“What about Conard over on Ellipse?” one of the officers asked. “He’s an ally, ain’t he?”
Bart shook his head. “He’s by way of havin’ his own hands full with the Spanish attackin’ Ellipse. We’ll see no help from Conard. We’re alone in this, lads. I won’t lie to ye and say it hasn’t come at a bad time, but we’ll pull through it so long as we can hold the harbor.”
“We’ve the new guns,” Pangloss said, frowning.
“The thirty-two-pound guns, aye, but they’re not in place yet. If the devil attacks us afore the guns are secured, we’ll be left to rely on the sixteen-pounders.”
The men looked somber. I wanted to ask about the cannons but figured I was there on forbearance and had better keep my mouth shut until I knew what was going on.
Then I’d step in and organize things if their plans weren’t feasible.
“There be four guns on the leeward side of the island, just atop Careenin’ Cove, in case Black Corbin is up to his old tricks,” Bart continued. “We’ll divide our forces between that spot and the harbor. I’ll command the defensive land force. As for ships . . . Pangloss will be in charge of that. Ye’ll be responsible for battlin’ the blockade ships as best ye can, and keepin’ them from enterin’ the harbor.”
My eyes widened, but I managed to stop before I squeaked out a startled, “Me?”
Bart pointed to the map with the tip of his dagger. “They’ll be likely to bring in their big warships for the blockade—frigates and square riggers. It’ll be up to ye to harry them with yer sloops and barques. We’re short on men, so ye’ll have to do the best ye can, but use yer speed to damage the warships as much as ye can . . . without sinkin’, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured, part of my mind screaming insanely, the other part feeling a strange excitement at the thought of taking my sleek, pretty sloop into a real battle. Pangloss had told me many a tale of how the small, fast ships could be used to damage the larger, slower, bulkier warships, and despite my protest, I felt pretty confident about my abilities to captain my ship.
What was I thinking? I didn’t want war! I wanted Corbin and Bart to work out their issues in a reasonable manner. War, even virtual, was not good. While Bart went over specifics of what he wanted the officers to do, I spent a few moments alternating between panic about what he was asking of me, until recently the landlubberiest of all landlubbers, sharing the growing excitement and grim determination that the men exuded, and listening to the sane voice in my head as it told me the solution to the problem was not force, but an amicable end to hostilities worked out with logic and organization.
“Ye’ll be needin’ a flag,” Bart said to me, interrupting my musings.
“A flag? Oh, a pirate flag? Skull and crossbones?”
“Nay,” Bart said with a smile, opening a drawer in the desk and tossing me a yard-long rectangular bit of black cloth. I held it up to admire the image on it: the white silhouette of a man standing on a red heart, which had been stabbed with a knife. The letters BC were written on the handle of the knife. “ ’Tis me own design. That’s Black Corbin’s bleedin’ heart I’m standin’ on, stabbed with his own knife.”
“Eh,” I said, folding it up. “Very . . . um . . . vengeful.”
“Aye, it is. Ye’ll be flyin’ me flag so the devils know who ye are as ye blast their ships full of lead.”
“Cap’n,” Pangloss said, looking at me thoughtfully. “I’m thinkin’ there’s somethin’ we’re overlookin’ with the lass’s ship.”
The ship, nothing. They were overlooking the fact that I was the least experienced person in the room. I squished down a sudden spurt of disappointment at the thought that Pangloss might talk Bart out of including me in the attack team.
You’re not really a pirate, the sane part of my brain pointed out. You’re a financial analyst who is going to have to have the carpet cleaned in a few short hours (or weeks, depending on your reality) if you don’t find the guy responsible for trapping you in the game.
“What’s that, Panny?”
Pangloss took the flag and held it up. “The lass is sailin’ one of Corbin’s own ships. A distinctive one, what with that garish paint.”
I frowned. I thought the glossy maroon trim on the ship was pretty. “The Saucy Wench is not garish. She’s just colorful,” I said with a touch of hauteur.
Pangloss flashed me a grin. “Me apologies, lass. Colorful, aye, that she is.” He turned back to Bart, who was lounging on the edge of the desk. “Me point is that Black Corbin’s men are sure to recognize her as one of their ships.”
“Yeah, but I won her off Corbin,” I felt obligated to point out . . . with a smile of warm satisfaction as I remembered my moment of triumph. “Surely they’ll know she doesn’t belong to Corbin anymore?”
Bart frowned in thought. Pangloss shook his head slowly. “I’m thinkin’ they won’t. ’Tis not the sort of a thing a man likes bandied about by the swabbies—that he’s lost a ship in a duel, and to a woman, yet.”
I rolled my eyes and let that statement go without the comment I wanted to make.
“Ye’ve got a point,” Bart said. The officers murmured their agreement. Bart sent me a speculative glance. “We could use the lass’s ship to infiltrate the blockade fleet. There’s no end of damage she could do then. She might even be able to get to Corbin that way. Killin’ two birds with one stone . . . only it won’t be a bird’s guts which’re spilled. Aye, ’tis a good plan, Panny. We’ll send the lass in to kill Corbin, and do what she can to destroy blockade ships from within the fleet.”
“Yarr!” the officers shouted.
“Oh, Lord,” I muttered, wondering how I got myself into these situations. The only thing that kept me from walking out of the room right then and there was the fact that I needed to hear the rest of Bart’s plans so I could judge how to deal with the situation.
“Here, ye’d best take this. ’Tis Black Corbin’s flag. Ye’ll fly that to get into the fleet, then raise me flag.” Bart handed me another rectangle of cloth. I opened it up to see the design, looking at him in curiosity.
“There’s nothing on it.”
“Aye. Corbin’s flag is a field of black only,” Pangloss said, his face hard. “ ’Tis a symbol of his black heart.”
“Ah. So, exactly what am I supposed to do?”
By the time I staggered down the hill to the town, my brain was spinning with terms like forlorn hope (volunteers who made the first assault on a place of fortification, such as a manned harbor), masse de décision (troops or ships kept out of a battle until a decisive moment), and redoubt (someone who is in an independent defensive position . . . in other words, me).
“Man, what a mess. Whom do I think I’m fooling? This whole thing is doomed.”
“Hoy, Cap’n,” Bas said, suddenly appearing at my side as I walked past the graveyard. “What be doomed, other than me life now that ye’re riskin’ me early death with those baths?”
“Hoy, Bas. Stop picking your ear with your hook; it’s not polite. And I’m not a captain. I’m just a . . . er . . . well, I guess technically I’m nothing, since I’m not even really a member of the crew, but we’ll let that go. You can call me Amy.”
“Be ye doomed, then, Amy?”
“Me? Probably.” I smiled at the hopeful look that flickered across the boy’s face, giving in to the urge to rumple his thick black hair. Now that he was cleaned up, deloused, and fed a few days’ worth of steady meals, he was starting to look more like a normal kid and less like a small parody of death. Bran the raven squawked and nudged my hand with his heavy beak. I snatched my hand back, thinking he was going to bite me.
“He likes you,” Bas said. “Ye don’t have to be afraid of him. He don’t hurt people he likes.”
“Ah?” I eyed the ratty-looking bird, then gave his head a few cautious pets. Even after a couple of baths, the bird was still less than majestic, but he was at least clean. “Nice bird. No biting.”
Bas gave me a juvenil
e eye roll.
“Just ignore me, Bas. I’m a bit wimpy about things today.”
“What sort of things?”
We continued past the church toward the town square. “Oh, various and sundry issues. For one, Bart thinks he’s sending Corbin a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but the truth is I’m no more a wolf than you are.”
Bas looked thoughtful. “Wolves eat people. I wonder what it feels like to be eaten.”
The memory of Corbin’s mouth on my breast bloomed to full-color, surround-sound, feel-vision, delicious life in my mind, making my stomach go all quivery. With much grit and determination, I dragged my attention back to the subject at hand. “The whole thing is ridiculous. It’s not like I can actually do anything to make a difference.”
The square was bustling with the usual group of women at the well in the center, various children, dogs, and assorted livestock running around, and a few white-haired men who were all that were left to manage the shops after the massacre. I paused at the edge of the square, in the shade of a tailor shop, frowning as I looked around. “Bas, someone mentioned a mine on the island.”
“Aye. Emerald mine. ’Tis in the belly of the Turtle.”
I glanced behind me at the humpback center of the island, the rounded hemisphere bearing a resemblance to the shell of a turtle, hence the name. “Emeralds, huh? So a lot of the men work there?”
He shook his head. “They’re all dead now. Black Corbin killed ’em. Cap’n Bart, he brought in more men, but they’re not many, and they’re busy in the crew foragin’ and keepin’ Black Corbin from slittin’ our throats while we sleep.”
A protest that Corbin would never do anything so nefarious rose on my lips, but I bit it back, instead looking along the arms of the crescent that formed the harbor. On either side, crude wooden structures had been built, upon which even now men swarmed, working to install the new bigger cannons that would be used to protect the town.
I looked back at the square, the pleasant, ordinary scene in front of me contrasting violently with the vision of the cobblestones running red with the blood of the remaining inhabitants of the island.
If what Corbin and Bart said about the blockade was true, then the people of Turtle’s Back needed my help.
“I have to write a letter,” I said, making a decision. “Who has parchment, do you know?”
Bas’s eyes widened in surprise. “Ye be wantin’ to write a letter? To a person?”
“Yeah. Yes . . . er . . . aye. I do. An important letter. I don’t have any reales, so I need someone who would be willing to barter something for a bit of parchment, a pen, and ink.”
Bas continued to look stunned by my request. I gave up hoping for a suggestion from him and scanned the shops around the square, finally settling on the largest merchant shop as being the wealthiest in town, and thus the most likely to have extravagances like parchment and ink.
Two hours later I emerged from a nearby sweltering out-building, sucking at a blistering spot on my left palm, my right hand just as sore, but triumphantly clutching a rolled-up scrap of parchment, a cast-off quill, and a minuscule amount of ink in a stopperless bottle.
Bas, who had been napping in the shade of a nearby coconut tree, got up and shambled after me as I headed for Renata’s house. “Ye got yer letter, then?”
“I churned enough butter to clog up the arteries of half the town,” I said. “And, yes, I got the parchment and ink. Now, for a few quiet moments to write the letter. Oh, are you busy? No? Would you mind staying around the square? I want you to watch for someone.”
“Who?” Bas asked, his head to the side as Bran ruffled through his hair. I avoided looking at both of them, knowing the bird had probably found feasts there in the past.
“A friend of mine. He’s . . . er . . . he looks like a leper. Or a deranged man. But he’s neither; he’s perfectly harmless, I assure you . . .” My voice trailed off. Reassurances weren’t necessary. The minute the word leper left my lips, Bas’s eyes lit up.
“If you see him, go up to him quietly, without drawing any attention to yourself, and tell him I have a message for him to deliver. You got that?”
He nodded. I parked him in the square, gave him an apple I’d confiscated for my lunch, and hurried back to the small room that Renata had let me use.
It took me a few tries, and much of the remaining shaft of the quill, to get a point that would write even remotely legibly, but at last I sat cross-legged on the floor, a board on my lap, the rumpled bit of parchment stretched out on it. I teased my chin with the feather end of the quill as I thought about what I wanted to write.
Dear Corbin,
I’ve changed my mind about five dozen times in the last few hours about what I wanted to say to you. My first response to your proposal was, as you imagined, to be quite startled. I didn’t scream, though, but that’s because I figured it would bring everyone in the town on the run, and I’d never get your letter read then. After I was through being startled, I was a bit annoyed. It seemed like you were back to being that blond charmer, interested only in conquests and having women ogle his manly chest. But then I had a chat with Bart, and . . . well, I decided that I wasn’t going to say no.
I’m not saying yes, either. I think we need to talk, face-to-face. I’ve got some concerns that I want to discuss with you, and it’s too difficult to do it via not-very-instant messaging. Is it possible for us to get together? I’m free during the evenings. Usually Bas and I hang out around the town, since I don’t like for him to be in Renata’s when customers start arriving. I can meet you at that little beach on the other side of the island. Don’t come in through the harbor—Bart has some new guns, and I get the idea he’d really relish using them on you.
Sincerely,
Amy
PS—I’ve talked to what seems like half the town so far, and no luck on Paul-hunting. Have you found him yet? I get back spasms if I don’t move around, so we need to get out of here soon before my body revolts on me.
I read the letter over, yearning for my handy Wite-Out pen to remove the worst of the inky blotches, splashes, smears, and fingerprints, but in the end, I shrugged and figured Corbin would just have to decipher it as best he could. I used a bit of plain old candle wax to seal the rolled-up parchment, then went in search of Bas, and, I hoped, Holder. I hadn’t heard any hue and cry indicating that one of Corbin’s men had been caught, so I assumed he was lying low until night, when he could slip out of town.
Night was just falling when we finally found him.
“Psst! Amy!” Holder hissed from an alley Bas and I were passing. A woman and her children walking next to me paused to look down the alley.
“Argh, me beauty, ye’re a fine-lookin’ wench. Be ye lookin’ to play hoist the anchor?” Holder said, doubling over and drooling as he shuffled toward us. The woman hurried her children away quickly. Holder glanced around as he straightened up, grabbing my arm and hauling me into the shadow of the alleyway.
“There you are. We’ve been searching everywhere for you. I’m glad to see you haven’t been caught, although, really, is the drool necessary?”
“Every good lunatic drools,” he answered, flashing me a smile. “Hoy, Bas. How’s tricks?”
Bas’s face fell when he realized that the lunatic was none other than Holder in disguise, a fact I’d kept from him in case he inadvertently let it slip that Corbin’s first mate was lurking about town. “Oh, it’s ye. Cap’n Amy said ye were a leper. I don’t suppose ye are?” he asked hopefully.
“No, sorry, lad, no leprosy, although I get a horrible rash on my belly if I eat nachos. Something in the cheese, I think,” he answered, idly scratching the body part in question.
“Can we discuss your rashy stomach another time? You need to get out of town. Bart’s men are seriously building up defenses, and it’s not safe for you to be here. I have a letter for Corbin.” I gave him the rolled-up parchment. He eyed it. “No peeking. It’s sealed.”
He grinned and saluted me
with it. “Aye, aye, m’lady. Corb should be coming back for me just before the moon is high, so he’ll have it before the night is over.”
“Thanks. Be careful. From what I can tell, feelings are running pretty high over you guys.”
A curious look crossed his face, part puzzlement, part interest. “Really? Because of the blockade?”
I gaped at him for a moment or two, making a mental readjustment in my image of him. I hadn’t thought he would be so callous as to totally disregard the number of men he and Corbin and the rest of their crew had so coldbloodedly killed, but even knowing they did it in the spirit of the game, I was taken aback enough that I said nothing other than to repeat my warning to be careful leaving the town.
Hours later I was snuggled into my bed, dreaming about skeletons that danced on bleeding hearts. A hand clapped over my mouth was the first indication that all was not right. The second was the (now familiar) black sack that was shoved over my head and torso, confining me into a helpless blob of sleepy woman.
My mouth worked, however. The kidnappers didn’t say anything to my scathing estimates of their parentage and ancestry, but I was not in the least bit surprised when, ten minutes later, I was deposited on a hard wooden seat on a rocking platform.
The sacking was unwound from my body and lifted off, the sudden rush of sea air—as well as the man seated across the rowboat from me—confirming my suspicions.
“Hello, luv,” Corbin said. “Ready to get married?”
Chapter 12
Here’s a first-rate opportunity
To get married with impunity. . . .
—Ibid, Act I
“Dearly beloved—”
“Corbin, you’re mad. What on earth were you doing on Turtle’s Back?”
“I figured it was safer for you to be with me. Bart is my enemy, after all . . .”