by Geoff Rodkey
But I was furious just the same. And I didn’t snap out of it until Kira gave me something new to worry about.
“What if we can’t find the Grift in the fog?”
“Tough to miss once she starts firin’,” Guts pointed out. “Bigger problem, tho’—wot if she sinks that ship and sails off ’fore we can get to her?”
I thought about the situation for a moment.
“That might not be the biggest problem,” I said.
“Wot is?”
“What’ll the pirates do to us when they find out we’ve crossed them?”
I’d managed to ignore that question when Quint had brought it up, because I knew Li Homaya and the Cartagers were the only ones who might be able to knock off Roger Pembroke. But now there was no ignoring it, and the way Kira and Guts fell silent made me realize they were as worried about it as I was.
“We can’t turn around,” Kira said finally. “The Cartagers will not have us. And we’d be left in Moku territory.”
Having been captured by the Moku once before, none of us were exactly eager to repeat the experience.
“Take our chances with the pirates, then,” said Guts, his shoulders twitching.
After the last couple of days, I wouldn’t have thought I still had it in me to be afraid. But my stomach churned the whole rest of the time we were on that little raft.
Fortunately, we weren’t on it for long. Daybreak came quickly, and the fog was just starting to lift when the Grift’s guns erupted, lighting up the gray sky with bursts of orange a few hundred yards from us.
By the time we paddled within hailing distance, the guns had stopped and the fog had burned off enough to reveal the distant, burning hulk of the last Cartager man-of-war, listing badly on the Fangs. If she hadn’t been so firmly beached, she would’ve keeled over and sunk before we finished climbing the rope ladder that had been thrown over the side of the Grift to let us back on the ship.
Healy met us at the deck rail, along with Quint and a dozen other pirates. There was a tight smile on my uncle’s face.
“On behalf of the crew, I’d like to thank you three,” he said.
We must have looked as shocked as we felt, because he quickly added an explanation.
“The carpenter told me what happened,” he said, nodding at Quint. “It was quite brave of you to volunteer to go over the side and seal the breach with sailcloth so he could get a better handle on the patch. And I’m sure you must have been quite frightened when you drifted off and spent the next few hours lost in the fog. Good to have you back.”
Just in case we were tempted to think he believed what he was saying, he let the smile drop at the end of his speech and shot me a look that could have melted steel.
“We won’t speak of this again,” he said.
And we didn’t. Although I did wonder if the rest of the pirates knew what we’d been up to, or if anyone had noticed that the burning of the man-of-war was strangely unaccompanied by the anguished screams of dying men.
But even I wasn’t dumb enough to ask about that.
After that, we went below and slept through the whole rest of the day, getting up just long enough to eat practically a whole bucket of rations each before going right back to our hammocks and sacking out again.
I lay awake for a couple of hours that night, working out what I’d do once we reached Edgartown. Kira was going to find her old tutor and get his help in tracking down the Okalu, translating the map, and trying to find the Fist of Ka.
Guts was going with her. And so was I.
But first, I had to find Millicent. She was almost definitely still on Sunrise Island—but if I didn’t move fast, her mother would ship her off to some Rovian boarding school on the Continent, and it’d be months or even years before I could find her.
What if she’d met someone else by then? Someone like that Cyril fellow—older and richer than me?
What if she was with that Cyril fellow right now, back on Sunrise?
What if they were actually planning to get married?
I had to get to Sunrise. And fast. I wouldn’t be welcome there. It was Pembroke’s island, and even if he was down in Pella, his men would know me by sight—those “WANTED” posters had seen to that—and if they got their hands on me, it wouldn’t be good.
My uncle could help. I’d ask him the next chance I got.
No. I couldn’t. I’d pushed my luck with him far enough already. I couldn’t just go begging him for more help.
Unless I could find the right way to ask.
I’d figure it out. I’d make it work. I’d find Millicent somehow.
I had to. I was in love with her.
BY THE TIME we got up with the sun the next morning, the Grift was sailing into a wide bay on the southern tip of a lush, hilly green island so big that at first I thought it was the mainland.
Then Edgartown came into view. It was the second-largest city I’d ever seen behind Pella Nonna—a mile-wide spread of pointy-roofed Continental buildings, nestled under a hillside topped by a giant stone fortress.
Quint thought we were insane to be sailing within range of the fortress’s cannon.
“An’ us flyin’ the red and black? Be smashed to bits any second!” he yelped at Ismail, who was standing with us at the forward rail.
Ismail smiled. “Look up, friend. We fly Rovian flag today.”
We turned and craned our necks to peer up at the mainmast. Sure enough, Healy’s pirate flag had been struck, replaced by the blue cross of Rovia.
“Flag ain’t gonna throw nobody off! The whole world knows wot Burn Healy’s ship looks like.”
“Nah,” said Ismail. “Is good, man. We go to Edgartown long time. Years now.”
“Tell another!” snorted Quint.
“Is true. Not all together. Usually, we dock in cove to north. Take launches down to city. Ten men each. Captain make us change clothes, look fancy. This time little bit different. Never dock in port before. But is okay. We need shipyard for repair. And these Rovians owe us big now. For Pella.”
“What did happen in Pella?” I asked. “What did you do for Pembroke and his men?”
“Practically whole thing. Rovians want invade, but only got four warships. Not many guns. They ask captain for help. Healy make plan—middle of night, we sail into lagoon north of citadel. Then we shoot from behind. Cartager cannon all pointed forward, into bay and ocean. Never expect someone shoot from behind. So, boom—we take out citadel. Sink man-of-war in harbor same way. She never even raise sails. After that, Rovians land troops, no problem. Then we help with street fight, too.”
Ismail nodded in the direction of Edgartown. “These Rovian guys owe us big. Think now, we walk in front door, they don’t complain.”
Quint wasn’t buying it. “Believe it when I see it,” he muttered.
But it seemed true enough—we sailed into the crowded port without so much as a warning shot coming from the shore.
And the flag wasn’t the only thing that had changed. The crew’s usual deadly seriousness had melted away. They were laughing and joking—especially the gun crews, who had started some kind of contest that, as far as I could tell, involved setting each other’s toes on fire.
I would’ve expected my uncle to come down on them with a heavy hand. But he’d gone as strangely jolly as the rest of them. As we started our final approach to one of the easternmost piers, he showed up on deck, his head and eye freshly bandaged, and called the crew together for a speech that was so different from his usual ones that for a moment I wondered if his head injury was more serious than I’d realized.
“Morning, brothers. Hope you’re looking forward to your stay in the Fish Islands. The crab cakes are particularly good this time of year. But for everyone’s sake, please don’t dine in public until you’ve had a bath—preferably with soap, because every last one of
you smells like a dog’s rear end.”
A few of the pirates sniffed themselves. No one seemed to disagree. Healy continued.
“A few things to keep in mind: as long as we’re in Edgartown, I am not Burn Healy. I’m Mr. Longtrousers. Actually, Commodore Longtrousers. I was promoted recently, not that any of you ingrates bothered to send flowers. As for yourselves, congratulations: you’ve also been promoted, from murderous outlaws to the brave marines of the Forty-Third Rovian Irregulars. Once we’ve docked, I’ll have to ask you to stay near the ship for at least a few hours. You’re welcome to disembark, but don’t stray past the boardwalks. And mind the ground rules: no robbery, assault, extortion, pillaging, or practical jokes.
“And I can’t stress that last bit enough—please, please, do not set fire to the toes of any non–crew members. And for Savior’s sake, don’t start drinking until I say it’s okay. Any questions?”
A pirate raised his hand. “When’s it okay to start drinking?”
“When I say so.”
Another hand. “When will you say so?”
Healy sighed. “Soon as you get paid.”
“When do we get paid?”
Healy frowned at the pirate who’d just bellowed out the question. “I didn’t see your hand up, Frank.”
Frank raised his hand. “When do we get paid?”
“Soon as I fetch the ten million. Any other questions? No? Nobody wants a restaurant recommendation? All right, then. Meeting adjourned.”
Quint was standing on the capstan, his mouth open wide enough for a seagull to nest in it.
“Wot the blaze got into him?”
“I have no idea,” I said. Kira and Guts looked equally stunned.
Ismail was still with us. He grinned.
“Is something, yeah? Captain on shore not like captain at sea. Big relaxed.”
“That’s Commodore to you,” came a voice from behind us.
It was my uncle. He gave Ismail a smirk. “And don’t you forget it, you dirty Gualo.” Then he turned to Quint.
“When we dock, would you mind seeking out the master of the shipyard and giving him a look at the damage? We’ll want to get the repairs started as fast as possible.”
“No problem, Cap.”
“Thanks much. Ismail can join you if he’s not too lazy.”
“Only just,” Ismail said with a wink.
Then Healy turned to me. “Do you have plans for this morning?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. Come run an errand with me.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fistful of gold coins, and handed them to Guts and Kira.
“I’ll bring him back shortly,” he told them. “In the meantime, there’s a bakery along the boardwalk you’ll want to try. The jelly bread’s outstanding. Tell them Commodore Longtrousers sent you, and you’ll get a discount. Along with a look of terror, I suspect.”
Just the mention of jelly bread made my stomach growl. “Save some for me?” I asked Kira as I followed my uncle away.
SPIGGS, PIKE, MACKIE THE GUNNER, Roy Okemu, and several other pirates were all in the captain’s cabin when we entered, arming themselves to the teeth with pistols and knives from a crate of weapons.
“Help yourself,” my uncle told me. “No need to load the pistols. It’s for appearance’s sake more than anything.”
I took a pistol and tried to jam it into my waistband. I must have looked pretty ridiculous, because the men all traded amused grins.
“The boy know where we go?” Okemu asked.
“Let’s ask him,” said Healy. “Do you know where we’re going, Egg?”
“To get the ten million gold?” I guessed.
“Smart boy,” said Okemu.
“And where might that be?” my uncle asked. “Where’s a pirate keep his treasure?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Buried?”
The pirates all laughed.
“Son, if I buried ten million gold, how could I earn six percent on it?”
“What’s six percent?” I asked.
More laughter.
“The interest,” said Spiggs.
“The what?”
They were laughing even harder now. “Better make him a pirate, Cap,” chortled Mackie. “He ain’t no businessman.”
“Let’s try again, son,” Healy said. “Where’s a pirate keep his treasure?”
“A bank?”
The pirates cheered. Healy gave my hair a gentle ruff.
“You see, brothers? He’s teachable.”
CHAPTER 17
The Rovian Gentlemen’s Mercantile Exchange
THERE’S NOTHING QUITE LIKE walking up a busy street in the company of eight terrifying pirates, even if the most infamous of them insists on calling himself “Commodore Longtrousers.”
The street didn’t stay busy for long. When we turned up the main road from the docks, it was elbow-to-elbow with townspeople, but by the time we reached our destination—a white-columned brick building with ROVIAN GENTLEMEN’S MERCANTILE EXCHANGE chiseled in stone above the doors—most of them had mysteriously disappeared. The few who were left kept their distance. It was like there was an invisible wall surrounding us that repelled anyone who got within fifteen feet.
It’s possible it was the smell. Healy hadn’t been kidding about that—none of the pirates had seen a bath in who knows how long, and the stink was so ripe you could almost see it rising off their backs. I wasn’t much cleaner myself, although at least I’d had a dunk in the ocean two nights earlier.
Crowded or empty, it was a very nice street. The Continental-style buildings were pretty and well kept, and there were quite a few shops that looked interesting, along with a street-meat shack that made my mouth water. But as we passed each one, its door would slam shut, and someone with badly shaking hands would shove a CLOSED sign in the window.
“That’s curious. Do you reckon it’s a holiday?” asked Healy—or, at the moment, Longtrousers.
“Funny holiday,” said Pike, looking up at the clock on the bell tower at the end of the street. “Where the shops all close at nine-seventeen exactly.”
“Hope the bank’s open,” said Spiggs.
“Oh, it will be,” said my uncle. “One way or another.”
He led us up a short flight of steps to the bank’s thick doors. To my surprise, they weren’t locked. As my uncle began to push them open, I could hear frantic shouts from inside—but by the time he’d taken his first step inside, the shouting had given way to an extremely nervous silence.
I’d never been inside a bank before, so I can’t say whether it was more or less impressive than other banks. But I was pretty amazed—there were big chandeliers, thick rugs on the floors, and lots of gold fixtures that gleamed like they’d been polished to a high shine. Massive, serious-looking desks filled the space here and there, and running the length of the room about a dozen paces from one of the walls was a stone counter with some kind of wooden barricade atop it. Every ten feet or so, there were little gold-barred openings in the barricade, just high and wide enough for a man’s head to peer through.
The dozen or so people in the room were all frozen like statues when we first entered. As we approached the counter, some of them made an effort to move around, like they were just going about their business without a care in the world. But they did a lousy job of it.
Healy led the way. Halfway across the room, he passed a ruddy-faced man in a suit who I think tried to say, “Good morning, Mr. Longtrousers!” But all that came out was a series of broken squeaks that sounded more like, “Gya-mana-Mista-Laaghtraii . . .”
“Good day to you, sir,” my uncle replied pleasantly. He stopped when he reached the counter. Behind one of the gold-barred openings was a skinny, quivering bald man.
“Hello,” said Healy.
�
��M-m-ma—”
The bald man was having a hard time getting the words out.
“‘May you help us?’” Healy suggested.
“Y-ye—”
“Yes, you may,” my uncle answered his own question. “The name’s Harold Longtrousers. I’m an account holder. And you are . . . ?”
“A-a-al—”
“Why don’t we just go with ‘Al’? Keep things moving along. Al, my friend, I’d like to make a withdrawal from this account.” Healy passed a sheet of paper through the opening, then clasped his hands together and rested them on the counter, smiling politely at Al’s face just a couple of feet from his own. The rest of us stood behind Healy in a semicircle.
Viewed up close, Al was not only quivering, but remarkably sweaty. So many rivulets were running down his bald head that I looked up to make sure there wasn’t a leak in the ceiling.
“S-s-sure. H-h-how—”
“‘How much?’”
Al nodded.
“Ten million gold,” said Healy. “Or its equivalent in silver. Is there an exchange rate posted—?”
Healy turned his head to look around the room. So did I, which was why I didn’t actually see Al faint. I just heard the thump of something long and skinny hitting the floor, and when I turned around, he’d vanished from his little hole.
“Oh, dear. Al’s fallen ill.” Healy leaned forward, peering through the gold bars. In a much louder but no less friendly voice, he called out, “Could someone else help us, please? And possibly get Al some medical attention?”
One by one, the bank employees all turned to stare at a gray-haired man in a black suit. He was standing near an interior door, his hand on the knob.
The gray-haired man looked for a moment like he was trying to decide whether to flee. Finally, he took his hand off the doorknob and approached my uncle, gulping through a pained smile.
“Yes! Of course. I . . .”
Healy smiled back. “Ah! Mr. Smith-Jones, isn’t it? The bank president?”
