The Ship of Lost Souls 1

THE SHIP

of

LOST SOULS

1

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Text copyright © 2009 by Rachelle Delaney. Map illustration copyright © 2010 by Fiona Pook. Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc. First published in Canada in 2009 by HarperCollins Canada. First published in the United States in 2012 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011043287

ISBN 978-1-101-57789-9

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

GLOSSARY

Map

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

“You there! Get away from that!”

Scarlet McCray had known the crime could land her in deep trouble. For an instant, she'd even considered not going through with it. But then, she'd never been one to let consequences stop her from wreaking havoc, even if the consequences included having one's limbs lopped off. So why, she'd reasoned, start now?

This time, however, after the deed was done and she found herself staring into a merchant's bloodshot eyes of rage, it occurred to her that she might have gone too far.

“Why you . . . you'll pay for that!”

Not that she regretted it. Not one bit. No, this just meant she'd have to run faster.

“Blasted little scalawag. I'll tear you limb from—”

Scarlet didn't stick around to hear the plan. With an innocent shrug and a tip of her cap, she took off sprinting through the streets of Port Aberhard. A hand reached out to stop her, but she twisted and slipped to the left. A King's Man moved to block her path, but she ducked out of his reach and ran on, dodging a pack of pirates and hurdling a barrel of rum, pumping her arms as the thud of her heart began to drown out the voices of her pursuers. She knew this routine well and was content to let the port town blur into shapes and smells, light and shadows. She liked it better that way.

Scarlet McCray could find her way around Port Aberhard bound and blindfolded. She knew it as well as she knew her own worn boots, her crew, and the ship they called home. Port Aberhard looked the same, smelled the same, and felt the same as all the other port towns on all the other islands. Its red dirt roads teemed with ruddy merchants reeking of pipe smoke, loudmouthed pirates drawn to the tavern like compass needles to magnetic north, and King's Men sweltering under blue wool coats, their brass buttons winking under a tropical sun. Smells of fried conch, sweet seaweed, and sour rum clung to the humid air, mingling with the scent of spices from inland forests.

The port towns even sounded the same—grumbling pirates, clipped orders from King's Men, and gleeful cries from cabin boys on leave from the ships they worked on.

But most important was the feeling a person got walking through the ports all over the islands. It was an unnatural feeling. A downright unsettling feeling. The pirates blamed it on the spirits of the Islanders, a people killed by the King's Men in their hunt for treasure. The King's Men declared it to be the feeling of untamed wilderness. Others called it dark magic. Voodoo. No one could agree on exactly what caused this feeling, but neither could they deny its existence. And some islands had it worse than others. Much, much worse.

Scarlet herself had long ago stopped trying to find an explanation for the chill that made her toes curl and her ears tingle every time her crew docked in port. But it never left her—especially not when she was running for her life.

She'd just glanced over her shoulder to see how far she'd outrun the merchant when a sudden wind swept in from the docks and lifted the cap off her head, sending her tangled black hair tumbling down her back. “Scurvy!” Scarlet cried, flailing her arms in an attempt to catch her cap. But it rolled over her shoulder and along the road. “Not now!” She did an about-face, ducked low to snatch it up, and kept running. Leaving the cap behind wasn't an option, for where would she be without her disguise? In a boatload of trouble, that's where.

Soon she came upon a suitably dank and shadowy alley and dove inside. She found a decent hiding spot behind a mound of old crates and crouched there, hugging her knees, hoping the merchant and his helpers hadn't closed in when she'd nearly blown her cover. If they found her, they'd turn her in to the King's Men for punishment. And supposing they discovered that the skinny, dark-eyed boy in ragged trousers and an old gray coat was actually a twelve-year-old girl? That would absolutely scuttle.

Anyway, hers had been a valiant crime as far as crimes went. She'd do it again in an instant, no hesitation. Just fifteen minutes ago she'd been slinking along between the docks, looking for a shiny, green lime or a stray doubloon to pocket, when she spotted a merchant with a great big cage full of birds. Having always been partial to winged things, she approached and instantly felt her stomach turn when she realized what kind of birds the merchant was selling. Only one island creature had such beautiful, ruby-red feathers, marked by a single band of blue and green on each wing.

The Islanders had called them “aras.” They'd nearly been killed off completely a few decades ago when the King's Men first invaded the islands to harvest exotic wood and spices and send them back to greedy King Aberhard. The birds' beauty had been their undoing. As soon as the King's Men arrived, they began to blast them out of the sky, then ship their red feathers back to the Old World in overstuffed canvas sacks. Rumor had it that every night, King Aberhard rested his big, greasy head on a pillow stuffed with ara feathers. The thought made Scarlet's blood simmer.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. Old Worlders of all kinds, from spice merchants and wood cutters to plantation owners and pirates, soon descended on the islands as well, hoping to get in on the pillaging and plundering, especially if it unearthed a bounty of precious jewels. The native Islanders, who'd lived in leafy huts and tended garden plots on the islands for hundreds of years, watched with increasing alarm as these pale, brisk men invaded their homelands and spread Old World diseases among them. Islander numbers fell as hard and as fast as the trees around them, and one particularly deadly plague, known as the Island Fever, was rumored to have killed them off completely.

Scarlet hated that story. It made her stomach ache just as badly as the story of the aras. For perhaps the thousandth time, she wished she could have done something to save them.

And so, when she saw the merchant's cage nearly overflowing with the rare red birds, Scarlet wasted no time in committing her crime of passion. She marched right up, grasped the doors of the cage with both hands, and yanked them wide open.

The aras needed no instructions. Out the doors they flew, a long, red ribbon streaking across the sky toward the jungle and hopefully home.

Home. Scarlet bit her lip as she watched them, and for a moment she forgot that she was a criminal, being sized up by a seething merchant with bloodshot eyes and bared teeth . . .

“Stop the boy!”

Tucked away in her hiding spot, Scarlet heard the merchant and a few other men run past, boots crunching on gravel. She let her breath out in a whoosh, then grinned. She'd saved some powerless creatures and made life a little more difficult for the gluttonous, overdressed Old Worlders. Wishing every day could feel so productive, she stood up and dusted off her grimy trousers. Now she'd just sneak out, find her crew, and regale them with the tale of her daring adventure. Maybe it would inspire them in their own mission. They were, after all, in dire need of inspiration.

She stepped out of the alley, blinked in the sunlight, and headed back toward the docks, pulling her cap down low over her eyes, just in case.

A new ship had docked in port—a great big schooner with Old World flags quivering in the silver afternoon sky. Passengers stumbled from its deck to the dock, looking stunned and grateful to have both feet on firm ground. Most were King's Men, smoothing the wrinkles in their coats and trousers. But two of the travelers, neither one in uniform, stood out against the crowd. One—middle-aged and fat with a shiny scalp—studied a compass. But it was his companion who drew Scarlet's attention: a smallish boy around her age, staring slack-jawed at the busy port before him.

She knew right away what had brought them there. These days, sailors lay anchor in the islands for one reason alone: to search for treasure. Around the time the Island Fever had begun to rage—some seven or eight years ago—one of King Aberhard's underlings began to speak of a treasure he'd come upon. Unfortunately, the man—Admiral Something-or-Other—perished of the fever himself before he got around to explaining exactly what the treasure entailed. But he had captured the curiosity of the king, who promised a hefty reward to whoever found the mysterious thing. Even now, years later, boatloads of pirates, merchants, and King's Men flocked to the tropics, practically drooling at the notion of unearthing the treasure. Most even enjoyed the mystery surrounding it—at first, anyway.

Scarlet studied the boy, noting his tailored coat and stiff, shiny boots. His companion's clothes were slightly more weathered. She wondered how the boy would fare in this part of the world. The islands, rife with drunkards and thieves and generally unsavory types, didn't exactly cater to children and their notion of fun.

Maybe . . . she squinted at the sun, still high overhead. She had a good hour before she had to meet her crew. She could follow these two, just for a bit, to find out what they were about. Children didn't arrive in port every day, and Scarlet knew it was her duty to check this one out.

The boy's traveling companion, maybe his father or some other relative, was pointing to the tavern and patting his protruding belly. Hungry, of course; they'd probably eaten little but hardtack since leaving the Old World. And judging by their tailored coats and stiff, shiny boots, they were more accustomed to dining on roast duck and buttery pastries than gnawing on the rock-hard biscuits that passed as dinner on board a ship. The boy was smoothing down his sandy-brown hair and adjusting his cuffs as if the tavern might have a dress code. Scarlet snickered. The only clothing requirement in port was a sturdy pair of boots, spacious enough to house at least one dagger.

She waited a moment after the pair marched into the tavern, then slipped inside herself. One good thing about the port towns was that the pirates and King's Men who inhabited them were so busy eyeing one another, hoping to catch the other in some wrongdoing, that they didn't notice much else. They rarely noticed stray children wandering around. Unless, of course, those stray children let themselves get spotted while, say, releasing animals in danger of extinction. Scarlet reminded herself to keep a lookout for the merchant with the bloodshot eyes.

The boy and his companion claimed two rickety wooden chairs on either side of a table sticky with rum, and the boy, looking ravenous, stared around him, eyes unblinking. Scarlet scanned the dim room, barely half full of sailors at this time of day, and slunk along the wall to a dark little nook not far from their table where she could stand for a while without being noticed. The tavern owner gave the newcomers' well-dressed figures a once-over, then hurried into the back with promises of fresh fish.

“After a good meal,” the older man was saying, “we'll reconvene in our boarding house and discuss plans for tomorrow.” He spoke with an educated accent and an air of authority that Scarlet decided would drive her mad after a day or two. “I'm going to ask Captain Noseworthy about hiring a small sloop to take us there. We'll have to find a few trusty shipmates to join us for navigational purposes—men who won't take off with the . . .” He lowered his voice. “The you-know-what.”

Scarlet leaned toward them. She'd bet her front teeth she knew what! But everyone and his monkey had a theory about where the treasure was hidden. Could these two really know any better? She listened closely.

“Do you think,” the boy said as he tried to find a clean spot on the table to settle his elbows, “that these men are real pirates, or do you think they just read the stories and dress up like them?”

The older man shushed him, and Scarlet stifled a guffaw. Real pirates? This one had obviously never set foot off the Old World. No wonder his eyes were so wide.

“Quiet, Jem. Don't say anything that might get you stabbed. Now look, I think it would be most useful if tonight you reviewed the botany journals I gave you. You're going to need to identify everything from
Mondatricus triceriaptus
to—”

“Yes, Uncle Finn,” the boy named Jem said with a little groan, as if he'd heard this a hundred times before. Scarlet frowned. She wouldn't know a
Mondatricus triceriaptus
if one tripped her and sat on her. Nor did she know what it had to do with the treasure. “But I'd much rather—”

Just then, their fish arrived, and the two tucked in, barely surfacing for air as they devoured every morsel on their plates in concentrated silence. Once finished, they paid and stood to leave. Scarlet followed, for she, too, had business to get back to.

Outside, she trailed Jem and his uncle until they rounded the next corner and stepped into another dim alley, at the end of which stood a ramshackle boarding house. Scarlet was about to let them go on their way when she saw a strange sight: a shadow—no, two shadows—pressed up against the alley wall, frozen and silent, waiting. This didn't look good. Shadows in a dark alley almost always meant bad news. Scarlet was about to call out a warning when a hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around, knocking off her cap. “Gotcha!” a gruff voice proclaimed, and she found herself face-to-face once again with her favorite merchant.

The man started at the sight of her long, dark hair. For a moment he softened his grip on her shoulder, as if unsure what to do. Then he seemed to remember something—probably the sight of the aras streaking across the sky—and he dug his tobacco-stained fingers into her skin again. “So the little thief's a girl, is he?” The merchant shook his head and sneered.

Scarlet squirmed under his grip. “Um,
she
,” she said, scanning the alley for an escape route as best she could without making it too obvious.

“Heh?” The fury faded from the merchant's eyes, replaced momentarily with uncertainty.

“She,” Scarlet repeated, buying herself some more time. “You said, ‘So the little thief's a girl, is he?' And that would make
he
a
she
. See?” There was a big stick nearby—if she could just reach it, maybe she could pound him senseless.