Firstly, I had to rid the parchment of those gruesome stains of blood …
“There’s a long technical explanation here,” said Sylvester, leafing through quite a few more pages of the journal. “Interesting if ever you want to get blood out of parchment, which would be quite a useful thing to know when I get back to Foxglove and the Library, but—”
“A moist compress of Spongewort and Drunkard’s Breath,” said Mrs. Pickleberry, addressing the empty air in front of her as if it were some kind of simpleton. “Gently press it on the affected article, avoiding any possible running of the colors in the article by use of a paste of Lime Ankleberry and Mutton Aloe. Then—”
“How did you know all that?” cried Sylvester.
“Everyone who has had to do the laundry for a family knows it,” said Mrs. Pickleberry with a sniff. “Obviously that’s a chore you’ve always just lef’ for yer poor mother to do, Sylvester, Lhaeminguas bless her bones. And as for little Miss High ’n’ Mighty here, o’ course—”
“Mo-om!”
“So we can assume he got the map clean all right.” Sylvester continued to turn pages. “Ah, yes, here we are. He finally has it in a condition where he can read it clearly enough, even though it seems Barterley Smitt’s handwriting wasn’t much better than the Cap’n’s own. He talks about sitting at his writing desk with the map in front of him, memorizing every ‘nook and cranny,’ as he describes it, but most particularly the lower section of the sheet, the one that has the island marked ‘X’ on it. There’s a lot for him to memorize. Some of the waters through which any vessel must pass on its way to the island are mighty treacherous. But he knows this task must be completed before he so much as hints to his crew that they’ll be going off on a treasure hunt, so he applies himself to it every opportunity he has. Once he’s gotten himself to the stage where he can …”
The day dawned bright and early. The previous night I tested myself to make sure the image of Barterley Smitt’s chart was firmly engraved on my mind, and I think the process engraved it even more deeply. I put the map away in a drawer, took a fresh sheet of parchment, and on this prepared the best representation I could of my mental etching. When I was satisfied, I compared the two versions of the map side-by-side to assure myself they were as near identical as made no matter.
This accomplished, I reduced my newly drawn map to finely powdered ashes in the lantern flame, then repeated the whole process, again creating a rendition of Barterley Smitt’s penmanship on a virgin parchment. In all I did this three times before I was done.
Assuring myself thus that the map was in its entirety reserved within my memory, I determined to scatter the three portions to widely separated areas of Sagaria. The first of these, and perhaps the cunningestly chosen, was back where I had first clapped eyes upon the map and its previous owner: the tavern called The Moldy Claw in the port of Darkwater. I sent my trusty crewman, Hamish, there with it, little knowing that, alas, I would never see him again. For a while I thought dark thoughts about him, but much later I learned he had fulfilled his task right readily and then, the duty accomplished, had suffered the ill fortune to be shanghaied aboard a mongoose vessel out of Tarngonia. Not long after, he was captured by Tarngonian peelers and jailed for his pains …
“Then,” said Sylvester, skipping ahead nervously once again – it was clear from the expressions on the faces of his two companions that if he wasn’t careful there might be a mutiny in this very cabin – “old Cap’n Adamite details how he disposed of the three parts.”
Sylvester paused hither and thither, digging his nose into the journal, oblivious to its old seaweed stench as he devoured nugget after nugget of information. So, Cap’n Rustbane had been wrong when he’d thought the relevant section of the map had just “somehow” made its way to The Moldy Claw. Adamite had taken it there deliberately, believing that’d be a safe hiding place. Sylvester thought he understood the logic. If everybody’s squabbling over something, fighting and killing each other for possession of it, then effectively it never belongs to anyone. But somehow, Levantes had gotten hold of it anyhow. Perhaps Levantes had known a lot more about what was going on aboard the Shadeblaze than Cap’n Adamite had realized, giving the ferret a big advantage when it came to the murderous tussle for the map’s ownership.
Then Sylvester cursed his own stupidity.
No, that couldn’t be it. The fragment of Barterley Smitt’s map that had come into Levantes’ possession was the biggest and most important – the one with the island marked “X.”
Cap’n Adamite would never have dared let that fragment loose in Darkwater, where too many expert mariner eyes might come across it and recognize the pattern of islands depicted there.
“Is that it then?” said Mrs. Pickleberry. “All done?”
Sylvester became aware that he’d left the two females in silence for rather too long a time.
“Er, no,” he said. “There’s more.”
“Then get a move on, will you?”
“Yes, Sylvester.” Viola confirmed her mother’s instruction. “We haven’t got all day.”
They probably had, but Sylvester chose not to contradict her.
As for the second portion, I sent one of my crew, a gray squirrel whom I trusted not at all, with it into the heart of worg country, telling him that under no account must he be tempted to sell it to the highest bidder. For is it not a well-known fact that worgs will purchase even the most useless of objects and treasure them forever more if only they can first be persuaded the items in question are desired by others? Of course, no sooner had my rapscallion squirrel gotten to the land of the worgs than he started himself up an auction for this tatter of paper. Within minutes he’d started a battle amongst various worglords who each coveted the piece merely because the others did. After immense bloodshed, the piece of the map ended up in the possession of a certain Growgarth, one of the most powerful of all his kind and reputed to be indubitably the wartiest.
And what of my treacherous squirrel? Ah, just as I’d planned, he was roasting on somebody’s spit even before the battle had properly started, and so died the only person in the land of the worgs who had the first idea of what that scrap of parchment actually was.
The third and most significant portion of the map?
Ah, that piece I’ll keep … for now. Despite the tests I have carried out on my own memory, I must not be satisfied until I have performed the memorizing exercise a hundred times more! Remembering the general location of the islands where the treasure is hidden is easy enough. Far more arduous is memorizing all the currents and shallows that protect the resting place of the magical chest of the Zindars from accidental discovery.
Content that two of the thirds were beyond the powers of any to discover, I summoned a meeting of the crew on the main deck. Many of them had become aware that their old cap’n was hatching some new scheme and were eager to hear it explained for them. I kept them in suspense a mite longer while I issued instructions to the helmsman to set a new course.
Then I gave to my hearties some news that at first they had little wish to hear.
There have been those who, over the years, have accused that brothy buccaneer, Cap’n Josiah Adamite, of lacking a sense of humor. Most of ‘em, if they’ve been near enough when they’ve committed this libel, have found themselves pondering the hilarity of lacking their ears and fingers.
When old Throatsplitter jokes, he jokes for keeps, you see.
So I stood up there on the deck and I looked at all their expectant faces and I announced I was giving up the piracy business.
This caused such consternation that I thought I might have a mutiny on my hands right there and then.
More than this, I said, I was going into a new business. I’d determined to become an entrepreneur trading in rare and valuable items that were currently, ahem, buried for safekeeping.
One or two of the sharper-witted am
ongst them (and there were only one or two, because I don’t recruit my crew members based on their sharpness of wit!) cottoned on to the implications of what I was saying and began to grin. The rest looked just as mystified as ever they’d been.
Until I explained it to ’em.
Well, that, of course, changed everything.
Treasure hunting is something every red-blooded pirate in the world can heartily approve of!
Those fine boyos of mine cheered me to the rafters – or to where the rafters would have been had there been any above the open deck o’ a pirate ship at sea! Then, when they’d done cheering me, they started cheering me all over again. The more I told them about the treasure, the more they cheered. Jeopord, at my instruction, broke out the grog and afore long there were pirates a-dancing and a-singing and a-puking all over the Shadeblaze.
One or two of the crew expressed their doubts, sayin’ that mayhap we should stick to pirating rather than searching for hidden contraband, so even the sharks were happy.
I have to confess I swilled back plenty of the ship’s supplies of good strong grog myself that day, and on the morrow I was to curse my weak-willedness in doing so, but at the time it seemed fitting. This was a moment for a captain and his crew to share.
Even despite the blurring of my wits by the booze, though, there was something that disturbed me, some element of the celebrations and festivities that didn’t ring one hundred per cent true. For a long time I couldn’t think exactly what this might be. I mentioned my unease to Jeopord, but he was in an even sorrier state from the grog than I was, and I think had fallen asleep by the time I’d properly finished my explanation.
Looking back now on that day, and with the benefit of more recent events, I know what it was that perturbed me.
There was a crewman who had but recently joined us, a fox who’d emerged from the scummy underworld of Darkwater – or so he claimed. He had proven himself to be such an excellent and knowledgeable seafarer, not to mention an excellent and knowledgeable cutthroat, that I had not a moment’s pause in hiring him to be part of the complement of the Shadeblaze. Although he was as demonstrative as any in his rejoicing on the day I announced the start of our quest for buried booty, there was something just a trifle off-key in the tone of his celebrations.
This I would not have noticed in the ordinary way. The fox, whose name was Rustbane, was after all just another crewman and I had those in plenty. There was nothing in particular to distinguish him (or so I thought), nothing to make me notice one way or the other how he was reacting to my happy news.
It was just the briefest of glimpses of something that drew him to my attention. I was well and truly soused in grog when I noticed him vanish behind the poop area. Gone to answer the call of nature, I thought and, since nature had been calling me too rather insistently for some while by now, I followed in his footsteps. As I rounded one of the main guns I saw that he was not contributing to the ocean’s swells. Indeed, he was not by the rail at all. Instead, he was standing next to where one of the longboats hung tarpaulined.
And he seemed to be speaking to it!
Fascinated by the notion of a talking longboat (I may have mentioned that I’d imbibed more than my share of grog by this time), I made to approach him.
He looked up and saw me.
“Ahoy there, Cap’n,” he said in a cheerfully loud voice.
Not just cheerfully loud, I later thought, but suspiciously sober.
“Ahoy there,” he said again, even more loudly, as if I might not have heard him the first time.
He advanced upon me with his arm out in a companionable fashion, as if concerned I might tumble over the side. As this was not an entirely impossible event, I was grateful enough to accept his support.
“Speaking to longboats, eh?” I said.
He grinned broadly.
“Fine grog you serve aboard the Shadeblaze, Skipper” he said. By contrast with a moment earlier, his voice now sounded considerably lubricated.
Arms around each other’s shoulders, we sang a song badly together as we made our way back to join the rest of the crew.
Again, it was only in later recollection that I perceived what had been truly odd about the entire little incident.
For a fox to speak to a longboat is unusual, but by no means extraordinary, especially considering the likely inebriation of the fox.
No, what was truly bizarre was that I’d heard the longboat answer him back!
Just a word or two, mind. And, although I’d heard those words, I had not heard them clearly enough to understand what they were.
But I had been able to discern something about them.
They’d been spoken in the unmistakable tones of a ferret!
“Levantes!” said Viola, startling Sylvester, not just with the sudden interruption but by the fact she’d been paying attention. “It has to be.”
“I rather think you’re right,” he replied, stroking his chin with his paw. “Just like Adamite realized the best place to hide a piece of the map was somewhere so obvious no one would ever think to look for it there – The Moldy Claw, in other words. So Levantes must have decided the safest hiding place for himself was aboard the Shadeblaze. Adamite thought the ferret had put as much distance between himself and his old captain as possible but, in reality, Levantes was hidden right under his nose. He must have been a stowaway for months. He knew there was treasure at the end of the trail, so it was worth his while to stick as close to Adamite as he could.”
Viola’s eyes were glowing with the thrill of the chase. “And Rustbane must have found him and made him his accomplice.”
“I think we can be sure of that,” said Sylvester. “Later on, something drove them apart.”
“Rustbane’s habit of never leaving any witnesses alive,” suggested Viola.
“Most probably so. Whatever, at the time of which Cap’n Adamite was writing they seem certainly to have been the closest of allies.”
“Figgers,” said Mrs. Pickleberry enigmatically. “Keep readin’, youngster.”
Sylvester turned the page. “There’s not much more to read,” he said, holding up the book so the other two could see where Cap’n Josiah Adamite’s tiny, spiky handwriting came to an abrupt halt halfway down the right side.
“All the more reason to read what’s there.”
Sylvester peered at Mrs. Pickleberry. What she’d just said didn’t seem to make any sense. Still, he wasn’t going to argue about it now. Instead, he turned his attention to the last two pages of Cap’n Adamite’s journal, perhaps the last two pages the old buccaneer had ever written.
Weeks have passed since then, and it sometimes seems hard to remember the merriment with which we set out on this voyage. Two days ago we watched Cape Waste sink below the horizon behind our stern. Ahead of us is a voyage at whose end might lie, perhaps, riches beyond the dreams of any mortal alive in Sagaria.
Yet it is a voyage that I fear I shall never see.
For weeks now I have been ailing. At first I thought it must simply be one of the illnesses that can strike down seafarers unpredictably, powder monkey and cap’n alike. Yet, slowly my suspicions grew that my malaise had another cause and now I am convinced of it.
I am being steadily and systematically poisoned.
And the person doing the poisoning is that accursed fox Rustbane.
Woe the day I ever clapped eyes upon him!
Tonight I shall slip away from the Shadeblaze. I shall steal a longboat and row it into the concealing darkness of the night. I suspect this is how the dastardly creature Levantes finally escaped the Shadeblaze, however long ago that was.
Let Rustbane and those scum of the seas I once thought were loyal to me sail on, searching for the magical chest of the Zindars. Even if they find it, I doubt they will be satisfied in the discovery, for just within the past few days I have encountered i
n my research an account that says the Zindars’ treasure is nothing that we would recognize as riches at all. That the tales of it being wrapped in precious jewels are simply myths.
Needless to say, I have not conveyed this information to Rustbane.
And there is more.
Barterley Smitt marked the island where the chest is buried with an arrowhead.
When I came into possession of the map, I carefully erased the arrowhead and replaced it with an “X.”
A trifling alteration, you might think. A mere cosmetic change.
Except for the fact that I put my “X” alongside the wrong island.
The true location of the treasure?
Let me commit to writing no more than that it can be seen only through the fall of the Ninth Wave.
Rustbane’s a cunning one. His cunning may one day lead him to the magical chest of the Zindars, I’d not be surprised at all if this were so.
But, if he achieves this feat, it shall not be for any help of mine.
And, when he makes his great discovery, I will be waiting there for him.
Now it is dark. Even though the cramps created by Rustbane’s poison make it seem as if my guts are being slowly ripped apart, I must tiptoe from this place, sealing the entrance so none can tell it even exists and make my way up to the longboats.
I wish I could take you with me, dear journal. You, who have been my solitary friend for longer than I can now reckon, but I must leave you here. There is a good chance I will be caught before I can effect my escape, and in such an event it would be fatal if you were discovered about my person. For then all of my inmost secrets would become known to the vile fox. Better that you remain here, hidden away from mortal sight.
Enough!
I must be on my way!
Wish me good fortune, dear journal …
[2]Here Sylvester really did find Cap’n Adamite’s spelling incomprehensible. Perhaps fortunately.
The Tides of Avarice Page 26
