by Paul Durham
“I think I’ve got skunk foot,” she said with a frown.
“What do you expect?” Folly said. “You’re always running around in those big, wet boots.”
“They itch,” Rye said, cringing. She scratched frantically at her feet and almost tore off an iron anklet charm Harmless had given her.
“Don’t do that,” Folly said. “It’ll just spread. My mother makes a balm out of mushrooms whenever I get skunk foot. When we get to the island I’ll see what I can find.”
Folly hardly ever wore shoes around the Dead Fish Inn. Rye figured if anyone knew how to cure skunk foot, she would.
Quinn spread out on the floor a worn nautical map that he’d borrowed from the freebooters. He was always reading or studying something—his cottage on Mud Puddle Lane was full of all sorts of books, even a banned one the three friends had come across and stashed under his bed. Quinn reached into his pocket and placed a little stickman next to the map as he sprawled on his stomach and pored over the map’s markings. Rye recognized it as the Strategist’s Sticks, a gift from Harmless, like Rye’s anklet and Folly’s Alchemist’s Bone.
“Helps me concentrate,” he said, with a sheepish shrug. He ran a careful finger over the map’s yellowed linen surface. “Here’s Pest.”
“I heard . . .” Folly began.
Rye and Quinn exchanged glances. Folly’s most outlandish stories always seemed to start that way.
“. . . that the tide washes gold grommets ashore every morning.”
Rye and Quinn looked at her as if a flock of pigeons had roosted on her head.
“From the shipwrecks,” she clarified.
“You heard that at the inn?” Quinn asked.
“Of course,” Folly said. She was always picking up snippets of conversation at the Dead Fish Inn. And they usually seemed to involve hidden treasures or beasts that might eat you.
“I don’t know anything about golden tides,” a voice said with a chuckle. “Although with your ear for stories, you fit right in with my crew.”
It was Captain Dent, leaning against a timber.
“These waters were once stalked by sea rovers,” he went on. “The most notorious of them proclaimed himself the Sea Rover King and amassed a fortune raiding the real king’s treasure galleons as they made their yearly runs from Drowning to O’There. The swabs prone to gossip will tell you the Sea Rover King’s greatest treasure is still hidden somewhere on Pest.”
“Ow!” Quinn groaned.
Folly had smacked him on the shoulder. “See?” she said. “I told you there was treasure.”
“I’ll just be happy if we find dry ground,” Quinn said, rubbing his arm. “And a souvenir to show my father. He’s never left Drowning. I’ll still be in for it when we get back, but at least he’ll be impressed.”
“This is High Isle,” the Captain said, ignoring the children’s jousting and pointing to the map. “Anything worth seeing on Pest can be found there. These,” he said, hovering his finger around a cluster of smaller dots, “are the Lower Isles. They are harsh and unforgiving islands. The most remote of them home to clans who dabble in dark currents. Hags whose dreams reveal the future . . . and drive them to madness.”
“More fish tales from bored sailors?” Rye asked.
“Perhaps,” Dent said grimly, “but I’ve never been inclined to sail there and find out.”
Rye exchanged nervous glances with Folly and Quinn.
“In any case,” the Captain said, returning to his usual good cheer, “could I please have my charts? Just to be sure we don’t take a wrong turn.”
“Go on, Quinn,” Folly said quickly, giving him a nudge. “Give him back his maps.”
Sleeping in a hammock took some getting used to, and by their third night, Rye still hadn’t. She slipped out of their cabin while Folly, Quinn, and Lottie still dozed. Her mother’s hammock was empty, but Rye knew where she might find her. She pulled on her coat, its elbow repaired by Abby with a green swatch made from the same heavy sailcloth as the freebooters’ flag. She’d also sewn on custom loops so Rye could stow her cudgel and spyglass across her back. Abby was bundled in a heavy blanket on deck, staring out at the stars. The sea was calm, the sky crystal clear.
“Mama,” Rye whispered.
Abby looked up, smiled, and lifted the folds of the blanket, making room. Rye curled up beside her and Abby wrapped her tight.
“When will we be at the Isle of Pest?” Rye asked.
“I’ve only made this journey once myself—going the other way,” Abby said. “But I think we’ll be there soon.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can smell it,” Abby said.
Rye crunched up her nose. “It smells bad?”
Abby stared up at the stars again. “No, not bad at all. It smells earthy, like soil and wild grass. Lavender in the springtime. Spring comes early on Pest.”
Rye sniffed hard and shook her head. “I can’t smell anything.”
“You will,” Abby said. “Soon enough.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s beautiful, often breathtakingly so. But it’s a time-hardened place—harsh around its edges.” Abby’s eyes flickered at a distant memory. “It’s seen its share of strife.”
Pest sounded a lot like her mother, Rye thought.
“Pest has been occupied by the soldiers of many noble houses over the years—each house claiming it for the Shale. Each with varying degrees of success. Belongers—that’s what islanders call themselves—are not a people to be quelled. But that hasn’t stopped the Uninvited from trying.”
“The Uninvited?” Rye asked.
“Anyone who’s not a Belonger.”
“Oh,” Rye said. She picked her fingernails nervously. “Is Pest rich with treasure?”
Abby smirked. “That sounds like something Folly might have heard.”
Rye shrugged. Sometimes it seemed her mother knew her friends as well as she did.
“Pest is rich with legends,” Abby went on. “But, no, I don’t believe there’s buried treasure on Pest. If there was, Dent or someone like him would have found it.”
Rye wondered what else might make Pest such a sought-after prize. “Is it an important port?”
Abby shook her head. “No, its reefs and shoals are far too treacherous.”
“Then why have the nobles fought so hard for it? Why not leave it alone?”
Abby sighed. “Because the Belongers say they can’t have it. And sometimes, unfortunately, that’s all it takes.”
Rye considered the enormous lengths men would go to in order to claim something out of their reach—regardless of whether they really needed it.
“I was just a girl the last time a noble house laid claim on Pest,” Abby said. “They stationed a constable in Wick, along with a small army of soldiers. They tried to impose their own laws on the Belongers. They weren’t the same as the Laws of Longchance, but they were hardly any better.”
Rye’s stomach turned at the thought of the Earl and his laws.
“One day, by chance, the wind brought a mysterious young man to Pest. A Luck Ugly. He approached my father and offered his assistance.”
“Harmless?” Rye asked.
Abby nodded. “Of course, your father’s assistance always comes with a price. The bargain they struck was harsh, but it was one that had been accepted by generations of Belongers before them.”
“What was it?”
Abby stared out at the darkened sea. “Pest’s freedom . . . in exchange for one of its sons.” Abby was quiet for a moment before continuing. “With the Luck Uglies’ help, Pest was soon free once again.”
“But Harmless said he wouldn’t be welcomed back. Why?”
Abby sighed. “It’s complicated.”
Rye furrowed her brow. With Harmless, it always was.
“When he left, your father took not only a son of Pest but me as well,” Abby said, her eyes flickering at a memory. “I went willingly, of course.” She looked to Rye and
gave her a tight smile. “But there are those who would say he claimed more than he was promised.”
It reminded Rye of Slinister’s accusations—that Harmless had stolen away something he had cherished. She wanted to ask her mother about it but feared both the answer and her mother’s reaction. She tried to push the unpleasant thought from her mind.
“Why have you never gone back home?” Rye asked.
“When I left Pest, I was just a young woman—still a girl, really. Your grandfather didn’t think I was ready. He insisted your father was a terrible choice for me. I disagreed—strongly—in that special way that young women reserve for their parents. The war Waldron and I had on the day of my departure rivaled the fiercest battles Pest has ever seen. I said things—we both did—that have left scars to this day.”
Rye was silent for a long while as they both watched the sea.
“I’m nervous,” Rye said finally. “To meet . . . my grandfather. I know nothing of him.”
“Don’t be,” Abby reassured.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a strong man. Proud. Wise. Stubborn at times—but you’ll learn that is the way of many great men. All of Pest respects him. As long as he leads them, no Uninvited will ever rule the Isle again.”
Rye shivered as the wind whistled across the bow. Abby pulled her close. “When I was your age, Waldron would put a gentle hand on my head and it would warm my whole body, even in the fiercest storm.”
Rye thought of Harmless. That was something he had done for her.
“I’m still nervous,” she said.
“Me too, Riley,” Abby whispered, with a knowing smile. “But just a little.”
The moon slipped behind a cloud and the sea went dark.
“Now go belowdecks and try to get some rest,” Abby said kindly. “Tomorrow’s a new day. Let’s welcome what it brings us.”
“All right, Mama,” Rye said.
Rye returned to their cabin and climbed into her hammock. Despite the rocking of the sea, she finally drifted off, dreaming of the lush island that might soon greet them on the horizon.
Unfortunately, when she woke the next day and joined her friends on deck, she found the Slumgullion engulfed in an ominous fog so dense she couldn’t see anything at all.
15
The Salt
“It’s called the Salt,” Captain Dent said as they peered out over the rails blindly.
Rye felt the fog settle on her face. It left her tongue thick and heavy, like she needed a drink.
“Where did it come from?” Folly asked.
Quinn spread his fingers in front of his eyes. By the time he fully extended his arm, his hand had disappeared.
“Islanders say Pest wears the Salt like a cloak,” the Captain explained. “The High Isle draws the Salt around her shoulders to protect her from unwanted strangers.”
Abby raised a suspicious eyebrow at him, as if the Captain might be to blame.
“The Pests are a superstitious lot,” Dent said, returning a frown. “Even worse than sailors.”
“So we’re at the island?” Rye asked, nerves and excitement rising in her voice. She couldn’t see the far side of the ship, never mind any shore on the horizon.
“We are,” Abby said. “I suspect the Captain will have us in port shortly.”
The Captain waved both hands in protest. “That I will not, Mrs. O’Chanter. This is as far as I go.”
“What?” Abby said, her voice even but severe.
“The Slumgullion is built for speed and stealth. There’s not a ship in the king’s fleet we can’t outrun or a cove into which we can’t disappear. But I can’t steer where I cannot see. Pest’s reefs are littered with the bones of captains who’ve believed otherwise.”
Abby stepped close to the Captain and stared hard into his one eye. “Your bargain was to deliver us to the Isle of Pest. It was a bargain you made with the High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies.”
“The ocean is measured in miles, not inches,” Dent replied. “You’re much closer now than when we left Drowning.”
Abby’s body had become stiff with menace. Rye noticed the crossbow slung across her mother’s back. Abby was known to hide even nastier bits under her dress. But Rye could also feel other eyes upon them. She sensed more bodies gathering around them in the fog on the deck. Abby must have felt it too.
“Mrs. O’Chanter,” Dent said, his voice quieter. “If I ordered my crew to try to sail us into port, I’m quite certain we would all find ourselves strung from the mast.”
“So we’re to swim?” Abby said.
“Daggett Dent is no cutthroat!” he corrected, taking great offense. “I have a perfectly seaworthy longboat ready for you.”
Rye felt her ears burning. Were they being betrayed by this man who’d pretended to be their friend?
“You’re going to set us adrift?” she said, unable to contain herself.
“Of course not, lass,” Dent said with a dismissive wave. “You’ll have oars.”
And so it was that Rye, her family, and friends found themselves back in a longboat, being lowered into the waves. At least the crew had loaded a supply of fresh water.
“Farewell, Mrs. O’Chanter! Good-bye, children! Be well, Pickle.” Dent waved from the rails above them. “I’m truly sorry about all of this. But if you row east with haste, I’m sure you’ll reach the shore by midday.”
“I hope a pelican gets his other eye,” Rye said glumly.
“Pelican? Where?” Dent said, his good eye darting anxiously at the sky.
“We’ll find our way,” Abby reassured Rye. “Children, take up the oars.”
They did, and after just a few strokes, the Slumgullion disappeared behind the wall of fog.
The small boat inched along blindly at the mercy of the Salt. Quinn did an admirable job of manning the oars long after Rye and Folly had tired. Folly entertained Lottie while Rye and Abby traded Rye’s spyglass back and forth. But neither of them could see anything through the thick stew that hung in the air. Fortunately, the sea and the winds remained gentle.
“How do we know we’re heading the right way?” Rye asked.
“It feels right,” Abby said. Rye raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And if we’re not there by dark,” Abby added, “we know we’ve veered off course.”
“Did you see that?” Folly called.
“What?” Rye said.
“There,” Folly pointed overhead. “I thought I saw a bird fly past.”
“She’s right,” Quinn added. “It looks like a break in the fog.”
Rye looked carefully. The Salt was turning wispier, less dense. Abby tried to peer through it.
Rye watched the sky for signs of another bird. Suddenly a large dark shape appeared overhead and fell upon them. Something damp and stringy clung to her face. She moved to pull it away with her fingers but it was now tangled around her hands too. Quinn stopped rowing and struggled to free his arms. Lottie screeched as if caught in a spider’s web. The longboat rocked as they all flailed.
They had been captured in a net.
“Be calm, children. Stop struggling or it will just get worse,” Abby said. She dug into the folds of her dress and retrieved a sharp blade. “Riley, use Fair Warning. Quickly.”
Abby began to cut the fibers. Rye removed Fair Warning from the sheath in her boot and carefully did the same. When they had finished, Rye examined the delicate net strands in her hands. The longboat was no longer moving and she was surprised to see that the fog had suddenly lifted, the last wisps rising off the water like steam from a kettle.
“Mama,” Rye said. “Who’s trying to capture us?”
“He is,” Abby said quietly. “Although I suspect he’s rather disappointed in the day’s haul.”
The longboat had come to rest on the sand of a tiny beach. Chains of jagged rocks jutted out on either side, sheltering the cove. From atop a bird-soiled boulder, a weathered old man with a head of closely cropped white hair blinked down at them in surpr
ise.
“Good morning, fine seas,” Abby called to the man, blending the words together as she spoke them so that it sounded like Goomurnin-fi-seas.
Rye had never heard her mother talk that way before. She’d never heard that expression either.
The old man seemed surprised but mumbled back, “Aye, fair winds to you,” which sounded a lot like I-fairwins-t’ya. He hopped down the rocks and made his way toward their landing spot on the beach.
Folly and Quinn climbed onto the sand while Abby helped Lottie out of the boat. Rye just sat and gaped at the landscape around them. The gray fog of the Salt still blended into the horizon in the distance, but overhead the sky was clear, bathing them in warm sunlight. The rocky crags of the island’s cliffs were dotted with lush grass capped by crowns of wildflowers. Rye watched as legions of seabirds busied themselves making nests in the highest nooks and crannies. A small herd of woolly sheep as white as clouds made their way down the rolling green hill above them. They blinked at the seafarers curiously but soon lost interest, munching on the piles of kelp delivered by the tide.
“Rye, come on,” Folly urged.
Rye stopped her gawking and took a deep breath. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. She splashed ashore.
When the old man reached them, his wide eyes darted from Abby to the children and back again. He was lean and wiry, barely taller than Quinn. His weathered face appeared as dumbstruck as Rye’s. She supposed it wasn’t every day that a boatful of children washed up on the beach.
“Sorry about your nets,” Abby said, handing the pile of shredded ropes to him. “I’ll mend them for you myself.”
The man looked at the nets in his hands and frowned.
“I’m Abigail.”
He shook out the nets, surveying the damage.
“Cutty,” Abby added.
The man looked up from the nets with a start.
“You may not remember me, but these are my daughters, Riley and Lottie,” Abby continued. “And these are our friends, Folly and Quinn.”
He blinked again, his eyes changing as he seemed to recognize something in her face.
