Shadow Road Page 5

  "It's too cold for all this talk," the third man grunted. Then he bent over, grabbed the girl's corpse by its stiffened arm, hefted the body up out of the boat, and rolled it clumsily over the side and into the water. "Problem solved," he croaked, and hobbled back toward his tarp.

  The other two men gazed at the girl's rigid figure floating a few feet away, but neither of them was willing to get wet retrieving it. They stood in silent vigil as the waves pulled her into the grey of a misty dawn.

  15th of Uirra

  I might have missed a day. Or two. If not, we had been drifting with the current, rudderless and helpless, for six days. If I did miss a day, today could very well have been the eighth sunrise since the Galvania went down. Just a week, but it felt like a lifetime.

  Ironically, we knew where we were thanks to the navigator. We simply had no way of doing anything about it. Oars could only do so much on the open ocean.

  The ration tins started running low this morning. With the extra boats there were extra survival tins, and a doctor named Turragan had the good sense to suggest we hold them in reserve for when we ran out of biscuits, rather than dividing everything up at the very beginning.

  The fat man that pushed me on the Galvania died today.

  He and his wife didn't ration their biscuits. They were in a boat not far from ours, and I could hear them bickering about it all last night, blaming each other for sneaking more than their fair share. The woman finally reminded him that there were more biscuits, and that it wasn't right that Turragan had control over them. She suggested that everyone should be able to have any of those biscuits if they needed them. A moment later, the man poked his head out of the gap in their tarpaulin.

  He glanced around. No one else was stirring yet, and he came lumbering all the way out, skulking from one empty boat to another.

  He had nearly reached the boat containing Turragan's hoard when Orrul stood up, barring his way. "What are you doing, Arnush?"

  Arnush eyed Orrul. Then he eyed the small mound of tins in the boat beyond. With a sudden jerk of his wrist he was brandishing a knife. "Taking wot's mine!"

  There was no fight. Orrul braced himself. The fat man made a lunge for him, tripped over his own feet, pitched forward over the gunnel, and hit the side of his head on the metal edge of the bowsprit as he dropped through the gap between his boat and the one Orrul was in.

  That was it. He never came back up, and no one dared dive under the flotilla to pull him back out.

  ~~~

  Laffa caught a fish a few minutes ago and began eating it like a bar of softmelt sugar – raw, and with enraptured appreciation.

  It was hard to look away. I couldn't decide if I was disgusted, or jealous. I had eaten my ration biscuit, and my stomach was already gnawing at my spine. I would almost have preferred to starve all the way than stretch the inevitable so far. What was the point of eating barely enough to stay alive if we were just going to die anyway?

  ~~~

  Laffa peered at me while I wrote that, her beady eyes laughing from within the crinkles of her crow's-feet.

  She rested her cheek on her hand, supporting her head with her elbow on the wall of the boat. "You strange child, Maury. Always with nose in book... Scribble scribble scribble... Does book talk? Does book feel?"

  I sighed and lay back against the side of the boat, stretching my cramped legs out straight. If anyone had told me that the meek, frightened old lady I dragged off the Galvania would turn out to be a nosy, persnickety, bossy... "No. Book doesn't talk. Book is quiet. Book doesn't poke me in the middle of the night or eat smelly fish," I answered in Tettian.

  Laffa grinned, sly, her nearly toothless gums allowing her upper lip to fold into her mouth. Then she waved the heavily gnawed fish carcass in my direction. "You try fish. You like fish more than book, betchamoy."

  "Betcham not," I shot back.

  "Betcham big. Here. Try." She leaned forward to shove the fish an inch from my nose.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and pinched my lips shut.

  "Try!" she said, more insistently, like a parent telling a stubborn toddler to eat her peas.

  I shook my head, glaring at her. "Mmm-mmm."

  She paused, her wrinkled face going still, those bright-button eyes sober. "You stubborn girl. Fish good. Lying around, pretending you die... Scribble, scribble... No good. Live. Get up. You got fish. Eat fish," she said, drawing out the word 'fish' as she placed the pale, chewed open middle between her teeth again and bit into it with gusto. "Understand?" she asked, munching something, both wiry eyebrows raised expectantly.

  When I firmed my chin and turned away, she gave me a perplexed squint, sighed, then muttered, "Bah. You foolish," and gave up on me.

  I slouched into the bottom of the boat again as she scooted forward to perch on the front seat like a squirrel, her fish clutched before her in both hands. She wouldn't stay there for long. In a few minutes she would want magic water again.

  My throat tightened as I watched her. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have been pretending to be dead, I would have been frozen like that girl yesterday.

  Live. Get up. Eat fiiiiiiish.

  I started putting together that blasted osmosis canister.

  ~~~

  Orrul just sighted a ship. At first, I thought he must be hallucinating or sun-blind, but then several other people began whooping and hollering.

  After a few minutes, I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up to get a view over the gunnel, and there it was, clear as the winter sky above us: three masts in the distance, rigged out in a clipper formation, sails white as a cloud skimming swift and smooth along the horizon.

  ~~~

  It got very loud after I wrote that last entry. People began jumping up and down, waving their arms and screaming.

  Except for the navigator and the four surviving sailors, who tried to make everyone be quiet. They kept saying that at that distance there wasn't any way to tell whether the ship was friendly or not, but no one listened. A ship was a ship.

  ~~~

  People began laughing and crying and hugging each other a few minutes ago.

  The ship turned toward us.

  I had to admit, part of me was looking forward to being warm and dry and not hungry. At the back of my mind, though, a dark, angry voice whispered that if I was warm and dry and not hungry, I would only be leaving my father that much farther behind.

  9. The Angpixen

  15th of Uirra, Continued

  An hour after I wrote that last entry, the clipper had drawn close enough to make out the fore royal.

  Slowly, all the cheering and hugging petered into an uneasy silence as everyone got a better look at what they had so eagerly welcomed.

  "Is that..." Dr. Turragan finally asked out loud.

  "Aye. That would be the Vixerox," the Navigator said grimly. "And with 'er flyin' over that black hull, I'd bet my life that's the Angpixen."

  A young man I knew only as Teg piped up with, "What's an Ang Pixie?" and all the sailors turned to squint at him like he had rocks where his brains should be.

  "What's funny?" Teg quavered, turning red.

  "The Angpixen is the Bloody Fox's fastest bloody ship, that's what t'is," muttered one of the other passengers, shading his eyes against the sun overhead. "Don't you read the Dailies?"

  One of the sailors gazed at the oncoming ship, his expression wooden. "I thought Cap'n Arr'my were givin' NaVarre a what-for in the Adro-pee-dees."

  "That's what I heard too." The Navigator took a seat on the gunnel of his lifeboat. "But no one else dares fly those colors. That's Bloody Fox NaVarre, sure enough."

  "What are you saying?" demanded Doctor Turragan's wife, giving voice to the realization dawning over the rest of us. "That's a pirate ship? We're about to be taken by pirates?"

  Her cry was echoed by a few sobs of dismay and panic, but most of us simply went quiet. A pall fell over our little floating island. After six days of fighting the cold, living on the awful hard biscuits from
the ration tins and the pitiful amount of fresh water the survival filters produced, we were all too weak to muster any sort of resistance. There were only a handful of weapons among the lot of us. Vastly outnumbered, unable to flee and too starved to fight, we were exceedingly easy pickings.

  When she was about fifty yards off, the Angpixen canted gently to the right, presenting us with her port broadside. She passed close enough that I made out a man standing at the railing of the quarterdeck. There was no mistaking his authority, even from that distance. An army of pirates were gathering at the rail and scaling the rigging, but while his men were readying for action, that man on the quarterdeck remained calm, gazing down at us as his ship swept in an ever-tightening circle around our flotilla. Then, when the sleek, glossy side of the Angpixen was just shy of scraping the outermost lifeboats and the wash of her wake was sending us rocking, the man lifted his hand, gesturing in our direction.

  The pirates immediately began launching themselves from the ship, swinging out over us on ropes, shrieking and howling like monkeys.

  It was almost comical, really, just how peaceful our abduction was. A few of the men made an effort to resist, but it was more out of pride than any hope of success. They were beaten into submission and that was the end of it. There were a few people who sobbed and begged, and some of the children screamed as they were pulled from their parents, but it was mostly haphazard sounds of distress and exertion as the pirates dropped into the lifeboats and began gathering us up.

  I was 'caught' by a big, swarthy monster with a badly scarred right arm, who landed nearly on top of me. I didn't say anything. I just ground my teeth as he grabbed at me with his big, rough hands and slung me over his shoulder. Then he leaped acrobatically into the air, caught the same rope that was tied around his waist, and used it to pull us both back up the outside of the hull, over the railing, and onto the deck. He carried me to the foot of the main mast and dumped me there like a sack of potatoes, then went lumbering back over the rail for more.

  I huddled where I landed, watching as the pirates kept at it until every last man, woman and child had been brought up and deposited in front of the main mast. Even Laffa, who shrieked and spat and clawed at her captor until he swore and dropped her on the deck. She hissed at him and scrabbled quickly over to squeeze into the narrow space next to me, ducking and hiding behind my shoulder.

  When they had finished dragging all of us up, they brought up all of our belongings too, which they tossed into a pitifully scant pile by the railing. Several of the pirates began pawing through everything, systematically opening and emptying cloth bags and traveling boxes. One of them popped open my empty valise, then grunt and fling it back into the sea.

  It didn't matter. The only thing I wasn't wearing was my short jacket because I hadn't been able to put it on over both my shirtwaists, my blouse, and my nightgown. Everything else was either somehow on my person, in my father's satchel, or tucked into the pockets of my father's oilskin coat.

  Leaning against the mast at my back, I ran my tongue along my salt-chapped lips, fighting off a growing surge of hunger that overcame every other thought. The dull thought occurred that I was more worried about eating than enslavement to pirates, but there was food cooking somewhere: roasting meat and the trademark rich spiciness of Illyrian bisran. It smelled so good I could almost taste the thick, aromatic sauce, the fire-kissed chunks of mutton...

  I was seriously pondering just how low I would be willing to stoop to get my hands on some, when a short, bowlegged man – the First Mate – came stomping past, barking orders in Illyrian. A bull-necked pirate with a short whip came along behind him, prodding and kicking at a few people, gesturing with his whip and shouting in broken Altyran, "You move! You move!"

  Not wanting to find out what that whip felt like, I pushed myself up onto my feet and shuffled unsteadily along with the others as several of the pirates shoved us into a wilting, wavering line down the middle of the main deck. I kept my head down and did what I was told, which wasn't too difficult since I knew what the pirates were saying. Teg was not so fortunate. He wound up behind me, and it was clear he didn't understand a word the big lout with the short-whip was shouting at him; he followed me like a duckling, his hunger-hollow eyes wide.

  The man with the short whip wasn't taking Teg's innocent rebellion very well. His face went red, and he started coming toward us.

  I took hold of Teg's arm. "He wants you to start a new line," I croaked, nodding off to our left. "Over there." I gave him a little push. For a moment Teg stood goggling down at me, confusion large on his young face. "Go stand next to Mr. Obrossy," I said more firmly.

  The pirate with the short-whip slowed, his irritation dissipating when Teg started limping over to the front of the new line.

  I didn't realize what a mistake that was until I happened to glance up at the aft deck. Ice promptly slithered through my veins to settle in a slushy lump in my middle.

  Bloody NaVarre was standing in the curve of the balconette, a pair of wickedly curved twin blades strapped across his back, throwing knives glittering along the gauntlets on his arms. He was leaning forward, his hands flat on the railing in front of him; and he was staring straight at me.

  For an endless second neither of us moved. The prey had seen the predator. Then, to my horror, NaVarre pushed away from the railing and came down the steps to the main deck, sending his men scrambling out of his way as he strode swiftly along the line of prisoners.

  Dazed, I yanked my gaze forward, my heartbeat thundering painfully in my head. Maybe if I pretended nothing was happening —

  He stopped directly in front of me.

  Everyone went absolutely still. No one spoke.

  Finally, Bloody NaVarre observed softly, "You understand Illyrian." It was a statement, not a question.

  Not anymore, I don't.

  When I didn't do much more than sway with the roll of the ship, he said quietly, "Look at me." In Illyrian.

  I swallowed hard and kept examining the planking beneath my soggy boots.

  Fingers caught my chin, then, bringing my head up. "Look at me."

  I shut my eyes tight.

  "Look at me, or I will toss you overboard," NaVarre whispered, his words fanning my cheek.

  Stunned, I blinked before I could stop myself, meeting NaVarre's golden-green stare.

  NaVarre let out a chuckle and turned to his men. "A fine haul! I think an extra pint is in order this evening, don't you?" he shouted, and was rewarded with a near-deafening round of stomping and whistling. "Good! Now get back to work! Finch, secure the deck, if you please!"

  "Aye, sir!" Finch bellowed.

  "Come along, my dear." It wasn't a request. He spun me away from the rest of the prisoners and pushed me along in front of him toward the stairs to the quarterdeck.

  The others were being taken in the opposite direction, toward the main hatch and the stairs down to the hold. I was not. There was only one thing that could mean. "No! No, you can't —"

  NaVarre's hand found the back of my neck, his fingers unforgiving as he propelled me forward. "Keep moving."

  "I won't do it! You can't make me!" I hissed in Illyrian, and tried to twist away from him, jabbing at him with my elbows.

  He swore as my arm connected with his face, and his grip faltered. I lunged away from him, only to be brought up short by his grip on the collar of my father's coat. "You had better be worth it," he growled. Then he half-lifted, half-dragged me for several yards, even though I was still struggling.

  We reached the bottom of the stairs and I managed to grab the banister topper.

  "Would ya like some help, sir?" the First Mate called, observing passively from the main hatch.

  "No, Finch, I can manage," NaVarre said loudly, simultaneously holding onto my coat while prying my fingers from the scrollwork. "You go on below. Have your pint. I'll be down in a while to make sure everything is settled."

  My mouth fell open as the First Mate raised a dubious eyebrow bu
t didn't lift a finger to help me, instead shaking his head as he started down into the hold with a very calm, "As you say, sir."

  NaVarre peeled me away from the banister and hauled me upright. "Right! No more of this, or I'll make chum out of your grandmother. All she's good for is shark bait, and I happen to really appreciate a good shark stew." He paused to catch my hand as I reached again for the banister. "But if you cooperate..." I whimpered when he wrenched my arm behind my back and used it as leverage to push me up to the next step. "If you cooperate, I might just keep her alive."

  I choked on a sob and stopped fighting. Shaking, I went where he steered me, trying mindlessly not to fall. Already light-headed from hunger, my vision narrowed to a dim, sparkly tunnel as he urged me up the stairs and across the quarterdeck to the rear of the ship, where he opened an ornately carved door and shoved me into the map room beyond it.

  ~~~

  Vixerox: (veeks-er-oh). n. from the Illyrian "vixe," fox, and "roxer," red, or blood. The word Vixerox was coined in reference to the emblem used by the infamous pirate Bloody NaVarre, also known as the Bloody Fox because of the color and symbol of his pennant.

  10. You Speak Illyrian

  15th of Uirra, Continued

  I didn't have so much as a beat to get my bearings before he shut the door behind us, locked it, then pulled me around and made me stand beneath the ceiling sconce.

  My heart stuttered in my chest. I might not have had much experience with such things, but I wasn't completely naive. I knew very well what happened to the female captives taken by pirates, and Bloody NaVarre was one of the worst.

  "What are you going to —” I quavered, but he cut me off with a firm, "Shhh."

  He squinted at me, dark lashes nearly meeting. He took a step back, studying my face as though trying to decide if he recognized me. Then he reached out and took hold of my tangled braid, lifting it and coiling it on top of my head. "What's your name?"

  Disconcerted, I tried to yank away, only to be brought upright again by his grip in my hair.