Eyes wide, breath coming in short gasps, the captain of the Silver Leech stumbled into his cabin.
He lost his balance and then regained it, clutching at his chest. He grimaced. His throat drier than parchment, he licked his lips.
Forced to pause, he looked over his shoulder, gasping for air. Those footsteps were getting louder.
The captain looked around wildly. He sprung into action, tripping toward his desk, and leaning heavily upon it. In a frenzy, he opened and closed the drawers and shoved several items off of the wooden writing desk. Quills, a couple of ink pots, and a few books clattered to the floor.
Where was it?
Dammit. . . !
No, he wouldn't let him have it . . .
No matter what.
The captain shoved the chair aside. It overbalanced, landing heavily on its side.
Where'd he put it? It couldn't be anywhere else—
His mind whirling, the captain leaped over to the bookshelf. In desperation he began withdrawing books, shoving trinkets aside, looking underneath everything and inside anything that had a cavity.
Outside, the dull clang of metal on metal did nothing to drown the sound of the approaching footsteps. From somewhere, a man howled in pain; and there, in the doorway of the cabin, before the captain knew it, he stood, from his patchy overcoat to tattered headband looking every inch the scruffy ragamuffin.
Half of the books tossed from the bookshelf, every manner of broken knickknacks on the floor, chair overturned, writing desk a mess, and ink spilling across the wooden floorboards, Great Britain stepped further into the cabin.
The captain of the Silver Leech went rigid, glaring daggers at the man who plagued him.
Great Britain grinned insolently, pointing his cutlass at the captain of the Silver Leech. "Well, the little rat is cornered at last!" Narrowing his eyes lazily, Britain ran his finger along the top of the blade, studying every notch on its surface. "Now then. You didn't really think you could escape me, did you, Captain?" He smiled sweetly.
The aging captain of the Silver Leech, his hand trembling badly, pointed directly at him. "You demon!" he hissed. "You monster—you scum of the sea—" His voice was raspy, and he had to pause, gasping for air. Blood dripped from his hand. "After all that I've done—to be cornered here, by a scrawny half-grown parasite—"
Britain only smirked, gazing down his nose at the captain. "Oh, come now," he said, taking on the tone of a scolding mother. "That's no way to speak to a guest . . ."
The captain of the Silver Leech spat at him, but it fell miserably short. "Enough! I'm not in the mood for your little games! Finish it, and begone!"
Britain scowled, the grip on his cutlass tightening. "Doddering old fool," he snarled. "You didn't think I'd let you cheat me out of what's mine, did you?"
The captain exploded. "What's yours? What you'll rob from me! And in such an underhanded manner—"
Britain chuckled, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "Spare me the lecture, won't you, old thing?" He advanced on the captain. "Anyway, your time is up. I'm afraid you've lost your touch, Captain. It's about time someone put you out of your misery." A mischievous glint shone in his eye. But he paused, suddenly unsure, as the captain did not huddle into himself, squeeze his eyes shut or turn away.
The captain's face was expressionless, but his eyes shone with revulsion. "You'll get what's coming to you soon enough," he said tonelessly.
Britain laughed flippantly, raising his cutlass. "What's that, old timer? You gonna come back and haunt me? Send me nightmares? Too bad. I'm not afraid of the dark."
The captain raised his head, staring Britain directly in the face. The captain's face, gaunt and bruised, held some otherworldly quality. Despite himself, Britain shuddered. "When all is said and done, you'll wish you were on the other end of that blade."
Britain's eyes narrowed. "Well then, I'll see you hell!" he snarled, and struck.
Outside, all was still.
Britain snickered, leaning in to clean his cutlass on what was left of the captain's tattered old cape. "You aren't the first to curse me," he whispered to the body. "And you certainly won't be the last."
He sheathed his weapon, gazing at the corpse, which leaned against the bookshelf, in satisfaction.
His quick search of the body yielded nothing. As expected. The senile old fool hadn't taken so much as a dagger with him after Britain had requested his presence in his cabin, and had long ago forgone wearing any jewelry. Old fool.
With a snort, he kicked it aside. The old fool thought he was clever.
Britain turned to the globe on the other side of the bookshelf, and removed its top. Inside, a ruby the size of Britain's fist rested. Extracting it and kicking the globe to the ground, Britain took it over to the stern cabin's window. Shoving the dusty curtains aside, he held it up. Turning it this way and that, it caught the rays of the sun and shone brilliantly.
A slow smile spread across Britain's face.
The residents of Hiro Isle noticed a change at around noon. A few clouds drifted in, huddling together, and the wind quickened. They spared only a brief, uneasy glance at the skies before continuing with their business. But in the span of a few hours, the skies and clouds darkened, and the wind kicked up a dreadful howling—haunting, even, some said.
Rain came, first falling in droplets, then plodding down indiscriminately. Very soon, it was rolling in sheets.
Fisherman had called it a day, withdrawing their nets and beaching their boats, careful to stop them with a piece of wood. Stalls and shops closed up early, and families barricaded themselves in their homes. Shutters, closed firmly against the elements, were buffeted by the winds.
None of this concerned Great Britain. As the afternoon melted into evening, he sat in his own cabin aboard the Britannia Angel, rolling the ruby from one side of his desk to another in excitement. Yes, his old friend would hear all about this one . . . and then there was the crew. Coming off of a successful raid, they were anxious to drink and make merry. Now they huddled below deck in their own cabin, around the pitiful flame of an old lantern. They laughed and shouted, telling tales of their exploits against the crew of the Silver Leech, each eager to outdo his companions in brutality and splendor.
The Britannia Angel sailed straight into the storm. The heavy winds whipped the sail mercilessly, the rain sliding across the deck. In Britain's cabin, objects tumbled off of shelves and his desk; maps and scrolls rolled this way and that as large waves crashed against the ship. The Britannia Angel seemed to groan. Britain paid it no mind.
Sprawled on the blood-red couch he'd pinched from someone or other down the line, he smirked at the rain battering his grimy window. He ran a hand through messy blonde hair, stretching lazily.
"The captain's vengeance?" he muttered to himself. Snickering, Britain shook his head, and closed his eyes. "A storm. Not very original, that captain."
The streets of Hiro Town were deserted. Doors locked firmly against the hostile elements, not a soul alighted on the streets. Palm fronds and bushes whipped about in agitation; the howling of the wind seemed to take on a life of its own. The sea pounded against the beaches, and somewhere, in the distance, thunder rumbled.
None of this concerned Britain in the least. The Britannia Angel pulled into port, dropping anchor and hoisting the sails. Excitable as ever, the Britannia Legion poured off of the Britannia Angel, the few left behind on watch grumbling and cursing their luck. Britain strode at the front of the pack, off of the docks, and into the main part of town with long, deliberate strides. He carried himself with certain poise, as though there were crowds of people there to witness and marvel at him.
Eyes squinted slightly against the wind, Britain kept his head raised. He ignored the biting rain and the sensation of the cold, tattered fabric against his skin. The Britannia Legion cheered and yelled, as if in an attempt to draw a crowd. Not a head poked out from a window. At last, Britain turned off of the main street, coming into an alleyway.
There was a single door here; solid, dark wood. Above the doorway, letters washed out and lopsided, a sign proclaimed the building the Rusty Bucket.
This was it.
Stopping only briefly to brush a bit of wet hair out of his eyes, Britain kicked the door open and started inside, wearing his usual insolent smirk. He hadn't gotten three steps before he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. Behind him, the crew bristled. A few jostled one another for a view into the tavern, but none dared enter before Britain.
"Hoi! What's the deal, Cappin?"
"What's the holdup?"
"People in our places, or what?"
"Quit elbowin' me, ya ass!"
"I'm cold as hell . . . can't we go in?"
Britain didn't react. There, sitting on his stool at the front of the counter, a figure wearing a dark green cloak, hood up, leaned in, whispering something to the tavern keeper. The tavern keeper, a youngish man with wispy brown hair, looked up at the door opening. The color drained from his face instantly; Britain's smirk returned. Britain didn't budge from his spot. The tavern keeper, Faustus, muttered urgently.
"Yes, yes, thank you, alright . . ."
In a few deft movements, Faustus shoved a piece of paper underneath the counter and tossed a few gold coins into the palm of the hooded figure. Faustus nodded briefly in conclusion. The figure rose without uttering a single word. It turned and marched toward the door, head down. Britain thought he caught a few glimpses of blonde hair. The figure moved past him as though he wasn't there.
His eyes boring into the figure, Britain blocked the doorway from where he stood. Shoving him aside with a shoulder, the figure exited. The Britannia Legion clustered around the door and watched him. The figure plowed his way through them indiscriminately.
"'Ey! What the hell you think yer doin, bastard?"
"Watch it! Quit shovin'!"
"W-what the hell…?"
Ignoring the buffeting wind and rain, the figure walked down the cobblestone street, and disappeared into the night. There was a silence; the Britannia Legion was abuzz with the news.
"The hell . . . ? Did ya just see that?"
"Who's that guy think he is…? Didn't even say nothin' to Cappin Britain!"
"Yeah—kind of—kind of push-shoved him, like—"
Britain stepped further into the tavern. Faustus plastered on his best smile, throwing his arms out. "Aha, lookit what we got here, it's Cappin Britain! And his Legion!"
Britain didn't say anything. Faustus shuddered involuntarily at Britain's smirk. "Well now, I'd say this is a pleasant surprise!" Faustus went on, a bit too loudly. "Why don't ya sit yerself down here, have a drink, the like?" The corners of Faustus' smile began to twitch. His eyes darted back and forth across Britain's face, searching for a clue to the man's mood.
The Britannia Legion poured in, boots squelching on the wooden floor. They filled the space around the circular tables across from the counter, shoving one another as they clamored for a wanted seat.
"Hoi! Move yer ass! I saw it first!"
"Yer too slow about it, bastard! Find yerself a diffren' space!"
"Pfft, he needs two spaces, as wide as he is!"
Guffaws broke out from around several tables, and the offender was on the receiving end of a smack from the crew member in question. Faustus was blind and deaf to the merriment of the crew.
Britain's slow stride at last came to a rest at the counter. He looked into Faustus' eyes only briefly before turning away. Eyes half-lidded, he looked to the left and right, taking in the Rusty Bucket for all it was worth. "We your first customers of the evening?" Britain asked. He shook his head slowly, his voice taking on a somber tone. Faustus breathed an inward sigh of relief, noting that if patrons had been unlucky enough to find themselves in the Rusty Bucket upon Britain's arrival, they'd most certainly regret it. Faustus thought Britain looked almost disappointed. "Must be lonely tonight. . ." Britain went on. He paused to yawn. "With nobody to talk to . . ."
But then again, with no one to abuse, the energy reserved for such actions was left over for Britain to take out on Faustus himself.
Faustus' head bobbed up and down, sweat beading on his forehead. "Haha, ya don't know the 'alf of it, sir . . . this storm blew in this afternoon . . . whippin' leaves and the tide everywhere! Ya shoulda seen how quick them streets cleared out. My place here was empty afore the sun went down! Everybody's holed up in their houses now, huddled up with their blankets! Not a thing stirrin'—even the rats down in the cellar!" Faustus chuckled weakly. His hands trembling slightly, he began pulling out mugs from below the counter. "Can't say I blame 'em, though . . . this here, it's a nasty one . . . worse'n any we've seen this year. It's the beginnin' a summer, after all, the rainy season—" Faustus ran out of things to ramble about. Britain turned to face him, that mischievous twinkle in his eye. Faustus averted his gaze, and concentrated instead on lining up the mugs on the counter.
Britain frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, you're not looking so well, old chap . . . Are you sure you're feeling quite all right . . .?"
Faustus was conscious of Britain's stare burning into him. Slowly, he raised his head and locked eyes with Britain. He forced a smile, and nodded. "I'm flattered Cappin Britain would think about me, but I'm completely –"
"Hoi! What's the holdup, eh?" a Britannia Legion member called out, banging on the table.
"Yeah!" his companion added. "Where's the booze? I'm tired as hell, and lookin' for a way to unwind, y'know!"
"Drinks!" someone else cried. "C'mon, drinks! Drinks!"
There was a loud roar of agreement. Britain fell silent, smiling at his crew as a proud parent would their child. Faustus hesitated just a second too long; Britain turned back to him.
"Well? What's the matter, Faust? Got a bit of a hearing problem?" He snickered. "Oh, getting up there in years, eh, old chap?"
"I'm twenty-five," Faustus said dryly.
An awkward silence prevailed in the room. For several seconds, the only sound was that of the rain pounding on the roof. Britain's eyes widened at Faustus' words. Faustus' blood ran cold as Britain's hand strayed toward his cutlass. He looked thoughtful.
"Twenty-five?" Britain repeated, as though he hadn't understood. He paused for a long moment, dragging his eyes across Faustus' face, with his hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. Without warning, he broke out into a smile, and the cutlass hand moved to rest on his cheek. "Is that so! I took you for a man of thirty, at least! Thirty-five, now that's more like it!"
The crew roared their approval. Britain nodded, looking very pleased with himself. Faustus swooned slightly, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. But he didn't laugh. Another grave mistake.
Suddenly, Britain frowned, crossing his arms. "Come now, Faustus . . . if I didn't know better, I'd go so far as to say that you weren't happy to see me. . . ."
The crew's laughter dissipated like mist in the sunlight. The hard stares of dozens of men focused upon one hapless tavern keeper.
"That true, Fausty? Huh, izzit?"
"Cummon, speak up now!"
Faustus trembled faintly, looking everywhere but at Britain. "No!" he cried, far too quickly. He paled, and then started to stammer. "Er. . . not that I'm not happy yer here! Jus'… I hadn't 'spected you . . . tonight . . . here."
Britain grinned. He turned away. His back against the counter, he let his gaze roam over the ranks of the Britannia Legion, each silent and attentive to his every word and movement. A few fingered daggers and blades on their belts, muscles poised for action. "Keeps you on yer toes, doesn't it?" Britain chuckled. "Besides, nothing scares me. Especially not some weather. A bit of water and wind separates the real pirates from the pretenders."
The Rusty Bucket was filled with the cheers and jeers of the Britannia Legion.
"That's right!"
"You tell 'em, Cap!"
"Damn straight!"
Faustus' eye twitched faintly. At last Britain scoffed and turned around. His gaze bore into Faustus, whose eyes were rooted on the counter.
Britain leaned forward slightly, frowning. He studied Faustus' face closely, his brow furrowed. "What's the matter, old chap? You look like you've seen a ghost . . ."
Faustus struggled to keep his hands from trembling. He bit his lower lip, his eyes shifting to the counter, and back to the mug. "Wha – oh, nothin', sir. Nothin' at all. Many thanks fer yer concern, though. . ."
Britain took a seat and placed his elbows on the counter, smiling thinly. "Don't be that way, Faustus. I'm asking you a question. I'm concerned . . . you know I don't like to see a friend of mine looking so . . . out of it."
Faustus swallowed and shook his head. "The—there's nothing to tell, sir. Like I said . . . I'm fine. Mus' . . . mus' just be the weather. Maybe a cold?" He forced a laugh. "Aha, must be workin' too hard again, eh . . . .?" Faustus gave a sort of crooked smile, and with great effort on his part, looked Britain in the eye. Faustus cast about for a change of subject. "So, er, where ya comin' from, Cappin?"
A good tactic, Faustus thought—getting Britain to jaw about his escapades kept his mind off of . . . other things. The corners of Britain's mouth lifted in a mischievous grin.
"Not far away at all, actually! A few leagues west of here."
Faustus nodded, keeping his tone as conversational as he could. "That so?" He filled the mugs with ale from the barrels he had next to the shelves behind the counter. "You just left Renzi, then? No, no—Lera—" In pairs, he started placing the mugs before the impatient Britannia Legion.
"Well, finally!"
"Alright!"
Britain's grin widened. He looked every inch the child hiding a secret. "No, guess again."
Faustus paused for a moment and frowned. "Er, Toola Mara, then? Or . . . Numon, but that's a couple of days' voyage away—"
Britain looked beside himself with excitement; he seemed to have great difficulty not bursting into laughter. "No, not an island. Guess again."
Placing a mug carefully before a gruff-looking Britannia Legion, Faustus shook his head. "You were. . . in the middle of the sea? Doing what, Cappin?"
Britain nearly dissolved into a fit of laughter. "I'll give you a hint. I was on a ship. But not the Britannia Angel."
Faustus slid a mug toward Britain. "Another pirate ship?" At Britain's vigorous nod, Faustus said slowly, "Another pirate ship . . ." After a pause, he cried, "Oh, come on, Cappin, I'll never guess which one!"
Britain scowled into his mug. "Fine, then! The Silver Leech!"
Faustus brightened. "Oh! You were with old Captain Charlock! How'd yer visit go, eh? Is Cappin looking well?"
A slow grin spread across Britain's face, and he narrowed his eyes in Faustus' direction. Faustus suppressed a shudder. Britain said nothing.
Faustus blinked. "Er, sir . . .? Is something . . . wrong with the Cappin?"
Britain's eyes widened as if Faustus had said something unexpected. He shook his head, tilting his mug toward him to take a sip. "Wrong? Oh, I don't know. Unless you count being dead with a gash the width of a thumb across your torso—"
Clang.
The mug Faustus had been holding in preparation for cleaning clattered to the ground, shattering into dozens of pieces. He froze, staring wide-eyed at Britain.
Britain only tilted his head, as if confused. "Oh dear. You really should be more careful, Faustus . . . what if that had been one of the good mugs?"
Faustus opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried again, his questions stumbling over one another. "W-wha . . . how . . . but whe . . .?"
Britain regarded him with amusement, pausing to drink deeply from his mug. "What's that, Faustus? What's the matter?"
At last Faustus recovered himself. "Dead?" he said, as if Britain had been speaking another language. "It can't be. . ."
"It can," Britain said as simply as if they had been discussing the weather.
"But—who could have . . . who would have—?"
"Oh, don't tell me you haven't caught on yet, chap," Britain said lazily. He pushed away his empty mug, and placed his elbows on the counter. "Me, of course."
Faustus' heart pounded; the sweat returned. "Oh," was all he could get out. Britain didn't seem to need any prodding to tell the story. That glint of excitement returned to his eye, and a hint of pride edged into his voice.
"The crusty old relic, it's a wonder he managed to stay afloat for so long. But don't expect any fancy tricks. He walked right into it, I'll tell you that."
Despite his every instinct, Faustus leaned forward, his voice lowering. The Britannia Legion, making a ruckus several feet away, were none the wiser. In a sort of horrified curiosity, he asked, "Walked right in? What do you mean?"
Britain snorted. "Just what I said. Just walked right up to me, without a weapon to be seen, that idiotic look on his face—" He stopped himself. "No, I suppose I better start from the beginning." His face lit up. "You know, they'll be telling this tale for generations! The Great Captain Britain, Lord of the Britannia Angel, effortlessly slaying Captain Charlock of the Silver Leech, one of the most legendary pirates of the Western Sea! Huh, I'll tell you what—when I get that age, nobody'll get the better of me!—But I suppose I'll get on with it." His expression lapsed once again to one of disinterest, and he examined a fingernail. Faustus was hooked on his every word; shadows from the weak glow of the lantern hanging above them danced across Britain's face.
"A few days ago, the Legion and I were adrift a bit west of here—and a little bit north, too, I suppose, just off of Umoa Isle—you know it, don't you? The Britannia Angel sprung a leak! The crew scrambled to bail water and patch up the leak, but it was lookin' bad. We resolved to land on Umoa, spend a little while there collectin' lumber, fix up the ship, and get on our way. Not a thing to be found on Umoa anyway. Nothin' worth collecting, that is.
"But—miracle of miracles—who would come driftin' along but old Charlock himself in the Silver Leech. He pulled up right alongside us, and I told him about our predicament." Britain stood suddenly. "Picture it—me, having been fetched by a Legion, ambling onto the deck, looking dazed, and above all, exhausted—" Britain shaded his eyes from the rays of an imaginary sun, looking about him as though he was unsure of where he was. Faustus watched, spellbound, a curious mixture of horror and fascination on his face. "I caught sight of Charlock then, and you should've seen how my face lit up—I looked like a miracle itself had been sent down from on high, just to rescue me." The hopeful look on Britain's face didn't fit his silky, cold tone of voice. "We greeted each other like old friends—chums! Best shipmates, that!" Britain beamed, extending a hand. "'Why hello there, Captain Charlock! What a stroke of luck, running into you here! For, you see . . ." Britain averted his eyes, kicking lightly at the ground. "I'm afraid I have a bit of a problem . . . oh, but I'm sure you have far better things to—" He blinked. "What's that? Oh, you're a true gentleman, sir! You'll really do it? Oh, thank you, thank you!'"
Britain scoffed. "We anchored at Umoa. Seeing as our ship was taking on water, Charlock agreed to house us on the Silver Leech, while he lent a hand with fixing up the Britannia Angel with some of his lumber. Escorted me right to the spare cabin—the rest of the Legion he packed in with his crew. We had the best of the best, those few days—soft pillows, soft blankets—and the grub—you don't know the half of it—" He stared in Faustus' direction, but seemed to be looking right through him. "Truth of it is, that crusty old thing ate ten times better than you or me have in our entire lives. Dancin', singin', and games in the evening—sitting with old Charlock in his cabin, watchin' the sun set over a game of chess." Britain sighed in a way Faustus tried to interpret as longingly. But a second later, Britain chuckled. "But I haven't even told you the best part."
He smiled, reliving every detail as he told it. "One day, during a game of chess, old Charlock had to excuse himself. That second was what I'd been waiting for—I jumped up, rummaging through whatever I could get my hands on. Trust me. There wasn't much there—a musty old text, some old letters, the ink bleeding all over the place, some spare quills . . . but then, I opened up one of the drawers of his desk." Britain gasped, his eyes widening, his hands trembling as he reached toward the imaginary item. "And there it was, the thing I'd been searching for . . ."
He paused. Faustus whispered hoarsely. "What . . .?"
"The ruby!" Britain cried in a hushed voice, looking to his left and right as though concerned that he might be overheard. "Charlock's famous ruby! You remember the story—don't you? Eons ago, Charlock won the hearts of the people of Yalin Island, for ridding them of a sea beast that had plagued their fishing boats for generations. Their king presented him with the ruby—and never did he trade it, or spend it." He spoke almost reverently, and brought his hands together, stroking the surface of an invisible ruby. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and he nearly spat his words. "I knew for a long time it was just lying there, unused, gathering dust somewhere in his cabin. And I knew that it would be mine. But never did I have the chance to search for it—until that very moment." He scowled suddenly, clenching a fist. "But then, I heard the clumping of Charlock's footsteps returning, and had to dash to put the room in order. I plastered such a smile on my face it hurt as he came in and found me sitting at the chess table, hands folded patiently, awaiting his return.
"But I had a plan, and Charlock was none the wiser. I smiled and laughed and complimented to the best of my ability, and, the following morning, I set my plan into action. There I was. . ." Once again, he became the shy, demure young captain, unsure of himself in the presence of such a great man. "'Oh, oh Captain! I would be ever so happy if you would take breakfast with me, in my cabin. . .? You don't mind, do you . . .?'" Britain spluttered a bit on his words, holding up his hands. "Oh, oh, I'm probably being too forward, aren't I—? I'm so sorry! Please forget I said any . . . what's that?" Britain stared into space, as if slowly taking in the information. He beamed suddenly. "You'll do it! Oh, thank you, sir! I'll be waiting!'" Grinning foolishly, he bowed at the waist. "I skipped back to the cabin as cheerfully as a maiden collecting flowers, humming a song to myself. I waited. Crouched there, in the corner, out of immediate view. I gripped my cutlass, envisioning the very moment when it would be tasting his flesh—" His breath started coming faster. "I don't know how long I waited—my mind was elsewhere. But sure enough, I heard the clop-clop-clop of his footsteps on the stairs down into the cabin—
"He didn't know what hit him. One second, he was stumbling into the cabin, looking lost when he did not see me. Out I jumped, from behind a bookshelf, with a yell—the brilliant flash of metal, caught by the way the rising sun shone just right into the cabin window—and the splash of red. The brilliant splash of red, coating his white shirt, and part of the wooden floor. . .oh, you should've seen his face!" Unable to suppress a laugh, Britain added, "And I would've painted the walls with that blood of his, had not he at last caught on, turned, and fled up the stairs. Those clunky, uneven steps receding from me . . . in that second, I never felt more alive . . .!" He was breathing heavily now, and stopped to wet his lips.
"Of course, the old relic's howls woke his crew, but they were just as slow on the mark as he was. The Legion and I'd already talked about our plans the night before. Before they sorted out what happened, the Legion was on 'em, killing, stabbing, beating—they didn't stand a chance. Old Corpseface himself limped toward his cabin—oh, don't think I don't know what he was up to. Trying to flee the ship with that ruby of his . . . but he didn't account for something. When I'd rushed to put everything in order yesterday, I'd moved the ruby.
"It was a joy to behold, Faustus. The thought of him turning that place upside down looking for it—but it was in his reach no longer." A hungry look appeared in his eyes. "And when I start somethin', I like to finish it—"
Faustus, eyes wide, murmured, "How did you, er, finish the job. . .?"
Britain shrugged. "Oh, slashed the throat, nothin' major."
"Burial at sea . . .?" Faustus went on. "Cut the sails . . .?"
Britain blinked. "What's that, chap?" He shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, of course not! What's the use in all of that?"
"Then . . . that's the end? You just sailed away?"
"Torched."
Faustus stared. He didn't . . . Surely he'd heard him wrong . . . Faustus studied Britain, who had slid back onto his stool, and looked as bored as he had at the beginning of his tale.
Faustus swallowed hard. "Sir . . .?" Britain looked up. "Forgive me, but . . . did you say—"
"Torched," Britain said simply. He nodded. "That's right."
"Er—"
"Oh, you should have seen it, Faustus," Britain cried suddenly. "The Silver Leech, flames curling around her sail, huge clouds of smoke billowing into the sky . . ." Britain shook his head as if in a daze. "I tell you, it's a sight I'll never forget. Not as long as I live." He chortled. "And old Charlock, burning to a crisp right there in his cabin . . . I imagine he's fish food right about now . . ."
Faustus paled. Britain had leaned onto the counter, arms crossed, and head resting upon them, eyes closed as though he would fall asleep then and there.
Without warning, he spoke.
"Who was that hooded gentleman you were speaking with, Faustus?"
Britain hadn't looked up. Chills ran down Faustus' spine. But he knew he risked incriminating himself if he remained silent.
Clearing his throat, Faustus muttered, "No one in particular, Cap. Jus' . . . jus' a traveler, that's all . . ."
Britain murmured as if half asleep. "That so? Just a traveler . . .?" He paused, his voice taking on a demanding edge. "And I suppose that traveler had nothing that set him apart from any old man, just shambling in here one day?"
Faustus bit his lower lip. Britain's gaze, at least, was mercifully averted from Faustus for the time being.
"Er, no, y-you saw 'im, Cap," he began. "Couldn't see a thing—y'know, covered in that thick cloak an' all—"
"Yes," Britain said gently, as though he was speaking to a child, "isn't that odd . . . a thick cloak, at the start of summer. And I didn't mean physically, Faustus."
"N-not really—"
"What did he give you? That paper I saw—what was it?"
"Oh, er—oh, Cappin!" Faustus waved a dismissive hand, laughing too loudly. "That, just, nothin' . . . real special, Cap—"
"Evidently special enough for you to pay him for it."
Faustus trembled. By now, Britain had straightened, and was staring at Faustus.
"Well?"
"Sir?"
Britain nodded toward the counter, deadpan. "Show me."
Faustus' heart skipped a beat. Looking wildly about the tavern, his mind could not register an escape. Even if he managed to elude Britain, surely his Legion would overwhelm and snatch him up as quickly as that.
And that'd be the end of old Faustus. And if he knew Britain, it wouldn't be quick.
Britain sighed in exasperation. "What the hell are you doing? You heard me! Show me what you have there!"
Faustus turned away, attempting to keep his voice from shaking. "Th-there's no need fer that," he mumbled. Avoiding Britain's glare, he added, "I t-told ya, it's nothin' special—"
In a flash, Britain whipped out his cutlass, the tip pointed at Faustus' throat. His sword arm trembled faintly, and he heaved a husky laugh. "I'll be the judge of that," he snarled. The Britannia Legion fell silent instantly, at full attention, and watching their captain. "You think you're awfully clever, don't you?"
Faustus' mouth was drier than sandpaper. He forced it to work. "P-please don't," he stammered.
Britain leaned forward. Faustus could feel the tip of the blade scraping his throat. "You seem to have forgotten who you're talking to, old chap. The nerve of you!—trying to hide something from me—I've tolerated it long enough, you hear me? You think you're clever enough to outwit me?"
"N-no, Captain, I didn't—"
"Just a little harder," Britain hissed. "I only have to press a little harder, and you go the way of good old Captain Charlock of the Silver Leech. You have options," he went on, amusement creeping into his voice. "Choose wisely."
The rest of his body rigid as a board, Faustus reached slowly beneath the counter, and withdrew a piece of parchment—slightly crumpled.
Britain encouraged him gently as a parent would. "Ah, there we go. Now there's a good chap." When he pressed slightly forward once more, Faustus' hand instantly released its hold on the parchment. It drifted down to the counter, and, keeping the cutlass where it was, Britain looked it over.
"What's this . . .?" Britain slowly lowered the cutlass, frowning in thought. He placed a finger on a large island near the center of the map. "That's Hiro, and this"—he traced a dotted line with the same hand until it ended at another island—"in the northwest, why, that's Chira Chira!" A gigantic red X had been scrawled over the spot, and next to it, someone had sketched a small treasure box. A smug look on his face, Britain glanced up at Faustus.
"A treasure map!" There was general murmur of excitement from the Britannia Legion; when Britain spoke again, they fell silent. "So this is what you were hiding from me?" Britain sneered, looking Faustus up and down. "What, don't tell me you were going to look for it. As soft as you are, you giant heap of garbage—"
Faustus chose his words carefully, ever mindful of the cutlass that rested on the counter. "N-no, sir, a course not—it's just that—" Faustus groped for a solution, and at last muttered lamely, "I thought you'd have nary an interest in it, that's all!"
Britain's eyes widened, and then narrowed. "Oh?" His bemused look soon had Faustus stammering once more.
"Oh, er, yessir—y'know, this treasure, I thought, 'Cappin Britain, he's got better things t'do, this ain't big enough for him—y'know?—"
"You seem to think you've got me all figured out."
Britain watched him closely. Faustus could not think of an answer; his eyes were rooted to the cutlass. Britain leaned forward, his hand sliding closer to it. Faustus had to resist the urge to flinch. Then, out of nowhere, Britain laughed heartily. "Oh, indeed! A treasure map, huh? Now, isn't there one of those on every street corner—"
Faustus felt a swoon coming on, but managed, "Haha, aye, Cap! No need t'waist yer time on that rubbish—"
"But this—this is something special." Britain had suddenly turned serious. Faustus laughed a second too long, and received a withering glare from Britain in return. Straightening up, and trying not to tremble, Faustus put on his best confused expression.
"Er, what's that, Cappin. . .? There' s somethin' different about this one?" He looked at it for a few moments, and then shook his head. "Not that I can see. . . looks like any old thing."
"Are you blind, Faustus? Or just stupid?" Britain traced a symbol in the corner of the map almost lovingly. "Look at that."
The symbol consisted of the capital letters R and E, arranged so that the E was just below and to the right of the R, and both were intertwined with a green ribbon. A golden coat of arms loomed behind them, divided into four panels. The top left bore a gigantic yellow sun; the top right a few trees, arranged to resemble a forest. Stylized blue waves loomed in the bottom left, and a large mountain, its peak topped with snow, was in the bottom right. A gigantic sword and shield, the former layered above the latter, loomed behind everything else.
Faustus' bit his lower lip, trying to keep his voice steady. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. . . doesn't mean a thing t'me, sir . . . I'm sure it's nothing at all."
There was a long silence in the tavern. The pounding of rain against the windows and the distant thunder were nearly deafening. The Britannia Legion shifted restlessly, anxious to act, but restrained by the lack of instruction from their leader.
Britain's head was down. He seemed so engrossed in the map that Faustus wasn't sure he'd heard him speak at all.
At last Britain raised his head slowly. His eyes met Faustus' with a look so malevolent that Faustus flinched away.
"You know I don't like it when you lie," Britain said tonelessly. He seemed to speak to no one in particular. "Friends shouldn't lie to one another, Faustus. It isn't polite."
Faustus blinked; there hadn't been a hint of malice in his words. Britain sounded as though he was chiding a small child. "I wasn't, sir—I mean . . . I mean—"
"The Roman Empire, Faustus!"
Faustus jumped nearly a foot into the air, recoiling from Britain's sudden outburst. All at once, Britain's eyes had taken on a wild look, and his breathing began to come faster. It was reminiscent of Britain's tale, but now . . .
Britain's eyes were wide open, and turned in Faustus' direction, but he was looking right through him. A collective gasp ran through the Britannia Legion, and they began chattering in disbelief.
"Nah . . . can't be! C-can it . . ."
"Here? In this old tub? Who'd a thought—?"
"Who in their right mind'd give that map up?"
"A treasure from the Roman Empire . . . can you imagine it . . .?"
All at once, their puzzlement gave way to wistfulness.
"Huh, anybody get their mitts on that—they set for life—"
"Yeah, he'd be able to buy hisself fifty ships if he wanted—and each one've 'em with a crew, too!"
"Huh, all I wants is some shirts that actually fit—nice silk, huh?"
Throughout the crew's tirade, Britain remained silent, staring crazily off into space. He seemed, to Faustus, almost to drool as he gazed down at the map once more.
"This treasure belongs to the Roman Empire," he said, wide-eyed. "The world's most legendary pirate—and—and now I have the map to it—"
Faustus spoke before he could stop himself, placing a protective hand on the map. "Er, actually, it's mine—"
Faustus mentally kicked himself as Britain snapped out of his reverie, snatched up his cutlass, and levered it at Faustus' chest. "You keep your filthy hands off of it," he snapped, green eyes blazing angrier than Faustus had ever seen. "This map—this treasure—it's all mine. You hear?"
The crew led off a rousing cheer in the background. Faustus, thinking quickly, gently pushed the blade away from him, speaking reasonably.
"Er, Cappin . . . I'm just sayin', you don't know if that's even, er, real—who knows, could be counterfeit . . ."
Britain's scowl turned into a disappointed frown so quickly it was almost comical. Faustus heard a slight whimper in his voice. "What? Counterfeit?" The Britannia Legion quieted down.
Faustus, smiling internally, nodded sagely. "Oh, yeah, Cap. Happens all the time around here—people, lookin' t'make a little money in a hurry draw up their own maps, callin' it some famous pirate's treasure map, and sell it off to the first guy who bites. Everybody knows it. It's a good thing I was here to tell you, eh?"
Britain looked up sharply. "If that's the case, then why did you pay that man for it?"
Faustus froze; his mind failed him in crafting a quick lie. "Ya have t'forgive me, sir—I don't know much about pirates. . ."
Britain rose, slowly working his way around the counter to the opening that led behind it. "Or, perhaps, you were going to sell this to someone after you bought it from that man? Knowing that it bore the Roman Empire's name, you could've named any price, and had it sold as quick as that. But then I walked in, and spoiled the whole show. Am I right?"
"Me, I'm just a humble tavern keeper . . . I wasn't tryin' to—"
Britain exploded. "Lies, lies, more lies! You filthy traitorous scum! I ought to cut out your tongue—no, your throat—"
Before Faustus could react, the cutlass hovered an inch from his throat. Faustus squeezed his eyes shut and shrunk against the shelves behind the counter, waiting for the inevitable.
Nothing.
Hardly daring to breathe, Faustus at last worked up the courage to open his eyes. The cutlass was still against his throat, but Britain only smirked now. He leaned in; Faustus could feel the heat of his breath.
"I really should thank you," Britain murmured. "I'd been in a rut for weeks . . . Captain Charlock only provided a temporary reprieve from it. But this . . . now, this is what I needed. And if it hadn't been for you, I would never have come across this map. Thank you, old friend."
The cutlass lifted, and Britain sheathed it. Stopping to grin at Faustus once more, Britain turned and headed for the exit, sweeping up the map and storing it in one of his coat's pockets. The Britannia Legion, jeering and laughing at Faustus, rose to go as well.
Faustus, trembling, had to steady himself against the shelves behind him as Britain threw open the door, exposing the tavern to the elements.
"Wait."
Britain turned, eyes wide. Faustus, his breath coming in short gasps, was unable to look Britain in the eye.
"When you find it . . . you'll come back, and share some with me, won't you . . .?"
Britain only snickered. Smirking in his usual insolent way, he countered, "Count yourself lucky that I didn't kill you."
With a few closing shouts from the Britannia Legion, out they swept, leaving a bruised and battered Faustus behind.
Author's Note:
Well there you have it!
This tale's kicked off and the prologue is done!
If everything goes right (i.e., I'm not lazy), this will be a long story.
Everything will be divided into what I call "arcs." The first arc starts next chapter!
Thanks for reading, and please review!
Updates will probably be weekly, but if I get a chapter finished early, I'll post it right away.
