There is nothing worse for a pirate than dying on dry land. Except, maybe, swinging two feet above it.
When their captain is imprisoned, facing the gallows, the men and women of the Lady Lesya's crew will try everything to break him out--even if it...
The marketplace was crowded and noisy. Men were shouting repetitive logorrhea, exhorting words stumbling out of their mouth faster than any brain could process. They were promoting all sorts of colorful and fragrant products—food and spices, wines and liquors, fabrics and clothes, shiny tools and unknown items—like their life depended on it. And maybe for some, it did.
Women of all ages, carrying baskets and children, were cramped between stalls, waiting for their turn to be served. They were arguing, laughing, trading small talk, or sharing news from men gone to sea. They were examining every item for sale with a trained, suspicious eye and bargained toe-to-toe like their life depended on it. And maybe for some, it did.
It was the same everywhere in the world, and Flow had never enjoyed the loud and smelly atmosphere of any market. Not even when he was a little boy, when mère held his hand through the crowd, when she let him choose the best apples, and gave him fresh bread and honey to thank him afterward.
Flow swallowed the painful memory and squeezed his way between a tiny old granny and a voluminous matron. His hand nonchalantly fell into her basket and came back with a couple of ripe bananas. He had gobbled half of one when outraged cries burst out behind him. Flow thought the woman had realized her loss, but when he turned around, black furry hats were pushing their way through the crowd.
Flow dove into the sea of people. Half bent, half crouched, he wriggled through at buttocks level, using his narrow shoulders and pointy elbows to make room when needed. After fighting asphyxiating bodies for a while, he found himself in a less frequented area. Unfortunately, three city guards emerged from the throng a few yards behind him.
Before they could spot him, he complied to his stomach's protest, and stuffed his mouth with the rest of the banana. He threw the skin over his shoulder, and despite aching legs, started running again.
"Stop!" yelled one of the men. Only then did the three of them give chase.*
Flow cast a glance over his shoulder hoping one would slip on the banana peel, but they all ran past it. Apparently, they were not familiar with the basic rules of pursuit.
He turned his head forward again, but too late. He bumped into a stallholder and took a tumble into the merchandise. The living merchandise, unfortunately. Flow found himself facing the angry, gaping beak of a huge turtle that soon closed on his nose with a frightening clap. He jumped on his feet, screaming, only to realize that another of these supposedly peaceful reptiles was dangling from one of his fingers. He threw his arm and sent the turtle flying. The green shell bounced off a wall and only missed the head of a guard by an inch. Flow jumped over the stand and sprinted away, tearing the beast off his face. He made sure the turtle didn't take a piece of nose in the process and, trying to aim as well as possible through speed and pain, slung it towards his pursuers. The closest one received its red shell right in the face. His eyes rolled backward and he managed to take three more steps before collapsing. One of his mates stopped to check on him, but the last barely slowed down.
Two down, one to go.
Flow's chest burned with every inhalation and his leg muscles felt like they were about to snap. He needed some respite. He had time to turn a corner, leaving the market behind, before his body failed him. Flow tripped and fell down on the pavement. Out of breath, unable to pick himself back up, he considered waiting there for the last guard to arrest him. Hanging couldn't be nearly as bad as the pain that radiated from the soles of his burning feet to the back of his pounding skull. And by then, he would be able to rest at last. Maybe he would have the chance to share Captain Desjours's cell.
The stern, revered face danced in front of Flow's teary eyes.
"Get up, boy," it said.
"But I'm so tired, Captain."
"You're a wimp, boy. And I don't need your kind on my ship. Maybe you should have stayed in your mother's petticoat and lived your pitiful life with a silver spoon stuck in your throat. Are you a nob?"
"No."
"Are you a pirate?"
"Yaaaarrr!"
Flow fought against his own thighs to get up. Captain Desjours's face seemed to nod and vanished. The real concerned face of a matron replaced it.
"I'm a pirate!" yelled Flow. Concern became shock, then fear and the matron vanished in turn.
Flow wobbled toward the nearest wall, determined to get back to the ship, even if Alexandra would skin him for his failure. Behind him, the sound of boots hitting the pavement drew closer. Running was not an option anymore. So he jumped through the nearest window.
His body fell on a cozy counterpane, his head fell on a fluffy pillow, Flow fell asleep.
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*A strange habit of any law enforcer all over the world consisting in loudly warn a fugitive, from as far as possible, in the vain hope that they wouldn't run away but gladly surrender.
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