Free Tigerheart by Peter David Page B

they had a home, aim, and purpose. Pondering Big Penny’s words, The Boy finally agreed it was a valid point, and promptly changed their name to the Bully Boys. It suited their nature, and they very much took to their new moniker, as we shall soon see.
    The other Bully Boys, then. Over there is Yorkers, small and shifty and master of unfair play. Nearby him is Roomer, with fiery hair and repulsive disposition, never happy except when he is speaking ill of someone else behind his back. And Caveat, the most intelligent of the Bully Boys, prone to throwing elegant-sounding foreign words in his speech, and the most insidious in thinking of ways to hurt others with minimal risk to himself.
    Those then are the Bully Boys but, scarily enough, they are not the largest cause for concern.
    Once upon a time, you see, The Boy and the Vagabonds fought and killed pirates. Indeed, they commandeered the
Skull n’ Bones
over the dead bodies of Hack and his entire crew, save two whom you’ve already met, and who have served their purpose in our narrative. Yet now The Boy captains Bully Boys, not Vagabonds, and they all work side by side with—brace yourselves and cover your ears lest the news be too terrible for you—pirates.
    The villainous-looking lot that served under Hack was more fearsome than any who had hung in a row on Execution Dock, and yet they pale in comparison to those who stalk the deck now. They are Barbary pirates through and through, with not so much as a single gentleman in the bunch. There are fifteen of them, most of them walking about shirtless, since The Boy—unlike the Eton-schooled Captain Hack—has failed to institute a strict dress code. Their muscles are thick and glistening; and many of them were slaves who revolted, took over their masters’ ships, and continued plundering, making them doubly desperate and doubly dangerous.
    Some of them are Moriscos, fearsome and scowling, such as the formidable Suleyman, with his shining shaved pate and gold tooth. Near him is the aforementioned Terrible Turk, all bristling beard and gleaming scimitar. Perched in the crow’s nest, looking for possible plunder on the seas, is Simon the Dancer, so deft on his feet that when you think you are about to cleave him with your sword, you discover he’s suddenly behind you and you are doomed. Scowling off in the forecastle is the mulatto, Agha Bey, his naked chest covered with tattoos that say unspeakable things in foreign tongues. And those are just the ones whose names we dare speak. Most of the others don’t even have names, which, as you know, makes them all the more formidable. To know someone’s name is to have some degree of power over him, even a little. These others are pure wild cards, and we know not what they will do or to whom or when.
    And, overseeing all of them, walking among them and smiling and nodding, is the crooked old lady with the hooked nose.
    We will tell you more of her later, since you must suspect by now there is a great deal about her to be learned (not the least of which is why such a scurvy and repulsive lot as this would tolerate the existence of a woman on board). For the time being, all you really need to know of her is this: She never strays all that far from The Boy. She coos in his ear, whispering sweet nothings of adoration, telling him what a wonderful job he is doing and how he is the greatest captain who had ever sailed the seven seas. She dotes on The Boy, and The Boy in turn dotes on her words of praise. Mother to son? Older sister to younger brother? A bit of both, but the result is that The Boy never sways from his course, secure that he never misspeaks; never makes mistakes; and never does anything that isn’t justified, no matter how unjustified. Thus are the dangers of living in an insular world surrounded by those who tell you only what you want to hear rather than what you need to.
    Do you still hold out hope that this is mere playacting on The Boy’s part? That he still