Now, he was really worried. He looked back at his prisoners’ faces. One of them was smiling at him. Then he began to laugh. His fellow followed suit. Connor turned to Jez, confused, as the wave of laughter spread from one prisoner to the next, until a crescendo of laughter took over the deck.
Suddenly, Connor became aware that his crewmates no longer formed the outer periphery of the deck. They were now surrounded by a circle of pirates, dressed head to toe in black like their prisoners, brandishing the same deadly scimitars. How had the captives done it? The deck was now full of them. The pirates of The Diablo were completely outnumbered.
“They tricked us,” Jez said. “Look over there!”
Connor followed his gaze to where a line of black-clad figures were rising from two holes on the deck. Trap-doors!
“And look behind you!”
Connor twisted his head. More crew members were climbing out from two farther trapdoors at the starboard end of the ship. The defending crew had lulled the pirates of The Diablo into a false sense of victory by only fielding a skeleton crew for the initial fight. It was a bold move — for how did they know that the pirates would not go in for the kill? But the risky stratagem had paid off and now four times as many black-clad crew stood ranged about the deck, scimitars outstretched.
“What do we do?” Connor asked Jez. Jez shrugged, looking beaten. “Know any good prayers, mate?”
Connor had never seen Jez so dejected. He looked from Jez’s ashen face to the smiling prisoners before him — or, at least, the men he’d thought were his prisoners. Suddenly, Connor felt very, very sick.
“Lay down your weapons, attacking scum!”
The captain’s voice at last called out across the deck. Still, Connor held tight to his raised rapier. No pirate of The Diablo could lay down his or her weapon without instruction from a commanding officer. It was one of the articles Connor had signed up to when he joined Molucco Wrathe’s command.
But now, to his surprise, Connor heard Cate cry, “Lay down your weapons, fellows.”
He could scarcely believe his ears. In the three months of his tenure on the ship they had been in some scrapes, but nothing compared to this. All around him, weapons thudded to the floor. He turned questioningly to Jez, who nodded sadly. Together, they lay down their rapiers. As they did so, in a clearly well-rehearsed movement, the former prisoners swept up their scimitars. Now the crew of The Diablo were held under swords from both sides. They had no chance of escape. But where was the enemy captain?
“Let the shamed captain announce himself!” It was the same voice that had commanded them to lay down their weapons. A voice that spoke of violence and no mercy. Connor and the others glanced about the deck. But it was not clear who was speaking. “Let the shamed captain announce himself!” repeated the voice.
“I have already made my presence clear,” called Molucco Wrathe in response, “which is more than can be said for you, sir.”
Connor looked over to Captain Wrathe. Even now, in the face of disaster, Molucco had lost none of his grandeur. He was, and would ever be, a larger-than-life character.
Suddenly, there was a noise high up above. Connor glanced up to the crow’s nest. A man stood there — clad in the same costume as his crew, head to toe in black. The other pirates began looking upward, too.
Then, to Connor’s amazement, the captain jumped from the crow’s nest. He dived down onto the deck, flying past the sails and rigging, trailing a black cord behind him. As he neared the deck — and certain death — the cord held him tight, like a bungee. He bounced for a moment, then hung upside down — and perfectly still — like a sleeping bat. Finally, the captain unsheathed his scimitar and sliced through the cord. As the cord broke free, he executed a perfect somersault in midair, landing neatly on the deck a few feet from where Molucco stood.
The mysterious captain strode toward Molucco. His scimitar flashed in the sunlight like cut diamond. He ran it across Captain Wrathe’s neck. Still, Molucco did not flinch.
Now the captain lifted his other hand and removed the dark coverings of his head. The black cloth unfurled like ribbons, which flew away in the breeze.
Only now, did Captain Wrathe pale and seem to shrink in stature. Only now, did he seem at a loss for words, gulping for air. Until, at last, he managed to open his mouth and speak.
“You! But it can’t be . . . can it?”
Connor turned to Jez, wondering if he knew what was going on. But, for once in his life, Jez Stukeley was utterly silent.
3
THE DEVIL AND THE ALBATROSS
The captains stood face to face. Well, as close as was possible, given that the captain of the containership was a good head taller than Molucco Wrathe. His face was tanned, angular and smooth as soapstone, save for a deep scar, which dissected his cheek like a purple river.
“Narcisos Drakoulis,” Captain Wrathe exclaimed in wonder. “I thought to have seen the last of you.”
“I’m sure you did, Wrathe.” Captain Drakoulis smiled, without a trace of warmth. “Many winters have come and gone since Ithaka.”
Connor looked from one captain to the other, wondering what dark history lay between them.
“Your crew mutinied. They took your ship. You were marooned. How did you do it? All this . . .” Captain Wrathe’s voice trailed off as he surveyed the deck, taking stock of Drakoulis’ hoards of fighters, their scimitars flashing like fire in the sunlight.
Drakoulis smiled again through tight lips. “Always have a Plan B, Wrathe. It’s the first rule of captaincy, is it not?” He raised his scimitar in the air, prompting his crew to repeat the gesture, so their weapons surrounded the pirates of The Diablo like a lethal fence.
“Keep still your weapons,” Drakoulis ordered, “for now.”
Connor shuddered, wanting to check Jez’s reaction but unable to tear his eyes away from Captain Drakoulis. There was such danger in the captain’s cold eyes and in his emotionless voice. Connor realized that today’s attack had been doomed. He cursed himself for being so gung ho. Now, he might never see Grace again. After everything it had taken to find her, now it might all come to an end on this very deck — at the hands of one of Drakoulis’ crew.
“There’s been a mistake, Drakoulis,” Molucco Wrathe said. “You know I’d never order an attack on another pirate captain’s ship.”
Drakoulis shook his head. “I know nothing of the sort.”
Molucco forged ahead, unperturbed by the icy tone of his enemy. “We thought this was a containership. We were misinformed . . .”
“Yes,” Drakoulis said, smiling again. “You were misinformed.” He paused, as if carefully weighing his words. “It’s curious how these . . . confusions, occur.”
Connor looked over at Jez now, and found him frowning. “We were tricked,” Jez hissed. “This was a set-up.”
“It’s time that you paid for your errant ways,” Drakoulis continued, “There’s a Pirate Code, Wrathe, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten — or else think you are somehow above. You have some fanciful notion, perhaps, of the Wrathe name — you and your brothers. You dive in and out of other captains’ sea-lanes — laying siege here, taking plunder there. Oh it’s all sport to you and your . . . playmates, is it not?”
Connor had heard other pirates rail about Captain Wrathe before. He thought back to his first visit to Ma Kettle’s Tavern, when a dozen other captains had unleashed their anger on Captain Wrathe. That had been frightening, but this was an altogether more dangerous situation. The other pirates had only wanted to vent their fury. Captain Drakoulis had planned and executed a cold-blooded mission to ensnare Captain Wrathe and his crew. Connor sensed that Drakoulis was seeking revenge for some ancient hurt. What had Molucco done to him? Connor looked with new eyes at the captain to whom he had pledged his allegiance.
“What do you want, Drakoulis?” Captain Wrathe’s question pulled Connor roughly back into the present — dire — situation.
“I already told you, Wrathe.
The time has come to pay for your actions.”
“Let’s talk terms then, man, and we’ll both be on our way.” Captain Wrathe sounded as cocksure as ever.
Drakoulis resumed in his cold voice, “There is a price to be paid for your misdemeanors.”
“Name your price,” answered Molucco. “And remind me, is it gold or silver that tickles your fancy?”
Drakoulis looked at Molucco in disgust, shaking his head slowly. As he did so, Connor noticed that in contrast to Captain Wrathe — who was dripping in silver and sapphires — Captain Drakoulis wore no jewelry. His uniform was the same as the rest of his company — simple, black and unadorned. When he spoke again, his voice was full of disdain.
“How typical of you to think that I would wish for the same ephemeral rewards as you, Wrathe. The price of your transgressions will not be paid in metal, Captain. It will be paid in the only currency that matters — blood.”
At their captain’s words, the crew raised their scimitars once more. It was a perfectly smooth, coordinated movement. How well Drakoulis had rehearsed them. Connor could not begin to think what fresh horror would now be un-leashed. But he knew that Drakoulis’ pirates would be perfectly prepared, while he and his crewmates would be left floundering. He felt a flash of anger at Captain Wrathe for putting him and the others into this position. But the anger soon dissipated. Molucco Wrathe had welcomed him aboard his ship like a father. He had given Connor sanctuary in his darkest hour — given him back hope. Molucco might be an unruly rogue, but he was not an evil man. In stark contrast, it appeared, to Captain Narcisos Drakoulis.
“A duel,” Drakoulis announced. “The matter will be settled by a duel — to the death.”
Molucco flinched. It was no secret that his best fighting years were behind him. He was still a force to be reckoned with, but he had long since delegated the key combat to the younger members of his crew. Connor looked from Molucco Wrathe to Narcisos Drakoulis. In the stark white sunlight, the contrast was all too obvious. Captain Wrathe appeared overweight and overindulged while, beneath his tight black vestments, Narcisos Drakoulis was lean and hard and primed for the fight. It was no contest. If it came to swords, Connor and his mates would be returning to The Diablo without their captain.
But Drakoulis smiled at Molucco once more. “Of course, I’m not suggesting that you and I engage in direct combat. Why, it would hardly be worth oiling this scimitar for such sport. No, Wrathe, you shall put forward your best swords-man and so shall I.” Drakoulis’ dark eyes narrowed. “Best decide quickly who it shall be.”
Molucco frowned. He sought out Cate in the crowd. Connor held his breath. Was Captain Wrathe going to choose her for the duel? She must rank as one of the best fighters on the ship, certainly the most knowledgeable.
But to risk losing her would be a terrible gamble. And, as her friend as well as her protégé, Connor felt a wave of dread at the thought.
“All right,” Drakoulis announced, “while you dither about, allow me to introduce you to your combatant. Gi-daki Sarakakino, step forward!”
There was a united cheer from the ranks of Drakoulis’ crew as one of their number began a slow march to the center of the deck. Connor felt a flood of fear as he heard the heavy footsteps approaching. The man brushed past him and the weight of his tensed muscle sent a searing pain into Connor’s shoulder. He turned and saw a dark bruise already forming on his flesh. Looking up again, he watched Drakoulis smile and extend his hand to his chosen swordsman. Sarakakino shook it and then turned to salute his crewmates. Connor felt his heart sink. Few of the pirates of The Diablo could take on an opponent such as this.
Molucco was locked deep in conversation with Cate.
Captain Drakoulis shook his head. “It comes as little surprise that you struggle so to make a decision for yourself.”
For the first time, Molucco gave way to anger. “My ship is a democracy,” he snarled, “and I will have the opinion of my deputy on this matter.”
Drakoulis shot Molucco a contemptuous look but did not, for the moment, say anything more.
It was agony watching Captain Wrathe and Cate discussing the dire situation. Connor knew how much it would pain them both to have to elect a pirate to fight alone like this. Life on The Diablo was based on teamwork and there was real friendship among the crew members, cutting through the hierarchy without weakening it. There was no sense on The Diablo that even one pirate was expendable.
At last, Captain Wrathe turned from Cate and addressed Narcisos Drakoulis.
“Our decision is made.”
Connor, together with the rest of his crew, awaited the verdict.
“We will not submit to a member of our crew engaging in a duel.”
For a moment, Drakoulis said nothing. Then he turned to Sarakakino. Both men started to laugh. Drakoulis composed himself and turned back to Molucco.
“You act as if you have a choice,” Drakoulis said. “This isn’t a game, Captain. I have told you — it is time to pay the price.”
Molucco stepped up to Captain Drakoulis, infused with a new energy. “You spoke of rules before, Captain. And yet you issue your dictate like some kind of demigod.”
“Demigod?” sneered Drakoulis, “Why, isn’t every ship its own universe and every pirate captain god of all he surveys?”
Connor felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. There was madness in Drakoulis. Allied to his violence, who could tell the extent of the danger he posed?
“I’ll report you to the Pirate Federation,” Molucco said.
Drakoulis shook his head. “I don’t think so, Wrathe. You are on The Albatross now, my ship.”
The Albatross, thought Connor, grimly. It was a curious name for a ship. The long-winged seabird was a portent of doom to sailors. And so it had proved to the crew of The Diablo. Clearly, the devil was no match for the albatross today.
“You’re out of your sea-lane,” Drakoulis announced coldly.
“This isn’t your lane, either.”
“It matters not,” said Drakoulis dismissively. “The Pirate Federation is cutting you loose, Wrathe. They’ve grown weary of your transgressions. Lord knows that they’ve tried their best to correct you. Even sending one of their spies into your crew —”
“A spy?”
Molucco stopped in his tracks, aghast.
“Yes — a spy!” Drakoulis imitated Molucco’s wide-eyed confusion. “Chang Ko Li’s daughter. You thought she was in training to be a captain, but all the time she was spying on you and reporting back to the Feds.”
This was news not only to Captain Wrathe. Connor watched the troubling accusation ricochet around his crewmates. It hit him hard too. He had experienced at close hand Cheng Li’s frustrations with Captain Wrathe, but he had never thought she was a spy. As his mind frantically rewound their conversations, he realized that it all fit. If only she were here to explain herself . . . but he hadn’t seen her in almost three months.
Captain Wrathe shook his head. “This is more of your madness, Drakoulis,” he said. “Mistress Li was completing her academy training. And the Federation chose The Diablo for her apprenticeship.”
“So where is she now?” Drakoulis asked, with a sneer.
“She’s back at the academy, on a teaching assignment.”
“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? She resigned from your command due to an exceptional offer from the Federation. Or was it, perhaps, because she had failed in her mission to bring you into line?”
“No!” shouted Molucco.
“Why not ask her yourself, next time you bump into her at Ma Kettle’s? I think you’ll find Mistress Li to be full of interesting stories. That is, of course, if she still deigns to speak with you.”
Molucco looked thunderstruck. Connor felt equally be-wildered. He knew only a little of the Pirate Federation. Was it true that the Federation was spying on Molucco Wrathe and his pirates? Was Narcisos Drakoulis acting independently or had he been contracted as an assassin? Had Cheng Li really tried — an
d failed — to contain Molucco’s roguish ways? It seemed as if all Molucco’s chickens had come home to roost this time.
“We’ve talked enough,” Drakoulis spat. “It’s time to settle the matter. Which of your crew will fight the duel with Sarakakino here?”
As he spoke, his chosen combatant let slip his shirt, revealing a taut, muscle-bound chest and arms, channeled with thick veins. As Sarakakino’s shirt fell to the deck, he turned around and clenched his biceps. Across the tanned skin of his back was a vast tattoo of a bird, its long wings stretching out over his shoulder blades. Another albatross, Connor realized. If ever there was a portent of doom, this bird tattoo was it.
“I told you before,” Molucco said, “I’ll put no pirate of mine to the sword.”
“And I told you,” Drakoulis said, exploding with rage, “to put one man forward or I’ll unleash hell on the entirety of your crew!”
All about the deck, the curved scimitars were raised.
The two captains stood, face to face, in deadlock.
Then, to Connor’s surprise — and horror — he heard a familiar voice cry out.
“I’ll fight him, Captain Wrathe. Let me fight him!”
4
THE VISITOR
Grace lay on the bed in her cabin. Above her, the deck of The Diablo was quiet. That meant they’d gone — all of the pirates involved in the attack. Now, those that were left behind could only wait. This was the time she hated. She could just about cope with the idea of Connor going into battle — there was precious little she could do to prevent it — so long as she didn’t have time to dwell on it too much. While he was away, she liked to keep busy. Whenever possible, she used this time to do her duties, but today she’d been on the early roster and now she had a couple of hours to herself. She could always go and offer to help with more of the work, but time off aboard The Diablo was a luxury not to be wasted. Besides, she had slept badly the night before, and that — combined with her early start — had left her dog-tired.