The Nature of a Pirate Page 5

  SINCE MOM AND I ARE ON THE SHORT LIST OF PEOPLE WITH THE ABILITY TO TRANSPORT ASSASSINS, MY GUESS IS THEY’RE INVESTIGATING US BOTH.

  YOU PROBABLY ALREADY KNOW THAT THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO’D LOVE FOR YOU TO BE THE GUILTY PARTY. GOOD THING YOU DON’T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT ERAGLIDING, RIGHT?

  TAKE CARE,

  VERENA

  It wasn’t the subtlest hint she’d ever seen, but Sophie knew that the warning was a kindness.

  As far as it went, Verena’s statement was almost true. Sophie had seen that timepieces were involved in eragliding. She even had one—Beatrice, her birth mother, had given her tacit permission to hang on to Aunt Gale’s old pocket watch.

  The Verdanii believed that the power was limited to genetic members of the Feliachild family. As for whether that was true … well, like everything on Stormwrack, it seemed to be more a matter of anecdote and tradition than experimentally verified proof.

  Timepieces, Sophie thought, listening for the ticking earworm she’d picked up the previous day. A faint residue of varied clock sounds sifted up from her memory, but nothing stuck.

  IS IT JUST FELIACHILDS WHO CAN EG? She added the question to her ever-growing list of mysteries to tackle later. The task for right now, meanwhile, was to get through the ceremony for people taking the Fleet oath.

  Everything Sophie had done on Stormwrack, so far, had seemed to require a storm of paperwork and bureaucracy. She piled in, expecting the days and even weeks to pile up, but to her surprise the procedures were simple: she was greenlighted to take the Oath only one week after her audience with Annela.

  Granted, it had been an insane stretch of days. She’d visited her lawyer twice and had added to her pile of deadlocked Fleet lawsuits, gathering up a few more cases that might, in time, be solved using fingerprint evidence. She’d begun making notes for a forensic manual in Fleetspeak, some of which boiled down to explaining the how and why of procedures she’d been seeing on TV mysteries since she was a kid.

  Much of the obvious-seeming cop show stuff wasn’t in practice here. Wrackers had no concept of preserving a crime scene, much less of taking a meticulous look at everything in it. The whole idea smacked, the bureaucrats told her, of exercising undue curiosity. These comments had been delivered in tones that suggested that curiosity was a muscle to be weakened, through disuse, until it was as flaccid as a piece of veal.

  Sophie had also made it back to Vaddle to talk to the divers and to pretend to be a drowning victim in a couple of their mermaid rescue drills. With luck, she’d ingratiate herself and someone would volunteer to be her diving partner.

  Paging through her notes, she found her latest failed attempt at writing a fancy old-fashioned not-quite-love-letter in reply to Garland. The problem there was finding something to say that didn’t sound like (or wasn’t, in fact) the lyrics to a pop song:

  I believe in miracles, (bom chicka bom) you sexy thing …

  You make my pants want to get up and dance …

  I wanna hold your ha-yah-yand …

  Not that Garland would know if she plagiarized the Beatles.

  Is love a binary state? You either are or you aren’t? Is it more of a quantum thing, where you can be in love and out at once? There’s a comedian, at home, who says love grows out of the trauma of shared experience.…

  Trauma. She crossed that out. Definitely not a word for something that was meant to be romantic.

  Some prophet once predicted that your best friend would die if you ever fell in love. We met, she died … I’m afraid you believe I’m your one true girl because of an accident of timing.

  She’d never bought into the idea of boy meets girl, true love always. Garland knew that, and seemed to accept it. Even so, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate it if she started a letter with “Dear Obsessive Love Object…”

  So far, she’d wasted a lot of paper getting nowhere.

  “Constitution ahead! Disembarking passengers, all starboard. Snap to!”

  She joined the throng transferring from the ferry to the whitewashed, red-trimmed bulk of Constitution, following the crowd until they’d led her to a corral of sorts, an array of thirty folding chairs fenced in by red ribbons. The chairs were mostly filled, presumably with her fellow oath takers. Takees?

  As she scanned the group, Sophie fought back a surge of dismay. She was the oldest person there, by about ten years. Her choice of jeans from home and a cotton tunic meant she was radically underdressed for the occasion. And …

  Her heart sank. Her birth father had turned out to see her take the Oath.

  Clydon Banning was Duelist Adjudicator for the Fleet. When parties to one of the court system’s thousands of unresolved lawsuits wanted to grease the judicial wheels, they’d petition him to set up a trial by combat.

  Some of the fights were ceremonial—negotiated out-of-court settlements, basically, with a perfunctory clash of swords. Others were deadly earnest. Duelists could be appointed to weigh in on either side, if a contest was judged unfair.

  Cly could appoint anyone to fight the duels, or he could take them himself.

  Basically, he had a license to kill.

  Her birth father was whippy, handsome, and dressed impeccably, as usual, in a black Fleet uniform with a red and gold cape. A big wood chipper of a sword hung at his side. He bowed formally to Sophie as she filed in with the other candidates.

  Sophie tensed, unable to make herself bow back. Pretty much the most important question in her notebook was IS CLY A SOCIOPATH?

  The memory rose again: Cly, killing the Incannis crew, one after another, until nobody was left but the bandit, Kev, who’d grabbed her.

  If someone who is a sociopath gets a job ruling on criminal court cases and executing the losers, doesn’t that essentially make him a variety of serial killer? She hadn’t even dared to write that one down.

  Swallowing, she took her assigned seat, turning her back on her father. She tried to listen as a wizened and uniformed old lady lectured her and the rest of the class about the solemnity of oath taking.

  “You must put the rule of the Fleet above your own inclinations and nature,” the woman droned. “Keeping a century of peace afloat weighs more, in the balance, than your happiness. Than your very lives.”

  The peace of the many outweighs the good of the few or the one. The mangled Star Trek quote arose unbidden, threatening to make Sophie giggle.

  She remembered Annela saying, You shouldn’t do this.

  Too bad, Annela. I’m not going to screw this up.

  Seas, I miss Bram. Times five.

  “People of the Fleet, stand and take the Oath.”

  Her voice was one among dozens: “I pledge my mind to the service of the Nations, my heart to the Nine Seas, my bones and skin to the ships of the Fleet. I promise to be faithful in all things to the rule of law, the Nations, the Fleet Compact, and the Cessation of Hostilities.”

  Soon the audience was cheering. Sophie braced herself to face Cly.

  As usual, he was holding court; every cadet who didn’t have parents to hug after the big ceremony was approaching him, hoping to catch a word. He cleared them away with a gracious celebrity’s wave as Sophie approached.

  No embrace this time, no kiss on the top of the head. Sophie didn’t know how she looked, but there was steel in his gaze.

  The last time they’d seen each other, she had embarrassed him at a party attended by the social cream of his hometown.

  “Congratulations, daughter. This makes me very happy.” There was a trace of the customary warmth in Cly’s voice, that affection that made it so hard for her to entirely write him off.

  What if she was wrong?

  There were things she could ask him.

  Not here, though. Not amid a throng of admirers.

  “Does it?” she said, realizing he’d been waiting as she churned through her conversational options.

  “Why should it not? You’re becoming a woman of the Fleet, a member of civilized society—”<
br />
  She must have made a face.

  “No rapprochement today, I see,” he said softly.

  She swallowed. “What do you want, Cly?”

  The warmth coming from him was gone, suddenly. He held out a packet of papers bound in a black folder.

  She opened the folder and felt her knees turn to water. “Is this is a Sylvanner birth certificate?”

  “Proof of citizenship. You are Sophie Hansa of Sylvanna now.” A hint of warning sharpened his voice. “To say otherwise would be a lie.”

  “Even if I chuck this overboard?”

  “You are of Stormwrack, a daughter of Sylvanna, and lawful expert witness to the Fleet. Offering disrespect to your motherland’s writs will not change who you are in the eyes of the law.”

  “You know I didn’t want this!”

  That does it. I’m getting the whole Fleet code zapped into my brain the minute I get off this ship.

  “I was, initially, prepared to respect your wishes regarding Sylvanna.” Cly lived in the Fleet, but back on his home island he had an Old South–style estate, complete with fruit orchards, ostrich ranching, beehives … and frigging slaves to tend to it all. “As you’ve taken it to mind to introduce adversarial elements to our relationship—”

  “You went and made me Sylvanner as payback for one argument?”

  Maybe I should ask him if he screws his slaves, right here in front of the whole assembly.

  I’ve got to shake that idea. Beatrice says he doesn’t.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Cly said. “I declined to ask the population office to do me the immense favor of withholding status papers they were preparing for you as a matter of course.”

  “Oh, and you’re not enjoying this at all.”

  “Believe me, child, were I petty enough to seek revenge for the appalling scene you created at the Highsummer Festival, you would be in no doubt of the situation.”

  She looked up at him, simmering. There was something in that phrase—“you would be in no doubt”—that smelled of threat.

  “You need the passport. Your father is Sylvanner. Stop trying to deny something neither of us can change.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We’re helpless pawns of fate.”

  Cly went on: “As I’ve been reduced to a courier … your travel visa from Convenor Gracechild is also in the folder.”

  “I can go home?” She reopened the folder, interested now.

  “You might wait,” he said. “Kev Lidman, the bandit from Incannis, is coming to trial soon.”

  Her throat closed. “Do I have to be there? To be a witness, I mean?”

  “Do you have something to say about his assault upon you?”

  She shook her head—too quickly, perhaps.

  “I’m empowered to tell the court what happened,” he said.

  She could just hear it: May it please the court, I slaughtered one bandit, then I killed another, and I got a bit of the third one on my shoe—terribly inconvenient, don’t you know, getting gore out of the leather. As for the final miscreant, he was so scared he tried to use Sophie as a human shield.…

  “Annela wanted me to ask him some questions,” she said.

  “You need only visit him in prison. As for the trial, that can certainly proceed without you, if you’d rather be elsewhere.”

  “I’d definitely rather.” She all but stroked the travel visa, letting the idea of home—home!—wash away the bloody roil of memories.

  Cly took in the deck, the celebrating cadets, and their families. “Speaking of your Verdanii relations, I note they seem to be boycotting this ceremony.”

  “Don’t try to distract me from the point.”

  “Which is…?”

  Oh. She tried to remember. “Can it be undone? The Sylvanner citizenship?”

  This, at least, got a startled—and obviously genuine—reaction. “Not that I’m aware. Sophie, the question of who you are, your value as a human being—you cannot think it rests on the peculiarities of my home nation. Or your mother’s, for that matter.”

  “Will you look into it?”

  He laughed. “Why should I?”

  I am learning Fleet code as soon as I can find a spellscribe with the right color of crayon.

  “You wouldn’t have any other fun surprises in store for me, would you?” she asked.

  A “Halloo!” from the direction of the taxikite dock interrupted her. Their lawyer, the sleepy-eyed, middle-aged Mensalohm Bimisi, came padding down the deck.

  Sophie had never seen Mensalohm out of his office; she had begun to question whether he ever left it. He was a soft-looking fellow with a sweet face, a round head covered in white-blond stubble, and a savage reputation among litigators.

  Now he inclined his head in lieu of bowing. “Kir Sophie. Your Honor. Sorry I missed the ceremony. I’ve never had the gift of punctuality.”

  “No prob,” she said.

  “That is indeed a grave flaw,” Cly said at the same time.

  “You’ve already changed, Sophie. Am I later than I think?”

  “She didn’t dress,” Cly growled, but Mensalohm pressed his lips together, not quite hiding amusement.

  There weren’t many people prepared to needle the fearsome Cly Banning. Sophie gave him a quick hug.

  “Which of us are you seeking, Bimisi?” Cly asked.

  “Both, as it happens. I’m trying to be light on my feet for a change. I have papers regarding your divorce, Your Honor, as well as some items for Sophie. It’s just a question of who wants to take me on first.”

  “I hardly need you to walk me through a nuptial dissolution.” Cly plucked the folder from his hand. “Daughter, if we’re done…?”

  Ask him the other thing, her inner voice said. Forget about whether he sleeps with his slaves. Ask him about his best pal Captain Beck and her magical prosthetic hand.

  She couldn’t force the words out.

  “Yes? Then I can only hope your feelings about me soften, in time.”

  With that, Cly bowed and went back to his adoring fans.

  “I’d thought you two were getting along,” Mensalohm said.

  “When? For the ten minutes after I met him?”

  “Love is always windy when it bridges port and starboard,” he said.

  She wasn’t in the mood for platitudes. “The captain of his sailing vessel lost her arm as a kid. She’s got this prosthetic … I don’t know what you’d call it. A ghost arm…”

  “The arm came from a slave?” At her surprised look, Mensalohm said, “It’s a common enough spell. He may have been compensated in some way. Did you talk to the donor?”

  “Didn’t know I needed to, at the time.”

  “Have you asked His Honor?”

  “No.” She sighed.

  “Why not?”

  “He gave me a Sylvanner passport.”

  Mensalohm laid a hand on her shoulder. “It is who you are, legally speaking.”

  “Legally schmeegally. I’m thinking I need to learn the Fleet code of law.”

  “You mentioned that in your note. For your institute? Or the bandit’s trial? Or just to more effectively frustrate His Honor?”

  “His Honor’s schemes. I’m not trying to frustrate him, just to be annoying. If he’s going to go fixing me up with portside passports whenever I cross him … Plus there’s the issue of me not tripping over—” She stopped herself from saying “dumb,” remembering Annela’s comment about her having contempt for Fleet law. “Over the rules, every time I open my mouth.”

  Mensalohm considered it. “You could, I suppose. If you mean what I think, it’s an expensive scrip.”

  “I’m told I have a budget now.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a fat invoice in there from me to the court. Your contract’s a big catch, I’m happy to say. But a complete grasp of Fleet law is a heavy intention. To absorb a decade of learning in a matter of hours—no reputable scribe will embark on it without assurance you aren’t already loaded.”

  Magic had
a quality that Wrackers referred to in terms of weight—there was a limit to what a person could bear without becoming physically or mentally ill. “What kind of assurance?”

  “A list of intentions you’re already carrying. I can prepare the documents.”

  More red tape. “There’s only the one spell.”

  “Get your mother to affirm it. She’s the only person who knew of your existence until recently, am I right?”

  “Her and Gale.”

  “She’ll need to vouch for Gale Feliachild’s not having enchanted you. You’ll be seeing Beatrice anyway.”

  “I will?”

  He nodded. “Divorce papers, by definition, come in pairs.” He handed her a packet identical to Cly’s. “Would you mind delivering these? I gather you’re headed back to her mysterious outland refuge.”

  She nodded, taking it, and then walking him back to where the ferries were coming to take people to other parts of the Fleet. By the time he was gone, the oath-taking party had broken up. Most of the newly sworn kids had gone off with family and friends to celebrate. Scatterings of confetti, seaweed based and biodegradable, were sprinkled on the deck.

  “Faithful to the rule of law and the Cessation,” she murmured, feeling a low-key sense of melancholy as she took in the seagoing city around her. For just a moment, the weight of responsibility was crushing, as if one hundred and nine years of peace here on Stormwrack was really hers to preserve.

  But that was grandiose. She was an outsider, passport or no. One who was going home—to her brother, her parents, and a world with ready electricity.

  She cracked open her journal, found the messageply, and jotted Bram and Verena both a note: HEADED BACK TO SFO!

  CHAPTER 5

  Feuding Customs of the Piracy

  1.  LOOK YOUR ANTAGONISTE IN THE FACE WHEREVER POSSIBLE: DECLARE FEUD OPENLY, AND DEMAND SURRENDER. NO HONOR BLOWS IN THE SAILS OF THE LICKSPITTLE, THE BACKSTABBER, THE BASE TRAITRE, OR THE BELLY-CRAWLING DOG.

  2.  RECOGNIZE, EVEN REWARD, THE PROWESS OF THOSE WHO HAVE DEFEATED YOU, IF THEY ARE SO FOOLISH AS TO ALLOW YOU TO LIVE. SHOULD THEY CONFRONT YOU AGAIN, PURSUE THEM TO THE ENDS OF THE KNOWN WORLD, TO THE OUTLANDS, TO THE VERY STARS, AND DO NOT CEASE TO CLAMOR GUERRE UPON THEM UNTIL NAUGHT IS LEFT OF THEIR MEMORY BUT COLD ASH ON THE WIND.