The Very Nearly Honorable League of Pirates #1 (4 page)

REWARD.

From

The Illustrated Queensport Gazette

YOUR GATEWAY TO THE CIVILIZED WORLD!

NORTHLANDS MINING
EXPEDITION A COMPLETE
AND UTTER FAILURE

NORDHOLM, AUGUSTA—In a development that should surprise absolutely no one with an ounce of common sense, the royal expedition to search for unmined magic in the Northlands Hills has failed, just as ninety-four previous expeditions have done.

“We thought we'd found an untapped source of magic ore,” said expedition leader Sir Archibald Trout, “but once we started digging, we discovered that the material we'd spotted was only gold. Better
luck next time, eh?”

No new magic ore has been mined from any location in Augusta for over two hundred years,
and experts believe that this once-valuable natural resource has been completely exhausted. “Every ounce of magic in the kingdom's been dug up,” Nordholm University scholar Salima Svensson confirmed today. “If the queen is looking for magic, she'd be better off searching for a pirate's treasure chest.” Ms. Svensson hastened to add that she was not seriously recommending that the queen attempt to recover one of the stashes of magic rumored to
be buried around the country. “Many of us have been living without magic for generations now,” said
Ms. Svensson, “and we've made some remarkable technological discoveries as a result. Just the other day, I used the woodstove in my kitchen to warm an entire plate of biscuits. Isn't it time to give up on the search for magic and start living sensibly?”

The queen and her royal advisers could not be reached for comment.

“I
THOUGHT
,”
SAID
the gargoyle faintly from inside the canvas bag, “we were going to sea.”

Hilary reached inside the bag and clapped her hand over the gargoyle's snout. “What did I tell you?” she whispered.

“You told me not to move and not to make a sound.” It was hard to make out his muffled response, but at least he sounded suitably apologetic.

Hilary glanced across the train compartment at her governess, who was still absorbed in her newspaper. As far as Hilary could tell, Miss Greyson did not plan to move from her seat until she had read every last article, and Miss Greyson was a very thorough reader. Behind her left ear was tucked a single sharp pencil, which she used to make notes in the margins of her paper from time to time, and she was forever quizzing Hilary about the news of the day. “A lady must always be aware of current events,” she liked to say. Hilary didn't dare sneak out of the compartment for fear that Miss Greyson would suddenly lift her head and ask Hilary's opinion of mining operations in the Northlands, or of the latest theft from one of Augusta's grand mansions.

“You'll just have to wait a little longer,” Hilary murmured into the bag. “She'll have to get up eventually, and that's when we'll make our move.” Running away to sea hadn't seemed like a difficult plan at first, but Hilary had forgotten to take her governess into account.

“If you are going to chat with that gargoyle,” said Miss Greyson without glancing up from her newspaper, “you might as well do so in a proper conversational tone, so the rest of us can join in if we have something to contribute.”

The gargoyle poked his head out of the bag. “You weren't supposed to know I was here!”

“You should have kept still, then,” said Miss Greyson. “Your ears wiggle.”

Hilary and the gargoyle looked at each other in dismay. “They went all tingly,” the gargoyle said, “and I thought that maybe if I gave them a good shake . . .”

“Honestly,” said Miss Greyson, “you look like a pair of wet hens.” She folded up her newspaper. “Don't worry, Hilary; I won't make you send the gargoyle back. I know the first few weeks at finishing school can be lonely, and it will be pleasant for you to have a friend.”

“I am
not
a hen,” announced the gargoyle, “and I am
not
going to finishi—hey, cut that out!” Hilary had poked him in the place where she thought his ribs might be.

“But you must take care to keep the gargoyle out of sight, especially on the train,” Miss Greyson continued. “All sorts of people travel on trains, you know.” She said the word
people
in a way that suggested she really meant
scoundrels
. “You wouldn't want your gargoyle to be stolen, would you?”

“No, Miss Greyson.”

“In fact, there's been another theft from a High Society household just this morning.” Miss Greyson tapped her newspaper with the delicate golden crochet hook she always carried. “Twelve entire place settings of magic cutlery—including dessert spoons! Then again, the Grimshaws have always been far too bold with their magic. When one regularly transforms one's good linen napkins into flocks of turtledoves, one can't be too surprised by thievery.”

“How sad for the Grimshaws.” Hilary kicked her heels against the bottom of her seat, knowing Miss Greyson would disapprove. “I'm sure their dinner parties will be utterly dull from now on.”

“What I mean to say, Hilary, is that thieves can be quite unscrupulous. Especially when it comes to magic.” Miss Greyson lowered her voice and glanced from side to side. “If a teaspoon of magic can turn a napkin into a turtledove, imagine what a thief could do if he got his hands on the gargoyle.”

“Just let a thief try!” said the gargoyle. “I'm much more fearsome than a teaspoon, Miss Greyson. And I don't like to be used; it makes my heart go fluttery.” He grimaced at the thought. “Besides, I'm not allowed to turn things into birds. The Enchantress told me so when she carved me.”

“Really?” said Miss Greyson. “How very specific of her.”

The gargoyle hesitated. “Well, she didn't say that
exactly
. But she did say my magic could only be used for protection. Isn't that right, Hilary? A thief couldn't make me turn things into birds, could he?” He shuddered. “I don't like birds.”

“Oh, gargoyle, don't worry.” Hilary patted his small stone wings until they stopped fluttering. “I promise I won't let anyone use you, and I'll keep you safe from anyone who looks even slightly unscrupulous.”

“Much appreciated,” said the gargoyle.

Miss Greyson nodded. “Very good. Now, I suspect”—she consulted her pocket watch—“yes, it's nearly lunchtime.” She reached into her enormous carpetbag and produced a handful of rectangular packets wrapped in wax-coated paper. “I've brought sandwiches if you'd like them. Cucumber or egg?”

“Neither, thank you,” said the gargoyle. “Do you have any spiders?”

Upon learning that Miss Greyson did not, in fact, have spiders, the gargoyle burrowed deeper into his bag, and Hilary wished she could join him there. A true pirate would never eat tiny sandwiches; would Miss Greyson never leave? “Egg, please,” she said at last. Miss Greyson passed her one of the packets and tried to fasten her carpetbag, but the clasps wouldn't come together.

“Oh dear,” said Miss Greyson. “I always overpack on train journeys. I do so like to be comfortable—and if our train gets delayed, I've brought enough supplies to keep us warm and snug in this little compartment for at least a week!” She laughed, and Hilary did her best to join in, but the situation was hardly funny: it appeared that Miss Greyson had no intention of leaving the compartment anytime soon, or perhaps ever again. Outside, along the edge of the tracks, fir trees and wildflowers slipped away into the distance as the train raced toward Miss Pimm's.

Hilary looked down at the egg sandwich. Then she looked at the gargoyle, who had snuggled down next to her battered copy of
Treasure Island
. “I'm sorry, Miss Greyson,” she said, tucking the sandwich into her bag, “but I've got to leave.”

“Leave?” Miss Greyson's carpetbag snapped shut. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Just to use the washroom,” said Hilary quickly.

Miss Greyson started to rise from her seat. “Of course. I'll accompany you.”

“Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary. I'll only be gone a few moments.” Hilary stood up and slung the canvas bag over her shoulder. “Besides, I'll have the gargoyle with me.”

The gargoyle gave Miss Greyson his most charming grin, and she sighed. “He's hardly a proper chaperone, but very well. You must hurry directly back, though. You are a young lady, not a royal explorer.”

“Please don't worry, Miss Greyson.” Hilary opened the compartment door, and for a moment she thought she'd caught the faint scent of the sea, though it was quickly overpowered by the scent of egg sandwiches. “If I meet any unscrupulous people, I'll be sure to let you know.”

I
F IT HADN'T
been speeding quite so determinedly toward Miss Pimm's, Hilary thought she would have enjoyed being on the train. She didn't often get to travel on trains—because they were not boats, her father disapproved of them—and this one was particularly elegant, with velvet carpeting on the floors and gold-painted flourishes on the wall panels. Hilary wouldn't have been surprised to spot the queen herself in one of the compartments, although all she saw as she walked down the corridor were small knots of gentlemen in dark suits, along with the occasional sticky-faced child pursued at high speeds by a nanny.

“Are we really going to the washroom?” the gargoyle asked from inside the canvas bag. “Are you going to scrub behind my ears?”

Hilary clutched the bag to her chest and smiled at the two gentlemen who were approaching her from the other end of the carriage. “Of course not,” she whispered into the bag once the gentlemen had passed. “We're escaping! We'll leave the train at the next stop, wherever that is.” Hilary hadn't managed to sneak a look at the train timetable stowed away in Miss Greyson's carpetbag, but she knew the tracks from Queensport to Pemberton followed the curve of the coastline. Wherever they ended up, the sea wouldn't be too far away, and wherever there was sea, could pirates be far behind?

“Oh,” said the gargoyle. “Well, that's all right, then. Let me know when we get to the sea.”

Hilary hurried through the train until she felt sure that she was a safe distance from Miss Greyson. She found a comfortable bit of wall to lean against near the carriage door, and she set her bag down on the floor beside her. She was happy to have the gargoyle as a traveling companion, but he did grow awfully heavy after a while.

To pass the time while they waited for the train to stop, Hilary read to the gargoyle from
Treasure Island
. “‘Though I had lived by the shore all my life,'” she read, “‘I seemed never to have been near the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was something new. I saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been far over the ocean.'” She glanced up to make sure Miss Greyson wasn't approaching. “‘And I was going to sea myself; to sea in a schooner . . . bound for an unknown island, and to seek for buried treasures!'”

The carriage door swung open. Hilary stuffed the book in her bag and pulled the canvas over the gargoyle's ears as the two gentlemen who had passed her before entered the corridor. They were elegantly dressed, as though they had set out for the opera and accidentally boarded a train instead. Hilary guessed they were members of High Society, though one of the gentlemen—really more of a boy, now that Hilary got a better look at him—kept tripping over his trousers, which covered his feet and a good deal of the floor below. His black hair fell nearly to his collar, and he looked about as comfortable in his suit as Hilary felt in her uniform from Miss Pimm's.

The other gentleman looked a bit older and didn't trip nearly as often. He carried a narrow black case under one arm, and he flipped a coin in the air as he walked, catching it again in his gloved hand after every toss. He nodded to Hilary. Then he paused for a moment, and the coin fell to the floor.

“Excuse me,” said the elegant gentleman, “but have we met before?”

Hilary shook her head. Maybe this man had attended a ball at Westfield House—her mother was always planning the next ball or cleaning up from the last one—but Hilary made a point of avoiding her parents' social events whenever she could. “I'm sorry,” she said, trying desperately to remember the guidelines for discouraging unwanted company in
A Young Lady's Guide to Augustan Society
. “I don't believe I know you.”

“Well, thank goodness we've met at last.” The man bowed low to retrieve his coin, tucked it away in his pocket, and stuck out a gloved hand. “It's a pleasure. The name's Smith. And this”—he gestured to the boy—“is my ward, Charlie.”

Hilary shook Mr. Smith's hand as quickly as possible. She tried to shake the boy's hand, too, but he hung back behind Mr. Smith. “It's nice to meet you both,” she said.

She hoped that that would be the end of it—that Mr. Smith and his ward would return to their compartment and discuss lawn bowling, or top hats, or whatever it was that elegant gentlemen discussed—but they seemed intent on staying exactly where they were. The boy named Charlie studied Hilary for a moment; then his eyes grew wide, and he elbowed Mr. Smith. “I think she's a finishing-school girl,” he said. He did not sound at all pleased about it. “Just look at her cardigan.”