Free Fathom by Cherie Priest Page B

a ship while it burns—or rather, I do not
intend
to.”
    She gave one more kick, then settled down. “Can we do that? Take it out, I mean? How many people do you need to move a boat like this? Don’t you need a crew or something?”
    “Between us and the ocean, I think we can take it ourselves . . . if you will help me, and do as I tell you.”
    “You don’t get to order me around. Mother said so.”
    “Of course I won’t order you around. You will do as you wish, and I will only tell you how best to do it. Would you like to go for a sail, or not? This is a ridiculous little ship, but it’s put together soundly. It would be a shame to destroy it.”
    “You said it was an insult.”
    He nodded. “It
is.
But it’s an insult that’s prettily made, and I can appreciate it as such. Come,” he urged her. “I want to take her. I want to sail her. It’s been long enough since I pulled a rope or leaned myself against a wheel; let’s take her and go.” The low waves of the Gulf lapped at the boat’s sides, slapping it gently and rocking it so barely that Bernice didn’t feel it.
    “Where would we go?” she asked.
    A line shaped like a smile stretched across his face. “I know somewhere,” he whispered to her. “I know a spot where I left treasure, once. It’s been many years, but I would be shocked if it was gone. Arahab erased me from their history, left me only in their lore. No one knows that my trail is real enough to seek.”
    “Treasure?” Bernice repeated.
    “Gold enough to bury you. Pearls enough to anchor you. I left it on an island—” He glanced up to reference the sky, then remembered that he was below the deck and could see nothing above him except for a light and a painted ceiling. “I left it nearby. Work with me without complaining, and you can have your pick from the things I stashed away.”
    When she did not argue, he considered this a victory and turned to the lad on the floor.
    “Who owns this boat?” he wanted to know.
    The boy’s eyes widened. “The Krewe, they own it.”
    “Is that why you’re dressed so? You’re a member of this crew?”
    He nodded. “Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla.”
    Gaspar shook his head. “You look absurd. I would never have taken you onto any ship of mine.”
    “This
is
a ship of yours,” the boy said hastily. “This is yours—all of it. Take it, no one will care. We’re just playing at pirates, like we do every year. But I could help you with the ship. I know how to sail her.”
    “Do you, now?” Gaspar was honestly amused. “You think I need your help?”
    “I don’t know if you need it or not. Probably not. I bet not. But I . . . I’d like to help. I’dliketo really sail it, not just sit here and—”
    Bernice leaned forward; her hand extended, reaching for the boy like she meant to help him up and guide him out.
    But José was faster. On top of the table there was a letter openershaped like a sword, insistently adhering to the theme. He took the opener and used it on the boy’s throat before he could object or negotiate any further.
    The boy toppled to the floor and started to shed a thick puddle of blood that rolled and stretched with the motion of the boat.
    “Why’d you do that?” Bernice asked. “I was starting to like him.”
    “You’ve answered your own question, darling. We aren’t here to make friends. And besides, there’s no trusting the young—especially not when they like to bargain. If he’d had the good sense to beg, I might have heard him out. But this is no place for discussion, and the open sea is no place for parley.”
    “Is that where we’re going? The open sea?”
    “No,” he said. For a moment he was almost annoyed with her, but it passed quickly. He reminded himself that she was a child of the city, and that water was a mystery to her. “We’ll stick near to the coast unless the authorities compel us to do otherwise. My old island isn’t far. But first, we should check the other decks,