Luckstones (2 page)

Amielle had heard that same tone of voice from the governess
who had eloped with her riding teacher. She had heard the painfully nonchalant
terms of praise from her older sisters when they fell in love but did not wish
to be twitted about it. And because Amielle found Lyd rather admirable, she
wished to understand what the pirate found admirable in the pirate master.

She asked Lyd. “That vulgar necklace was almost all I
noticed about him. What kind of man wears the luck of dead—”

“You don’t understand,” Lyd said—more hotly than she might
have done were it some other pirate under discussion. “Any man may choose to
keep the luckstones of the folk he fights, and some do. Nault’s just more
aboveboard
about it.”

“Perhaps he needs to look fierce, since he’s so beautiful,”
Amielle suggested.

“Well, yes, aye, that’s it. The other men might not take him
seriously if he did not appear ruthless.”

“All that hair, and those blue eyes,” Amielle went on. “But
vicious, too, I reckon—”

“Not always.” Lyd muttered. “Sometimes he—”

“What?” Amielle urged. “Is he nice to
you
?”

Lyd shrugged. “When I was first aboard the
Daisy
I lost my footing while I was up
in the rigging, and I thought I was going to fall to the deck, but Nault caught
me.”

Amielle wondered: wouldn’t any of the others have caught
her? But Nault had, and when a man who looks like him saves your life, perhaps
it was reasonable to fall in love with him. Amielle was certain there were
aspects to the whole business she was not old enough to understand.

The next time Lyd came to “forget” a plate of food, Amielle
asked another question.

“Should we not have reached Isl’Alander by now? We’ve been
sailing for days since . . .” she trailed off.
Since you killed the crew and took the ship
sounded aggressive.

Lyd nodded, taking the opportunity to re-tie her queue.
“We’ve been becalmed for two days—not a breath of wind on the sea. Gorle swears
this ship is unlucky.”

“Well, it wasn’t until you lot captured us,” Amielle said, a
little sharply.

Lyd grinned. “I spose not. Other things have been happening
too, though. One of the grog casks leaked out almost the whole tun’s worth last
night. Hold smells like a tavern, but there’s naught to drink. And you may have
noticed the biscuit—”

“Crackers,” Amielle said.

“Crackers, then. It’s what us lot are used to. Somehow the
barrel they’re in got soaked, and now the bisc—crackers—are water-logged, a
great slimy mess. The men are talking about curses and jinxes. You stay in your
cubby, little one. If they find you, they’ll put it all to your account and I
doubt they’ll be kind.”

In fact, Amielle had become bold enough to spend some part
of the day behind one of the berths, reading her sisters’ left-behind novels.
When Nault ordered a careful search of all cabins for items of worth it was Lyd
who volunteered to go through the Ladies’ Cabin, and Amielle helped her fold
the extravagant lace and silk left behind by her family. It would be sold to
doxies on Isl’Alander, “and make a neat sum,” Lyd told her.

“Don’t you want to keep some for yourself?” Amielle asked.

Lyd snorted and gestured at her tidy brown coat and
waistcoat. “What would I do with such stuff?” But she fingered the heavily
laced petticoats with appreciation. “Any road, Nault and the captain’d take my
head if I kept anything back for myself.”

Except for luck stones, Amielle thought, but did not say.

As they worked, Amielle learned a good deal about the
pirate. Her true name was Lydanne me Kenn; her father had been a shipfitter,
and she had run away to sea with her first love when she was only a few years
older than Amielle herself. That first love had drowned within a three-month,
and Lydanne had found herself on Isl’Alander and, in boys’ garb, hired by the
captain of the Drunken Daisy.

“Didn’t you want to go home?” Amielle asked.

Lydanne shook her head. She was packing the folded dainties
away in a chest for when they reached port. “Not by then. I love the sea. And
the men are good enough fellows—”

“Unless you’re on another ship,” Amielle said. She still
regretted Captain ha Blifen and the Plover’s crew.

Lydanne did not disagree. “It’s the way of things. But even
if I could, I wouldn’t go back to Meviel. Nothing for me there. This is my
life; everything I love is here.”

Amielle thought she was speaking of Nault.

After more than a week without breeze, a wind picked up and
the Plover began to make for Isl’Alander again. Amielle, hidden behind the
berth in the Ladies’ Cabin, knew at once that this was not a kindly freshening
breeze but the making of a storm: the groans and creaks of the Plover’s boards,
the fearsome motion of the ship, and the increasing tension in the sailors’
calls made that clear. Then rain beat down on the deck over her head, and the
ship rocked and rose on great swells. Amielle, buffeted between the berth and
wall of the Ladies’ Cabin, climbed unsteadily into the linen cupboard, wrapped
herself well against bruises, and sat to wait out the storm.

It was a bad time. The voices of the seamen on deck were
lost in the wind, and she knew nothing of what was happening except that the
Plover sounded as if it was being wrenched apart. The tossing made Amielle
sick, but she did not dare give way to her nausea lest someone hear her
retching. The storm went on for hours; at some point, worn out by fear, Amielle
fell asleep, uncertain if she would wake again.

She did wake, stiff and sore. The
fearsome rocking of the ship had ceased, leaving a quiet that was eerie. She
heard no voices, and for a moment Amielle entertained the idea that all the
pirates had been swept overboard and that she would die aboard the Plover; she
had no illusion about her ability to pilot the ship herself. Then she heard footfall
in the passage and almost laughed with relief. Likely it was Lydanne with food.
But to be safe, she stayed where she was, arms wrapped around her legs and chin
on her knees, with the sheets draped around her.

The door of the cupboard was wrenched open; a bony, one-eyed
pirate was looking away over his shoulder, calling to ask how many sheets were
wanted for patching. He had reached, unlooking, into the cupboard, and grasped
a sheet—and Amielle’s wrist beneath it.

“Sweet Jophiros’ knees!” The man dropped her wrist and
Amielle attempted, impossibly, to squeeze herself further back in the cupboard.
But the man pulled all the blankets and sheets down, and Amielle after them. She
found herself on the floor of the Ladies’ Cabin staring up at the pirate, who
was bawling to his mates to see what he had found.

Dragged onto the deck, blinking in the bright, clear
sunlight, Amielle saw a shambles on the deck, and the pirates engaged in
cleaning up. Nault stood at the helm, his dark hair blowing in the breeze and
the necklace of luckstones glinting in the sunlight. Behind him Lydanne looked
up from examining a torn sail, and regarded Amielle with dismay.

“Found her in the front cabin, Nault. Been hidin’ there
since we took the ship, I reckon.” The one-eyed pirate shoved Amielle forward.

Nault gestured to Lydanne to take the helm and swung down
the stairs to examine his prisoner. “A girl.” He might as well have said “a
snake” or “a turd” for the distaste in his voice. He turned to look round at
the rest of the crew. “Well, this—” he took Amielle’s arm and shook her. “This
explains all the foul luck we’ve had since taking the ship, hey, boys?”

The crew—saving only Lydanne at the helm—moved toward
Amielle, muttering their agreement with Nault. The most benevolent suggestion
the girl heard was that she be turned over to the doxies of Madame Warmfist’s
on Isl’Alander: “They’ll have a use for her!” The other men seemed to think
that was too kind. “Brought the storm down on us,” a fat, grizzled man said.
“Took the wind clear away,” another growled. And, worst of all, “Split open the
grog barrel!”

“A woman on board’s a jinx,” Nault said. He tossed his head
to get the hair out of his eyes. “Only question is how to deal with her. I say:
over the side.”

He took two steps toward the railing; Amielle attempted to
resist, but the master was big, certainly bigger than a scrawny twelve-year-old
girl. She found herself pressed against the railing, bent backward so she could
see the swift flow of the sea below her.

“Nault, stop! She’s just a child!”

Amielle looked back to see Lydanne with her hand on the
master’s shoulder, restraining him. Nault regarded her with the expression of
one who was not accustomed to be gainsaid.

“Step off, Lyd, or I’ll have your ear,” he said. And tossed
his hair again.

“Master, give her to the brothel on Isl’Alander, if you
like. But don’t toss her overboard—a thing like that brings its own ill luck.
You want to curse this ship?”

“Only curse on this ship is this brat, and over she goes.
Take your hand off me or I swear—” Nault turned to face Lydanne; Amielle slid
out from his grasp. “Now, damme, see what you’ve done?” The master reeled
around to grab Amielle, but Lydanne was still in his way. He swung at her;
Lydanne was knocked sideways, her spectacles flying and her hair pulled from
the tail in which she had tied it. As Nault turned to grab Amielle again,
Lydanne staggered back and stood between them. This time Nault reached out to push
Lydanne aside, then stopped. His hand, flat upon her chest, slowly shaped
around the swelling there. His expression was all astonishment.

Lydanne, her glasses gone and her hair loose about her face,
stared at the master unwavering. She looked, to Amielle, like a warrior queen.
The thought woke the romance in the girl’s soul. Now, she thought. Now he knows
who she really is, without her spectacles and with hair down, now Nault will
see she’s pretty and love her and she’ll save me and—

But the master of the Plover only stood there, staring at
the hand which cupped Lydanne’s breast as if he had found a mouse in his boot.
Lydanne stood still, her eyes on the play of expression on Nault’s face.

Gorle, the fat seaman, broke the silence. “Gon to be a
fight, then, Nault?” He sounded hopeful. The other pirates began a murmur of
encouragement. “You and Lyd?”

Nault gave Lydanne’s breast a hard squeeze—Amielle saw her
wince of pain—and pushed her aside. “I don’t fight women.”

There was a moment of silence in which the creaking of the
ship and the whickering of the breeze in the sails overhead seemed unnaturally
loud. Lydanne, on her feet again, straightened her coat and quickly braided her
hair in its accustomed queue. One of the pirates muttered “Whuh?”

“Lyd’s not one of us, Pico. Lyd’s another thrice-damned
woman.” Nault’s voice oozed disgust. “There’s two jinxes on this ship, and I
say we be rid of both of them.”

Amielle, still crouched in the lee of the rail, watched in
dismay. This was not at all the way matters were supposed to proceed. Nault, in
the face of Lydanne’s bravery and beauty, was supposed to fall in love with
her. Don’t you see how splendid she is? Amielle wanted to cry. But none of them
saw that except her.

Gorle stepped forward and peered at Lydanne. “Zis true, Lyd?
You a woman?”

An odd, small smile lit Lydanne’s
face. “I’m the same shipmate I’ve been for half a dozen years, doing my work
and fighting beside you all when it was needful. What else matters? Boun—” She
looked to the tall, one-eyed pirate. “Wasn’t it me pulled you back onto the
side when we were mending sails on the
Daisy
last year? And Pico, when you lost your blade taking this ship, hadn’t I your
back? Who saved your sorry ass then? Breggen, you saved me more than once.
D’you regret it now?”

The pirates looked at each other uncertainly.

“I’m no different from any of you. I love the sea—”

“Love.” Nault spat. “Like a woman to talk of love. No wonder
the winds died and the bread was weevilly—”

“But it’s you brought the bad luck,” Amielle burst in. She
stood by the railing, her fist clenched, outraged. “You, with that vulgar
necklace that tempts fortune with other men’s luck! It’s nothing to do with
me—or Lydanne! Leave her alone, you bully.”

It was a mistake. The pirates had all but forgotten her, and
now she’d drawn their attention again.

Nault stepped along the rail and grabbed Amielle by the
wrist, jerking her back toward the pirates. “Bully, am I? You’re one piece of
ill-luck I can rid myself of this minute. Over the side you go, brat. But
first—” He reached for the ear where Amielle’s own tiny luckstone dangled. She
turned her head furiously, seeking to avoid his hand; the master roared his
frustration and backhanded her. The world went gray and she sagged against the
rail.

“NAULT!” Lydanne’s voice was a roar in Amielle’s ears.
“Think shame to strike a child half your size. Are you a bully? If not, you’ll
fight me.” She had her sword out, extended in a line toward Nault’s throat.
“Fight me, or prove yourself a coward.”

Amielle fell backward when Nault dropped her. He drew his
own sword with a sweep that almost deprived Boun, nearby, of his remaining eye,
and dropped into an exaggerated crouch. The pirates stepped back hastily,
giving Nault and Lydanne room for their business. Amielle, who had read of
duels at sea but never seen a sword drawn in anger, found that it was not
romantic or even exciting. She could taste her own fear as she watched Lydanne
and Nault circle round each other on the broad, creaking boards of the deck.
Nault did not love Lydanne: he meant to kill her. And if Lydanne loved Nault,
well, she clearly had no intention of being killed herself.

Amielle folded herself back into the shadow of the railing
and watched.

Nault lunged at Lydanne with a roar so loud it made
Amielle’s heart jump, but Lydanne, unmoved, beat his point aside and riposted.
Her blade sliced the fabric of Nault’s sleeve; then there was a flurry of blows
and parries, with the clash of steel and the thump of boots and the grunts and
gasps of the two of them like music to a dance.