by Kevin Hearne
“What’s this all about, then?” Luc pressed.
But the guard bowed them all in silently, closed the gate behind them, and waved a hand to indicate they should follow him. The city opened up before them like a blossom unfurling, the beautiful clay buildings shining as white as the sands and the roads all paved with shells. There were no huts, no coconut brassieres. The people walking to and fro greeted the pirates with wide, welcoming smiles, bowing, in all manner of dress. Morgan noted flowy robes that appeared to be from Qul, as well as dresses and capes from the cold, wet borders of Borix and everything in between. She didn’t see any gnomeric or dwarvelish garb, but she didn’t see any gnomes or dwarves either. It was all humans, and they all seemed overjoyed to find a filthy, nervous crew of pirates stalking through their midst.
Morgan had a million questions, but she’d learned her lesson on ship. Only Luc could talk here.
“What’s the deal?” Luc asked again, when the guard didn’t answer his previous inquiry.
“Clan Nabi welcomes all visitors. I shall take you to meet our queen, long may she reign.”
“We don’t have anything to trrrrade,” Luc warned. “An’ we can’t pay a hefty docking fee.”
The guard laughed. “We put no price on friendship.”
Soon they walked up glimmering white steps toward a beautiful casita flying the flags of all earldoms. Morgan glanced nervously to and fro to see if there might be another poster with her face on it, but the art was limited to tasteful murals of flowers and fish and poems written in iambic pentameter about health, wealth, and the importance of regular massage. When she glanced to Mort, the shock in his eyes was at least somewhat gratifying, but she suspected it was mostly because the island conformed to his conception of “civilization” and not his racist expectations.
The guard must’ve really enjoyed throwing doors open dramatically, as he kept on doing it, and finally they were admitted to a plush royal chamber. They were a shoddy group, huddled there on the fine silk carpet, covered in gunpowder and sweat, but the queen rose from her throne and walked toward them, arms open in welcome. She was a beautiful woman in her forties, probably, with impeccable style. Her gown was tasteful and perfectly matched her jewelry and tiara, and her blue eyes were deep set and soulful. As she stood amidst her finery, she looked very much the jewel in a crown, a bright spot in a flawless mix of patterns and colors designed solely to highlight her beauty.
“I am Queen Hannabelle of Clan Nabi, and I welcome you to our city,” she said, her voice slightly accented in a way that made Morgan wish to hear her speak again. “Please join us. Bathe in our hot springs. Sit at our table. Drink of our wine. We are glad you have come.”
“Now, wait herrrre,” Captain Luc broke in, sounding salty. “I been sailin’ the seas a long time, and nobody everrrr issues an invitation without expecting a rrrrepayment of one sorrrrt orrrr anotherrrr. Do ye have eyes on me carrrrgo? Have yerrrr folk already begun to plunderrrr the ship?”
The queen’s smile was placid and gently amused. “Oh, no! We get so few visitors, you see. We love news of the outside world. Books and stories. Believe me, Captain: All we want is your company.”
“Well, we ain’t givin’ up the weapons,” he hedged.
“We would never expect you to.”
“And we ain’t stayin’ long.”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be with us long.”
Someone in the court chuckled at that, and Captain Luc ruffled his feathers and looked around, dissatisfied but stuck. “Aye, well, then. We’ll take advantage o’ the hospitality, at least until the POPO is done interrrrogatin’ me men back on the ship. And then we’ll give ye a bit o’ grrrrog and set sail.”
Queen Hannabelle clapped her hands, and a variety of handsome handmaidens and handmen scurried into the room in matching jerkins and led the sailors away by gender. As for Luc, he flapped a wing at them and said he’d stay with the queen. As Morgan left, she glanced back once and saw Queen Hannabelle indicating that the parrot could take his rest on an elaborate perch.
“I love the architecture here,” Morgan said as their handmaiden led her, Tempest, and Milly Dread up hundreds of shell-encrusted stairs to the opening of a cave in the side of the volcano. The handmaiden made no reply.
The stairway was lined with flower baskets and afforded a sublime view of the island and its majestic buildings. Once inside the cave, the girl gesticulated at them, suggesting they disrobe and enjoy the mineral springs heated by the nearby volcano. Milly Dread wasted no time dropping trou and cannonballing into a glowing blue pool.
Morgan was unsettled but also feeling, well, a bit superior. “I hope Mort learned something about making assumptions. This civilization is under better rule than my father’s earldom back home.”
“I guess. But something is bothering me,” Tempest said. “The captain’s right. Nobody is this nice. They have to want something.”
“Or maybe they are that nice. They have so much, everything they could ever want. Except sensible clothing for this climate—did you see that some of them are dressing like they’re in Borix instead of a tropical island? But never mind. They must be governed wisely. I didn’t see a single hovel or urchin. It must be quite exciting to finally have visitors to shake things up. Our castle was like that—deathly boring. The most exciting thing that happened most years was a pie-eating contest.”
“Maybe.”
Morgan could tell Tempest felt off too, and why wouldn’t she? After the grave error of her attempt at secondary education in Bustardo, she probably would have trouble trusting a good thing. But even an overly suspicious dryad couldn’t deny the siren call of a hot bath after weeks on the ship, washing with tepid seawater. Giving her friend a smile of encouragement to show that everything was fine, Morgan slipped out of her clothes and into the pool, her entire body sighing into the heat. There were soaps and unguents and a lovely deep conditioner Morgan applied to her hair and beard, and the handmaiden took turns pulling the women out one by one and scrubbing them thoroughly with oily salts and pumice stones.
“You have such lovely skin,” the handmaiden sighed.
“Thanks. Can I wash out my hair now?” Morgan asked.
The handmaiden laughed. “Oh, that won’t matter,” she said.
“Why not?”
The girl just laughed again, and Morgan decided she wasn’t quite right in the head.
Next, Morgan was ushered onto a cushioned stone table and given the best massage of her life. Every muscle was rubbed until it loosened and melted, making her sigh and wish pirate ships kept a muscular masseuse on staff. Up until the moment she felt completely relaxed, she hadn’t even realized how stressful her time on ship had been. In the hot pool again, she floated on her back, glad she’d left Otto behind on the ship with Mingo. Otter poop in the sacred pool would’ve been most embarrassing. Milly Dread had returned from her massage even gassier than usual, and the handmaiden had suggested she soak a bit longer. The old woman said nothing, merely ate the cucumber slices she’d been given to put over her eyes and resumed floating on her back, half asleep.
When it was Tempest’s turn for her massage, the handmaiden fussed over the two dark splotches on her arm, and Morgan grew angry with the girl when she saw how embarrassed Tempest was by the attention.
“They won’t come off,” Tempest said, on the verge of tears. “Please stop trying. I’ve scrubbed them and plucked them and burned them, but they won’t go away. They’re just…part of me.”
“It’s a shame, is all,” the girl said. “The queen will be most upset.”
“That she has some marks on her skin?” Morgan barked. “How is it any of her business?”
The handmaiden dropped Tempest’s arm and turned away. “All business here is the queen’s business. Please continue to enjoy the waters.”
With a small bow, the girl took her s
crubs and sprays and pumice stones and soaps and hurried out of the cavern.
“What the Pell was that all about?” Morgan huffed. “I’ve had servants, and that is not how they’re supposed to act.”
“It’s okay.” Tempest sadly rubbed at one of her spots as she stepped back into the pool. “It’s just how things are.”
“Well, I’m not okay with that. I don’t care how pretty their city is and how nice they are in front of the captain; they can’t go around insulting us. My father used to talk to me like that, and I didn’t get this far from home just to hear—oh!”
Morgan didn’t get the chance to continue her diatribe, as her feet were swept out from under her, tugging her head underwater. She barely had time to hold her breath, and then the rushing water was yanking her deep into a hole in the center of the cavern. Flutters of warm skin passed her, and she knew that had to be Tempest and Milly Dread. She could only hope they were holding their breath too and that, whatever was happening, they would soon be able to breathe again. She fought the current, but it was simply too strong. Perhaps this was how the tide affected the island, sucking the bathing pools out to sea, or maybe something had happened with the volcano. All she knew was that it was pitch dark, and she flailed and panicked as her body was sucked through what felt like tubes; then there was a rush of air as she fell and splashed down into water that was shallow enough to stand.
“What happened?” she asked, wiping salt water out of her eyes.
“We got played,” Tempest said.
“That was the worst waterslide ever.”
Much to her surprise, the new voice belonged to Al, and he sounded more defeated than he ever had so far. When she got her wet hair out of her eyes, she could see why.
Their entire party, naked and scrubbed clean, was in a giant tureen full of hot water and vegetable chunks. Bits of turnip and cubes of onion bobbed against her skin, making Morgan shudder. Under the tureen was a jumble of wood, including what had to be the chopped-up hull or deck of a ship.
“See? See? I told you there’d be cannibals! They’s gonner boil us alive!” Mort shouted triumphantly, right before Queen Hannabelle appeared with a flaming torch.
Tempest surveyed the situation with anger thrumming in her sap. The moment the water had sucked her down, she’d known: It was all a trap. The gorgeous beach, the well-kept road, the shining city, the careful scrubbing of flesh, and the dip in what must’ve been some sort of antibacterial marinade. She’d known something was wrong, but she’d gone along with it and ignored her gut.
Guts, she realized, were always to be trusted.
The moment she saw the queen’s smug face and the capacious white bib over her cooking apron, she knew that Mort’s triumph at being right regarding the existence of cannibals would most likely end at the edge of a serrated knife. She did a quick head count around the pot to ensure all the sailors were accounted for, carefully avoided looking down at anyone’s jiggly danglers, and then hunted around the room for Captain Luc. They were in something halfway between a ritual chamber and a kitchen, which did not bode well. The captain was no longer on his fine perch and was instead confined to a fussy cage in the corner, the door firmly shut as he beat himself against the metal bars.
“This is an outrrrrage!” he shouted. “Ye can’t go arrrround eating my crrrrew!”
Queen Hannabelle turned to him and smiled graciously. “Watch me, glitterpigeon,” she said.
“Wait!” Morgan called next. “What can we trade you for our release?”
The queen shook her head and held out her arms. “Your flesh. My people are hungry.”
“Then maybe hunt like normal people? Or raise a few chickens?” Al said. “I mean, instead of waiting for strangers to come around. Most civilizations have figured this out already.”
The fire was high and well-stoked, and the water was getting hotter. Tempest had to doggy-paddle to save her feet from the bottom of the red-hot tureen. She could just see over the edge, and the view was chilling. The people of Clan Nabi were cheerfully preparing for a great feast, raking the coals in a huge oven full of metal racks and greasing what looked like an enormous sausage grinder. Children roasted vegetables and fruits over a grate while wearing bibs with chubby little stick figures of people stamped on them. Tempest hated to admit it, but these people did, in fact, look very happy and sleek and healthy. And like they had no qualms about eating pirates.
“You are not the first visitors to question our ways,” Queen Hannabelle said as she sharpened a knife with unnecessary violence right in front of them. Zip zop. Zip zop. “But you see, eating nu ham is what has allowed us to flourish. Instead of spending our time moving goats around, growing corn and grain for feed, plucking chickens, and rebuilding big fences, we wait until a ship stops by and gather up our next harvest. We have meat, and we have timber, and we have whatever else is on board. Books and scrolls, magic potions and clothing. It’s the most elegantly simple solution to all of life’s problems.”
“But it’s stealing!” Al roared. “And murder!”
The queen stared at him. “You are pirates, are you not? All pirates do is steal and murder.”
“We’re not really that kind of pirate,” he shot back, slightly chastened. “So far, we’ve just rescued a bunch of otters and tried to save our centaur from kidney thieves.”
At that, an excited murmur went up around the crowd.
“A centaur!” Queen Hannabelle’s face lit up with lurid glee. “We’ll send a contingent out to your ship to collect it. I hear their internal organs are succulent.”
“That is so ignorant!” Morgan wailed.
“If it makes you feel better, your internal organs are succulent as well,” the queen reminded her, resuming her knife-sharpening as several of her people ran out through a grand door, carrying ropes and cleavers and long sausage forks. “In fact, pretty much all internal organs are healthy and delicious, if prepared the right way. Don’t even get me started on bone marrow. And brains! Like butter! So good on toast.”
“That’s it,” Tempest muttered to herself, her arms tiring from treading the water. “Queen Hannabelle, have you heard of mad human disease?”
The queen cocked her head. “I have not.”
“It’s awful. You get it from eating the brains of humans who’ve eaten sick cows. It drives you insane, and your body pretty much rots around you.”
The queen considered this, and the pirates waited with bated breath that actually smelled like bait because they ate a lot of fish.
“Even if you’re lying, we can’t risk it,” the queen finally said, and Tempest exhaled in relief.
“So we won’t eat your brains, I suppose. We’ll use them for tanning leather. We make really cute water-resistant shoes here.” She held out her foot, and Tempest almost complimented her flesh-sandals before she realized her gambit had failed and the Nabi still intended to eat her and her friends.
“Maybe eat one of us at a time?” she offered, hoping a route to escape might present itself later on. “So the meat won’t go bad?”
Queen Hannabelle rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Do you think our food hasn’t tried to talk us out of dinner before? You’re not unique. You’re just chatty bacon. We’ve developed methods to preserve meat with salt, with acid, with smoke. We’ve spent centuries building our unique culture around nu ham, and I don’t think that’s going to change because some spotty-wristed girl with limp hair likes to argue.”
Tempest took a deep breath, feeling rage bubble up from her burning feet. How dare the queen speak to her that way, insulting her skin and hair, patronizing her while in the process of killing her? Morgan tried to pat her arm in a calming sort of way, but she pulled away. She could feel something happening to her, but she wasn’t sure what it was, so she tried to edge away from the others. “Stay back,” she whispered to Morgan and Al. “I’m not sure…what�
�is going to happen now…”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” the queen said. “It’s not personal.”
“I told you she was weird about her moles,” the handmaiden whispered to the queen, and as they had a private laugh, Tempest felt her hair lift up, her toes and fingers beginning to spread and change.
With a snap like lightning striking, Tempest’s arms stretched out in either direction, somehow both flexible and hard, somewhere between a branch and a vine. Leaves sprouted along her limbs, and she reached for the edge of the tureen and lifted herself free of the steaming water. Her toes had shot out like roots, and she used their tendrils to clamber out of the water and stand, dripping, on the stone floor below. She was naked, and yet she wasn’t. Rugged brown bark had sprung up to cover her skin like armor. Her hair writhed overhead, a nimbus of branches and leaves.
“I’m not meat anymore,” Tempest growled. “So who wants a little fiber in their diet?”
“What—” the queen began, but Tempest reared back and punched her right in the nice white teeth.
Of course, it wasn’t a woman who had cracked those canines—it was a dryad in full temper, and the queen flew back, her head turned the wrong way on her neck and her teeth sproinging out like popcorn. Seeing Hannabelle lying on the ground like that, soft and meaty, aroused something Tempest had hoped never to feel, and for just a moment she craved the hot gush of blood.
But no. She would not stoop to the level of Clan Nabi, and she was not yet a willowmaw, and she had friends to save. As the queen’s people abandoned their feast preparations to scurry around their broken ruler, Tempest turned to the tureen, wrapped her vine fingers around the hot edges, and pushed it over, spilling her friends and hot water over the floor. The water drained away in a creepily efficient grate, and naked pirates struck the ground and struggled to their feet before plucking up the various barbecuing accoutrements strewn around the room, brandishing them as weapons. Clan Nabi was caught defenseless, nothing but bibs between them and the death they were so accustomed to doling out. It was swiftly apparent they weren’t trained in any sort of self-defense, that they had grown all too comfortable and complacent with their cruel ruse, and Tempest soon had Luc out of his cage as the crew demanded—at spatula-point—new garb from their previous captors and cooks. Soon the pirates were dressed in the robes and jerkins the Nabi had taken from past visitors, and the Nabi were naked and tying their bibs over their groins. Only Tempest remained unclothed, clad solely in her hardening bark.
