New Lands

by Geoff Rodkey

  The pirates slid a long plank from their deck to ours, and while a line of them kept watch with rifles from the deck of the Grift, Burn Healy—a shade over six feet, with wide shoulders, curly brown hair topped by a black hat, and a face that might have been handsome if the look in his gray-flecked blue eyes wasn’t so terrifying—strode across the plank and onto the Thrush.

  It was a pretty treacherous walk. The Grift’s higher deck made for a steep downward slope, both ships were bobbing in the water, and over the gap between them, there was nothing to hold on to or to break a fall. But Healy pulled it off the same way he did everything, with a light touch and a confidence so total you couldn’t help staring at him in awe, or fear, or both.

  He was followed by his first mate Spiggs, a barrel-chested man with a hawklike face. Behind Spiggs came two rough-looking pirates, each with a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other. All four men carried the Healy mark: a small, red flame tattooed on the side of their throats.

  Healy walked up to Captain Racker without so much as a glance at the rest of us and got straight to business.

  “Cargo and destination?”

  “Mostly timber. Bit of ugly fruit. Headed to Pella. Then the Barkers.” Racker’s voice was barely more than a whisper, and he didn’t seem to know whether to look Healy in the eye or keep his head bowed in submission.

  “You trade with Cartagers?” The question itself wasn’t threatening, but Healy’s tone was so menacing that I felt my stomach drop.

  As he watched Healy’s left hand slowly travel to the cutlass hanging from his belt, Racker seemed to forget how to talk. His lips fluttered, but no words came out.

  “Do you understand the question?”

  “Y-y-yeh.”

  “Meaning, yes, you trade with Short-Ears?”

  As he nodded, Racker began to tremble. I could understand why. When he wanted it to, Healy’s tone of voice could make even the most harmless-seeming words sound like they were threatening a violent and sudden death.

  As I watched the two of them, fearing for Racker’s life, I wondered how I ever could have looked forward to an encounter with such a terrifying man.

  “Does it please you, being a traitor to the Rovian crown? Or are you so craven that it never crossed your mind?”

  “J-j-just t-t-trying…t-to…earn…m-my bread.”

  “So we’re leaning toward craven, then?”

  The captain nodded miserably and squeezed his eyes shut, like he expected to be sliced in half by Healy’s cutlass and didn’t want to see it coming.

  Healy just stared at him, expressionless.

  In the silence that followed, one of the crewmen uttered a low moan.

  Finally, the pirate’s eyebrows jumped ever so slightly, dismissing the subject.

  “Ugly fruit…Bound from Deadweather, I suppose?”

  Racker opened his eyes a crack. “Y-yessir.”

  Healy turned his head, his sharp eyes moving down the line of trembling crewmen. When they reached me, I saw a flicker of recognition—but as his eyes burned into mine, I realized I was risking death by staring back and quickly looked at my feet.

  Healy returned his attention to Racker. “You’re familiar with a pirate named Ripper Jones?”

  Guts growled in his throat at the mention of the pirate who once owned him.

  “Only b-by reputation,” answered Racker.

  “Captains a frigate called the Red Throat—three-masted, square-rigged, thirty guns. Have you seen such a ship in the past week?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Would you know it by sight if you had?”

  “I-I-I th-think, sir. Ha-haven’t seen any ships this week, other th-th-th…” Racker had to pause for a bit to get his nerves under control. “Th-than what was in port at-at Deadweather.”

  “Which was what?”

  “S-s-sea Goblin…Frenzy…Blood Lust…”

  “Nothing under sail?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Y-y-yes.”

  Healy nodded. Then he raised his voice, addressing the entire crew.

  “It’s in the interest of every man who sails the Blue Sea…that Ripper Jones be scoured from these waters forever.”

  He turned his head to take us all in with his fearsome eyes. “So if any of you encounter him, or his ship—you will kill him…sink it…or find me immediately so that I can do it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes?” came a frightened squeak from Racker.

  Healy looked disappointed—not just at the captain, but the whole crew. Who immediately fell to croaking their agreement as loudly as they could muster.

  “Yeh!”

  “Got it!”

  “You betcha!”

  They didn’t sound too convincing. Then again, it was a pretty tall order. And I wondered whether Healy was hunting down the only pirate on the Blue Sea with a reputation as terrible as his own for personal reasons—everybody knew Healy and the Ripper hated each other’s guts—or because of the Ripper’s attack on the Earthly Pleasure, a passenger ship full of Rovian nobles that Roger Pembroke owned.

  Healy and Pembroke had some kind of relationship that I couldn’t for the life of me understand. Millicent had once told me that Healy worked for her father, and while I couldn’t imagine Burn Healy taking orders from anybody, at times they did seem like allies. But then at other times, they seemed like the mortal enemies you’d expect a businessman and a pirate to be.

  It was mystifying. But so were a lot of things on the Blue Sea.

  Finally, Healy let his eyebrows jump again.

  “Right, then. Place five bushels of ugly fruit on the deck of my ship, and we’ll leave you to your wretched commerce with the scum of the earth.”

  The crew fell over themselves racing to the cargo hold to fetch the fruit. Guts and I were about to follow them below when Healy stepped in our path.

  “Hello, Egbert,” he said evenly.

  When Healy spoke to me, Reggie was a few feet away, and I heard him make an odd gurgling noise that I think was an expression of shock.

  “Hello, sir,” I said.

  “Come. Have a chat with me.”

  As Healy strode over to the deck rail, Guts and I traded looks: was Guts supposed to come, too? In the end, he settled for hanging back just out of earshot.

  When I reached Healy, he was studying the western horizon, his back to the rest of the ship. I stopped an arm’s length away from him. The first time we met, I’d watched him throw a pirate overboard without warning. Even though the pirate had deserved it, I didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Tell me something,” he said, his eyes still on the horizon. “Is that captain giving me the truth?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Haven’t seen any ships since we’ve been at sea.”

  “What was happening in Port Scratch when you left?”

  “The field pirates were on a bender. Roger Pembroke had tried to bribe them, so they had some money, and a lot of guns—thanks for those, by the way.”

  Healy gave a little shrug. “I had extra. About the Scratch, though—any sign of the Ripper, or his men, any discussion of him? It’s important.”

  I shook my head. “I wish I could help.”

  He was quiet for a while, still searching the empty sea. I was starting to wonder if the conversation was over when he turned his head, looking at me for the first time.

  “How did things go with Pembroke, by the way? He seems not to have killed you. Is he still trying?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “And I take it you didn’t kill him?”

  “No,” I said. “Sorry—I did want to,” I quickly added, because Healy had suggested it the last time I’d seen him, and I felt like I’d let him down.

  “No need to apologize. It was just a suggestion.”

  “Your guns were an awfully big help, though. Probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.”

  “Glad to hear it. Did you hang on t
o any? Or did the field pirates cadge them all?”

  “We’ve still got a few.”

  “Well, keep the powder dry. Never know when it might come in handy. There’s pirates in these waters, you know.”

  Then he winked at me. It was hard to know how to take that. Here was a man everyone agreed was the most pitiless killer on the Blue Sea, who moments ago had seemed on the verge of slitting Racker’s throat just for selling ugly fruit to Cartagers…and now he was joking with me like a friendly innkeeper.

  I didn’t know whether to feel pleased or terrified.

  Healy turned his head to look at Guts, who was skulking by the foremast, trying not to look like he was eavesdropping on us.

  “What happened to the girl you were with?”

  “Went back to Sunrise with him.”

  Healy cocked his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Was she…?”

  “Pembroke’s daughter.”

  His eyes widened. Then he shook his head and chuckled. “Hat’s off to you, boy. Got a talent for trouble…You headed down to the Barkers now?”

  “No…Pella Nonna.”

  The humor left his eyes. “What the blaze for?”

  I didn’t want to mention the treasure, but I had no idea what else to say. So I wound up gaping at him like an idiot while my palms went clammy.

  “Going to tell me it’s complicated again?” Healy’s face darkened, which was a frightening sight. “Are you looking to get in with the Short-Ears?”

  I shook my head hard, even as I wondered what he had against Cartagers. “No! Not at all. It’s…I just…need to…see some Natives.”

  He searched my face for a moment. Then the dark look turned to one of recognition.

  “Ahhh…,” he said slowly. “Let me guess: lost treasure of the Fire King? Is that what it’s all about? This business between you and Pembroke?”

  The look on my face must have convinced Healy he’d guessed right. I looked away. As I studied my shoes, I could feel his eyes on me.

  “Piece of advice, son. Whatever you think you’re after, I seriously doubt it’s worth the trouble. And Pella Nonna’s no place to be. Especially in the next few weeks.”

  I looked up, confused by what he’d said, and the look on his face confused me even more. His eyebrows were knitted together, less in anger than what I could’ve sworn was concern.

  Then he looked away, took a deep breath, and let it out with a heavy sigh.

  Since when did a pirate—and not just any pirate, but Burn Healy—sigh? Over anything? It was even more disorienting than the wink he’d given me.

  Healy glanced at Guts, then back to me. When he spoke, it was in a low, oddly wavering voice.

  “I imagine you’re at loose ends…between your family and this Pembroke business…If you and your friend want to come with me…temporarily, mind you…I’m sure I could figure out what to do with you.”

  It was dumbfounding—not just the offer itself, but the fact that Burn Healy suddenly seemed less than completely self-assured. In fact, he seemed almost as confused by his offer as I was.

  I looked up at his ship, at the line of stone-faced killers on the deck with their guns still trained on the Thrush, and at the red flag of piracy snapping in the wind over its mast. Then I looked back at Guts.

  “Can I…talk it over with my partner?”

  “Partner? Oh! Yes. By all means. Have at it.” Some of Healy’s usual verve returned, and he motioned me toward Guts with a wave of his hand.

  “Wot is it?” Guts muttered when I’d dragged him off to a corner of the foredeck.

  “He wants us to come with him.”

  “Wot, on his ship?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “Wot the pudda for?”

  “I don’t know. I think he wants to help us.”

  “Help us how?”

  “Well…he guessed what we were after. And he said it’s not worth the trouble. And Pella’s no place to be at the moment. And if we come with him, he’ll…‘figure out what to do with us.’”

  “Blun to that!”

  “Keep your voice down! Look, I don’t know what he’s getting at, but—”

  “I do! Wants the treasure!”

  “You think?” That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “Course he does! S’plains everything! That’s why he helped ye against Pembroke! ’Cause he knew ye had the map! So he gives ye the guns ye need to slip the richy, then follows ye out here, makes like he’s savin’ ye again! And yer so grateful, ye spill yer guts to him! So he gets the map, slits our throats, makes off with the treasure!”

  Guts let out a low whistle. “Real porna mafalo, he is.”

  I chewed on that for a while. It did explain a lot. But I just didn’t buy it.

  “I don’t know…I feel like we can trust him.”

  Guts snorted. “That’s ’cause ye never lived on no pirate ship.”

  “He’s not like the Ripper! You heard what he said to the crew—he’s hunting him down! Burn Healy’s not that kind of pirate.”

  “Don’t be a fool! Friendly or not, sooner or later…” His face twitching, Guts unstrapped Lucy and raised his left arm to show me the rounded stump where his hand should have been.

  “Only one kind of pirate in this world,” he said.

  That settled it for both of us.

  There was just one problem.

  “How am I going to tell him no? He’s Burn — Healy. What if he kills me?”

  “He ain’t gonna…” Guts’s voice trailed off as he considered the situation.

  Then he grabbed my arm in a tight squeeze. “’Fore ye go over there—draw me the map, will ye?”

  “Oh, shut up!” I tore my arm away and started toward Healy.

  It was the longest twenty feet I’d ever walked. He must have heard me coming, because he turned to look at me when I was still a few steps away.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “We…kind of…” Talking to him was suddenly as hard for me as it had been for Racker. “M-maybe…rather…”

  “Not come?” His eyebrows jumped. But not like he was angry. Like it was a big relief.

  “Well, more’s the pity. Best of luck to you.”

  He gave me a smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder. Then he took off so fast he was halfway up the plank before I had time to exhale.

  WHEN THE GRIFT disappeared for good over the horizon, a cheer of joy went up from the crew. But something had been bugging me almost from the moment Healy had left the Thrush, and once the cheers died down, I finally shared it with Guts.

  “The thing is…he’s Burn — Healy, right?”

  Guts nodded. “Burn pudda Healy.”

  “So if he wants something, he takes it. And if he wanted the map—why not just kidnap me? Drag me on board? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Guts thought about it. “Nope. Guess it don’t.”

  “I think he really was trying to help us. And he warned me about Pella. Said it’s ‘no place to be. Especially in the next few weeks.’ Like something bad was going to happen there.”

  We were both quiet for a minute.

  “I think we should have gone with him,” I said.

  Guts gave a twitchy shrug.

  “Too late now.”

  He was right about that, anyway.

  PELLA

  Not long after we parted ways with Healy, the cry of “LAND HO!” went up from the crow’s nest. Soon enough, the mountains came into view, a distant range of jagged blue peaks. Racker turned the Thrush parallel to the coastline, and we followed it through the night and into the next morning.

  It dawned foggy and gray. We couldn’t see mountains anymore, or anything at all through the haze. By late morning, I was starting to wonder if we’d strayed off course when a massive fortress appeared out of the gloom, flying the purple and orange of the Cartager royal flag.

  Its giant walls were brown and smooth, like they were made of clay, and the whole thing seemed to float on the water, u
nattached to anything. It wasn’t until we cleared the far side that I realized it was built on a long finger of rocky land that jutted out at the end of a large bay.

  We continued into the bay, and ships began to appear at anchor. There were a few familiar schooners, but mostly they were strange and exotic-looking: giant galleys with dozens of oars and curved hulls as round as sausages, or lopsided single-masters with towering sterns and squared-off bows so low they didn’t look seaworthy.

  As we got farther in and the whole port came into view, I counted over a hundred ships, moored in the bay or docked at one of a dozen long piers. Tied up at the northernmost piers, by the finger of land that led to the fortress, were three gargantuan Cartager men-of-war, their triple decks bristling with cannon.

  Then the city itself peeked out of the fog, starting with a ragged line of buildings, some as high as six stories tall and all made of the same smooth brown material as the fortress. They were packed so close together that at first I thought they were all one building, like some sort of giant rectangular anthill.

  We dropped anchor in the middle of the bay, and Reggie used signal flags to hail a few distant figures on the docks. Guts fetched the rucksack full of our weapons from the hold, and we fidgeted on deck as we waited for a boat to row out so we could hitch a ride to shore.

  I thought about asking Guts for one of the guns from the pack, but I was so keyed up my hands were shaking, and I didn’t want to accidentally shoot anybody.

  The Cartager soldiers came out first, in four long boats. There were two of them in each boat, big men with tiny ears and jowly necks, all so overfed and sleepy-looking I never would have guessed they were soldiers if they hadn’t been carrying rifles and wearing long purple uniforms that most of them left unbuttoned over their swollen bellies.

  “Don’t look like killers t’me,” Guts scoffed. “Look like purple slugs.”

  I had to agree. They seemed too lazy to hang anybody dead. None of them did a lick of work—as best I could tell, they were only in the boats to keep an eye on their Native laborers, who couldn’t have been more different from the soldiers.