The Arcanist of Souls (The Isles #5)

Chapter One

PEDR

Sunshine blistered Pedr’s back, where heat rose from his skin in freckled welts. He deserved the pain. What kind of bastid let pirates destroy his two-masted sailboat and take him as a slave?

Right.

That bastid was him.

His aunt Gertrude—General Helsing—would not approve of his life choices. That sentimental thought bolstered his courage. If it made Gertrude angry, then it might be worth it. He’d deal with the sunburn later.

“Cindercap,” shouted Lubba, Pedr’s biggest problem. “Are you tired of shoveling fish guts? The deck needs swabbing. Mop it!”

Lubba’s giant belly rolled as he laughed, one hand slapping his sweating, hairy side. Members of Lubba’s paid crew added to his hilarity with weak chuckles. Feeding Lubba’s prodigious ego was easier than another lashing.

A limp bundle of rags tied to a stick sailed across the deck, headed for Pedr like a javelin. He caught it before it slammed into his neck, but several wet ends smacked his cheek. He chomped his molars together to stop a string of irritated curses.

Sincere, uproarious laughter followed, followed by jeers of, “Cindercap, the idiot,” and “Can’t be smart and rich, and he’s neither!”

Lubba barked, “Back to work!” before waddling away. His bare feet squished over an octopus liver and two tentacles. He kicked them overboard on his way across the stern, his back to Pedr.

Pedr regarded the mop. Dingy and crusted, it smelled more foul than the fumes emanating from Lubba’s underarms.

A sly voice shouted from behind Pedr. “Oi, Captain? Are we headed to Kapurnick? I’d like to snatch me one of them draguls. I hear they’re pretty tasty.”

Snickers followed.

“Plug your wind hole,” Lubba snapped.

Their grumbling voices returned to mending nets, sharpening hooks, and splashing water over fishing instruments.

After a few minutes of Pedr ignoring their low whispers and muted attempts to gain his attention, the cronies retreated.

Whenever they finished cleaning, they always congregated in Lubba’s cabin below.

A vile place smelling like sweat and moist rot.

While Pedr hurled a bucket tied to a rope overboard, then hauled up water, Lubba stood at the helm with a sidelong stare at Pedr. Lubba refused to look straight at him. His beady rat eyes darted to Pedr every ten seconds, but he wouldn’t confront him.

Pedr ignored Lubba as he mopped, shoving bits of octopus over the side.

The last of the detritus toppled into the ocean with a satisfying plop, plip, plop.

Pedr rarely spoke, executed every assignment, and swam faster than anyone on the crew—which meant Lubba’s lazy self had plenty to be nervous about.

Pedr could also hold his breath for a minute longer than the rest, thanks to his mother-given lungs. No one out-screamed Mother.

Pedr recast the bucket over the side, felt the tension tighten, and hauled it up.

By the time it reached the deck, half the water had sloshed free.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent it across the leftover, bloody smears.

A familiar scent wafted through the air.

The cook prepared fish stew in the galley, and his stomach churned with hunger.

No reason to hurry. He’d mop until Lubba couldn’t find a reason to criticize his work that didn’t require a complete re-planking of the deck.

This ridiculous existence wouldn’t last forever.

Eventually, Lubba would run out of food and gold.

Then, he’d find some other poor sucker to raid and Pedr would take his chance to escape.

Lubba must know it. He wouldn’t keep such a close eye on Pedr otherwise.

Pedr tossed a fourth, fifth, sixth bucketful of water across the deck, washing free the blood and carnage. Reaching down, Pedr finished skimming out most of the poor fish who had the unfortunate luck to swim into the fishing net.

If Lubba hadn’t destroyed his yawl, he’d be in a very different position.

The yawl hadn’t been a big vessel—he could man it on his own—but it had been reliable. Until Lubba blew holes into it, toppled the masts, and yanked him out of the cold waters. If Pedr still had the yawl . . . the thought wasn’t worth finishing.

He didn’t have the yawl.

Sometimes, life sucked.

While Lubba muttered commands to another crew-member, Pedr soaked up the solitude and the lessening sun. Three bucketfuls later, Lubba strode past, scowling. He shot daggers at Pedr with his stare. Four bucketfuls after that, the final fish spine washed free.

Pedr paused, arrested by the approach of a figure in distant waters. A ship prowled toward them. Not as sprawling as a ship of the line, but bigger than a sloop. Frigate, probably.

What stroke of luck might this be? They hadn’t seen anyone in days. Lubba had been sailing quietly, outside the normal patrol lanes, particularly after his recent raid.

Pedr sent a discreet glance to the helm. The crew member who replaced Lubba leaned forward, chin tucked, head bobbing, in a most uncomfortable half-stance. He breathed a small raspberry through his lips with each partial snore. Idjit. Lubba hadn’t been gone for more than minutes.

Pedr crossed to the gunwale and braced his hands on top. The frigate hadn’t slowed, but turned ever so slightly toward them. He thought of waking the crew member at the wheel and sounding an alarm, but then thought better of it.

Why save Lubba?

An opportunity just landed.

Pedr strode backward, reaching for the water pail.

Lubba had been known to keep track of Pedr’s work through the sound of his footsteps across the deck, so he sent the pail over the side again while he tracked the approaching vessel.

The deck didn’t require more washing, but who cared?

As the frigate approached, Pedr sucked in a sharp breath.

A glimmer of color appeared on her bow. Not a trick of the light or sea as her hull dipped into a low wave, but a flash of distinctive royal blue.

The mainland navy. This frigate was a patroller.

How hadn’t he noticed right away? The top sails were too neat, rigid.

No sign of a visible patch from this distance, and no vagabond maintained that level of cleanliness or discipline.

“Shite,” he whispered.

Not good.

Weeks ago, Lubba foolishly bragged to another ship Captain about the latest sloop he had overturned. After robbing all their goods, he’d sent the small family off in a rowboat to perish a slow death on the waves.

Or not.

This patroller may have discovered the family, saved them, and bent their next task on destruction of the fool pirate and his ship.

Lubba maintained a brightly painted mermaid with gigantic breasts leering from his bow.

The wooden sculpture beckoned sailors with her brilliant sapphire hair and full lips.

A spyglass would spot Lubba’s trademark, encouraging any pirate-hungry patroller to vault a few cannons their way.

What an arrogant bastid.

The speed at which the frigate approached was a business promise.

Enslaved or not, Pedr wasn’t about to get caught.

He’d have better luck swimming the wide sea than shredded by vengeful cannons.

No ship Captain would believe his claim to be a slave.

Lubba was horrible enough to convince anyone Pedr was his navigator and best friend.

Abandoning the bucket, Pedr slipped off his shoes and tossed them aside. He had no belongings to worry about, and less opportunities. By the time he sprinted across the deck and launched himself into the water on the far side, the first cannon disgorged with a reverberating boom.