Voyage of Plunder by Michele Torrey Page B

bilge.
I'll get you, puppy. I'll rip out your tongue and eat your eyes. I'll boil your innards and hang your hide to dry. I'll make you wish you'd never been born.
    A fresh sweat broke out on my forehead that had nothing todo with the heat. I looked away, absently patting my crossbelt, the treasure map scratched on its underside. I didn't hear much else of what Josiah said, scarce noted the cheers and roars of the pirates at the conclusion, the blasts of pistol fire.
    At my first opportunity I shipped back to the
Tempest Galley
aboard the pinnace. Even as I put my back to the oars, even as I saw Josiah wring Fist's hand, saying that it was good to see him up and around at last, Fist's gaze was upon me, boring black holes through my heart.
    I wore four pistols at all times—cleaned, primed, loaded, and ready to fire, two hooked to my crossbelt, two shoved in my sash, along with my cartouche box, filled with twenty-three charges and bullets. Hanging from my crossbelt at my left hip, my cutlass, shining, honed so sharp it could slice a feather floating in midair. A boarding ax, short like a hatchet, shoved in my sash. In my waistbelt, two sheathed daggers, double-edged—one at the small of my back, one at my right hip.
    I practiced drawing my dagger. Again. Again. Faster. Stealth-ier. Flinging it at the mainmast from ten paces over and over, until it stuck fast, quivering, every time. Until Basil finally ran me off, saying I'd ruin the mast before I was finished.
    The three ships patrolled the strait, returning to Perim at nightfall. Fist captained the
Defiance
once again, and whenever our two ships passed I ducked out of sight behind the bulwarks.
    And after that first day, I never went ashore again. I stayed aboard the
Tempest Galley,
well remembering the danger I was in and what might happen if Gideon Fist caught me alone. As it was, Fist came aboard the
Tempest Galley
multiple times, supposedly to speak with Josiah, who was the fleet commander. But each time, his gaze roved about, seeking me. Always I surroundedmyself with a half dozen or more men, suddenly finding interest in dice.
    As July passed into August, whispers circulated like gusts of hot air. The southwest monsoon was beginning to wane, and the pilgrim fleet would pass any day now, any hour, thirty ships or more. With no more defenses than a child, each ship would be loaded to the gunwales with jewels, silver and gold coins, coffee, and wine, its cabins filled with wealthy passengers, each dressed like royalty.
    Meanwhile, Timothy and I assembled grenadoes. We packed gunpowder and small shot into hollow balls of lead, with a fuse ready to be lit and thrown. (I planned to
accidentally
throw the grenadoes into the water during battle, where they would fizzle and die. Unless, of course, I saw Fist coming to get me, in which case I prayed for the accuracy to toss a grenado down his throat.)
    Then, for three days, we choked and gagged on the fumes that wisped aboard. Abe Corner stood on the shore, bandanna tied around his nose and mouth, stirring a giant cauldron filled with pitch, tar, saltpeter, sulfur, and other such stinky substances. So diligent was Abe in his task of making stink pots, flinging himself away occasionally for a good juicy cry and a blowing of his nose, that the crew got together, myself included, and voted him an extra share of the booty He smiled and waved at us from shore, stumping around on his wooden leg, snuffling loudly, eyes red as the devil.
    One day, following a sword fight lesson that left me helpless as a struggling fly lying flat on my back panting and groaning, Josiah withdrew the point of his cutlass from my chest and said, “You've improved, Daniel.”
    The sun blazed behind his head, hurting my eyes. “I—I have?”
    “Aye. You ducked when you should have, advanced when you saw the opportunity and beat me back with a strength and skill you've not possessed before.”
    “But you won. Again.”
    I saw the glint of a smile.