The Tides of Avarice

by John Dahlgren

  Sylvester found that, without any decision on his part, his feet were taking him in the general direction of Doctor Nettletree’s surgery.

  He grinned grimly to himself.

  Come to think of it, that’s as likely a place as any to find what I need.

  The question was, could he keep ahead of his pursuers for long enough? They seemed very close on his heels. On the other hand, he was young and relatively fit, and he didn’t spend each and every day sozzling himself in grog.

  And he wasn’t wearing those heavy boots the pirates seemed to think were so fashionable.

  He thanked Lhaeminguas, even though he no longer believed in the Great Spirit, that Rustbane still hadn’t had time to reload either of his flintlocks. Cutlasses and cudgels could be outrun but not, Sylvester imagined, bullets.

  Then he remembered that a couple of the vandals at work in the town square had been carrying crossbows.

  He sobbed in despair and tried to force his feet to sprint even faster than they already were.

  Yet no crossbow bolt came whizzing in his direction. Cap’n Rustbane’s shout rose above the racket made by his fellow pursuers, which revealed why.

  “Seize him!” yelled Cap’n Rustbane. “I want him alive, I tell you. I want to be the one to send the little maggot to perdition.”

  Exactly how Sylvester reached Doctor Nettletree’s cottage he could never remember afterwards, but he managed it. The motley rabble in pursuit could not have been more than twenty yards behind him as he turned into the little path that led up to the door.

  Usually Sylvester would have knocked. Today, he simply barged through the door, blasting it from its hinges.

  As he staggered across the little reception area he had a dizzying glimpse of Nurse O’Reilly rising from her post with a look of thunder on her hatchet face.

  Of Doctor Nettletree there was no sign.

  Nurse O’Reilly might be exactly what’s called for here today, Sylvester told himself, amazed he was still capable of coherent thought.

  But Nurse O’Reilly chose not to focus her bullying fury where it might have been useful, which was on the pirates who were milling around the front garden. Instead, she turned wrathfully on Sylvester.

  “You, young Lemmington hoodlum! I always knew you’d come to no good!”

  “Which side are you on?” gasped Sylvester.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m trying to save Foxglove!”

  She snorted. “A likely—”

  Her voice was silenced forever by the pirate blade that stabbed into the base of her back and ripped ruthlessly upward to her neck.

  Sylvester closed his eyes as Nurse O’Reilly’s blood spurted.

  For all the wrong reasons, she’s managed to do just what I wanted her to do, give me an extra few seconds before those murderers reached me. She has not sacrificed her life in vain. In time to come, Foxglove may remember her as a hero, a martyr.

  Even so, those few seconds might not be long enough.

  At the back of the reception area there was a wall. At the center of the wall was a hearth where the doctor generally kept a fire going, except on the hottest of days. It served two purposes. Firstly, for his patients who arrived shivering with fever and, secondly, to provide an immediately available, if somewhat rudimentary, means of sterilizing his various needles and knives. The joke around town was that it was Nurse O’Reilly who kept the fire going because it reminded her of home.

  Sylvester felt a catch in his throat. There’d be no more jokes about Nurse O’Reilly, not after today.

  Mercifully, there were no patients waiting to see the doctor. That was one less factor for Sylvester to have to consider. The doctor must still be out making his daily rounds. Perhaps he’d been caught up in the melee surrounding the town square, although Sylvester hadn’t noticed him there.

  Getting here, Sylvester had had the advantage of knowing all the nooks and crannies of Foxglove fairly well, whereas the pirates were operating in a town that was unknown to them. So much had been a part of his hastily cobbled together plan. Now he was here in Doctor Nettletree’s surgery he discovered another advantage he had, one that he hadn’t foreseen.

  The reception area, like the rest of the cottage, was built for creatures the size of lemmings.

  Most of the pirates chasing Sylvester were much larger creatures.

  Only a few could fit themselves into this room. Even fewer because of Nurse O’Reilly’s sprawled, still-bleeding corpse.

  One of those few was, of course, Cap’n Rustbane.

  The gray fox had to round his shoulders and tuck his head in under the ceiling in order to be able to stand upright. His tricorn hat had been lost somewhere along the way. Or maybe, recognizing where Sylvester was leading them, the crafty pirate had flung it to one side.

  Rustbane, despite the discomfort of his stance, was wearing that fang-packed leer of his. He was holding an evil-looking dark-bladed dagger in one forepaw, and an equally evil-looking bright-bladed rapier in the other.

  “This is the end of the line for you, you scurvy lubber,” he sneered. “Give me the map, and you’ve still got the chance of an easy death.”

  Sylvester gave what he hoped was a reckless laugh.

  “Stare defeat in the throat, scoundrel!”

  He reached out the paw that was holding the crumpled map and—

  Thwokkk!

  Sylvester hadn’t seen Rustbane’s arm move, yet the dagger that had been in the pirate’s left paw was now embedded deep in the wood of the wall . . . neatly pinning the sleeve of Sylvester’s jacket.

  He couldn’t move his arm, no matter how hard he tugged. The pirate had thrown his knife so that the sharp edge of the blade was downward, so that Sylvester couldn’t even use the sharpness to cut himself free.

  “Please accept my apologies, young fellow,” said Cap’n Rustbane suavely. “I didn’t mean to miss you.”

  One of the pirates jammed into the room behind him cackled.

  Oh yes you did, thought Sylvester. That dagger went exactly where you wanted it to go, to the nearest fraction of an inch. If you’d wanted me dead, I’d be standing here with that blade right through my windpipe or my heart. You want to take your time disposing of me, don’t you? But first you want to make sure the map is safe.

  Summoning up a huge effort, Sylvester suddenly threw himself backwards along the wall, away from the dagger that pinned the cloth of his sleeve.

  There was a tremendous rrrrriiipppp and the seam of his jacket’s shoulder tore apart. Still clutching the map firmly in his paw, Sylvester hauled his arm out of the tube of cloth, ignoring the pain as he scraped his flesh across the sharp blade.

  Rustbane’s eyebrows rose. “I underestimated you.”

  “Again,” said Sylvester, breathing hard. “It’s a mistake you seem to keep on making, isn’t it?”

  Before the pirate had the chance to react to what he was doing, Sylvester took a single brisk step and cast the map into the merrily bobbing flames of Doctor Nettletree’s fire.

  The next thing he knew, he was being hammered against the wall with the tip of Rustbane’s rapier at his throat.

  “Fetch it!” the fox was snarling to the pirates behind him.

  A foul-smelling water rat stooped and plunged his paw into the flames. There was the pungent stench of burning fur.

  “If the map is lost, you will be begging me to kill you,” hissed the fox in Sylvester’s ear.

  “The map is lost,” said Sylvester with as much courage as he could summon. “The flames will have destroyed it by now.”

  Sure enough, the water rat had withdrawn his paw from the fire and on it there was only a thin wafer of black ash. When the rat moved his arm, the wafer disintegrated and big black flakes fell to the floor.

  “You fool!” the fox snarled to Sylveste
r. “Before you die, you’ll watch the death of your pretty little sweetheart. It won’t be a pleasant sight, I can warrant you that. Nor a quiet one.”

  “Then you’ll never see your chart again.”

  The fox’s green eyes widened. “You mean that wasn’t the map you just burned?”

  Sylvester looked deep into Cap’n Rustbane’s eyes and for the first time he gained a glimmer of understanding as to how the pirate could compel such a murderous and ragamuffin gang into obeying his orders. It wasn’t just that he possessed great gifts of charm and persuasion, although assuredly he did. There was more. The greenish-yellow eyes seemed to spark with a flame of their own. The pupils were openings into endless black wells that sought to pull you down into bottomless depths of despair. There, vile ruthlessness mingled with cunning, and extraordinary bravery with sly intelligence. Cap’n Rustbane was one of those rare people who could slip a dagger into your belly and you’d believe it wasn’t there if he told you so.

  Cap’n Rustbane was a very dangerous individual indeed.

  As if Sylvester hadn’t already known that.

  Feeling that his life was hanging by a whisker, Sylvester said, “That was the real map that went up in flames, yes.”

  “Well?”

  “But I still have a copy of it.”

  “Where?”

  “Let go of my arms and I’ll show you.”

  Warily, Cap’n Rustbane took a step back, freeing Sylvester.

  “Here,” said Sylvester, tapping the side of his head.

  “You’ve swallowed it?”

  “No. I have the whole map, well, that piece of it anyway, safely locked up in my memory.”

  “You’re driveling.”

  “It’s true. I’m a trained archivist and librarian, remember. I’m used to taking in a tremendous amount of information at just a single glance. Last night I was studying that map for quite a while. Even though I didn’t know what it was, all its details are lodged securely in my mind.”

  “You’re joking. You’re bluffing.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So if I gave you a parchment and a pen, you could draw the whole map again, perfect like, from memory?”

  “More or less, yes.”

  “Just ‘more or less’?”

  Sylvester shrugged modestly. “I’m not very good at drawing. But if you have an artist who could help me, I’m sure that between us, we could reproduce that chart exactly.”

  “Then I’m going to fetch me an artist right away.”

  “And kill me as soon as it’s done? Now you’re the one who’s joking. I said I could do this thing. I didn’t say I would. I’ll reproduce your map for you only if I choose to do so.”

  “And that means?” But the fox knew the answer, he didn’t need Sylvester to spell it out for him. “I spare the town,” said Cap’n Rustbane thoughtfully. “I spare your darling poppet, Viola. Me and my men clear out of here and leave Foxglove behind forever. That the sort of thing you had in mind?”

  “It’s almost as if you could read my thoughts.”

  “If I could read your thoughts, I’d have had that map out of you and you’d be burning to a crisp on a bonfire far bigger than the one that paper perished in.”

  The words were spoken bitterly, but Sylvester could tell the pirate had already resigned himself to the deal. Of course, as soon as he finally did produce the map … but that was something he could worry about when it happened. For the moment, Foxglove was safe and so was Viola.

  “Every detail, you say?” said the fox, still looking thoughtful.

  “Try me.”

  “All right. At the top of the map there’s the last part of a name. The first part, which is the only part I’ve seen, is on the adjacent section of the map and I can tell you for free. It’s ‘Ma,’ spelled m-a. What’s the rest?”

  Sylvester looked up at the ceiling as if he were concentrating hard. In fact, he knew the answer immediately. The name had been in big, bold letters. It was some of the small stuff down near the bottom of the sheet that might give him a problem.

  “Mararobe,” he said at last. “‘Mararobe I,’ according to the map. I suppose the ‘I’ must stand for ‘Island,’ though I didn’t know that at the time.”

  The fox slapped his thigh. “Mararobe! Of course, I should have guessed.”

  “Underneath that,” said Sylvester, deciding the moment was right to impress his captor, “it says, ‘Coordinates: Lat 12 07 00 N, Long 61 40 03 W.’”

  “By the great gullet of the three-breasted goddess who lives in the moon’s rear end,” said Rustbane in wonderment. “You really can remember this thing in every damned detail, can’t you?”

  “I told you, I’m a trained archivist.”

  “I’ve probably made the same claim about myself a few times,” said Rustbane. “When you’ve told people as many lies about who you are as I have, you do tend to sort of lose count of the individual ones, if you know what I mean. How the blithering bacon,” he continued, his voice becoming steadily more peevish, “was I supposed to know you were actually telling me the truth?”

  “It’s not my fault you thought I was a liar,” declared Sylvester hotly. “You shouldn’t judge everyone else by your own despicable standards.”

  “I could slit your gizzard for that,” shouted the fox, his nose almost touching Sylvester’s.

  “Um, Skip,” said a pirate from somewhere near the door, “in point of fact ye can’t. Well, I means, ye can, being as yer Cap’n Terrigan Rustbane an’ can do whatsoever ye pleases like, but if the ’amster’s snuffed ye can’t get the bleedin’ map out o’ him, yer’ll pardon the strong language I’m sure.”

  “I . . . am . . . perfectly . . . well . . . aware . . . of . . . that,” said Rustbane steadily, each word like a crossbow bolt aimed at one of Sylvester’s vital organs. A red hot crossbow bolt.

  Then the fox’s whole body relaxed. He gave a chuckle and patted Sylvester on the shoulder.

  “I like a victim with a bit of spunk.”

  Sylvester didn’t deign to reply. Instead he turned to the pirate who’d spoken. “Lemming. Not hamster, lemming. Get it right, if you don’t mind, or I shall refer to you as a duckling.”

  There was a gale of laughter, amid which the speaker despairingly protested, “Ducklings can be real mean an’ nasty! Them’s can! Them’s can!”

  “All right,” said the Cap’n, evidently making up his mind.

  He turned away from Sylvester, motioning to a couple of his cronies that they should grab the lemming and bring him along behind. Rustbane himself walked briskly to the door then hunching over, he went through it to where a band of fifty or a hundred of his crew were milling around, waiting without any clear idea of what exactly it was they were supposed to be waiting for.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” cried Rustbane, flinging one arm back and putting the fist of his other forepaw under his chin, in the manner of an orator who anticipates that the delivering of his forthcoming speech might well, in years to come, be depicted on collectible commemorative crockery. “Gather round here, my hearties, and meet your newest crewmate aboard that jewel of the eternal seas, the Shadeblaze, bless her and all who sail upon her. His name’s, what did you say your name was? His name’s Sylvester Lemmington, and be very particular as to how you address him, because he’s a lemming, not a hamster. Call him a hamster and you might very well wake up the next morning to discover the worst has happened. He’s gone and told your mom on you.”

  The assembled cutthroats let loose with roars of mockery and a few cheers. After a moment, standing there blinking against the bright sunlight, Sylvester realized to his surprise that there was no real derision or malice in the laughter. Clearly this form of ragging was just something that happened to everyone who was recruited (or abducted) to be part of Rustbane’s crew.

  Rust
bane held up a paw to bring quiet to the crowd. “So don’t mock him, my lubbers, even if you do see him filling his boots from time to time with stuff you have to hold your nose against, because the reality is that Sylvester here is fierce and tough and as courageous as an ox. It’s just he don’t often like to show off about it.”

  More of the strident mirth.

  “And especially,” added Rustbane, pointing a single claw skyward to emphasize his words, “do not accidentally hang him from the yard arm under the misconception that he’s your freshly laundered underwear that needs to be put out to dry. You can easily tell the difference between young Sylvester and your filthy underwear if you just remember one important thing. Your underwear’s the one that wriggles harder.”

  The clouds in the skies cringed at the uproar sparked by this last declaration of Rustbane’s. Sylvester was at least three-quarters convinced his eardrums were going to burst under the strain.

  At last, though, the noise died down.

  “I think I did that rather well, don’t you?” murmured Rustbane to Sylvester.

  “Just about the only thing you didn’t insult was the virtue of my mother,” said Sylvester resentfully, his arms still pinioned by a pair of burly skunks.

  “I’m saving that for later.” The pirate leader looked at him breezily. “And now it’s time to go. Lucky Foxglove, spared the sword and flames because of the craftiness of one of its more youthful inhabitants. And not, let it be said, because of the redoubtable courage of its Mayor – whose job it is to repel attackers and get immolated for his pains. In fact, so far as your Mayor’s concerned, redoubtable courage seems to be a quality noticeable only for its shortness of supply. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to send a couple of my men back into town to treat his gizzard in a buccaneerly fashion?”

  “No, of course not! Perish the thought.” Later, Sylvester would be appalled at the fact he’d hesitated for a moment before replying.

  Cap’n Rustbane gazed at him for a long moment with an eyebrow cynically arched, then turned on his heel and began leading his crew along the road from Doctor Nettletree’s cottage toward the outskirts of town.