“Do more good here,” was all he said.
“Only until I say you have to leave,” I warned, rolling up the sleeves to Corbin’s shirt as I joined the bucket line. There were about five of us in the line, carrying water from the well around to the edge of the lawn where Corbin, the cook, and a couple of others leaped around the fire, beating the grass with wet curtains and hurling buckets of water on the worst spots.
We hauled bucket after bucket of water down the line. My hands quickly formed blisters from the wet handles; my arms and shoulders ached with the unaccustomed strain. The relief I felt each time I passed on a full bucket fizzled with the sight of the next one approaching. The horror of the situation combined with the repetition of the bucket line soon consumed my brain until all that became my whole world. Ten steps to the left led to my hands and shoulders complaining as a heavy bucketful of water was passed to me, followed by ten steps to the right and the blessed relief of handing it on. We coughed on the acrid smoke that filled the air, turning breathing into a labored chore that left my chest aching. My eyes watered, sending tears down my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop long enough to wipe my face.
It seemed like an eternity, but probably a half hour later Corbin called a halt to the bucket line.
“It’s no good. It’s too far spread,” he yelled in between gasps for air. “We’ll never get it out.”
The scullery maid fell to the ground, overcome by the smoke. Someone pulled her out of the line. My arms were shaking with the strain, my breath raspy and painful, my throat raw. I wheezed as I breathed, my lungs burning as if they were filled with hot embers.
“What now?” I asked, looking at the others in the bucket line. At Corbin’s call to halt, the line had collapsed, everyone on the ground panting for air, rubbing aching arms and hands.
“We make a fire break to keep it from going down to the town. We need shovels and axes,” he directed one of the male servants. “As many as you can get.”
The man nodded and took off at a run around to a small gardening shed. Two others from the bucket line staggered to their feet and followed him.
“Did you guys really write things like axes and shovels into the game?” I asked Corbin, dragging a half-filled bucket of water over to him.
“Of course. We anticipated towns being fired,” he answered, dipping his hands into the water, drinking from his cupped hands. “It was a traditional pirate action upon taking a town, although this . . .”
He looked at flames leaping from tree to tree.
“It’s Bart, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.
“Possibly. Probably. It’s suspicious that the fire should start right behind your house. Sweetheart, I’m afraid you’re going to lose it. We can’t save it and the town, both.”
“That’s all right. It’s just a house, and it wasn’t really mine anyway. The town is what matters.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Corbin said with a hollow smile. “I didn’t really like you living in Bart’s house. Where the devil is Holder?”
I dipped the hem of Corbin’s shirt into the bucket and wiped some of the soot off his sweaty face. “Did you send him to rouse the town?”
“Yes. And to bring back my crew to fight the fire. He should be here by—”
A shout interrupted him. I sighed with relief when I saw Holder lope toward us, but that relief died when Corbin frowned.
“Where the hell is my crew?” he asked me, then yelled that question to Holder.
“Asleep,” he answered, grabbing his side, stopping in front of us to double over. “God . . . need . . . start jogging again . . . out of shape . . .”
“Asleep?” Corbin asked, his scowl almost as black as the smoke. “Why didn’t you wake them?”
“Couldn’t,” Holder panted. “Tried. Drugged. All of ’em. All over the floor at the whorehouse. Think it was the rum.”
“All of them?” Corbin yelled.
“Yes.”
“Renata,” I said, remembering my suspicions about her. “It had to be Renata. She drugged them.”
“More likely was Bart,” Corbin said grimly, grabbing a shovel from one of the men returning with tools. “Amy, you go down to the town and see what you can do about getting us some help. If we want to save the town, we’re going to have to have a lot more help.
“I could help dig trenches—” I started to say. Corbin flickered a glance toward my bloody, blistered hands. “Right. I’ll go get everyone who’s able to wield a shovel or axe. Bas! You come with me. I need your speedy legs.”
Corbin held a quick conference with the firebreak workers to explain where he wanted the fire stopped. Bas got to his feet and limped toward me. I plunged both hands into the bucket of water Corbin had abandoned, biting back a scream of anguish at the feel of water on the open wounds, splashing a bit of it on my face.
“You ready?” I asked Bas as he stopped next to me. I frowned at something missing. “Where’s Bran?”
“Got him here,” he said, pulling open his hand-me-down jacket. “Didn’t want him to get burned.”
Inside the jacket, tucked into an inner pocket, Bran was snuggled up safe. The bird squawked a couple of times, bobbing his head as he always did in greeting.
“Oh. Good place for him. Come on, we’ve got people to wake up. I’ll take the north side of town, and you can do the—holy crap, what was that?”
We had just reached the gates when a massive blast shook the ground, the sound of it so palpable, it could be felt as well as heard.
Behind me, feet thudded on the grass.
“What the bloody hell—” Holder asked as he, Corbin, and a handful of other men burst from around the back of the house.
“Earthquake?” I asked, having definitely felt the ground tremble.
“Cannons,” Corbin answered, his face grim. He pointed toward the harbor, barely visible through the smoke as a slightly lighter black patch on a field of ebony.
“Cannons? Someone is firing cannons now?”
“Not firing,” Corbin yelled, throwing down his shovel as he jumped forward. “Blowing them up. Bart’s attacking the town.”
Chapter 25
I’m telling a terrible story,
But it doesn’t diminish my glory. . . .
—Ibid, Act I
I grabbed Bas by his good arm and followed the men down the hill toward the town, swearing like mad to myself as we stumbled and slipped on rocks. Another blast rocked the island, this time slightly more distant. A huge fireball lit the night sky, illuminating for a few seconds the far arm of the harbor, where one of the makeshift forts was located.
“We’re bein’ attacked?” Bas asked as we raced down the hill as fast as we could.
“Yes. Those were the big land guns going. Bart must have rigged them to blow up so we couldn’t use them to defend ourselves,” I answered in between ragged gasps for air.
“Why is Bart attackin’ us?” he asked. I glared at him for a moment, annoyed that the little wretch didn’t seem to be the least bit winded.
“He’s a rotter, that’s why. Corbin? What are we going to do about the fire?” I yelled, waving a hand behind us.
He answered something that I didn’t hear—he was too far ahead. But I gathered by the way everyone abandoned the firebreak that the most pressing concern was the attack by water, assuming that was coming next. And it made sense that an attack would follow now that the town’s defenses had just been knocked out to almost nothing.
“There are still our ships, though,” I argued to myself, pain ripping through my side as my bruised ribs tried to cope with the unexpected activity.
“But no one to sail them,” Holder said, slowing down so he could run next to us. “I swear I’m going to gut Paul when I get out of this game. The whole crew is out cold, every last Jack of them.”
I stumbled, almost going to my knees, my heart sick with dread. Holder and Bas grabbed me to keep me from falling. “What are we going to do?” I asked Holder, tears burning my already red eyes. “How are we supposed to fight Bart with no crew?”
His jaw tightened as he tugged me forward. “You underestimate Corbin, Amy. You’ve never seen him in battle, have you?”
“Not really, just a bit before he shot up my ship,” I said, miserable, wanting to just curl up in a ball and pretend none of this was happening.
“He’s meant to be a pirate, he truly is,” Holder said, his hand locked around my wrist, keeping me moving toward the town. We were at the outskirts now, and below us, voices were calling out in horrified confusion, the town already lighting up as people were dragged from sleep by the explosion of the guns. “He’s a wild man behind the wheel of a ship. A brilliant tactician, merciless and exacting. Even down a crew, with nothing but a few townspeople to man his ship, he’ll take down Paul—or die trying.”
“It’s the ‘die trying’ part I object to,” I called as Holder released me and ran forward to meet up with Corbin, who was holding court in the middle of town.
Men and women in various states of undress were gathering around him, all of them shouting and calling out for answers to their questions.
“I’ll answer your questions later,” Corbin yelled. “Right now, we have work to do!”
Most of the people quieted down, circling Corbin as he stood on the lip of the well, looking so heroic that my heart would have burst with love for him if our demise wasn’t so likely at any moment.
“Bart is attacking the town. It’s clear he’ll show no quarter, so if you want to save your families and homes, listen up. We need as many hands as we can get to battle him.”
“Why would Bart attack us?” someone called out.
“It’s me he wants to destroy—but he’ll take this whole island down in order to do it.”
“What about the shore guns?” the mayor asked, tugging at a frilly male version of a nightgown. “We were assured those would take care of any attacker.”
“Assured by the same man who just blew them up so they couldn’t be used against him,” Corbin said. “We’re going to need to split people into two teams: one to sail with me, one to fight the—”
“Fire!” someone shrieked, piercing the night. Everyone turned to look where the woman pointed up the hill. The fire hadn’t been visible from the town before, but now, left to run unchecked, it had swept past the governor’s house, flames visibly licking up the sides of the big house. I felt a moment of sadness for the loss of such a nice home, but knew that it was a loss the islanders could well survive—which couldn’t be said for their town.
I have to say this for Corbin’s friend who designed the AI used in the game—it was nigh on impossible to tell from real people. The townspeople, upon seeing the red glow of fire heading toward them, didn’t freeze or ignore it or even get organized—no, they ran around like Bas’s headless chickens, screaming, wailing, demanding that Corbin save them, and generally behaving just as a group of real people would have. Luckily, Corbin was well aware of their makeup, and after yelling for attention, he finally fired a shot into the air to get people to stop acting like idiots.
“That’s better,” he yelled, tucking his pistol back into his sword belt. “If you want to survive this, listen up . . .”
He started detailing a plan whereby half the town would gather up supplies to set firebreaks just beyond the church. The other half—men and women who had even the slightest bit of sailing experience—would go with him to the ships, in order to tackle what was sure to be an attack by water.
I glanced at the people gathered around the square, the lights of the lanterns and candles flickering wildly in the breeze, casting odd shadows on their faces. I didn’t see whom I expected to see, and slipped away while Corbin was patiently repeating his instructions.
The scene at Renata’s house was like some horrible parody of a slasher movie—only without the blood and gore. Bodies lay everywhere—slumped in chairs, drooped over tables, and lying in heaps on the floor. Next to every man was a wooden or metal tankard, puddles of grog staining the floor. I stopped at the nearest body, lightly touching his neck to make sure he was alive, but was soon reassured that the men were indeed drugged only—in fact, several of them were snoring.
Trying not to step on anyone’s arms, legs, or other parts (I’ve never seen such a variety in “other parts”—clearly Corbin and Holder digitized anatomically correct bodies rather than Ken and Barbie versions), I quickly made my way to the back of the house, where the bedrooms were located, making a mental note to remind Corbin that he’d have to see to his drugged crewmates if the fire reached the town.
“Renata?” I called as I reached the back hall. “Mags? Red Beth? Jez? Suky? Anyone not drugged?”
The only sound that greeted my question was the faint snore of a crewmate slumped up against the sideboard—who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be Pangloss.
“Oh, no, not you, too . . . great,” I said, opening the nearest door. It was Jez’s room, dark and silent, her slight form on the bed visible in the lantern light. “Everyone’s out. Just dandy.”
I started to close the door when a sleepy voice spoke from the depths of the room. “Amy?”
“Jez?”
“Aye.” There was a scrape of tinder, and a flame burst into life, highlighting Jez’s bewildered face as she lit a candle. “Are ye ailin’ again?”
“You’re not drugged? You didn’t drink the grog?”
“Nay, I don’t like grog—ye know that. What do ye mean, drugged?”
I explained quickly, getting only a few sentences out before she started pulling on her clothes.
“I thought you were drugged, too, when you didn’t answer me, or for that matter, hear the shore guns blowing up.”
“I’m dead tired,” she said with a wry smile. “We worked hard tonight. ’Twas one customer on top of another. Well, not literally on top, although there were these two who wanted to—”
“Understood, and you really don’t have to spill professional secrets,” I said quickly, starting out the door. “I’ll go check on the others. Maybe they’re just tired, too.”
We went from room to room, but Jez was the only member of the house who hadn’t indulged in the grog. Jez picked up Suky’s baby, who’d started fussing, and looked at me with wide, scared eyes. “What are we goin’ to do?”