“Then fly. Hoist all sails, and run out the sweeps if you won’t roll the guns. Get him out of the way,” he snaps at Ebrahim, and I’m again seized from behind, and then tossed into the second cabin below the quarterdeck.
Percy and Felicity are seated on the cabin floor with their backs to the row of looted luggage from the xebec. Their wrists are still bound, and, dear God, they really are waifish looking. Felicity’s hair has gotten lank with grease, the tail of her plait crusted pale gray with seawater, and she’s still in the same Jesuit as when we were robbed by the duke and his men. The taffeta has shifted from golden to dirt brown, and the embroidered blossoms along the skirt are beginning to unravel.
Percy flies to his feet when he sees me. “Monty! What happened? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” He’s speaking so fast his sentences step on each other.
“I’m fine, Perce.”
“He said he was going to—”
“He didn’t.” He grabs each of my hands in both of his and examines them, like he doesn’t quite believe me. I wiggle my fingers for emphasis. “All still attached. Would you like to have a count?”
His shoulders slump. “Dear God, Monty. I really thought—”
“Yes, I heard you shrieking.” I press my palms flat against his. “Much appreciated.”
“What’s happening on the deck?” Felicity asks. She’s on her feet now too, standing with her face to the rippled glass panes set into the door. She’s not looking quite as concerned about me keeping all my appendages as I would like.
“There’s a ship coming our way,” I reply. “French Royal Navy. The pirates are going to make a run.”
“The navy will outrun this ship with little effort,” she says. “And we’ll be victims of the shortest kidnapping in the history of piracy.”
“We can’t let them know who we are,” I say.
“Who? The pirates? I think you already did a bang-up job of announcing us.”
“No, the navy. If they find us, we’ll be in trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” she replies. “We’re already in trouble. That ship could be our rescue.”
“If we’re taken by those navy men, they’ll send us back to Lockwood or Father. They might even hand us over to the duke if he’s got some sort of notice out to be on watch for us, and then we’ll never get to Venice.”
“So, which is worse?” Percy asks. “The duke or pirates?”
The worst thing would be never making it to Venice for Percy—particularly now that I’ve had his hand on my knee and his mouth that close to mine. I’ll not give up on getting to the sinking island for him, even if it’s by pirate ship we have to travel. “I think I have a plan.”
“Would you care to air it for the rest of us before you act?” Felicity asks. But before I can, the cabin door is thrown open and we’re greeted by Scipio and two more of the pirates in silhouette against the dawn.
“We need this out of sight if we’re boarded.” Scipio pushes past us to hoist one of the trunks onto his shoulder. No one is stopping me, so when he goes out onto the deck, I chase after, Felicity and Percy at my heels.
“We can help you escape the navy,” I call.
“Get back in the cabin,” Scipio replies, barely looking at me.
“No, listen.” I step between him and the stairs leading to the lower deck. I think he’s going to shove me out of the way, and I flinch, but he stops, trunk still balanced upon his shoulder. I swallow. “You know that ship will catch you, and you know you’ll be outgunned if you stand and fight—even running from them makes you look guilty. You’ll be either slaughtered or taken back to Marseilles and hanged for piracy. But we can help you get away.”
“Why would you want to help us?” he asks.
“Because we are good Christians who extend charity to those who have done us wrong?” I try not to make that a question but the little bastard peaks at the end.
The lie doesn’t stick for long. “Are you running from the navy?” Scipio asks.
“We might be. Look, we’ve as much need to avoid being caught by them as you do. But if you trust me, and if you let them board, I think we can get away from here.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because you’ve got no other choice.”
Above us, one of the high sails drops with a muted crack.
“You can still ransom us at the end of this,” I say. “But you’re not going to be free enough to do said ransoming if you run now.”
Scipio looks from me to Percy and Felicity, his face unreadable. Then abruptly he tosses down the trunk and calls across the deck. “Bring her around. We wait for the navy.”
“Scip—” someone calls down from the rigging, but Scipio interrupts.
“Montague’s right—we’ll be outgunned and outmanned, and standing to fight will condemn us. Pull in the sails and drop the anchor, now!” Then to me he asks, softer and more anxious, “What is it you’re planning?”
“Well,” I reply, keenly aware that everyone is paying me attention, “could I have a look in that trunk?”
24
The French have, indeed, spotted us and they do, indeed, fly a flag of parlay, which we ignore so that they’re forced to drop their longboats and come to us. We extend only the barest accommodation in throwing down a ladder for them to haul themselves aboard.
A few of the lower ranks come up first—presumably to absorb any bullets we might be waiting to rain upon them—before their commanding officer appears. He’s a man about my father’s age, with skin as sea-whipped as the pirates’ but with considerably more polish about him. The tails of his coat flap against his legs as the wind rips at them, tangling around the scabbard dangling from his belt. He swings himself aboard, then struts across the deck to where the crew is assembled, his hand behind his back and his chin thrust in the air—it doesn’t seem a far distance until you watch a cove really make a meal of walking it. Behind him, more navy men are swarming onto the deck. Our pirate hosts are outnumbered at least three to one.
Scipio steps forward to meet the commander, his hat in his hands. “Sir.”
The officer pulls up short like he’s spotted a rat underfoot. “How dare you address me.”
Even across the deck, I swear I can hear Scipio’s teeth grinding. “I’m the captain of this vessel.”
“That seems unlikely, unless this is some kind of pirate operation.” The officer wrinkles his nose. “Where is your commanding officer?”
His gaze moves to the crew—he’s clearly looking for someone else to present himself. Then his eyes fall upon Felicity and me, standing in the fine clothes we plundered from the trunks of the xebec. It was damn near impossible to find a coat that fit me in the sleeves—I’m hoping the fact that I’ve cuffed them twice and am still swimming won’t give away our ruse. But in a miracle worthy of the New Testament, amid all the men’s wear in the trunks was a fine silk dress wrapped in thin paper—probably a gift for someone’s sweetheart back home. It’s scooped far lower than Felicity’s usual necklines, and as the officer’s eyes sweep us, her hands twitch at her sides, like she’s desperate to hold them over her chest. She’s one strong breeze away from creating a diversion of an entirely different variety.