Swashbuckling on the Edge

Chapter Nine

No one had brought up the now-obvious rift between the first mate and his captain. Since Sykes wouldn't, I had asked Tallera why he hadn't told the men the truth behind it.

She had told me rather bleakly that if he had, there was a chance the other pirates might have turned on Dark for a lack of loyalty to the crew. Although we still didn't see eye to eye, I certainly didn't want to endanger Dark's life, so I kept quiet.

In the days before their departure, I found myself spending most of my time with Tallera. I would miss her sorely. With nothing but male company to look forward to, I cherished every moment I spent in the company of another woman in a similar situation.

On the last day we stopped in at the Fox, if only because there was little else to do. Eager to leave as I was, Dark had not determined our next move. I hoped he would soon. Something about Barton's island made me restless and anxious to leave again for the open sea.

"Another fight last night," Tallera commented, stepping over broken chairs and overturned tables. "The men are getting land restless."

I was inclined to agree. "Over there," I said, pointing to a free table that was still standing. We sat down, enjoying the fact that there were no other patrons and we could relax as we pleased.

After a long conversation and several pints that went straight through me, I excused myself to go relieve myself outside. As I was walking in the direction of the pub's back door, I heard the soft, lilting twang of fingers plucking strings. Curious, I detoured around the side of the building, finding what I was looking for in an alley.

A boy, or maybe a young man, leaned against the wall of the pub, a small guitar cradled in his lap. He was playing absently, staring off down the alley away from my direction, but the music he created was pleasant, soothing. I found myself pausing just to listen to his discordant notes, somehow mingling in the air, almost without his knowledge, to create a sweet afternoon lullaby.

His playing petered out, his fingers falling out of rhythm. He hadn't noticed me spying.

I took a careful step forward. "That was lovely," I complimented him.

His head whipped around, sandy-coloured hair swishing. The boy leapt up, startled, his eyes moving to the left and right, searching for escape.

When at last his brown eyes rested on me, they blinked with surprise.

"You're a woman," he said, as if he'd never seen one before. His gaze raked over my attire-decidedly more mannish.

"Yes," I agreed, my curiosity about him piqued. "I didn't mean to scare you; I was just admiring your playing." I waved a hand at the instrument clutched in his hands.

He swooped it immediately behind his back.

"What's your name?" I asked, trying to sound friendly.

Under the mop of sand-coloured hair, I noted a healing black eye, and a cut across his lip. He was likely the son of one of the permanent island residents. If he was as young as I guessed, he might be a target for those bigger and stronger than he. I was sharply reminded of Johnny.

He didn't answer at first. I smiled encouragingly. Deciding I seemed safe enough, he finally said, "Mute."

I blinked. "Mute? Is that your real name?"

"S'what they call me."

A cruel nickname, I thought. "What do you call yourself?" I asked, smiling again.

Again, he hesitated. "Elias," he muttered, nudging the dirt with the toe of his boot.

"Do you live here?"