Isle of Swords (38 page)

“I win again!” Ramiro exulted.

His disgusted face near burgundy, Ross stood, flung down his pads, and rubbed the center of his chest. “Yes, Ramiro, you win again.”

“What was that?” Stede demanded. “The Declan Ross I know would have batted that sword away like it b' a mosquito!”

“Relax, Stede,” Ross said.

“Don' tell me anything, Declan, ya—”

“He let me win!” Ramiro cried out. “And a fine job of pretending he did too. I almost felt like I'd really beaten you. Thank you, Declan, for again humoring an old man. The ship is yours . . . to borrow. If you like her, you can buy her outright.”

Ross grinned. He looked up at the ship thoughtfully, then turned back to Ramiro. “You said if I like
her
, but, Ramiro, this ship is a
him
, not a
her
.”

Ramiro cocked an eyebrow.

“For this ship,” Ross explained, “shall henceforth be called the
Robert Bruce
!”

Ramiro clapped. “Planning to liberate Scotland from English tyranny?”

“Not exactly,” Ross replied. “I need to free Anne and, if I can, Padre Dominguez. If, in the process, I can put down Bartholomew Thorne, then I'll do that too.”

“I like the sound of that!” Ramiro said. “When do we leave?”

Ross looked at the old shipbuilder. “What do you mean,
we
?”

Ramiro patted Ross on the shoulder. “I trust you, Declan,” he said. “But if you think I'm going to let this ship out of my sight without gold in hand, you're crazier than I am.”

“You remember my ship's surgeon, don't you?” said Thorne to the priest who was strapped facedown on a stone table in the dungeon of Thorne's Cape Verde fortress. “Flagg is the one who restored your health.”

His face pressed hard to the stone, Padre Dominguez could not see Thorne. But he felt a cold finger tracing its way up his bare back.

“My good Mister Flagg patched your flesh back together with impressive skill. But he was unable to complete the task. The Isle of Swords remains beyond our grasp.”

Anne watched from her cell. She saw Flagg open a long brown case. Whatever was inside glinted silver. “You know the rest of the map, Padre Dominguez.” Thorne's raspy voice thickened, his breaths audible. “You hold all the cards . . . all but two. What do you say, priest; how will you play your hand?”

Padre Dominguez clenched his fists. Inwardly, he prayed not for deliverance, but for strength to endure the trial to come. He said nothing to Thorne.

“Very well,” said Thorne. He nodded to Flagg. “You force me to play my first card.” Flagg reached into the long wooden case. He removed a silver tool that looked something like a fork with long, sharp tines bent ninety degrees. A ghastly grin growing on his pasty white face, Flagg walked toward his helpless patient.

“Aw, Cap'n,” Midge complained, “why do I always get stuck with the nasty jobs?”

“You're as tough a seaman as I've ever known, Midge. I know you won't let me down,” Ross said.

Midge eyed his captain suspiciously. Then his crooked teeth appeared in a pride-filled smile. “All right, Cap'n,” he said. “Where are the little buggers?”

“Ramiro put the monkeys in the hold,” Ross said. “Nubby put a shallow pan under each cage, and that'll do for most of them. But watch the one with the white stripe between his ears. He tends to, uh . . . spray out rather than down.”

“Oh, that's just smashin',” Midge replied. “So 'ow much do we need?”

“One barrelful ought to do it.”

“Smashin', indeed.” Midge turned and trudged down the stairs to the hold.

“You can stop this, Anne,” said Thorne. “He told you the way, didn't he?”

“No, nooo,” Anne cried. “He didn't tell me the way! Please stop. Please.” She could barely look upon Padre Dominguez. His back glistened with fresh blood, and the ship's surgeon continued his work.

“I believe you, Anne,” Thorne said. “Your face tells me the truth.” Thorne knelt to be close to the monk's face. “Just tell me, Padre, and all the pain will stop.” Padre Dominguez closed his eyes.

“I have used five of my favorite tools already,” said Flagg. “He is a stubborn man.”

“Yes, remarkable strength,” Thorne hissed. “The vows of your order—you would rather die than violate them. I know all about the vows, Dominguez . . . and your beloved order. How noble and pious. But in the end, priest, you all are pirates just like me!”

Padre Dominguez opened his eyes. “Yes,” said Thorne. “You know I speak the truth, don't you. The treasure on the island was never yours to begin with. You stole it from those who stole it from Constantine. How do you reconcile that with your God?”

“You are wrong,” said Padre Dominguez weakly. “The Brethren are protectors, safekeepers . . .”

“Thieves!” Thorne barked. “You stole the treasure from Constantine!”

“We took the treasure,” Padre Dominguez said with a knowing smile, “but we did not steal it. My order uses it as Emperor Constantine would have wished.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Constantine was the founder of my order.”

Thorne stood and reached for the bleeding stick, but Flagg said, “No, Captain, you will ruin my work. Let me finish.” Flagg reached into his wooden case and produced a pair of shears.

“It is no use,” Thorne said. “The monk cares nothing for his own life.” The moment he spoke the words, his eyes drifted to Anne. “It is time to play my final card.”

Cat had never seen a bow quite like the
Bruce
's. The other ships, the brig and the sloop—even though Cat had no specific memory of ever sailing upon them before, the rigging, the sails, the masts and spars—all seemed familiar.

Not the
Bruce
. For one thing, most ships had a long shaft that pointed out of the bow like a unicorn's horn. This bowsprit was used to tie off one corner of a large triangular sail used to help the ship maneuver. The
Bruce
had no bowsprit, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, the foremast was located much closer to the bow, and it had a long spar attached to it with a strange iron collar.

“Fantastic, isn't it?” Ramiro de Ferro Goncalo asked as he approached.

“Yes,” Cat replied. “I mean, I guess it is. This spar, is it like a bowsprit?”

“Exactly like a bowsprit,” said Ramiro. “With one major improvement. A normal bowsprit is fixed. It doesn't turn.” Cat looked at the collar and noticed there were holes all the way around the collar and long iron pins in two of the holes—one on either side of the spar.

“Oh!” Cat exclaimed.

“Ah, you see?” Ramiro said. “This collar, which I call a gooseneck, allows us to turn the spar. The pins you see lock the spar in whatever position we want.”

Cat imagined the ship needing to make a quick turn—or even a complete turn—with an enemy behind. To be able to adjust the bowsprit, to quickly change the angle of the sail—that would give them a huge advantage. “That's brilliant,” Cat muttered.

“Thank you,” said Ramiro. “The
Bruce
is really one of a kind.

Should we come up against the infamous
Raven
, I suspect we will not find ourselves outgunned or outmaneuvered.”

“Where shall I begin?” asked Flagg, holding up the shears so that Anne could see them. She lay on her back, strapped down to stone.

They had positioned her so that Padre Dominguez could watch.

“Her pretty face,” said Thorne.

“Excellent choice,” said Flagg ghoulishly. “You will need to hold her head. I wouldn't want to cut . . . in the wrong place.”

Anne thrashed about. “No! Nooo!” But Thorne held her head still. Tears streaked her face. Flagg pinched the skin at her jawbone and placed the scissor blades there. Anne cried out. Her legs and arms convulsed in the straps.

Padre Dominguez, weak from the ordeal, looked on and began to shake. He watched helplessly as Flagg closed the shears. Anne shrieked, and dark blood appeared on her jaw. “No! Thorne, you demon from hell!” Padre Dominguez screamed.

“Such language, Padre,” Thorne mocked.

“I speak of the place,” Padre Dominguez said. “The place where you will spend eternity. You will not go unpunished!”