The Edge of the Ocean Page 12

  Jonathan started unbuttoning his jacket. “Would one of you hold this for me, please?”

  “You”—Flick gaped, grabbing the jacket—“are actually, properly insane. How can you be going ahead with this monumentally stupid plan?”

  “What’s stupid about it?” Jonathan stretched his arms over his head.

  Avery and Flick stared at each other in disbelief for a moment. Avery threw her hands in the air, speechless.

  “Oh, let me think,” Flick said, her voice slipping up an octave in sarcasm. “Maybe the fact that you’re going up against pirates with swords? Just surrender now, and we’ll take our chances. We’ll get on better without you bleeding everywhere and alerting the sharks, anyway.”

  “You’re being hysterical. I’ve as much chance as anyone. More, actually.” He rolled his neck, working the cricks out.

  “More? What do you—”

  A muscular woman in a red shirt pushed Flick to the side and shoved a sheathed sword into Jonathan’s arms. “Your blade, boy,” she said. “And be grateful the popular vote was to give you something with an edge.”

  “Oh?” Jonathan popped the blade up slightly to see it. It was indeed very shiny. “I would have thought you’d be more than happy to present me with a disadvantage.”

  “I would have been,” she snapped. “But the captain believes in honor. If he gets a new sword, so do you. And believe me”—she looked him up and down and snorted—“you’re going to need all the help you can get, lad.”

  “Thank you,” he said, as if he’d been complimented.

  “Don’t cut yourself before it starts,” she called as she walked off.

  Jonathan drew the cutlass all the way out. It looked lethal—the steel was so sharp that Flick couldn’t see the edge. It made the very air feel cold. Avery pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

  “You’re really going to do this?” Flick asked. “Jonathan—he doesn’t care that you’re a kid”—she ignored Jonathan’s look of disdain—“or a Mercator, or part of the Strangeworlds Society. He’s going to run you through! Don’t you care?”

  He looked right at her. “You think I don’t care,” he said.

  “Well, you’re not acting like you do!” she hissed.

  They glared at each other, and then Jonathan pulled her by the arm, close to him, so he could whisper. “I know what it looks like, through your eyes,” he said. “But this isn’t a death wish. I promise you that.”

  “But he might kill you,” Flick insisted.

  “Not if I get him first.” Jonathan let her go. “Trust me?”

  Flick opened her mouth to argue again. But what could she say? She just nodded. Yeah, I trust you, you madman, she added silently. Don’t you dare prove me wrong. She stepped back to stand beside Avery, who gave her a very tight-lipped smile.

  The Buccaneers had formed a circle on the deck, and Captain Burnish had taken off his hat and rolled his sleeves up. He had a tattoo on each forearm and one on the back of each hand, the ink so fine-lined and bright it looked new.

  Jonathan stepped forward, into the circle.

  And immediately darted left as Burnish’s sword slashed at him.

  The crew laughed.

  Jonathan actually grinned back. “What—are we not bowing first, like gentlemen? I thought you’d like me to expose the back of my neck.”

  Burnish swung again and again, and Jonathan had to step quickly out of the path of the sword. The Serpent’s crew were jeering and laughing. Jonathan avoided the swipes, yet never tried to raise his own blade to retaliate.

  “Stop playing with the lad, Captain!”

  “Show him what he’s made of!”

  Avery bit her thumbnail. “What is he doing? Why isn’t he fighting back?”

  Flick shook her head, watching Jonathan dance neatly back again, his weight on the balls of his feet, sword held loosely at his side. “I think he’s reading him,” she said softly. “Working him out.”

  Jonathan suddenly lifted his sword. His arm came up like a released spring, the blade cutting up hard at the top of Captain Burnish’s arm. The sword sliced through the thick canvas sleeve and kept going, across the man’s chest.

  The captain threw himself backward too late, snarling. A thin line of blood blossomed through his sleeve.

  Hope leapt up Flick’s chest.

  The Buccaneers were quieter, now—their captain had been wounded. The boy from another world wasn’t entirely clueless. The cheers had turned to mumbles of concern.

  But the captain quickly recovered, getting closer until the two men were within spitting distance, their cutlasses striking hard against each other.

  Jonathan was suddenly knocked off-balance, and the two of them separated quickly, swords held up defensively as they circled each other. Jonathan made as if he were going to swing again, but at the last second feinted to the right, coming up again quickly to jab the captain sharply in the ribs.

  Flick gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

  But Burnish seemed not to feel the wound. He punched Jonathan on the shoulder hard enough to make him gasp and slashed at his legs, missing by a hair as Jonathan threw himself to the deck and rolled, coming up again quickly to parry another blow, block, and block, and stab again, this time puncturing the leather vest the captain wore and making him howl.

  It wasn’t deep—there wasn’t even any blood on Jonathan’s blade as he got to his feet and stepped backward—but it made Burnish clamp a hand to his chest, a look of rage on his face.

  “Oh god, he’s going to kill him,” Flick breathed, every cell in her body turning to ice.

  Jonathan clearly suspected the same. He kept his cutlass up, his other arm out for balance as he watched the injured captain like a hawk. “Give it up, Captain,” he called. “Accept that we are not spies or your enemies, and we’ll call it a draw. No need for anyone to lose face. Or a face.”

  “You got lucky, lad,” Burnish snapped back. “But you can’t rely on luck. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “I was the British Junior Fencing Champion in 2013.” Jonathan smirked.

  Flick put her head in her hands. Jonathan thought he was up to the task of fighting a pirate, when really he’d merely had a very expensive hobby.

  But the crew weren’t laughing. They were looking at one another and frowning. “Champion?” one of them murmured to the other.

  Captain Burnish moved his hand from his ribs. A pale smear of blood was on his palm.

  “That’s twice you’ve made me bleed.” He feinted to one side, but Jonathan was wise to it, keeping his feet flat on the deck, his sword raised and ready, the wiry muscles in his arms braced. “You say you’re a champion; well, I say you’ve got the spirit of the lionfish on your side. And she has a sting, if you get too close.” He lunged, swiping to and fro. Jonathan had no choice but to parry, ducking out of the reach of a punching fist, only to be kicked smartly to the deck. He landed hard on his back and swore loudly as Burnish’s sword smashed into the woodwork beside his face. The blade stuck.

  Jonathan scrambled away a second before Burnish wrenched it free. Jonathan kicked him hard on the kneecap, making the man stumble and loosen his grip on the cutlass.

  Jonathan dived forward.

  Flick thought he might stab the man and covered her face in horror.

  But he didn’t.

  Jonathan grabbed the captain’s sword arm at the wrist and pushed it up, holding it too far away for Burnish to stab him. Burnish twisted expertly, but Jonathan was ready for it and got inside his grip—his back against Burnish’s chest, still hanging on to the captain’s arm. Burnish tried to shove him away, but Jonathan hung on like a deadweight. He clawed frantically at Burnish’s hand, trying to prize the man’s grip open to make him drop his sword.

  “You think you can get my blade off me, boy?” Burnish screamed into his face. “I’ll die with it in my hand!”

  “You might,” Jonathan said through gritted teeth. “But not today.” He twisted sharply, and
managed to get his own sword pointed up, held just by his fingertips. He aimed it toward where their hands still scrabbled together. And stabbed up.

  Flick’s mouth dropped in a silent scream.

  Jonathan’s blade pierced his own hand, and Burnish’s as well.

  Both men yelled and fell apart, the two swords clattering down to the deck.

  Jonathan dove to the floor and snatched up both swords before Burnish could realize what had happened. He raised them both.

  Blood was running down his wrist, his glasses were dangling off one ear, and he was heaving, but he held the swords steady. “I think you ought to yield, sir.”

  Burnish spat. His hand was bleeding, and so was his arm and chest. None of the wounds were bad, but they were wounds all the same. He was without a sword. And his crew were tense, around him.

  “I really don’t wish to become a murderer,” Jonathan added, his voice softening just a little. “This is just for show, isn’t it? No need for anyone to be the loser, if we were simply demonstrating what we could do? An exchange of skills?”

  Realization blossomed in Flick’s mind. Jonathan was offering the captain a way out. Call this off, and you won’t have to say I beat you. Save face, and no one had to be the loser.

  Flick lowered her hands. Jonathan really was the biggest idiot she’d ever known, and she wouldn’t swap him for anything.

  But Captain Burnish sighed. “No, lad. You won this. I don’t mind admitting that. Everyone here saw.” He smiled. “I don’t mind losing to a champion.”

  “Only a junior champion.” Jonathan lowered the blades slightly.

  “Then there’s more to come.” Burnish walked over, holding out his non-bloodied hand. “I yield to you, boy. Let everyone take note, this lad and his companions are our allies. They are safe on this vessel, and any that sail under our flag.”

  There was a moment’s pause from the surrounding pirates before a great crashing cheer sounded, and once again the deck was pounded by boots. Flick almost laughed. The pirates weren’t really bloodthirsty—they just liked a show, it seemed.

  Jonathan dropped the swords and shook the man’s hand. His own was bleeding steadily, coloring his shirtsleeve.

  “What’s your name, lad?” Burnish asked.

  “Jonathan Mercator.”

  “Well, Mercator, you should have that hand seen to. It’s hurt.”

  “Not badly.” Jonathan examined his hand. The webbing between his thumb and index finger was punctured. “I hope.”

  Burnish tutted. “You’re either brave, or stupid.”

  “Perhaps a little of both.” Jonathan looked over at Flick and Avery. “This is Felicity, by the way. And my cousin, Avery.”

  “Ladies.” Burnish gave a bow. “Apologies you had to see that.”

  “It was fun,” Avery said.

  Jonathan swatted her away and spoke to Burnish again. “We meant what we said—we fled the Aconite to come here. Firstly, because there is something to warn you about, that concerns you and Captain Nyfe. And secondly, to reclaim some property.” He waved his injured hand, and blood went splattering through the air, landing on the captain’s jacket.

  Flick rolled her eyes. “Have you got a doctor on this ship?”

  “Aye. Tessa!” Burnish yelled. Then looked back at Jonathan. “Stolen property, you say?”

  “Yes. We heard a rumor that it might have been delivered to you.”

  Burnish stroked his beard into a point before letting it fluff out again. “I’m not in the habit of receiving stolen property, despite what Nyfe Shaban thinks. But it sounds like there’s a tale to tell, there. After your hand is seen to, I think.”

  A woman appeared at Flick’s elbow. She was about four and a half feet tall and wearing a waxed apron. “Yes, Ez?”

  “This lad’s done himself a mischief. See to him, send them to the mess, and then to my cabin.”

  “Aye.” Tessa took hold of Jonathan’s arm. “You’ll be lucky if you haven’t damaged the nerve.” She turned it over. “What a damned stupid thing to do.”

  “It made him let go, didn’t it?” Jonathan’s bravado, running out of adrenaline to power it, was giving way to shaky rudeness. He’d gone rather pale. Flick watched him take careful steps as they all went down into the bowels of the ship.

  Tessa snorted. “As if Burnish was going to run through a wee lad like you. He’s as soft as sand at low tide, that man. He’s had six children to knock the rough edges off him. He talks tough, but he’s like a cockle.”

  “White and lumpy?” Avery asked.

  Tessa laughed. “Aye, maybe. But soft on the inside, too. You’ve got to warm him up a bit to find it out. You follow me to the mess. I’ll sort you out at my table, and you can get some stew in you. D’you like octopus?”

  * * *

  Jonathan’s hand wasn’t as bad as it looked. Once it had been cleaned up, and he’d proven he still had the feeling in all of his fingers, Tessa bandaged his thumb against the rest of his hand. It made it difficult for him to hold his spoon, but it was better than nothing.

  When they got to Burnish’s cabin, he was waiting behind a desk, wearing a new shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Flick could see now that his larger tattoos were both of mer-people—a male and female, both with fish tails and looking at each other across the man’s body—their watery surroundings spilling down onto his hands. She realized that the bottles of ink and the needles downstairs in the medical area had been a tattooing kit.

  “What did they feed you on the Aconite?” Burnish asked, as Tessa closed the door to his cabin. “Blind soup? You look half-starved, the lot of you.”

  “Blind soup?” Flick asked.

  “Boiling water,” Tessa said, opening a cupboard. “Sometimes with a bit of bacon on a string dropped into it. When it’s boiled, you take the bacon out and dry it, save it for another day.”

  “So it’s just water?”

  “Water and dreams.” Tessa brought out a wicker basket and lifted the lid. She set it on Burnish’s desk, taking out two apples and a knife. She quickly chopped the shrunken fruit into slices.

  Flick watched curiously as Burnish allowed Tessa to use his desk as a table. She’d thought Tessa must be the ship’s doctor, but she seemed very familiar with the captain. The little woman replaced the basket and then sat on a bench at the side of the room.

  “Right.” Burnish picked up a sliver of fruit. “I believe we agreed to a truce, young man, and some information. What is it that you want to know?”

  Jonathan inched his chair closer. “We lost a suitcase. And we heard a rumor the mer-people who took it from us might have brought it to you.”

  Burnish gave Jonathan an even look. “A suitcase? You’re one of those folks from another world, aren’t you?”

  They all nodded. Flick felt some of the anxiety she’d been carrying give way slightly. At least that was one thing they didn’t have to explain.

  “Nyfe summoned us here because your world is shrinking,” Jonathan explained. “She thought we could help evacuate everyone to another world. But without our suitcase, we can’t help anyone, even ourselves.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you either,” Burnish said. “The mer-folk haven’t brought anything to us except you.”

  “Us?” Flick asked.

  “Aye. The Mer-Queen found you adrift at sea and carried you to our waters. Her subjects alerted us to you when you were close, and we hauled you aboard.” He scratched at his beard.

  Flick remembered the sensation of flying. The rushing through the air. Had they really been carried by a mermaid? It made about as much sense as anything else.

  Avery leaned forward. “Nyfe wants to threaten you into giving up the suitcase she thinks you’re hiding, and you don’t even have it. She wants to start a war.”

  Burnish chewed this over for a moment. “No,” he said eventually. “I don’t think she does want a war. I think she wants a surrender. She wants my ships and crew to come under her flag. And s
he must be assuming that you can somehow find a way to get her crew and her ships out of this world; otherwise she wouldn’t bother. If she can escape this world with a bunch of new ships in her armada, she could rule whatever world we end up in. This is her chance to scare my ships and my crew enough into leaving me and joining her. She’ll tell them she’s the only one with a way out of this world. Well…” He snorted. “She won’t get a surrender from me. I’ll call her bluff. She won’t follow through with a fight. She wouldn’t risk damage to the Aconite, not now.”

  He seemed so sure that Flick couldn’t help believing him. She took a piece of apple. It was dry and fluffy, but sweet and very welcome.

  “Do you think Nyfe would ever leave her ships?” she asked.

  Burnish sat back in his chair, hands folded across his chest. “No, she won’t want to leave her dead.” He chuckled at Flick’s dubious expression. “Oh yes, the dead are aboard those ships,” he said. “These, too, but we don’t pay them any mind, so they stay silent. The Pirate Queen and her folk, well, they don’t know when to leave well enough alone. They believe in their dead so much that they’re almost alive again. The trouble with living your whole life trying please the dead is that the dead don’t live in our world, and they never did. I don’t mean another world like you do. I mean times have changed. Tradition is just pressure to do what the dead once did. It’s not necessarily good, and certainly not worth prioritizing over people living and breathing and struggling right now.”

  A shudder ran over Flick’s skin. She couldn’t get used to these conversations about ghosts, and she didn’t like that Jonathan was having to listen to this sort of thing. His face had taken on the vacant, glazed look he’d worn on the Aconite, as if he was tuning out the conversation.

  “No,” Burnish repeated. “Nyfe is going to die on the Aconite, one way or another. Who knows when, or how. But she will.”

  Tessa sighed. “That doesn’t mean we feel the same here, mind.”

  “Oh, bless you, no.” Burnish smiled. “Show me the way to a new world, you lot, and I’ll start packing my bags right now. I’m not too foolish to know a way out when one is offered to me.”