Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen (18 page)

Several of the Guild Masters laughed at the ridiculous condition. A couple accused her of being daft.

“With the amount I will be paying you,” the Queen explained graciously, “you will be able to find somewhere warm and beautiful and quietly live out the rest of your lives in wealth and comfort.”

The laughing stopped and the auditorium fell silent.

“You're kidding,” Urbar accused.

“As you said, you are not in this line of work for the glory, or the excitement, or the honor. It is strictly business.

How much would you say is your average increase per year?” Queen Forsythia asked, carefully avoiding words like ‘earn’ and ‘steal.’

Setsuna clucked her tongue. “After expenses, I’d say on average thirty to fifty thousand Taries...”

“Ha!” Namtia taunted. “Is that all you...”

“Per crewman.”

“Oh.”

“And how long did you expect to continue in this line of work?” The Queen continued.

The Guild Masters looked around at each other insecurely.

“Please understand I do not mean to pry in your personal affairs,” The Queen reassured, offering her hand gracefully. “I am simply trying to establish a baseline.”

“No, it’s not that,” Bazult explained. “It’s just that in our business, you don’t tend to think past the next big score. Long-term just ain’t in the cards for most of us.”

“I see, but it is fair to say that even under the best of circumstances, none of you plan on doing this for longer than say, twenty more years?”

Rumbles and clicking noises indicated a reluctant agreement to her statement.

“So,” the Queen hypothesized. “If I were to offer you a hundred times what you normally acquire in a year, you could easily say that you would make far more money overall by taking this contract and retiring than you would were you to continue as you would have otherwise.”

A few of the Guild Masters nodded in agreement.

“You know, we have a saying where I come from,” Thiric shared, his cigar glowing brightly. “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Aye, my tusks are achin’ at the thought that there is no way your little island has that much gold,” Sundgen accused. “Methinks this stinks of a lie and a trap.”

“It is true, Wysteria does not have enough gold to pay you what I am offering,” the Queen answered candidly.

“Well then why are we even here?” Sundgen howled, rising to his feet.

The Queen raised her trembling hand weakly. “When you see the target, you will understand that the amount I am offering will indeed be paid to you.”

“So, what is the target, then?” Bolflel insisted drunkenly.

The Queen nodded and Balen wheeled a cart into the center of the room. Hovering in the air above the crystals, it contained was the projection of a map. Anuk stirred and slowly came to his feet, rubbing the bump on the back of his head.

“My mother once taught me that simplicity has an elegance all its own,” the Queen mused. “The target itself contains your payment within it. That will make your people exceptionally motivated. The majority of the patrol ships and personnel were stripped away to attack Wysteria, stacking the odds even further in your favor.”

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep when you were talking just then,” Bolflel belched.

Queen Forsythia ignored him. “The completion of the mission secures your pay, so you will not have to return here. You may disperse when your holds are full, creating far too many targets for the authorities to track down.”

Thiric stood up, lust in his eyes as he looked at the map. Reimay and Urbar did the same as they realized what they were looking at.

“What is this? Some little island?” Anuk asked, confused.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is your contracted target,” Queen Forsythia announced boldly. “The Federal Gold Reserves for the entire League of Nations. I am hiring you to steal every last coin.”

“Okay, are you ready?” Athel asked, holding up her saber.

“Um, no, I’m not ready yet,” Deutzia protested, grabbing the railing with a branch and sliding a few inches away from Athel. “I...I need to be watered first.”

“Alder’s been over-watering you for three days now, stop being such a baby,” Athel chided.

“Baby!” Deutzia protested. “Let’s chop a piece off of you and see how you like it!”

Athel rolled her eyes and took out a pocket knife. Grabbing a lock of her auburn red hair, she sliced off a few strands. “Oh, no, it hurts so bad, whatever will I do now?” Athel said drolly.

“That isn’t the same thing and you know it!” Deutzia protested.

Athel grunted in frustration and threw her head back, her pony tail dropping down behind her. Far above them, the ceiling of the cave dripped the occasional drop of cool water. The storm they had been approaching turned out to be a hurricane, far too strong and dangerous for Margaret to navigate safely. Luckily, Captain Evere was familiar with the area, and they had weathered the worst of the storm by hiding the Dreadnaught inside these caves. Now, they were just waiting for the weather to clear up so they could be on their way.

“If I may be of assistance,” Alder said calmly as he placed his hand on Deutzia’s trunk. “When Wysterian women give birth to a son, it is traditional for the house-husband to hold their hands to make them feel more at ease. Perhaps I could do the same for you?”

“This is hardly like giving birth,” Athel protested.

“Like you would know,” Deutzia retorted.

Alder offered up his hand reassuringly, and Deutzia took it, wrapping a branch around his arm. Hesitantly, Deutzia pulled up one of her smaller roots from within her pot and held it up.

“This one?” Athel asked, readying her saber.

“No!” Deutzia recanted, burying the root back into the pot.

“Come on, Deuts, I feel like we've been here all day,” Athel huffed.

“Okay, this one,” Deutzia affirmed, pulling out another small root. The root began glowing with a golden light and grew straight and tall, like the shaft of a polearm.

“Okay, here I go,” Athel warned.

“Wait wait wait! Not yet,” Deutzia said, pulling back and squeezing Alder’s arm.

“Ugh, how can you possibly be the other half of my soul and be this cowardly?” Athel complained.

“She’s not cowardly, she’s...cautious,” Alder affirmed, gripping at his arm, which was quickly turning purple.

“All right, this is going to be okay,” Athel comforted, grabbing the top of the root.

“It will?” Deutzia asked, trembling a little.

Athel’s expression grew soft and motherly. “Yes, I’m going to count to three, okay? Then it will be over.”

“O-Okay,” Deutzia agreed. “We'll all count together.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“One...”

Athel slashed her saber and neatly clipped it off.

“OWWWW!” Deutzia screamed as she slid back to the railing. “You said you were going to count to three!”

“I had to,” Athel justified, sheathing her weapon. “If I had reached three, you would have pulled back!”

“You are terrible,” Deutzia complained as she examined the nub where the root had been cut off. “We must have been switched at birth. There is no way my twin could be this cruel.”

Athel rolled her eyes.

It was then that they both noticed a gurgling noise. Athel and Deutzia turned to see Alder wrapped in Deutzia’s branches, his whole body turning purple from being squeezed.

“Oh, sorry,” Deutzia apologized, releasing him.

“No need, my Lady,” Alder reassured her as he caught his breath. “I shall begin carving the new staff immediately.”

Athel handed the wood to Alder and gave him a slap on the back as he wobbled away.

Looking towards the cave entrance, Athel could see Privet walking off, a heavy pack on his back. She waved and called to him, but he didn’t respond, finally turning a corner.

“Hey, Evere,” Athel called out as she climbed up to the quarterdeck. “Where is Privet off to? Didja give him a mission or something?”

“No lass,” Evere said as he leaned back against the shrouds, slowly polishing one of his black eyes. “Privet is leaving us.”

“Leaving?” Athel asked in surprise. “Well, where is he going?”

Evere shrugged. “Wherever the winds take him.”

Athel pursed her lips and turned around. She scampered across the deck and leapt over the railing, sliding down the rope ladder to the cave floor. She hit the ground running and sprinted towards the cave’s exit, swerving around stalagmites and standing pools of water.

When she reached the exit, she turned and saw Privet hiking away, about a hundred yards off. Calling to him, she ran after him. If he heard her, he made no sign of it as he hiked away. Finally, she caught up with him and grabbed him by his muscular shoulder.

“By the twelve seas, what do you want?” Privet groaned, turning towards her.

“So you could hear me,” Athel said, heaving for breath.

“Of course I could hear you, you've been croaking like a tree-frog,” he complained.

Privet looked her over for a moment. Spending so much time in the sun had lightened her auburn hair quite a bit. It now had highlights of strawberry blonde and even orange in it. She also had a lot more cute freckles on her nose and cheeks. Behind it all were her beautiful, light brown eyes.

“You can’t leave,” Athel insisted.

“Can’t I?” Privet demanded. “You forget, I’m not a member of this crew, I've sworn no oath, to you or to anybody.”

“We need you,” she reasoned.

He chuckled. “You've got a couple hundred ships full of pirates and you think I’m going to tip the balance?”

He turned away and began walking again. She could feel her temper flaring. In her mind, her mother’s voice reminded her that no one, man or woman, turned their back on a Forsythian.

“You are so full of compost, Privet,” she accused, fighting to keep her temper in check. “Not three days ago you were preaching to me about how you were willing to do anything to save your island.”

He stopped but did not turn around. “Yes, I was.”

“So, what changed?”

“I guess I realized that maybe your little island isn’t worth saving after all. I mean, think about it. Wysteria is the only island in the League that openly allows slavery to exist.”

Offended, her mouth dropped open. Sure, she poked fun at her island and its traditions often enough, but it was like having a little sister that one teased. No one else was allowed to mistreat her. “How dare you!” Athel breathed, using her mother’s voice. “Wysteria has no slaves and abhors the very idea of...”

“Then what are the men, huh?” Privet yelled, cutting her off. “They are slaves in all but name only!”

She shook her head. “No, a slave-owner could treat her property however she wanted. A Matron has specific duties towards the men in her family. Rights and needs that must be provided for. All the men are guaranteed...”

Privet threw up his hands. “Do you realize how ridiculous you sound? Are you even listening to what you are saying? You sound just like your mother.”

“I never...” Athel gasped before catching herself. “I’m trying not to sound like her, okay? Even so, everyone knows that my household has always treated the men with...”

“Oh sure, your mother is polite to them,” he retorted, cutting her off. “She may not whip them like the Bursage’s do, but let’s not mince words here; it’s not like your mother gives your men their freedom of anything. She’s a benevolent slave owner, for sure, but she is no equalist.”

Privet stepped in close, so close Athel could feel the warmth of his body, the strength of his will. Athel could feel her heart beating fast in her chest. She could feel her face flush. Just being near him was overwhelming. Her sight, her hearing, it was somehow made more crisp. Each of her senses seemed to come more alive.

“Think about it, Princess. When this is all over, even if you manage to win this war and save your island, what happens then? Huh? You get to go back to your palace and read your books, waited on hand and foot, enjoying the benefits of long life and wealth. What about the men, huh? What about people like Alder and me? What do we get? A few years of hard labor and then an early grave. We don’t even get a fraggin’ afterlife.”

“But, Wysteria is our home, we have a duty to...”

“No, Wysteria is YOUR home! I am only property there. I refuse to lay down my life for a leader who cares more about the lives of her enemies than she does about the lives of her own people. That isn’t something worth preserving.”

“I’m sure we will find another way,” Athel insisted. “There is no purpose in fighting if victory is impossible. There are, however, many kinds of victory.”

“You'd better not be quoting one of your stupid books,” Privet warned.

Athel held her ground, her face expressionless.

Privet moved in even closer, their noses almost touching, their eyes locked. “Tell me you didn’t just quote something.”

Athel said nothing, but her eyes flicked away to one side.

“Oh, you did!” Privet said, backing away and slamming his fist into his palm. “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable!”

“Is everything all right?” Alder asked as he ran up, quite out of breath. “I heard yelling.”