by Geoff Rodkey
“Yes, sir.”
“And make these children comfortable. See about cleaning that boy’s wound,” he said, motioning in the direction of the cut on Guts’s neck. “And for Savior’s sake, dress her in something that’s not a nightgown.”
“Right away.”
I was beginning to think his second look at me hadn’t meant anything after all when Healy turned back to me.
“You’re Hoke Masterson’s boy, aren’t you?”
Hearing my father’s name was such a surprise that it took a moment before I understood the question. Finally, I nodded.
“Come with me.”
He turned and strode off toward the quarterdeck. I looked at Millicent and Guts. They looked as bewildered as I was.
I followed Healy. It wasn’t like I had a choice.
HIS CABIN WAS CLEAN and comfortable, but with none of the rich furnishings and velvet cushions I’d seen in the cabin on the Earthly Pleasure.
He lit a pair of lanterns and motioned for me to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair at a square table in the middle of the room. I did as I was told, staring across the table at a writing desk against the far wall while Healy disappeared over my shoulder, where the bed was. When he came back around, he was fully dressed. He took a seat at the table across from me.
“I heard about your father. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure if it was the right thing to say, and wondering how he could have known about my father.
“Now, then…” He sat back, stretching out in his chair and yawning. Then he settled his gaze on me. His eyes were a bright blue flecked with gray, and even with the whites veiny and the lids swollen from sleep, they drilled right through me.
I could understand why the brick had seemed to shrink under his stare.
“By strange coincidence, I’ve just come from a meeting with a very powerful man. And your name came up.”
As my heart began to race with fear, he reached back behind him and plucked a piece of stiff paper from his desk. He studied it with a frown.
“Do you know what this man asked me to do if I saw you?”
He slid the paper across the table to me. I didn’t have to look at it to know what it was.
“He asked me to kill you.”
I didn’t know where to put my eyes—on the wanted poster with my face looking up at me, or on the pirate captain staring at me from the other side of the table.
I settled for looking at my hands. I wondered if I could ask him to shoot me instead of throwing me overboard. It’d be over faster that way.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to.”
I looked up. There was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“I do a volume business. Five thousand silver’s not enough to get me out of bed. Can’t say the same for most men, though. And hats off to you.” He tapped the wanted poster with his finger. “Murderer or not, that’s quite a price for a fruit picker’s boy. Why is that? Is it the company you keep? Or is it something else?”
I stared at my hands again. I didn’t want to lie to him, but if I told him about the treasure, I was sure he’d try to take it, and that was the last thing I needed.
“Come now, son. What is it that makes you so important to Roger Pembroke?”
The silence was unbearable. I had to fill it with something.
“It’s… complicated.”
He laughed out loud. “Funny, that’s exactly what he said.” Healy stood up. “Leave it be, then. If I didn’t make him explain, why should you have to?”
He made a casual nod toward the door. The conversation was over. I stood up and gave him an awkward sort of bow.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Nothing to it.”
I had my hand on the door when he called to me.
“A bit of advice—”
“Yes?”
“Roger Pembroke’s not a man who gives up easily. If I were you, and he was that bent on killing me… I’d think seriously about killing him first.”
My face must have given away my reaction, because he gave me a grim smile.
“Might be unpleasant, but it beats the alternative. Safe travels.”
HOME
I found Guts and Millicent back on the foredeck, trying to stay out of the way of the crewmen who were darting about the rigging, groggy and surly after being woken up to change course for Deadweather. Guts had a fresh white bandage over the cut on his throat, and Millicent was dressed as a boy, in long pants and a striped shirt that were both much too big. Her thick mane of hair had disappeared inside a shapeless cap.
“Wot happened?” Guts wanted to know.
“Your father told him to kill me,” I said, looking at Millicent. She looked away.
“Why didn’t he?” Guts asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t make sense. He’s Burn — Healy!” Guts exclaimed, giving Healy a shockingly foul middle name. “Why’s he bein’ so…”
“Friendly?”
“Yeah! Don’t figure.”
I shrugged. It was hard to make sense of it, but there wasn’t much point in wondering.
Guts looked around at the murderous-looking crew, all hard at work, and shook his head admiringly. “Say this, his lot’s got discipline. Ripper Jones don’t get this kind o’ hop from his men ’less there’s a prize on the horizon.”
I watched the crew for a moment. Guts was right. Even half awake and grumpy, they all moved with a remarkable smoothness and efficiency. There was hardly a wasted motion among them, especially compared to the drunken chaos around Ripper Jones, and seeing them in action made me realize why Dad had always hired Healy men when he had a choice.
That got me thinking about Dad, and I was starting to get a heavy, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when Millicent’s arm brushed against mine. She’d been standing right next to me, but she was so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“These clothes smell horrid,” she said sullenly. “And I look dreadful, don’t I?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. And I meant it. Gathering up her hair had uncovered her slender, delicate neck, and it was impossible to hide the sharp curve of her cheekbones, or the sleek line of her jaw, or—
“Come on! I look like some putrid cabin boy.”
“’At’s the point, stupid!” said Guts.
“Don’t yell at me,” she said quietly. It was a very not-Millicent reaction, small and defensive instead of strong and confident.
She was like that for the rest of our time on the Grift—drawn in, timid, constantly on my arm and never letting me get too far away from her.
And this was the strange thing: after all my fantasies about being a hero to her—about saving her from pirates, or burning buildings, or her evil father—I finally had saved her, and from actual pirates. Or at least helped save her, even if all I did was yell very loud and almost get myself killed.
And she was acting just like she had in my dreams—meek and grateful, cuddling up against me like a damsel saved from distress.
And I will say the cuddling-up part was sort of wonderful, even though she was dressed as a boy, and kind of a smelly one at that, and Guts was with us, and we were surrounded by pirates.
But mostly it was scary and unsettling.
Because Millicent had always been confident and fearless and all-knowing, and even though sometimes that could be really annoying—like when she blamed the sun for rising in the wrong place—it was also a comfort. She seemed invincible, like nothing could touch her. And being with her felt like sailing behind one of those Goddess of the Sea figureheads—stick with her, and I’d be invincible, too.
I’d spent the last I don’t know how many days being scared out of my wits at every turn, and when she first climbed on the boat with me and Guts, cocky enough to set sail over a pirate-infested sea in her nightgown, a part of me thought, Thank the Savior. Now we’ll be okay. For
a while at least, she’d taken my fear away.
Now it was obvious, to both of us, that she wasn’t invincible. We might still be okay, but we might not.
Which meant there was no getting rid of my fear. Whatever happened, I was going to have to carry it with me.
SOMETIME AROUND MIDDAY, the wind died, the Grift’s sails went slack, and a hot, thick blanket of muggy air fell on our heads.
“Ugh! What is that? The air’s turned to soup!” Millicent was pulling at her clothes, which like everyone else’s were starting to stick to her body with sweat.
I couldn’t help smiling. It was unpleasant, but in such a familiar way that I instantly felt at home.
“Why do you think they call it Deadweather?”
“Didn’t know it was so literal.”
“There she is,” said Guts, pointing to the horizon.
I never would have thought I’d be glad to see that sunken, rotting island emerge from the haze. But I was more than glad. I was finally going home again.
The only problem was I didn’t know what, or who, I’d find there. Had Pembroke gotten there first? Had he sent others for him? Had they already found the treasure?
Was there even a treasure?
The tide was out when we reached the mouth of the harbor, and the Grift dropped anchor to wait until it came in again and she could dock. Rather than wait with it, the three of us got back into the little sailboat, dug the grappling hook out of the deck, and were preparing to row our way in when Burn Healy popped into view, calling down to us from the Grift.
“When you tie up, find a wharf rat. Tell him that’s my boat and he needs to watch it for me. Otherwise, they’ll steal it before you’re ten yards off the dock. And don’t spend long in town. They’ll figure out soon enough she’s not a boy.”
As we rowed away toward the shore, Guts shook his head again in amazement.
“Burn — Healy. Maybe he’s gone soft.”
“We did watch him kill a man.”
“True.”
“Daddy’s certainly never going to hire him again,” said Millicent.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Doesn’t do his job! He couldn’t keep the Earthly Pleasure safe. And he didn’t kill you like he was supposed to.”
She grinned at me. I smiled back, not because I liked it, but because it was the kind of wicked joke only a fearless Millicent would make, and I was glad to have her back.
We tied up on the dock between two barnacle-crusted pirate ships, Blood Lust and the Sea Goblin. Several of their crewmen leered at us with interest from the decks above. Just down the dock, a dirty man in a three-cornered hat with a scorched hole where one corner used to be lounged against a piling, a bottle of rum between his legs.
I called out to him, hoping I was loud enough to be heard on the other ships.
“Excuse me! Could you keep an eye on this boat? It’s Burn Healy’s,” I said, jerking my thumb at the outline of the Grift on the horizon.
The dirty man looked amused until he saw the Grift in the distance. Then he looked worried. He nodded quickly.
“I’m yer man.”
“Thanks much.”
We left the dock and started up the main street. Millicent put her hand to her face.
“Savior’s sake! What’s that smell?”
“It’s a combination of things,” I said. “Watch where you step.”
There was a baker at the edge of town, and we stopped in there because he knew my family and I figured I could get credit for a few loaves of bread.
He was missing an eye, but the other one widened in surprise at the sight of me.
“Thought ye were dead,” he said. “That’s what the fat man said.”
“What fat man?”
“Y’know, whatsisname. Yer guv’nor.”
Percy. For a moment, I hoped—unreasonably, I knew—that he’d only come back to fetch his books.
“How long has he been here?”
“Showed up ’bout a week ago. Brought thirty soldiers with ’im. Marched ’em right up the mountain behind a wagonload of shovels.”
My blood went cold. “Thirty soldiers?”
The baker smiled.
“Don’t worry. Most of ’em left. Ripper Jones plucked a passenger ship ’bout a day out of Sunrise. Soldiers got called back to make the richies feel safe. Word is, Healy’s got himself involved, and there’s war brewin’ ’tween him and Jones over it. Bad for us all if it washes up on shore.”
“You said most of the soldiers left?”
“Yeh. But not all.”
“How many are still up there?”
“Dunno. ’Alf dozen?”
I nodded. Half a dozen was bad, but it was better than thirty. “Can I get three loaves on credit, please?”
“Depends. Those soldiers lookin’ for ye?”
“Not fer long,” growled Guts.
The baker laughed. “Points for spunk,” he said, taking three loaves from his shelf and handing them to us.
“Yer dad back, too? Brother an’ sister?”
“No,” I said. “They’re dead.”
“Ye were, too, up till a minute ago.” He patted me on the back as he walked us to the door. “Try to stay alive—ye owe me ten.”
“Ten?”
“Fat man paid on credit, too.”
THE BREAD WAS just half a day old and still soft inside. We ate it as we walked up the familiar rutted road through the muggy half jungle. Along the way, I kept my ears alert for the sound of anyone coming down the mountain from the other direction. I didn’t know what to do about Percy and the soldiers, and I sure didn’t want to run into them on the road.
Millicent’s mood had improved since we’d left Port Scratch and she was able to shed her cabin boy clothes. She loped along, swinging her arms in the confident way she had, occasionally darting over to the side of the road to investigate the strange cries of one of the forest birds.
Guts carried his knife in his hand as he walked. “’Oo’s this fat man?” he asked.
“My old tutor,” I said.
“Any chance he’s on yer side?”
“Not much,” I said.
“’Ave to kill him, then. What’s his weakness?”
“He’s fat, lazy, and stupid.”
“Then how’d he get thirty soldiers to follow him?” Millicent asked.
The answer was so obvious it made me angry. “Because he’s working for your father!”
“You don’t know that,” she said stubbornly.
“Savior’s sake, Millicent!”
“Thought we been over this,” said Guts.
“Your father’s trying to kill me—”
“Only because you killed Birch, and Daddy’s loyal to—”
“No, because there’s something up there that he wants!” I pointed up the mountain. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Because he would have told me! It’s too big! And that would mean that he…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, her eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “If what you think happened is true, everything I know about my father is wrong. And it’s not.”
I turned back up the road. There was no point in arguing.
“Come on. It won’t be long now.”
I LED THEM OFF the road just below the lower orchard, hoping to keep out of sight until I found a friendly field pirate who could tell me what was going on. I wasn’t sure how many of them would be on my side—they might have worked for Dad, but they weren’t exactly devoted to him, and anyway they were pirates, and in it for themselves. I figured I could count on at least a few them, though. For one thing, they couldn’t be too thrilled about sharing the plantation with a bunch of Rovian soldiers.
But I couldn’t find a soul. The orchard was empty and silent. Big, squat cargo crates stood unattended in the middle of the rows, half full of ugly fruit and abandoned in mid-harvest.
We slipped through the trees, stopping at every row to search for signs of life. There was no one, and the e
erie emptiness of it made my stomach tighten.
I stopped at one of the crates and picked up a fruit.
“Anybody want one?”
Millicent and Guts both joined me, peeling away the loose, wrinkled skin and tearing out the thick sections of citrus.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” said Millicent through a mouthful.
I ate three. The others stopped at one and waited impatiently for me. When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I led them up toward the house, on a roundabout path that took us past the stable. There were four horses in the outside pen that I didn’t recognize, along with a large wagon that must have been the one the baker told us about. But there were still no people.
We climbed the hill a little farther, and the main house came into view. The roof looked even more saggy than ever, but the big porch and the shark’s jaws over the door were exactly the same, and my throat got lumpy to see the place again.
I led Guts and Millicent around to the side door, and we went inside. The smell was instantly familiar. Even before we’d crossed the hallway to the kitchen, I knew I’d find Quint the house pirate in there, cooking a stew over the big black stove.
He was in his usual spot, perched on top of the counter, his head not much higher than the top of the pot, stirring the stew with a long wooden spoon half as tall as he was.
“Quint?”
He nearly fell off the counter at the sight of me. Then he broke into a wide smile, dropped the spoon, and vaulted onto the floor, waddling over to me on his stumps.
“Egbert! Give us a hug, boy!”
I fell to my knees and hugged him tightly.
“Percy said ye was dead!”
“He lied.”
“Shoulda known. Pink-fingered crapsack.” Then he waddled backward a bit and looked up at Millicent. And smiled maybe a bit too keenly.
“Hel-lo! ’Oo are you?”
Millicent wrinkled her nose and crossed her arms in front of her.
“This is Millicent and Guts. They’re friends of mine. And this is Quint,” I told them as Quint stepped to the butcher’s table, reached up with his arms, and swung himself onto the tabletop, putting himself more or less at eye level with us.
