Alex and the Ironic Gentleman

by Adrienne Kress

  “Um . . . Lord Poppinjay . . . ,” said Alex, slowly. “I’ve . . . been meaning to talk to you about my job. I think it’s time I offered up my resignation.”

  “No, you must stay!” Lord Poppinjay insisted, examining his pinky carefully.

  Alex sighed. Plan B then. “Don’t pretend, Lord Poppinjay. You have to remember that I know what you’re thinking. You like me well enough, but I know you don’t think I am, well, classy enough for such an illustrious hotel.”

  Lord Poppinjay stopped picking at his pinky and peered at Alex pensively. “I can’t hide a thing from you, can I?” he laughed, throwing his hands in the air. “Would you like me to write you a reference letter?”

  “No, that’s all right,” she replied. And then she thought for a moment. “Although I don’t suppose you know anything about going to sea?”

  Lord Poppinjay laughed, and he gave his dog a scratch on its belly. “No, but I do know a lovely young lady who may be able to help. Her father is my personal dentist, or at least was years ago when I went to Port Cullis regularly.” He smiled, revealing his flawless teeth.

  He went on to explain that this young lady owned an inn in the heart of Port Cullis called The Gangrene that was frequented by all sorts, including sailors, and he wrote down a set of directions for her. He also very generously instructed her to put any expenses on his tab.

  And then, with a hearty handshake, Alex slipped off the sedan chair.

  She grabbed Mr. Underwood’s bicycle and readjusted her knapsack, which was currently purring. Then, climbing onto the bike, she called out a goodbye to the rest of the staff, who returned it heartily.

  “Alex!” called out Lord Poppinjay, peering around the edge of the chair. He looked at Alex intently and then pressed his fingers to his temples and thought hard. When he removed his fingers from the side of his head, she waved. She had no idea what he had thought, of course. But she could make a guess at it.

  “You’re welcome!” she called back. Lord Poppinjay clapped his hands together in amazement.

  Alex carefully biked her way through the field and onto the road. There was a sign shaped like an arrow that read, “If you’re heading to Port Cullis, then you’re almost there!” Alex laughed. It was a very perfect sign.

  She felt very relaxed looking down the road ahead, sort of like she would if she was staring out at an expanse of dark-blue, still water. She took a deep refreshing breath and smiled.

  “Here we go, Giggles,” she said to her knapsack. And then, because it was the only reasonable thing to do, she turned the bike in the direction the arrow was pointing and started to pedal.

  THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

  In which we finally get to Port Cullis and visit The Gangrene.

  Port Cullis! Wonderful Port Cullis! Yes, dear reader, we have finally reached the wonderful seaside city. What an exciting place it was, too! Now, I suppose I could first share with you the long history of Port Cullis, and its trade relations with France, but that is all so infinitely dull that if I told it to you, you would probably give up on the rest of this book, and we still haven’t gotten to stuff about Steele and the pirates yet.

  You see, what made Port Cullis interesting was the city itself. At first glance, you would see tall, narrow, gray-stone buildings that looked as if they were going to fall onto each other, and this was really helpful when it rained because it meant that most of the streets were practically covered. There was a big, square marketplace within the ruins of a medieval cathedral and a total of one hundred and thirty-two pubs, ranging from the big and brassy to the small and seedy. There were also some really big, beautiful houses with complete gardens that over the years had hidden themselves down dark, narrow alleys to avoid prying eyes. And some truly lovely squares with gurgling fountains.

  The neat thing was that all of this—the tall buildings, the pubs, the fine houses and squares, even the old medieval castle—was built on the ruins of an ancient Roman city. It had been a gleaming white place, with bathhouses and a large forum and also an amphitheater. But the most impressive of all was the huge wall that had been built to separate the fishy-smelling port from the town itself, as well as to protect the city from a naval attack.

  The wall was one hundred and eighty feet tall and twelve miles long, a stunning feat of architecture in and of itself. And bridging the gap that provided access to the city was a giant triumphal arch. Its pediment bore a large statue of Neptune brandishing his trident, and intricately carved in bas-relief, the frieze told the famous tale of the Roman general Cullis and the banana peel. While both the wall and the arch had lost the luster of their youth, which happens to the best of us, there still was nothing quite so impressive as approaching the city from the sea and seeing the wall loom up before you, managing in its strange way to extend a hand of friendship, while at the same time punching you hard in the face.

  So there you see why the whole place was rather magnificent in its dirty way. And why it had become so overpopulated that people flowed through the streets like muddy water. And why also, perhaps, it had become a wee bit of a den for sin and corruption, but was also where Her Majesty’s Navy made berth, dwarfing all the common fishing boats with the slightly faded glory of her tall ships.

  And you would have thought it all would have been a bit much for Alex, having grown up in a small town, as she had. But it wasn’t. In fact, Alex thought it was all very marvelous, made doubly so by how much effort she had put into getting there in the first place.

  The best thing, though, at least for the moment, was that her bike was perfect here, being a quick form of transportation that was also small enough to negotiate the dark, narrow streets. She immensely enjoyed riding, though she had to admit she was a little shocked by how much faster everything around her moved, especially the little scooters that would suddenly turn a corner and whiz past her at truly unsafe speeds.

  Alex did her best to follow Lord Poppinjay’s directions until she finally came across a narrow alley labeled “Lantern Place.” She hopped off her bike and walked it down the alley to the end and found a sign that read “The Gangrene Inn.” Alex shook her head. The name did not inspire confidence. Nonetheless, she pushed open the door and found herself surrounded by warmth and friendly chatter that seemed completely at odds with the inn’s exterior.

  It was an entirely cozy place, buzzing with activity. Composed of several small rooms that led into one another around a central serving bar, it reminded Alex of the puzzles she used to play with when she was really little. Not realizing that specific pieces went with other pieces, she would simply put them together at random and bash them hard with her hand so that they’d stick. It looked as if someone had done the same thing with The Gangrene. None of the rooms quite matched up, so that when you reached the edge of one you had either to go up a few steps, or to go down a few steps, or to veer slightly to the left. And some places where you might hit your head on a low-hanging beam would then suddenly open up to a loft with a skylight above.

  The place was also almost bursting with Interesting Clientele. As Alex wandered through, she found one corner that had a pool table surrounded by angular young people. Another was occupied by retired sailors and their various synthetic body parts, including a number of wooden legs and one hook. The larger lofty room was devoted to several games tables, and there the concentrated silence would be burst by the occasional explosion of laughter. In dark corners sat dark figures watching everyone else, occasionally making notes in suspicious-looking books with suspicious-looking pens. And at the far end, Alex could just make out a raging fire with deep chairs of various shapes drawn close to it. She could just imagine Lord Poppinjay sitting there, laughing merrily, and could see why he liked the place so much.

  A small young woman with strong features marched over to Alex, efficiently weaving her way through a thick crowd of bankers all vying for attention at the bar.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, drying her hands on her apron.

  “Yes, your
inn was recommended to me by a friend,” replied Alex.

  “It was?” said the young woman, looking at her carefully. “And who exactly recommended us to you?”

  “Lord Poppinjay,” said Alex.

  The young woman burst into hearty laughter. Her eyes, though still sharp, twinkled, and her posture seemed to relax slightly. “That’s all right then,” she said. “Gosh, it’s been ages since I’ve seen him. He’s quite a character, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” replied Alex, smiling a bit.

  “So then, were you looking for a meal or for a room? Or maybe both?” she asked, walking over to a small desk in the corner and opening a notebook.

  “Both actually.”

  “Heather!” a strained voice called from the crowd of bankers.

  “Can’t you see I’m with a customer, Howard? The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know!” she yelled back. She turned back and flipped though the book. “Right. It looks like we have one room available tonight.”

  “That would be great, thanks! Um . . . ,” added Alex.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Lord Poppinjay said to put it on his tab. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” said Alex quickly.

  “That’s pretty typical of him. He’s a nice guy. Only problem is, when is he ever going to come back to pay his bill . . .”

  “Oh, he’s back now,” interrupted Alex.

  “Really? Wow.” Heather looked around the room as if she expected to see Lord Poppinjay hiding in the corner. “Hey, you! You break it, you buy it!” she yelled when she caught sight of a man turning over a porcelain candlestick with deep interest. She turned back to Alex. “Right. You can have a seat over there, and how about I bring you over a nice plate of roast dinner?”

  “Thank you very much,” replied Alex.

  Heather nodded once and turned around to push her way back toward the bankers, explaining loudly and slowly as she went, “Okay, so when you see someone coming in your direction, you have a choice. You could move to the side, or you could stand there like some sort of gormless troll and wait for me to walk around you. But unless you want to lose both your legs, I personally would advise that you choose the first option!”

  Alex headed over to the fire to sit down. She threw herself into a deep, comfy chair of soft leather, her feet just sticking out over the edge. Heather brought over a lemonade for her to drink while she waited for her dinner. The fire crackled happily. And sitting there, feeling the warmth spread deep inside her and her aching muscles relaxing into the soft cushions, Alex did too.

  THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

  In which Alex meets Coriander the Conjuror.

  “You look comfortable!” said a pleasant voice. Alex looked up. Sitting opposite her, taking a sip from a pint, was a cheerful-looking man with dark, messy hair.

  “I guess that’s ’cause I am,” replied Alex.

  “And that would explain it!” he said with a laugh. “That was a fine answer.”

  “Thanks,” said Alex, smiling happily to herself.

  “My name is Coriander,” he said, leaning forward and offering his hand to shake.

  Alex took it. “Alex,” she said shaking. She was getting quite good at handshakes.

  “Do you like magic then, Alex?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Excellent! Watch this,” he said, bringing himself to the edge of his seat. He waved his hands in front of him, there was a puff of pink smoke, and a little bird appeared caged between his fingers.

  “Amazing!” said Alex, leaning forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her bag, which she had placed on the floor by the fire, move slightly. “But you better put it away,” she added.

  Coriander looked at Alex, then at the bag. He leaned over. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Giggles.”

  “What’s Giggles?”

  “A cat,” replied Alex. “A really temperamental cat.”

  “Ah! In that case,” Coriander clapped his hands together, there was a puff of blue smoke, and the bird was gone. “Now can I meet Giggles?”

  Alex nodded and untied the bag. Giggles climbed out, warily looking around him. He noticed Coriander. Alex was not sure what to expect, and she was ready to grab him and put him back in the bag, if necessary. But Giggles appraised Coriander carefully, and then, shock upon shock, jumped into his lap.

  Coriander laughed. “This is temperamental?”

  Alex shook her head and smiled. “He must like you.”

  “It’s about mutual respect,” explained Coriander, petting Giggles, who began to purr. “Say, do I look like some movie villain like this? Sitting in my leather chair with the cat?”

  He raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose at her. Alex laughed. “Sort of,” she said, “but you’re too nice.”

  “You’re too kind,” he said, putting on an accent that sounded a lot like Lord Poppinjay’s.

  They sat chatting, and Heather came over with Alex’s dinner.

  “Heather! Join us!” Coriander beamed at her as she passed him another pint.

  “Yeah, like I’ve got time to sit around. Some of us have to work, Coriander!” She sounded frustrated, but there was a softness around her sharp eyes that suggested she found Coriander only about half as annoying as the rest of her customers. She disappeared again into the crowd, but they could hear her voice cut through the noise, “Last call, everyone!”

  When Alex and Coriander were alone again, he looked at her seriously and asked, “So, Alex, what’s a kid like you doing alone in a city like this?”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s a really long story. But I came to Port Cullis because I am looking for my sixth-grade teacher, who has been kidnapped by pirates.”

  Coriander looked at her, his face unreadable. “That’s a very serious business. Which pirates?”

  Alex started. “What do you mean ‘which pirates’?”

  “There be a lot of pirates out there,” he said. “I myself . . .” and he stopped and looked around. When he was certain no one was looking, he lowered his voice and said, “I myself served on the privateer ship the Ill Repute.”

  “Is a privateer a pirate?”

  “A privateer is a pirate who’s been hired by the government to fight their enemies. But essentially, yes,” he replied, taking a sip of beer. “The difference between piracy and privateering is a matter of whose ships are being attacked, really.”

  This gave Alex something to think about.

  “So . . . ,” Coriander asked, “which pirates?”

  “Oh. Well, Pirate Captain Steele? Of the Ironic Gentleman?”

  Coriander choked on his beer. He sputtered for a few moments and wiped his mouth.

  “Dear me,” he said shaking his head. “Dear me.”

  “Do you know the Ironic Gentleman?”

  Coriander gave a laugh, but instead of feeling warm, as she had when he had laughed earlier, Alex felt her insides go cold. “Yes. I’ve heard of the Ironic Gentleman. It’s only the most infamous pirate ship of our time.”

  “Ah. Why’s that?” Alex asked lightly, her heart pounding fast.

  “I suppose it would be due to Pirate Captain Steele,” he replied. “He has a very particular reputation, you might say.”

  “Particular?”

  “The thing about Steele is, he just . . . never lets up.”

  Alex looked at Coriander.

  “Let me explain. Many pirates seize a ship and all the treasure in it and then take some time spending the fortune, having a laugh, you know. I mean, why be a pirate if all it’s gonna be is work, right? But Steele never stops. It’s got to the point where he’s been nicknamed ‘The Inevitable.’ He attacks so many ships that every sailor expects it to happen to him sometime or other. They say his relentless behavior has to do with his lifelong quest to find the Wigpowder treasure. He’s become obsessive and bitter, and keeps hoping the next ship he comes upon will have some clue as to its whereabouts. And when it doesn’t, his rage is te
rrible. Do you know the tale of the Wigpowder treasure?”

  Alex nodded yes.

  “Of course you do. Who doesn’t? Well, you could say Steele has accumulated quite a bit of rage because of his failure, and he takes it out on anyone who crosses his path. Many are killed, aye, that they are. But those that survive, well, they wish that they too were among the dead. Steele’s crew is ruthless. And if they let you live, it’s only ’cause you’re no longer a threat to them. You may still be a man, but you don’t have a soul. And most importantly, they only let you go so long as you’ve never seen the great Captain in person. He likes his, oh, what do you call it . . . anonymity, as it were. There is no surer a death sentence than to be brought into his presence. And because no one but his crew knows what he looks like, the Navy has a devil of a time tracking him down. Some claim his body has been burned by acid, others that he is seven feet tall, but these are ridiculous rumors. Nobody knows for sure, and that’s that. He could be here in the pub and we wouldn’t know it. He could be me.” He looked at Alex meaningfully. “But he isn’t.”

  Alex was speechless.

  “And that crew of his,” Coriander went on, oblivious of Alex, who had started to shrink into her chair. “There’s Dr. Brunswick, the surgeon, though he rarely operates on the sick. And Jack Scratch, the ship’s carpenter and certifiably insane . . . and a whole host of others, Dude Hector, Sir Geoffrey, The Wall, No-KneeCaps Calvin. And . . .” He stopped.

  Alex looked at him. His face had grown pale.

  “Am I going to regret asking you what comes after ‘and’?” she said.

  Coriander blinked and looked at her with a smile. “Senslesky.”

  “Bless you.”

  “No, I wasn’t sneezing. Though thank you. I said Senslesky.”

  “What’s Senslesky?”

  “The son of the Russian baron Senslesky the Second. If there was anyone who could make my blood turn to ice other than Pirate Captain Steele, it would be him.”