of Admiral Westfield's ship disappearing in the distance was sharper than a dozen of Orange Mustache's swords at Hilary's throat.

She watched the
Augusta Belle
until it was hardly more than a smudge on the horizon. Then she knocked on the door to Jasper's quarters and entered without waiting for a response.

Jasper looked up at her and smiled as if nothing at all terrible had just occurred. “Hello, Hilary. That went rather well, don't you think?”

Hilary straightened her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height, which was not nearly as high as she had hoped. Still, Jasper was sitting down, so at least she was able to look him in the eye. “How did you know?” she asked.

“How did I know the battle went well? We've still got our map, and we're all still alive—or at least I assume we are. I'm sure the screaming would have been quite a bit louder if anyone had gotten themselves run through.”

“No,” said Hilary, “that's not what I meant.” Did he think she was a foolish child, too? “How did you know Admiral Westfield is my father?”

Jasper crossed his arms and kicked his boots up onto the table in front of him. “Ah,” he said. “Frankly, the clues were obvious: your distinct High Society accent, your familiarity with naval protocol, and of course your stubbornness, which you could have only developed as a result of living with a tyrant like Westfield.”

Hilary gaped at him.

“Oh, all right. If you must know, I caught sight of you at Westfield House when I was preparing to pinch the treasure map. And I recognized you at once when we met on the train. I must admit I had no idea you'd come work for me, though I could hardly turn you away when you did. Employing the enemy's daughter—now
that
's a trick worthy of the Terror of the Southlands.” Jasper gave a little bow from his chair, as though he expected Hilary to applaud.

“A trick?” Despite her excellent posture, Hilary felt even smaller than before. “You mean you only hired me to get at my father?”

“Oh dear,” said Jasper. “When you put it that way, it sounds quite heartless. But I hoped you might have certain information about Westfield's plans. I thought, for instance, that he might have taught you how to read that blasted map of his.”

“And you thought it would be handy to have me as a hostage if he tried to sink your ship.”

Jasper looked awkwardly down at Fitzwilliam, who was resting in his lap. He shrugged and said nothing. Hilary rather wished Fitzwilliam would bite him on the nose.

“So you didn't really think I was brave, or bold, or an excellent knot tier, or any of those things?” If she shrank any smaller, she'd slip through the slats in the floorboards and end up in the bilge; it was too upsetting to contemplate. “You didn't think I was a pirate?”

“Now, wait a moment,” said Jasper.

But Hilary had no interest in waiting. “If you don't believe I'm a pirate,” she said icily, “then I won't stay on the
Pigeon
a moment longer. Good day, Mr. Fletcher.” Then she marched out of Jasper's quarters, stopping only to kick a stray beet tin, which burst in a magnificent purple explosion all over the deck.

Hilary didn't stop marching until she reached the Gargoyle's Nest, where she set about freeing the gargoyle from his ropes. “What a battle!” the gargoyle cried. He was still dressed as a mermaid, although he'd lost his wig in all the excitement. “Did you see me bite those officers? They tasted awfully salty.” He looked up at Hilary, and his ears drooped. “Are you crying?”

Hilary blinked hard. “Of course not. A pirate never cries.” She helped the gargoyle out of his costume and tucked him under her arm. “Let's go.”

“Where are we going? Why can't I stay in my Nest?”

“We're going on a pirate ship—our
own
pirate ship. The Terror of the Southlands doesn't think I'm a true pirate, and I plan to show him otherwise. The first thing I'll do is steal his dinghy.”

“We're going to sail the High Seas? By ourselves? In that tiny boat? With waves and everything?” The gargoyle gulped. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Hilary nodded. “We're pirates, aren't we?”

“Of course we are,” said the gargoyle.

“Then we've got to leave at once. A true pirate wouldn't tolerate one more moment on board this ship.”

“But what about Charlie? And Miss Greyson? Won't they miss us?” The gargoyle squirmed under Hilary's arm. “Will there be spiders?”

“I'm sure Charlie and Miss Greyson will manage perfectly well without us,” said Hilary. A rather unpleasant lump was forming in her throat; no matter how hard she swallowed, it remained stubbornly in place. “And as for the spiders—”

She stopped so suddenly that she nearly lost hold of the gargoyle. There, where the dinghy should have been, was nothing but a tangle of ropes. Two of the ropes hung overboard, but their ends dangled loose above the waves, and the dinghy was nowhere in sight.

“Oh, blast,” Hilary whispered. Had the navy taken the dinghy with them when they left the
Pigeon
? No, most of the naval officers had plunged into the sea. But who else could have set it loose from its ropes? Jasper was still in his quarters, and Hilary could see Miss Greyson and Charlie chatting on the other side of the ship—but she couldn't see Oliver anywhere.

“Oh, double blast!” she cried. She hurried to Oliver's cabin and flung open the door without knocking, but the cabin was empty. Then she cursed Oliver's name heartily, ran into her own cabin, and pulled her pillow from her bed.

The treasure map was gone.

J
ASPER
F
LETCHER
, F
REELANCE
P
IRATE
T
ERROR OF THE
S
OUTHLANDS
VNHLP CERTIFIED IN BATTLE,
TREASURE HUNTING, & PARROT MAINTENANCE