Mrs. Pickleberry coughed.
“And you too, Mom,” said Viola quickly.
“Right.”
“We’re the most fearsome lemmings on all the Seven Seas,” Viola continued.
“I don’t think that’s a particularly difficult status to achieve,” said Sylvester. “For all we know, we’re the only lemmings on the Seven Seas. The rest of our kind are probably still back at home in Foxglove.”
“What about everybody who’s thrown themselves over the Mighty Enormous Cliff?” interposed Mrs. Pickleberry. “What about them, eh?”
“True, true,” said Sylvester evasively. Now was not the time to explore his theory that all of those brave lemmings had dived not to glory, but to their deaths.
“Even if they are sailing the Seven Seas somewhere,” said Viola, “we’re still the most fearsome, aren’t we?”
Sylvester, his arm around her shoulders as she nestled against him, pulled her to him even more tightly.
“It’s just that …” he began, then let the words trail away.
“Just that what?”
“Um.”
“What is it with men and words? Spit it out, you idiot.”
“Well, ah …”
“C’mon.”
Sylvester thanked his lucky stars their prison was completely lightless so Viola couldn’t see his face. He knew for a fact he was blushing. Blushing badly. Blushing redly. Blushing every which way a fellow could possibly blush.
Oh, there was a dreadful thought.
Was he blushing so luridly she could see him in the dark?
He couldn’t hide his face in his paws, not under the circumstances. He’d feel such a fool if she found out what he was doing. Besides, one of his paws was otherwise occupied, being at the far end of the arm he’d placed around Viola’s shoulders.
“You see—”
“See what?”
“Let me finish, will you? You’re not helping.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Was she laughing at him?
He took the plunge. “Look, Viola, it’s nice of you to have faith in me as one of your ‘most fearsome lemmings,’ but I think you may have the wrong lemming. I mean, I may not be who you think I am.”
“I hope you are.”
“You do?”
“If you’re not Sylvester Lemmington, then who’s been cuddling me in the dark?”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“No, I’m not. You’re starting to sound like a pompous oaf.”
“I am?”
“You are,” rasped Mrs. Pickleberry. “Worse than her father ever was, when he was your age, and believe me—”
“Mo–om!”
Mrs. Pickleberry’s voice subsided into a froth of incomprehensible monosyllables.
His first attempt at taking the plunge having been thwarted, Sylvester decided to try again. “It’s very kind of you to place such faith in me,” he said solemnly, “but I really don’t think I deserve it. I’m not a hero, you see, not anything like a hero at all. I’m just a humble little lemming assistant archivist who’s scared stiff because he’s strayed so far from home and …”
His voice petered out. The two Pickleberries had started speaking among themselves.
“Lor’ love a duck.”
“Where’d yer learn that sort of language, you saucy chit?”
“From you, Mom.”
“Oh, right. Well, that’s different.”
“He’s a dear but, if ever there’s a cliché going by, trust Sylvester to throw a saddle over its back and ride it to extinction.”
“He’s still young. Maybe he’ll improve. Could hardly get any worse, could he?”
“Mo–om, that’s not fair and you know it!”
“Hmmf.”
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, Sylvester?”
“What do you mean about, about me and the clichés?”
“It’s the oldest line in the book.”
“What is?”
“The line about not feeling like a hero at all, being just an ordinary, fallible, weak, frightened milksop.”
“That’s me.”
“It’s what all the heroes say.”
“They do?”
“Yes. They say, ‘Oh, ai am such a pathetic lump of lard, not worth a monkey’s cuss,’ then they go out and slay a dragon or save the fair maiden, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t ‘oh’ me, Sylvester Lemmington. If any more proof was needed that you’re a hero, you’ve just provided it.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and numbnuts,” confirmed Mrs. Pickleberry.
Sylvester wished she hadn’t chosen this moment to agree with her daughter.
“So you think I should—” he said.
“Find a dragon? Yes.”
“But it’s pitch dark in here!” he said and chuckled.
“If there’s a fire-breathing dragon somewhere around, it can’t hold its breath indefinitely.”
“What’s that got to do with—oh, I see what you mean.”
“Duh.”
“But then we’d be toast.”
“Shaddap!”
The forcefulness of Mrs. Pickleberry’s sudden interruption startled both the others into silence.
Then they heard what she’d heard.
Footsteps.
Slow, heavy, dragging footsteps.
There was never good news to be had on the arrival of someone whose approaching footsteps sounded like this.
And approaching they most definitely were. Sylvester didn’t notice when the pirates had brought them down here, but he was pretty certain this maritime dungeon they were in was the only possible destination in this particular bowel of the ship.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the footsteps came to a halt just a few feet from him, and there was the sound of someone fighting with a key that didn’t want to turn in a rusty lock.
Finally, the newcomer, with a climactic volley of curses, succeeded in getting the lock’s tumblers to cooperate.
There was a lot of heavy breathing and a little more swearing, then a dazzling vertical spear of yellow light as the cell’s door creaked ajar by a claw’s width.
“Cheesefang!” cried Viola.
The door opened fully.
It took longer for Sylvester’s eyes to adapt than it had taken Viola’s, but soon enough, he recognized the pot-bellied figure of the old sea rat. Cheesefang was fending off Viola, who apparently wanted to give him a big kiss of welcome.
“The Cap’n wants you lot. Up on the deck. Now.”
Sylvester was obediently pulling himself to his feet when he glanced across at Mrs. Pickleberry. What he saw made him suck in his breath.
The damage she’d suffered in the skirmish with the pirates was far beyond anything he’d ever dreamed. No wonder her voice sounded peculiar. Her lips and chin were dark with dried blood and clotted fur. When she grimaced in a moment of silent pain, Sylvester could see gaps between her teeth – far too many gaps, and some of them still seemed to be bleeding.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her quietly. “I hadn’t realized.”
She gave him a grin of such ghastliness he knew he’d see it in his dreams for years to come.
“Don’t fret yerself, young Sylvester Lemmington, although I think the better of you for havin’ thought to say it.”
“Let me help you to your feet.”
“No need. I’m on ’em already. But you could take the arm of an ol’ biddy, if you’d like, just to save her from slippin’ an’ fallin’.”
She stepped carefully across the wet floor to wrap her arm in his.
Viola had given up her attempts to welcome Cheesefang. Turning, she saw for the first time what had
happened to her mother’s face.
“Mom!”
“It’s nothin’, I tell you. There’s not much you could do to this ol’ mug of mine that wouldn’t be an improvement, is there? You just ask your father.”
Even Cheesefang seemed horrified. “I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm, like,” he muttered.
“Just take us to that pathetic scapegrace you’re unlucky enough to have as your skipper,” said Mrs. Pickleberry haughtily. Sylvester could feel the effort it cost her to draw herself up to her full height. “And look snappy about it, hear?”
✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.
They found Cap’n Rustbane on the poop deck, standing with one foot on the boards and another on a small barrel, as if posing for a portrait. When he saw them approaching, he took off his hat and prepared to bow to Mrs. Pickleberry.
“Aw, stow it, buster,” she told him.
The fox looked rather taken aback by the pre-emptive rebuff and said nothing for several seconds, instead staring out at a sea and sky so gray it was impossible to tell where one met the other.
“Your reaction, Three Pins, has made it easier for me to say to you three what I have to say,” he said, turning back toward them at last.
“And that is?” Mrs. Pickleberry retorted.
“You’ll have noticed none of you have yet been flayed alive.”
“True.”
“Hung from the highest yardarm.”
“True again.”
“Boiled in oil.”
“Three out of three ain’t bad.”
“Keelhauled. Gutted.”
“Still scorin’ one hunnerd per cent.”
“Far from slit, your gizzards are perfectly intact.”
Sylvester felt it was time to contribute to the conversation. “Get on with it, Rustbane.”
“That’s Cap’n Rustbane to you, Lemmington.” The pirate blew on the tip of his claws as if they’d suddenly heated up when he’d not been looking. “I’m so very, very disappointed in you.”
“Good.”
The gray fox arched his eyebrows as he shot a bolt of jade fury from those disturbing eyes of his. “Defiant to the last, eh?”
It was only then that Sylvester noticed the ship’s carpenters had made an addition to the Shadeblaze while the lemmings had been incarcerated in the hull.
Jutting out over the water from the edge of the deck was a long, terrifyingly narrow piece of wood.
A plank.
Sylvester couldn’t see the sea from where he and the others stood under the watchful eye of Cheesefang’s rusty cutlass, but lemming instinct told him it was crowded with prowling sharks.
And he, Sylvester Lemmington from Foxglove, was going to be forced to walk along that plank and off the end, so that he plummeted into the mercilessly cold waters where, soon as anything, he’d be torn limb from limb by the mighty jaws of …
He shuddered.
Cap’n Rustbane chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking, Sylvester Lemmington, and you got it all wrong. I ain’t going to make you walk that plank, no sirree.”
You’re not? Oh, joy, joy, boundless joy!
“It’s young Viola Pickleberry here I’m going to send along it,” Cap’n Rustbane added.
WHAT?
“That is, unless you give me the coordinates I’m looking for,” the pirate finished.
“You brute!” shrieked Viola.
Two of the crew, at a signal from their skipper, grabbed her.
Mrs. Pickleberry looked around her for some weapon she could use. There was none to be seen. The pirates had finally had the sense to confiscate her rolling pin and lock it inside Rustbane’s cabin. Without it, she was nothing.
“You’ll not get away with this, you f-fiend!” snarled Sylvester.
“Oh, yeah? And who’s going to stop me. You, muscleboy? I think not.”
“I’ll … I’ll—”
“Do what? Hold your breath and scream?”
“Don’t fall into his trap!” Viola yelled, her voice half-muffled. She’d bitten deeply into the wrist of one of the pirates who’d been attempting to tie her up. It wasn’t going to do her any good, but it was satisfying to hear the big stupid raccoon howling in agony. “It’s a trap, Sylvester, I tell you, a trap!”
“I’m perfectly aware of that,” said Sylvester, trying to sound calm. A trap? Is it?
“The moment he gets those coordinates out of you, he’ll kill us all,” Viola cried. Two of the pirates were arguing as to who should risk gagging her. Those little lemming teeth of hers had proven unexpectedly sharp. Meanwhile, the injured raccoon was leaning with his back against a lifeboat and trying to bandage his arm.
I suppose Rustbane could do that, thought Sylvester.
“But I won’t let him,” he said aloud.
“And what do you plan to do?” said Cap’n Rustbane. He’d produced a toothpick from one of his numberless waistcoat pockets and was casually putting it to use. He seemed amused rather than anything else.
Sylvester glared at him. “I’m not so stupid as to tell you in advance.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what you could do.”
“What?” Any straw to grasp at.
“You could give me those coordinates and then we’d just forget the whole argument. How about that? It seems the easiest course to me.”
“Don’t let him trick you,” shouted Viola. The two pirates had decided not to gag her after all.
“Don’t worry.” Sylvester gave what he hoped was a supercilious sneer. “I’m on top of this one.”
Cap’n Rustbane smiled. “So you’re going to give me those coordinates?”
Sylvester made a decision. He set his jaw. “Yes.”
“You are?”
“I am. And after I’ve done that, you’re going to set Viola and her mother here free. I want your word on that, your word as an old sea dog.”
“Sea fox, to be precise. But, yes, I’ll give you my word on that.”
“Don’t believe him, you nincompoop!” bellowed Viola. She was being forced out on to the plank by the two pirates, both of whom had drawn their cutlasses. The blades and points of the weapons looked horrifically sharp and horrifically close to Viola’s exposed skin. Not that there was very much of it exposed. In their nervousness, the pirates had used about five times as much rope to bind her as was strictly necessary. She resembled nothing more than a windlass with a pair of feet sticking out the bottom and a head sticking out the top.
The ship rocked in the ocean swell and she teetered precariously on the plank.
“Don’t believe him,” she repeated, panic beginning to infect her voice. She glanced down at the waters beneath. Oddly enough, the sight seemed to calm her. “You can’t trust the word of that monster. He’d sell his grandmother’s soul for a pint of ale.”
“A whole pint?” mused Cap’n Rustbane aloud. “You overestimate my love for dear old Grandma.”
Viola staggered again.
A fresh crop of sweat broke out on Sylvester’s brow.
“I’ll tell you the coordinates,” he said again.
“You will?” said Cap’n Rustbane, looking at him quizzically. “Even though you know you can’t trust my promise further than you could throw it?”
“Even though I know I can’t trust your promise further than …” Sylvester ground to a halt. “Even though you’re a lying sack of … of …” he amended.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” said Cap’n Rustbane. He flipped the toothpick over his shoulder, and Sylvester lost sight of it as it went spiraling away over the deck rail into the ocean. In the same movement, it seemed, Rustbane produced from yet another waistcoat pocket a grubby piece of parchment and a pencil. He eyed the tip of the pencil critically, his eyes crossing as he held it up just in front of his nose.
“A bit blunt,
if you ask me, but it should still be of service.”
He scribbled for a moment on the parchment, then passed both it and the pencil to Sylvester.
“There, Lemmington. There you have the coordinates for where we are now, which, according to my calculations is exactly twenty knots due west of Cape Waste. I need to plot a course from here to the island where dear old Cap’n Adamite buried his treasure. You just write the coordinates of that island, as you remember them from the map, and we’ll all be happy little sandpipers, won’t we? Any attempts at delay or trickery, and your pudgy little sweetheart goes straight to the fishes, of course. And if you give me the wrong coordinates, thinking you should be able to find another chance of escape before I discover the deception, think again. You three furballs are going to be with me here on the Shadeblaze until the moment my spade, digging down into the sand, goes thunk on the top of Cap’n Adamite’s chest. Are we understood on that?”
“We’re understood on that,” said Sylvester in a low voice.
“Then write down them coordinates!”
“Don’t listen to him, Sylvester!”
Mrs. Pickleberry, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, pinned Cap’n Rustbane with a piercing stare. “If so much as a hair o’ my daughter’s hide gets harmed—”
“I assure you, Madame Three Pins, that not one of her hairs shall be harmed if only her tubby little paramour could get a move on and write down a simple string of numbers and letters for me.” The gray fox spread his paws as if he were an actor appealing to some unseen gallery. “I ask you, what could be more innocuous than a few numbers and letters? They don’t even join up together to make somebody’s name.”
“Be quiet,” Sylvester snapped. “You’re making it hard for me to concentrate.”
The pirate made a big display of slapping his forehead and casting his gaze heavenward in shame for his own stupidity. “Oh, how enormously inconsiderate of me. What a knucklebrain I am. Of course you can’t get the numbers and letters straight in your brain. You do have a brain, don’t you? Just checking. Don’t mind me. Where was I? Oh, yes, of course you can’t get the numbers and letters straight in your mind if there’s an empty-headed fox prattling on about inconsequentialities not half a yard from your earhole. How could you be expected to? It’s a plain matter of common sen—”
The Tides of Avarice Page 38
