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 two guards blocking the door looked as daft as usual in their bright uniforms and fluffy hats, but they were also tall, bulky, and by the look on their faces, not the patient kind.
"But I live here," said Card in a voice that sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
"And we have orders. Piss off, or the next place you'll call home will have bars."
Card retreated, suffering the guards' laughter and a helpless rage.
Stupid cunts! I have the keys to your stupid cells!
When he had put enough distance between himself and the guards, he turned, gave them the rudest sort of the finger he could think of, and ran away. He rounded a corner, climbed up a fence, crossed a tiny garden, follow a deserted street for a few yards, turned again, and finally found himself in the house's backyard, right under the window he had used so many times to escape the landlords' surveillance. He hauled himself onto the ledge and pushed on the frame. Fortunately, the window opened without any resistance. It wasn't usually closed, but the sentries at the door weren't usually there, either.
Told you I lived here, suckers!
The room Card hopped into was the main one of the tiny house, supposed to serve both as kitchen and dining room. At least, that had been the case when he had last been there, a few days ago. Today, it couldn't serve as anything. Around the little fireplace, everything from the massive table to the most insignificant utensil was turned upside down, scattered around. Card had hated the place since his father managed to convince Francis and his creepy wife to put them up. Still, seeing the place so ruined was kind of a shock.
After a moment, he simply shrugged.
Bah! It was just a matter of time before I did that myself anyway!
He carefully made his way through the wreckage as silently as possible and climbed the stairs. He was about to climb up the ladder leading to the dusty and spider-infested attic he had shared with his father, when he noticed that the door to their hosts' bedroom was ajar. Card started to put two and two together.* The house was silent and empty, upside down, and guarded. Something was definitely amiss. But the eternally-locked-room he had been barred from for so long was now open, inviting. A mischievous smile on his face, Card entered.
He wasn't alone in the house after all. Both of the landlords were there, lying together on the bed, peacefully for the first time. Francis, fully dressed, was on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows. The witch posing as his wife was top to tail at his side, her head resting on his calves, almost fondly. Under other circumstances—if he had had more time, if he had been very tired, if he had been a girl or if he had simply cared—Card would have found that sweet. But he was fascinated by something noticeably less touching.
He had seen his fair share of blood, and he was not the kind of uptight, effeminate lordling to faint at the first red drop. Tavern brawls, quarrels between sailors, or daring bets among friends inevitably ended up with cuts and bruises, a few less teeth and split eyebrows. Card had killed, pelted, and gutted many rabbits for food—and even some stray cats for fun. He remembered how sticky and crimson his hands had been each time. Once, he had even spied through a keyhole to get a glimpse of a leg amputation. The seasoned sailor about to lose his rotten limb had screamed and begged like a woman giving birth before he passed out. Afterward, Card had entered the room. It had been cleaned pretty well, but the wide saw remained, exposed on a table in all its glory. Card had faced his own reflection on the metal blade between splatters of gore and bone powder.
Blood wasn't new for him. However, he had never seen so much at once. The quilt under the embracing couple, once piss-colored, had turned dark brown. Here and there, the loose fabric and the feathers couldn't soak it all up. Small pools were still shining under the dim light filtering through the louvered shutters. Drops of bright red were slowly dripping on the filthy mop used as a bedside rug.
Card shivered, but not from dread or disgust. The feeling was rather familiar, something like curiosity with a hint of pleasure, but much stronger than it was with rabbits or cats. He breathed in deeply, gathering the will to leave the room and return to his errand.
"Good riddance!" he said out loud.
He spat on the floor, went out, and climbed the ladder to the attic.
Their room had obviously been searched too. Father's wooden bed had been overturned and Card's own straw mattress, ripped open, was now spilling hay, dust, and roaches. Unbothered by the wreckage of a room he never considered a home, Card didn't take any time to collect their few and useless belongings. With both hands, he grabbed one of the bed's legs—the one marked with a discreet and tiny "L"—and tried to twist it. He pulled and pushed and contracted even his neck muscles. He had stopped breathing for two whole minutes when, on a long exhale filled with curses, he started kicking the stubborn piece of wood. After three or four violent attempts, the dowels finally broke in an explosion of shards.
Panting, Card took the leather cylinder from the cache his father had carved into the foot of the bed. He climbed the ladder down, seriously considered setting the place on fire, and exited the house the way he came, knowing he would never come back.
_____________________
* Even if it would take some time for him to reach four.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
