The Buccaneer's Apprentice

by V. Briceland

  “Cazarro,” said Nic for what felt like the dozenth time that morning. He bowed yet again.

  “No, no, no need for such formalities among—yes. Well.” Ianno Piratimare colored. “One more thing occurred to me …”

  “If it’s about the crew you’ve so generously provided, Cazarro, my first mate has already learned their names. They’ll be well-taken care of,” Nic assured him. From fear of what the man might have to say, Nic always felt compelled to take control of every conversation they had.

  The cazarro blinked, as if that had been the furthest thing from his mind. “Oh. Naturally. Yes. Your … Maxl is a good man. A very good sailor. A shame he’s so … blue. Yes. Well. And naturally, it will be an honor for them all, learning the workings of the marvelous craft my forefathers built. Yet what I wanted to say …”

  Nic coughed. “And of course, the provisions you have provided will see us through quite handsomely.”

  Ianno Piratimare bit his lips, interrupted again. “I can’t claim credit for all of that, my boy. All the merchants of Cassaforte want to be able to say the Allyria set sail with their donations aboard. No, what I’ve been meaning to tell you all morning, though I haven’t really found the courage …”

  Even at the height of the battle of the Azurite armada, Nic’s heart had never pounded harder than it did whenever the cazarro of Piratimare seemed about to make some kind of confession. His heart in his throat, Nic stammered out, “You … you really have been too good to so common a fellow as I, signor. I can only thank you again, and hope that I am not intruding upon your pressing duties.”

  The cazarro, taken aback, looked up at the seagulls shrieking loudly in the sky. After a moment, he lowered his head again. Nic could have sworn that his eyes were swimming with tears, though it might have been from the sun. “Niccolo Dattore …” Ianno might have allowed Nic some leeway thus far, but he was one of the Seven. As such, he was no stranger to administering discipline, and it was in a stern voice that he continued. “You will hear me out on this matter. All I have wanted to tell you is that if ever in your life’s journey you find yourself without a place to rest—if you have nowhere to go of your own, that is—well. You are always welcome at this caza, for as long as any Piratimare lives here. There it is, then. It’s said.”

  “That is most handsome of you, Cazarro,” said Nic. “Most handsome indeed.” He was aware that his voice sounded choked. He sniffled, and immediately colored. “There’s much sawdust in the air, this morning. I think it’s making me a bit sneezy,” he said, trying to sound casual about it.

  “Yes,” agreed Ianno. He seemed to be feeling the effects of the sawdust as well, and drew a handkerchief from his pocket so that he could blow into it. Once they both were composed again, he smiled. “Farewell, young man,” he said, kissing the tips of his crossed fingers and raising them to the heavens. He then shook Nic’s hand, and pressed his lips to the back of Darcy’s knuckles. “I pray you both a swift and safe journey.”

  “We’re only going to Orsina,” laughed Darcy. “Not the ends of the world.”

  As if on cue, the members of Armand Arturo’s Theatre of Marvels began parading down the ramp. Quite a spectacle they made as they approached, followed by a donkey-cart carrying their many trunks and set pieces. A number of the workers transporting armfuls of wood and other supplies to the building sites stopped to gawk at the carnival-like display of color and costume. “Why, a gracious good morning to you, Cazarro!” Armand Arturo, in a new liripipe hat of bright red and the deepest of purples, bowed so low that it appeared his forehead might scrape the wood beneath his feet. From somewhere he had appropriated a cape embroidered with gold and silver threads that made him look like royalty, and an ivory-handled cane. When both the cape and the liripipe’s tail slid over the back of his head, he jumped upright and wrestled wildly to escape.

  In fact, all the troupe had appeared to have gone on a shopping spree. Knave also sported a new cape, though it was far shorter and not as engulfing as the Signor’s. His tights were of an eye-popping orange, and his shoes bore buckles of pure silver. Pulcinella’s normally colorful gown had been exchanged for one of a diamond pattern in so many hues that it seemed as if she’d been eaten by a lacy patchwork quilt. Ingenue was dressed in the purest white, but her necklace flaunted a large pale blue jewel that matched the one pinned into her coiffed hair. Infant Prodigy seemed determined to wring out another two years of early adolescence before she turned thirty, and had found a dress so frilly and babyish that any normal girl would have scorned to wear such a juvenile thing.

  The Signora, however, outshone them all. Her gown had so extreme and stiff a farthingale that her waist appeared to be mere inches wide, while her skirts and bust had expanded to larger proportions than ever before. Her hair had been curled and dyed a dark red. Rings glittered on every finger, and a large opal sat in the middle of her forehead. And from somewhere she had acquired two tiny twin dogs, which she clutched against her bosom. “Cazarro!” she trilled, stooping a bit in lieu of a curtsey. Then, in the same thrilling alto, she added, “Darling Signorina Colombo! Niccolo! Or should I say, Captain Niccolo?”

  “Signora.” Nic gasped slightly as he found his former mistress embracing him, smothering him with perfume and hair and puppies. “I see you’ve packed for the occasion. Had to hire people to carry all your new trunks, did you?”

  Nic nodded at the men and women straggling behind, who grappled with the troupe’s luggage. The Signora allowed Nic to breathe again. “Not at all!” she exclaimed, smiling at all and sundry. “They’re our new actors.”

  Armand Arturo made the necessary introductions. “This is our new Vecchio,” he said, throwing his arm around a young man gone prematurely gray. “And we have a Braggart! Think of the scenes I can write! And these two will be our Scholar and our Columbine. Every troupe could use a saucy servant character, eh?” he asked with a wink at the latter girl, which immediately he pretended was a mote in his eye for fear of being seen by his wife. Confidentially, he added, “We’ve added eight new players in the last week. We’re the troupe to be seen, now. Most of them defected from Filippo Fianucci’s Cavalcade of Comedy.”

  “I told you that Filippo swine would rue the day he called me a third-rate actress,” said the Signora, not without some satisfaction.

  “And you’re still Hero, signor?” asked Nic, grinning.

  The actor seemed sheepish. “Well. I still have a year or two left in me, lad. And naturally, the audiences in Orsina want to see Armand Arturo in the role that made him famous, don’t they?”

  “We may not have made our original engagement due to pirates and sieges and such,” said the Signora, kissing both her puppies in turn, “but after all that, we’re practically famous! They’re itching for our international tour,” she told the cazarro.

  “Hurry now! Be coming!” called Maxl from the bottom of the gangplank, where he’d just planted his big boots. Now that he’d had a few good meals in him, he looked less skeletal and more handsome than ever. His blue face beamed as he regarded the troupe. “You!” he cried, pointing to Braggart. “You are looking strong. You are sent to be my new deck boy, yes? Swabbing all day? We tie rope to your waist and dunk you in sea, upside down, to catch fish for suppers. Yes?”

  “Me?” squawked Braggart, appearing suddenly to regret having defected from the Cavalcade of Comedy.

  “Yes, you, actor-boy. No, I am making the joke. You would make shark bait and be eaten in two bites. Hah! Hah!” Maxl paused as Ingenue reached his side.

  “Hello, Maxl,” she murmured, her eyelashes fluttering demurely. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Now that she was substantially cleaner and dressed in finery, it was difficult for Maxl to ignore Ingenue’s charms any longer. He gulped, then used his hands to smooth his hair and his long ponytail. “Oola, miss,” he murmured.

  “Suave,” Nic pro
nounced, slapping him on the shoulder. Maxl looked affronted and made a face. “Very suave, my man. Have the crew help the Arturos with their things, would you? We’ve a port to make by week’s end.”

  It only took a whistle for Maxl to summon some of the men and women Caza Piratimare had supplied. They swarmed down the gangplank and immediately began to tackle the Arturos’ belongings. Ingenue stuck like horse glue to Maxl’s side as he pitched in with the crew, until at last they were up and aboard the Allyria.

  “Don’t be long, Niccolo,” cooed the Signora. “Armand has been working on my five-act drama about Zanna the Huntress and I want to run a few ideas past you. You’ve a head for these things. Cazarro.” She tottered, turned, and dipped once more before Ianno Piratimare, who lingered. Nic had almost forgotten he was still there.

  “Fantastical woman,” said the cazarro, shaking his head as he watched her attempt to navigate her wide skirts up the gangplank. “You seem to have a talent, Niccolo, of surrounding yourself with the most improbable individuals.”

  If there had been one thing Nic could not have predicted the cazarro might say, it would have been that. He snorted. “It used to be a curse,” he said. “But in the end, it might have turned out to be a blessing.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. They’re all very nice people. Very engaging. But … odd.”

  To the cazarro, Darcy said, “Fret not. I’m neither nice nor engaging, signor. I count myself the lucky exception.”

  As Ianno began to splutter, gallantly ready to contradict her, Nic found himself agreeing. “No, she’s not exactly nice. Bit of a temper.”

  Darcy screwed up her face and nodded. “I still haven’t shown you how to throw a proper tantrum, have I?”

  “And she has a little problem with that violent streak.” Nic gazed at Darcy with fondness and reached for her hand.

  “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..