The Buccaneer's Apprentice Read online

  “Dead?”

  “Some jumped overboard!” Infant Prodigy continued trying to squirm away. “These awful pirates killed any who fought back.”

  “What of the Arturos?” Nic’s assailant was still talking to his comrade. If these were pirates, they were far grimier and smellier than the ones he’d seen in his master’s dramatic presentations.

  “Gone!” The lump that had been growing in Nic’s throat since his rude awakening seemed to swell to the size of a lime at Prodigy’s wailed news. “Taken into the night. Abducted! Vanished!”

  Somewhat absurdly, it occurred to Nic that Infant Prodigy might have been fed too steady a diet of melodramas. Other than an actor upon the stage, who talked like that? “Who’s left, Prodigy?” he dared call out. “Are any of the company still below?”

  “Only I remain!” The other pirate’s torch dipped low enough for Nic to see Prodigy’s face. Despite the histrionic way the young woman spoke, she looked truly miserable. Her long blond hair hung limp. A runnel of blood trickled from her forehead down the cheek of her heart-shaped face until it was washed into nothingness from tears. “When I heard noises, I hid in the stores. So did the Signora, but she’s so big that they saw her right off. I was behind a barrel of yemeni alum but they heard me crying after I thought they’d left … ow!” Prodigy’s attacker gave her sash a savage yank and began to move to the deck rails. He was taking her off the ship onto a rowboat. Just before she vanished, she pleaded, “Nic. Do something!”

  “Prodigy!” he called in the darkness. It was too late. Her pirate had thrown her like a bundle of dirty linens over the railing and into some small boat out of sight. Her cry of astonishment was cut short when she landed below with a thud. The thug called out as he leapt over and followed.

  The protagonist of one of Armand Arturo’s potboilers would have known the exact necessary course of action to retrieve Prodigy. Hero was always nimble on his toes, whether he was rescuing Ingenue from a certain death at the hands of Knave’s henchmen or wooing her with poetry. Hero, as played by Armand Arturo himself, could fend off a dozen swords with nothing more at hand than a broken walking stick. He could untie Ingenue from a sacrificial altar with his teeth while simultaneously fighting off two priests of the dark gods. If this were one of the Arturos’ plays, Hero would already have swung from a rope around the mainsail to take on both the pirates, thrilling the audience with a carefully choreographed dance through the air that would knock them both flat.

  However, Nic was not in a theatrical hall, with its colorful costumes. He was far away from its scents of oranges and perfumes, its crowds, and its bright footlights. Nic was stranded in the middle of the Azure Sea, as distant from land as he had ever been in his life. He had no knowledge of which way lay his home—whatever that was. The body four feet away was not an actor lying motionless with red silks spilling from his coat to imitate blood. It was real, and Nic could only imagine how many more might be littering the boat. There was no way for mighty Hero to save the captain now, much less Nic, the troupe’s lowest drudge.

  Yet if he did nothing, Nic realized through the fear and pain, he soon would be lying as lifeless as Captain Delguardino and his men. A casualty, his name quickly forgotten by anyone who had ever known or cared about him. The realization ignited a heat deep within. Not that anyone had ever cared, other than the Arturos. Most of his other masters had never bothered to learn even so much as his name. Boy or mangy cur had been good enough for the likes of him, all his seventeen years. Only the Arturos and their company had ever done him the favor of treating him as human. No matter what it took, he was going to repay the favor, here and now.

  Perhaps the twin gods of the moons indeed stretched their arms over the waters toward Nic that night. Or perhaps the blood rushing through his every vein stirred his mind into motion and prompted his eyes to seek out opportunity. Whatever the cause, the pressure on Nic’s shoulder suddenly ceased. The pirate lifted his weapon hand—very carefully, Nic noticed—up to his turned head. He was scratching his nose, still watching the rowboat speeding away from the Pride. The time for action, if Nic intended to take it at all, had to be at that moment.

  He lunged. Up from his aching knees he rushed until the top of his head connected with the pirate’s midsection. The crunch that followed resounded from his neck to the base of his spine, leaving the top of his skull feeling flattened and throbbing. The stratagem worked, however. With a whuff, the brigand fell back, stumbling for several feet and carrying Nic with him, until the pair collided into the iron hand pumps used to evacuate water from the hold. Something heavy fell from the pirate’s hand, thudding across the deck. Only once the man was sliding down onto the boards did Nic roll off. With his heart thudding faster than a tambour at a festival jig, and his breath heaving in rasps that pained his lungs, he scrambled backward. The seat of his pants protested at being scraped across the wood, but Nic would have frayed the fabric to shreds if it helped him gain his feet any faster.

  “Ungh … kascado …” The pirate, still groggy, tried to focus on Nic’s face. Apparently the impact had knocked the man’s skull against the pump handle. A cut ran across his forehead, oozing from his temple to his right eyebrow. The pirate noticed the flow of blood at the same time. Too perplexed for anger, he raised his hand to his brow and pulled it away, staring at the glistening red mark it left.

  What was this? The pirate had a free hand? Though Nic’s head still ached unlike anything he’d ever before felt, he pulled together his wits and looked around. The pirate hadn’t dropped his spiked blade. That would have been too undeserved a stroke of good luck. The torch he’d been carrying, however, lay burning on the deck not two arm-spans away. Its flames flicked into the night sky and left the faintest of black scars on the wood beneath. Tuck and fold, Nic thought to himself, remembering the choreographed tumble with which Signor Arturo’s Hero had thrilled many an audience during staged sword fights. While in his sitting position, he pulled his legs in close, then rolled twice in the torch’s direction. He landed on his toes and knees, and in one swift motion, grabbed the stock in his hand and sprang to his feet. His lip tickled from something warm. When he lifted the side of his free hand to his mouth, it came away red with blood. Nic ignored it. The torch roasted the right side of his face. “Get off this ship.” His voice sounded cracked and frightened, he realized. He took a deep breath and tried to sound more authoritative. “Leave this vessel at once!”

  The man’s eyes traveled up and down his body. Nic could only imagine how he looked in the brigand’s eyes. Very probably he recognized him for the boy he really was. They were quite the contrast: man and boy, pirate and servant, leathery-skinned skeleton and spare youth. Nic might have been the better-fed, but the pirate was an experienced fighter—and certainly killer. That, surely, had to be what the man was thinking as he wiped blood and snot from his nose onto his forearm, spat, then used the pump for support as he stood. He shook his head. Nic took it as the warning it was. “Vi tolo anscolado.”

  “No.” Nic didn’t know what he was refusing, but digging in his heels against the man’s demands felt right. He took the torch with both hands and brandished it as he shook his head. “Get off this boat.” When the pirate didn’t move, Nic gestured with the torch. “Go!”

  In the torchlight, shadows pooled in the man’s sunken cheeks and eyes. Emaciated as he seemed, he was wary and hunched over as well. If he was anything like Nic at that moment, every nerve in his body must have been on edge, prepared to leap into action. Which is why it was a surprise that, rather than lunge at Nic, he raised his free hand, cupped it to his mouth, and let out a whoop—the fiercest howl Nic had ever heard in his life. Deeper and wilder it seemed than the combined howls of outrage an audience might muster at one of Knave’s onstage atrocities. Louder it was than any of the half-wolf hounds one of his masters had kept, even when they bayed during a double full moon. After a few seconds of that ear-
splitting shriek, Nic suspected that he now knew how curdled blood felt, as it pumped through his veins.

  Still, he didn’t flinch. He’d had men yell at him before. Save for Signor Arturo, all his masters had been screamers of insults. They all had puffed out reddened cheeks, summoned up their worst curses, and let loose. Nic had taken enough of the abuse not to let it rattle his determination. This man was not his master. He would not bow down to him. It was sheer stubborn determination that made Nic answer, with simmering anger, “You do not scare me!” The words were a bald lie, of course. He’d never been so frightened for his life. Yelling back, however, bolstered his spirits. The words and the torch in his hands felt like the only light he had to cast back against the darkness. “You don’t!” he growled, as the man continued the ululation. “And you can quit your damned noise!”

  As if understanding, the man’s shrill cry ceased. He bared his gums in a smile. His eyes shone with triumph as he paced to the side. Together, he and Nic trod a slow, wary circle, never taking their eyes off each other or closing their distance. Around his fingers, the pirate twirled his short sword as easily as a juggler at a city fair. Nic’s torch caused arcs of light to dance across the shining blade. The pirate made a feint, suddenly thrusting in Nic’s direction. “Valla! ” he said nastily, when Nic responded with a leap back.

  “Valla yourself!” Nic was annoyed with his clumsy and instinctive reaction to the man’s ploy. He was being tested, he realized. Well, he had a weapon too. The torch in his hand might not be as sharp as a sword, but with his loose, dry clothing, the pirate seemed wary of coming anywhere near its tongues of flame. Nic thrust it forward, feeling pleased when the pirate dodged the jabs. “That’s right. Boo!” He jutted out his lower jaw and snarled like a dog.

  The pirate’s smile faded. His attention raced between Nic and the torch he carried, keeping a careful watch on both. “To mallo nasquinta,” he growled, making the words sound like an oath. “Ved si? ”

  This time, when he jabbed forward with his blade, Nic was alert and ready to counter. The pirate leapt back when Nic’s torch swung out. Sparks from its blaze flew into the air and flared into nothingness under the pirate’s nose. With his free hand, the pirate rubbed his face, making sure his short whiskers weren’t alight. “Oh, you’re afraid of the fire, are you?” Nic jeered, taking another broad swipe with the torch. He was pleased to see how wide a berth the pirate gave his makeshift weapon. “That’s right. You keep away from me. Got it?”

  Whatever triumph Nic might have felt for having the upper hand quickly evaporated, for in the distance came a wail from the still waters of the Dead Strait. It sounded so much like the pirate’s shrill vocalization of moments before that for a fraction of a second Nic wondered if some vast sea monster had surfaced from beneath the masses of Sea Dog’s Deceit, managed to swallow whole the terrible sound, and then, a minute later, belch back its echo. But no. Another high-pitched, piercing cry joined the first. Then another. Soon the night was filled with the sound of screeching voices. The pirate, Nic now understood, hadn’t been trying to frighten him. He’d been summoning his comrades with some pre-arranged signal. Now they were on their way back. How close were they, and how soon might they arrive?

  In the brief moment Nic took to look back over his shoulder into the darkness, the pirate made his move. From the corner of his eye Nic caught sight of a flash of metal and heard the man’s premature chuckle of triumph. It was pure instinct, and no small amount of luck, that sent Nic whirling back around. The blade came crashing down onto the center of the torch’s stock with such force that, in the seconds that followed, Nic was certain the bones of both his arms had been shattered. The pain of it caused moisture to spring to his eyes. He blinked it away and looked down. Somehow he still managed to clutch the torch with both hands—and the short sword was buried tightly in its hilt.

  The pirate seemed just as surprised as he. With a twist that made Nic feel like his palms were being skinned, the man savagely tried to wrench the blade from the wood. Nic’s arms flew into the air at the motion, but still he held on, stubbornly refusing to relinquish his one weapon. Again the pirate gave another savage yank. “I don’t think so,” Nic growled. This time, in the moment after the man’s brute force failed again, he yanked back. To his surprise, the pirate released his grasp; Nic almost lost his balance as both the torch and the sword embedded in its length came away in his hands.

  A snarl crossed the pirate’s lips. He seemed as startled at losing the upper hand as Nic. His fingers curled into fists, and a wild gleam appeared in his narrowing eyes. This, Nic realized, was the look of a man with nothing to lose, and such men were the most dangerous of all. Nic knew what was coming next.

  When the man lunged into the air, Nic knew he had only one chance left. A silent prayer to the gods on his lips, he raised his torch high into the air, stepped to the side, and with as much strength as he could summon into his numb and bleeding body, he used the torch as a club. It swung and struck his attacker’s skull in mid-air, connecting with a sickening thud that once again nearly jarred the torch from Nic’s sore hands. Nic heard, rather than saw, the man’s body collapse onto the deck. It spun back over front until at last the pirate rested with his face to the planks, motionless. Nic lurched forward, feeling as unsteady as when he’d first stepped onto the Pride of Muro for the first time. When he held up the torch, he saw that the pirate’s eyes were wide open and lifeless. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose and was coagulating on the wood beneath him.

  The pirate was dead.

  There was no time for self-congratulation or relief. Scarcely had Nic time to absorb what he’d done when a face appeared over the railings. Like the man he’d just killed, this pirate had the same sunken cheeks and withered appearance, though he only sported one eye. The space where the other should have been was a mere concavity with a half-smile where his lids had been sewn together. He had more teeth than his comrade, though, and he bared them in a hiss as he sprang, pantherlike, onto the deck.

  “I killed your friend,” Nic announced, brandishing the torch. Ridiculously, it still sported the short sword. Staring down the new arrival, Nic reached up, grasped the handle, and tilted the blade back and forth until it worked free. He felt more confident with the torch in one hand and the sword in the other. “I’ll kill you too.”

  The new pirate might not have understood Nic’s words, but his tone was clear. The man’s tiny, black eyes glittered in the torchlight as he studied his fallen comrade and then the boy who’d brought him down. At last he did the unexpected. He laughed. Then he turned and said something into the darkness at his feet. Nic heard more laughter in reply, from the man’s unseen allies. One, two, and then three pairs of hands appeared over the railing.

  Nic was outnumbered. He’d barely been able to fend off one man. He knew he was no match for four. Though the man who had first boarded the boat was weaponless, two of his cronies carried blades—one short like Nic’s own, the other curved and cruel-looking. The third fellow, taller and broader than any, carried both a torch and a whip of some sort. Its ends glittered with tiny pieces of metal embedded into the leather. As Nic stared at it, the man smirked and fondled its folded length.

  There was no help for him. Nic did the first thing that came to mind. He ran.

  Across the deck his feet carried him, around the pumps and over a coil of rope that had unspooled from the mast. The torch singed his hair as he looked behind to see if the men were following. They were, shouting at each other to coordinate every move as they pounded after him. Nic took the ladder to the hold in very nearly a single leap, unable as he was to grip its sides with his hands full. The area below deck was a shambles. The pirates had ransacked the galley for its food, taking the caskets of dried meats and flour for themselves. A glass container of wine-purple olives lay shattered on the floor, and tin plates and utensils were strewn all over. Two bodies lay huddled on the ship�
�s port side as Nic pushed his way deeper into the boat’s recesses. Though he didn’t stop to look, he was certain they were both of the Pride’s crew.

  When Nic threw himself down a short flight of steps into the lowest section of the ship’s hold, it was no less ravaged than the deck above. The troupe had been quartered here for their voyage. Though it was by no means spacious, the tiny space had been the troupe’s own, shared only with the ship’s emergency supplies. If it had been less dark and airless, Nic might not have been sleeping above that night. Unlike the rest of the troupe, who were used to close accommodations, he had spent most of his life sleeping outdoors. Every container, every trunk, every private reticule that any member of the troupe had possessed seemed to have been ripped open and dumped onto the floor during the pirates’ search for valuables. Baskets of props had been upended. One of the troupe’s painstakingly painted backdrops had been slashed into ribbons. It lay unfurled and trampled in the floor’s center.

  During the sea voyage, the shuttered portholes along the hull had been nailed shut. Two of them had been forced open during the earlier assault, creating a cross-draft that caused Nic’s torch to flicker wildly. Clearance was low in this section of the ship, and Nic was tall and lanky enough that the top of his head would hit the ceiling above if he stood upright. He kept his neck bent and blade at the ready as he watched the men stalk down the stairs toward him. They weren’t in any hurry, either. They actually seemed to enjoy playing this cat-and-mouse game.