He put an eye to the telescope, and Engle looked like he was about to say something, then shrugged. “Nuttier than a cashew,” he murmured to Tor, before returning to a bag of saltwater taffy Vesper had given him.
Tor watched as Captain Forecastle looked through the spyglass for a few moments, nodding and muttering to himself, before flipping it over to look through the opposite end.
Melda gave him a pointed look. “Tell me when Captain Cuckoo picks a direction.” She shook her head as she retreated down below.
Tor ventured over to where Captain Forecastle stood, twisting the spyglass longer and longer in his hands until it stretched more than five feet, the weight tipping the pirate a few degrees short of falling off the boat. “Um—how is that going?”
He closed the spyglass up to a tiny stub in half a second. “Swimmingly! Now, let us think a minute on where to go.”
Tor wanted to ask what on Emblem had he been doing before, but forced himself to be calm.
Captain Forecastle tipped his head this way and that while he muttered to himself. “Well, they’d have first gone to Troutsnout, to get provisions, maybe Amara if they had some gold to spare—beautiful city, that—then, straightaway to Scuttlepig to sell... No, that’d be too risky, too many people looking for the pearl, they’d go somewhere less seedy, somewhere with plenty of buyers. Somewhere it would be hidden, ’til talk of the pearl surfaced again.” He pointed a finger at nothing in particular. “That’s where it’d be, no question!”
“Um—and where is that?”
Captain Forecastle gripped him by the shoulders, close enough that Tor’s eyes watered at his stench. “Perla, my boy! The City of Seekers.”
Perla. A major fishing city, one he had always wanted to visit.
Tor nodded. He could work with that. “Great. I’ll set a course,” he said, trying to sound more experienced than he was. Captain Forecastle was no doubt trying to find a way to commandeer the ship—he didn’t need to know how the vessel worked. Or about Vesper’s bracelet, which was undoubtedly valuable. “Why don’t you go find a room below and get freshened up? Everything you need should be waiting for you.”
Captain Forecastle nodded, thankfully lowering his arms. He sniffed himself, then frowned. “Suppose we could use a bath.” He smiled. “Maybe four.” He planted a hand on Tor’s shoulder, laughing, before walking away.
When Tor was sure the pirate was downstairs, he went over to Vesper. Soon, they were staring down at the shell charm’s map, coating the deck in color. “That’s us, and that’s Perla,” she said. “It’s far. Six days’ journey, if the wind’s on our side. Seven if it’s not.”
Tor swallowed. They didn’t have much time. By Vesper’s own assessment, and Melda’s arenahora, the ice keeping both The Calavera and Swordscale prisoners would only hold for ten days longer.
“Then we have to hurry.”
Vesper nodded. She turned away, and Tor took a step forward. She had been distant the last day, avoiding them more than usual.
“Are you all right?” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, as if shocked he was asking her such a thing. “I’m fine. Worried about my people, obviously.” She smirked. “It’s also no secret that your friends don’t like me.”
“Engle does.” He shrugged. “Though, honestly, it might be because you keep giving him sea snacks.” Tor frowned. “Melda just…has a hard time trusting people. We all do, after…” He cleared his throat. “She wants to trust you. We all do.” Tor held her gaze. “We can, right?”
For a moment, Vesper stilled. Then, she smiled. “Of course you can.”
* * *
It was afternoon before Captain Forecastle surfaced, wearing a fresh cotton shirt underneath his tattered jacket, and a new set of pants. His boots weren’t caked in sand anymore, and his beard looked freshly combed through, no crawling critters in sight.
He gripped the sides of his now-gleaming hat. “This is a fine ship ye got yerselves.” He peered sidelong at Tor. “How did ye say ye procured it?”
“None of your business, pirate,” Melda said, giving him a pointed look as she passed him by.
Captain Forecastle shrugged. He turned to Tor. “So where will we be making port? Ponterey or Fort Sickim?”
“We won’t be,” Tor said simply.
The pirate’s eyes bulged. He pointed up at the sky without looking. “What nonsense are ye spouting, boy? It’s a full moon tonight!”
Tor looked up; the shadow of a full moon was already starting to show. He had read that legend in the book and didn’t take it lightly. Still, he didn’t have a choice. “We’re on a tight timeline. We can’t afford to spend an entire night docked.”
Captain Forecastle sputtered, then scoffed. “Ye won’t be on a tight timeline once yer in an underwater graveyard!” He muttered to himself, shaking his head as he walked the length of the deck. “A death wish! Fish below, help us. Captain Forecastle, on a ship during a full moon! We know better than that!”
Melda raised her eyebrows at him and said sweetly, “If the decision isn’t to your liking, we would be more than happy to bring you back to your hole.”
Captain Forecastle pursed his sun-cracked lips and straightened. “Unnecessary. I suppose we’ll face whatever wrath the sea has in store for us.”
That evening, Tor asked the ship for a feast to keep their mind off the moon, which now shined whole above them, a gleaming orb like an eye. Watching. Waiting.
A long table appeared on the deck, framed by richly crafted wooden chairs, a clean white tablecloth billowing atop it. One by one, gleaming silverware fell with tiny thuds from nowhere, before a dozen domed platters clattered into place at the table’s center.
They took turns removing the domes, revealing steaming hot bacon-wrapped meats, almond-crusted fish, triple-baked pink potatoes, maple moraberry glazed chicken wings, and buttered garlic vegetables.
Everyone ate like they were famished, especially Engle, who always had food on his
