Salamaine's Curse (17 page)

These were enormous, barrel-chested men, a good head-and-a-half taller than he was, with thighs as solid as the ship's mast and bulging biceps that glistened with sweat. He immediately discarded any idiotic fantasy that he might be able to physically overpower the crew. Porter hesitated for a moment, chewing the inside of his jaw.

He studied their faces as they patted him down—searching for weapons, he assumed—but saw nothing in their glacial stares that might suggest pity for his plight. In fact, just the opposite was true. They were entirely indifferent. The moment he stepped aboard he became cargo. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Hey! That's mine!”

Tom's gaze shot to Porter. His brother lunged for the rolled parchment that had been found within his coat. As one crewman opened the map of the Cursed Souls Sea and studied it curiously, another shoved Porter back, the crewman's broad hand splayed open against Porter's chest.

“Give it here,” said a deep voice from behind them.

A man strode into the fray. For a long moment, Tom could do nothing but look at him, so striking was his appearance. Physically, he was as enormous as the rest of the crewmen, but that was where his resemblance to anyone else on board stopped.

The man reminded Tom of an Arabian sultan. Rather than outfitting himself in working attire, he wore a pair of bright purple, pantaloon-style silk pants and pointy red slippers, with a tiny bell affixed to the toe of each slipper. An emerald green, fringed belt wrapped around his waist, into which he'd tucked an enormous curved blade. His chest was bare, showing a broad expanse of mahogany skin and bulging muscles. A thick gold chain draped around his neck, from which was suspended an ornate golden orb roughly half the size of Tom's fist. On his shoulder rode a large, deep crimson bird. When it ruffled its feathers, it shimmered like a living flame.

The man positioned himself in front of them with the map of the Cursed Souls Sea curled in his fist. He studied them with dark, cold eyes.

“Listen well, for I will only say this once. You are now aboard the
Crimson Belle.
I am Salvador Zaputo, captain of this ship and ruler of Aquat. Disobey my orders, and you will die. Strike one of my crewmen, and you will die. Try to escape, and you will die. Is this clear?”

Not a lot of room for interpretation there.

Tom swallowed hard and nodded, as did Porter, Willa, and Mudge.

Satisfied, Zaputo transferred his attention to the rolled parchment. “The Cursed Souls Sea,” he said, his dark gaze moving across the map. He scowled at Porter. “Why do you have this?”

Porter froze. Tom could see his brother thinking, assessing their situation. Apparently determining to stick as close to the truth as possible, he said, “We need to travel there. There's something we must find and return to Divino.”

The man's gaze narrowed. “Something? What do you search for?”

Again, Porter hesitated. Again, he determined to stick to the truth. “A book.”

For a long moment, Zaputo just stared at him. Then his lips split into a broad grin. He let out a shout of laughter, but his eyes were serious. “I hope it was a good book, for you and your friends have just traded your lives for it.”

Turning away from Porter, he nodded to his men. “What about the others?”

Tom had already been searched. The crewmen now turned to Willa and Mudge. One crewman jerked the cloth satchel from Willa's shoulder and tossed it to his leader. Another gave Mudge a cursory patting down.

Tom stiffened, horrified the man might discover the Sword of Five Kingdoms. Mudge caught Tom's eye and gave a slight shake of his head, then flicked his forefinger toward his boot, indicating without words where he'd hidden it.

“What is this?” Zaputo boomed as he pawed through Willa's satchel.

“Herbs,” she said. “Medicines, balms, and the like.”

Zaputo carelessly pitched it back to her. “Worthless.” Then his eyes narrowed as he surveyed them suspiciously. “You came from the
Purgatory.
Umbrey's ship. He is rumored to be a man of honor. A lie. He gave up his crew without a fight.”

“We're not crew,” Willa said. “We … stowed away.”

Zaputo considered that for a moment, then seemed to accept it. “You picked the wrong ship to hide in,” he sneered. “Just as I thought. The people of Divino have no honor. They will give away their own children if it saves their skins.”

Mudge, who had remained silent until that moment, stepped forward. “Salvador Zaputo,” he said. “I've heard of you.”

Surprise flashed across Zaputo's face. He looked Mudge up and down. His lips curved in a smile of cruel condescension. “Oh? Is my reputation so fierce? Do I strike fear in the hearts of little children? Does my very name give you nightmares?”

Refusing to be baited by his words, Mudge said calmly, “You have children of your own.”

Zaputo puffed out his chest. “Five,” he said. “Three sons and two daughters.”

“You say the people of Divino won't fight,” Mudge continued. “Tell me about the people of Aquat. What would you do if your children were threatened?”

Rage darkened Zaputo's eyes. He leaned down, bringing his face inches away from Mudge's. He hung there for a long, tense moment, then he roared out,
“I would fight for them!”

Mudge seemed to consider that. His young face glowed with satisfaction as he gave a solemn nod. “Good.”

Zaputo frowned, apparently disconcerted by his inability to intimidate Mudge the way he'd meant to. His gaze locked on Mudge for another beat, as though trying to figure him out, then he straightened to his full height and gave an impatient shake of his head. “Ridiculous. I've wasted enough time talking with children.” He nodded to one of his crewmen, saying as he turned to leave, “Get rid of them when we dock at Vespa tomorrow night.”

“Wait!” Porter called out, stepping after him. “My map.”

He'd barely gotten the words out when Zaputo spun around. Using just one hand, he caught Porter by the front of his shirt and lifted him off his feet. With his other hand, he raised the rolled parchment. “My map,” he said. “My ship.
My
cargo. You and your friends belong to me now. Don't forget it again.” He released Porter abruptly, shoving him back into the bulwark.

Before Tom could think of what to do, or react in any way, Zaputo's crewmen herded them toward the ship's stern, back to the crowded deck where the rest of the captives waited.

Icy panic shot through Tom's veins. They'd made it aboard the
Crimson Belle.
But unless he could think of something fast—
really
fast, considering Vespa was apparently less than twenty-four hours away—they'd be sold as slaves the moment the ship docked.

“T
he folly's rattle,” Tom whispered to Porter. “It's our only way out.” Through carelessness on the part of Zaputo's crew when they frisked him—or perhaps because the four of them hadn't looked threatening enough to warrant a thorough search—Tom still had the rattle in his pocket.

Porter shook his head. “Too risky,” he whispered back. “We'll save it as a last resort, and only if we get the wording exactly right.”

Tom ground his teeth in frustration at Porter's stubborn refusal to use the wish. Did it really matter if he got the wording exactly right? Wasn't avoiding spending the rest of their lives as slaves a little bit more important?

It was late. Past midnight, Tom guessed, though there was no way for him to really know. He glanced overhead. The stars had shifted, but that meant little to him. He wasn't good enough at reading the movement of constellations to understand how they marked time. As he'd seen aboard the
Purgatory,
Zaputo's crew changed shifts at the ringing of the bells. But again, Tom wasn't sure how that corresponded to actual time. He only knew the constant clamor, combined with driving panic over their situation, kept him awake.

That wasn't true for everyone else aboard. Their snores and grunts filled the air. He glanced across the deck. He estimated there were at least one hundred captives aboard, all crowded together on the aft deck. Mostly men, though there were a good number of women and children among them as well. Perhaps one or two of the captives had the menacing air of hardened criminals. The majority were average citizens of Divino who'd been down on their luck, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Their sentences varied. Some were to spend the rest of their lives slaving in the ice mines of Ventus, others would work the fiery forges of Incendia, and still others would labor in the deadly jungles of Terrum. What troubled Tom most was how they accepted their fate. They had abandoned all hope of changing their futures.

His gaze turned to Willa and Mudge. They were sitting up, just as he and Porter were, with their backs resting against the rail. Somehow, despite their uncomfortable position, they'd both managed to fall asleep.

Tom's stomach clenched as he studied them. If he failed and couldn't find a way to take control of the ship, or at the very least find a way off it, whatever happened next would be his fault. He pushed the morbid thought away, refusing to give up. As Umbrey had said, the game wasn't over yet.

He glanced upward. The red sails of the
Crimson Belle
worked to render her nearly invisible at night—he could barely make them out billowing directly over his head. The same wouldn't be true of the
Purgatory,
however.

For perhaps the hundredth time since boarding the slaver, he scanned the horizon, searching for a glimmer of white sails reflected in the moonlit sea. Nothing. No indication that the
Purgatory
was still in the vicinity. For all Tom knew, Umbrey could have cast them off in the dinghy and just sailed away to safety.

He leaned in closer to Porter. “You think Umbrey is still out there?”

“I've been looking. I haven't seen him,” Porter said.