One of the men whistles. Scipio stares at her for a moment, then calls to the man behind me, “Bring the English lord to my cabin to select which of his limbs we’ll be cutting off to send to his father in demand for ransom payment. Let’s see if that makes us piratical enough for milady.”
The big man hooks his arm around my neck and drags me forward before I’ve got a chance to do anything more than shoot Felicity a look that is mostly panic. Behind us, I hear her shout, “Wait, stop—” at the same time Percy shouts, “No!” and makes a bolt for me. One of the men catches him round the waist before he gets far, and he doubles over with a gasp. That’s the last glimpse I get of them before the big man pushes me across the deck after Scipio, shoves me into his cabin, and slams the door behind the three of us, so hard the amber panes that are set into it rattle in their frames.
Scipio crosses behind a battered desk, pushes a set of charts and a sextant out of the way, then reaches into his boot and withdraws a bloody great knife with a serrated edge. “Now,” he says to me, “which of your fingers do you think your father will best recognize if we send it along with a letter demanding payment for your safe return?”
“So we’re to be ransomed, is that it?” I’m not keen on being hostage to pirates in any capacity, but ransom is by far the most savory of our distinctly unsavory possible fates.
“Would you like to protest that?”
“No,” I reply. “But I think Felicity’s right.”
Scipio looks up. “Excuse me?”
I swallow hard. I’ve little ammunition against him, but I’ll use it until I’m dry. “You’re rotten pirates.”
“Does that matter? We needn’t be the best raiders in the Mediterranean to be worth fearing.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then put your hand on the table and tell me which finger is your least favorite.”
He reaches for me and I pull back, smacking hard into the big man still planted like an oak behind me. It’s akin to running into a wall.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of me,” Scipio says.
I’m breathing properly hard now, and that not afraid bit was definitely a lie. I’m afeard down to my bones. Out on the deck, I can hear Percy still hollering after me.
I put my bound hands on the table, fingers spread like I am brave enough to let him choose, though if he truly comes at me with that knife, I intend to make certain he also walks out of this cabin with at least one finger less.
Scipio makes a study of my hands that’s so deliberate it feels put-on. His whole pirate persona feels strangely like an act, that of a man who chooses to be threatening simply to avoid others’ threatening him. “Why not chop off my head?” I ask. “He’ll recognize that even better.”
To my surprise, he laughs. “What’s your name?”
“Lord Henry Montague, Viscount of Disley.”
“So very grand. How old are you?”
“Eight and ten years.”
“Tell me, Lord Henry Montague, Viscount of Disley, if you truly are an earl’s son, why were you stowed away upon a merchant ship and why do you look as though you’ve been several days without the sort of luxuries usually afforded to a viscount? If you’re honest about who you are, you might save your finger yet.”
“I’m not lying. We’re touring, from England, but we’ve lost our company.”
“Well then, let Ebrahim tourniquet your arm so you don’t bleed out on my desk.” Scipio jams the knife into the table. I flinch more than I wish I had. “How much do you think your father would pay for the return of you, your lady, and your man?”
“My sister,” I say, tripping over the words in my haste to get that clarifying point out. “And my friend.”
“Friend? Is he a lord as well? I thought you English were particular about your coloring.”
I’m not sure why an African pirate might have reason to know this—or why words like earl and viscount would mean anything to him unless he’s been studying the peerage on the off chance a hostage situation such as this arose—but I say, “He’s not a lord, but we’ve all people who will come looking for us.”
“People who will pay for you?”
“So long as we’ve still got all our limbs when we’re returned. We’ve been separated from our company and we’re trying to get to Venice to meet up with them but we haven’t any money. So you can cut off my finger, but know that decreases my value considerably.”
“How much do you think your father has authorized your cicerone to pay in the event of kidnapping?”
I am, first, not certain those terms were ever written into my father’s agreement with Lockwood, and, second, not certain my father would give a ha’penny to have me back. And we have absolutely no company to speak of in Venice—that’s entirely a rook—unless you count the duke and Helena, who may very well be waiting for us there. This lie is going to fall apart like wet newsprint if he actually takes to it.
I’m spared answering by a frantic slapping on the door. Scipio nods to Ebrahim, who opens it, revealing their greenhorn with a spyglass clutched in his hands. “Ship to the north, Scip,” he says, panic pitching his voice.
“Well then.” Scipio jerks his knife out of the table and stashes it in his belt. “Let’s see the men to stations. Roll out the guns—”
“It’s not a merchantman,” the lad interrupts. “It’s the French Royal Navy.”
“What?” Scipio makes a break for the deck. I follow, but Ebrahim seizes me by the arm, making certain that if I’m going anywhere, it’s with one of his hamlike hands locked around me.
The men are gathered at the starboard rail, staring out to the water and murmuring to each other. Felicity and Percy are nowhere to be seen, and I have a sudden, horrid vision of them being tossed overboard while I was conferencing with the captain.
Scipio takes the steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time, then whips an agate spyglass from his coat and raises it to his eye.
“Is it truly the French?” one of his men calls to him.
Scipio adjusts his glass. “It’s a navy frigate—French pennant,” he says. “Twenty-six twelve-pound long guns, six of the twelvers.” It’s clear from his tone that’s more guns than we’ve got on board.
My first thought is that we’re saved.
My second is that we are now in a whole different variety of trouble.
“Do you think they’ve spotted us?” Ebrahim calls. “They’re far out still.”
“They’re angling this way.” Scipio lowers the glass and looks up into the rigging. “Strip the colors! We’ll not be running a black pennant if we’re to be seized by the navy. Get a French flag up—anything, get anything up. Roll out the guns—”
“We can’t fire, there’s still a chance we might fly,” one of the men argues.