 
# INDIA BONES

## AND THE SHIP OF THE DEAD

## By Set Sytes

# ONE

'I can't sir.'

'Can't what, lad?'

'Can't drink any more.'

'Nonsense m'boy! Why, why there's half the bottle left!'

'I'm fogged sir. More than that. I'm near half steamed.'

'And, and boy?'

India coughed wetly and leaned forward. Mr Bassard gave him the bottle and India unsteadily poured another splash of grog into his cup.

'Aye', India said, raising the cup and sipping the burn.

'Good lad.' Mr Bassard took a deep draught and harrumphed. His big, bushy face was beetroot red and he stomped his boots on the wooden floor. He shook his head fiercely and made an indistinguishable animal noise.

India sipped again and watched as Mr Bassard's head leaned slowly back, and his eyes drifted closed. Within moments the rumbling of a hog echoed through the shack.

India put down his cup and stood up, and it took a moment to convince himself that he wasn't on a ship at sea. The floor bucked at him and he moved towards the door as if bobbing on waves.

He outstretched his arm and pushed forward, misjudging the step and sprawling through the entrance onto shadowed sand and a violet, glittering night.

He turned on to his back and crossed his boots before him, the buckles catching the light of the stars and the fireflies carousing in the wind.

'Aye,' he said again, and grinned in a very relaxed, muzzy way. Above his head he watched a great cloud sail, lit up by a full moon. He fancied that it looked like a great galleon, and within its misty embrace brawled a crew of pirates and corsairs.

'A ship in the sky,' Mrs Wayles would have said. 'Well of all the things.'

India heard cavorting up ahead, coming along whatever passed for streets in the port town. He ignored them, taking them for its usual night revellers. With great effort he put his hands behind his head, and reminded himself once again that he was missing a hat.

He listened to the gentle lap of waves on shore and closed his eyes to the stars. He imagined himself on that pirate ship, no longer water in the air but wood in the water. Something powerful and brooding, full of joy and adventure and the freedom of rogues.

'Boy!' He heard a shout as though it was right by his ears, and he jerked himself up to a sitting position.

'Aye?' he said, eyeing the band of coves standing in the sand before him.

One stepped forward, a thin man with a beard to his waist. 'You drunk lad?'

India waved his hand in the air.

'How old are you?'

India hiccupped. 'Thirteen.'

'Thirteen, by God! It's that Mr Bassard again, ain't he damn near set on corrupting all who get by him.'

'It's not corrupting,' said India. 'It's warm and fuzzy'.

The man muttered to his fellows and then stepped forward and tried to pull India up. India shook him off, and said he could stand on his own, which he did, a little clumsily.

'What's your name lad?'

India sighed and wondered if the day would come when he could be called Captain, and not boy or lad. 'The name's India Bones. If it pleases you,' he added, with more than an ounce of sarcasm.

'Bones?' The man's brow furrowed. One of the others, a fool in striped pantaloons, whispered something in his ear. 'Oh, aye,' the man said. 'It's you. Mrs Wayles's boy.'

'I suppose.'

'The orphan,' said the fool.

India narrowed his eyes. 'No. My father ain't dead.'

'Where is he?'

India didn't say anything.

The thin man with the long beard put his hands on his hips impatiently. 'Well, come on with us. You don't want to miss this.'

'What is it?'

'Where have you been lad? It's the dance of the dead.'

'Oh.' India's fog seemed to clear somewhat and his eyes brightened. 'All right, I'm coming. Where is it?'

'It'll be yonder, by the docks as always.' The man shifted his pointed finger. 'You see the blackness of the horizon?'

'I sure do. It's night.'

'The boy's got lip. Look, that ain't no natural darkness. See how it seems to pull the waves in. Like some black hole of a line stretching out – but not all the way. See how it stops after a while, on both its sides?'

India nodded. Now he looked, he saw that there was a stripe of utter blackness that sucked in the sky and waters around it. But it was not the horizon, for it occupied only part of it, and beyond its reach was a dark, dark blue.

'That's the coming of them,' the man said. 'Once every ten years. You won't remember them last, you'd've been just a babe. The Ship of the Dead. All the way from God-knows-where to Eyeless, Mexico Island, right to our golden doorstep.' He had a wistful look in his eye, and added, 'They come to dance.'

*

India stood looking out the windows of the Merchant Hall. It was a large, burly building, the hub of the port, where all the commonfolk and nobles alike came to trade, dally and gossip. He was clustered on all sides by others, all craning their necks at the windows that looked out on the docks. There was a hubbub of excitable chatter, punctuated with words like 'bones' and 'skeletons'.

'Don't be scared lad,' said a tall, white-whiskered gentleman at his shoulder, leaning down to speak in his ear.

India flinched as the man's breath blew into him. 'I ain't scared sir,' he said.

'No?' said the man. 'I would be. Only a fool is fearless.'

India paused to take this in. He looked out at the sea shining black and smoky. It looked like the clouds had sunk down from the heavens and were writhing on a rolling expanse of tar. The truth was that he _was_ afraid. He didn't know what to expect, and everyone seemed tense and nervous and all the rushed talk around him made it hard to stay focused. It was always easy to get carried away in crowds. He wondered what each person's individual reactions to the event would be if they weren't letting their emotions be used as a mere component of a noisy, irrational mass.

Still, this event _was_ irrational. He had led a fairly ordinary life, for an unholy rascal, as some had dubbed him. Wandering, idle mischiefs, odd jobs and courier work (he called them 'missions') for petty coin to squander or lose, some light thievery perhaps (but only when he was hungry, or when it was plain irresistible). The port towns of Eyeless and Maiden, the shanty sprawl of Rug, even the capital of Mohawk, he figured he'd seen enough to say he'd seen it all. The island had never seemed big enough for him. At age thirteen he already felt he knew it inside and out, and it bored him. But then there was this – this once a decade wonder of the supernatural. Yes, he was afraid, but more than that he was tense with anticipation. He couldn't wait to see it.

The smoking black line rolled forward, taking over the sea and the sky in its approach. Fog stole onto the shore, and soon most of the beach was invisible. And out of the fog there came a long, slow, horn, and as it cut short there came the unmistakeable creaking of ship masts.

The mist rolled back, as though someone were sweeping it away with a broom. The blackness dissipated, and the beach lay clear and dark gold before them. Anchored in the bay was a grey and white ship, and pulling up to the shoreline were three boats full of the dead.

India barely heard the intake of gasps around him. The older folk, who had seen it once or more before, kept a reverent silence. India himself was struck dumb. His usually indolent eyes were as wide as he'd ever had them, and he dared not blink for fear that the whole scene would evaporate as a dream does upon waking.

The Ship of the Dead! Real magic!

The Merchant Hall was a house of statues as every man, woman and child in there watched the dead leave their boats and crowd together on the beach. They were no corpses, no rotting figures, but bare skeletons all, clothed in pirate and sailor dress. They dumped crates from the boats and pulled out bottles, handing them round. One of them started a fire – India couldn't see how, but it rose up quickly, with an ice blue flame.

Instruments were brought forth, a fiddle, a guitar and a drum, and the music began. Ethereal lines from the violin, mournful and haunting at first, and then imperial with the pound of the drum: a death march. Then the guitar strummed, and the fiddler and the drummer and the rest were all grins, and the music shifted to that of enchanting, excitable delight.

They began to dance.

*

India had been watching for a full hour, and the dead were still dancing. He'd borrowed a spyglass from the white-whiskered gentleman and had it clamped tight against his eyeball, occasionally switching eyes when one grew tired. He saw the skeletons pour drink after drink down themselves, saw it slosh through the ribcages and hit the sand.

Some of them ambled and shuffled, some of them jigged and cavorted, some of them linked each other by the arms and swung around, changing partners to the tune. One of them was flat on his back (India assumed it was a he, but who could really tell?), with another skeleton pouring a bottle over his skull. The pourer seemed to be laughing; at least, his jaw was open. Their grins were just lipless teeth, but somehow even without skin or muscles the expressions seemed to subtly, inexplicably change. As India glassed them, he saw them individually portray exuberant joy, mirth, relaxed appreciation, concentration (on drinking or dancing), tiredness, and total inebriation. One of them was sat facing away from the others, staring out at the waves and drawing patterns in the sand with his fingers. It might have just been bones on display, but India could see clearly they had their own personalities and emotions. These were not unthinking bogey-monsters raised from the grave to terrify and do a master's bidding. These were people.

India was thrilled that it was quiet little Eyeless, his own home town, and not the bustling port of Maiden, that received the ship. He knew folks from Maiden who were rightly jealous. It was the Eyeless claim to fame, about the only thing they could lord it over the rest of Mexico Island with. India figured it wasn't favouritism, the skeletons probably just didn't want the fuss and bother of putting in on busy docks. A plain beach was all they needed. Still, seeing such an incredible and outlandish event appear in clear sight of the houses and taverns he'd grown up around, was as exciting as it was disorientating.

India put his hand on the coat of the white-whiskered cove, still stood beside him.

'You done with the spyglass?' The man said, glancing down at him.

'No. I mean, yes, sir,' India murmured, still in a bit of a daze. Something had just occurred to him. 'How long will they be here for?'

'Oh, quite some time if past years are anything to go by. Why?'

'Nobody ever joins in?'

The man looked down at him again, narrowing his brow. 'Joins in? Of course not. It's the _dead_.'

India nodded. 'Here's your glass back sir.'

'Where are you going? You can't miss this. You know it won't be for another decade?'

'I'll be back soon.'

*

India stood in front of Mrs Wayles's mirror. He was finishing painting his face. White with big black eyes, and black lines for teeth painted over his lips. A little black for the nose and cheekbones. He carefully added some of the greasepaint to his neck, and turned his attention to his hands. White fingers jointed with black.

He took a step back and grinned. 'India Bones means something now,' he said to himself. He left the building and headed back towards the Merchant Hall.

The music was loud once more, when he started to pass the groups and loners watching the dance of the dead from along the embankment, still some distance from the Hall. Most of them were too enraptured in the sight to pay him any mind, but a couple of drinking youths turned at his approach. For a second he saw them fearful, and then confused. Quickly though, their faces turned to scorn, and a touch of pity; for India there was nothing worse.

'What in the hell do you look like,' one of them said.

'Nothing like you, thank god,' India replied. He continued walking, not speeding up and not slowing down.

'Are you wearing makeup?' the other said.

'Does it matter?' India said.

'Girls wear makeup,' the first said, as India passed them.

'Girls do a lot of things,' India called over his shoulder. 'And so do I.'

He left them behind, and approached the Merchant Hall. However, instead of turning to enter it from the inwards-facing front doors, he turned left along its side, walking down the embankment and onto the beach. He was by the Hall's supports and below the level of the windows, so he knew they couldn't see him from within. But that wouldn't last long.

He approached the dead slowly.

The sand seemed to crunch under his boots. He walked with a heady bravado courtesy of the contents of Mr Bassard's bottle, but as he neared his spirit began to falter. When his mind was begging him to turn around and run, his legs were still obeying his first command, his deeper desire to join the dance. The ice blue fire flashed in his eyes, he stumbled forward, and before he knew it he found himself with the skeletons, and they hadn't noticed him.

He stood frozen, staring, unable to go forward or back. Then he was gripped by bone, and swung, and gripped, and swung, and suddenly he was dancing with the dead.

He was flung from skeleton to skeleton, feeling the bones, swung hard against ribcages, grinning skulls one after another in front of him. He found a bottle in his hand and he swigged it and let it set a fire in his throat.

He was sweating, and laughing, his mind adrift as he moved to the music. The dead all around him, clutching at him, and they were laughing too, laughing and singing, dry voices that punctuated the raucous melodies and rhythmic booming of the drum.

It was when the stars themselves were spinning and he thought he might pass out, that the job was done for him. A flailing arm came out of the blinding fire and hit his head like a club, and the fire diminished, and went black.

# TWO

He awoke to find himself lying in a hammock in a small wooden cabin with a skeleton staring at him.

Staring may have been the only expression it had to offer, but it did it well. It was wearing a long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and it leaned nonchalantly in the doorway in a manner more suited to the living.

'Ahoy,' it said.

India shivered and shrank away, as best he could do being in a hammock. His head swayed painfully and the cabin seemed to sway with it.

'Rude,' said the skeleton.

India made eye contact and tried to summon some resolve back. 'Where . . . am I?' he swallowed mid-sentence to stifle a stammer.

'Who should be the first question.'

'Who am I?'

'Oh, no. Who am _I_?'

'Right.' India sat up in the hammock, his aching head in his hands. His fear was quickly melting away, to be replaced with confusion. 'Who are you?'

The skeleton inclined its head. 'My name is Grimmer.'

'Uh. And where am I Grimmer?'

The skeleton grinned, a skill at which it was excellent. 'Why, you're on the Ship of the Dead.'

India fell back and closed his eyes. He felt a little nauseous, and dots chased each other under his eyelids.

'I quite understand,' Grimmer said.

'How did I get here?' India managed at last.

Grimmer sighed. 'That was Spares. He carried you aboard.'

'Why?'

'He thought you were one of us.'

India opened his eyes and dared another look at the skeleton, half-expecting it to have vanished and to see the familiar sight of his room at Mrs Wayles's. 'Just because I have face paint on?' he said. 'I look nothing like you! You're – well, you're dead!'

'He was very, very drunk. Not that any of us were sober, but he was something else. I've already had quite the bone to pick with him. It'll take him some time to find it.'

'Mmm.'

'You see the thing is mate, we can't just take you back. You're stuck with us for now. Damn fool Spares.'

India squeezed his eyes shut and opened them once more. Still there. 'How's that?'

'There's no turning back. The ship has its own course, it sails _us_ you understand.'

'I don't.'

'Truth be told, nor do I much. But that's how it is. Oh, the crew helps out, but I think that's more cause we need something to do, a way to be useful. We climb the rigging and hoist the sails and swab the decks. But nobody can turn the wheel. It turns on its own.'

India tried to think this through, and gave up. 'So . . .'

'So where we going next? Kingston is our next call. We won't be putting up to the docks though, but this lonely beach to the west that seems almost nobody knows about but us. See, with small, superstitious towns like Eyeless it's alright to land near everyone, as they keep their respectful, fearful distance, and besides, we like to put on a bit of a show now and again. The mist and the blackness draw in, the big horn sounds . . . you know, all very fun. Nice and theatrical. But try that somewhere like the thick of Kingston and – I'm not saying they ain't superstitious too, they all are, but there'll just be too many people, and with lots of people crowding things there's always some idiot who gets drunk and comes and spoils things. Not that you're an idiot. At least you didn't have a gun. And that face paint. Inspired. Never known anyone alive wanting to look dead before.'

Grimmer tapped his ribcage and tilted his head. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I ain't had anybody living to talk to for some time. All these words tumbling out.' He grinned, or rather, something happened to his face that India couldn't quite explain.

'How do you speak, Grimmer?' India asked, realising one of the many paramount things that were bothering him.

'How'd you mean?'

'How'd you speak with no tongue?'

'A tongue's the least of your worries mate. I ain't got a voice box neither. Or lips. Or a gullet to drink, lungs to breathe, heart to beat, eyes to see you with.' Grimmer leaned in. 'Just cause you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there.' He looked away at the sea. 'Do you know of phantom limbs?'

India shook his head.

'When a limb gets amputated, sometimes people get the sensation that it's still there. They can feel it, and they can feel it working too. Well us skeletons have phantom bodies. They're stuck to our bones same as yours are. You can't see them nor touch them, but we got ghost skin and ghost organs all there in order, all working like a shadow of the living. Or at least pretending to.'

India swallowed. The thought was disquieting. 'What do you really look like then?'

'I look like this!' Grimmer opened his arms. 'Hell, I don't know what I look like anymore. I've known naught but these bones for too long.'

'How did this happen? I mean, what got you all like this? On this ship, without bodies – well, without bodies to see.'

Grimmer smiled. 'I wondered when we'd get around to the main thrust of questioning. We're all sailors see. Pirates, merchants, even a few from various navies. Gave our life to the sea. But when we died we made a bad deal. We sold our bodies.'

'You mean you sold your souls.'

'No, we sold our bodies. We kept our souls. All that's left of our bodies is the bones, and the ghost essence. The soul has had enough time to get used to the form it inhabits that it stays there after the body, the physical tangible body has gone.'

'Who did you sell it to?'

'To Davy Jones, of course. Who else? In return we kept our time in this world. Not realising the cost. Not realising we'd stay here, like this, forever. Or until our bones break into tiny pieces and our spirits become formless and can do nothing but haunt. After the deal was done some of us dead folk wandered, and still are wandering. They are rare sights, for there aren't too many of us that made the deal, whose bodies have lasted the wear and tear of this world. You might bump into one on land if you're terribly lucky. Not counting Tortugal, that is – we got a little spot of our own there. Otherwise it's a solitary existence. Not many folk want to be friends with the dead. And there ain't much that satisfies when your body is just a ghost. The best we got is alcohol. That still has a bit of a kick left, when it's still dripping through our bones. Alcohol and dancing.'

Grimmer sighed. 'And that's where the rest of us ended up. The Ship of the Dead. Picking up all the wayward selfish scurves who made the wrong choice at the end of their thieving lives. I don't know how long it's been sailing these seas. Nobody does. Since the beginning, perhaps. There's no captain. The only one sailing it is all the souls of the broken-boned. Or something else entirely. Who knows how many spirits haunt this ship. Taking it from place to place.'

India was listening open-mouthed. It seemed like something out of some dark fairy tale. 'Why do you visit Mexico Island to dance once every ten years?' he asked.

'Dancing and drinking's all we have. As for ten years, well we've got a lot of places to visit, a lot of distant seas to sail. The ship only seems to get back round to Mexico Island after ten years. Maybe cause it's out of the way, maybe some other reason we don't know. I think a few of the others take ten or so years to visit again, it's just they're all at different times. Other places we come to more often. We just fall into the ship's strange routine. The dead are nothing if not consistent.'

India nodded. 'I've got one more question.'

'Shoot.'

'Why are you wearing clothes?'

Grimmer laughed, a strange, clattery sound. 'Why are you? It's not cold. There's little more reason to keep your body covered than ours. But there's a lot of character in a body's clothes. When you don't have meat you can see on you, no real face, only a fading memory of what you used to look like, if that, then having your own clothes can do its bit to make you you. In your own eyes as in the eyes of others.'

'Well, shank me,' India said, shaking his head. 'This is all a bit much.'

Grimmer laughed again. 'Aye, I know. Look, we'll drop you off at the Lonely Carib Beach, that's what we call that place we put in at Kingston. We won't be dancing there or making much of any kind of spectacle, just sitting and wandering and skimming stones, hidden by jungle. So you can take your leave and head to the city. After that though, afraid you're on your own.'

'That's alright. Thanks. I'll find some coin and then a ship to take me home.' India paused. 'Well. I don't know. I guess I'll see how I feel.'

'First time away from the parents?'

'My mother is dead,' India said. 'I never met my father.'

'Oh,' Grimmer said. 'Sorry to hear that mate. You're in good company for now. Pretty sure all our parents are long gone.'

'I want to find my father,' India said, looking down.

'I'd put money on it,' Grimmer said, clapping him on the back. India shivered at the touch, then looked apologetically up.

Grimmer pretended he hadn't noticed. 'I'll leave you for a bit,' he said. 'Let you get your head in order. And I want to talk to some of the others, too.' He got up and walked out the cabin, leaving India alone.

India sat up in the hammock and put his head in the hands. Not out of upset, but to try and stop the swaying, and get to grips with the situation. He wasn't quite ready to stand up, fearing he might instantly fall on his face.

He'd tried to leave Mexico Island several times in his life, each time without success. He'd stowed away on ships and either been caught and flogged, or he'd bottled it and took off, flushed with the thrill and fear of getting that far. Last year he'd stayed until they'd weighed anchor and were out in the bay, before being discovered by the bosun. They'd shouted at him and rowed him back to the docks. He'd been thankful for it, as he'd felt a little sick from the whole deal, completely out of his depth as it were. No matter how often he might think of himself as an adventurer or a pirate, truth was he was still just a kid, and he'd lived his own life in a tiny patch of a much wider world.

That was the last time he'd got anywhere, for Mrs Wayles had stepped in, letting it be known to all sailors of Eyeless and Maiden both, that nobody was to give passage to India Bones or else. Even the roughest of sailors had no desire to get on the wrong end of one of Mrs Wayles's Or Elses, and so India found himself shipblocked as soon as he approached any one of the gangways. Even when he'd gathered enough coin for legal passage, he was turned away.

'You're just a babe,' Mrs Wayles had said. 'You think you can take on the whole world but you just can't. Suppose the ship took you and deposited you someplace. Someplace civil even, like Kingston. Then what? How you gonna be feeding yourself? Where will you sleep? The world won't just turn over on account of your dreams, India. It'll master you afore you master it. Is that what your father would have wanted? Maybe one day, when you're all grown up, and when you're no longer under my care, you can follow in his footsteps. But right now, you just stay here and stay away from those damn docks.'

And so he'd slunk off, undecided whether to scowl or feel sorry for himself, so he'd done a bit of both.

One day.

He'd never much had the patience for reading – he didn't want to read about things, he wanted to see and experience them for himself – but year after year he'd trace his finger over maps, looking at all the places he wanted to visit, places he knew so little about but which fired his imagination with their strange, foreign names and promises of mystery and adventure.

The Caribbean formed the centre of the map, and was rich with opportunities. East of Mexico Island were popular places such as Kingston and J'maika, Colorado and the fabled Indiana, with its capital 'City of Gold' that he was named after. Not to mention pirate haven Tortugal, home to the giant mountain of Nassar (that India would one day climb). Kingston was the Caribbean hub, ruled from afar by York, and so frequently on the wrong side of pirates. The joke was that it was called such because everybody there acted like kings, they were that pompous and arrogant.

York was on the Continent, which lay to the north of the Caribbean, and as large (and self-important) as the country and its neighbour Bordeaux were compared to the Caribbean islands, they were dwarfed still by the other lands of the Continent: China, the Harem Empire, and the vast Khan Wastes to their east.

Then there were all the other places in the world any self-respecting adventurer would long to explore. Countries little written about, and some almost entirely unknown in India's part of the world. The cluster of a thousand tiny islands and networked waterways that was Asia. The sprawling countries of Afrika and Barbary, and the great temples and sphynxes of Gyptia. The deep jungles of Amazonia, and the rolling grasslands and mountain ranges of Zealand to the far south. Maybe even the Northern and Southern Icelands, if he could wrap up well enough for them (he had the feeling that he wouldn't know what cold really was until he went there).

One day.

And now, here he was, on the Ship of the Dead, with a skeleton crew, and on open water.

No turning back, that's what Grimmer had told him. No turning back.

India tried to quell the ache within him, but he felt his thirteen years of age keenly, and he had to take a hard grip of the hammock support to steady himself.

He only took his fingers away when he became aware of them hurting, and looking at his fingertips he saw they'd been pressed white.

*

India walked the grey planks of the ship, feeling half-dead himself. Around him skull faces eyed him from empty sockets. There was saltspray coming in off the wind, but no part of the deck or rails felt damp; instead, the wood was dry and dusty and pock-marked. He ran his fingers along the side and it crumbled. He felt like a good enough gale would blow the whole lot into the sea. It almost didn't seem like wood at all, and he blanched when the idea popped in his head that he was walking on grey bones.

'You know what mate,' a voice came from behind him, and he turned to see Grimmer.

'What?'

'I never asked you your name. And I called you rude. Where were my manners?'

'It's India Bones.'

Grimmer gave a short laugh, and this time India, with fixed attention, saw that the sounds seemed to be in slight discord with the movement of his jaw, and he realised they were not coming from a material presence at all. The mouthless jaw merely worked its best to accompany them.

'Bones aye?' Grimmer said. 'Well you're in the right company, that's for sure.'

India looked back out at the sea.

'You hungry, Mr Bones?'

'Call me India. You eat?'

'Sure, sure. Well, we eat for nostalgia, at any rate. But I remember what it's like to be actually hungry. We've got plenty of ship biscuits. Look,' Grimmer reached into the shadows of his coat and fished out a round black thing. 'Take it.'

India looked at it. 'Is it edible?'

'You're in no position to turn it down, let's put it that way.'

'Alright.' India took it and bit off a corner. It was chewier than he figured, both salted and sugared, and not half-bad. There was a slight touch of death to it, but nothing's perfect.

'How many are on this ship?' India asked.

'Thirteen,' Grimmer said. 'Can't make it up, can you? I always wonder if we're going to get anymore, but it's been years and no more, so maybe that's that.'

'Fourteen, now.'

'For now. Can't be having with you ruining our unlucky number,' Grimmer said.

'The others keep looking at me.'

'Of course they do, what do you expect? The living stare at the dead, can't expect the dead not to stare at the living. But look, none of us jolly rogers means you any harm. See him?' Grimmer pointed. 'That's Sockets. He's alright, he just stares a lot. And him?' Grimmer gestured at a large skeleton with a big chest by the mainsail. 'That's Big Cage. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Unless the fly hurt him first, of course. There, she's Hairless – and ain't she pleased she can wear a corset now without it being hard to breathe? No more breathing for her, except out of habit.' Grimmer turned. 'Over there, looking rightfully sheepish, that's Spares. Recognise him?'

'Y-es,' India said. 'Yes.' And he did. Now he saw them one by one, he realised it wasn't that hard to tell them apart at all. It wasn't just their clothes and adornments, or their bone structure. There was something about each of them that made them as different individuals as he and Mr Bassard.

India looked further along the ship, and saw a skeleton standing near the helm. He was taller than the others, bar Big Cage, and wore a black tricorne hat and long black coat. Belts glinting with metal were twisted and tied about his bones, and each strap holstered a pistol – three, maybe four in all. But it was the bones themselves that took India's eyes. Alone amongst the others, his skeleton was as black as his clothes.

'Ah,' Grimmer said, seeing where India's gaze lay. 'That's Blackbone. No, we don't know why he looks like that. Maybe he fell deeper and darker than any of the rest of us, afore he was pulled out of the brine and onto these decks. He doesn't speak much, and I doubt he wants you here, so best not try and make friends too hard. He's the least jolly of all of us jolly rogers.'

'Is he the captain?'

'No, no. There's no captain on this ship. But if there was, I reckon it'd be Blackbone.'

'Can I be captain?'

'Ha! Bit presumptuous, aren't you? Bit quick on the draw? No, you can't be captain. See the ship's wheel? I told you nobody can touch it, not even Blackbone. The ship is its own master.'

'I see,' India said, not really seeing. Grimmer, sensing he wanted to be alone, nodded and strode slowly off.

India leaned over the side and stared at the swell of the sea. A thrill of excitement was beginning to dance around within him, marshalling troops to its cause. An excitement of having truly left Mexico Island for the first time in over thirteen years. On being on board a real ship – a grey, mouldering ship, but a ship no less – and sailing the seas with creatures of dark magic, with the _dead_ , perhaps the only living person to have ever done so.

Well, he always did know he was special.

There was another pang of homesickness, for the alleys of Rug, the Mohawk markets, the comfort and security of Mrs Wayles and the inebriated friendship of Mr Bassard. The palms trees that swayed on the southern beach, the jungles and cliffs in the centre of the island, the Aztec Tomb . . .

But the pang was getting blown away by the sea breeze; wisp by wisp it was being replaced with salt and wood and bones.

He wondered what kind of ship it was. A brig, a frigate? It didn't quite have the shape of anything he'd seen previously. There was less of a crew than you'd expect for a ship of this size, so a lot of space for him to cast his eyes about, filling his gaze with the huge white sails billowing in the breeze, with the forestry of the masts and the ropes and the netting. He looked at the helm, at the wheel, and imagined commanding the whole ship, turning it to his course, yelling orders to the crew, stuck to his post in sun and storm.

He drank it in, and then he returned his eyes to the sea, and drank that in too.

This wasn't the same sea he saw from the beaches. There was no shoreline to lap against. Here, the waves moved like beasts, rolling long and fat and huge. No doubt under the surface dark leviathans with unknowable minds and purpose pushed the waves along, guiding them back and forth to each other.

An orange sun beat against his eyes and flashed off the water.

The water that was everywhere and the water that was forever.

India squinted into the sun and looked away. Had that much time passed already? How long had he been out?

He had a funny feeling inside him, a _very_ funny feeling –

The ship plunged into another beast-wave, and the prow soared up over the crest, and India was suddenly, violently sick.

*

India was laid up in the hammock he'd woken in, belly finally settling and closing eyes witnessing the night through the porthole. The moon flashed over him as the great gloom of sleep folded in.

His thoughts, not yet fully dreaming, drifted like the ocean current back towards Eyeless and Rug, Mohawk and Maiden, back towards the jungles and the cliffs and, finally, deliberately, the Aztec Tomb.

A long time ago, the Caribbean had been ruled by the fabulously rich, and now very dead, Aztec Empire. Nobody were quite sure how it had ended; there were many theories, and maybe all of them were true, maybe none of them. All India knew was that the Aztecs weren't around anymore. But that didn't mean they hadn't left things. There were still ruins, he knew. And where there were ruins there must, inevitably, be treasure.

India would go looking for Aztec Gold. People would laugh at him, tell him he was wasting his time. Everything here was dug up, ransacked, stolen and sold a long time ago. Same the world over. The only thing left was the lost treasure of Bucklemeir Horn, and the search for that had long been abandoned, and its existence become a mere legend.

In time India would agree that Mexico Island was barren as far as riches were concerned. But the world was much bigger; there was West and East Indigo, there was San Dillinger and Tortugal, there was India, the City of Gold on the island of Indiana, that _had_ to have something, _of course_ it did, and these ladies and gents who had spent their whole lives locked in their own houses had never seen any of it. They just assumed. You couldn't just assume.

There was only one tomb he'd found on Mexico Island, a few miles east of Rug and into the jungles at the top of the cliffs there. He'd scrambled and climbed for an hour, scratched by branches, twisted by vines and cut on rocks, and when he'd got there he'd found a path that had led all the long way back to Rug itself. The tomb had been empty, of course, and not just that, it was also dusted and smoothed and there were fences up and even a sign. There were a few Ratboys and a couple of older Mohawkians lounging around the entrance and inside, drinking and guffawing. They'd given him the eye and he'd given them it back. He'd slouched over to the side of the tomb walls and put his back against it. Eventually he'd gone home.

He'd visited again, many times. He'd soon learned when nobody else would be there and would always come at these times, pacing the tomb and searching for imaginary treasure and cutting down imaginary pirates. He always took the cliff climb up to the tomb. He tried to pretend the path wasn't there, except on the way back, when he was tired and dirty and often bruised and bleeding, and the moon was out and lit the cliff as the quick route to death. The path lay half gleaming in stops and starts, as though draped silver had itself been clad in shifting, filtered shadows.

India's breathing slowed, and the shadows of that jungle path danced about him, taking on black, grinning shapes, and then they were sails, whipping at him from all sides with the wind that seemed to suck itself from the very earth, and the trees were gone, the path was gone, there was only water and salt, salt as far as the eye could see . . .

# THREE

Over the next few days India got to know the crew fairly well. At first many of them had avoided him, and he'd seen the wariness in others' eyes when he talked to them. A few were grouchy, and one skeleton by the name of Liver told him to shank off as soon as he approached. But a few were nice, like Big Cage who was as friendly as he was big, or Hairless, who helped him through finding his sea-legs and found him a nautical coat in the hold that was only a little oversized. Spares was always amusing company, especially when he was drunk. Sockets was a bit odd, but India got used to him. And Dessica, another female jolly roger (how they usually seemed to refer to themselves), had spoken to him at length on the movements of whales, the names of all the sails and masts, and even shown him how to tie different kinds of knot. And as the days passed, and India made himself known, rarely staying put for more than the length of a conversation, and helping out when he could, those who avoided him showed their faces, and those who were grouchy softened. It was only Liver who remained unpleasant more often than not, and India had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with Blackbone. Blackbone usually stayed in his cabin, anyway (the only one bar India with his own private cabin), and when they passed each other India would walk fast, for his near-silent presence sent a chill down India's spine.

It was Grimmer though, who was the surest tether between India and his sanity. From the first day he'd been good to India, helped him help himself and help others whenever he was around, showed him all the parts of the ship, the hold and the forecastle, the gallery and the gun deck where cannons were cobwebbed from disuse. He even took India up to the crow's nest – thankfully India had always been a good tree climber, but climbing the rigging up so high, and looking down at the long fall to the decks below – well, at least Grimmer had been there for encouragement, and India sure wasn't going to let himself appear weak in front of a bunch of skeletons. The final few feet had been the worst, but at last he'd toppled into the crow's nest, breathing hard with the adrenaline, and then spent a good three or four hours reddening with the sun and feeling on top of the world, almost drunk with the sight around him, perched on a swaying wooden spire that rose up like a needle out of the great, eternal ocean. A lonely minaret in a blue desert where he was king.

Eventually though, the seasickness had come on even stronger, not to mention a light-headedness close to fainting, and he'd forced himself to descend. He'd spent a while recovering, and decided to go up there again only rarely.

On the early evening of the fourth day India saw a far-off shape; he borrowed a spyglass off Sockets and saw a red-boarded ship travelling in the other direction. He squinted but in the darkening light couldn't make out the crew.

'Are they pirates?' he asked, feeling excited.

Sockets snatched the spyglass back and looked through. 'No,' he said. 'Merchant ship, probably from East Indigo.'

'Can they see us?'

Grimmer came up behind him and gripped the rail. 'Honestly, we don't rightly know,' he said. 'There was another ship yesterday, too. Truth is a number of us don't care to look anymore, or at least we don't shout about it if we do see something. We've never been boarded, we've never even been hailed. We don't know if it's just mist they see, or the illusion of a ship of no consequence or interest to anyone, or if they see nothing at all but empty sea. Or maybe they see us just as we are, but then something in them just wipes it from their minds, tells them just to pass on by. A thought that never gets to go anywhere, like it's been chased off. All we know is the Ship of the Dead ain't disturbed, and never has been. We're a ghost on the ocean, mate.'

On the fifth day Grimmer came to him carrying a cutlass, with the golden hilt of another held in the thick sashes that tied around his pelvis. He flipped the sword in his hand deftly and offered it to India hilt first. 'Here you go mate,' he said. A few of the others on the deck gathered round, interested.

A one-armed skeleton named Cold Shoulder put his one remaining hand up. 'Here, he's a bit young ain't he?'

Grimmer didn't turn. 'He's got to be able to defend himself, doesn't he?'

India looked at the blade, at its edge and its wicked point. It caught the light and flashed meanly. 'I'll manage without. For now,' he said.

'You sure?' Grimmer said.

'For now.'

Grimmer shrugged and tossed the sword back on the deck with a clatter. India turned away, but not before stealing one, two more glances at it lying there on the grey wood at his feet.

India remembered when he had last used a blade. He'd grown up fighting with sticks with other kids in the streets and slums of Rug and Mohawk. The orphan gang that called themselves Ratboys infested the alleyways of the poor side of Mohawk, and India had once been well acquainted with them, often fighting with and against them in confrontations ranging from friendly scuffles and stick fencing to scrapping tooth and nail. It was about the time that an increase in girls in the gang led to arguments about a change of name that Skiv became leader. He was a bad-tempered kid, bigger than India and prone to using his fists to get his own way.

Always eager for something greater than pickpocketing, something more dangerous and more impressive, it was India who had come up with the idea of raiding Jack Rush's house.

Jack Rush was a mean, surly merchant, and he had beaten India severely when he'd caught his pockets being picked just outside his home. India hadn't been able to walk properly for days, and the bruises had taken much longer to disappear. In the years past he sometimes looked at his reflection in the coastal Mexican seawaters and figured that his face had lost its childishness, had been beaten tougher and rougher and stripped of some measure of innocence.

In retaliation India had come up with the plan, and roped the Ratboys in on it. He'd always been an outsider to them, some days seemingly on their side, some days not. He'd never wanted to answer to somebody else, and certainly not a dumb brutish boy like Skiv.

They entered the house as the moon hung full and watching, breaking the windows and dropping like cats over the sills. The children in the streets knew everything there was worth knowing. They knew that Rush was on an overseas business trip, selling sugar to East Indigo, and would not be back for some time.

They took everything, greedily filling their pockets and pouches with jewellery and silverware and bottles of rum. India had found a necklace. Black stringed, with a pendant of tarnished silver melded to what looked like bone, gold in the very centre and frayed around the edges, like the rays of a moribund sun. He pocketed it. He pocketed something else, too.

He didn't know who'd started the fire. Somebody knocked over something, playing around with torches and bottles of rum; it could have been anyone. The Ratboys yelled to each other as what seemed a bright, exciting flicker quickly spread and smoke rushed through the air like a punishing phantasm, as though a residing spirit of Jack Rush was left behind as guard.

They'd escaped, all of them thank shank, tumbling from the windows and bursting out the door. As soon as they were clear and most of them had scattered down various alleys, India had turned to receive a blow from Skiv. It connected with an already existing bruise from Rush, and hurt twice as much.

They pounced on each other, fists flying, knees punching into stomachs and feet lashing out. They fought dirty, like wild dogs, breaking apart every few minutes to snarl and spit and curse. Watched hungrily by the others.

'Give it to me,' said Skiv.

'Give you what.' India wiped the sweat from his face and pulled the straggled hair from his eyes.

'The necklace. I saw you take it. You owe it to me for what happened back there.'

'That wasn't my fault.'

'It was your idea to raid the place. Give it to me.'

'You ain't getting it.'

They met again, and India found his back hurled against the stony ground and pinned. He twisted and kicked and Skiv grabbed his throat and squeezed.

India punched Skiv's head and his midriff, again and again, but he couldn't get the angles or the momentum and the blows couldn't dissuade the hands choking him, robbing him of his energy.

Black and purple motes dotted before his vision and with a sudden, almost instinctive remembrance he pulled out the shining dagger he had taken at the house. It slipped into Skiv's side as though it was moving through butter. It met no bones.

Skiv fell aside with a yelp, and the dagger sucked itself out, still in India's hand. India scrambled up, and without looking backwards, at Skiv or the audience of Ratboys, he ran.

India never knew what became of Skiv. He didn't visit Mohawk again for a year, and when he did he stuck to other districts, and carefully avoided the Ratboys. If Skiv was still alive, then he would want his revenge. And if he wasn't . . . if he wasn't, then those loyal to him, or those who counted him among their friends might want their own revenge.

He never knew whether Skiv had lived or died, and he didn't want to know. He'd thrown the blade away, and he'd never thrown away something valuable before. He remembered crouching outside the Aztec Tomb and shivering in the rain, his hair plastering itself to his face.

He'd never wanted to touch a blade again. He remembered the sound Skiv had made and his eyes. His eyes.

On the deck of the Ship of the Dead, India kicked the cutlass away from him without looking. And fingered the sun pendant that hung from his neck.

*

'Where _is_ that?' India asked, spyglass trained on the land mass that passed slowly before them. He saw bright forests and white beaches, and in the centre, with trees marched up its slopes, a single mountain peak that in the light seemed capped with silver.

'West Indigo,' Hairless said. 'Just you wait honey, you're soon to see something even better.'

A while later, separated by only a turquoise channel whose lush beauty betrayed its shallowness (India wondered if you could wade through it without even needing a boat), East Indigo floated into view.

'What the shank is _that_?' India gasped.

'Nice, ain't it?' rumbled Big Cage.

'That's the East Indigo Palace,' Hairless said. 'Abode of Hong Kong Silver.'

'I've heard of him.'

'You'd be hard pressed not to, sugar. Biggest merchant trader in the Caribbean. And I mean _biggest_.'

'That's sure a nice way of putting it,' Dessica chimed in, joining them at the rail and leaning over, the sun turning her skull gold. 'Silver might be as rich as an Aztec, but he's also the most disreputable man in the Caribbean. The man's got to where he is by being a double-crossing crook. Would sell his own grandmother if it added another inch to his piles of gold. You'd call him a pirate if he ever set sail.'

'I never said he was an _honest_ merchant trader,' Hairless said. 'If there's any such thing.'

'Nice, ain't it?' Big Cage said again.

'It sure is,' India said. A path of golden sand, somehow hardened and set like stone, wound from the beach and carved up a hill, flanked on both sides by the tallest palm trees he'd ever seen. Away from the path, vibrant greenery gave way to tangled jungle, which clustered in, eager to get closer to the palace, and steal its photosynthetic radiance. Huge white domes burst like soap bubbles from the island's centre at the top of the hill, only matched in shining dominance by two gold-and-white minarets that stabbed into the blue sky.

'He must be swimming in coin,' India murmured. He looked at where the path broadened and met the palace, huge gates that glowed in the sunlight – and perhaps they too were made of gold.

'Oh, he is,' Hairless said. 'Don't get jealous now.'

'Too late,' India said. He imagined what it would be like to live in such a place, a place fit for an emperor. When East Indigo was finally lost to his vision, he retired quietly to his cabin and closed his eyes, basking in the idea that he did indeed live and rule there, waking up every morning on a shifting bed of Aztec coins.

*

India was roused from his bed one morning by Spares mumbling at him and shaking his arm. India felt a flash of fear; it was only the second time he'd been woken up to the face of a skeleton staring down at him, and this one was a lot closer, far too close. Whilst they no longer troubled him when he was up and about (with the possible exception of Blackbone), it was different when you were surprised out of the dull confusion and uncertainties of sleep into confronting a grinning visage of the dead.

Spares must have noticed the shock that passed briefly across his face, for he took a step back. 'Begging your pardon, mate,' he said. 'Didn't mean to shock you or nothing.'

'Spares,' India said, letting his heart rate slow back down. 'What's going on?'

'We're here, that's what,' Spares said. 'Grimmer told me to fetch you.'

'Here, where's here?' India sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

'We're anchored at Lonely Carib. Dropping the boats now.'

'Oh.'

Spares left and India got up and dressed, pausing before putting on the coat Hairless had found him. It felt heavier than usual. He looked out the porthole and saw a sliver of beach, grey in the dawn light.

He ran a hand through his hair, rough and shaggy from all the sea spray. Mrs Wayles would have held him down and forced a brush through it, he thought with a small smile. Not that it would have helped; he'd only have been straight back out tumbling in the muddy alleys of Rug, or pushing through the jungle, raked by bad-tempered undergrowth on the way to the Aztec Tomb.

'Is that a boy under there?' Mrs Wayles used to say. 'Or is it a bush? Has part of the jungle just uprooted and walked in? For the life of me I just can't tell.'

*

India felt a strange, uncomfortable pang as they rowed towards the beach. He hadn't said anything since he'd got in the boat. Grimmer too was especially quiet. Ahead of them the beach looked cold and sad.

Two of the skeletons got out into the water and pulled it up onto the shore. India got out and walked up the beach a short way. The hard sand crunched under his boots. It was the first time his feet had touched anything other than Mexico Island. It was a surreal and unsettling experience. He looked back at the ship, but saw only a thick, dark mist. He squinted and tried to envisage the ship there, _knowing_ it was there, and bit by bit he saw the sails, the grey hull . . . but as soon as he relaxed the mist crawled in once more.

The skeletons were sitting about on the beach. A couple had wandered into the jungle. Some were speaking in couples or small groups, others like Grimmer were looking back out at the sea, or drawing idle patterns in the sand. Perhaps it was all in his head, but there seemed a melancholy air over everything. He sensed this was a different kind of escape for these 'jolly rogers', a different kind of relief than the drinking and dancing that had formed their last landing.

'This is it,' Dessica said as she approached him, her head low. 'We're all sorry to see you go.'

'I don't want to go,' India said. A few of the other skeletons were standing up and coming over. Big Cage. Hairless. Spares.

Dessica shook her head, smiling. 'Don't be silly. The dead are no company for the living.'

'You've got your whole life to live, honey,' Hairless said.

'Sorry you gotta go, mate,' Spares said. 'We've all enjoyed, uh, having you on board. It's been lively.'

'I have to?'

'You know you do,' Hairless said, gently.

'Never meant to capture you in the first place,' Spares said, kicking the sand with his feet. 'Gotta watch the drinking.'

Big Cage came forward, and reached out with his arms. India awkwardly opened his own arms and Big Cage hugged him, almost crushing him.

'Leave off him you big oaf,' Spares said. 'You'll crush the lad.' He shook his head as though annoyed, and wandered off.

'Miss you,' Big Cage said, and turned and followed Spares.

'You too,' India said, too quiet for Big Cage to hear.

'Go and say your farewells to Grimmer,' Dessica said. She touched her skull, and Hairless blew him a kiss, and the two of them walked away.

India saw a few of the other skeletons on the beach give him nods and waves, and he waved back. He pinched his eyes and approached Grimmer, who was still sat on the sand.

'Come with me,' India said.

'No,' Grimmer said, not looking at him. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Don't be naïve. Look, go on.'

'I don't want to.'

'Why not?'

'I don't want to be by myself.'

'You'll be fine,' Grimmer said. When India still hadn't moved, he picked up a pebble, tightened his bone fingers around it and then turned and threw it at him. India dodged it; he didn't know if it was supposed to hit him or not.

'Go away!' Grimmer said. 'Leave me be. Go and join the land of the damned living.'

India looked at him with hurt, angry eyes, and then turned and walked away. When he'd reached the edge of the beach he glanced back. Grimmer was sat in the same spot, not moving, staring down at the sand.

India stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and disappeared into the jungle.

# FOUR

India pushed aside a tangle of vines, chose his step carefully – was that a snake coiled around that branch, or another creeper? – ducked, and when he finally raised his head he stopped short and gaped.

Kingston.

A city of white and sand, buildings and streets like bone and ochre. The occasional colourful flash of red flags and purple drapes signalling to him like waving women. A waterfront laden with goods and boats, and more pulling in and out and loading and unloading every minute. A bay decorated with ships of every size and colour, carrying every kind of flag, many of which India had never seen before. Red-boarded and blue-boarded ships anchored side by side, dropping rowboats full of boxes and barrels and sailors, and taking them on in turn.

But it wasn't the ships that took India's breath away. It wasn't even the buildings.

It was the people.

India had never seen so many people before. Not even in the streets of Mohawk, the most populous place on Mexico Island. The closest comparison he had was on Trader's Pride Day at Maiden, when once a year trade barges from J'maika Trade & Goods, Kingston Royal Trading Company and San Dillinger Shipping all docked on the same day, with huge inventories, and none of them would ever give any ground due to stubbornness, no matter the exhaustingly clustered chaos of the docks. The 'Pride' in Trader's Pride Day meant something rather more negative to the Maiden folk than to the three trading companies, so much so that colloquially the day was known by the locals as All Bastards Day.

India had been in Maiden on All Bastards Day only once, but he remembered the incessant shouting, the difficulty of simple movement, the sweat of the crowd. Kingston wasn't like that; the streets were wider, the people a little quieter, more restrained, but just because there was more space and you could hear yourself think didn't mean there were fewer people. They stretched out everywhere he could see, and see them he could, for the streets of Kingston wound up a steep hill, and looking up you could see the movement of countless brightly coloured creatures like garish insects climbing and descending a great anthill.

The garments many of them wore were more fancy than he'd ever much seen on Mexico Island, of women and men both. Men in perfectly clean and cut frock coats and wigs. Women in flouncy dresses, curled up hair and bonnets. A whole bunch of flash coves, thought India, with more coin than they'd miss, no doubt . . .

Not all the people dressed fine. India noticed the mixture of disdain, pity and blindness to the poorer folk in their simpler clothes: the traders and the sailors, the dockhands and the entertainers and the street sellers, the petticoats and their madams, and the kids that darted and dodged through the gaps of their elders. There were all sorts of faces and races about; India even spotted an ohdwaa, shuffling along on her own, skin as wrinkled as a prune.

No beggars, though (unless you counted that musician). No drunkards that he could see. He wondered where they were; surely even Kingston had to have those who fell by the wayside, or was everyone here well-to-dos and their next best?

India strolled (at least, he hoped he seemed that casual) along the waterfront, turning his gaze from the people to the buildings and back. He passed endless stalls, big men shouting at him to buy fruit and wares; a coffee house draped in purple velvet, fast-working boot shiners and tailors, trade shops and storehouses, "best sea view in Kingston" lodgings and open-air carveries with the hot stink of meat, and next to them ale houses and alleys, and beyond that a moody gambling den and yelling dockhands and a blacksmith dripping in the heat.

India deliberately bumped into a few of the richer ladies and gents (not too rich though, didn't want to cause an Incident), apologising and backing away from their scowls and insults, and within twenty or so light-fingered minutes on the waterfront he had enough pinched coin for some temporary lodgings and more than one good meal.

*

India shovelled the rich food into his mouth, barely pausing to chew. It seemed years since he'd had a good meal. The ship's biscuits and other assortments on the Ship of the Dead weren't the same. Come to think of it, had he ever had a meal like this? Enough on the plate to not just quell the hunger pains but fill him up and swell his stomach. Tastes strongly flavoured enough to be genuinely pleasurable, to the point he didn't even want to be full, just to eat and eat forever.

Eventually, though, he had to call time out, and he fell back in the chair, sweating slightly. After ten minutes, when he was thinking about his last words with Grimmer, and what he could have said differently, he was hassled by the barwoman to get up and clear space for other folk. He used the table to help pull himself up and waddled up the stairs to his new room. It was a simple enough affair, but better than India had ever bedded in. He took off his coat and dropped it to the floor, flicked through a logbook on the desk, patted the blankets on the bed, and walked over to the window. He opened the wooden slats and leaned out. It had the perfect view over the waterfront and the bay. He watched a dark and polished brown frigate pull up anchor and raise its sails. Another series of boats pulled in from one of its companions, navy boats with cheering sailors, happy to get land under their feet and visit their favourite taverns and exotic coffee houses.

India left the window open, turned, staggered a few steps, and fell down on the bed. For a few, idle moments, he figured he'd keep awake with all the outside hubbub. The noises of Kingston continued, shifting and wavering through landscapes, moving from reality to dream.

*

India woke with a hard slap on the floor. He'd tumbled out of bed. He lay in a sweat, temporarily confused about where he was. With hair falling over his eyes, he watched a small green beetle approach him, decide he wasn't the right sort of gent to bother with, and scuttle off.

India sat up, as the events of his time since leaving Mexico Island quickly filled in the blanks in his head. His throat hurt, and he was relieved to see a bottle of water on the desk. He uncorked it and gulped. Thankfully, it wasn't as warm as it could have been.

Judging by the afternoon light outside, he hadn't slept for too long. He shook his head clear, and headed to the bathroom on the same floor. Thankfully it was unoccupied, and he quickly undressed, rubbed soap and splashed water over every part of himself twice, three times the parts that needed it most, towel dried and dressed again. There was some kind of perfume on the side, and he sniffed it, then sprayed himself liberally. He took the water bottle from his room and left the lodging house.

He walked along the waterfront for a while, then took a fork up the sloped streets that led further into the heart of the city. Higher up, the streets were quieter and less gaudy. Most of the buildings were smooth and white and smartly clean. There were fewer poor folk, that was certain. India never did steal from the poor, not if he kept his head. He thought of himself as having a good heart, and knew the difference between _sorta-wrong-unless-you're-in-a-fix_ and _plain wrong_. India was often in a fix.

Don't take from those that have less than you, had been one of his father's lessons, as written in the Book and imparted to him by Mrs Wayles. And don't take from those who have just a bit more, neither. Some folk, though, you'll know them when you see them, they could lose a whole purse of coin and would barely notice. You shouldn't be encouraged to take that which ain't yours. Maybe they earned it, and maybe they didn't. But if you need bread, you need bread.

_If you need bread, you need bread._ That was one of India's chief principles, and he quoted it to himself from time to time. It was simple, and it was always true. Who couldn't understand it?

Well, Mrs Wayles herself, for one, who had snapped the Book closed, and said, 'Don't mind your father's words now, I mean look where it got him. Keep yourself to yourself and don't bother nobody, you hear?'

'Where did it get my father?' India had asked, ignoring this new, less sage advice.

'Nowhere. Never you mind,' Mrs Wayles said brusquely, and had brushed past him and out the room.

India wiped the sweat gathering from his brow, and paused in his climb. The slope was only getting steeper. The buildings now were all flash residences, with space around them for small gardens and pavilions. If he kept on going, quite apart from exhausting himself, he'd likely be ushered away by some untrusting busybodies (not that they _should_ trust him). He'd already passed places that Mohawk would have considered among its most opulent, and judging by this city such things were small fry when compared to the mansions that lay ahead.

India had no interest in being given a kicking for coming within eyesight of someone's garden statues, or for daring to breathe the same air as some cove's dainty wife, so with a curl of the lip he turned right and gave himself back to level footing.

After a few minutes wandering, down some steps, up some other steps, India found himself at the edge of a paved courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard, a tall youth well-dressed in white and not that much older than India was fencing at the air with two thin swords, twirling and jabbing, a flamboyant yet impressive display of sword fighting. He turned, as though sensing India's presence, and grinned, running a hand through a mop of hair.

'Well hello. Do you fancy a fight?' he said. 'Come on, give me a go. Nobody else will. I mean,' he shouted up at the buildings around him, 'where the devil else do I have to go to find a sparring partner?' He looked back at India and grinned again (rather rakishly, India thought). 'I don't know,' he said. 'It's awful, it really is. What's a boy to do? Here, take the other, if you're man enough.' He tossed India a sword and India dodged out of the way, letting it fall to the flagstones.

'What's the matter?' the boy said, one hand on his hip. 'You're not a pacifist are you?' His voice was airy and well-spoken, more Continental than Caribbean. India couldn't quite place it. Yorkish, perhaps, or maybe Bordeauxan.

'I don't use swords,' India said.

'It's not a sword, it's a foil,' the boy said. 'Look,' he pushed the end into his palm. 'See? No blood.'

'What's the point of it then?'

'It's to train with, you heathen. Go on, pick it up. You'll be fine once you've got a good grip on it, you seem a likely enough sort. Don't give me another boring day.'

India paused, considering, and then picked up the foil. It was lighter than he expected, and felt strange in his hands. He flicked it about a bit, his eyes never leaving it. It might have been blunt, but it still felt like it cut through air.

'There you go,' the boy said. 'Feels good, doesn't it? Very swishy.' He put his foil-carrying arm behind his back and stepped forward, sticking out his other hand.

India shook it, feeling well disposed towards the boy's peculiar friendliness, handsome face and cavalier smile, despite (or perhaps because of) the strain of light arrogance that ran through his words.

'The name's Devil Flynn,' the boy said. 'It's a pleasure to meet you.'

'India Bones. Is that your real name?'

'Of course not. Is it yours?'

'Yes.'

'Interesting. Have at you!' The boy lunged suddenly at India, who barely managed to lift up his own foil to block, and quickly found himself off-balance with the flurry of attacks.

'Stand to the side!' Flynn said, jabbing at him. 'To the side! Less of a target. Watch your feet. No, watch me! Remember your feet! Take your eyes off your sword, watch me. Parry, parry! Forward three, backwards three, it's not a fight, it's a dance!'

India backed away to the side of the courtyard and flung his sword arm up as Flynn's tip touched his neck. 'I surrender,' India said.

'Never surrender!' Flynn shouted cheerfully, and crouched and spun around, giving India just enough time to jump the low slash at his legs.

'Now attack me,' Flynn said, and dropped his foil to his side. India advanced, and thrust, but Flynn's arm was up in a flash and India's foil was somehow turned out of his grip and fell to the ground.

'Okay, okay, you win!' India said.

'Half an hour more, please?' Flynn said, with a pleading note in his voice. 'Please? I can teach you.'

India sighed, but he couldn't say no, not under that force of that eager, slightly imploring smile. Besides, maybe he could learn a thing or two. Not that he could do much damage with one of these, or that he was particularly keen on picking up a real blade, at least not anytime soon . . . He had to admit, though, it did _feel_ good, moving back and forth (largely back) on the courtyard. It reminded him of his stick fights on Mexico Island, but with more than a touch more grace and style.

'Okay,' India said. 'Half an hour.'

'Can I teach you to be better?'

'I guess.'

'Then . . . defend yourself!'

*

An hour later and India dropped his sword and sank to his knees, exhausted and dripping with sweat. 'Stop!' he said. 'Stop. You're too good for me.'

'Well, we both knew that from the beginning,' Flynn said, laughing. He sat down next to India. 'You definitely improved though.'

India nodded, still catching his breath.

'Who are you, anyway,' Flynn said. 'And by that, I mean why are you here? Do you live here?'

'In Kingston? No. I'm from Mexico Island. You?'

'Is that so? I've never been there. Why are you here? I'm from London, originally.'

'It's hard to explain. I was dropped off. Now I'm on my own. Where's London?'

'How dare you,' Flynn said. 'The duchy of London. It's on the Continent, right in the centre of York. It's completely criminal you haven't heard of it. It's only the greatest most awful place in the world.'

'Sorry,' India said.

'Pfft,' Flynn waved a hand. 'On your own then? How old are you? Where are your parents?'

'I'm not far from fourteen,' India said. 'And my mother's dead and my father, well I'm going to find him. You?'

'Come on, walk with me, let's get something to drink. Leave the swords there, nobody will care enough to steal them around here. It's a nice area.' Flynn stood up and India followed him out the courtyard. 'I'm sixteen,' Flynn said. 'It was my birthday recently. Only girls showed, but isn't that always the way?'

'Err . . .'

Flynn trotted down some steps. 'I have parents myself, but you wouldn't know it to spend time with me. I'm an exile. When did you last see your father?'

'I've never seen him.'

'That's not a great start,' Flynn said, not skipping a beat. 'But best of luck finding him anyway.'

'Thanks. Why are you an exile?'

'Oh, I'm just being melodramatic. It was slightly upsetting at the time, but I'm over it now. My parents would say they kicked me out, emphasis on the _kicked_ , but it's all lies. I left of my own good accord. So perhaps it was mutual, as we've both disowned each other. My parents just didn't like the way I was going.'

'Going where?'

Flynn laughed. 'Somewhere rapscallish, no doubt. But it's fine now, I can look after myself. And by that I mean others can look after me for me. Life is so much easier when you can make friends, did you know that? Make _and_ keep friends. Speaking of which . . .' Flynn waved above his head. 'Ho, Sally!'

India looked up to see a young woman leaning out of an upstairs window. She beamed with delight when she saw Flynn and waved back. 'Why, if it ain't the Devil himself!' she said.

'Any chance of a drink, you beauty?' Flynn called.

'What are you after?'

'Oh, nothing fancy. A bottle of this, a bottle of that. How about some lemongrass water with sweet red cherry, and three shots of blue curacao rum, with that gentle touch of your even sweeter smile down on it as you mix – oh, and cider!'

'The Devil's Special then, is all you have to ask for,' the woman laughed. 'Trying to impress your young friend, are you?'

'You know me too well, my angel!' Flynn sang back. 'I am forever in your debt.'

'I'll hold you to a kiss, on my good nature!'

'A nature so good I can barely stomach it,' Flynn said, and bowed. The woman ducked back inside.

India stared at Flynn. His expression throughout Flynn's exchange had been a mixture of disbelief, amusement and very mild disgust. 'Is she your wife?' India said.

Flynn's eyes widened. 'Wife? I'm only sixteen!'

'You're . . . with her though?'

'India, India. Don't be so naïve. I told you, make friends and keep them, and you'll never be in want! Certainly not if you have a winning smile.'

'I think she was after more than a smile,' India said.

'Crude boy!' Flynn laughed. 'Never spoil a friendship unless it's the sweetest of spoils. Hush now,' he said, as the woman reappeared. He held out his hands and caught one, two, three bottles as she threw them, the third caught expertly between his forearms.

'Thank you, my cherubic wench!'

'Oi,' she said. 'We've talked about that one.'

'Sorry, just slipped out! May the rest of your day be as bountiful as your bosom.' He threw another dazzling smile up at her.

The woman rolled her eyes and shut the window.

'Don't always hit the mark,' Flynn muttered. 'Here, take this bottle will you? I'm not a distillery. That one's yours. And half of the third, if I'm feeling gentleman enough when we get to it.'

'Thanks,' India said, as they began walking once more. He uncorked his bottle and drank. It was delicious.

'Don't drink it like a barbarian!' Flynn said. 'Were you raised in a tavern?'

'Not far off,' India said. 'I'm thirsty.'

'It'll be gone before you know it you fiend. Ah, let's turn off here.' He narrowed his brow and turned down a side street, away from a large building that loomed ahead of them.

'Why?'

'I'm not quite welcome in that particular establishment.'

'Why not?'

Flynn shrugged. 'Who knows what goes on in simple minds?'

'Where are we going now?'

'Do you have a place to stay?'

'Yeah, for a short while.'

'Good. Well, you can go back there in a bit. I've got a temporary stay too, with some young ditz and her mother. We'll go back there and finish these off, and raid her mother's cabinet for some of the good stuff while you tell me how you ended up here. Then you can crawl back to your own room and board. Deal?'

'Okay,' India said. 'But you won't believe what I tell you.'

'Oh, all the better,' Flynn said. 'Don't let believability get in the way of a good story, by all means.'

*

Dark had fallen by the time they left Devil Flynn's place of stay. He'd insisted he take India home, and had repeatedly insisted, despite no objection from India, who was too busy watching the world fall over around him.

'No, I must,' Flynn said. ' _All_ the way home. Where is it again? Where? Where is it?'

'Hmm?' India glanced at him quizzically, and almost lost his footing. 'Where's what?'

'You cad! Your home! Your berth! Your _le-pew-de-la-plum_?'

'Poo dee la plom what?'

'I don't know, I made it up. Is it far?'

'It's somewhere.'

'Somewhere! Aha, progress!' Flynn clapped India on the back, sending him lurching. India righted himself, or at least angled himself vaguely upwards, and pointed at a random street. 'That way,' he said.

'Fear the dark,' Flynn said suddenly, one eyebrow arched comically, his eyes shifting from left to right. 'Villains are afoot.'

As if on cue, five men walked out from the street India was still pointing towards. He slowly dropped his arm. The men were burly things, all jaw and fist, and they came towards them like ugly shadows.

'What can I do for your gentlemen?' Flynn said, loudly. In a stage whisper to India, he said, 'Forgot my bastard rapiers, or I'd be having them all for buttered toast. Our luck has – _hic –_ dwindled.'

'That's him,' one of the men said, and by the size of his jaw and fists India took him as the leader.

'That's who?' Flynn said. 'Not me? Surely not.'

'That boy,' the man shouted, pointing at Flynn, 'seduced my only child!'

'Mine too!' another man growled.

'My dear sirs,' Flynn said, bowing. 'I'm so – _hic_ – sorry. I had no idea you wanted first go.'

'You're a foul pervert,' the first man said.

'I've been called worse things.'

'And who's this?' the man looked at India for the first time. 'Another one to corrupt?'

'Nonsense,' Flynn said. 'This is my - _hic_ – friend. Strange ugly men, India Bones. India Bones, strange ugly men.'

'I don't think you should be telling them my name,' India said. He'd backed away a few steps, and was preparing to run.

'You're going to pay,' the man said, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles.

'How much?' Flynn sighed, and with a sudden burst of agility and balance that defied his intoxication, leaped onto the top of a fence. 'India,' he called down, 'I am afraid we must – _hic –_ part ways. The situation calls for a split-up of our newly formed team.'

India nodded to show he understood, but then frowned. 'Will I see you again?'

'Undoubtedly,' Flynn said. He struck a heroic pose. 'Across the Caribbean, across the great wide world, wherever swords clash, or ladies sigh and swoon, call my name and I will be there! Devil Flynn – _hic_ – departs!' He took one final bow, and then grinned and fixed India with eyes that flashed in the moonlight. 'Run like hell, India!'

And he was off, racing along the top of the fence. Three of the men yelled and charged after him. The other two turned to India.

'Oh, shank,' India said, and ran the other way.

*

Panting for breath, India sharply turned a corner, only to collide with something, that he quickly realised, picking himself off the ground, was a some _one_.

'Are – are you okay?' he said. He looked back the way he'd come, listening intently. It sounded like he'd lost the pursuit. He figured Devil Flynn would be having a harder time of it, though. It was him they truly wanted to catch, for whatever reason they'd dredged up in their thick skulls. He dreaded to think what they'd do if they caught him, but he had faith that Flynn could outpace and outsmart them.

'No, I'm _not_ okay!' a girl's voice said, and India looked back to see a fancy dressed girl sitting on the ground, eyeing him furiously. She thrust out a white-gloved hand at him, and he stared at it.

'Um,' he said.

'Help me up, you stupid boy!' the girl said. India took her hand and pulled, and as soon as she was upright she let go of his hand and pushed him away.

'You've got my shoes _and_ my dress dirty,' she complained, trying to smooth herself out. 'What did you think you were doing, racing about at night without looking where you were going?'

'I'm, um, sorry,' India said. Anyone else who'd spoken to him like that, he'd have either ignored them or told them to shank off, but he couldn't help himself, he was entranced. She was terribly pretty for her age (she was taller than India, and must have been around Devil Flynn's age), and judging by how she now carried herself and spoke to him, she was well aware of it. He'd never have said so before, but right then he decided that, annoyingly, her arrogance only made her prettier.

'So you should be,' she said, inspecting the blonde curls of her hair to see if any dirt had touched them. 'You have _ruined_ my evening walk. How am I going to explain this to my father? He'll know I was out the house, and he's never liked me walking about by myself at night. Not that it's stopped me, of course.' She put her hands on her hips. 'Well?' she said, raising an eyebrow.

India blinked. 'Well?' he repeated.

'I asked you a question. I said, how am I going to explain this to my father? Don't look at me like I'm crazy, I know that look.'

'I'm not looking at you like you're crazy,' India said. He realised he was staring, though, and averted his eyes.

'Look at me when I'm talking to you!' the girl said. She sighed. 'Well. It's done now. You could at least tell me your name, and why you bumped into me.'

India coughed. He felt himself going red, and instantly hated himself for it. He hoped it was too dark to notice. 'I was being chased,' he said. 'And my name's India Bones. Ma'am,' he added.

The girl rolled her eyes. 'Don't call me ma'am, I'm not an old maid. Chased? Why were you being chased? Are you a thief? Have you killed someone?' India was surprised to see a sudden glimmer of excitement come to those doe eyes.

'N-no,' India stammered. Well, technically he was a thief, or rather _had_ been a thief, many times, but that wasn't relevant right now. 'They were after my friend, a group of men. We split up, and a couple of them chased me.'

'Hmm,' the girl said, pursing her lips. 'What was your friend's name?'

'Devil Flynn.'

The girl gave a short, sharp laugh. 'Oh, _Devil_. Well. I'm hardly surprised. I'm sure he's used to it.' She then took a step back and looked him up and down, appraising him. She stuck out her hand again, and India, after a moment's hesitation, shook it lightly.

'My name's Salia Crescent,' she said. 'I trust you know who I am.'

*

'How old do you think I am?'

They were walking back up the hill, up a sequence of staircases that connected the side streets. Salia was leading him back to her house. Try as he might, India couldn't piece together what had been said that had led to this outcome. He began to believe nothing had preceded it, and he was simply following the girl. Possibly she had commanded it, he wouldn't have been surprised.

'Um, sixteen? Seventeen.'

Salia tossed her hair back, as though both expecting and pleased with the answer. 'I'm fourteen,' she said. 'I'm mature for my age, though.'

'Uh-huh,' India said.

'Don't you think I'm pretty?'

India was temporarily lost for words. He swallowed.

'Well?'

'You're okay,' he said.

Salia laughed. 'Don't be silly,' she said. 'You're hiding. That just means you think I'm beautiful. Don't think I can't read you boys, you're all the same.'

'I'm not the same,' India said.

Salia glanced at him. 'Aren't you? Hmm. Well, you're a little rougher around the edges. I like that.' She smiled at him, and he felt a strange warmth from deep within.

'My father's Jone Crescent,' she said. 'If my name has slipped your mind, you must know _him_.'

India shrugged. 'I told you, I only arrived yesterday.'

Salia pouted. 'Fine. I'll let you off, for now. You'll want to learn fast, though.'

'Why's that?'

'The Crescents and the Mains are both families that like to be well-regarded,' she said. 'Or hadn't you noticed?' She smiled, and just then he figured there was more self-awareness to her than she'd previously let on.

'By the way,' Salia Crescent said. 'Who is _your_ father?' She held up her gloved hand as they approached another set of steps.

'He's High Captain Indiana Wolfgang Bones,' India said, taking her hand, feeling a little self-conscious. He didn't like to act too much like something he wasn't, and a gentleman he wasn't.

Salia looked at him oddly. 'That rings a bell.'

'It should do. He's famous.'

'Famous . . .' Salia murmured. 'Wolfgang. Wasn't there a story about him?'

'There's lots of stories,' India said.

'I think I've read about him. Are you sure that's your father?'

India stiffened. 'Yes.'

Salia smiled. 'If you say so.'

He scowled. 'You said the Crescents and the Mains. Who are the Mains?'

She stared. 'Now you _have_ to be kidding me.'

'I _told_ you, I've only just -'

'Sir Treymeir Main is the _Governor_ _of Kingston_. Goodness. Learn that at least. Treymeir and Lady Rosary and their son Lancer live with me and father. Lady Rosary is my father's sister. They had some money troubles and they lost their house and had to move in with us. They'll tell you it was the other way round but it's all lies. Don't even mention it to them, Sir Treymeir will go deathly quiet and Lancer will give you a hell of a kicking. It gets rather crowded though, father and I only have four or five rooms to ourselves.'

'Uh,' India said, imagining what it'd be like to even have one room of his own (beyond the cupboard-sized berth at Mrs Wayles's, which wasn't even really his) and realising that this girl led a vastly different life to him. 'What are they like then?'

Salia waved her hand dismissively. 'Sir Treymeir is cold and hard and sullen and no fun at all. He hits Lancer sometimes. Lady Rosary is always sad, you never really see her, she stays in her room most of the time. I'd almost feel sorry for my cousin Lancer if he wasn't so awful and boring. And he has this mole on his cheek, I swear it stares at me. It's best to avoid Lancer after his father has beaten him, he goes looking for someone to take it out on. He's a bully.'

'Has he ever hit you?' India asked, instantly developing a distaste of the Main family, and he started hanging back a little, uncomfortable at the thought of entering this flash residence with its unpleasant people.

'Lancer? Oh, he wouldn't dare,' Salia said. She reached out for India's arm and took a firm hold of it, pulling him along. 'Come on, come on,' she said.

'I guess your father wouldn't allow for that.'

'Never mind my father. He knows better than to try anything with me. I'd bite his tongue off. In fact, the last time he tried to bother me he got a pointed kick in the privates for his trouble. Silly boy. No doubt he hates me, but there you go. I'd be careful around him if I were you though, he'll take you for an easy victim.'

'I'm not,' India said.

'Perhaps,' Salia replied. 'Anyway, here we are.'

They'd reached the top of the hill, India realised. Looking behind him he could see for miles and miles, across all the city as it fell away beneath him, and the sea beyond. A tug from Salia made him turn forward again, and swallow with intimidation as he beheld a great white mansion. They passed a wrought iron gate which opened noiselessly, and walked slowly up an arrow-straight path that led between twin fountains in a paved garden. Soft orange lights beckoned from the dozen windows before him.

Salia knocked on the front door.

After a few moments, in which she fidgeted and clicked her shoes together, the door opened. A pale, glum-faced youth with shoulder-length black hair and black clothes stood framed in the light from behind. 'Miss Salia,' he said, in a lower voice than India would have expected.

'Eli,' she said, and brushed past him, pulling India with her. 'Is Peith not here?'

'He left two weeks ago, miss.'

'Oh yes, I keep forgetting. He's our old butler,' Salia explained to India. 'I mean that he's old, not that he's no longer our butler. Oh, he's that too, I suppose. Still, we hardly need him when we have Eli, do we?' She patted the youth on his shoulder. 'Take off your boots,' she said to India, who awkwardly began to do so.

'Eli works for us too. Eli Manson. He's like our cabin boy, if we were on a ship,' Salia continued, as though Eli wasn't there. 'He started out just doing some of the cleaning and manual stuff Peith was too old for, but now he does just about everything. I like him. Lancer hates him.'

Eli murmured something under his breath, but India couldn't catch it, and Salia didn't even seem to notice.

'Salia dear? Where have you been?' A middle-aged man popped his head out from an adjoining room, after India had succeeded in kicking off his second boot. The man had short and well-combed blond hair and a trim moustache, and wore spectacles perched on the end of his nose. 'The state of your dress, dear!' His eyes opened like those of an owl when he took in India, who raised his hand in greeting.

'Uh,' India started, before Salia interrupted him.

'This is India Mancer, father,' Salia said. 'I'd like him to stay for dinner.'

Jone Crescent blinked. 'Er, dear, dinner was over a while ago, and I don't think he's quite the sort -'

'I'm sure Eli can sort something out for us. He's come far to be here father, and the least we can do is show some hospitality. His father's well known in the West Caribbean.'

'He is? What – what's his name, young, uh, young sir?'

'High Captain Indiana Wolfgang -'

'- Mancer,' Salia finished for him. 'Wolfgang Mancer.'

Jone Crescent scratched at his moustache. 'It rings a, um, small bell, I think. It sounds a little _piratical_ , don't you think, though?'

'Not at all,' Salia said. 'They're just a bit different over there, you know.'

'Ah yes, yes. Well . . .' her father hesitated, while Salia tapped her feet. 'You know best dear,' he said, and added, mumbling, 'we must have a talk about this kind of thing tomorrow . . . out at night again . . . surprise visitors . . . your dress will need cleaned . . .' He ducked his head back into the room, still mumbling to himself.

'Good good,' Salia said. 'Eli, be kind and make us something to eat and drink. You know the kind of thing I like at this time.'

'Yes miss,' Eli said, and left.

'This way,' Salia said, taking him down the polished wooden hall, bypassing closed doors with golden knobs to the left and right. Dustless portraits of well-dressed ladies and gents stared down at him from the walls.

'Sorry about my father,' Salia whispered. 'He can be a bit unreasonable at times.'

'Why did you call me and my father Mancer?' India said. He already felt like he didn't belong in this place, and he hadn't even met any of the Mains.

'I thought Bones was a bit common,' Salia said simply. 'Oh, don't be like that. I like it, it's _dirty_. But we have to keep up appearances, don't we?'

'Do we?' India said, wondering what she meant by "dirty", and how it could possibly be a compliment (if it even was).

'Yes. Now sit down in here.' She'd led him into a richly furnished drawing room, with patterned carpets and throws and silver plates on the mantelpiece and more portraits on the walls, and artworks not of people at all but of cows and fruit and burning ships. Several small lamps spread the room with a slightly eerie, dancing glow.

India stood, feeling like he didn't know which possible seat would be least befouled by his rear end stuck on it. Salia rolled her eyes, and with a slight encouraging push of her fingers, India let himself fall back into the closest chair.

'Eli will be along soon with tea and jam and bread, and cake,' Salia said, sitting in a chair opposite him and taking off her gloves. Her face was almost hypnotising in the low, orange light that spread more shadows than it quenched. They seemed to cluster around them, darkening the room while illuminating the two of them as they sat facing each other, and India had the strangest feeling that it was just the two of them alone in a world of darkness.

'Tell me everything,' she said, leaning forward, her face greedy. 'And don't leave out any of the horrible bits.'

# FIVE

Once he started, he found he couldn't really stop, not to her. India told her about growing up on Mexico Island, about Mr Bassard and Mrs Wayles, about what he'd been told and read of his father, about how his mother had died giving birth to him. He told her about the Aztec Tomb and – he was about to leave it out, but something in her face prompted him to spill – his fight against Skiv.

When it came to the whole Ship of the Dead affair, India decided to leave it out, and replace his journey across the sea with a derring-do tale of sailing with a pirate ship, starting a mutiny against the captain (which he almost succeeded with, had the cowardly quartermaster not shoved him over the side while his back was turned). He'd fended off ravenous sharks until he'd found a piece of flotsam (from the subsequently exploded pirate ship) and paddled his way to the shores of Kingston.

He sensed that Salia knew he was lying, as he got increasingly carried away with himself, but she didn't seem in a hurry to interrupt him. To please her, he threw in a small bloodbath of cannibals in the Kingston jungle, barely escaping with his life.

'I'll pretend I believe you,' Salia said, when he'd finished. 'If only because it was a good story.'

'Thank you,' India said.

'And because the truth would be a lot more boring.'

India hesitated, then said, 'not that much more boring.'

'Really?'

'But less believable.'

'I don't think anything could be less believable than you taking down a single pirate, let alone a whole tribe of bloodthirsty cannibals.'

'I could too.'

'If you say so. What happened then?' Salia leaned forward again, pressing her fingers together on her lap. 'Go on, tell me. At worst it'll be another lie.'

'It's not a lie. Alright, fine. It was true up until the part I left Mexico Island.' India sighed, and took a final gulp of his tea. It tasted sweeter than he was used to, but it was good. The jam and bread and cake had been demolished.

'I wasn't on board a pirate ship,' he said. 'I was on board the Ship of the Dead.'

'Indeed,' Salia said. 'Go on.'

'You don't believe me already.'

'Nonsense. I've met dozens of skeletons myself.'

'You have?'

'Of course.'

'You're lying.'

Salia smiled. 'Easy, isn't it? Tell me anyway.'

India contemplated not saying anymore, but knew she'd just press him until he did. He told her about the dance of the dead (she nodded; she knew of it), about his mistaken kidnap, about Grimmer and the others on the ship, and about anchoring at Lonely Carib and being told he had to leave. He murmured the last part, looking at his hands.

'Where's Lonely Carib?' Salia said.

'It's a beach outside the city. You probably don't have a name for it.'

'Hmm,' Salia said. 'Interesting.' She leaned back in her chair.

'Still don't believe me? I guess I don't blame you.'

'Well . . .' Salia started, then shrugged. 'Who cares. It was interesting. If it happened, and you certainly did speak very differently when you told the story the second time, see I can tell when people lie because I'm so good at it myself, and you can't be better than _me_ , but . . . if it happened, then you've been terribly lucky. I wish I could talk to the _dead_. I've only seen them in pictures. I know they exist though, the Skeleton Crew and the Ship of the Dead, I mean. They're in one of my books. Ooh, were they _rotting_?'

'No,' India said, pleased that she at least half-way believed him. 'Just bones.'

'Mmm,' Salia said. 'When will they be back, then?'

'I've no idea,' India admitted. 'I really hope I'll see them again.'

'If you do, take me with you, will you?'

'I don't think your father would like that,' India smiled.

'Oh, shank my father,' Salia said, then clapped her fingers to her mouth and giggled. 'Oops.' She straightened up, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'Look at the time!' she said. 'We'd better get you to bed.'

'To . . .'

'There's a guest bedroom upstairs, third on the left,' Salia said, as she blew out a lamp. 'Next to mine. Which will be on your right,' Salia added. 'Not opposite and to-the-right, that's my father's. It'd be best not to get them mixed up. Not that you should be leaving your room at all. Except for the bathroom, that's at the end of the hall. And don't go wandering and cross to the East Wing, whatever you do, that's where the Mains live. Oh, and don't steal any of our silver and run away, or I'll chase you down and kill you myself. Or father will put a bounty on your head. The front door's locked anyway. So, yes. You're second on the left, I mean third on the left, and I'm on your right. Do you understand?'

India had closed his eyes during the last part of this speech, and felt a rush of tiredness over him. A lot had seemed to happen in one day. 'I think I should probably be getting back to my own bed,' he said. 'I did pay for it.'

'And where did that money come from, you thief?' Salia winked at him, and he blushed. 'You're not going back to some hovel tonight. I told you, the door's locked. And I _insist_ ,' she said, with another of those stubborn take-no-prisoners stances that he was coming to guiltily enjoy. 'Eli will fetch your bags in the morning.'

'My bags?'

'Yes. Your things. What do you think I mean?'

'I left my coat there. I'll go get it myself, though.'

'Your coat? Is that all you have?'

'Were you listening to my story?'

'A bit. The good parts, I was. Anyway, Eli will get it. You'll stay and entertain me. Presuming you haven't annoyed me too much by then. I'm kidding. Or not.' She picked up the last of the lamps and guided him upstairs.

'Which is your bedroom?' she said.

'Second on the left. No, third on the left.'

'An easy mistake to make,' she said. 'Good night.'

*

India woke up on the softest bed he'd ever slept in by a considerable margin. He didn't know they made beds so soft. In fact, despite his tiredness last night, it'd taken him a while to sleep. He'd tried sleeping with the blanket on the wooden floor, but then imagined Salia bursting in in the morning to catch him like that, spread-eagled on the floor, and decided he'd – how did she put it? – keep up appearances.

He found, with surprise, that his clothes had vanished, and been replaced with a tidy white and navy number; he gave the shirt a bit of a scrunch to get some creases in, and pulled it on. He finished buckling the belt of the pantaloons, half-admired and half-scorned his reflection, then traipsed downstairs.

'In here India!' Salia's voice called out from a room. He opened the door and entered a dining room. A long polished wood table was in the centre, covered with a dozen china plates and pots, loaded with jam and scones and butter and cream and cakes and cheeses and cold meats, and a number of things he couldn't recognise, but realised were likely imported from places he'd never heard of.

The table faced him lengthways. Sat at one end were Salia and her father. Sat at the other was a grey-haired and hook-nosed man India took immediately to be Treymeir Main. His eyes flicked up at India only for a second before returning to his meal, his face dour and a slight curl to his lip.

'You finally saw fit to join us then,' Salia said, resting a hand on the chair next to her. 'Sleepy head.'

'Good morning,' her father said.

'Morning, sir,' India said. 'Miss Salia. Er, Sir Treymeir, sir.'

Treymeir Main gave no indication he had heard, but Jone Crescent beamed at him, perhaps simply happy that India knew how to talk proper.

India sat next to Salia, who immediately started piling his plate with various things. His stomach rumbled, and he had to struggle not to plunge into it like a pig and its swill. He picked up the knife and fork, manoeuvred to roughly match how the others held theirs, then got to work as patiently and gracefully as he could manage.

'What do you do, sir?' India addressed Jone Crescent, remembering to swallow his mouthful first. 'If you don't mind me asking and all. You seem like a very fla – a very rich gent, if you don't mind me saying.' He wasn't hugely interested, but he figured the sooner he asked questions himself, the more he could keep the old cove talking before anyone started asking questions of himself and his 'Mancer' father. He caught the eye of Salia, who nodded and smiled at him.

'Oh,' Jone Crescent said, buttering some bread. 'I came into Crescent Trades when my father passed away. He was a working man, raised it up from nothing over thirty years. I was only at the helm for a decade before I sold it off to the government. It's the Kingston Royal Trading Company now.'

'Nine years,' Treymeir Main spoke suddenly, not looking up from his food. 'And Kingston Royal did even a worse job of it than you.' His voice was that of a sour old man who smoked too much, and it was immediately irritating to India's ears.

Jone Crescent went red, and coughed. 'Yes, well,' he said. Salia was looking at Treymeir with quietly disguised contempt.

'That's very impressive, sir,' India said. 'What are you up to now?'

'Now?' Jone Crescent twitched his moustache. He was continuing to pile butter on his bread. 'I've got my fingers in a few, um, pies.'

'Father writes a lot of letters,' Salia said. 'He likes to help people out.'

'Indeed, dear,' Jone Crescent said.

'And move people's money around.'

Jone Crescent coughed again. At that moment there was the hard sound of steps and the door to the dining room swung wide. A young man of around nineteen or twenty strode in, stopping short when he saw India.

'I see Salia has got herself another pet,' he said, and went and sat down next to his father and immediately began eating.

'Lancer,' whispered Salia in India's ear, although he didn't need telling. He eyed the man, feeling a greater dislike than towards Treymeir Main. Lancer was tall and blue-eyed and blond, his hair curled perfectly in a lock on his forehead. He had a pointed, imperious nose, and a slightly pinched face, as though he was permanently eating something sour, or smelling some unpleasant odour. Like his father, he was ignoring the rest of the table.

'Father, can India stay with us for a while?' Salia asked, her eyes on Lancer.

'Um.' Her father swallowed. 'I, um, well if -'

'It's fine, really, I've got my own place,' India said hastily.

'He doesn't really,' Salia said. 'He's only just arrived here, and he's an _orphan_.' She kicked India under the table before he could protest.

'Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry,' her father said. 'Well, of course, of course. Of course he can stay, for a little while at least.'

'Thank you father,' Salia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Lancer made an odd noise, like he was about to be sick. He was staring at them, his lip curled. 'Must we allow this father?' he said. 'In our house? Any old street trash . . .'

'I am not street trash!' India said at exactly the same time as Salia said, 'It is _not_ your house!'

Lancer and India glared at each other. India's eyes flashed with a kind of instinctive preservation coupled with dislike. The streets of Mohawk taught him that you didn't take an insult passively, or you'd get slung them constantly, and worse. Lancer's eyes though betrayed something else: contempt and disdain born of a large sense of superiority.

'I believe he has – _had_ – a respectable father,' Jone Crescent said. 'Please, Lancer.'

'Please yourself, you doddering old man,' Lancer said.

Salia took a sharp intake of breath, but before she could say anything Treymeir Main spoke first.

'Leave the table,' he said, still not looking up. He was carving meat, his knife making a squeaky, scratching noise every time it got down to the plate.

'Father -' Lancer began to protest.

' _Leave the table_ ,' his father said again, in a tone of iron.

Lancer sprang up and stiffly exited the room, with one last devil look back at India. India knew what he was thinking. 'Well shank you too,' he muttered quietly. He figured he'd said it too low for anyone to hear properly, but Salia squeezed his leg and they grinned at each other, somewhat calming India's hot flush of anger.

For the rest of the meal, nobody said anything.

*

'I'm sorry about that,' Salia said afterwards. They were back in the drawing room. Jone Crescent had shut himself in his study, and Treymeir Main had retreated to the East Wing.

'It's alright,' India said. 'I don't like your cousin.'

'He's awful, isn't he? You know he'll come after you, now.'

'I didn't say anything!'

'You were the reason his father got angry, and embarrassed him. There's nothing he hates more than being undermined and embarrassed in front of others.'

'Well I'm not scared of him.'

'Big brave boy,' Salia said, reaching over and squeezing his arm. He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or not. She looked up as the door opened. 'Eli,' she said. 'Do you want to join us? Oh _Eli._ '

India saw as Eli approached that the right side of his face was bruised, and he was struggling to hide a limp. 'What happened?' India said.

'I've brought you your coat, sir,' Eli said. 'I left it hung up in the hall.'

'But how did you -'

'They know me well there, sir. They trust that I'm coming on your behalf, and aren't no thief.'

'No, I mean – did some sour thug beat you up?'

Salia put her hand on India's. 'It was Lancer,' she said to him.

'That shankin' wretch!' India spat. 'Who does he think he is? Why'd he do it?'

'Master Lancer was in a temper, sir,' Eli said. 'It's okay.'

'Don't call me sir, Eli,' India said. 'Really. I'm no sir. And it's not okay. You didn't do anything wrong.'

'I'm used to it,' Eli said. 'Don't worry about me. Please.'

India stood up. 'I'm gonna talk to him, face to face.' He expected Salia to plead with him not to, to pull him back down to the chair, but instead she leapt up with him. 'Oh, yes!' she said, clapping her hands together. 'Go and _hit_ him!'

'Please, sir -' Eli looked sad and desperate.

'No sirs, Eli, I told you. From now on, me and you are friends.'

'It'll only make things worse,' Eli said, after a moment.

'We'll make _him_ worse,' Salia said.

India's own hot blood was faltering under the enthusiasm of Salia. He was reminding himself of the fact Lancer was several years older and a good deal taller than him. India reckoned he was good in a scrap, but he'd never fought someone Lancer's age and size, at least not in a real one-on-one, when he wasn't simply trying to extricate himself from some angry cove's grip and run like hell. Lancer might know how to fence and shoot too, being a flash gent and all. India took Lancer for a coward at heart, but he had no idea how tough or weak he truly could be, or what more he could bring to an engagement, what further animosity India might rile up by standing up to him.

'How about . . . I've got another idea,' India said. 'One that might avoid starting a small war in the house.'

'What's that?'

'Let's get him back, but without him knowing it's us. Do something to him. I don't know what.'

'Oh, _excellent!_ ' Salia said. 'Let me think of something. It's got to be something _evil_.'

'Be my guest,' India grinned, flopping back down to the chair. 'Pull up a seat, Eli,' he said. 'Join us in our evil plans.'

Eli hesitated, and Salia gestured at him. 'Come on, silly. We'll be the _evil three_ , no, the _terrible trio_.'

Eli smiled, awkwardly at first, and then his face relaxing into a toothy grin. He pulled a chair closer to them and sat down, looking from one to the other, his eyes widening as they talked.

# SIX

If India had been told at that moment that he would end up spending a whole month in that residence, trading devil looks and insults with Lancer, and repeatedly getting angered and then gleefully satisfied as they'd prank Lancer again and again, he would have been entirely disbelieving and more than a little confused. After all, what was keeping him there? He could depart at any moment, and he often did. Salia's locked-front-door was just a silly gambit to encourage him to stay, and it was only a few days before he was coming and going with her and Eli, and sometimes he'd let himself in and out entirely on his own (much to Treymeir Main's disdain and Lancer's intense frustration).

The truth was, it wasn't the lavish bed and breakfasts that kept him a guest (perhaps even a lodger, although nobody was about to voice that word). It was the friendship of Salia and Eli. In a way, he loved them both, although he would have brushed off such a word. Salia was charming, deliciously manipulative and entertainingly arrogant and vain. She was also boisterous and wicked, and there were a few times she almost got him arrested on account of her dares. On some level he very much enjoyed seeing her get whatever she wanted, despite his and others' feeble protests. At the moment of her every victory, there would be a devilish little pleasure that would cross her face, and seeing it gave India a momentary queer sensation in his stomach, like a warm and not unpleasant kind of stomach ache. If he was honest with himself, he doubted he'd be quite so enraptured with her if she was anyone else with such qualities. But Salia was Salia, and only she could make them work and still retain (and even embolden) people's attraction to her, as well as India's friendship.

Eli was very different, but India cherished his company all the same. He wasn't particularly emotional, at least not like India and Salia, and his resting face often seemed rather sad, but nothing pleased India more than when they could coax out a sudden excitement into the fourteen year old boy. At first he'd hung back, always presuming he wasn't wanted unless specifically told otherwise (India got the feeling Salia had rarely spent much time with Eli before he'd arrived). Eventually, though, he seemed to understand that his presence was desired, and possibly even appreciated. After the first week he was addressing Salia as "miss" less than half the time (she'd never bothered to correct him one way or the other). He'd even ceased his expression of surprise whenever he was referred to as their friend; a shy, slightly embarrassed smile continued in its place.

India got on with Eli more than he'd first figured, and he wondered if it was as simple as being a fellow male of almost the same age. Perhaps, though, he had to consider that he'd never really had friends before, not _proper_ ones. He'd always been independent, going off on his own far more often than not, and he'd never encountered anyone who'd given him reason enough to change. There were times still when he'd part from Salia and Eli and go off on his own, sometimes for many hours, exploring Kingston and the surrounding jungle, and it felt good and much-needed to 'recharge'. But he didn't feel the need to do it as much as he thought he would.

Kingston was a fascinating place, especially in the first couple of weeks, when everything was fresh and new. It was he who encouraged the other two to show him everything there was to see, and he in turn discovered for them a whole heap more things they'd never encountered. There were so many seemingly dead ends that sprouted tiny old lanes, just gaps between buildings, such that you could only go single-file, while awnings crowded overhead and blocked out the sun.

They explored the rich district, on which the Crescent and Main mansion stood proud. They splashed water at each other from fountains ('I'll _kill_ you!' Salia squealed. 'I'm _soaking wet!_ ') and ran from lawn to lawn, more than once knocking over pots and whatever else got in their way – who cared? Who had time to look back?

They explored the markets, not the waterfront but the hidden markets, where incense and spice roiled with each other and tangled with the sickly-sweet odours of glazed meats and fruit kept to the point of rotting. The less salubrious alehouses and coffee houses had their own aromas, their own particular patrons. The buildings were flush with colour, purples and reds and oranges, each place a plumage, eager to attract.

They explored the oldest churches, with the high gantries and the huge bronze bells that they tolled, taking turns leaping on and off the ropes, then the three of them running away as parishioners and preachers shook fists at their backs and called them sons of devils.

They explored the castle ruins that lay crumbled off to the west, on a green stretch ridden with flowery weeds and trees with cobwebs of roots more out of the earth than in, giving the impression that whenever backs were turned they would up and crawl to new spots.

They ran the fringes of the jungle, India and Eli brushing through vines and thick undergrowth while Salia paced outside, calling impatiently for them to come back and stop ruining their clothes.

From time to time, India noticed guards. They were redcoats with black cocked hats, signalling that, Kingston soldiers or not, ultimately they were under the authority of Her Royal Majesty of York, just like Governor Main. There weren't many stationed, and cast over the whole of Kingston and its surrounding area they seemed few and far between, but every so often a small scarlet troop of them would stomp past, rifles on shoulders, stiff-necked and clean-shaven, silver cutlasses held tight at their belts. They were always led, India noticed, by some rum looking cove with a big nose and a ruddy face, someone who clearly hoped that one day, given enough fawning to their moustache-twirling superiors, he'd become a flash cur himself.

You had to watch out for those people, India knew. Man or woman, they didn't care what kind of trouble they put the average folk in, as long as they "did their duty" (which meant that they reaped their own rewards). A couple of times India saw them lift up some poor drunk and take him away, another time it was a beggar that was escorted off. India realised that Kingston was running a far tighter ship than anywhere on Mexico Island ever did. He didn't want to think what happened to those waylaid souls – drying up in a hot stone jail at the very least.

There were soldiers, and there were poor folk, and merchants, and sailors, servants and ohdwaas, and the rich ladies and gents strolling with their parasols and white wigs. There were card sharps and coin dogs, dirty harrys and cherry howlers, crabbers and crows, dippers and divers, toads and pikes, clever jacks and broadside humblers. There were hailers and marys, swindlers and wheedlers, fakers and roarers and every kind of folk you could ever imagine in such a place like this.

But there were no pirates.

And there was no Devil Flynn.

*

The first prank, the one that they'd formed The Terrible Trio to plot, that first late morning after Eli had come in bruised, that had been simple enough. They'd taken a while to come to it; there was an endless stream of ideas, most of which involved poisoning food in some way, or stealing Lancer's things, but were all pulled short by the fact that Lancer would know it was them.

Eventually, Salia had realised that they'd have to do something outside, where he wouldn't be able to pin it on his immediate household. Ideas untethered to any kind of plan came thick and forth. Set the army on him? Have him chased by dogs? Make him lost in the jungle? Have him slip in mud? The afternoon wore on, and they ate lunch in the drawing room, preferring to leave Lancer well enough alone for now. India and Eli were happy to talk with their mouths full, while Salia made a point of daintily chewing and swallowing each thing before speaking – which forced her to listen, giving them a few chances to speak without interruption.

The final plan was inelegant but effective. They would tail Lancer after he'd left the house, and then Salia would persuade a random stranger to throw dung at Lancer's head. India had suggested that she pay somebody, but Salia had been convinced that she could persuade on her own merits. As it turned out, she was more than right – she roped in not one but three people to do the throwing. India suspected a large part of their ready agreement was because of a united dislike of Lancer, who, he'd gathered, regularly strutted about the town, bullying others and always hiding behind the authority of his father. He was well known by most of Kingston, and rarely in a good way.

'If they all hate him so much,' India had asked, 'why have they not done this already?'

'Some people just need others to suggest it to them,' Salia had replied. 'They secretly want to, they just want a rich and pretty lady like me to tell them they can.'

They'd been there to watch the show, nervously hanging back, half hiding. They knew Lancer's steps, they knew he'd walk under the bridge. There was one assailant there, and another on each side of the street, looking out from the windows of the twin ale houses that faced each other.

They watched open mouthed, too awed to even laugh, as three missiles were thrown at once from three different directions. One missed, one hit his chest - leaving a big brown stain on his coat – and the third sailed perfectly to hit him slap between the eyes. Lancer staggered back, stunned, blinking furiously. His forehead was covered.

India quickly covered Salia's hand with his mouth, sensing her about to erupt in giggles. He himself had a grin on him that was threatening to take over his face. Eli was transfixed, like his dreams had finally come true.

' _Who the shank did this?!'_ The screech echoed through the street. People all about stopped and stared, and then turned away, covering their mouths. Those who knew they couldn't suppress the laughter for long hurried away. The attackers had already fled.

' _Show yourselves!_ ' Lancer screamed, spinning around. The part of his face that hadn't been stuck with dung was now bright red, bordering on purple and almost throbbing in its rage. India had never seen a grown man's face so monstrously overwhelmed. It was like a hysterical baby.

' _I'll send the lot of you to the dungeons!_ _You idiots! You filthy shanking beggars! I'll see you all flogged, no, killed! See how many brats you can raise crawling in the muck then! Just you wait! I'll have officers down here right now, we'll put your squalid little homes to the torch!_ ' Lancer marched off, trembling, grabbing a nearby woman's shawl and tearing it off her to rub his face, then throwing it on the ground.

'Shankin' hell,' India said, whistling through his teeth. 'I knew we'd get a reaction but not like that. It's a good job he didn't see us.' He felt a ripple of worry. 'He doesn't mean it about killing all these people and burning their homes, does he?'

Salia shook her head. 'He doesn't have that kind of power. Even Sir Treymeir wouldn't do that, he'd have the whole city up against him. If Lancer never identified who did it, they can't imprison or hurt anyone for it.'

'But he could pick out anyone and say it was them, just for his own satisfaction.'

'Kingston is corrupt,' Salia said. 'But not _that_ corrupt. Nobody likes him, he'll have no witnesses to an identity, if anyone but us even saw who did it. Plus, his father wouldn't care enough to enforce anything. I wouldn't be surprised if Sir Treymeir actually insults Lancer for letting it happen, and letting his temper get the better of him. He might even beat him for it, for embarrassing him.'

India felt a twinge of sympathy for Lancer, but pushed it away. You could excuse anyone for the behaviour of their parents, but really everyone was their own person. Lancer was a grown-up, and grown-ups had to take their own responsibility for being awful.

'What if he'll be generally worse to everyone in the city now, because of this?' Eli said, clearly worried.

Salia waved her hand. 'He's already nasty. It'll be fine, he'll get over it. He'll just stay in his room and bang about and seethe for a while.' She sighed. 'Can I laugh now?'

'It's a bit late, ain't it?' India said.

'Nonsense.' Salia took a deep breath, threw back her head, and then began to laugh. Perhaps it was forced at first, but it picked up into its own infectious thing, and soon, as tears rolled down Salia's cheeks, India couldn't help but join in, and even Eli's grin had transformed into some kind of low chuckle.

The three of them walked slowly away from the scene, side-by-side, laughing together at their victory, blissfully unaware of the escalation they had started.

*

That first night, they'd kept themselves locked in Salia's room until very late. It was mostly for Eli's sake, who'd never been in Salia's room without engaging in some household chore. It was a concern that had only just come to India and Salia (no doubt it was in Eli's head from the beginning) that Lancer might take out his anger on Eli again, and so they'd decided to keep him out of the way until the storm had calmed.

India had expected to hear Lancer's raging throughout the house, but instead there was only a deep silence that went on and on, and in a way that seemed even worse.

The next day, the silence outside their rooms was broken by the shouts of Treymeir Main. His words were muffled, but India got the gist. There was no argument, no words heard in retaliation. Treymeir Main may as well have been raging at a wall.

Afterwards, India carefully stole his way into the East Wing, and listened, his heart pounding, anxious that Lancer might come out of his room and see him. He couldn't say what drove him to go there and listen, but he was stunned when he realised the strange noises he'd approached were Lancer crying. He quickly left, feeling suddenly uncertain and uncomfortable. He didn't mention it to the others, and by the next day it'd all but escaped his mind.

A week Lancer spent within the house, almost entirely in his room. For the first few days he ate meals at different times to the others; after that he joined them, but in cold silence. When they did see him he neither spoke nor looked at them, passing them by as though they were invisible. On the fifth day Salia dared to speak to him. He looked at her like he'd never seen her before, replied with a curt nod and moved on his way. After that he was a little more talkative, getting unfortunately back to his old self. He still treated Eli like he was dirt, and India like he was an infected dog.

The only benefit to Lancer being housebound was that his rage had had time to subside, so there was no immediate retaliation to the citizens of Kingston. India thought that a cold and reflective anger with much uninterrupted time to itself might perhaps be worse than a sudden furious revenge. What was it Mr Bassard had told him once? 'Revenge is a dish best served cold, lad. Be wary of anyone you wrong, who withdraws in the heat of the moment. Be wary of the passage of time. That's plotting time, my boy. Chances are, it's not over. It never is.'

They'd followed Lancer after he left the house for the first time since the incident, but after nothing further seemed to occur (at least, Lancer was no more pompous and bullying than usual) they'd gotten bored and left to go to the waterfront. After that, they rarely followed him, and so any possible retaliation he might have taken completely escaped them; they continued with the pleased assumptions that all had worked out well for everyone, with the obvious exception of Lancer.

It was a week later when Lancer first struck out at India. It had come out of nowhere; perhaps India had talked back to him, but with his head pounding and his thinking muddled, he couldn't quite remember. Lancer had disappeared without a word. India picked himself off the floor, crouched for a while, clutching his head, stood, crouched again after a dizzy wave, and then headed slowly to Salia's room.

Salia was combing her blonde hair in the mirror. 'Come in,' she called, after India knocked. He walked in and sank onto her bed.

'Lancer hit me,' he said.

'He didn't,' Salia said, her reflection staring at him.

'I didn't even do anything.'

Salia narrowed her eyes. 'We'll have to retaliate,' she said, resuming combing her hair.

*

The pranks came thick and fast. All sense of avoiding conflict by not appearing complicit was no longer considered an issue. As far as India and Salia were concerned, Lancer had started it, and what was worse he had _continued_ it. Eli pleaded with them in the beginning to let it go – after all, he had said with a sudden stubbornness to his jaw, he'd been hit many times over and was well used to it – but soon realised they weren't listening, and before long he joined in on their plots with a doubtful but slowly increasing enthusiasm.

Food was the main target in the beginning. Salia knew Lancer's favourite foods, but they had to take care not to accidentally poison anyone else. They didn't want to really harm him, of course. It was often enough to replace fresh milk with sour, or add a little cleaning liquid to one of his meals – just a _tiny_ bit, of course. Once, they'd added some of Jone Crescent's medicine, and guffawed when Lancer spent the night on the toilet – and then got a little worried that they'd taken it too far.

Much of what they did was left completely unknown to Lancer, and only served towards their own satisfaction. They'd licked a load of Lancer's choice biscuits – and then, carried away, just about everything he owned. They let themselves in his room while he was out, with Eli acting as a lookout. It was in those times, scavenging around his room for things to steal or in some small, subtle way to ruin, that their adrenaline was at its highest. Once India's nerves were so high afterwards that, upon scurrying to safety, he found himself grasping Salia and Eli together in a big hug, and running with them towards the bed so all three fell, laughing and out of breath. Eli had looked particularly flushed but pleased, and Salia had looked at him in a way he couldn't really quite interpret.

Then there was stealing one of every pair of socks, cleaning a dog with Lancer's precious soap (stamped with the Crown of York), and there was even a re-arranging of Lancer's entire room. Of course, for most of the obvious things, and no doubt a few of the more ambiguous things, Lancer knew it was them, or at least one of them. He never took it out on Salia, either because he believed she wasn't behind it, because of their family connection, because she was a girl, or because he was at least a little bit intimidated by her. It was Eli and India who received the backlash – or at least they would have, if they hadn't learnt all the best ways to avoid Lancer. There were times when they'd have fingers stuffed in their mouths, hiding under the bed as Lancer hammered on the bedroom door and then crashed it open. Lancer might have been clever in some ways, but he never seemed to be able to think the way a kid thinks. His life had been one totally ignorant of such things as hiding places. He barely even grasped some of the pranks.

They couldn't avoid him forever though, and they endured his spite, his rages, and the occasional flung fist, believing it worth it just to get their own back. More often than not, it was Jone Crescent and Treymeir Main who spared them from Lancer's wrath. Jone Crescent for defending Salia – and she defending India and Eli. Treymeir Main for taking Jone Crescent's side against his son, not in the sense of supporting his wife's brother (whom he clearly had little respect for), but simply out of a kind of icy disgust directed towards his son. If Lancer had remained calm, India reckoned his father might have taken his side, perhaps even forced India out the house. But Lancer's tantrums that stormed up and down the house on an almost daily basis seemed to wound and offend his father's pride, and in return the young man received nothing but disdain, distance, and cold commands that demanded _the matter is settled_. And of Lady Rosary, there was no sign but that of a shut door.

# SEVEN

A month after he'd first arrived at the Crescent-Main residence, the powder keg blew.

Lancer had come for them, running through the house, kicking doors and screaming for India and Eli, or rather, for the _black-haired brat_ and the _street trash_ , the _snivelling wretch_ and the _useless degenerate_.

The house was big, and they'd managed to move from room to room for a while, but Lancer was on a hunt, and both Jone Crescent and Treymeir Main were out. Eventually, Lancer cornered the three of them in the hallway, their backs against the front door. India groped behind him for the handle, but he knew he wouldn't be able to open it and escape in time.

Lancer looked like he was on the edge of a breakdown. His normally carefully parted hair was wildly askew, his eyes were manic and there was a threatening purple to his glistening cheeks, He was quivering all over, pacing back and forth across the hall. He laughed mirthlessly. He waggled his fingers, hot with sweat, at them, and laughed again.

That was when India noticed the sword at his side.

'You . . .' Lancer murmured. 'You, you, you, you. The little . . . little boys . . . and their princess . . . playing games. I can play games too, did you know that? Did you know that, India Mancer? Did you know that Eli Manson? Did you know that, Miss Salia Crescent, _dear sweet cousin_?'

'You started it,' India said. He was suddenly afraid of this dangerous man before him, but he tried to steel himself. He heard Eli whimper behind him. The true confrontation had come. It may have been pushed away, run from, hid from, negated and flattened time and time again, but now it had come. It had been inevitable.

'Did I?' Lancer said. 'Did I. Start it. Did I? I'm going to finish it, you nasty little boy. I'm going to finish _you_.'

'Lancer!' Salia said, loudly. 'Stop this _right now_. We'll tell your father and he _won't_ be pleased.'

Lancer froze, then gave another short laugh, running a hand through his hair, shivering. 'Won't be pleased,' he said. 'Well, that's something new, isn't it?'

India stepped forward. 'It's my fault,' he said. 'All of it. It was all my idea. Take it out on me.'

'Oh, believe me, I intend to.'

Lancer launched himself at India, hurling a fist. India ducked and fell back against the wall, kicking out with his foot. It took Lancer in the leg and he grunted, yet kept his balance. Lancer swung again and India caught it in the side of his neck. He fell back, choking. He saw Eli dart in and get shoved backwards against the door, Lancer's hands on his throat. Salia was beating at him with her fists. India got up, still fighting for air, and pulled Lancer backwards. They fell down together, India's back hitting the floor with a sudden jolt of pain.

Lancer tossed him off and stood up, pulling out his rapier. He aimed the cruel point at them, breathing hard. India moved away from it, his back against the wall, until he was with Salia and Eli at the door.

'We're sorry,' India said. He had to force the words out. 'Aren't we sorry?'

'I'm sorry,' Eli said.

'Lancer, please put it down,' Salia said.

'It's too late,' Lancer replied. He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth, seeming to struggle with something deep within. 'All I _wanted -_ '

'Lancer,' a voice came from behind him. He spun around.

India had only seen her once in the second week of his stay, and never afterwards. She was a sallow-skinned woman in a nightgown, despite it being only early evening. Her hair was unkempt, and her face looked terribly sad, even more than the last time India had seen her.

'Put the sword away Lancer,' Lady Rosary Crescent said. She spoke in barely more than a whisper.

'Mother . . .' Lancer swallowed. 'I have to.'

'You don't have to do anything, son,' Rosary Crescent said. 'It's my fault. And I'm so, so sorry.'

Years of instincts had India trained to notice certain small movements of people no matter the distractions, and he saw the tightening of Lancer's fist, and knew if he didn't take this chance to leave he'd regret it.

India turned, whipped his coat from the coat stand, yanked open the front door, and pushed Salia and Eli out with him. He slammed the door behind him. 'Are you okay to run?' he asked Salia.

'In these shoes?' Salia said. 'Just watch me.'

*

They charged through the streets as the evening sun swept its orange haze over the city. After only about ten minutes, and a few staircases and quick turns, they made the mistake of slowing to walk, figuring either no pursuit was coming, or it'd been quickly lost. The streets were quieter at this time, with little to no crowd to blend with, but that didn't seem to matter now.

It was while they were pausing to catch their breath that they heard the pounding of feet.

'Attention Kingston citizens!' an imperious voice sounded from somewhere behind and above them. 'Two male youths, aged thirteen and fourteen, going by the name of India Mancer and Eli Manson, are wanted by the Kingston Guard, by order of Governor Main! Anyone attempting to hide these persons will be subject to the law! Anyone aiding in their capture will be generously rewarded!'

India stared at the others. 'You have got to be shankin' kidding me. That was fast. Did Treymeir Main come back and finally listen to his son?'

Salia shook her head. 'It's Lancer. He's doing it in his father's name. Sir Treymeir won't forgive him for this.'

'I don't think he cares anymore,' Eli said.

'He doesn't want you,' India said, looking at Salia.

'Then he's as stupid as he is crazy. Let's not pretend I wasn't the ringleader.'

'I mean, you can go back. We can't. And three together are easier to catch than two.'

'Are you saying I'll slow you down?'

'Yes. No. Look, me and Eli, we have to go. We can't stay in Kingston anymore, you know that. Even when your father comes back, it won't be enough. Lancer's blown his fuse, he won't rest until me and Eli meet at least some kind of punishment, and I won't accept that for either of us.'

Salia's shoulders sagged. 'You're leaving Kingston? You can stay somewhere else, somewhere he won't find you . . .'

'He'll find us. People like him always do. I'm not staying some shut-in like his mother. It's just . . . it's time for me to move on, Salia.'

Salia pouted. 'And Eli?'

Eli glanced at India, and nodded. 'I'm with India. I'm done here. There's no way I'm going back. I'm sorry, Miss Salia.'

'Well,' she said. 'Goodbye, Eli.' She offered her hand and he took it.

'Miss Salia. It's been a pleasure.' He let the hand fall.

'Of course it has.' Salia turned to India. 'Are you still here?'

India grinned. 'I'll see you again. Honest.'

'As though you could resist seeing my face again.' She darted forward, kissed him on the lips and pulled back before he knew what was happening. 'Farewell, India Bones.'

India blushed, swallowed, and gave a short bow. Behind them the pounding of feet sounded terribly close, and further off to their left another officer presumably leading another troop was repeating the previous announcement. With a final, appreciative look at Salia, India and Eli turned and trotted off, quickly advancing to full-blown sprint.

*

'Stop right there!' was a command at first ignored. But when it was joined with 'Stop or we'll shoot!' Eli skidded to a halt, pulling India up short by the sleeve of his coat. They turned as one, and saw a troop of redcoats under two dozen yards from then, filling the end of the open street that poured out onto the waterfront. The soldiers at the front had their rifles aimed directly at them.

The last few citizens still out and about hurried off, and within a minute all that seemed to remain on the Kingston waterfront were the soldiers and the two hapless boys, their backs to the sea and the setting sun shrouding their small, panting forms in a cloak of blazing orange.

'Looks like we're done for,' India said.

'It'll be okay,' Eli replied, though the tone of his voice said quite the opposite.

There was a commotion at the back of the troop. 'Get out of my way!' a familiar voice cried. 'My father pays your wages, now _move_!'

The line of redcoats parted, and Lancer Main shoved his way through, ignoring the dirty looks some of the soldiers were giving him. 'Put those guns down you idiots!' he said, pushing them down himself as he spoke. 'Did I say you could shoot them? Is that what I said?'

Lancer stood before them, one arm behind his back and one on the hilt of his sword. He wore a smart navy officer's coat that India knew he hadn't earned, and wondered briefly if it might have belonged to his father when he was younger.

'Well, well,' Lancer said, smiling. His eyes glittered with the sun. 'Here you are, scurrying away like a couple of rats.' He tilted his head back and raised his voice to a shout. 'You hear that, rats of Kingston? There'll be no more scurrying away! No more hiding in your ratholes! I'll be governor of this city sooner than you think, and if you thought my father was bad, wait until you see what _I_ can do!'

He looked back down at the two boys and he drew his rapier. The silver flashed. He took a few steps forward, sauntering left to right as though mocking them with the beginnings of a dance. The officer behind him looked about to say something, but he clamped his mouth shut, keeping his thoughts on a future promotion. A couple of the other soldiers shifted uncomfortably.

India was weighing their options, and they were thin to non-existent. He wondered how far they could sprint along the waterfront before Lancer caught up with them. Perhaps he wouldn't bother tiring himself; he might simply give the soldiers the order to aim and fire.

India steeled himself anyway. He wasn't going to give Lancer the easy satisfaction of surrendering – that's if he would even accept such a thing. India glanced at Eli, wondering what he was thinking. Perhaps Eli would try and surrender for the both of them. India swallowed, and his knuckles whitened. If only he hadn't been so stubborn, so _afraid_ of having his own blade. If only they hadn't pushed Lancer so far.

'I say, India, you seem to be in a spot of bother?'

India stared upwards towards the voice, sounding all too pleasant in such a perilous situation. With his legs dangling off a roof, and a sword at his belt, Devil Flynn sat. He was chewing an apple. He threw it, and it knocked off a soldier's hat.

'Oi!' the soldier shouted, stumbling away from the troop to pick it up.

'Hello Flynn,' India said, trying to pretend his heart wasn't in his mouth. 'It's good to see you again. Where've you been?'

'Oh here, there, somewhere, nowhere. Do you need any help?'

'Just a bit, maybe.'

Devil Flynn jumped down from the roof and landed with a thud. 'Oh,' he said, rubbing his legs. 'I should have stretched first.' He nodded at India and Eli, and then casually strode between them and Lancer, who was looking distinctly unimpressed.

'Flynn, is it?' Lancer said, with a sneer.

'Oh it's . . . no, don't tell me, it's . . . Poncer the Pain? Or is it Prancer Stain? I'm terribly sorry, it's so easy to get confused, you entitled toffs are all the same to me.'

'Congratulations Flynn,' Lancer replied, his face beginning to glow red once more, and holding up his sword, 'you have the honour of going down with your friends.'

'Sir, I wouldn't have it any other way.' Flynn bowed, and just as Lancer sprung at him, he pulled out his own sword and caught the blade with his own. This time it wasn't a foil, but a sharp rapier like Lancer's.

Lancer pulled back, then hurled himself forward again, slashing at Flynn in a sequence of quick strikes. Flynn parried them all easily, one hand behind his back. With each deflection, Lancer's blows only grew angrier, and sloppier, and his face grew more and more ugly. Flynn ran a full circle around him as they fenced, and all the while he was grinning.

'Have at you!' Flynn said, and thrust suddenly forward after a parry that left Lancer off balance. Lancer cried out, clutching his arm. The arm of the coat was torn open and blood was soaking through the shirt underneath.

'You – you -'

'I thought I'd avoid the face,' Flynn said. 'I didn't want to spoil your good looks.'

'You _cut_ me, you shanking _pirate_! I'll have your head on a spike for this!'

'Pirate? Interesting. And I'd be more inclined to use the word _impale_. As in, I _impaled_ you. I'm not sure how accurate it would be, I might have to check Johnson's Dictionary on that one, but it sounds better than a simple _cut_ don't you?'

'It _hurts_! It's _bleeding_!'

'That does tend to happen when one has been impaled, I'm afraid.'

Lancer's face was both furious and agonised. Tears were in his eyes. 'I can't move my arm!' he cried. 'I can't move my arm!'

'Oh, I am sorry,' Flynn said, frowning. 'That was hardly sporting of me, was it? Now you only have one arm to retaliate, and I still have two.' Flynn called over his shoulder. 'You still there, my friend and his friend?'

'We're here,' India said.

'I'd rather hoped you'd be gone by now. This distraction is becoming a lengthy one. Still, never too late. Off you go, I'll keep them busy.'

'You'll never make it!'

'I thought you knew me by now? Have faith in me, please. I'm one of a kind, don't you know?' Flynn was keeping his eyes and his sword pointed at Lancer, who was now on his knees and looked like he was having some kind of a fit, and the uncertain redcoats behind him.

'Thank you so much,' Eli said.

'And thank you to you too, young man in black! For, um, something or other. I don't know. Keep India safe, that's it! Any fiend of India's is a fiend of mine!'

'Goodbye Flynn,' India said. 'I'll see you again, I know.'

'That you will! Perhaps not in this city, but somewhere, somewhere! As I told you before, wherever there's beauty and danger, just call my name! Devil Flynn, master of the sword, master of the world!'

'Goodbye!' India said again, and as Flynn waved his free hand behind him, he and Eli once again sped off, down the waterfront, away from the doubled over Lancer and the Kingston Guard, and away from the city. And as they burst through the fringes of the jungle, leaves slapping at their faces and roots catching at their feet, their breath aching in their chests, India tried not to think how he might have gained one friend and lost another.

# EIGHT

They exited the jungle in the dead of night, satisfied as well as they could be that any possible pursuit was lost for the time being. India was pleased with his sense of navigation: they'd come out on Lonely Carib beach. Palm trees waved in the faint wind, standing like strange guardians. The sand lit a mournful blue under the moon.

India and Eli sat down, and then lay down. They were exhausted. They felt a rush of sleep, and their eyes closed before they'd spoken a word to each other.

Their eyes opened again.

'What was that?' Eli said.

'Shush,' India said. They listened. 'It sounds like something under the sand . . .'

'It sounds like mumbling,' Eli said, looking alarmed.

India stepped closer to where he felt the sound was coming from, and put his ear against the sand.

'Um,' he said.

'What is it?' Eli took a step closer.

'It's a voice.'

'A _voice_? What's it saying?'

India looked at Eli. 'It said, "Hello, is anyone there? Can you help me?"'

Eli stared back at him. 'Shiver my bloody timbers,' he whispered, and rubbed his arms. 'Dig it up.'

'You dig it up.'

'We'll both dig it up.'

They pawed at the ground, hesitantly at first, then flinging away clumps of sand. What looked like a white rock or large sea-shell started to appear. They dug around it. It was curving downwards. India felt his fingers move pass sudden ridges and into a gap, a hole in the –

'Poke me in the eye why don't you,' the muffled voice said.

India fell back. It wasn't a rock, or a sea-shell. It was a skull.

'Shankin' hell,' India said. 'Dig it up, fast. I know that voice.'

They pulled the skull up out of the ground, and it coughed sand at them. 'Hello Grimmer,' India said.

'Hello yourself, India,' the disembodied skull of Grimmer said. 'How are you?'

'I'm okay,' India said. 'Me and Eli are on the run. How are you?'

'I'm okay,' Grimmer said. 'Apart from, you know, having my head separated from my body and buried in sand. It's a good thing you came along, I could feel the tide coming in.'

'Why are you still here? It's been _ages_. And how'd you get like this?'

Grimmer sighed. 'I stayed behind, when the ship left. Stupid. I was in a weird mood, I was just fed up of the whole wretched thing. I felt right then that I'd rather be ground to dust than take one more step on that bloody ship. So when it came time to board, I wasn't there. Some of the jolly rogers came looking for me, but you know, it's hard to find someone when they're being as quiet as the dead.'

He took a deep breath, or rather the imitation of one. 'I was content to wander the jungle for a little while. Sit about doing nothing. Hardly anyone comes out here, I think I only saw four people in the whole month, and I hid easily. Except for earlier today, when two scurvy louts surprised me, and in their panic they only went and beat me up. I'd left my sword on the ship – but then again, it's best not to upset the living by killing them, it only encourages them. I guess I kinda just let them, waiting for them to go away. I wasn't in a fighting mood anyway. They separated all my bones – and I thought that'd be it, but no, the bastards had to bury everything, and in different spots too. It got me all mixed up inside. I tried to reason with them, but apparently a talking skull can't talk its way out of anything these days. Except for just now, thanks mate. By the way, your friend has been staring at me ever since you pulled me out. He looks like he's seen a ghost.'

India glanced at Eli, whom he'd temporarily forgotten about. He grinned at Eli's astonished, half-glazed face. 'It's not far off,' India said to Grimmer.

'I resent that,' Grimmer replied. 'I'm not a ghost mate,' he said loudly, addressing Eli. 'I'm a skeleton. World of difference.'

'I'm sure you told me your body was just a ghost,' India interrupted.

'Don't use my own words against me. Ghosts are awful things. I'm lovely. Tell him India.'

'He's lovely, apparently,' India said. 'Don't worry Eli, you've seen them in books, haven't you?'

Eli nodded dumbly.

'Well there you go. Real life. I'll, um, explain it all in a bit.'

'This is brilliant,' Eli whispered.

'Is it?' Grimmer said. 'Is it brilliant that I'm headless?'

'Technically you're all head,' India said. 'Which reminds me. Why didn't the skeleton go to the party?'

'Oh, shut up,' Grimmer said. 'And no head puns. I mean it.'

'Head puns?' India said innocently.

'You know what I mean. Don't think I'm going to give you any examples.' Grimmer coughed. 'Right, you boys, listen closely. What I need you to do, is put all my bones together, best you can, and then – wait, no, dig me a shallow grave in the sand first. Further up the beach, don't want the tide coming into it. You can wet the sand a little though, make it easier to dig. Don't make it deep. And then you arrange my bones just right in there, then cover me back up.'

'And then what?'

'Then next morning I should be back. Don't ask me why, it's just one of those things.'

'Has this happened to you before?'

'Not to me personally, no. But it's happened.'

'Okay. I guess you don't have any plans as to what to do after that? Me and Eli are in a bit of trouble.'

'So you said. Well, your timing couldn't be much better. If I've remembered the days right, the ship is returning late tomorrow night, back from Cortez. Provided nobody catches you before then, and I don't think they will out here, but you can tell me all about why they might want to tomorrow, no doubt you did something terrible – anyway, we should be okay. I reckon if there was any time for me to have a mid-death crisis it was here and now, with only a month to wait before the ship's course returned it here. Enough time to think, that. If I'd left after _this_ time, I'd have been waiting for absolutely bloody ages. I'd probably be washed out to sea. And let me tell you, that's even worse a fate when you're already dead.'

India had visibly brightened. While he was kicking his way through the jungle, forgetting about his phobia of blades in his simple wish for a machete, he had worried that they might never get off the island. The waterfront would have the Kingston Guard all over it, and the likelihood of sneaking onto a ship was pretty much zero. Lancer would have the waterfront locked down, ready to catch them fleeing. But now, they could safely depart on the Ship of the Dead, right under Lancer's nose . . .

A bad thought occurred to India. 'Will the Ship of the Dead take me back? Will they take Eli too?'

Grimmer paused for a troubling amount of time. 'They won't take you _back_ ,' he said at last. 'Not like that. But you saved my – saved me. They'll respect that, and I'll vouch for you. They like you already. You won't get to stay on the ship as the crew, you never will, but we'll take you to the next destination. That's San Dillinger – no, better make it Tortugal after that, if you're in trouble with Kingston. Then you can charter another ship if you so please.'

'What about Eli?' India asked, trying to ignore the jump of excitement at the idea of exploring the notorious pirate haven. _I want to climb Mount Nassar._

'Turn me,' Grimmer said.

'What?'

'Turn me to look at him. I don't have a neck.' There was a moment of silence, where Grimmer looked at Eli and Eli lowered his eyes to the ground. 'Alright mate,' Grimmer said. 'I trust India's judgement. You won't raise a fuss, will you? There'll be lots of jolly rogers on the ship, not just me.'

'He means skeletons,' India said.

'Aye, skeletons.'

Eli shook his head. 'I won't make a fuss.'

'He's already used to it,' India said. 'Hordes of skeletons where he's from. Can't move for them.'

'Aye, is that so,' Grimmer laughed. 'Alright then mateys. Start digging. I'll stand guard.'

India and Eli looked at each other, and with tired smiles moved up the beach and looked around for something they could use to dig with.

*

India woke up in the early grey hours with a headache and a raging thirst. They'd both collapsed as soon as they'd buried Grimmer, without a thought of drink. It's not as though there'd been any at hand – India knew drinking the seawater would send you sick and mad.

He got to his feet with protesting limbs. Everything hurt. He stumbled blearily into the jungle a little way. At first, he couldn't tell if the noise of running water was real or imagined. Perhaps he was still dreaming. It'd been a great dream, too: he'd been digging and digging for what seemed like a lifetime (it had probably only been a minute), and finally struck gold, literally. He'd become the only person in the world to find Captain Horn's buried treasure, to finally prove the legend. And when Salia had appeared and clapped her hands with delight and reached for him, just when he was really about to _live_ , his eyes had opened onto this chilly grey beach, with the wind howling ghosts through the palms and an ocean of thumping waves in his head.

India pushed back a leaf the size of his torso, and before him ran a tiny stream – little more than a rivulet. Still, it was all he needed. He knelt down and cupped his hands into the cold water, and lifted them to his mouth. He drank deeply for a while, then stood up and returned to the camp. If only he had a flask he could bring some back for Eli – but he had nothing to his name, nothing but the clothes on his back. Eli, too, had left the Crescent-Main house with nothing else.

India roused his sleeping friend, who looked at him with unseeing eyes. 'Whuh?'

'Go get some water,' India said. He pointed. 'There's a little stream that way. You'll hear it.'

'Asleep,' Eli said.

'Go get some water Eli,' India repeated. 'You're dehydrated and if you keep sleeping when you wake up you'll want to die.'

'Want to die now.'

India hoisted Eli onto his feet and gave him a friendly push forward until his legs started working of their own accord.

India lay back down and was promptly asleep once more.

*

They woke up the second time to a sudden noisy motion, and a spray of sand. Grimmer had burst out of his grave. He sat up and yawned.

'That was a nice sleep,' he said. 'Slept like the dead.' He stood up and stretched. 'Come on you two lazy bones,' he said. 'Wakey wakey. We have a full day ahead of us of doing nothing.'

'How are you doing?' India said, rubbing his eyes.

'Haven't felt this good since yesterday.'

'What are we gonna eat?' Eli said, propping himself up on his elbows. 'I'm starving.'

'Don't you worry about that mate,' Grimmer said. 'Go into the jungle and hunt a tiger. There'll be hundreds of the bastards.'

'What! I can't do that!'

'Why not?'

'I don't even have a weapon!'

'Use your fists. Punch that tiger in the face.'

'He's kidding,' India said. 'Do you have any food?'

'Sure,' Grimmer said. 'I have my knapsack I brought from the ship. It won't be grand, but it'll keep us just fine until tonight.'

They ate Grimmer's bread and biscuits, and took trips to the stream to drink. Apart from one moment, when some staggering, wild-eyed cove, still drunk from the previous night (or maybe had just started early), blundered onto the beach and they had to hide, they were left uninterrupted. India wondered if the drunk would find his way back to the city, and then figured it'd be better to be lost in the jungle than risk being caught in a state of disrepair by the Kingston Guard. Although, he thought again, perhaps they were too preoccupied with India and Eli to bother with such things right now. India reminded himself, with a shudder of unease, that the longer they stayed here the more dangerous it would be for them. It was only a matter of time before soldiers were sent out of the city to search the rest of the island, if they weren't doing so already.

The fate of Lancer and Devil Flynn might have been unknown to India, but if Lancer lived he'd be even more furious and determined, and on the small chance he didn't, well, there was always Treymeir Main. He may not have treated his son well, but that in no way meant he'd treat his death (or injury) lying down. In a way, perhaps it would have been the ultimate embarrassment.

They spent whole day talking, relaxing (or trying to), and nothing much else. India explained to an enraptured Eli about his time on the Ship of the Dead, and then filled Grimmer in about his time in Kingston, leading to their escape. Grimmer had nodded along, and laughed in all the right places, and many of the wrong ones as well. Eli had then gone on to explain to them both, in response to India's enquiries, just how he came to be serving in the Crescent-Main household.

'Your father was a _pirate_?'

' _Suspected_ pirate,' Eli answered. 'I don't know the truth. He always said he was innocent of what they did him for.'

'What did they do?'

'They hung him.'

'Oh,' India said. 'I'm sorry.'

'Guess who was there, who had it done?'

'Who?'

'Governor Treymeir Main.'

'No!'

Eli nodded. 'This was a long time ago, but he was still governor back then. I don't really remember it, I was so young, but I do remember seeing his face, and also the face of Lancer, just a kid then.'

'Shankin' hell,' India said. 'And your mother?'

Eli lowered his head. 'She didn't last much longer, after that.'

'That's tough going, mate,' Grimmer said.

'But _how_ did you end up in their _house_?' India asked, confused.

'I had a couple of similar jobs, got a reputation for being a good worker, and honourable. More or less.' Eli smiled. 'The odd thing might have gone missing, if the people were horrid. Anyway, I ended up working for Jone Crescent. I never meant the Main family to be involved in that, but then one day, there we all were.'

'And?'

'It'd been years since my father died. No doubt Treymeir had overseen the execution of many folk. He had no idea who I was, or if he did he never showed it. Same with Lancer – although with the amount he was mean to me, sometimes I wondered if he'd found it out.'

'But what about you? Didn't you wanna kill them for what they did?'

Eli scratched the back of his neck. 'It was a long time ago,' he said again. 'I don't really remember, it's just the odd image. Lancer's face, stuck up even then. My father with a rope around his neck. I don't even remember him, not really. It's just like a dream I might have had.'

Eli saw India looking perplexed and gave a sad smile. 'I know I should be angry,' he said. 'But it's just not there. None of it feels like it has enough of a connection – to me, to my emotions. It doesn't even feel real. It was a weird time, the first few weeks around the Main family, not understanding how to feel, not understanding why I _wasn't_ feeling. But then the weeks blur into months, and then things are just how they are, and it's far too late to make yourself feel something, if you were even supposed to, if it even mattered if you did.'

'Fair enough,' India said. He couldn't quite get his head around it, but then again everybody was different, and it was a situation he hadn't been in. 'What about now, how do you feel about them now?'

'I hate Treymeir and Lancer,' Eli said, and grinned humourlessly. 'Just for who they are. That's enough. I'm happy I escaped. Maybe I should have done it a long time ago, but I just had nowhere to go. Or maybe I just didn't have the willpower anymore. You know, if you get told what to do, spoken down to all your life, you end up half-believing it, believing that you're just there for other people, not yourself. Salia was the only one who made it halfway bearable, and even then she was mostly just lost in herself.'

'You got me now,' India said, squeezing Eli's shoulder.

'I do,' Eli said, smiling. 'Thank you.'

'It's okay. We gotta get off this damn island first.'

'Excuse the romance,' Grimmer said, his skull thrust in their direction. 'But would either of you two scurves care for another biscuit?'

*

Conversation had eventually exhausted them, and the day had dragged into night. India hadn't planned on falling asleep, but he must have done, for he woke up to Grimmer kicking him.

'Oi,' he said.

'Oi yourself,' Grimmer replied. 'It's here!'

India got to his feet in time to see the swarm of black fog unfolding itself to reveal the Ship of the Dead pluming forward towards them. India was once again awestruck by the sight, and he barely noticed Eli's intake of breath and his hands clasped tight under his chin.

'This is the most amazing thing I have ever seen, India,' Eli whispered, as the ship came to a bobbing stop, and boats were dropped to the waves. 'Even if Lancer came upon us right now and stabbed us through the heart, I'd die happy.'

'Speak for yourself,' India smiled. 'I still have a few things I'd like to do.'

Skeletons piled into the boats and rowed silently to shore. Eli gripped India's arm suddenly. 'Will they hurt us?' he said.

'Don't be silly,' India said. 'I was on their ship for ages, remember?'

'It just . . . doesn't feel real.'

'I know, it didn't for me either. In fact, I'm not sure it ever will again.'

'Is that a bad thing?'

India shook his head. 'No. I don't think so.' He smiled warmly at Eli, who let go of India's coat, suddenly seeming self-conscious.

'Ahoy mateys!' Grimmer called out, as the boats pulled up to the beach.

'What have I told you about playing hide and seek?' Dessica replied, standing up on the prow of the boat.

'That I'm the champion, and never to take it further than one month?'

Dessica got out, sloshing through the water and gave Grimmer a hug. 'Good to see you again,' she said.

'Steady girl, my bones ain't what they used to be.'

The other jolly rogers approached Grimmer, hugging him, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back or nodding at him. Some scowled at him or insulted him, but none of it seemed to be anything serious. The crew as a whole seemed relieved to have Grimmer back, and India got the feeling that he, more than any of the others, tied them all together. Or perhaps it was just that they'd known each other so long that losing any one of them was like losing part of themselves.

India and Eli had stood back from the shoreline as Grimmer was alternately chided and welcomed. India would have rushed in, but he sensed Eli's unease and wanted to stick by him. Eventually, Grimmer broke away and jerked his skull upwards at them. The jolly rogers turned as one and stared in their direction.

'Look who saved me, mateys. It's our old friend India. And it's my pleasure to introduce his friend Eli Manson. Together they dug me up when I was all apieces after two feckless trout set on me and buried me all asunder. These two buried me in a shallow grave together and now I'm back. All thanks to them. Don't treat them with any suspicion, especially not Eli. I've been with them for a day and a night and he's as good as India.'

The jolly rogers gave a low cheer, and a few walked towards them. India recognised them: Dessica, Hairless, Spares, Big Cage. They grinned at him and he back. Spares patted him on the shoulder, and Dessica and Hairless gave him a one armed hug from either side.

'Glad you're still alive, sugar,' Hairless said.

'So am I,' India said. He tensed as Big Cage reached in for a hug, but this time he was surprisingly gentle.

'India,' Big Cage said.

'Big Cage,' India replied. 'I've missed you all. This here is Eli.'

Eli swallowed, but the skeletons stuck out their hands in unison, and he reached out and shook them one by one.

'Thanks for saving Grimmer, Eli,' Dessica said.

'It's fine, it's fine,' Eli said.

Grimmer cleared his throat. 'In fact, these two scurves, they're on the run from a vicious rich pike, a bully and a governor's son no less. No, make that on the run from the whole of Kingston! They're wanted men, my friends. So I say the least we could do is give them a lift to Tortugal, where they can make their own way! Who's with me?'

There was a moment's hesitation, and India's heart leapt to his mouth, suddenly fearing that they were about to be turned down, and left to the mercy of Lancer Main.

A chorus of ayes filled the beach. Even, India was surprised to see, from Liver, who he was sure didn't like him. Perhaps he just didn't want to be a lone dissenter. Blackbone, standing apart from the others, didn't speak out, but he did give a slow, dark nod.

'I knew you were the jolliest bunch of jolly rogers that have ever died,' Grimmer said with pride. 'When dawn shuffles its musty face over the world and lights up this beach, when warmth fills our bones and all the woe has left them, India and Eli, that's when we leave, and you're coming aboard!'

India and Eli both beamed. Eli was about to open his mouth, presumably to thank them, but he shut it again and just stood, his hands clasped in front of him.

# NINE

The crew's night stay at Lonely Carib was similar to their dawn visit one month ago, but in many ways it was also different. It was quiet, but not silent, reflective, but in a spoken manner; it was an atmosphere of sharing, even for those who sat and ate on their own, who shared their words with the sand and the sea and the jungle leaves. Even Blackbone, sat away from the others, muttered out loud to himself.

India and Eli moved from one conversation to the next, first together, and then later moving independently of each other. That's if you could call the back-and-forth utterances conversations. India had never heard any of them talk like this, and he struggled to understand them, not least because they switched in and out of other languages. He recognised one jolly roger speaking in Bordeauxan to another who was responding in an entirely different, unfamiliar language (Eli later identified it as Doradian). One spoke for a while in a strange tongue, very different to the others, that likely belonged to some distant southern country, perhaps Afrika. At times they seemed to be having no conversations at all, but each listening only to themselves, cutting across each other with their own murmurings.

When India did hear Yorkish, it was as hard to follow as it was bewitching. The talk was vibrant and piecemeal, more images and clips of memories than anything, paintings of the past world unreal and dream-like. At times it seemed like poetry. He didn't know what was true and what wasn't, what these people had known when they were alive and what they'd known since they'd died, and what they'd never known at all. They spoke of black pearls in Cortez lagoons, drifting Gyptian sands and something called the Khepri Sun. Of the swamps of Louisiana that gobbled up the young and the old alike. Of cobbled roads in York's Eddison County that had run back and forth long before humans had ever risen up from the seas. Of poison rains and jungles so hot and sour it'd blister the skin off your bones, of winds like knives in the Icelands, and wolf-like creatures that lived inside glaciers and howled upwards through the ice.

They spoke of sea monsters, like the Water Dragon with its huge black eyes and rippling scales, and the Salt Chimera which could rip a ship to shreds. The Kraken in all its terrifying enormity, and the Devil Whale that could swallow ships whole. The Hydra with its many heads, and the Medusa, with its ever-growing tentacles and baleful glare that froze sailors to the spot. They spoke of sirens and mermaids that raked their hair with fish bones and sang beautiful songs from the waves, and led whole crews to their new homes in the deep. They spoke of birds that grew arms and moved like apes, of lost souls adrift that were saved by floating pyramids of the sea. Of living islands and dead seas. And of the sea goddess Tiamat and her estranged husband Davy Jones, to whom all must return, even them one day, when their bones were dust, or when Jones decided the deal they had struck was no more.

They spoke of their past, and their futures, and the past and futures of all sea-goers. They spoke of pirate battles of ancient myth, of the pound of cannons and decks soaked in blood. They spoke of Ivory, the king of all pirates, and his ship that could disappear in and out of the night sky. Of Ivory's treasures, and those of Captain Bucklemeir Horn, and many names India had never heard of but instilled in him an almost terrible excitement. When he heard the name Wolfgang, he interrupted, eagerly pressing them for more about his father, but they shook their heads repeatedly, knowing nothing more, or perhaps unwilling to be broken into any kind of real conversation.

They spoke of things that had happened and things that could never happen with equal importance. India observed that the most impossible of things seemed to fill them with the most emotion, a kind of bitter longing, as though there was something great that had been forever lost.

India's mind struggled to take in so much, always wanting to hear more about one thing before it was immediately replaced by something entirely different. As the hours slipped by, he felt befuddled and sleepy, and Eli too was starting to nod off. India looked with half-closed eyes around at the crew. They'd started a small fire when they arrived, of the same ice blue colour they'd danced around in view of Eyeless's Merchant Hall, where he'd first seen these astonishing, unknowable beings who nursed such magic in their bones. He hadn't seen how they'd lit the fire then, and he'd missed it this time as well. As soon as his back was turned it had flared up, bright and brilliant in the night. Now the fire had died down to warm blue embers, the darkness around them slowly lightening as dawn approached.

*

India awoke to the morning, feeling groggy. The jolly rogers were all standing up now, finished with their fragmented telling of tales. Spares and Sockets arrived back from the jungle; they'd gone off together soon after they'd first arrived, the only skeletons to leave the beach. Liver and Cold Shoulder and a couple of the others were already sitting in one of the boats, not impatient as such, just . . . ready. Their time on Lonely Carib was over, their words had been spoken, and now it was time to return home to the sea, to the endless waves.

'Come on,' Grimmer said, coming over. 'It's time to go.'

India walked over to Eli, who was stretching, looking around confused. 'How was the night?' India said. Eli had no words and tried hopelessly to convey something with his hands, but it wasn't needed. India could read enough from his face. Eli reached forward and wrapped his arms around India and hugged, then backed away a couple of steps, nodding his head in thanks. India smiled, and nodded also.

They got in the boats and helped row, privately marvelling at the boat skidding over the glowing waves. They climbed up to the Ship of the Dead, and India showed a dazed and overawed Eli to his cabin. Grimmer helped tie another hammock next to his, and left, shutting the door quietly. Within moments the two boys had both fallen back asleep.

*

'How long is the journey to Tortugal gonna take?' India said the next day, with a mouthful of black biscuit. Eli was leaning over the rails, alternately entranced by the waves and being sick into them.

'Uh, it's gonna take a while I'm afraid mate,' Grimmer said. 'A month in total.'

' _A month_?' India swallowed. 'Tortugal ain't anywhere near that far!'

'This ship is never in much of a hurry to reach anywhere. Sometimes months without any land at all. Besides, it's not a straight course mate. Look, let me show you.' Grimmer led India into what would have been the captain's cabin, if there had been a captain to the Ship of the Dead. Inside was all manner of things, chiefly maps and parchment and navigational equipment, but also littered with odds and ends that must have been picked up from all over the world. A jade monkey paw, a figurine of an Afrikan fertility goddess and a set of burnished black scales stood on one of the shelves. On another a bone dragon carving, Gyptian scarves and a series of shrunken brown heads, which India had eventually gotten more or less used to during his first voyage. Along the desk by the windows stood an array of coloured glass bottles with labels written in a language India couldn't read, and in the centre a tall jar with murky green contents, and something indistinct swimming inside . . . The place was like a treasure chest of weird and wonderful (and slightly disturbing) souvenirs.

On the desk in the centre was a silver globe with land marked in jet black, a compass and grimy sextant, and a rolled out map held down with shining black orbs. The map was obscured by a number of other rolled pieces of parchment, and Grimmer swept them off the table onto a floor, beckoning India to stand closer as he leaned over the map.

Grimmer pointed at the map, which showed the whole of the Caribbean. 'See, we started here, on the west of Kingston, and instead of going north we're travelling in a big loop around it to the east and then north and north-west, towards . . .' He moved his finger upwards. 'San Dillinger, the north-most point of the Caribbean, bar Colorado. Our next stop. And then we go a little east, then south-east . . .' He slid his finger down and to the right, in a curving arc. 'And we reach Tortugal.'

'That's the most awkward route ever,' India said. He traced his own finger on the map. 'Why not go round Kingston on the western side, seeing as that's where we started? Or even better, why not go to Tortugal first, then San Dillinger after?'

'First of all mate, it's not our call, it's the ship's. But we think there's good enough reason. See, this way we more-or-less avoid the main trade-routes. The ship might be hidden, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea to tempt fate. It's a busy bit of seas, especially at this time of year. We like to have the seas to ourselves. On the downside though, see this spot here, on the way down from San Dillinger? That's fairly calm seas. We won't be completely becalmed – that's when there's no wind at all, and a ship is plain stuck.'

'I know.'

'But it does mean it'll be particularly slow. We have to take it that way back, so as not to go completely against the wind. Both journeys, see, they're not as straight and simple as I just drew for you, they rarely are with sailing. A ship is completely reliant on the direction of the wind. We'll have to tack back and forth against it at times. So, all in all, aye, just under a month to Tortugal by way of San Dillinger. We'll have no bother, it's a fine journey, but it might get a bit boring for you.'

'I won't be bored,' India said. 'I love being on a ship.'

'See if you're saying the same in a month, mate.'

*

It was nine days before they arrived at San Dillinger, and in that time India re-acquainted himself thoroughly with the ship (including another ill-advised jaunt up the crow's nest), and with the crew. Eli too made friends, and it seemed everyone got on even better with him than they did with India, Liver and Blackbone included. India tried to quell a small amount of jealousy and hurt pride, but he couldn't help but wonder what made the two of them so different. Nonetheless, divorced from Salia's overriding presence (not that they didn't miss her), India and Eli's friendship blossomed rapidly on that voyage, and by the end India couldn't imagine ever _not_ having been best of friends with the boy, and not having him by his side whenever he wanted him. It was strange to think that not too long ago he had been pretty much all by himself most of the time, bar the occasional ministrations of Mrs Wayles, the drunken mumblings of Mr Bassard or the hurried chatter of the Ratboys. It felt like another life.

On the second day of the voyage India, having thought about it for a while and made up his mind, asked Grimmer to teach him sword-fighting again. Feeling the cutlass in his hands felt suddenly _right_ , not wholly unlike Devil Flynn's foil, but weightier, _stronger_. The blade was sharp and the point wicked. India swallowed a sudden pang of nerve, ignored the slight chill that ran through his body, and raised his weapon. His fencing with Flynn had taught him a little, but unlike Flynn, Grimmer didn't treat his lessons as an opportunity to show off. It was a painstaking study of jabs, slashes, parries, ripostes, and particularly footwork. They practised for three hours that day, then the same every day after, and each time India would retire with his arm aching. They were often watched with interest and small amusement by Eli, who declined having a go himself.

At first India felt as useless as he had with Flynn, and the cutlass was knocked out of his hands many times over, or found Grimmer's point at his throat, and the words of 'Dead, mate.' By the last few days however, he was holding his own, and on the eighth day even scored a 'Dead, mate' back against Grimmer. He'd gone to bed that night pleased with the victory, and only as he was about to sleep did his brain realise that Grimmer, like Flynn, was probably not giving it even close to his best.

The last day had been Eli's fifteenth birthday, and the whole crew had turned out to sing 'For he's a jolly good matey'. Even Blackbone lent his rough, low voice to the affairs. India was a little distant at first, imagining them doing it for him on his fourteenth birthday (which wasn't that far off), but shut his mind up when he saw Eli's ordinarily pale face was flushed with happiness.

There had been something else on India's mind, as well. It had been on his mind the whole voyage and during his month in Kingston, and the more he thought about it the more it tugged at him. On the morning of Eli's birthday, India had told him.

'I know what I'm going to do,' he said.

Eli blinked. 'What do you mean?'

'When we get to Tortugal, both of us will leave this ship. Then we're on our own. We can't go back to Kingston. And I don't want to go back to Mexico Island. Not anymore. Too much has changed. I've seen too many things, and I want to see more.'

'I know what you mean,' Eli said.

'But I need a purpose. Something to guide me, to pull me along. And . . . I have one. I think I've always had it.'

'What is it?' Eli asked, when India didn't seem about to continue.

India took a deep breath. 'I'm going to find my father,' he said. 'The High Captain. Wolfgang Bones. I know he's out there somewhere, and I'm going to find him.'

Eli was silent for a little while, until India lifted his head out of his hammock and looked over at him, expectant, hopeful. 'I'll go with you,' Eli said. 'I'll help you find your father.'

India grinned widely, and reached over to grasp Eli's hand. 'Thanks, matey. I couldn't do it without you.'

# TEN

San Dillinger was the colour of gun-metal, but at times the mass of buildings and walls looked almost silver in the sun. It was nicknamed the City of Silver in a kind of mocking homage to the City of Gold, otherwise known as India. Forests and clumps of grey rock stretched outside the city all the way to the cliffside, and the lower western shore. Along the cliffs were the high, flat walls of a naval fort: the city's military beginnings. Looking out to sea between the battlements were six calentures: huge cannons made for naval forts, man-o'-wars and some of the bigger frigates. Sometimes smaller pirate ships took them on board, Grimmer told them, desiring the daunting and formidable boost in firepower no matter the expense in speed and agility. Calentures were known for their adaptability, and often made use of special ammunition, such as heat shot, spiked shot, and cluster shot, which exploded on impact into a rain of smaller explosives, causing complete devastation and disarray.

The Ship of the Dead anchored to the forested western side, away from the city on the cliffs. They pulled the boats up a stony beach, and India and Eli, pleased to be on dry land, followed the skeletons into the treeline.

The woods clustered in around them, but were far easier to walk through than the Kingston jungle. Creatures skittered away from them, camouflaged things with beaks and striped tails. Thick creepers wrapped around trunks and plants nodding like sleepy old men, dripping from the heavy humidity. The sun here came in only in lazy shades, and the infinite dots of moisture in the air were made clear in its fading yellow beams.

India was wiping his coatsleeve against his wet forehead for what seemed to be the twentieth time before they exited a particularly thick knot of trees and arrived in a small clearing. The mists had been crawling around their feet, in and out of tree hollows and wrapping around branches; here they had thronged together into a thick swirling cloud, veiling the sunlight.

The jolly rogers stopped, and Big Cage dropped the large chest he had patiently borne to this point. He opened it up, and India saw inside the black folds of clothes. One by one the skeletons picked up a set of clothes and retreated, discarding their own clothes to the earth, boots and all, and baring ribcages and pelvises with zero modesty – after all, what did they have to hide? In absolute silence they donned their new robes: dress wear as black as midnight, silken evening suits and sleek gowns puffed at the waist. To these they then added (from another chest carried by Sockets) formal heeled shoes and powdered wigs, adorned themselves with onyx jewellery, and finally masquerade masks that they held up to their gaping eyeholes on thin white sticks.

India and Eli watched all this dumbstruck, watched the transformation that came over all of them. They were no longer a skeleton crew, but ladies and gentlemen in funereal fancy dress. Their bones dampened and shone in the drifts of yellowed mist, but with the wigs and the masks, and the beautiful dark clothes, you could just about blink and pretend . . . they _could_ be, couldn't they? India had never seen them as more human and at the same time more distantly ethereal, more apparitions of some gothic dream.

Grimmer glided up to him – the vapours were obscuring his feet – and whispered in his ear. 'We don't have dress for the two of you,' he said, in a strange voice he'd never spoken in before. 'Do you want to stay?'

'What's going to happen?'

'We're going to dance. It will be for a long time, into the night.'

'I . . . I'd like to take part. But that might be too much.'

Grimmer nodded, and withdrew from somewhere on his person a silver coin, which he pressed into India's hand. 'Go into the city when you are ready,' he said. 'You will find the way, as long as the ground rises. 'Feed yourselves.'

India stared at the coin, then pocketed it. 'When will you finish?'

'Come back when the moon is high.' Grimmer turned and held up his hand, and Hairless took it, and the two of them walked into the centre of the clearing. India saw the others coupled together. Hands met shoulders and waists, and, without music, they began to dance.

This was nothing like the dance of the dead he had been party to on Mexico Island. This was a slow, formal dance, a ballroom waltz that moved to nothing but the sway of the mists and the audience of the trees. India shivered, and glanced at Eli, who didn't look back at him. There was something slightly frightening about the scene. No matter how well he thought he knew the crew, this was something else, something that truly painted how different they could be from him, how they were privy to things that he could never understand.

After a minute of this spectral waltz, this _danse macabre,_ India was surprised to see Eli blocking his view, holding out his hand. India looked at him quizzically for a second, and then reached out and took it. They began to dance themselves, step by step, moving into the circling of the dead.

India thought it'd be horribly awkward; after all, he'd never had a formal dance in his life, and certainly didn't know how this one went. But as soon as he'd taken Eli's hand, it was like he'd been swept into the dream, and within seconds he found himself stepping and turning and all without thinking. His mind was strangely blank, as though it'd been emptied of all but images. The sunlight was no longer yellow but cold and blue. The movements around him were like paintings in a flickbook. He looked into Eli's eyes, his emotionless expression, and saw the same acceptance of this new reality reflecting back at him, another mind empty of words or concrete thoughts.

And then the music grew.

It _grew_. It didn't start. It had always been there. But now it rose up, it reached his ears and increased in volume, in vibrancy. An orchestral waltz, filled with dark hope and trembling in strength, in the romance of black roses and dying love, and the bewitching whirl that shook the spirit and carved up hearts and innocence and took young men and women to die for each other, for their families and for their countries, for things they never even knew. It was a music of feverish memory, as seductive and rotting as all the most passionate of memories, and India felt himself go strong with it, go dull with it, go hot and cold into the blue sunbeams, go hopeless and with hope fit to burst, go into nothing at all, just blackness, all blackness, all dead staring faces, and the ache, the hollowness, the roses wilting and drowning in the moonlit waves of the sea . . .

India stumbled out of the clearing, clutching his head. It had been too much. The music was fading away like a streamer behind him. Eli was hot on his tail, and together they said nothing as they travelled deeper into the forest, as far away from that beautiful, terrible dance as they could.

*

India and Eli wandered the streets of the city, while the jolly rogers continued their dance in the forest. San Dillinger was smaller than Kingston (and India gathered that both of them were mere villages compared to the major cities on the Continent), but whereas Kingston was sprawling, San Dillinger was compact, with a 'pushed together' feel. Buildings filed together along streets of earth and stone. The streets were surprisingly quiet, and any conversation was a fast-talking mix between Yorkish and Bordeauxan; the latter seemed to have a sizeable presence in the city.

It was slightly cooler here than Kingston, but there was a tropical fog about the place, one that strangely had been invisible from the sea, hidden by the thicket of buildings. Like the forests, it was only when your boots were on the ground that it thickened and closed in, as though drawn to human bodies and their attempts at civilisation. The trails of mist kept to street-level, causing first small beads, and then running droplets to appear on the faces of anyone who ventured outdoors.

While most of the city was grey and black and silver, there were everywhere dark-green plants as tall as a man, with huge leaves that would suck up the wet mists and roll drops of it to the earth. The presence of the plants felt at once both alien and a core part of the city. They burst up through the ground without a care for the buildings around them, even forcing through cracks in the stone. _This is ours_ , they seemed to say. _You're the intruders. We were here first, we're not going anywhere, and one day we'll be all that's left_.

The buildings themselves were of a different breed to those that dominated Kingston. There were more blacksmiths, for a start – and not outdoor ones, but grim structures that pumped smoke from the chimneys and rang with metal on metal. There were gun factories and salt mills and stone chippers. Homes seemed to be an afterthought to businesses – and it was likely people slept where they worked. In one district the manufacturing buildings gave way to insurance offices and gunsmiths, and the occasional artisan's shop. Here grimy labourers became clerks, bootmakers, and shopkeepers with thin spectacles perched on the end of their noses. India entered one of the gun shops and marvelled at the array of perfect, polished pistols and rifles on display, before Eli had to pull him away, apologising to the owner for their lack of money.

The people as a whole were a hard-set, determined and often quietly sullen breed, always pressing hard ahead, and those whose clothes weren't dirty and worn wore sharp, darkly coloured coats and had fiercely raked hair that minute by minute wisped out in the humidity. Some wore cocked hats to hide the frizz and keep the sweat locked up. There was no room for wigs or fancy dresses in San Dillinger, and certainly no temperament. You worked hard, or you at least made sure other people worked hard for you. You counted, you filed, and you sweated, and if you weren't fit for that you hammered, you cut, you heaved, and you sweated, and if you couldn't do _that_ , well, off to the soft folk of Kingston with you, or back to the Continent with apologies.

One other element of the population, and it was unclear whether they worked especially hard or not (India perceived not), was the San Dillinger Navy. They were still called that from the city's early days as a naval fort, despite the fact that they now spent most of their time on land, acting in the same role as the Kingston Guard, with blue coats replacing the red. Still, there was of course a dock, and a small shipyard where ships were built, refitted and repaired. These were at the south end of the island, where the cliffs around the city fell sharply away and almost dangerously steep stairs were cut into the rock leading to the water. Heavy materials were hoisted by rope and pulley up the cliff-face. A few frigates stood out to sea, flying Yorkish and Bordeauxan flags.

The standout structure of the city, not in height but in sheer dominance, was the San Dillinger Royal Bank, also known as Her Majesty's Royal Bank of the Caribbean. There was nothing like it in Kingston, nor, Eli told India, on any of the other islands. India was impressed. So this was where all the flash coves kept their coin, he thought. He didn't blame them; with all the guards and those intimidating iron bars and those fat stone walls, the place was like a prison, except one firm on preventing anyone breaking _in_.

*

When they'd tired of walking the city, and watching a ship being built piece by piece in the shipyard (or rather, when their thirst and hunger had finally overpowered their interest), they entered a stone cellar that by the carved sign outside seemed to serve food and drink. There was nobody else inside; India guessed everyone was at work.

'What would you like?' India asked, as Eli flopped down by a table.

'Water,' Eli replied.

'And?'

'Um, I don't know. I don't mind.'

India got up and walked over to the greasy-haired old man rubbing an iron mug with a piece of cloth. 'Water, and a bottle of rum. And bread and soup and meat for two. Whatever's good,' he said. 'Please,' he added.

The old man peered down at him, and looked over at Eli. 'You're just kids,' he said, his voice rasping.

India stiffened. 'I am nearly fourteen. And he's fifteen.'

'That's what I said. Kids.'

'You won't serve us?'

'I won't serve you rum. Not a bottle of it at any rate. I ain't clearing up your sick.'

'I can hold my drink,' India said, crossing his arms. 'I've had it plenty.'

'Hmph. I'll be the judge of that.' The man looked him and Eli over once more then turned away. 'You'll get a quarter cup of rum between you, no more.' He span quickly back around. 'That's if you can pay? Can you?'

India withdrew the silver coin from his coat and placed it on the stone counter. The man's eyes lit up.

'That'll do sir,' he said, whipping the coin away and pocketing it before India had blinked. He grinned, a sickly looking expression with bad teeth. 'A quar – a _half_ cup of rum, water of course, and our two best meals for you both. I hope you enjoy them.'

'Thanks,' India said, wondering what the value of the coin was. He sat down opposite Eli, and felt a rush of dizziness. Thankfully, the man came back with mugs and a jug of water which, while warmer than they'd have liked, they gladly quaffed, refilled, and drank again.

The food arrived a suspiciously short amount of time later. If this was the cook's best, he'd hate to see their worst. Lumps of meat bobbed in a grey-green soup, with a loaf of crusty bread to share. India gobbled it up; it was food, right? And not too bad to the taste, neither . . .

Eli, who was used to finer foods, picked at it with a turned up nose. Eventually his hunger got the better of him and he settled in to eat, and neither of them spoke much until they were nearly done.

'Tell me about your father,' Eli said suddenly.

'Didn't I already tell you?' India said, his mouth full.

'Yes. But . . . tell me a story about him.'

India swallowed, and thought for a moment. 'Okay. My father was – _is_ – High Captain Wolfgang -'

'High Captain of what?' Eli interrupted.

'Just High Captain,' India said. 'Of everything. Of all the pirate fleets.'

'Your father was a pirate?'

India rolled his eyes. 'Of _course_ he was a pirate. Are you going to listen?'

'Yes, yes. Sorry.'

'People forget about him, think he's just a myth. But he's real. Maybe he's retired now, I don't know. It's been a long time. I'll have enough questions for him when I see him. Maybe when he meets me he'll take me on the Kraken with him.'

'The Kraken?'

'His ship. Huge and sleek, with a monstrous prow and rails cut like tentacles. It was the best ship that has ever been built. It could hold calentures – two on each side – and still be the fastest of its kind, it was so well-made.'

'How do you know? I mean, you haven't seen it.'

'It was described in the Book. I tried to draw it once, but I'm not a very good artist.'

'What book?'

'This story isn't getting very far.'

'Sorry.'

India tore off another piece of bread and leaned back. 'It's okay. I didn't really have one in mind. I mean, I know them, but I don't think I could tell them very well. I'd need the Book. That's . . . it's like a chronicle of my father, and his adventures. Mrs Wayles read it to me, before I'd learnt to read it for myself.'

'What's it called?'

'The Book. I don't know, it doesn't have a name. Or maybe the name got rubbed off over time. It's pretty old.'

Eli nodded, dipping a torn off piece of bread in the last of his soup. 'So it's a biography? I mean, it's not written by him?'

'No. I don't know who wrote it. But it's full of lots of things. Big battles and sailing in massive storms that killed half the crew. Laying siege to San Dillinger, right here, back when it was just a naval fort. Stories of Tortugal and taking on Yorkish men-o'-war. Stories of the south . . . of adventures in Gyptia and Barbary and Amazonia, and the swamps of Louisiana.' India's eyes had lit up. It was one of his favourite subjects, and he couldn't help but imagine it as he spoke, as he always did. 'It talked about other pirates too, like the Pirate King, you know, Ivory, and Bucklemeir Horn – he who had all that treasure and buried or hid it somewhere. My father sailed with both.'

'I thought that was a legend.'

'It is. Doesn't mean it ain't true.'

'Does it say where the treasure is?'

'Do you think it would? Come on, everyone would be after it! That'd be silly.'

'He probably wouldn't know himself.'

'Maybe. If anyone would it'd be my father. I'll have to ask him.'

'Do you have any idea where he might be?'

India frowned, and shook his head. 'If I keep my ears open, and keep my tongue wagging, I'll hear something eventually.'

Eli nodded. They stayed for a while, sharing the half cup of rum (not entirely equally; it made Eli's eyes water and funny noises come from his throat), India doing his best to retell stories from the Book. He waved his hands a lot, trying to capture, with more than an ounce of frustration, what had happened in the times when his father sailed the seas. His words turned to patterns drawn in the air with his hands, and finally he gave up, and the two of them talked about Captain Horn's treasure, and where it could be, how much it might come to, and what they'd spend it on.

'A house,' Eli said. 'That'd be the first thing. A big house, like the Crescent and Main's, except bigger and better.'

'Really?' India said, raising his eyebrow. 'I'd get a ship. Maybe I'd even have one _built_ for me.'

Eli smiled. 'What would it look like?' he asked.

India scratched his head, and began to explain, changing his mind over and over at every possible instance. He could see on Eli's face a mixture of patience, amusement, and almost disguised disbelief. No doubt he believed such a ship impossible, and maybe it was, but details could always be ironed out later. Right now India didn't care whether it seemed believable or not. It existed, it was there. In his head, it was there, as real as anything.

*

They returned to the western forest when the moon had risen, as Grimmer had suggested. Eli seemed a little fuzzy from the drink. For a long while they couldn't find the crew, and the woods seemed dense with silence. There was no music to be heard. The mist was particularly thick in places, almost swallowing them up, and at other times it seemed to run from them, opening up the forest to them in all its stark black emptiness.

It was definitely creepy. India didn't say so, but he was glad Eli was there, and he was fairly sure Eli felt the same. If it wasn't for the blue moonlight they'd have been bumping into trees and falling over roots. That almost happened a number of times anyway, as India was too busy watching the compass he'd taken from the ship to give enough heed to his surroundings. A number of times he had to be pulled back by Eli's grip on his sleeve.

By the time they found the crew they were disappointed to see the _danse macabre_ had ended, and the crew finishing changing into their original clothes. They'd both been hoping to catch the final steps.

'Good time in Dillinger?' Grimmer asked, donning his coat. Beside him Big Cage grunted as he hefted up the chest of fancy dress.

'It was alright,' India said.

'Ready to go back to the ship, I hope?'

'Aye.'

'Been drinking have you?'

'Aye,' Eli said.

'Well. Wouldn't be good for you to hang around any longer, not with the Kingston Guard after you. Before you know it there'll be posters with your face on here too, and a reward that'd tempt even me.'

'Really?' India raised his eyebrows. 'I don't think so. They wouldn't go to all that effort for us.'

'Lancer would,' Eli said.

'Hmm,' India said. They traipsed back to the boat, and were quiet as they were rowed out of the shore fog and onto the dark crystal sea.

They boarded the ship, the moon on them like a great bulbous eye. Eli retired immediately but India stayed up on deck, watching San Dillinger retreat from him, the dim, hazy lights of the city popping out of sight one by one, and he thought distantly about how he could ever find his father when there was so much world to find him in.

# ELEVEN

At first, the days seemed to go by terribly fast. But one day India woke up and found the day simply dragged and dragged, found the ship no longer cut through the waves but bobbed along like a floating tortoise, and there wasn't any land in sight, no ships, no surfacing whales or shark fins, hell, not even any _clouds_ in this big blue nothing, not one single thing to look at with his spyglass (India had asked to use it so often that Grimmer had given him his own one that hooked onto his belt). After that, every day and night had been the same, crawling by, and their destination seemed to only retreat from them the more time passed. Sometimes, swaying a little with the heat, India would wonder if Tortugal even existed, or if it did, whether they were going towards it, or the crew were keeping him as punishment for daring to be on their ship, dooming him to an endless voyage.

To keep himself busy, he asked members of the crew to teach him whatever they knew best, and between them all he and Eli learnt just about everything there was to know about ropes, sails, navigation, bilgework, ship repairs, swabbing the decks, fishing – and even card games and cooking. Some tasks, such as bigger repair work, anchoring and cannon operation, they couldn't really practise, but they were told about it anyway. There were dusty books in the hold they were pointed to, for further study. Eli reminded India all this was no replacement for experience, and Grimmer added that life on this ship was a good deal more relaxed than most others, but India felt pleased with himself (and a little self-important), especially when he helped out the crew.

It may have been the case that the ship could look after itself in many respects, and that the crew's work was more hobby than duty, done out of a mixture of habit, boredom and perhaps even some semblance of passion, but that didn't mean India didn't appreciate the opportunity to learn the skills (as well as relieve the monotony). It seemed like a number of steps closer to being a real pirate.

Early on some of the work had been frustrating, strewn with enough effort and failure to consider giving up (and a few times he had done). A lot of it had been just about backbreaking; pumping water from the lower bilges was the worst of it, as unpleasant a task as he'd ever had, but he tried to grit his teeth and not to complain (not that that always worked). For a few days Eli fell ill from exhaustion, and Grimmer commanded them both to rest and not to take on more than they could, and certainly not to try and match the efforts of the rest of the crew, who, he reminded them, were not just much older than them, but were long gone past the illness stage. India had grumbled, but passed out shortly after.

Eventually the two of them were doing a number of tasks independent of assistance or even supervision. India started to consider himself a learned and valuable sailor. He definitely felt stronger, more enduring of anything they could throw at him. He gripped his arms and was sure he could feel muscles where there hadn't been before.

As well as ship duties, which seemed to be affording him greater respect among the crew (perhaps even from Liver), India continued his sword practice. His arm hurt less and less after each session. He fought against a number of the crewmen, and two of them he actually managed to defeat, although he couldn't truly be sure if they'd let him win or not. Still, he was getting better, he knew it. He was getting _good._ Maybe not Devil Flynn good, he doubted he'd ever be at that level, but he was a damn deal better than he'd started – in fact, it was only since training that he had to admit to himself that he hadn't been at all proficient at the beginning. But what kid on Mexico Island really knew how to use a sword, or needed to?

India practised with a variety of types of sword, and each time it took a while to adjust to the different weight, grip and balance. The last one he was handed was a smaller kind of sabre, with a bruised look, a leather-wrapped grip and an unpolished brown guard. The blade was more grey than the shining silver he'd been used to, and covered in notches.

'It's yours, this one,' Grimmer said. 'You can keep it.'

'Thanks,' India said, and then added, 'What is this?'

'It's a dwarf cutlass.'

'This is a baby sword,' India complained, turning it about. 'It's like a big knife. And it's all old and worn and dull.'

'It's nothing of the sort,' Grimmer said. 'It fits you. You're not big enough for a longer blade. You're only thirteen for Davy Jones' sake.'

'I can handle bigger.'

'I know you can mate. But think about a big sword hanging from your belt, almost touching the ground. Think about running with it. Not to mention the weight of the thing – weight gets a lot heavier you know, over time. A few hours training a day is nothing. No, the rest are too big for you right now. There's nothing wrong with a shorter blade, mate. It might be dull, but give it a good rubbing and a good sharpening and it'll be good enough to cut hairs on. As for old and worn – what do you want, an innocent sword that's never said boo to a landlubber? A sword that will flinch in your hands? Or do you want a sword that knows what it's doing, a sword that's survived worse than you can imagine? Mate, this sword is older than you know. It fought Doradian corsairs at Echo Cove and on the decks of Ivory's Pirate Royale. It danced death on the Gyptian sands, and held off the Yorkish at the Battle of Tortugal. It sank into a swamp in Louisiana and was pulled out again still attached to its owner's hand.'

'What was that last bit again?'

'Practice with it mate. Trust me on this, I know swords and I know people.'

'Okay. Thank you.' India gave it a wave, and then made a few movements with it.

'See? It'll be best your friend in no time.'

'What about a pistol?' India grinned.

'Try again in a few years.'

India did a spin, ending point thrust out. 'Did you give anything to Eli?'

'I gave him a knife. Aye, that's smaller than yours . . . I can't say that he wanted it, but I told him he'd feel better if he had at least something to defend himself with.'

'I'll defend him.'

'I'm sure you will. I'll leave you alone to get better acquainted.'

'Alright.' India slashed away. He understood. All the previous heavier swords had been used to build his strength. This was light and manoeuvrable, something just for him. It was his sword. _His_ sword. Not just something to train with. Something he could carry, on land and on sea, something to fight with, something to _cut_ with, something to _ki –_

India stopped and looked at the sword for a long while, before putting it in his belt and walking away.

*

India and Eli did a lot of their ship's duties together, and spent time talking in their cabin. India couldn't place his finger on it, but there was something about Eli that gave him a twinge of – what was it? Fear? It was like a sense of loss, or confusion. India couldn't understand it. Was this what it was to really care about someone? It felt like something from Eli, something he carried inside him, was reaching across and touching India, infecting him.

Sometimes India thought Eli had a sad look on his face (more so than usual), and once or twice perhaps even pained. India asked him but Eli had simply shaken his head, his black hair flopping on his face, and forced a smile, and said he couldn't explain it, he just couldn't. India pressed, and Eli said sometimes it felt like there was something gnawing away inside him. Some kind of deep worry, or hurt.

'About what?' India asked.

'About everything', Eli replied. 'Grimmer says I'm just growing into a man.'

After that, all Eli would say was, 'I don't know. I don't know.'

*

Out of all the places on the ship, there were only two spots he never visited. One was Blackbone's private cabin. The other was up at the helm, the area right by the ship's wheel. It was the latter that held the most fascination to India.

The wheel was almost always held steady, but every so often India caught it turning, as though with ghostly hands. It was then that he was most conscious of the otherworldly presence on the ship – or the spirit of the ship itself. It was something impossible to explain, even more so than a crew of walking, talking skeletons. At least you could _see_ them.

He'd tried to approach the wheel ever since his first voyage, en route to Kingston. When he'd stepped up to the helm a chill had descended upon him, and an immediate unease. As he approached the wheel the chill turned quickly to frost, an icy pain in his bones and in his head. Black flashes came before his eyes, and he screwed them tight to try and block them out. When he'd opened his eyes, he found he had walked away from the wheel.

He tried once more on the journey to San Dillinger, but the effect had been the same. Once again, he had been consumed by cold dread and black flashes before his eyes, and he'd ended up back on the main deck.

A long way into the voyage to Tortugal (who knew how many days, or weeks), he'd volunteered for a night watch, as unnecessary as it was. The day just gone had been brutally hot, with nary a scrap of wind to either cool them or propel the ship out of its lazy drift. The night too was unmerciful, and it was difficult to say which was the more oppressive atmosphere: the crew's quarters, where they were all currently holed up sleeping or playing Dead Man's Hand (a popular card game among the crew), or above decks, where the black sky beat down on black water, and the air was like breathing in hot, dry salt.

During the night shift, when nobody else seemed to be about, India, with a sudden determination and resolve, approached the wheel once more. The chill turned quickly to frost that was as dreadful as it had been the first time, but he kept on going. Then the black flashes, but he pushed through them too and continued, with his teeth grinding and tears in his eyes. He had to _try_.

He took one final step, and fell forward. His hands gripped the wheel.

The pain fell away, but in its place was horror and despair. He saw death, the death of everyone and everything. He saw Devil Flynn, full of bullet-holes and covered in blood, with Lancer standing over him gloating, before he too collapsed from some unknowable end. He saw Salia, lying on her bed and strangled, her eyes open and glassy. He saw Eli, his throat cut on a golden street. He saw Grimmer beaten with rocks by faceless creatures, his skull the last thing pounded to dust and blown away in the wind. Mrs Wayles and Mr Bassard, Treymeir Main and Jone Crescent, Dessica and Spares, Skiv the Ratboy . . .

All dead and dying.

His whole body was trembling, and he was dimly conscious of his eyes rolling up in his sockets. Finally his vision went dark and grey, but before he could gasp in relief out of that sifting greyness came the black eyes of Davy Jones.

India cried out, and pushed his body to move. He felt a rush of wind, and the sudden agonising jerk of his limbs, as though he was being moved like a puppet, without care for joints and muscles. Something hit his head hard.

He opened his eyes, not knowing he'd ever closed them. He was lying on the main deck of the ship. Above him, the ship's wheel, a spoked circle of black. It had its eye fixed on him.

India lay there for a while before shakily getting to his feet. 'Don't worry,' he said to the wheel. 'I won't be doing that again.'

He shuddered, and walked to the other end of the ship to finish the rest of his shift. There he saw Sockets, sat down and staring at him.

'Learned your lesson,' Sockets said.

'Yeah,' India said. 'Don't touch the wheel.'

'Ever.'

'Ever,' confirmed India, holding onto the rail for support.

*

The first thing they saw was Nassar.

It appeared in the distance like a dark needle in the morning. Nothing but a strange spike that seemed to come from nothing, risen from the ocean; it could have been anything, the broken mast of a ship, an ocean obelisk, or some dead monster floating on the waves, a single tentacle aloft and frozen stiff. An inexplicable mirage.

The needle became a thimble, and then it was a spearhead thrust up from the earth where it was born. As the hours passed, Nassar grew and grew, and around it the island grew from its roots and came into being.

The sight did not become commonplace; India did not become accustomed to it. In fact, the closer they sailed the more incredible it became. India's mouth dropped only further open. Now it was a cragged black pyramid, a monstrous monolith that pointed to the heavens and curried favour with capricious gods of island and sea.

India shivered looking at it through his spyglass. It must have been the greatest waypoint in the Caribbean. Pirates and scoundrels gravitated towards it, while Yorkish vessels and honest merchants kept it at distance. India could see why, with its sharp slopes and its single, brutal point. If ever there was a vision to frighten the innocent and the fearful, it was Mount Nassar.

India lowered the glass. The island around the mountain could now be observed with the naked eye. It was a jungle, but unlike those on Kingston or Mexico Island. Perhaps it was just the setting sun, which seemed to turn everything aglow. The mass of foliage was powerfully vivid. If there was such a thing as bloody green, it was here. It was as though the plants themselves were leaking colour, spilling their chlorophyll innards over the land like paint. In patches, the jungle seemed tremendously dark, the foliage as one turned over to some black impulse – or perhaps it was nothing but shadow.

Around the jungle were lights, springing up one by one as the evening took on. The pirate haven of Tortugal blinked itself out of the darkness.

There were jetties and walkways, and many huts, sprawling from one side of the island to another. Flag-waving wooden towers poked from the jungle, and large birds of red-and-black plumage soared in circles around them, before lighting on their roofs. Some structures climbed up the foot of Nassar, as far as they could go before the mountain defeated them. Tortugal was made of wood and thatch and rope; little stone or metal could be seen, beyond the glint of cannons.

There were no roads, but there were paths that cut through the jungle, leading towards clusters of huts that jostled for dominance with the wild spirits of the island. This was no Kingston, where civilisation and nature were entirely separated. And this was no San Dillinger, where the greenery fought to return, and was barely kept at bay. Here, the works of red-hearted men and women were as much the jungle as the palms and the creepers and the hooting of the monkeys whose sounds already carried over the waves, rising above the angry and joyous chaos that was the humanity of Tortugal.

And the ships. What ships there were! The docks might not have been a tenth as busy as Kingston, but those vessels anchored nearby made India flush with excitement. India turned to Eli, who had come to his side, and beamed at him. ' _Look_ at them!' India breathed.

He put the spyglass to his eye again. Each ship seemed to be a different size and shape and colour. There were brown-boarded ships (that would have seemed ordinary if not for their unique designs) and those of deepest black. There were redwoods and bluewoods and greywoods; there was even a huge black-and-purple-boarded vessel next to one of dark seaweed green. Brigs and nimble schooners shared waters with powerful frigates and galleons. There was even a man-o'-war – the black-and-purplewood with its towering masts and calentures and mortars visible on deck.

Decorating the pirate vessels were figureheads of skulls and skeletons and sirens, and every sea monster that had ever come into legend; India spotted a Salt Chimera and a Hydra, and on one of the bluewoods the prow was adorned with twin Water Dragons entwined with each other.

'Wish I was seeing it with new eyes.' Grimmer came up beside them and leaned over the rail. 'Or any eyes at all.'

India lowered the spyglass. He'd been in a world of his own and had paid little attention to their own ship, the lazily called orders falling deaf on his ears, and the bustle around him invisible. Now he saw that the sails had been lowered and they'd stopped moving. They'd come in at an easterly angle to the island and anchored a little way out. All the other ships were to their west.

'Where do you put in?' India said, his voice breaking. He coughed. 'Where do you put in?' he said again, deepening his voice.

'Not far from the main docks,' Grimmer answered. 'There's a smaller one a little further to the east we'll row to.' He pointed. 'That's right, we get a real dock this time, instead of just a beach. Well, we get a jetty.'

'Doesn't anyone see you?'

'Ah, didn't I mention? Tortugal might be the only place in the Caribbean where we can be around the living. Or at least a stone's throw from them.'

'Really? Aren't they scared?'

'I'm sure many of them are. Pirates, _real_ pirates are different from the average man or woman, you see. Real pirates know the dead well. Not that they like to speak of such things. I'm not saying we mingle. They're still a superstitious lot, likely more so – a different kind of superstition to folks like those in Kingston, though. We generally keep out of each other's way. We have our own place, the Dead Sea Inn, up past our jetty, on the slopes of Nassar. Most of the scurves who put in at Tortugal don't mind us sharing the same island. And those that do usually keep away out of fear. Usually. Sometimes there's a little trouble, but then that's Tortugal for you.'

'How long will we be there?'

'We? It'll be a full nine weeks before the ship leaves,' Grimmer said. 'This is our time off, so to speak.'

'That's some break,' India said, relishing the thought of staying. 'What if you're not on the ship when the nine weeks is up?'

'She'll take off without us,' Grimmer said. 'It's happened before. Happened with me, remember? And more than once with Spares. All I can say is, if you wake up after a heavy night and see the ship sailing off without you, you better be a damn fast rower.'

*

They approached the jetty in their rowboats as the sunken sun put the horizon aflame. Small clouds had arrived near the eastern heights of Mount Nassar. They looked like a flock of bruised arrowheads. To the western sky, a large orange seabird, bobbing in the darkening blue. Neither patch of cloud could get any closer to Nassar. As they drifted in towards its indomitable bulk they dissipated, as though pushed back by some invisible force.

They disembarked and tied the boats to posts, and set off up an ascending path holding lit torches as the dark jungle and its chitters and hoots and growls closed in around them. In the distance, laughter and rage. Here, only the wild.

*

The Dead Sea Inn was a squat building of glazed dark brown wood; if not for the reddish-orange light glowing from the windows it would have appeared black. Palm trees arched back from the entrance, so bent over they were crooked, as though struggling to uproot away from the place where the dead dwelled and chorused.

The door opened not with a long, slow creak, as India had expected, but in complete silence. From within, an interior of the same glazed wood was lit by flickering scarlet and amber lamps that competed with each other, tangerine and vermillion blooms throwing shadows of bones to mutely rattle on the walls.

There were skeletons standing in every corner, sitting on every seat; they had all turned to their entry and there was a terrible quiet as they stared at India.

India swallowed. 'Um, hello,' he said. Eli stood just behind him, peering white-faced over his shoulder.

'Ahoy mateys!' Grimmer pushed past them and opened his arms out wide. 'Did you miss me?'

There was a roar from the jolly rogers inside the inn, as they thrust up their mugs to Grimmer's entrance. As the other crewmembers filed in, skeletons rose up from their seats and ambled over to greet them, and within seconds their party had dissipated, absorbed into the throng of the inn.

'Drinks for the Crew of the Dead!' someone called.

'You buying?' India heard the voice of Spares yell, from somewhere in the crowd.

'Grimm, you old bones,' said another voice, 'remember me?'

'Who you calling old Mack? You're four hundred!' Grimmer clapped his hand on the other skeleton's shoulder.

'Three hundred and ninety eight I'll have you know! And I don't look a day over two hundred.'

'Is that what your wife tells you? Where is Tibia?'

Mack jerked his head at the stairs. 'Don't ask mate, don't ask.' He nodded at India and Eli, who were sticking close to Grimmer. 'So who're these fleshers then? They don't look like our usual patrons, not even the few ones with meat still on 'em. For a start, they don't seem drunk. You're not drunk are you boys?'

'Not yet,' India said. Mack guffawed and slapped him on the back. 'I like him!'

Grimmer straightened his back and raised his newfound drink. He clanked his fingers against his mug and then threw his head back. 'OY YOU TERRIBLE BUNCH!'

The Dead Sea Inn quietened as the others turned to Grimmer.

'It is my pleasure for me and the rest of my crew to introduce you to this here India Bones and Eli Manson,' he said. 'I'd say they saved me from death, but as you can see it's been a bit late for that!' Laughter followed his words. 'Aye, but they've done near enough. We picked up Master Bones on account of an accident – Spares I'm looking at you!'

'You drunk bastard Spares!' someone called out, and they laughed again as Spares, who had come to Grimmer's side, took a bow.

'Anyhow,' Grimmer continued. 'He's been sailing with us till this point, and Master Manson not long after – they're on the run from the Kingston Governor -'

'Piss on Kingston!' boomed a large skeleton at the back, to an accompanying roar of agreement.

'- and he's been as good company as you could hope for from a flesher. Sorry,' Grimmer said, putting a hand to his teeth guiltily, 'I mean a living body.'

'And if anybody gives either of these two a hard time on account of them still being alive,' Dessica said, striding over with hands on her pelvis, 'they'll answer to me!'

'And me!' Big Cage rumbled.

'So let's show them our best,' Grimmer said. 'Let's show these two landlubbers how we do things at the Dead Sea Inn!'

The nearly deafening response to this gave India chills, and he noticed Eli take a step back. Mugs were clanked together, and the lights seemed to burn brighter, fiercer. A jolly roger stood on top of the bar top with a fiddle in his hands, kicking his feet out as he played. A heavy-set skeleton in the corner banged down on a drum he clutched, and the booms reverberated through the building.

India was passed around from group to group, to lone, staggering individuals and back to cheering groups. He stood, he sat, and he danced. He held company with groaning skeletons huddled around a light in the corner and smoking. He banged mugs with those with dented skulls and crushed ribs. He laughed with those sporting gold chains and long-flowing headscarves decorated with Gyptian beasts. He had been parted from Eli and Grimmer as soon as Grimmer's speech had ended, but he saw them on occasion, before the tides of the inn shifted once more and new skulls greeted him. He told his story over and over, increasingly changing or embellishing details. A skeleton hung by his legs from a huge ship's wheel suspended horizontally from the ceiling; he tried to drink upside down, spilling most of it on a trio who threw things at him in return.

'I – I – need to find . . . my father,' India said to the room at large. 'Wolfgang Bones. He's . . . somewhere.'

'Somewhere here?' A blurry skull said.

'Or somewhere there?' another said.

'Maybe he's nowhere.' A thin skull stared at him.

'Or everywhere,' the first (maybe?) grinned.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. 'You alright India?'

'Mm,' India replied. He took a sip from his mug. 'It's been a long . . . a long . . .'

'Day?'

'A long time.' India felt a rush of tiredness. 'I think I need to lie down. Just for a minute. Where's . . . Eli?'

'I am Eli.'

'Oh. Hello. I thought you were dead.'

'Go upstairs mate,' a skeleton said. India squinted, and figured it might have been Grimmer.

'Upstairs?'

'There's beds for you and Eli. I sorted it all out. Come on, follow me.'

'Just for a minute.'

'Aye lad, just for a minute. This way. Come on now. No, no, this way. Up the stairs. There we go. One step. Now the next one. That's the first one again. That's the first one again. There we go. I'm sure we'll be there in an hour or two.'

'Are you real?'

'Aye. I'm real enough.'

# TWELVE

India woke up to a fire in his eyes and an ape playing a drum inside his skull. He groaned and rolled over, and fell off the bed.

'Shank,' he said, and groped blindly at the air.

'Looking for something?' Eli looked down at him, amused.

'My self-respect,' India said.

'I think that's long gone. Here, come on now.' Eli took India's hand and tried to lift him up, but he was a dead weight.

'No, no,' India said. 'Leave me here to die.'

'Alright,' Eli said, letting him slump back to the floor. 'I don't know if you can smell it yet, but a couple of the jolly rogers are cooking rashers and beans and potato. There's also rum-laced juice and black tea and bread, and syrup tarts I think, if that's what they are. They'll be gone soon I imagine, but I'm sure there'll be at least something left if you come down later. Some broth, maybe. Anyway, see you in a few hours. I'm starving.'

'Okay, okay, alright, fine,' India said, getting to his feet with a grunt and looking around for his coat and his sword. 'I'm coming, you bastard.'

'Don't exert yourself, I'm sure I can eat for the both of us.'

'I'm up! You're slowing me down!'

*

India ate a greasy, salty, and sugary breakfast to the good company of the Dead Sea Inn, and began to feel a bit better. The atmosphere was much quieter and more subdued than last night, but pleasantly so. India couldn't handle the thought of any more shouts and songs and raucous shenanigans. He resolved for an easy day, starting with going back to sleep, then maybe later venturing outside the inn and lying on the beach by the jetty under the shade of a tree.

Grimmer had other ideas though, and together with Eli encouraged (pushed out the door) India to leave the inn straight away and explore the more 'alive' area of Tortugal.

'Go on,' Grimmer had said. 'Make some more friends.'

'I don't want friends, I want sleep,' India had replied.

'Out, out. This is no time to play dead. Go be with your own kind for a spell. We'll still be here in the evening if you need a bed.'

'So kind.'

And so India found himself blinking in the warm light with Eli by his side, his boots crunching into white sand and rainbow-coloured parrots squawking above their heads. In the distance, the soft roar of the ocean. Behind them, the door of the inn was closed firm, shutting out the strange memories of the night before. It was hard to believe any of it had happened – the world of soft red and amber and rattling bones and dancing shadows was gone; here was a clear, bright world of light and water and sand, of muddy paths and long green fronds, spiky plants and dark purple lizards that darted so quickly about it was a while before they could even tell what they were.

They walked down the jungle path and then along the edge of the beach towards the beating heart of Tortugal. The throngs of huts and towers, walkways and rope bridges drew closer. It was quiet at this time, lone pirates shuffling across, keeping where they could to the scattered shade. The sun seemed to hang fat and lazy over them, slowly lowering its waterline of shadow and drenching the jungle town in a heady yellow. Steamy vapours drifted from the trees and from alcoves of stake and thatch came coughs and mutters. With each step India took the town seemed to lurch before him; twice he checked down to make sure he was walking on land, and not floating on the waves.

Tortugal spoke to him inside his head. The voice was sibilant, purring, not Yorkish in words but communicating ideas, pictures. It was the voice of the jungle, of swords and ships, of a world drenched in rum and blood, with the caws of parrots overhead and the brush of ferns against the skin, and thick-furred spiders crawling up your legs.

India shivered. They stopped, wondering where to go. Pirates passed them, giving them slow-blinking glances from below cocked hats and tied bandanas. Their faces were dark and rough, often dirty. Some had coal-blacked eyes to protect them from the sun, men and women both. Swords and pistols swung at their hips, heavy boots tramped the ground; the packed earth was a mosaic of crossing footprints.

'I can't believe we're in in _Tortugal_ ,' Eli said, in an awed whisper.

'Come on, let's get in the shade,' India said, feeling the sweat running down his back. He took off his coat and moved between two buildings. He could see the sea from here, and the tall coloured ships like sentinels on the water.

'Where do we go now?' Eli asked.

'A drink. Anywhere for a drink.'

'I have no money on me.'

'Shank,' India said. 'We might have to -' He was interrupted by something sharp poking against his back: the point of a blade.

'Don't move, either of you,' a low voice came from behind. 'I've got my pistol on the both of you.'

'What do you want?' India said, his body stiff.

'Everything you've got.'

'Nothing is what we've got.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes,' India said. He glanced at Eli, who had his eyes closed and wasn't saying a word.

'Well, it'll just have to be the other thing then,' the voice growled.

India swallowed. 'What's that?' he asked, feeling he knew the answer. _Not now, not after all this._

'Why, a drink with an old friend!' The voice exclaimed, suddenly lighter and jubilant in tone. The point of the sword fell from India's back.

India turned. ' _Devil Flynn!_ ' he gaped. 'You, you . . .!'

'Handsome devil? Excellent trickster?' Devil Flynn grinned, stepping forward from the shadows and bowing. Then he embraced India in a hug and reached out his hand to Eli, whose face was making its journey from tense fear to confused relief. 'I don't believe we've been properly introduced,' Flynn said.

'Um,' Eli said.

India took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. 'Eli, this is Devil Flynn, you remember, he saved us from Lancer.'

'I remember . . .'

'Flynn, this is Eli Manson. My friend. He used to be servant in the Crescent-Main household.'

Eli wrinkled his nose. 'Less of the "servant".'

'Lancer Main aye?' Flynn said, letting go of Eli's hand after a thorough shake. 'I've been meaning to ask you about that whole business. Did you make friends with Miss Crescent?'

'Salia? Yeah.'

'She's an interesting one, isn't she?'

'She is . . . Flynn, how in the hell did you _get_ here? Did you know we were coming here?'

'I knew nothing of the sort. Isn't it brilliant? Coincidence, you fanciful thing! Still, I suppose rogues like us gravitate to a place like this.' Flynn leaned against the hut wall. 'I couldn't stay in Kingston any more, could I? Not since the Governor and all his dogs were out to get me. I got myself in some sticky water saving you, I can tell you!'

'I'm sorry,' Eli said. 'Thank you for what you did.'

Flynn brushed it aside. 'It was a pleasure sticking it to that brat. It gave me the push I needed, too. Kingston is far too . . . _proper_ . . . to hold an intrepid and adventurous fellow like me. I took passage on a ship first chance I got. I've been here a while now, making myself known. What took you so long? Seeing the sights?'

'They didn't catch you then?' India said. 'I'm glad you're alright.'

'Catch the Devil? Not at all, my friend. I called in one or two favours, you know, with the local _amours_. Terribly cheap price to pay for room and board to Tortugal. Terribly cheap. And quite confidential, of course.'

'What ship from Kingston sails to Tortugal?'

'That was one of the favours,' Flynn smiled. 'I am, after all, a man of great influence.'

India shook his head. 'I'll bet.'

Flynn clapped his hands together. 'My dear boys, why are we standing idly around chitchatting in the heat when we could be cooler inside, sipping the wild excuses for drinks they have here. I know just the place. They were awful for a while, but I taught them how to mix proper drinks and now I'm quite favoured.'

'Lead the way matey,' India said, suppressing a laugh.

'And may I also add, you're looking a little finer than you did when we first met? I see Miss Salia taught you how to dress and brush your hair somewhat. Even if both those things have clearly fallen a little astray over your voyage. I would have mentioned your new threads at our last meeting but it hadn't seemed the opportune time.'

Eli stared at India behind Flynn's back and India shrugged, grinning.

*

They entered the Red Hook a few minutes later, a large black-boarded building with the sign half-falling off from bent nails. Inside, India and Eli squinted, trying to adjust their eyes to the sudden darkness. They glimpsed shrouded faces judging them. India knew the quiet had fallen as soon as they had entered.

Their vision improved at the same time as the patrons as one began to talk amongst themselves. Flynn led them to the bar, where the heavily-built and tattooed barwoman opened her arms out wide in greeting.

'The Devil!' she exclaimed, beaming. 'The usual?'

'And for my friends, please Jill,' Flynn said. 'And remember what I told you, don't forget the lime!'

Jill rolled her eyes. 'Lime, lime.'

'And the ice.'

'Of course the ice. The bloody ice. How long have you been coming here?'

'Aren't my drinks popular?'

' _My_ drinks Devil, and don't you forget it.' Jill shook her head and turned her back to them, setting bottles and mugs out before her.

'Still no glass?' Flynn said, eyebrows raised.

'Stop asking,' Jill said. 'You're drinking out of mugs.'

'Mugs, honestly,' Flynn muttered to India and Eli, putting his back to the bar. 'Might as well serve them in a bowl.'

'Do you know any of these people?' India asked, nodding at the crowd. He turned to the door to see two more come in, a grizzled man in an eyepatch and a tall woman with scarlet hair pouring from a Doradian-style feathered pirate hat.

'Do I _know_ any of these people? My dear friend, I know everyone.'

'Hey, everyone went quiet when _we_ walked in. Nobody even turned to the door this time.'

'Everyone didn't go quiet, that's just your paranoia speaking,' Flynn said. 'The red-head who just came in, that's Bonnie May, Bonnie the Red. Great woman, great woman. Had a very interesting life. Don't get into an argument with her.'

Flynn stretched his back and turned at the clink of mugs. He thanked Jill and dropped coins into her hand. 'Have a taste of that, compadres,' he said.

India and Eli sipped cautiously from their mugs, then looked up smiling.

'See?' Flynn said. He stroked his face and looked out over the room. 'Those two over there, the man with the pistols all over him and the cocky stance, that's Fast Eddie. He's the fastest shot in the Caribbean. At least he says he is. The other gent, the slender, almost-well-dressed one with the waxed moustache, that's Quarter Rackle. Can be a sly fellow but a good quartermaster I've heard. Never wanted to be anything other, hence the name.'

'You learn people fast,' India said.

Flynn shrugged. 'I like to know people. And they like to know me. Let's see, who else of any note . . .'

At that moment, there was a heavy thud as the doors banged against the walls. A huge man with a heavy beard and mismatched eyes stood framed in the sunlight. 'The Governor of Kingston is dead!' he roared. 'Treymeir Main is dead!'

Silence reigned for all of three seconds, before the place erupted. Everybody had sprung to their feet and questions and exclamations filled the room.

' _Dead_?'

'How?'

' _Treymeir Main_?'

'Thank shank!'

'You sure mate?'

'Praise Davy Jones, the scurve is a goner!'

'What about the son?'

'How did it _happen_?'

'About shankin' time!'

'Somebody finally put a sword to him?'

'What's your source, Bill?'

'You come from Kingston?'

'This calls for a drink!'

'Ten drinks!'

'Long live Tortugal!'

'Permission to console the widow!'

'I'm sailing there right now, who's with me?'

'He'll see me in hell!'

'QUIET!'

Everybody stopped talking, and moved aside as Bonnie the Red confronted the newsbearer.

'Alright Bill,' she said in a lower tone, her hands on her hips. 'How did he die?'

'Heart attack, Bonnie,' he said. 'Aye, I've come from there. No, I think his son still be alive.

'Shame!' a voice called out.

'And you're sure?' Bonnie said, raising an eyebrow.

'Sure as sure is,' Bill said. 'It's the word all over Kingston. They'll be holding a funeral.'

'Are we invited?' Fast Eddie said, to the accompaniment of laughter. He was spinning one of his pistols in his hands.

'Well,' Bonnie said, tilting her hat back. 'Let's hope the next governor ain't as bad.'

'It'll be that rat son of his,' a pirate all in black growled.

'Whoever,' Bonnie said. 'Time's not for anticipating. Time's for celebrating one less Yorkish pirate-hating miser, and good riddance!'

There was a unanimous cheer from everyone in the room. India and Eli looked at each other, stunned, then lifted their mugs tentatively up with the others.

'To better times to come for every man and woman who sails the black!' someone else yelled, and there was another cheer and toast.

'That means pirates,' Flynn said in India's ear.

'Yeah, I know,' India said. He took a gulp of his drink. 'I can't believe he's gone.'

'I won't miss him,' Eli said, his face hard.

'You'd have known him better than most,' Flynn commented.

'I did.'

They looked up from their drinks to see Bonnie May standing on top of the centre table, holding her mug aloft. She opened her mouth and began to sing, not a beautiful voice but definitely a bold one, and before the second line had begun just about everyone in the Red Hook bar Flynn, India and Eli (none of whom knew the words) had joined in with rambunctious enthusiasm.

The chorus was simple enough, and soon even the trio of friends were singing along, caught up in the mad sentiment to what appeared to be the anthem of Tortugal.

#### Sail away York, sail away

Don't come back another day

Your flags are on fire today

Sail away York, sail away

'What's it mean?' Eli asked, when the song eventually ended and the pirates resumed drinking.

'New here, are you?' They turned to see Quarter Rackle bent over the bar, looking over at them with interest.

'Aye,' India said.

'I've been here a short while,' Flynn said. 'I do believe we've met.'

'Yes, Flynn, I know,' Quarter Rackle said. 'And your friends?'

'Escaped from Kingston and the clutches of the villainous Mains,' Flynn said, puffing himself up. 'With my help.'

Rackle raised his brow. 'Is that so? I bet you have some story to tell, don't you boys?'

'My name's India Bones. And this is Eli Manson.'

'Well, you won't be the first here to escape from Kingston, nor to run afoul of Treymeir Main. You will have guessed from the reception to his death that he wasn't a popular man in Tortugal. But a story like yours will go far towards making you accepted here, maybe even liked. If it is true, of course.'

'It is as true as every hair on my head!' Flynn cried.

Rackle smiled. 'Indeed, indeed.'

'It is true,' India said, eyes narrowing.

'I used to work for the Crescent-Mains,' Eli added. 'I can give you as much detail as you want.'

'I believe you kid,' Rackle said. 'Will you all settle down? Don't mind my manner. How did the two of you get here?' He beckoned at India and Eli. 'Did you come in with Bill Timber? No, no, he wouldn't have taken you . . .'

'We came in on the Ship of the Dead,' India said. Beside him Flynn winced.

Rackle's eyes opened wide, and then he grinned, saying nothing.

'We've just from the Dead Sea Inn,' India continued. 'I can name you the whole crew, if you like. Grimmer, Dessica, Spares, Blackbone, Hairless, Big Cage, erm, Sockets, Liver, Cold Shoulder . . .'

Rackle put his hand up. 'Okay,' he said, looking at them with a good deal more curiosity now. He stroked his moustache with a finger. 'You are speaking to one of the few pirates who has occasionally visited the Dead Sea Inn, and spent a little time with the crew. Admittedly when drunk. You seem to be able to name more than I can, which is very peculiar, especially for a newcomer. I think I will venture there again soon, and see for myself. Hear it from the skull's mouth, so to speak.'

'If you must,' India said.

Rackle took a drink, eyeing them over the rim of his mug. 'And yet you don't know our song,' he said, putting the drink back down on the bar. 'You don't know where it comes from. You're not pirates, are you?'

'We could be,' India said.

'I assure you,' Flynn said, 'we are scoundrels.'

'It is the Song of the Battle of Tortugal,' Rackle said. 'And it happened when you were just babes, if you were even born at all. I was fresh-faced myself, some way from being the quartermaster I'd stay from then on. They were the years when Ivory led our fleets, and we gave York more hell to pay than we ever do now. No matter that we won the battle, times still change.'

Rackle took another drink, and sighed. 'York came for us, came for Tortugal. So many ships on both sides. We had cannons and calentures fortified on the slopes of Nassar. Haven't touched them since. The Pirate Royale commanded our side like some great unstoppable beast – oh, you should have seen it then. Magnificent. Giant. That was Ivory's ship. A couple of the ships out in the bay were there that day. The Sea Ghoul. The Talisman.

'The fight went on and on. Whole ships destroyed. Tortugal shelled. Eventually though, eventually . . .' An irrepressible grin stole over Rackle's face. 'The Yorkish ships retreated, the Pirate Royale chasing them off. You should have heard the cheers that day, I thought we'd deafen the gods. Our black flags flapping in the breeze – raised on every ship, and all over Tortugal. Someone shouted "Sail away York, sail away" and another added 'don't come back another day'. Every scurve here will tell you it was them.'

Rackle sank back into his seat, his smile fading. 'At every moment we expected Ivory to turn and sail back, triumphant. The Pirate King. "Making a full job of it" somebody would laugh. "See them over the horizon." We waited for him to return. Of course he would. Why wouldn't he?'

'He never came back,' India murmured, filling the sudden pause.

Quarter Rackle shrugged. He stood up. 'A pleasure meeting you both. Flynn.' He touched two fingers to his brow and strode off.

# THIRTEEN

They stayed at the Red Hook for a long time, playing cards (or trying to – only Flynn was any good), talking with other patrons and hearing their stories, and telling their own in return. Both Quarter Rackle and Bonnie the Red visited the Dead Sea Inn to confirm their accounts, as well as an ancient looking pirate and an ohdwaa called Old Neg. By the end of the day, everyone in the inn knew and at least half-believed their tale. By the end of the week, the whole island did.

They took board with Flynn above a not entirely reputable place (but then where here was) known as the Blue Carbuncle. India had moved to go back to the Dead Sea Inn, but Eli had discouraged him, telling him that he didn't think Grimmer really wanted them staying there, or at least thought it best that they didn't. 'I don't think the living and the dead are supposed to mix,' he told India. 'At least not here. Not to the extent of sleeping together.'

They spent the days making acquaintances with the pirates on the island, and exploring both the "civilisation" of Tortugal and the jungle beyond. They tried hiking up the black slopes of Nassar, before the incline rose so steep and dangerous that they were forced to descend. They picked fruit in the jungle, lazed on hammocks, and sometimes helped with the unloading and loading of goods at the docks, and the movement of food and drink and other items to the Dead Sea Inn, for which they had become a bit of a go-between. Under the tutelage of Flynn (who seemed to be a very quick learner), and sometimes the insider explanations of Quarter Rackle, they learned a great deal about life on Tortugal, the businesses that ran there, the ships in the bay and their crews, and the professions, interests and personalities of the people involved.

Pirates weren't just pirates, India realised. Far from it. They were sailors and merchants, riggers and navigators, accountants, tradesmen, smiths and carpenters, tailors and drapers, barkeeps and cooks, swabbers and broomers, builders and shipwrights, gunners and brawlers, haulers and hoarders, card sharps and musicians, divers and climbers, trackers, hunters and whalers, surgeons and shamans, gunfighters and warriors, and, of course, drunkards, thieves, criminals and murderers. Some were ex-navy, some ex-army, some ex-shipping, some ex-slaves, and some had never done a day's honest work in their lives (if there was anywhere such a thing as honest work). They could be in it for the gold, the drink, the rebellion, the freedom, the hunt, the sport, the glory, the fight, the apathy, the brutality, or all of them combined. They were fierce and they were friendly, they were passionate and they were lazy, they were full of laughter and full of rage. There were women and men and ohdwaas, those barely out of youth and the old and wizened; there were Yorkish-born, Doradians, Bordeauxans, Barbaryans, and many indigenous to the Caribbean and whose ancestors had always lived in these waters. There were people from countries India knew nothing about. There were even a few Chinese, a people India had never seen before, and a single, strange-spoken Zealander.

On the third day they visited the ragtag emporium of local, traded, and stolen goods known as Barbary Anne's, and Flynn bought India and Eli new boots. Flynn bemoaned Anne's selection, but India and Eli both couldn't have been more pleased with the new piratical footwear. A few days later Flynn presented Eli with a new coat – a swish black number that India was instantly jealous of, despite still being rather proud of the one Grimmer had given him. He was satiated somewhat when Flynn bought him a pendant he'd had his eye on for a while: an Aztec skull design with silver chain, which India immediately donned next to his sun pendant and never took off.

India's most active time was spent sword training with Flynn. He was determined now to get better and better. He was amazed when, sweating profusely, he actually won one bout, the point held to Flynn's throat. 'Well done sir,' Flynn had said, stepping back. 'I will now shift my game up to thirty-five percent. _En garde_!'

After the first month, it seemed the rumours of their involvement with the Ship of the Dead were doubling back on themselves, first carried off the island with ships' crews and then returned by others sailing in, with a new level of awe and mythical embellishments. India realised they were fast becoming a small legend, spreading over the entire Caribbean, and maybe further still. He calmed himself by talking to Eli, who reminded him that tall tales and strange rumours cropped up and died all the time in these waters, and theirs probably wouldn't last.

The pirates who put in at Tortugal talked about 'the boys who sailed with the dead' – a phrase they would hear again and again. India heard himself referred to – and more than once addressed – as the Ghost Boy. There were descendants of the original inhabitants of this island living amongst the pirates, and they gave him the name Limbo, judging him with respect (and slight fear) as one who could pass between the realms of living and dead. He overhead someone nursing a beer in the Red Hook say that 'the Bones boy' had come from under the waves, from the bottom of the ocean. The man had seen him looking then, and India had quickly walked away. He heard another – come all the way from Barbary – talking to Fast Eddie at the dock, saying that India had been born in a place called 'Dead Island' and that he could communicate with demons, and that he had dragged another poor soul with him into the darkness (presumably meaning Eli). Fast Eddie had shook his head and laughed it off, and said they knew the boys here and it wasn't like that at all. But by the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, he didn't seem quite sure.

By and large, India and Eli were liked (as far as they knew), and afforded some level of respect from most. But many also kept their distance.

*

Six weeks in, when India had gotten comfortable to the point of laziness, and was contemplating working at Barbary Anne's for his own coin and not sponging off Flynn (India wondered at times where it was all coming from, given that Flynn appeared to do nothing but saunter around and chat gaily to everyone), he received a letter.

The letter had been sent from Kingston and, given no ships sailing direct to Tortugal, had likely taken some time to get to him. It would have been passed from port to port, from ship to ship. It was handed to him by a woman from the crew of the Talisman, which had just sailed from East Indigo, the letter's penultimate resting place.

The letter was addressed to India Bones, with India Mancer written above it and neatly crossed out. Underneath his name was written "Try Tortugal", in the same fancy script. He opened it knowing exactly who it was from.

'Miss Salia Crescent,' Eli said. 'I'd know her writing anywhere. What's it say?'

'Crescent?' a voice came from behind, and he found the letter snatched deftly out of his hands. 'Let me see that.'

'Hey!' India cried, clawing backwards.

Bonnie May stepped away from him, scanning the letter. 'Shankin' hell,' she said. 'Listen to this everyone!'

The noise in the Red Hook dropped as Bonnie May read aloud.

' _Dear India Mancer . . . Bones,_

I hope you are well. At least, I hope you are not dead. No doubt you are understandably missing me terribly.'

Bonnie grinned, and there was a guffaw from some of the others, while India scrunched his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, sinking lower into his seat.

' _You may or may not have heard that Sir Treymeir is dead. It is true. However, the official report and announcement says that he died of a heart attack, which is_ not _true._ _I am quite certain that it is Lancer who killed him_.'

She paused, as a muttering rose up in the inn. 'He did his old man in!' somebody cried.

' _It was in the wake of your and Eli's escape,_ ' Bonnie continued. ' _Treymeir was unforgiving, and I do believe Lancer finally snapped. There was a row, and then there was an unpleasant noise, a small_ thud _, and then another heavier thud. Lancer promptly left the house, locking the room after him. Later I found a clock with blood on it, which I do believe was used to strike Sir Treymeir, and the cause for the first thud. The second must have been the body falling._

As you will agree, the evidence is quite damning. We both know Lancer was a powder keg. I am writing to you in part to keep you informed, and advise you that Lancer is still after you both, and that where one murder has occurred, others are swift to follow.

The other reason I am writing to you is to remind you of how much you miss me. You cannot visit me though, not now, as it is far too dangerous for you in Kingston.

Do not worry about me, I can of course look after myself. Lancer is leaving Kingston soon anyway. I do believe one principal thing on his agenda will be hunting you both down. I supposed given how fondly you sometimes talked of pirates that you will have both ended up at Tortugal – I hope I am right, and that you and Eli are still together – but Lancer will not make this assumption, at least not right away. You may have time.

I would send you a lock of my hair with this letter but I feel it would drive you mad. And my hair is terribly precious to me.

Yours,

Salia Crescent

P.S. Lancer is soon to be made governor. He has the full force of the Kingston Navy at his disposal and, given the power and reputation of Kingston, can perhaps draw on other ships in the Yorkish fleets.'

While mutters, muted cries, and the occasional burst of laughter had risen up during her reading, the final post script was greeted with dead silence.

'You have got to be shankin' kidding me,' India whispered. He looked at Eli, who had gone even whiter than usual, and was shaking his head over and over.

*

As though news travels together, it was only the following day that India heard the rumour about his father. He had been asking on-and-off the last six weeks, but nobody had known anything. Many thought the High Captain was just another legend. A couple even dared to laugh at him when he asked. Those who had taken him seriously had done nothing better than shrugged. Even Quarter Rackle, who seemed to know everything about everybody, couldn't tell him anything of any value.

'Wolfgang.' The word spiked through the various conversations and other noises of Tortugal, straight into India's ear. He stopped his walk instantly, and drew closer to the speaker.

'Sure he's real,' the woman was saying. 'Why wouldn't he be? Legend, yeah, but all legends start out as something _true_. I'm not saying it's _all_ true. I'm not stupid. I just listen to what I hear and what I hear is that he's there.'

India was staring fixedly at the hut in front of him, but listening with fierce intent.

'But what's he doing there?' the other woman said.

'Shank knows. Probably made a lot of gold and is just taking it easy. I would.'

_Where?_ India was shouting in his mind. _Where?_ He was about to walk over and demand them to tell him everything when the other woman came out with it.

'Yeah, I heard Indiana is a nice place, I don't blame him.'

The first woman shrugged. 'Might be too many Doradians for my liking.'

'Only a few, not like Cortez or Colorado. Mostly Indians. Whereabouts in Indiana?'

'I don't care that much. The High Captain Indiana Wolfgang Bones is in Indiana, that's all I heard. I don't know nothing more.'

'I didn't know Indiana was his first name. Makes sense that he'd be there, then. I guess that was where he was born, or his parents came from, or something.'

The first woman shrugged again. 'Who knows?'

India closed his eyes as the women walked off together, moving on to another topic of conversation. _Indiana. My father is in Indiana_.

_It's not certain_ , he reminded himself. _Just a rumour_.

You heard what she said. Just like legends, all rumours start out as something true. And it makes sense. If he's not there, maybe people there will know where he is. It's something to go on. The best lead you'll get.

And it was about time, too. For the word around the island was fast becoming dominated by the contents of Salia's letter and the threat posed to Tortugal. India could already feel the sentiment changing in the wind, and knew that before long they'd want him and Eli both off the island. A particularly dishonourable bunch of scurves might well kidnap them and offer them to Lancer themselves in the hope of some great reward. Pirates might have stood together once, even against the Yorkish fleet, but India and Eli were nobody's brother here. They were strange newcomers, in a world where innocence was a curse. Legends or no legends, Ghost Boys or not, they weren't even proper pirates.

*

On his way back to the Blue Carbuncle, India heard his name called in a loud whisper, and saw Flynn and Eli standing in a vine-covered alcove beckoning furtively. He went over and Flynn pulled him by his collar further into the shadows.

'Hello?' India said. 'What are you doing here? Guess who's just found out where his father might be hiding?'

'That's brilliant my friend,' Flynn said. 'And it couldn't have come at a better time, because you're going to leave here imminently.'

'I am?' India turned to Eli. 'What's going on?'

'Not half an hour ago,' Flynn said, 'a letter was read out in the Red Hook, and no doubt other places on the island, hot on the heels of Miss Crescent's letter. I'll hazard this letter has made its way to every other sensible landmass it could reach, and maybe not just in the Caribbean, either.'

'What letter?'

'From Governor Lancer Main.'

India took a sharp intake of breath. 'That was quick. He wasn't governor yet when Salia wrote her letter.'

'It seems both that Lancer is not one to dally, and that he is equipped with faster, more directly coursed ships with which to carry messages.'

'What did it say then? No, let me guess. He wants our heads.'

'Naturally. Mine too, in fact. And he's offering a reward for anyone who can bring us to him. Alive, for substantially more.'

India shuddered. 'How much?'

'You don't want to know. But most pirates trust Kingston officials – and any servants of York – about as far as they can throw them. As for a Main – Treymeir Main has long been known as a deskbound scourge of pirates in his younger days, and just as cold and hateful and unmerciful now. Well, perhaps a little less now he's dead. He may never have gone into battle, but his weapon has always been the pen, and a most effective weapon that can be. Few here would consider the possibility his son will be any different. It'll be widely considered – Quarter Rackle certainly thinks so – that any man or woman or ohdwaa giving you up will not only get no reward, they'll get jail or the noose for their troubles.'

'You say most pirates, few pirates. There'll be others then, who might take the chance.'

'Where there's money, there's traitors,' Flynn said simply.

'Remaining here is too risky, India,' Eli said. 'And I don't want us to bring trouble to this place.'

India nodded. 'I was going to leave, to find my father. I just hadn't expected there'd be a rush. I don't feel ready to leave this place yet. I love it here.'

'You have even less time than you think,' Flynn said. 'The Talisman is set to leave tomorrow morning. I've booked you both passage. It was the first thing I did before I found Eli. I believe the less delay the less chances taken.'

They gaped at him. 'Tomorrow morning?' India said. 'I have to get up early then?'

'Morning is a . . . looser definition in Tortugal. I imagine you'll have until noon before it actually sets sail.'

'Are you coming with us?'

Flynn bowed his head. 'I am not. I don't think it wise for the three most wanted to remain together. I would caution you both to part as well, if I didn't think they would be wasted words. And you may well need each other, before the end.'

'The end?' Eli said.

'What will you do then?' India asked, frowning. 'Are you staying?'

'I will take passage soon, perhaps later tomorrow. As for where I will go . . . the world is my oyster. I have a fancy I may visit Cortez, or brave Afrika, or back to York, why not? Into the lion's den, as it were? Perhaps not London again, that grew a little stifling as a child, but a gentleman might fit in splendidly for a time on the streets of Gettysburg. It must surely be the capital of York for a reason, wouldn't you think?'

'We'll miss you,' Eli said, looking sad. 'I'll miss this whole place.'

'And I will miss you both too, of course!' Flynn replied. 'It has been an honour. Have no fear though, we will most certainly see each other again, of that I give you my word. May I suggest you spend the rest of the day enjoying the land? And I do mean the _land_. You may be at sea for quite some time – I've heard Captain Barthimal Roberts of the Talisman does a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, and you – where did you say your father would be?'

'Indiana, I think.'

'Ah, yes. You'll have to ask about the course once you're on board, but I fear it will be at least a month before you are in those waters. At least. Like most captains, he won't put in somewhere just because a crewmember says so.'

'What do you mean crewmember? I thought you said you booked us passage.'

'Did you think that meant you'd be lazing about in a cabin each day? Oh no, I may be a little free with my money sometimes but that is quite beyond me, even if I wished it. Captain Roberts wouldn't give up a berth for an idler. You'll be working on the ship – you'll both be used to that of course, since the Ship of the Dead.'

'No rest for the wicked,' India said, feeling tired already.

Flynn took two small bags and pressed them into each of their hands. 'Tie them to your belt,' he said. 'It's not much, but it'll keep you afloat for a while.'

'We couldn't,' Eli said. 'You've done so much already.'

'You can and you will,' Flynn said. 'Don't be scoundrels now.'

Eli hung his head. 'Thank you so much for doing this. The money, the help . . . the friendship. We'd have been lost here without you.'

'Thank you Flynn,' India said. 'But where _do_ you get all this money from?'

Flynn laughed. 'I'm sure I've told you before. I'm good at making friends. And I'm good at helping people with their problems. And, last but certainly not least, I'm truly excellent with my sword.'

*

India spent the rest of the day alone on the beach, circling the island as far as he could and then doubling back when the jungle came right up to the shore and was too thick to even pass in the shallows. He gazed up at Mount Nassar, the black giant that watched over Tortugal and the bay, and the Caribbean waters all the way to the horizon. He sat down as the sun sank low and thickly orange, and he picked up fistfuls of sand and squeezed them until the burning grains ran from his palm.

This time tomorrow India knew he would be on the Talisman, the first living ship he'd have set foot on. He wondered what Captain Barthimal Roberts would be like, having never seen him on the island. Would he work them hard? Could India, no doubt so much younger than the others, stand up to it all, or would it break him? Would he be useless, and shouted at every day? Perhaps Roberts would finally run out of patience and have him tied to the mast and whipped, or send him over the side to be a shark's dinner. This time next week he could be dead, just like . . .

India sat up straight. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten about Grimmer. It'd been three days since he'd last gone to the Dead Sea Inn. He had to go see him. He had to say his goodbyes.

India dropped the last fistful of sand and started walking, his head up, determined not to miss any of the sights and sounds and smells of this unique land.

*

'Aye, I heard about the letter mate,' Grimmer said, putting his mug down and staring into it. He was sat by himself. 'When are you going?'

'Tomorrow morning. Midday. On the Talisman.'

'You gonna miss the place?'

'Yeah.'

'I wonder if I'll miss the ship. Spent near my whole death on those decks.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm coming with you mate. I decided.'

India's mouth dropped. 'Huh? But . . . but . . .'

'You don't want me?'

India gave a confused grin. 'Sure I want you! That'd be brilliant, it'd make it all less . . . less scary. But you belong on the ship, don't you? I didn't think you could just _leave_.'

'Many think the same way. But that's just cause nobody does, not really. The world isn't a kind one to the dead. You get stuck places, feel there's nothing out there for you. The ship gives you the chance to see more, while still keeping you amongst your own, something sure and stable. The same course, the same days pass by. We're set in our ways. You won't believe how long I've been doing this. When you do something long enough . . . what else is there? You make excuses, then the excuses fade, and all you're left with is the rock solid state of things. That's just how they _are_ , you understand?'

'I think so.'

'But in the end, all you really need is someone to replace you. Mack jumped at the chance. And of course you need the ship to accept you, which it did Mack.'

'How'd you know if the ship accepts you?'

'Oh, you know. You know that right away.'

'It accepted me then.'

'The ship knew you were just a passenger. If you'd become permanent – it wouldn't have allowed that.'

India furrowed his brow, then looked back at Grimmer with a hopeful expression. 'You're really leaving to go with us? But why?'

Grimmer sighed. 'I wish I could give you a good answer mate, but I don't know if I can even give myself one. All I know is . . . I'm tired. I want something else. Everything else. I need to get away and see what the world looks like again from the eyes of the living, or at least pretend to. And maybe . . . maybe the world isn't so unforgiving to the dead anymore. Maybe it's changed in some small way.' He took a drink. 'Then again, a lot of folks the world over still treat ohdwaas like bilge, so maybe not.'

'Is it just you coming? Any of the others?'

'Just me I'm afraid.'

'You'll be very welcome,' India smiled. 'Eli will be happy too. On the inside,' he added.

'Very welcome,' Grimmer murmured. 'I'm sure. The Talisman, you say? Captain Roberts. Well, he's an odd fish, I think he'll accept it. At least, he will after I've waved enough Gyptian gold in his face. No pirate can turn down that. No body at all, in fact.' Grimmer fixed his sockets on India for the first time since they'd started talking. 'You gonna say goodbye to this place?'

India looked around the quiet inn. 'I already have.'

*

They set sail at around one o'clock the next day, judging by the sun. Flynn was waving and bowing to them from the jetty, and just before his form dwindled to a smudge they saw two girls take both of his arms and lead him away.

'Goodbye Tortugal,' India said under his breath. He fondled the compass in his pocket that had been Flynn's final parting gift to them both. His was black and gold, Eli's black and silver.

'We'll see him again,' Eli said, at India's side.

'I know. Where's Grimmer?'

'In his cabin already.'

'Cabin to himself, and we're stuck with the rest of the crew.'

'Can you blame him?' Eli said, looking out over the waves. 'After the reception he got coming to the ship.'

India grimaced. Every head had turned, and crowds had parted wide as they'd passed. Some had recoiled, some had shaken their heads and made superstitious warding signs with their hands, and the rest had just stared with fascination, muttering amongst themselves. He knew it was a rare sight to see a skeleton in the centre of Tortugal, walking to the main docks, let alone boarding a ship for the living. But did that mean people couldn't at least attempt to disguise their curiosities and prejudices?

'He'll be used to it,' India said, though he wasn't sure of himself as he said it.

They continued to watch as Tortugal disappeared, first the buildings, then the jungle and the beach, until only Nassar was left.

# FOURTEEN

As it turns out, they never did see Barthimal Roberts that day, nor the days that followed. He remained in his cabin with the door locked, and according to the crew this was how he almost always stayed. Even when docked the captain would rarely come out, although a few crewmembers confessed to having seen him mysteriously flitting through Tortugal at night, as well as in Cortez and Indiana and a few others, always only visiting isolated places and always shunning both crowds and company.

'You could sail the whole o' the Mississippi Sea, from Cortez to Zealand, and only ever see the cap'n a handful of times, if that,' the first mate said to them, in a conspiratorial whisper. He was a squat, hairy cove named Bilge Joe, with a tremendously large nose and quite a repellent odour. He wore so many grubby layers India was amazed he hadn't collapsed in the heat – but Joe never even broke a sweat.

'Only one place I ever seen him out proper,' Bilge Joe continued. 'That was Louisiana. He opened the cabin door, just sprung it open, and walked down the gangplank carryin' a torch, and then he was off, swallowed by the swamps. Told none of us to follow him. Three times that's 'appened, at least in the history of me on the crew. Some of us think he's up to no good, you know, occult stuff. There's dark things in them swamps, I know it.'

Perhaps it was simply because they had never spent time on a pirate ship before, but India and Eli found the whole crew of the blue-boarded Talisman at least a little peculiar, not just the private and mysterious behaviour of Captain Roberts. There was Bilge Joe, who as well as being first mate was proud to declare himself acting quartermaster. Roberts apparently did not like quartermasters, and so there was no actual such rank on the ship. Then there was Old Neg, the ohdwaa cook, who almost never seemed to look up (not that they could be sure, given his eyes were lost in wrinkles) and who was sometimes seen walking in circles. There was Mikkel, the exceptionally tall stuttering gunner, the muscular Gyptian whom they called Scarab, who had eyes so dark it seemed like they were entirely black, Shang Yei, a Chinese woman who dressed in impossibly spotless white and whose soft, whispery voice gave India the chills . . .

India didn't know how unusual such a motley bunch of pirates and sailors was for such a ship, but they seemed to suit Grimmer. It was wrong to say he was immediately treated with kindness and familiarity, but it seemed he was one of them in some odd way, at least a damn sight more so than he'd have been on any more conventional ship. They respected him, even if there were still waves of uncertainty abound that bordered on (but not quite crossed over to) fear. Most of the crew were superstitious, as India believed Captain Roberts to be, but their particular superstitions seemed to keep them from any kind of confrontational judgements towards Grimmer, besides the occasional dark glance – though India saw them giving such glances to each other just as often.

If anything, Grimmer seemed to be given less of the work. For work there was, and it came in spades. They hadn't been asked to do anything on their departure from Tortugal, but that hadn't lasted long. India knew for sure now that the Ship of the Dead had been relaxed. There, they'd just been going through the motions. Here, every task _had_ to be done, and it had to be done right, and without delay. India and Eli would collapse onto their bunks at the end of their shifts, feeling utterly punished. Sometimes, cruelly, sleep evaded them by their own pained exhaustion. Then before they knew it they'd have to start again. By the end of the first week India and Eli were so deadbeat that they wondered to each other when they were going to slip into comas.

The end of the second week came a little easier, though still gruelling. The end of the third week easier still, with sleep more often than not quick to reach them despite the stifling heat and snores of the rest of the crew. Without fully recognising it at the time, concentrating as they were on their tasks so as not to anger Scarab (who seemed to keep everyone more-or-less in line), they were getting tougher. India knew that if it hadn't been for their work on the Ship of the Dead (which seemed now to be kind of a preparation for the Talisman) they'd never have survived.

At the end of the first month, India and Eli felt like men. They could have sworn the work they'd had at the start had been much harder than what they had now. If not, why had they complained so bitterly back then? It was rough work, sure, but it was satisfying. The ship sailed by their own hands.

*

Bilge Joe passed his long spyglass over to India. 'Have a look boy, tell me what you see.'

India squinted out at the blinding ocean. There was a great mass of white sail and red wood out there, a beast of a ship coasting sluggishly on the big blue. India saw the open eyes of great black calentures, and multiple decks darker than blood.

'It's huge,' India said. 'A man-o'-war, maybe.'

'The flag, what flag is it?'

India focused. 'It's . . . yellow and red, I can't make out the -'

Bilge Joe snatched the spyglass from India and put it to his eye. 'It's the _Salvador_!' he called out. 'Quick, raise the Doradian flag!'

The call was taken up by the others, and one of the pirates began to race up the rigging to the crow's nest, a bundle of brightly coloured cloth in his hand.

'Where exactly _is_ Dorado?' India asked.

'It's a large island, south-east off the coast o' Bordeaux,' Bilge Joe replied, peering back and forth from the crow's nest to the man-o'-war. 'You must know it.'

'Of course I do.' India could vaguely remember Dorado's position on the maps; he always glossed over it, his attention taken by the impossibly vast Continent to its north.

'Strong navy. A lot o' treasure-hunters, too. You didn't recognise the flag?'

'I don't know. I might have seen it before.' Now he thought about it, it did seem slightly familiar, but if he'd seen it out of a book it must have been no more than a few times in his life.

'Where do you come from again?' Bilge Joe said. 'Get it flyin'!' he called up to the crow's nest as the Talisman's flag was taken down and the new flag fixed. 'That's right! Let's hope they didn't see us do that!'

'Mexico Island,' India said.

'That'll be it then.' Bilge Joe made a horrible snorting sound in his nose and spat over the side. 'Doradian ships ain't seen often west of Kingston. Less interference with Yorkish ships and their trade routes. They're still a little funny round each other, since the war, long ago as it was. Indiana, Colorado, J'maika are their ports o' call. And Cortez and other places to the south.'

India rubbed his temple. His grasp of history wasn't great, or even good. Beyond what went on in Mexico Island, and some vague notions of some of the more exciting looking places on the map, his education was minimal. It was pretty much just down to what Mrs Wayles had told him, more from answering his idle questions than any formal kind of lessons. He'd picked up bits from others, principally Mr Bassard – but Mr Bassard believed in sea fairies and that clouds were floating gunsmoke from past ship battles, so India couldn't really trust much from him. That said, India did recall something about a war of some form. He was sure it'd been before he'd been born though, so it had never been of much concern to him.

India had expected the crew to be tense, as the man-o'-war passed them by, but true to their odd nature they appeared relaxed, a mixture of casual interest and dismissal. Two of them were even sat down on the deck playing cards, while Shang Yei had appeared to spend the whole time meditating. Bilge Joe had been the most attentive, but even he simply shrugged once he lowered the spyglass.

'We're alright,' he said simply. 'Our flag back up in an hour!' he called out.

'Would they have shot at us?' India said. 'We're not their enemy, are we?'

'Kid, we're pirates,' Bilge Joe grunted. 'We're everyone's enemies.'

As India returned to his duties, he reminded himself that caution and deception in the face of a man-o'-war was never a thing to be sniffed at. The Doradian ship could have blown them into pieces with a single salvo.

*

It was only after a full month had passed that India saw Barthimal Roberts. He was on midnight watch, strolling up and down the decks, his eyes sleepy, when he heard soft bootsteps behind him. India spun around to see the captain walking in his direction, an expressionless look on his face.

India stood to attention, wondering how the captain's cabin had been opened without him hearing anything. Roberts, in his long, slow strides, seemed to make hardly any noise at all. He almost seemed to float along.

Barthimal Roberts was, strangely enough, just how India had pictured him. He was a thin man in a cocked captain's hat and a long and flowing maroon coat, with his beard cut and twisted into a narrow strand that ended at his chest in a point. A dozen pendant necklaces hung down him, yet not one of them gave so much as a tinkle when he walked. None of the symbols or designs were known to India, but in the silver moonlight they appeared unnerving, speaking of things far removed from the knowledge of the straight-thinkers of Kingston.

'Cap'n,' India murmured, but Roberts gave no reply. He took no notice of India at all; his black-rimmed eyes held a dreamy quality, and he drifted past India like he didn't even exist.

India stared after him. Roberts moved with his hands clasped behind his back, and he stood for a moment at the prow of the ship, and then turned and came back the way he had come. As he passed a second time, India looked into his eyes, and thought he seemed lost to the stars.

Barthimal Roberts returned to his cabin, and the door closed behind him without so much as a click.

*

India was surprised, disappointed and also a little relieved (though he wouldn't admit the latter) that his time on the Talisman was not accompanied by the plundering of other ships. The Talisman seemed divorced from such an activity, content to roam the waves and land at various ports. India had asked Old Neg about it, with whom he'd gained a (slightly awkward) friendship. Old Neg had muttered under his breath, and then spooned some slop from one saucepan to another and shuffled to face India.

'It's the captain,' he mumbled. His voice was low and slightly pitiful in tone. It was the voice of someone who often seemed like he might be on the verge of tears, which had been a difficult thing for India to adjust to. Old Neg also had a habit of pawing at himself while speaking.

'What about him?' prompted India, as Old Neg took a small sidestep and sniffed another one of his pans. At that moment he reminded India a little of a blind mole. He figured it best not to say such a thing to any ohdwaa – not that any of them could be quite like Old Neg.

'He doesn't want us doing things like that. Says . . . says the ships are for the sea, um, something like that. Something to do with Tiamat, I think, maybe. I forget.'

'But then how do you all get paid?'

Old Neg wrinkled his nose and scratched his grey neck. 'Paid, paid . . . Perhaps you should, if you don't mind me saying, pay more attention when we make land . . . I mean, I'm sorry . . . Don't mind me . . .'

India grinned and patted Old Neg on what passed for his shoulders. 'I'll do that, friend.'

Old Neg's face seemed to wrinkle all the way up into itself, and he quickly turned and buried himself back in his cooking.

*

Being on the crew of the Talisman had been like a whistle-stop tour of the Caribbean. They never stayed anywhere long enough for India's liking, leaving just as India had gathered enough excitement and desire to explore. They'd sailed to East Indigo, and done their business at the dock rather than walk up to the beautiful palace. India had never even gotten a sight of Hong Kong Silver. No doubt he'd be lazing about on some bed of solid gold, sending his lackeys to do his trading for him. Next they'd bypassed Kingston and San Dillinger, taking a long, looping voyage to Colorado in the north-east, with its beautiful tall pine trees and its blue-white waters. India was still enjoying the fresh, cooler feel of the air there, standing in a grove while golden foxes scampered around him, when Scarab had commanded him to return to the ship for his departure.

From there they'd headed south to J'maika, and it was at the large port town of Hovani that India was determined to follow Old Neg's reluctant advice; that was, hang about with the others and see exactly what they did, rather than immediately wander off.

J'maika – or at least Hovani - was different again to each of the islands he'd visited previously. The buildings here were more packed together, vying for space. Buildings on top of buildings. The wood was thin and yellow, which matched the dusty ochre ground. At times the wood had been split, with the resulting white stalks used as thatch, wall lining and even a kind of structural string. You could see on the fringes of the town the huge groves of these short and spindly trees, where dark-skinned men and women (and sun-pickled ohdwaas) hacked away with machetes.

'They grow more and more further east,' Old Neg said, as he ambled past India. 'Keep going and we get to Asia, you know.'

'Is that where we're going next?'

Old Neg shook his head. 'Oh no. I hope not. A thousand and one islands . . . When we last went we didn't leave for a whole year. I didn't want to see another of these yellow stalks for the rest of my life. It's still too soon. No, no . . .'

Eli came up to India's side as Old Neg wandered into the bustle of the town, with its soft-stinging smell of hot spices, wood-burning and raw coffee. 'I'm going to go explore, you coming? I heard there's an amazing flower garden, right in the centre of all this.'

India shook his head. 'I'm gonna stay with Bilge Joe and Scarab. You know, make myself useful.'

'You've never been that interested in being useful before.'

'Thought I'd give it a go.'

Eli nodded and went off, lost to India's sight in under a minute.

Bilge Joe tramped along from the dock, flanked by Scarab, who had a black box tucked under his arm and whose expression seemed even meaner than usual. They stopped when they got to India; Bilge Joe looked him up and down, his eyes suddenly wary.

'You wantin' to come with us?' he said.

'If that's alright,' India said.

'What, as bodyguard?' Joe grinned.

India shrugged.

Bilge Joe stroked his face, considering, and then nodded. 'Come on then. We're just going to meet someone, that's all.'

'Meet who?'

'Didn't I just say? Someone. Don't you be askin' no more o' those questions when we're in company, right?'

'Right,' India said.

When it happened, India almost missed it, it was so quick. Bilge Joe was talking to a local about nothing in particular, the voyage, the current news of the day in Hovani. India grew bored, and turned his head in the nick of time to see Scarab, whose black box had already vanished, shake hands with a woman whose appearance was forgotten as soon as she'd disappeared herself. India tried for the life of him to remember what she looked like, but she must have been as unremarkable as possible because she faded immediately into the crowd and was lost to both sight and memory.

India turned back to Bilge Joe, and saw him stuffing his hands in his pockets, the cove he'd been talking to already gone. India could have sworn he saw the flash of gold. _Hadn't Scarab's hand contained something too? Something the woman had given him, something small and black?_

'So that was the trade made,' India said. 'Very quick. Have we been doing that at every port?'

'Quiet,' Scarab said.

Bilge Joe grabbed him by the arm and led him away. 'Listen kid, every pirate makes their coin one way or another, and most o' those ways ain't liked by all.'

'What did we exchange? What did we get, apart from the gold?'

'You wouldn't know what they are,' Bilge Joe said, his voice so low India had to bend down and strain to hear him (and try not to breathe through his nose). 'And keep your voice down, you want the Hovani guards on us? It's black market stuff, alright? It's always different. Black magic, visions, medicine, I mean _real_ medicine, forbidden signs, scrolls tellin' you just what you don't wanna do . . . jewels and carvings,' he cast an anxious glance about before continuing, 'idols other people don't like, pills and powders, Louisiana swampweed, various ingredients, roots and bones, you know, devil shot, demon dust, blue bilge, sometimes books, you know, the wrong sort o' books . . . All of it, really. God help me for even speakin' of it.'

'This is what Captain Roberts wants us to do?'

'Aye,' Bilge Joe said. 'How else are we to make money? He got a fascination with this kind of stuff. And people can pay a lot for somethin' very small.'

'What's devil shot?'

'Shank,' Bilge Joe said, punching India in the arm. 'Don't you speak of it again!' He leaned in closer. 'You don't want a gun loaded with it aimed at you, that's all I'll say. That's _all_ I'll say.' He shuddered.

'Back to the boat,' Scarab said.

'Yeah, yeah,' Joe replied. 'I give the orders alright? And I say – back to the boat. No, you're comin' back with me boy, if you're gonna be so talkative. Mikkel can bring back Manson.'

'My name's India. Not "boy".'

'Your name is shut the shank up,' Bilge Joe said, clapping him on the back. 'Mate.'

*

India stood on the Maiden jetty on Mexico Island on the evening of his fourteenth birthday and shivered. There was a distant film to his eyes and he felt weird and sleepy as he looked over what had once been his whole world.

They'd anchored in the evening, when the docks were quiet. A number of ships from Kingston (and others representing Yorkish interests) came to Maiden to do business, and the less attention they drew as pirates the better. The risk was especially high because of Lancer's vendetta. They'd heard news the last place they'd put in: the Doradian colony of Cortez, just south of the Caribbean, in the Mississippi Sea. Apparently Lancer had even come there, a place normally York and Kingston would rarely go, and never with warships, even if it was under white banners of peace. Lancer, in his arrogant boldness, was hunting alone; his vessel was the Carolina, a large, fast frigate, one that had been serving York's interests in the Caribbean a long time and had gained many notches on its mast before Lancer's captaincy.

Wanted posters were being continuously distributed, and they were spreading further than just the Caribbean. It had no longer been safe for India and Eli to wander around when they made land, and so they kept them on the docks, their stays even shorter (to the grumbles of some of the crew), and India and Eli kept apart – as much like strangers to each other as possible. Still, at least they weren't Grimmer, who stayed on the ship whenever they landed so as not to cause a stir (apart from once at Colorado, when he'd stepped off the gangplank with his skull, neck and hands wrapped in cloth – not that that wasn't almost as conspicuous).

India no longer cared as to the business the Talisman was conducting. Not here. He'd spent his birthday thankfully excused from any duties, yet without much in the way of celebration, beyond a hug and a handshake from Eli (who, to his credit, had attempted merriment), an awkwardly self-conscious pat on the arm from Old Neg, and a short gruff toast from the crew, not half as warm as the crew of jolly rogers had given Eli on his fifteenth.

'One step closer to being a man,' Bilge Joe had said. 'You can do a bit more around the place now, big lad like you.'

India had spent the day's hours at the rail, looking out as the blob of land crawled its way into sight. It had been a surreal sight watching Mexico Island draw closer. He had never seen the place from the outside coming in, seen its expanse, its cliffs and jungles from so far away. In a way it seemed like a half-foreign land to him, something known and not known, something from another life perhaps.

He stared at the people of Maiden, doing their last bits of trade before full dark came (when the less reputable citizens would show their faces). Had he known these people? Had he been one of them?

There was no time to venture into the heart of Maiden, let alone journey to Rug, Mohawk or even dear little Eyeless. There was no time to see Mrs Wayles or Mr Bassard. India couldn't decide if this upset him, or if he was more relieved. Had Mrs Wayles worried herself sick? Did she think him dead?

India thought that perhaps he'd have felt a greater longer to be here if he'd known a comfortable home here. But he hadn't lived in some flash house with a loving family. He'd lived on the streets, and even Mrs Wayles's had been a long way from a place of comfort. He'd known dirt and sticks, bloody knees and scratched arms, and stealing to eat.

He thought for an instant he saw the white-whiskered gentleman who had lent him his spyglass in the Merchant Hall, on that fateful night when the dead had come to dance. But no, it wasn't him – at least, he couldn't tell. Nobody here was recognisable.

How long had it been? Five, six months? It felt like years. So much had happened in such a short space of time, he no longer felt like the same boy. Once upon a time Mexico Island had been his only home. Now the Talisman was his home. Tortugal was his home. Nowhere was his home.

# FIFTEEN

India had lost count of the days, but Eli confirmed they'd been on the Talisman for three months when Indiana finally came into view, three hours before Lancer found them.

In some ways it was similar to Mexico Island. They both had been important places in the Aztec Empire, or so it was said. But whereas Mexico's crumbling architecture from the past civilisation was lost within the jungle, Indiana's took the breath away. Already with the spyglass you could see the columns, the triangle arches, the many-stepped pyramid temple rising out from the trees that tangled at its base. The sun held itself in the hollow eye of the temple's roof, appearing to them like a beacon of blazing fire, or a dazzling orange jewel – either way a fitting cap to such a monument. India had read of another name for these structures. _God houses_.

It made his Aztec Tomb, in which he'd taken such pride and excitement as a child, seem like a common shed.

India had his spyglass fixed to his eye, only briefly letting Eli have a go before Eli, seeing his impatience and excitement, handed it back with a smile. India drank in first the ruins, then the surrounding wildness of the rainforest – greens, purples, oranges and reds burst from the tree canopies like nature's plumage. It seemed plants and flowers of every kind grew here, climbing impossibly high in their desire for sunlight, creating a tapestry of colour that burned in the sun as the canopy mists unveiled.

Next, India turned his gaze on the civilisation of the present. There was the yellowstone city of Tomahawk on the eastern side, glimpsed just beyond the cliffs, where a giant waterfall poured. And in front of them, the place where they were headed, was India, his namesake. The City of Gold.

If the Aztec Empire had never disappeared, but had gone on strong into this century, India was what it could have looked like. Its nickname was no mere fancy, no dream – the city _glimmered_. The yellowstone, seeming faded in what he could see of Tomahawk, here was bright and near golden, in some places turning orange and honey-coloured under the late sun. In quite the opposite of Tortugal, no wood could be seen; everything was square blocks, triangle arches, towers, pyramids, embossed walls, paved streets, and steps, steps everywhere. It was a city devoid of curves. Houses built like small mountains. Statues of gods and monsters shining ugly and divine. The architecture was as though the traditional, dominating Aztec had melded with the Doradian influence of Cortez, plus a little Mexico Island, a little J'maika . . . It was distilled Caribbean, but bolder and more entrancing than any one of those places could ever dream of being.

India dropped his spyglass, letting out a long, slow breath. His eyes were alight. 'This is where my father is,' he said.

It was at that moment that the call came from the crow's nest.

*

India and Eli watched helpless as the Carolina gained on them. There was no way they could outrun her. The wind was with Carolina; her huge sails were billowed out like white bubbles, and she seemed built for speed, faster than any ship of that size India had seen before.

Grimmer stood by them, his expression for once unreadable. 'It'll be okay,' he said, unconvincingly.

Bilge Joe clapped his hands on the rail and cursed. 'We won't make it. And even if we did get to port, what then? Indiana won't stop the Carolina from takin' us, by ship or by crew. We're pirates, and ain't one of us is either a Doradian nor an Indian.'

'What then?' India said, his mouth dry. The Carolina loomed closer. You could already see its guns. Its many, many guns.

'We're g-going t-to h-have to turn and f-f-fight,' Mikkel the gunner said from behind them.

'Fight,' Scarab said.

'We will,' Shang Yei whispered.

'Aye,' Bilge Joe said. 'That's what we'll do.'

'We'll die!' India cried. 'We can't take that on.'

'Death is but temporary,' Shang Yei murmured.

'Oh no, oh dear, oh no,' Old Neg said, wringing his hands.

Bilge Joe shrugged. 'Death sure is pretty final to me. But we ain't got a choice.'

'Somebody should get the captain,' Grimmer said.

Bilge Joe sighed. 'I know. Alright. I'll do it.' He walked over to the captain's cabin door. Everybody watched him. He knocked.

'Cap'n,' he started, and coughed. 'We have a bit of an issue.'

There was silence.

'Cap'n,' he said again. 'We're all about to die. And we'd like it if you, er -'

'Displayed some leadership,' Grimmer said.

'Made your presence known,' Joe finished.

There was silence for a few more seconds, and just as Bilge Joe turned and shrugged, the door opened and Barthimal Roberts stepped out.

Roberts ignored the rest of the crew, and wordlessly looked out at the Carolina.

'C-c-captain?' Mikkel started.

'Okay,' Roberts said. His voice was unnatural sounding – then again, he probably hardly ever used it. 'Conflict unavoidable. Their gun ports are open, they angle for us at full speed. They mean our end. Turn us to port. Every spare sailor on the guns. If we die we die.' He walked up to the helm and took the wheel from the helmsman. He began to turn it, then stopped as he saw them all staring at him. 'Go,' he said. 'Sails, ropes, guns. Do what I said.'

There was a charge of movement and shouts thickened the air as every crewmember obeyed.

*

'They're still comin' for us Cap'n!' Bilge Joe shouted up to Roberts. 'We're well within their range and they're still comin'! They're comin' into range of _our_ guns!'

'They're playing us,' one of the crewmembers said.

'They're _teasing_ us,' Shang Yei said.

'No,' Roberts said. Everyone had to strain to hear him. 'Give the order not to fire, not yet. They are going to pull up alongside.'

'Cap'n?' Bilge Joe inquired, scratching his head. 'Our only chance is to fire at their bow. Once they're alongside, we're mincemeat.'

'That is not a chance. One salvo from us is a salvo they can take. They fire their front cannons. Then they turn, maybe faster than we can reload. No, let them come. They wish to speak.'

Bilge Joe shook his head, but knew better than to challenge the orders. 'Alright!' he yelled. 'You!' He stabbed his finger at a woman tying a rope. 'Tell Mikkel and the rest o' the gunners to hold off 'til they hear the cap'n's – till they hear _my_ order! We're gonna hear these sons o' bilgemothers out!' He spat over the side. 'Apparently,' he muttered.

'What can we do to help?' India asked.

Bilge Joe stared at them for a second. 'Nothin',' he said, and stomped off.

Eli tugged at India's sleeve. 'He'll want to take us personally,' he said. His face looked afraid, but there was a undercurrent of anger there, making his jaw tight. 'That'll be worse. I can't go back to him.'

'You won't Eli.'

'You'll – you'll kill me before he takes me?'

India was stunned. 'I won't kill you.'

Eli looked desperate. 'You don't know. You don't _know_.'

India stared at him, then turned as the bulk of the Carolina turned, moving sharper than any ship of that firepower had any right to. India felt a dread chill run through him and he gripped Eli's shoulder tightly as the Carolina slowed to a halt.

The ships were side to side. The black mouths of cannons seemed to go on forever, each ready and eager to spit death.

'Hail!' came a familiar cry from across the bridge of water. India looked up from the arrays of open gun ports to Carolina's main deck. Lancer stood there in full navy uniform, holding a bronze megaphone. The lock of his blond hair trailed out into the light breeze. He was grinning.

Roberts nodded at Bilge Joe, and Bilge Joe cupped his hands around his mouth. 'Hail!'

'My name is Captain Main of the Carolina, and Governor of Kingston. I believe your ship holds two boys by the name of Eli Manson and India Mancer, also going by India Bones,' Lancer called out. 'In possible company with a young man named Devil Flynn. Ah, I can see the two boys there now!' Lancer waved at them.

India thought that he'd rather see Lancer in apoplectic rage than to see that grinning wave. Judging by the grip suddenly laid on his arm by Eli, he was feeling the same way.

'He's gone mad,' Eli whispered.

'This is him?' Grimmer said. It was the first thing he'd said in a while. Something seemed to be pulling at him, something other than their likely imminent destruction.

'Yes,' India said.

'What a bastard.'

'What do you want?' Bilge Joe shouted over to the Carolina. 'We are a peaceful ship on a -'

'Those _children_ are wanted by Kingston, and so by the Crown of York.'

'I doubt that,' India muttered.

'Their crimes?' Bilge Joe called back.

'None of your concern.'

'Ask him,' Roberts said to Bilge Joe, now standing straight beside him with his arms behind his back. He looked unfazed by the situation, his eyes unfocused and blinking slowly. India wondered just how much of Barthimal was concerned with reality, the here and now. 'Ask him about us.'

Bilge Joe coughed. 'What 'appens to us if we give 'em up?' he said to Lancer.

'You'll all get a quick hanging,' Lancer replied.

There was a stunned silence on the Talisman. Even India expected Lancer to offer some kind of reasonable offer – mercy, if not pardons or rewards. Only Eli seemed unsurprised, shaking his head sadly.

'Very encouragin'!' Bilge Joe shouted, after a moment. 'Did anyone tell you you had great negotiatin' skills?'

'I don't negotiate,' Lancer said, his smile gone. 'You have three minutes to decide before we open fire.'

Bilge Joe glanced at Roberts, and shrugged. 'I guess this is it Cap'n,' he said.

Roberts tapped his fingers lightly on the rail. He hummed for a few moments to himself. Then he said, 'This is it.'

Bilge Joe ran a greasy hand over his face and sighed. 'Can I give the order now? Can we at least fire first?'

Roberts began to hum again.

' _Cap'n?_ '

Those small few not manning the guns above and below deck – Grimmer, India and Eli, Shang Yei, Old Neg, Bilge Joe – were all standing around Roberts, waiting hopelessly. Old Neg was shifting from foot to foot and pawing at himself ceaselessly.

'The sea is black,' Roberts said. 'The sea does not like Captain Main, and it does not like the Carolina.'

'That's our shadow,' India said.

'The sea is black,' Roberts repeated. 'Davy Jones does not want them here.'

'Look,' Grimmer croaked suddenly. 'India, do you see it?'

'See what?'

'The ship . . .'

'Um. Of course I see the ship . . . have you gone mad?'

'Not the Carolina, the _Ship_. I don't . . . don't believe it myself . . . I felt it coming in my bones but I didn't understand it. Look, there! Look _behind_!'

India squinted. 'I don't see any- _Oh my god!_ '

Where there had seemed to be nothing before, there it was. The Ship of the Dead. It was slowly pulling up to the other side of the Carolina, and from what they could make out, it had every gun port open.

'How . . . how . . .' India began. Beside him Eli let out a cry as he saw it too.

'What's going on?' Bilge Joe grunted, turning from Roberts, who was humming again, an unsettling, ghostly melody.

Grimmer pointed again. 'It's _Blackbone_. By Davy Jones, he's _taken the helm_!'

India stared. Behind the masts of the Carolina he saw the wheel of the Ship of the Dead. Blackbone was standing there, one hand on the wheel. The other hand was held straight in the air. _He's about to drop his hand, and that's when all hell is gonna break loose_.

'I don't understand,' Eli said. There were gasps of shock from the rest of the crew as they finally perceived what had been hidden to their minds until it was too obvious to block out. Old Neg let out a shriek and Bilge Joe staggered backwards. Only Roberts seemed unaffected, though a small smile played on his face.

'What the hell is that and how the shank did it get here?' Bilge Joe yelled.

'It's the Ship of the Dead,' Shang Yei said, before India or Grimmer could answer.

'The Ship o' the . . . Let me rephrase,' Bilge Joe said, rubbing his eyes, as though it was a vision that could evaporate at any moment. 'Is this a hallucination and if not whose side is the damn thing on?'

'It's alongside the Carolina, mate,' Grimmer said. 'I think it's clear whose side it _isn't_ on.'

Bilge Joe seemed speechless for a few moments, then he drew a big breath. 'Cap'n,' he said.

' _Where the shank did that come from?_ ' Lancer's scream cut through the air. ' _Where the shank_ – it's got _skeletons_! It's got . . . guns . . . _Half all gunners to the portside cannons! No, EVERYONE TO PORTSIDE!_ Take them . . . take them out first . . .' Lancer finished breathlessly. He fell against the rail.

'Fire,' Roberts said.

Bilge Joe clapped his hands and beamed. He threw back his head with his hands cupped to his mouth. 'FIRE!'

At the same time India saw Blackbone drop his hand, and that was when the madness began.

*

The sky was turning.

Clouds were rolling, rolling . . . now under his feet. There was a deathly silence in his ears, with just the slightest whine, like a fly buzzing in the distance. There was smoke, but he couldn't smell it. There were people: upside down people, sideways people, their mouths gaping open. There was wood flying through the air. Everywhere there were pieces of ship, floating on the wind, graceful and in total silence.

The whine grew louder. The fly was irritating him. He just wanted to lie here, looking up at the blue sky – where had the clouds gone? Perhaps the silence had scared them away. The thunderous silence.

India rolled to the side as the world shook again. He felt pain now, pain in the head, in the ears. The sky had turned again and now his lips touched wood. He could taste something bitter. Spit ran from his mouth.

He got to his feet as the world bucked under him. He saw a skeleton, and a boy in dark clothes yelling at him. He saw a woman blown backwards through the air, and the whine became a roar.

Sound rushed back, and suddenly there was nothing but noise. His thoughts were blocked by it, and all he could do was stagger, and then fall to his knees by the rail. He couldn't separate the sounds. Shouts, screams, cannon fire, destruction – it was all as one, as though the elements had gathered together and were speaking to him in one voice.

'India!'

He turned, and turned again. _What was happening? A ship . . . three ships . . . they'd fired first, then the . . ._

'India!'

_. . . the Carolina._ He touched his throbbing temple, and was relieved to see only a little blood. He saw Eli Manson, and connected his name to the boy's words.

'I'm here,' India said, and he crawled over to Eli and Grimmer, taking cover behind the rail. The distance felt longer than the journey from Eyeless to Mohawk. _That place doesn't exist anymore. It only exists in my mind. I'll never see that place again, not how it was. The truth has changed. Things are not what they were._

'Are you okay?' Eli shouted, grabbing him by the shoulder.

'Couldn't be better,' India said. He forced himself to stop trembling. 'I'm quite hungry though.' He ducked as something went whizzing over their heads. 'Are we losing?'

He wasn't sure if he'd been heard, but Grimmer poked his head up over the rail and shot back down a moment later. 'It'll be over in a minute,' Grimmer said.

True enough, the cacophony began to die as soon as he'd spoken. At least one set of cannons had stopped firing – not the Talisman's, India realised, as another salvo pounded from beneath their feet. It was smaller than the last. _Fewer gunners_.

Eventually all the guns stopped. What remained seemed as close to genuine silence as India could remember. There were scattered shouts and cries, but whether they were pained, dying, exhausted or triumphant, or all of them together, he couldn't tell. India saw as though in slow motion one of their masts fall to the deck with a huge thud – the final punctuation mark to the battle. India looked away. Somebody had been in its path when it fell.

As India's ears started to pick apart the sounds, he realised most of the cries were coming from their ship. _What about the others?_ He stood up against the rail, cautiously at first, and then standing tall and wide-eyed as he beheld the carnage.

The Carolina was destroyed.

The Carolina was sinking.

It barely looked like a ship. Every mast was broken to matchsticks, the hull pulverised and taking on water fast as the ship tilted further, the sea pulling the stern down. Driftwood floated on the waves, some pieces with bodies draped over them. The only thing that seemed to have stayed intact was the prow; the single spike that was the bowsprit pointed higher and higher into the sky. There were bodies on the ship, but those few moving seemed sluggish and confused. Of Lancer there was no sign.

India saw a spot of tattered colour on the deck. As the ocean embraced the Carolina with increasing speed and awful finality, the rag slipped down, catching on a piece of mast, and then flying out again into the waves. India realised it was the Yorkish flag.

Behind the Carolina, the Ship of the Dead was still afloat. It had been heavily damaged, but not like the Carolina. On the deck, skeletons were cheering and waving at him. India put a hand to his mouth and bit his forefinger. The relief that washed through him was immense. He had no idea that he could have cared so much about the fate of those already dead. He put his hand up and waved back at them, and then doubled up with a coughing fit.

Grimmer slapped him on the back, which hurt even more. 'Got those old cannons working then you scurves!' Grimmer yelled across.

'Pretty good, huh?' A skeleton shouted back. It sounded like Dessica. 'Hey, your ship looks like it might have a couple of holes in it!'

'I could say the same about yours! Have we lost anyone?'

'Yeah, but it's alright – they were already dead!'

Grimmer nodded and grinned. The smile didn't last long, as he lowered his head, muttering something. India thought it sounded like 'back to the waves, a debt repaid.'

'I see you three are still alive.' Bilge Joe came up beside them. He looked filthy, even more than normal. The many layers of his right sleeve had been torn away, leaving a gashed arm that looked comically small away from all his heavy clothes. He glanced at it. 'I'll be alright,' he said. 'Don't even understand how it 'appened.'

'Has anyone died?' Eli said.

'Aye,' Bilge Joe answered, his smile fading a little. 'And I sure expected me to be one of 'em.'

'Where's the captain?' India asked, looking around. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. It came off black.

'Back in the cabin.'

'You're kidding?'

Bilge Joe shook his head. He turned to the surviving others, who had picked themselves up and gathered on the main deck. Some of them moved with difficulty. Mikkel followed the last of the gunners climbing up from below, his clothes blackened and his face ashen as he joined them. Old Neg was there, quivering and shaking his head repeatedly, his back to everyone.

'I got good news, and bad news,' Bilge Joe announced to the group. 'Good news – us and . . . the other ship . . . won.'

There was a muted cheer.

'I say that because the Carolina sank first.'

India glanced over the side, and saw the bowsprit of the Carolina, thrust almost vertical and slipping fast. Of the rest of the ship, there was no sign but a dark mass under the waves. _That's it then_ , he thought. _He's dead._

'That's right,' Bilge Joe said. 'They had enough gunners firin' on the starboard side to hit us hard. They had a calenture firin' on us, too, short-range. Most o' you know the situation. We're takin' on water too fast to bail. And by the look of our ally, they're just the same.'

'What?' India said, confused. They'd won, hadn't they?

'Both ships are sinkin'. We got one workin' rowboat, which as luck would have it will just about do now that some of us are dead and gone. So . . . we better get to it.'

India felt the ground tilt slightly under his feet. So they were sinking. Over the bridge of water between them, the same was happening to the Ship of the Dead, at a faster rate. Already the bow of their ship was going down.

'What's the matter with you all?' Bilge Joe said. 'Be thankful we ain't far from land! Aye it's the end o' the Talisman, but it ain't the end o' your lives!'

'It's b-b-been the end of s-some of us,' Mikkel said. His voice was hoarse.

'You wanna join that number? Go on, get to it! Lower the starboard boat! Scarab, you get 'em going! Where is he?'

'Scarab is dead,' Shang Yei said. Her face and hair seemed remarkably untouched, but the same could not be said of her silky white clothes, which were an ugly shadow of their former selves.

'Well, _I'll_ get you scurves going then!' Bilge Joe said, hardly missing a beat. 'Aye, rest in pieces and all that, now come on, let's save our own shankin' skin first! We can all mourn and dress in black later – I see Eli's already started!'

Grimmer caught Joe's arm as he walked to starboard at the rear of the crew. 'And the captain?' he said.

'I told you, he's in the cabin. He's made his bed, he wants to lie in it.' He shook Grimmer off. 'It's his ship,' he said, quieter. 'His Talisman. He wouldn't know nothin' else. You argue with him if you want – you won't hear nothin' back.' He strode off.

'He's right,' India said. 'He's not going to leave.'

'Aye mate, I know,' Grimmer said.

They leaned on the part of the ship's rail that remained unbroken and watched as the Ship of the Dead sank. The Talisman's deck tilted slowly upwards beneath them, creaking and groaning in protest.

'I knew if anyone could in the end, it'd be Blackbone,' Grimmer said. 'Still, shank me sideways.'

The stern continued to rise. Skeletons were holding on to ropes and rails, but their expressions were calm, their movements without panic. Blackbone was immobile, his feet planted on the rising deck like they were stuck fast with glue. His hands held tight to the wheel.

The Ship seemed to . . . _shudder_ , was the only way India could think of it, as though a living thing shivering in a sudden cold. A blue sheen passed over the grey wood, like the shimmer of a fish. And then it was gone, and the Ship was just a ship, just an old, rotting ship of grey and white, and India knew whatever spirit or presence it had held within it, whatever had sailed it from place to place to an immutable and perennial schedule, a schedule respected by the waves and the wind – that spirit had either been exorcised or had simply left. India didn't think it was the kind of thing that could just die, but maybe he was wrong.

'It's gone,' Eli said, and though there was still wood remaining above water, they all knew exactly what he meant.

'I didn't go with them,' Grimmer said, and as India looked at his friend's visage he saw an expression he'd never seen before, something ancient and unable to put into words, but it made him feel like his heart was tearing.

The last thing they saw was Blackbone, standing stiff and tall, eyes locked on them, hands still gripping the wheel as the ship sank below the surface and was lost.

They turned as one and walked towards the starboard of the ship, where the rowboat had been lowered into the water. Bilge Joe was shouting at them, but none of them heard his words.

# SIXTEEN

They laid up on the Indiana beach, weary and grim. It'd been further to land than they'd thought, and they'd all had to pitch in rowing; the boat had laid low in the water, overloaded with the survivors.

There were ten of them that remained. Grimmer, India and Eli, Bilge Joe and Old Neg, Mikkel, Shang Yei, two Afrikans who clung to each other, heads down, and a heavily tattooed Barbaryan woman who had never given her name. Nobody seemed to know what to do. India gave the stricken Old Neg a brief one-armed hug in an attempt to comfort him and then sat down by Grimmer and Eli, who were staring out at the sea. There were pieces of floating driftwood in the distance, and there were bodies. Some were washing to shore. That was the only trace of the three ships, the only trace that here a fatal battle had been fought.

'Everything's changed,' Grimmer said. 'I should've . . . I don't know what I should've done. It's just me now.'

'There are other skeletons,' India said, trying his hardest not to think about the ones they'd lost. _Hairless. Dessica. Spares. All of them._ 'If you wanna go back to Tortugal and spend the rest of your life – the rest of your _death_ – in the Dead Sea Inn, then I won't stop you, if you can find those willing to sail you back. But we'd much rather have you with us. Right Eli?'

'You're our friend, Grimmer. And we need you.'

Grimmer didn't turn. 'Folks out there won't want an old bag of bones like me.'

'They will,' India said. 'They _will_.'

'And we definitely do,' Eli said. Grimmer said nothing, but he nodded very slightly.

'Grimmer, how did the Ship of the Dead know where to find us?' India asked. 'And why did it come?'

'I've been thinking about that,' Grimmer replied.

'The spirit of the Ship . . . or Davy Jones . . . it knew because the sea knew. Or is it one and the same?'

'I'm not sure it was the Ship or Davy Jones. I think it was Blackbone. I think he took control, he managed to lay his hands on the wheel and he finally took control. Maybe the only one who ever could. And he'd been tailing the Carolina, likely for some time.'

'But why?'

'I . . . I don't know,' Grimmer said. 'Never did understand Blackbone. He's the oldest of all of us, been here from the beginning – if there ever was a beginning. Maybe he knew things we didn't. In fact, I'm sure of it. Darker, stranger things than even I ever seen or heard. It may be he knew what had to be done, for one reason or another.'

'Kill Lancer or save us?'

'I don't know mate. Maybe both. There a lot of mysteries in this world,' Grimmer said. 'And Blackbone, well, we'll never know.'

'It could be as simple as he liked us,' Eli said.

'Could be,' Grimmer replied. 'I'd say that's a load of bilge but . . . could be.'

Eli closed his eyes as the softly roaring surf broke against the shore and fell back. 'Thanks Blackbone,' he said.

'Aye, thanks mate,' Grimmer said. 'You scurvy son of a bilgemother.'

There was silence for a while. 'How's it feel? With Lancer . . .'

Eli answered for the both of them. 'It doesn't feel like he's gone at all,' he said. India said nothing.

Grimmer nodded. 'Aye.'

'What do we do now?'

Grimmer tapped his chin. 'One thing at a time, as always. Everyone but me will need food and drink quick sharp before you all collapse. And I could do with some as well.'

'I feel like all I can taste is the sea,' Eli said.

'I feel like all I can taste is gunpowder,' India said.

'Then rest,' Grimmer told them. 'All of us rest.'

'And then?' Eli asked.

'I'm going to find my father,' India said.

Grimmer sighed and shook his head sadly. 'It's just a story.'

India stiffened. 'It's not. He's here, I know it. And he'll have a ship,' India added, raising his voice. 'Or if he's retired he can help us get one. A ship enough for everyone.'

The others had heard him, and some of them muttered to each other. 'A ship?' Bilge Joe enquired. 'Who's your father then?'

'The High Captain Wolfgang Bones,' India replied. He ignored another slow shake of Grimmer's skull.

Bilge Joe grinned. 'Huh. Is that so.'

'I believe the boy will find his father,' Shang Yei said, her eyes closed. 'All things come to pass in this land. Under the eye of Quetzalcoatl it will come to pass.'

'India will,' Old Neg contributed. 'Somebody Bones, yes.'

Bilge Joe leaned forward as though to spit, but his mouth was too dry and nothing came out. 'You do what you need to do, you three,' he said. 'We'll be in the City of Gold, makin' do with what little coin we got on us. Or what arrangements we can strike up.'

'How will we find you?' Eli asked.

Bilge Joe cocked an eyebrow, seeming amused. 'You'll want to find us? Huh.' He coughed. 'Just look for the scurves who look like they've been blown up. I guarantee in this shiny place we'll stick out like black spots on linen. You won't miss our trail o' dirt.'

'First things first,' Grimmer said.

'Aye,' Bilge Joe said. 'I could murder a pot o' beans right now.'

'W-w-water,' Mikkel started. His voice hadn't improved; he'd been in the thick of the smoke with the gunnery crew.

'That's a funny way of pronouncin' rum,' Bilge Joe said. He stood up. 'Every man and woman for themselves, if that's how you want it,' he said. 'And ohdwaas, yes Ol' Neg. But I'm off, if you follow you follow.' He walked up the beach to where the fringes of the city gleamed through the trees. One by one the others picked themselves up and followed, leaving Grimmer, India and Eli.

'Us too,' Grimmer said, getting to his feet with an audible creaking of bones. 'Come on boys.'

'Can we -' Eli started.

'- Not go with the others?' India finished. 'Not right now.'

'I wasn't gonna do any such thing,' Grimmer said. 'You got any coin on you?' He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. 'I might have a few loose things rattling around in here.'

'Flynn gave us money,' Eli said.

'Good. Let's go and get us some vittles and get that rasp out of our voices. Well, maybe not mine, I think that's here to stay. And get us some beds, while we're at it.'

'Will they be okay with a skeleton around? The Indians, I mean.'

'No-one's _okay_ with a skeleton, mate. Not even you I reckon, say what you will. But this here's Quetzalcoatl. That's its old name. The history here . . . it's too much for your brains, you'd shudder to know it. The people who have lived here, generation after generation since the first seeds, they're a part of this land. They know things, things written in their blood. The dead have come here before and they'll come here since. They've come _from_ here, way back in the ancient times.'

'You've been here before?'

'Mate, I've been just about _everywhere_.'

*

They walked the streets of India, absorbed in the sights around them. The smoothness of the streets, the yellowstone turning ruddy gold in the dropping sun. The idols and effigies loomed large and grotesque over them, standing on every corner and in the centre of every plaza. The history of this place, and the dead Aztec Empire it clung to, were carved and sculptured into the walls and pillars. They were ancient and worn with the long erosion of time, but in some of them (perhaps ones whose engravings had since been restored) India made out scenes of death and gods, battles and temple building and bloody sacrifice.

The people here stared at Grimmer, but not in the same way they did in the other places in the Caribbean. Here they seemed respectful, and sometimes even a little sad, as though he reminded them of things they did not wish to be reminded of, some past, inescapable tragedy . . . or of the fullness of death itself. Many of them lowered their heads in a short bow, and briefly touched their foreheads. Grimmer responded by touching his forehead in return, but when India started doing the same, he stopped him. 'It's not for you,' he said.

Grimmer led them to an eating and resting place; India and Eli were left bewildered by the signs, the alphabet entirely foreign to them. There were a few things written in Yorkish and Doradian, but the handwriting was so hard to read – jagged, twisting – and the way they described things so peculiar, that they weren't much help. The inn, if that's what it was (even the shape of the buildings seemed to bear little resemblance to its purpose) was called a 'night hole'.

The night hole was a long, low building set into the earth, with a dark stone interior and a musty smell like dry sand and hot meat; India thought of those carvings of people sacrificed, and worse besides, and he thought he smelled the ground bone and blood that had soaked into this place from aeons past. They drank something that tasted like bitter honey, and ate corn and beans and fish to a low flame and the penetrating stares of the other patrons, each lost in their own small blooms of light and separated by pitch darkness.

By the end of their meal India couldn't stop yawning, and it quickly caught on to Eli. Grimmer bought them rooms (taking some of the money Flynn had given them to do so) and they went down steps into a lower level, where they all had to stoop so as not to hit their heads on the ceiling. There were straw mattresses and blankets directly on the stone, laid along tunnels separated by pillars, in what seemed like a kind of catacombs. Some of the sleeping places were already taken, and they navigated around these figures that lay silent and flat on their backs like the newly dead.

They found free straw and blankets in an alcove under a low-burning torch. India tried not to look at Grimmer; in this place there was something freshly terrible about him, as the torchlight stole over his skull and his limbs clacked together in this otherwise mute underworld. The floor was hard under them, and they'd gotten too used to the hammocks on the ship. But their exhaustion overcame them, and the honeyed drinks had only added to it.

Grimmer was the last to fall asleep.

*

The next day, the bright, hot light seemed to almost reflect off the yellowstone. People seemed to waver in the sleepy heat; India and Eli were forced to carry their coats (Grimmer glanced at them with a curious expression of jealousy). Nobody seemed to hurry here, and in fact the city as a whole seemed quiet; either the population was a lot smaller than the place could hold, or people preferred to stay inside. India was reminded of the old proverb: _Only mad dogs and Yorkishmen go out in the midday sun._ It wouldn't be afternoon for a while, but then perhaps people kept different times here.

After an unhurried breakfast they began to ask around, seeing if anybody's eyes lit with recognition at the name Wolfgang Bones. While many spoke Yorkish, Grimmer often took the lead in asking them in their own tongue. One by one, they shook their heads. India began to wonder if his father lived in Tomahawk, or elsewhere on the island. But there'd been a _pull_ to this place. He'd been sure of it.

By mid-afternoon their walk had taken them, without any direction or purpose, to a poorer district. It was only now under the sun's sharp glare that India saw the age in the city. In many areas the walls and buildings were completely weathered and cracked. Pavestones broken, with dark soil underneath, and instead of plazas there were untamed areas of dirt and wild grass that people walked over barefoot. Everywhere things crumbling, beaten down by the hands of time.

The native people wore little throughout the city, but here whatever was worn was plain and simple and unadorned by jewellery. Sometimes they were in little more than rags or loincloths, crouched in doorways and looking up at them with searching dark eyes. India had thought to move on, back to people of knowledge and greater standing, who were surely more likely to know the whereabouts of the High Captain. But Grimmer had other ideas, bending over by one fallen arch to an almost naked old woman with ragged hair. As she looked up with milky eyes and reached out with her hands, India realised she was blind.

'Let's go Grimmer,' India muttered.

Grimmer placed a coin in her hands, and she fingered the edges, smiling. 'You are from the west,' she said, in thickly accented Yorkish.

'We are looking for someone,' Grimmer said. 'A man by the name of Indiana Wolfgang Bones.'

'The High Captain,' India added.

The woman said, 'I do not know a Bones.'

They were about to turn and leave when she added, much to India's surprise, 'Wolfgang, I know. Many of us do.'

India rushed forward and took her hand. 'You know my father?'

'I know Wolfgang,' she affirmed.

'How many Wolfgangs are there here?'

'Just one, that we know.'

'Who is we? You say many of you know him? But nobody else has said they do.'

'He is known to us . . .' She cast an arm at the crumbled city around her. 'You have been talking to wrong people.'

India looked back at Grimmer and Eli, grinning. 'He must have worked with the poor,' he said. 'Helped them. I knew he was a good man.'

'Helped us, yes,' the woman said.

'Where is he?'

The woman shrugged, and India felt a twinge of irritation. 'Where can I find him?'

'You cannot find,' the woman said. She squeezed his hand. 'I will find. Come to me later.'

'Why can't you take us to him?'

'Come to me . . . later. You will meet.'

Grimmer put his hand on India's shoulder. 'That's more than we expected mate,' he said. 'We'll come back.'

'When sun is down,' the woman said, smiling and nodding.

India stood up. 'You aren't lying?'

Grimmer pulled him away. 'Don't ask a native Indian if they're lying,' he said. 'Come on, we'll get food and rest up.' He turned back to the woman. 'You'll still be here at night?'

The woman nodded and smiled.

*

They came back later on, when the gold of the city had fallen to first orange, then red, then finally a deathly grey in the moonlight. More people were out now, though still much short of the city's size. They faded in and out of the dark corners of the city, unhurried, private. Somewhere India heard the slow, soft beating of a drum. Low mutters seemed to follow them, but whenever they turned around there was nobody there. It was as though the voices were coming from the city's broken idols, with their bulging, staring eyes and their feathers and claws.

There were almost no lights in the poor district, and at first they couldn't see the blind woman. She made them jump when they turned to see her standing no more than a foot away from them, still near naked, a hunched black form with her dead eyes like cats' eyes in the night.

'Where's my father?' India said. 'If this is a trick -'

The woman put a finger to her lips. 'Quetzalcoatl,' she said.

'What do you mean, Quetzalcoatl? Didn't you say that's what this place used to be called, Grimmer?'

The finger from her lips moved to point into the sky. _No, not the sky . . ._

'The great temple,' she said. 'You meet him at top of Quetzalcoatl. I have arranged it.' She breathed low and rattling. 'Yes, once whole city was Quetzalcoatl. Before they came from the Continent. With their guns.'

'I see you still keep a lot of the old ways here,' Grimmer said.

The woman touched her forehead. 'As do you, Son of Tlaloc, he who is made of earth and sea.' Grimmer touched his head and bowed in return.

'Thank you,' India said.

'I don't see why she couldn't have brought him here,' he muttered, after they had left her behind, heading to the edge of the city. 'I don't trust her.'

'I do,' Grimmer said. Eli said nothing.

India felt very uncomfortable, as though someone was throwing small stones inside his body. He was excited and scared at once, and getting tenser by the minute. _My father . . . the father I've never met . . . The great High Captain . . . What will he think of me? Will he be proud? Or ashamed?_ He flicked from feeling the meeting could never come soon enough, to dreading it. Part of him was worried that the woman would turn out to be lying – that they'd get to the top of Quetzalcoatl and be set upon by thieves – but part of him was terrified she _wouldn't_ be lying.

They reached the ends of the city, and came to a path that twisted serpentine through the rainforest towards the temple. It was lit on both sides by torches at intervals, and it must have been well-tended because the ground was tamed and the wilds were kept strictly at bay – and yet there were no people to be seen.

They lost sight of the City of Gold after the first turn in the path. India felt his neck prickle; there was the sensation that the jungle was closing in behind them, and looking back only encouraged the thought. He was half tempted at times to run back the way they'd come, just to make sure they still _could_ , but he pushed on. _Don't get silly_ , he told himself. It didn't help that the jungle was so unnaturally still; it was as though it respected this trail as something sacred and untouchable. _Perhaps nobody cuts the wilds away. Perhaps the jungle keeps itself back._

When there were gaps in the canopy, they saw a huge bulk of yellowstone that could only be a portion of Quetzalcoatl. And when the path finally opened out onto the clearing, they could only stand in awe, their heads tilting as far back on their shoulders as they could go.

'Oh my god,' Eli croaked.

India breathed heavily, speechless. What had been massive and astonishing from the deck of the Talisman was now behemothic, a wonder of the world that seemed to take up the entire sky. They moved around the base, ignoring the pain in their necks. The blocks of the pyramid were unclimbable, but hundreds of steep steps were cut into the middle of each side, leading all the way to the top. India would have believed that there were thousands.

'You don't want us to come with you, do you,' Eli said, when they had come to a stop. It wasn't a question.

India smiled at him, a smile he didn't feel inside. He was shivering, and Eli reached in suddenly and hugged him. India hugged back, his eyes screwed shut.

'You'll be okay,' Eli said.

'Yeah,' India replied. He drew back, Grimmer's skeleton hand on his shoulder.

'Good luck mate,' Grimmer said. His face was unsmiling, but far from unkind. It seemed resigned, and almost pitying – but there was strength there as well, and India took from it.

'What do I say?' India asked. He no longer felt the need to add, 'if he's there'. He knew he'd be there now. He could feel it in the very core of himself. He knew as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

'Say "hello mate",' Grimmer said.

India smiled, and he turned and began to climb.

# SEVENTEEN

When, with aching legs and panting with exertion, India finally reached the open-topped stone temple at the peak of the pyramid, his mind wasn't on enjoying the view. His limbs groaned and his head was swimming, but he didn't sit down. He took some long, shuddering breaths and he went slowly and purposefully past the walled-together pillars and into the bare sacrificial centre.

There was a heartbeat, long and loud, stretched out to a lifetime – fourteen years of land and sea, of sticks and bruises and swords and cannon fire. Then –

'You're not my father,' India said, stopped short at the sight of the old, haggard man with the bent back and the tired eyes. He was sat in the corner, on a small wooden stool that looked out of place at the top of the Aztec temple, the god house. India wrinkled his nose, for the stink of alcohol radiated off the man and his ragged clothes.

The man turned and looked at him. He said nothing for a while, and just when India was going to speak again, he said, in a dry voice, 'No. I'm not.'

'I was told my father would be here.'

'He isn't.'

'For _shank's sake!_ ' India shouted, banging the wall, not caring that it hurt his hand. 'I really thought I had it this time,' he said, hearing the pain in his voice. 'And it was just a dead end. After _everything_.'

'You're looking for the High Captain Wolfgang?' the old man said, quietly.

'Yes! You know him?'

'I do.'

'Where is he? Tell me!'

'He doesn't exist.'

India was struck dumb for a second. 'What are you talking about? Of course he exists! He's my father!'

'He's made up. Fictional. The book, all his exploits – it's a story book. A fantasy.'

'You're talking bilge,' India said. He was starting to feel angry.

'I shouldn't have said anything,' the man said. 'I just thought – I mean, you couldn't look for him forever could you? It'd destroy you. I knew you were looking for him, and then I saw you for my own eyes in . . . in India. Over and over again. I saw the face of a boy who wouldn't stop. So I passed it along – come to the top of the Golden Mountain, the top of Quetzalcoatl, to meet your father.'

'But he's not here.'

'He's not anywhere.'

'Why are you saying this?' India said, tears springing to his eyes. He didn't want them to, but it was all too much.

'Think about it, India. You know it's true.'

'Other people have heard of Wolfgang Bones!'

'They told you it was just a story too, didn't they?'

India was silent.

'There were a number of copies made of the book. Not for a long while, though. Mostly it was just spoken word, campfire tales, you know how myths build. They often lose all sight of their origin. I hadn't heard the full name mentioned in a long time, before you came along. I don't suppose most remember at all.'

'You're telling me Mrs Wayles lied to me. And Mr Bassard.'

'I don't know a Mr Bassard. But don't think too badly of Mrs Wayles. She did the best she could. She knew telling you the High Captain was your father would be more inspiring to you than the truth ever could be. She wanted to give you a future. A dream.'

'Just a dream!' India shouted. 'The truth is always better than a dream!'

'Is it? There's a great many dreams out there, and they all hold more value than all the treasure in the world.'

'Treasure, treasure, treasure!' India said. 'That's all anyone talks about! It's all _I_ talk about, beyond my father! And where is it then? Nowhere, anywhere! So I'm just another poor stupid kid with nothing to his name, not even a famous father. No money, no ship, no family and no shankin' home. What's been the point? What's been the shankin' point in _anything_?'

The man leaned further forward on his stool and tapped his feet on the floor slowly. Left, right, left. Tap. Tap. Tap.

India sank down and put his head in his arms, and for a minute the only sounds he could hear were his own breathing and the tapping of the old man's feet. The world seemed to have fallen away from under him. His heart hurt.

'India Bones,' the man said, his feet coming to rest, 'do you remember the legend of Horn's Gold?'

'Yeah,' India said, his voice muffled. 'He was a pirate that stole a huge treasure and buried it, or something. Nobody knows where it went anyway. So what?'

'He wasn't a pirate, he was a privateer working for the Yorkish Navy. He attacked pirates and seized their hauls one by one. But instead of bringing it back to York, or even Kingston, he kept it all for himself. Keeping the gold and selling the goods to Hong Kong Silver for even more gold and treasures. He stole that which was already stolen. Figuring there was no crime in robbing thieves. When the game was up, when the Navy caught wind, he hid the treasure, all of it. He was always too busy getting more to spend any.'

India raised his head. 'How do you know all this?'

The old man let out a long breath and looked down at the ground. 'I was there. At Captain Horn's side. I saw what he did. All those pirates he put to death for his own ends. Of course, he was a pirate at heart, but even a pirate should be _honest_ with what he does. Or maybe I'm just a fool. Aye, I was there, when he sailed up to that beach and the lot of us dug in the yellow sand, going grey as the storm clouds gathered, knowing the Navy were coming right for us . . . And he told us to throw aside our spades and led us further into the island, each of us but him groaning under the weight of all that gold . . .'

India's eyes had opened wide by this point and his mouth dropped open. 'You know where it is!'

The old man smiled. 'It's under my feet.'

India said nothing, stared at the ground. And then said, 'What do you mean?'

'Right here. Under the temple.'

A thrilling current was coursing its way through India's veins, and he sprang to his feet. His eyes danced over the floor, as though expecting to see mounds of gold through the stone. 'But . . . but all the temples have been ransacked! This must have been a hundred times!'

'You'd be surprised how few times something gets ransacked after the first time, when there's nothing left,' the old man smiled. 'But I didn't say in the temple. I said _under_ it.'

'Under?'

'There's a way inside the base of the pyramid. It'll look like nothing, an empty chamber, but there's a secret room below. Captain Horn found it, and covered it up even better than it was before. Used explosives to destroy the entrance. You'll have to move the stones in the floor. Get in from its ceiling.'

India struggled to breathe, he was too excited. 'If this is true -'

'It is.'

'- why are you telling me?'

The old man sighed. 'The Navy came for us,' he said. 'I hid before the battle, and because of that I'm the only one who survived. The only one out of the whole damn crew. Now I'm just a silly old man all by himself. Ships and castles and palaces, leave them to the young. The rainforest is my home. The streets and steps of India and Tomahawk. The jungle villages. Life is about people, you know? The people on the streets. The people in the trees. The people no-one listens to. And sometimes it's about no people at all. Sometimes it's about being alone. The caves behind the waterfall. The empty temples.'

The man coughed heavily. 'I'm too tired to play with treasure, and I don't deserve to. There's nothing else in the world I want to spend it on. Who else am I gonna give it to? Maybe I'm a cynic, and maybe I'm just selfish, well I know I'm both, but you're the first good and honest heart I've seen since . . . since maybe ever. Besides,' he added, hanging his head, 'he wanted you to have it.'

'Who? Captain Horn? I wasn't born . . .'

'No. The High Captain. Wolfgang. Your father.'

'You said he didn't exist!'

The man was looking older and older the longer he talked, as though all the weariness of the world was piling itself on his hunched shoulders. 'He doesn't,' he said. 'But nonetheless. He wanted you to have it.'

'I don't _understand_ ,' India stamped his foot angrily, and then his face froze. 'Are you my father?'

The man looked sadly away, and said nothing for a moment. 'No, I'm no father to you,' he said at last. 'It was Wolfgang who raised you.'

'Stop talking in – in riddles! Who are you? Is my father real?'

'My dear boy,' the man said. 'It's okay. Really, it is. It's okay.'

'Who -'

'I'm nobody, really. It's okay, India. Take the treasure. Do what you were always meant to do.'

'What, take stolen treasure?'

'No, no. Live, India. Follow your dreams.'

India swallowed. His mouth felt very dry. 'And my father?'

'Your father was High Captain Indiana Wolfgang Bones. It doesn't matter that he wasn't real. Why should it? He was your father and he raised you. He made you who you are, and he is why you're here now. He did a better job than anybody else ever could've.'

India was conscious of tears forming in his eyes again, and he tried hard to hold them back, tightening his fists in frustration. 'I want to know who my real father was,' he said.

The man kept his gaze at the floor, averted from India. His voice was low and quiet and flat. 'Whoever bedded your mother was a nobody, a nameless drunk, and he is long dead. The world forgot him as soon as he left it, if it ever knew of him at all.'

Tears were falling down India's cheek now, and he couldn't keep them away. 'Did you know my mother?'

'I did. We were friends, for a time.'

'And?'

'She worked in a – a coffee house.'

'I know what that means.'

'I know you do. She died giving birth to you.'

'Did you see her die?'

'No. I wasn't there for that.' The man coughed again. He was shaking his head very slightly to-and-fro, still staring blankly at the floor. 'Mrs Wayles sent me a letter. That's how I knew she was reading you the book, and telling you about the High Captain. Right from the moment you were born. I knew she'd keep on reading you it, because your mother loved it. It was her favourite.'

'You wrote it.'

The man looked at him then, with sad, heavy eyes, and then turned away once more. 'Your parents are both as dead as you are alive. I need to be left alone now.'

India didn't move.

'I need to be left alone now,' the man repeated. 'You shouldn't return. I won't be here if you do.'

India lowered his head and turned, wiping his face with his arm.

The man coughed wetly behind him. 'Go get your treasure, India Bones.'

*

India stepped out from the pillars to find himself at the summit of the world. The night jungle radiated out from him in blacks and blues, angry purples and carnelian reds. He was far above the rainforest canopy, above the mist layer. Here the air was sharp and almost chill.

The City of Gold seemed almost a stone's throw away. A softly burning jewel in the wild. He could jump – leap out and in one single bound land in that old Aztec world still fighting hopelessly against the relentless passage of time. He could soar, he could fly . . . he would fall forever.

There were little villages he glimpsed, in the places where the canopy thinned. Inside one he saw a circle of fire. To the east he could see the lights of Tomahawk, see the giant waterfall that to him was no bigger than a dribble. _Sometimes it's about being alone. The caves behind the waterfall._

India began to descend. Each step was weightless. His mind felt like a still ocean, betraying the surging currents underneath the surface. He'd lost and gained more than he was prepared to in either case. Gained a hoard of treasure – maybe – and lost a father.

He realised only when he was near the bottom that he was crying, and he hurriedly wiped his face with his sleeve. Only when he was satisfied the evidence was gone did he walk around the base of Quetzalcoatl to find his friends.

Eli stared at him anxiously. Grimmer was leaning against the stone, his face blank. India found himself quickly wishing they were gone – _not now, not now_ – and then threw the thought away.

'Was he there?' Eli said.

India said nothing as he approached. _Not now, not now_.

'Was he there?' Eli repeated, as India came to a stop in front of them.

India crossed his arms. 'I'll tell you later,' he said. 'There's something more important right now.'

'More important?'

'When we walked around the base, was there an opening? It might have been small. I don't remember, I wasn't . . . I wasn't thinking right.'

'It's on this side,' Grimmer said. 'We've just been in it. There's nothing there, it's just an empty chamber.'

'Show me.'

They found the tunnel, Grimmer stooping down to enter after taking one of the lit torches from outside. It ran straight inside the pyramid and came out on a large bare room, devoid of anything but the yellowstone with which it was made.

'Plundered,' Grimmer said.

A part of the wall had fallen into impassable rubble; India ran his hand over the blocks. _Explosives. This had been the secret entrance._

India took a deep breath. 'Through the floor,' he said.

'What?'

'Do you trust me?'

There was a pause. 'I do,' Eli said.

'Aye, mate,' Grimmer said. 'For what purpose, though?'

'I ask because I'm gonna ask you to do a lot of work. Right now, right here. It might take all night, I don't know. I need your trust. I need you to believe that I know it'll be worth it. And . . . don't ask me why. Not until it's done.'

'Until what's done?' Eli said.

'We're going to break right through the floor and into the room below.'

'There's a room below? Did your . . . did your father tell you that?'

India held up a hand. 'Please.'

Eli stared at the floor, then back up at India. He gave a small smile. 'Of course,' he said.

'Grimmer?'

Grimmer nodded. 'I've got all the time in the world mate.'

India's grin quickly became a frown. 'We don't have any tools.'

'You'll have to use your bare hands,' Grimmer said. 'Go on, hands and knees.'

India narrowed his brow and got to his knees. The stones in the floor were huge. He tried to get his fingers dug into the edges, but as packed together as they were he couldn't get purchase. He pushed and pulled, straining hard, but with nothing more than the very tips of his fingers it seemed truly impossible. Nonetheless, he tried again from another angle, and Eli joined him. They grunted, their fingertips sore from the pressure on the worn stone.

'You gonna help us?' India breathed, his fingers slipping out once again.

'I think you might die before you manage to move that an inch,' Grimmer said. He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled something out. It was a fist-sized black ball with a silver skull-and-crossbones engraved into it. Coming out the top was a tuft of string.

'What is that?' India said.

'This?' Grimmer said, tossing the ball into the air and catching it. 'This is a bomb.'

'A _bomb_?'

'A special kind of bomb. I got it from – well, that's a long story, but it sure wasn't from around these parts. Had it a long, long time. Been saving it for a rainy day.' Grimmer continued to toss it one-handed. 'It ain't rainy tonight, but I figure, you know, now or never.'

'You've had a _bomb_ this _entire time_ , in your _coat pocket_?'

'Aye,' Grimmer said. 'Come to think of it, I probably shouldn't be the one holding the torch.'

India stood up and took the bomb quickly off Grimmer. It felt cold in its hands as he carefully turned it about. 'This . . . this is the fuse,' he said, touching the string.

'What say we light the bastard and blow this floor?'

'Um,' Eli said. 'How big a blast does it have?'

'Never tried it,' Grimmer replied. 'Think it's a one-use kinda thing.'

'I mean, we don't want the whole pyramid coming down.'

'Ah, nothing's gonna shake this mate. It's stood the test of time.' He leaned forward and held the torch against the fuse.

'Grimmer!' India yelled, as the fuse immediately flared into life.

'I'd put that on the ground if I were you mate,' Grimmer said. 'And run like hell.'

*

They were halfway down the tunnel when Grimmer pushed them to the ground and the bomb exploded.

There was a green flash and a thumping boom that resonated against the stones, followed by a roaring blast of heat that washed over them and was gone. There was a quick series of crashing thuds that seemed to come from below, accompanied by the acrid smell of smoke and something else that India couldn't identify, some sickly chemical. It made his tongue numb.

India was the first on his feet, coughing briefly in the smoke escaping down the tunnel. He ran back, hoping with heart in his mouth that it hadn't caved in entirely. Grimmer and Eli followed on his heels, the torch dancing shadows about them.

The chamber had been entirely blackened by the blast, but thankfully the ceiling and walls had stayed intact. The same couldn't be said of the ground the bomb had been placed on. Almost the whole bottom of the chamber had fallen in.

_The room below. The secret room_. India held his breath and leaned over the side of the hole.

# EIGHTEEN

Grimmer held the torch over the edge. One knee fell, then another. 'Davy Jones,' he whispered. Beside him Eli took a sharp inwards breath that didn't seem to stop.

' _Horn's Gold_ ,' India said hoarsely. 'It's really here. It's really true.' Black motes spun before his eyes, and he felt dizzy. Eli must have sensed it, because he grabbed his arm, and they joined Grimmer on their knees. The three of them knelt there side by side, almost prostrate in worship at the edge of that pit, their imaginations reflecting back at them with the torchlight.

Here, around and underneath the crashed stones, was the treasure of Captain Bucklemeir Horn.

Here was the gold, all the gold, black chests overflowing with glittering coin – Tortugal coin, Yorkish coin and Doradian coin, Bordeauxan and Barbaryan, Afrikan and Amazonian and Aztec coin. Coins from the Harem Empire, coins from China, coins from the tallest towers and the lowest dungeons and the deepest, darkest depths of the sea. Coins he'd never seen before with jagged edges, lined with black and silver designs or inset with jewels.

Here were the jewels, all the jewels, crystals and diamonds and cat's eyes, rubies and carnelians and garnets, pink corals and topazes and rose quartz, sapphires and moonstones and azurite, emeralds and jade and malachite, white pearls and black pearls and pearls of a hypnotic swirl, agates and amethysts, bloodstones and rainbow pyrite, firestones and deathbells and witchhearts, Khan _rusyvit_ and Gyptian glass _,_ onyx and obsidian and great balls of phoenix amber, Louisiana tears and frostgems dug out of frozen caves in the Icelands . . . and for everything that had a name, there were things whose names had never been recorded, or never been named at all . . .

India only knew a fraction of the names, and even less he'd be able to correctly identify, but that didn't matter. The sparkling, gleaming colours – every colour imaginable, a prism of the gods - were enough to convey their richness. And if the gems alone weren't enough, those not loose and scattered were embedded in the most remarkable artefacts: statues and idols and trinkets of every kind, alongside many things bare of jewels and yet wholly beautiful, burning in the light with their own brilliance, things whose designs had never been repeated and had laid unknown in this secret chamber as years passed and truth had become legend, laid in darkness and forgotten, before Grimmer had lit the bomb and sunk the ceiling and brought the torchlight to bear.

Gazing upon the hoard India felt like he was discovering some lost civilisation. He knew now that Bucklemeir Horn hadn't just robbed pirates for his treasure; he'd taken it from everywhere and everyone, for years upon years upon years, picked from the ends of the earth, from people and places that time forgot.

And now it was here, and now they had found it.

'Davy Jones,' Grimmer croaked again. 'Somebody pinch me, I feel alive.'

'I think I might faint,' Eli said. 'This is . . . this is . . .' He stared at them, then looked back down the hole, his black hair hanging over his face.

India's eyes were half-closed; he felt like he was swimming. It wasn't a long drop to the chamber below, but he sensed what he vaguely understood as vertigo – it reminded him of something he'd known as a child for a brief time, climbing the cliffs on Mexico Island and looking down. He forced himself to raise his head and sit back and away from the hole.

'I feel sick,' he said, running his hands through his hair.

'You and me both,' Eli said. He lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling. 'Your father told you about the treasure then,' he said. 'He knew because . . . because he was there. He was part of it. And now he's giving it to you.' It wasn't a question, and India didn't answer.

'There is _one_ little issue,' Grimmer said at last, sitting back and stroking his skull thoughtfully.

'What to spend it all on,' India said. His mind was full of dreams. _Just wait till Salia sees what I can bring her_. He realised in a distant, detached way that he wasn't smiling. In a way, this was beyond smiles, beyond laughter. This was vast, too vast to condense into something as simple as a smile, too vast to even fit inside his own head without feeling that dizziness come over again.

'Before that mate . . .' Grimmer said. 'How do we get it all out of here?'

India sat up. 'Shank,' he said.

Nobody said anything for a few moments. Then Eli turned his head to face them. 'We're gonna need the others,' he said.

*

They lowered India down the hole and he stood around in wonder before the calls from above (and his rising thirst) jolted him into picking up a handful of jewels, turning them over and over in his hands and holding them up to the torchlight, and then placing them in his inside coat pockets. They pulled him back up and Grimmer withdrew his hipflask and shared it around.

India and Eli left Grimmer guarding the entrance to the pyramid, in the unlikely eventuality that somebody else might discover the hoard that night. They walked back down the lighted jungle path, neither of them saying a word, both lost in their own heads. At one point Eli looked at him strangely, and India felt a chill that he couldn't explain; it was as though the two of them were standing on a precipice, and something was coming at them from out of the darkness, charging at their vulnerable forms. India felt a sudden need to take Eli in his arms and hold him, but he shook it off and looked back ahead.

They entered the City of Gold in the dead of night, most of the streets deserted. They headed to the quarter near the docks where the merchants, pirates and explorers who travelled to the island frequented. They were looking around for a suitable place to enter, to ask of the whereabouts of Bilge Joe and the rest of the ex-crew of the Talisman, when they encountered Old Neg shuffling along the street towards them, his head down.

'Neg!' India cried, his arms raised up.

Old Neg stopped short. He looked past India, at Eli behind him, and his tiny eyes were visible for the first time. His whole body quivered. He seemed inexplicably frightened.

'What is it?' India asked. 'What's wrong?'

Old Neg turned and ran in the opposite direction, as fast as his short legs could carry him. India stared, and turned to Eli in confusion, wondering if they should give chase. That was when he saw.

Eli's pale ghostly face was scared and yet somehow also grim and cold and resigned, not struggling against the blade at his throat, even though pops of blood were already beginning to appear. Behind him a half-shadowed face leered out.

'Hello old friend,' Lancer Main said. 'Have I caught you at a bad time?'

India struggled to control his breathing and his heart-rate. 'I couldn't shake off the feeling that you weren't gone,' he said, the words rushing out quickly. 'But it wasn't just a feeling. I _knew_ it. I knew you'd return.' He looked into Eli's eyes and swallowed, feeling a pain in his throat. 'Eli knew it too.'

Lancer smiled. Even in this dim slice of torchlight he looked ill. The arm not holding the knife hung limp at his side. 'I was overboard and in the water on the port side from the second of your salvos. Or was it the third? I thought I was drowning, but somehow I came to the surface, the skeleton ship raining cannon fire over my head. My coat was weighing me down so I pulled it off. You know how hard that is to do in the water, with only one good arm? I can thank your friend Flynn for that. I clung to a piece of my ship, my broken ship, watching through one eye it sink before me, and I pretended to be dead, my face down against that wet, stinking wood. I lifted my head up when the shadow had left me, when the setting sun hit my face. There was no sign of the ships, nothing but driftwood and broken things, broken people. I saw you and him rowing away with the others. With a _skeleton_. I waited, and I waited, the salt burning in my mouth, my head on fire, my limbs aching. All I wanted to do was drown. If not for my hate for you both. So I waited. And then I began to paddle.'

India said nothing. He was trying to think of what to do, the right thing to say, but his mind was sluggish and co-operative.

'I've been gaining my strength back,' Lancer continued. 'And keeping an eye on you . . . and your new friends. Waiting for a good opportunity. Oh, I heard you talking about the treasure. Horn's Gold, really?' He sniffed in amusement. 'Whatever you've found, it'll be the property of the Yorkish Crown soon enough. Oh, you thought I might want it for myself? Money is just a stepping stone to power, India. Power and glory. Can you imagine what Her Majesty will say when I bring her this prize? The status I will achieve in her court? The position and respect I could command in Gettysburg . . . I could finally leave this degenerate Caribbean forever.'

'Let him go,' India said. 'Please. I'm . . . I'm sorry. We're both sorry.'

'You have humiliated me for the last time,' Lancer said, his voice eerily calm. 'Did you think I could let it go? I knew it was all you. The muck thrown at me in the street. Every idiotic prank. Did you think I was stupid? Is that what you thought? You were protected, by that senile old fool Crescent, and by my own _blood . . ._ As much as he hated Crescent, hated you all, he must have hated me more . . . and without any proof of your misdeeds . . . Even with proof, I could do nothing. I know my spoilt brat cousin had something to do with it all. But, as they say, family is family. And you don't hurt family. Or at least that's what I was told, by family. Strange that, isn't it? Seeing as my father didn't seem to follow the same rules.'

'I'm sorry about your father,' India said.

Lancer's expression turn on a blank, glassy turn. 'I'm not,' he said.

'Salia . . . Is she okay?'

'She's alive. I will decide what to do with her when I return to Kingston. She has evaded punishment so far, but that won't last, not when I return. Perhaps it must be paid with interest.' Lancer nicked Eli again with the edge of the knife; to his credit Eli made no sound, and India felt a quick burst of pride.

'The two of you though, you deserve everything you get,' Lancer said, his tone suddenly bitter, almost upset. 'I know I'm not the . . . easiest person to get along with. I didn't like you coming in my house and just, just _living_ there, can you blame me? I had no choice at all. I never did. But you, you ruined _everything_. You were _cruel_.'

'You were far worse!' India shouted, unable to hold himself back any longer. 'We only fought back. You hurt Eli.'

'Eli was _mine to hurt!_ ' Lancer snarled. 'My father hits me, who do _I_ hit in return? The Mains kick downward. We always have. You have to punish people, sometimes. Not only when they do wrong. You have to straighten them out, or they'll never become anything more. I learned that, and so must Eli. So must you.'

Lancer shook his head, curling his lip. 'Content to live in the dirt like rats. Honour and duty, order and discipline and _respect_ and family, they're all just words to you, aren't they? You never had expectations of you. You never had the life I had, well I _give_ it to you. Take it!' His fist tightened around his knife. Eli was struggling to draw breath. 'I am better than you, both of you. You don't see it, but that doesn't mean it's not true. I don't regret a thing. You think I'll let what you did to me pass, what you did to me in my father's eyes?'

'You are really your father's son,' India said. 'He'd be proud.' He knew when he said it that it was a mistake.

Lancer's face contorted, and he pulled his hand away.

India screamed as Eli Manson dropped to the floor.

'I just wanted him to be proud of me,' Lancer said, looking down as blood bubbled from Eli's throat and he kicked out on the ground. 'I was never enough for him. Do you know what it's like to never see pride in your father's eyes when he looks at you? Not ever? Not _once_?'

India sank to his knees. Eli's eyes fixed on him in his final seconds. His movements shuddered to a stop but the eyes kept looking on through death.

India felt his eyes become blurry and wet, and he began to rock slightly, clutching at the air in blind desperation. The first racking sob surprised him; it seemed to come from outside his body. It was only earlier tonight, walking down the steps of an Aztec pyramid, when unforeseen tears had sprung, but that was nothing compared to this – that was just specks of dust in the eyes. He hadn't cried like this ever before in his life. He hadn't cried when he was beaten by Jack Rush in Mohawk. He hadn't cried when he'd cut Skiv the Ratboy, maybe fatally. But here he was, a lost boy of fourteen years of age, knelt by the body of his friend and weeping, feeling his whole world collapsed, crushed. Ships destroyed. Temples fallen. White heat enveloping whole jungles and leaving ashes in their wake to go cold and brittle in the dawn.

He'd hurt Lancer Main. He'd pushed Lancer Main. He'd bullied Lancer Main – bullied a bully - and now Eli was dead.

He curled his fists and his knuckles went white.

Lancer Main sauntered closer to him, withdrawing a cutlass from his belt. His eyes were wide and wild. Looking into his face, murdering Eli had done something to him, snapped another string. Salia's words in her letter rose fresh and hot in India's mind: _I am quite certain that it is Lancer who killed him_. He knew it was the truth, and that while there may or may not have been any redemption for Lancer after his first kill, by now there was no doubt: any goodness in Lancer had died alongside Eli and his father.

Lancer waved the long blade at him mockingly. India withdrew his own sword – the motion seemed to go so slow – and it was slapped aside.

'Come on boy, is that all you have? I would have thought you had some fight in you after I killed your stupid friend.'

India stood up unsteadily, growling like an animal. He felt nothing but grief and rage. He slashed out, but Lancer was ready for him and countered swiftly. Lancer smiled cruelly and stepped forward as he attacked with practised, aggressive sweeps and thrusts.

'Did that make you angry boy? He really did deserve it. All you pirates do. All you rats of street and ship. He didn't suffer terribly though. I should've stuck him like a pig in the belly, and had him die in agony.'

India's eyes flashed with fury and his teeth ground together but he could not stop Lancer from harrying away at him, and it was all he could do to parry. Even after all his training with Flynn and Grimmer he was at a loss. Lancer was older, taller, stronger, and likely had been training with a sword his whole life. This was India's first real fight. Oh, he had thought he'd had fights before, had plenty of them, all fists and bruises in alleyways, but now they seemed nought but the playtimes of children. And sword practice with Flynn and Grimmer was incomparable to the real, brutal thing.

_Don't forget Skiv. The boy you stabbed_.

Skiv never had a sword. Skiv wasn't trying to kill me.

Were you?

Sweat ran down India's brow. He had never felt so close to death.

'Did you really think you could beat me?' laughed Lancer. 'You, thirteen year old street trash, against me, the governor's son and expert swordsman?'

'Fourteen.'

'What's that?'

'I said I'm fourteen.'

Lancer guffawed. 'Oh, I _am_ sorry. You're right, I should really be fighting for my life.'

With a last bout of strength India lashed out, and with a deft turn of his wrist Lancer spun his sword out of his hand. It clattered uselessly several feet away.

India backed up as Lancer advanced, smirking, and he found himself with his back to a wall. His hand fumbled behind him. _Why couldn't Flynn have stabbed Lancer's sword arm?_

Lancer's foot shot out and kicked him in the stomach, and India fell to his knees. A sword hilt smashed down on the back of his head and he crumpled.

He lay writhing on the ground as Lancer looked down at him, sneering.

'It's a pirate's life for you,' he said.

'Bones!' a shout came, to the side. India turned his head and saw Bilge Joe standing there by the corner of the street. He made a throwing motion.

India stared at him as the blood from his head ran down his face. Something skidded towards him and hit his arm.

'You can't save him,' Lancer said. He withdrew a pistol almost lazily and aimed it at Bilge Joe, and fired a shot. Joe dodged back behind the wall just in time.

Lancer looked back down at India to see a pistol aimed at him from the ground. He smiled, sheathing his own gun back in his belt. 'You don't think I didn't notice that, did you? Did you think I'd be afraid? Of you? A little boy with a man's weapon? You're not going to fire it. You don't even have it in you.'

India blinked as blood ran down his eyelids. His hand wavered as his head swam. He tried to focus.

'You're as useless as your friend, and you're going to end up the same way.'

India squeezed the trigger. He let go of the pistol and he watched through the blood at Lancer's wide, disbelieving eyes, at his hands groping at the hole in his chest, at his body falling so slowly towards him.

Lancer fell onto him and his eyes stared at India from only inches away. He looked into them, couldn't look anywhere else, and he saw how frightened they were. Lancer suddenly looked so much younger; he could have been India's own age.

'I just wanted him to be proud of me,' Lancer whispered for the second time. 'I never saw anything in his eyes . . . Nothing . . . Do you know what that's like?'

'I never met my father,' India said quietly.

'Then you were lucky.'

India said nothing. He watched as Lancer's eyes glazed and dulled and stopped moving. He lay there, motionless, with a dead man across him.

After what seemed like an eternity the weight was dragged off. Bilge Joe gave him his hand and hoisted him up. He let go of the rough fingers quickly and stumbled against the wall and was sick.

'You alright?'

India spat. His shoulders were heaving. 'Took you long enough,' he managed to say.

'Sorry about that. Old Neg came to get us but we weren't so close. This your first time? Killin', I mean.'

India stared blankly at the bodies of Eli and Lancer. 'I think so.'

Bilge Joe patted him on the back. 'Gets easier.'

'I bet it does.'

'You know he deserved it. Lancer Main, right? I recognise him from the ship.'

'It wasn't a fair fight.'

Joe shook his head, smiling. 'Would you rather fight fair or would you rather win?'

India's breathing was slowing down. It was only now that he saw the rest of the crew standing a little way off. Old Neg was at the side, anxiously pawing at himself. 'Whichever keeps me alive,' India said.

'There you go.'

India wiped his face with a sleeve and stood over Lancer, left dumped and twisted on the floor. He sat carefully down by the still form. A black mote was beckoning at the edge of India's eyes, singing to him to raise his head and look, to come on over. Another dark shape, as still as Lancer.

'What are you doing?' Bilge Joe asked.

'I don't know.'

'We n-need to d-d-o something with the b-body,' Mikkel said, coming forward.

'No we don't,' India said. 'Leave it here to rot.'

'And Eli?' Bilge Joe glanced at the other body. 'He was a good kid, we all liked him.'

Dizziness came again. The world was starting to feel unreal. _Please let this be a dream_ , India thought, but he knew dreams were never so cruel. 'Somebody run down to Quetza – Quetzalcoatl,' he said. 'Grimmer is there. He'll know what to do . . . . He needs to know.'

Bilge Joe looked at the crew. 'Volunteers?'

'There's gold,' India said.

'Huh?'

'Grimmer will show you.'

'Show us what? Here, what's that?' Bilge Joe was staring at a gem that had fallen to the ground.

India reached into his coat and pulled out the jewels, handing them to Bilge Joe and seeing his jaw drop.

'The hell did you get these?' Joe said in an awed voice.

'Go to Grimmer,' India said. 'I need . . .'

'You need a drink, is what you need.'

'Yeah. Somebody . . . somebody take me and Eli to . . .' India waved his hands into the suddenly rushing night, and he fell to the ground.

'You hear him?' India heard someone saying. 'Leave it here to rot, he said. Goddamn. Somebody gotta watch that kid. He's growin' up awful fast.'

*

They buried Eli Manson on the beach. They'd walked until India told them to stop. Nobody was complaining; India hoped dully that it was because they liked Eli, and not just because word had got back about the treasure.

'We'll bury him in a shallow grave,' India had proposed.

Grimmer had shaken his head sadly. 'It's not like that mate,' he said. 'He won't be like me. And that's a good thing.'

'He's gone then,' India said, his voice flat.

'Yeah. He's gone.'

Grimmer said a few words, as did Shang Yei. Old Neg tried to say something but in the end shuffled back, quivering.

Any words India had to say were spoken deep inside himself. That was where they belonged.

*

India looked at Grimmer, his own near-expressionless face betraying the helplessness and desperation that surged inside.

'Tell them the truth,' Grimmer said, not unkindly.

India stood up. 'My father died a hero,' he said, his eyes fixed over their heads. 'He passed down instructions to me to claim Horn's Gold as my own. As our own.' He looked around the room, briefly taking in each of them hanging on his every word. 'It's all ours.'

The response was silence. His voice was too cold, that was it. No matter.

'That's it,' he said, and sat back down.

*

With the help of the crew, they transported the chests of gold onto a merchant vessel they'd chartered direct to Tortugal. Bilge Joe accompanied Grimmer and India on the ship, leaving the others behind to move the rest of the treasure to a safer location, and guard it until they knew what to do with it. Grimmer asked if they'd betray them and steal the treasure for their own, but Bilge Joe had been certain they wouldn't, not without him.

India got them each cabins of their own, seeing the captain's eyes light up with greed as he gave him a handful of gems to pay for everything. He waved to Old Neg, who had come to see them off, and then retreated to his cabin as soon as the ship left port.

Below the fragile surface of cold numbness, he felt sick in his despair. He tried to keep the lid on, to maintain the ice around his heart, around his memories, but he just couldn't. The absence was monstrous. He felt like something – everything – had been scraped out of him, like he'd been hollowed out, to become something to put things in but which held nothing of its own.

_Eli was the best of me_ , he thought. And he lay down on the floor and curled up, trembling, his features contorted into only a fraction of the irrepressible agony inside. He squeezed his compass in his hand. Eli's was buried with him.

# NINETEEN

India spent almost the entire voyage inside his cabin. There were several days where he fell ill, from lack of fresh air and choppy waters as much as from his grief and depression. Grimmer came to see him from time to time, but often got the signal that India was better left to work things out by himself.

'How do I get over it?' India had asked, on one of the few times he'd spoken up of his own accord.

'Oh, mate, you don't,' Grimmer had replied. 'You don't get over it. A death of a friend isn't something to get over. It's part of you now. You weave it into your life's tapestry. A piece of the jigsaw that makes you are who you are. No, you don't "get over" it. You accept it, and you live your life, aye, tragedy and all. You find a way to enjoy your life. That's what Eli would want you to do. What would he say if he saw you so miserable, right after finding all that treasure, too? Good people come and go as often as the bad, but you're still here. Your life is still going, and there's a whole heap of life let to come.'

India had given a small nod in return, and Grimmer knew that was the best he could hope to get.

A few days before they reached Tortugal, Bilge Joe made a rare visit to India's cabin. He sat down heavily by India's bunk, taking a draught from the bottle of rum he held. He offered it to India, who stared blankly at it for a few moments then shook his head.

Bilge Joe shrugged and took another drink, wiping the slobber from his lips. 'It's all a load o' bilge, ain't it?' he said. He sighed. 'We all lost people, then and before. It's a shame yours had to be so cold-blooded.'

India didn't reply.

Bilge Joe took a swig. 'What're you doing with the treasure then?'

India stirred. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I guess you'll all want to split it. Equal shares.'

'Well, I've been meanin' to talk to you 'bout that. Me and the crew had a chat before we left. You know, we like you almost as much as we liked Eli.'

_Almost_ , thought India dully.

'And the way we sees it, that gold is yours by right. We'd never have seen a single coin if you hadn't brought us along. And you didn't have to do that.'

'I needed your help bringing it up. Couldn't have done it on my own.'

'Aye, that's so, but you can't fool me in thinkin' that's all there is to it.' Bilge Joe tapped his head. 'I know people. I don't have many skills, but knowin' people and keepin' a vessel ship-shape and sailin' straight, they're two of 'em. Three of 'em. I know a boy like you don't want all that to himself – what would you do with it? You're just a kid. I reckon you _want_ to share it. You want somethin' more than yourself to be part of, am I right?'

'I don't know,' India said.

'You know what the crew said – I keep callin' them that, you noticed? Crew. We ain't a crew o' nothin' since the Talisman sank. But you know what they said, when I asked what they'd do with their share o' the gold? Bury it, they said. Bury it.' Bilge Joe chuckled. 'That's pirates for you. Sure, we won't give up gold without a fight, and most'll argue you till they're blue if you bring this up, but deep down in our hearts we know the _find_ is worth a whole lot more than the treasure itself. It's the find, kid, that makes its mark. I guarantee you that you'll remember finding Horn's Gold till the end o' your days, long after it's all been spent, lost and stolen.'

'Are you saying you don't want it?'

Joe rolled his eyes. 'You not listenin'? Course we want it. Course _I_ want it. But I'm sayin' this is about more than that. You know where I was born? Go on, take a guess.'

'I don't know.

'Guess.'

'York.'

'York? You tryin' to insult me? Hell. No, I was born on a ship. Father was thrown overboard when I was still on hands and knees, I dunno what for. Dunno where my mother disappeared to. I grew up in the bilge. Yeah, I know I stink. I know people don't wanna get close to me. You know that stink won't come out? I was born ugly and born in the stink, and that's where I grew. I've lived my whole life on ships. My whole life. What else is there for a scurve like me? People say, I hear 'em say, "I get rich, one big score that's all I need, and I'm gonna find a nice plot o' land, and raise some cows and chickens, and start a family." Bilge. I ain't a farmer, I ain't a carpenter or a smith. I'm a pirate. That's what they are, too. They're kiddin' themselves. As for family, hell, I'm a bachelor till I die.' Joe grinned, showing his array of dirty teeth.

India stuck his hand out and Joe handed him the bottle.

'Take Mikkel,' Joe continued. 'You know he's got a family someplace? Wife and a kid. Hell, it was them that gave him the stutter. What's he gonna do with the gold you wonder, take it back to 'em and fix them up somethin' nice? Bilge. He ain't doin' no such thing. And Old Neg – I love him, who doesn't, but he's as useless as a sack o' balls. He can barely cook. What's he gonna do in the real world? And the others are just the same . . . Shang Yei is the only one that's still a mystery to me – but I ain't even sure she's interested in treasure.'

Bilge Joe coughed and took the bottle back off India. 'What do you think are the three most important things to pirates?'

India sat up with a groan and shrugged. 'Rum, gold. More rum.'

Joe laughed. 'Aye, that's how it seems. No, it's adventure, freedom – even if all that means is swappin' one master for another – and purpose. And rum, yeah, rum.'

'What are you getting at?'

'What I'm gettin' at mate, is that yeah, give 'em a share, let 'em do what they want – bury most o' it and spend the rest in a night, no doubt. But the bulk o' that treasure, you want a plan. You know what I think? I think you wanna keep us around. Together. Which means not only do you need a plan, you need a -'

'A ship,' India said, eyes widening.

'Aye,' Bilge Joe grinned. 'A ship. And mate, just think what a ship you could buy with all those jewels!'

'No . . .' India said, staring at the wall. 'Not buy. Build.'

Now it was Joe's eyes turn to widen. 'That's _right_ matey!' he shouted, standing up. 'The fanciest ship you'll see in these waters! Make the Talisman look like - like – like _bilge_!' He laughed, tossing some of his drink to the floorboards. 'Just one thing, one thing India mate.'

'What's that?' India said, smiling slightly for the first time since that fateful night on Indiana.

'Don't make me quartermaster. No sir. I did enough o' those duties on the Talisman to make me sick – first mate is all I want. You'll have to find yourself another quartermaster.'

'I think I have one just in mind,' India said.

'Another thing. Two things, there were. Then I'll go and leave you in peace. I want – I _request_ – a bag o' that gold as soon as we arrive. What I want will be a lot, but you can take it out from all of our shares. They'll be alright with it. It's about more than that see, like I said. It's about _doing_ somethin'.'

'Something like what?'

'You wanna build a ship. I wanna build a _house_. No, not a house, and not just for me. What's the right word? A den. A _headquarters_. Just think of it, mate. On Tortugal, an establishment just for us, for the new crew o' the – of the -'

'The something,' India said. 'I haven't thought of a name.'

'To that!' Bilge Joe cried, lifting his bottle as a toast. 'To the somethin'!' He threw back his head and drank, and stumbled out of the room.

India watched him go, a smile playing on his face. Both his brain and body, so sluggish and drained this voyage, were beginning to work again. India's stomach rumbled aggressively, as though recognising a sudden possibility of energy made available.

'Okay,' India said to himself. 'Time to go get some food.'

He left his cabin.

*

They landed at the eastern dock and exhausted themselves transporting the black chests up to the Dead Sea Inn. They hid the chests in the back, in a self-contained storage room that was only accessible from the outside of the building, the door made near invisible by foliage.

'We can trust the other jolly rogers, can't we?' India asked.

'We can,' Grimmer replied. 'Just keep your lips tight about this. This is Tortugal, after all.'

Grimmer put the last of the chests down and looked down at them soberly. 'I've been thinking about Mack,' he said. 'He replaced me on the Ship of the Dead.'

India didn't know what to say. He pointed at the chest Grimmer had just carried in. 'Take it,' he said. 'It's yours.'

Grimmer shook his head. 'Just a little bag of the most fanciable gems will do me mate,' he said.

'Share it out with everyone at the Dead Sea Inn. In honour of the Ship of the Dead. Have a party. A _big_ party.'

Grimmer smiled. 'I'm sure you could find better use for all that than us old bones. Treasure is nice and all, but in truth it's wasted on the dead. Unless -'

'Unless what?'

Grimmer stroked the side of his skull. 'What if we – what if I used it to . . . uh, redecorate.'

'Redecorate the inn?'

'I'm thinking an expansion. A _big_ expansion.'

'That sounds good to me. More buildings?'

'Aye. We could call it . . . _Tortughoul_.'

India grinned. 'I think you might wanna stow that name.'

'What about "Bonetown"?'

'Anything but Tortughoul,' India said, patting Grimmer on the shoulder. 'I think you're gonna have a lot of work ahead of you. Go on, take it.'

Grimmer picked up the chest. 'Ooh, my creaking bones. Thanks, mate. This is gonna get interesting.'

'I'm gonna have a ship built. It's gonna need some experienced hands. I'm not done with you yet, you know.'

'I know mate. Nor am I with you.'

*

India met up with Flynn, who had returned to Tortugal a couple of weeks ago and was staying at the Blue Carbuncle. Flynn had spent some time in Colorado, finding that he hadn't the money he thought he had to travel to York and set himself up there.

They sat down at the Red Hook and (at Flynn's insistence) India began the long tale of everything that had happened since he'd left. Of the voyage, and the many places they'd stopped at. Of the battle with the Carolina, and the sinking of the Talisman and the Ship of the Dead. Of the City of Gold, and the old man at the top of the temple, and the discovery of Horn's Gold (to which Flynn happily reacted in the theatrical amazement India had hoped for).

Recounting the part with Lancer and Eli was upsetting, and India stammered over many of the words and had to look away from the table for a minute, while Flynn put India's hand in both of his and squeezed firmly. But as difficult it was, getting it all out seemed to help – it pulled it out from his heart and into the air. A tragedy shared became – at least for a short time – a tragedy halved.

After the story was finished Flynn had drawn India into a hug, and India had asked him to make him tell the story again the next day. Flynn had taken this promise to heart, and had subsequently asked India to tell the story again the day after that, and the day after that, and after that, too.

Retelling the same tale of adventure and tragedy was tiring, and as he had been wont to do in simpler times India began to embellish the story and make things up. They'd been attacked in the forests of Colorado by tribal cannibals. The navy soldiers left in the water after the Carolina had sunk had been set upon by swarms of sharks. The jungles of Indiana were crawling with black tigers and mamba snakes as big as trees. The fight with Lancer had been more equal – and then, in another retelling, India had easily had the upper hand, Lancer only getting him on the ground and removing his sword by trickery, forcing India to use the pistol. The next story, there was no pistol involved at all, and India had won the fight fair and square by virtue entirely of his swordsmanship.

India knew that Flynn didn't believe these changes, but it didn't really matter, and they both knew it. Just telling the story, working through it in his mind, how he truly felt about things – that was enough. To Flynn's credit (and India's relief), he did not propose any more sword training. Instead the two of them spent days roaming the beaches collecting seashells, and hiking the slopes of Nassar. India bought a new belt and a hipflask from Barbary Anne's, and Flynn a flash new coat of a brilliant blue. He was going to buy himself a cocked hat, but put it back right before the purchase. _One day. Not yet_.

Only a few days after his arrival, India took Flynn to where the treasure was hidden and presented him with one of the chests. Flynn had gaped and tried to refuse (not very convincingly, India had thought with amusement), but India had insisted.

'It's not just to repay you for all you've spent on us,' India said. 'It's to repay you for _everything_. You might've saved our lives from Lancer, back in Kingston. You helped us in Tortugal where we wouldn't know what to do otherwise. And since I've returned you've helped me again. With Eli.' India swallowed. 'You've been a good friend, Devil Flynn. Consider this a repayment with a lot of interest. And if you don't accept it, well, to hell with you.'

Flynn laughed. 'Okay, okay! I'll take it! My dear boy it's -' He lifted the lid. 'It's _marvellous_. I cannot thank you enough. And I know just what to do with it.'

'York?'

'I will ingratiate myself spectacularly. This time next year, all of Eddison County will know the name of Devil Flynn!'

'A little piratical a name for Gettysburg, don't you think?'

Flynn tapped his chin. 'This is true. Well then, how about Master Dick Flynn?'

'Dick Flynn?' India grinned. 'Is that your real name? You sound like a highwayman.'

'Well, a comfortable middle-ground I'd say.' Flynn grinned back, then reached in and embraced India. 'Thank you, my friend. I will be here for a little while, getting my affairs in order, you know. Saying a long goodbye.'

India pulled away, smiling. 'I'll miss you, you know. You'll always have my back, won't you?'

'Of course! Naturally. Just say the words, "Devil Flynn!", and there I'll pop, like lightning out of a bottle.'

*

'I have to go away for a short while. There's one or two people I need to see.'

'Where you going?' Bilge Joe asked.

'You wouldn't like it if I told you.'

'No, I reckon I wouldn't. Need a bodyguard?' Joe grinned.

'No, this is just for me. But thanks. I need you here, you and Grimmer to oversee the building of the ship. Try not to have _too_ many last minute changes. You're happy with the colours?'

'Aye,' laughed Bilge Joe. 'The colours will be fine. I'm just glad Flynn didn't get his way and have the whole ship bright purple.'

'Yeah, he's getting a little wrapped up in planning the ship's decor, seems to forget he's leaving to York.'

'Traitor. Better take 'em down from the inside.'

'He probably will. Will your crew be alright by themselves while the ship's built? I sent a letter to Indiana, I assume they got it.'

'Not sure how many of 'em can read. Shang Yei, maybe. But aye, they'll be fine on their own. Hopefully they haven't spent everything already, or we're shanked. They'll just be shankin' about. They've prob'ly set India on fire by now. The city that is, not you.'

'It's made entirely of stone.'

'Yeah, the fire prob'ly didn't last long.'

*

'A brig?' the conversation had begun, when they'd first sat down and laid out the order. 'Why not a frigate? Hell, with that amount of coin you could build a damn man-o'-war!'

'Can you see us trying to work a man-o'-war? That's a – that's an _operation_. I'm pretty new to this, you know.'

'A frigate then,' Bilge Joe had said.

'I'd thought about it,' India replied. 'Maybe we can size up in the future. But right now it feels like . . . too much. Too many.'

'Too many?'

'Too many people. I mean, look at us. Me – a fourteen year old kid, and a stuttering gunner, an anxious ohdwaa, and on top of that we've got a _skeleton_. I think we should keep it pretty close. The bigger the crew the more trouble we're gonna have. We should be like, like -'

'A family?' Grimmer had interrupted.

'Yeah. We should be a family.'

Tortugal had built ships in the past, but rarely. Pirate ships were usually commandeered navy and merchant vessels, refitted and repurposed A heavily customised brig like India had commissioned was a tall order. But with the gold and jewels on offer, people got quick to work. Smiths and carpenters put aside other orders (or got up from lazing in their hammocks) and the island rang with the sound of beating metal and sawing wood, and a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing of supplies. Timber and other materials began to be shipped in from the other Caribbean islands, Colorado and J'maika at the forefront. Hong Kong Silver orchestrated much of it, for an obscenely large cut. Builders, woodworkers and metalworkers began to be drafted in from around the Caribbean, and even from the northern point of Afrika. Three fraternal shipwrights from San Dillinger with piratical sympathies came to Tortugal and quickly got to work, happy to be away from the yoke of the San Dillinger Navy. They brought with them ready-made cannons and many other less widely available building supplies. Palms were crossed with gold, forms were faked, and supply ships were diverted, or for a time simply "went missing".

Day by day, the ship grew.

*

India took a merchant schooner to Kingston, approaching the docks of the city with a shiver. _Am I still wanted_? he wondered.

It was strange coming through past all these other ships, right up to the bustling jetty. A far cry from bursting through the jungle after landing at Lonely Carib with the jolly rogers. _It's almost like I'm a proper person_ , he thought wryly.

He left the waterfront and began the long walk up the hill, his mind abuzz with conflicting thoughts. Sadness jostled with hope and longing expectation with trepidation.

The door opened to his knock, and there she was. She looked even lovelier than he remembered. He held his breath, and tried to keep his own response measured as she burst into a huge smile and jumped forward, embracing him and kissing him on both cheeks.

'Why didn't you _write_!' Salia cried. 'You silly boy! You should have _written_!'

'Thought I'd surprise you,' India said, grinning, a warm feeling flourishing quickly inside him.

'It's been _ages_. I knew you weren't dead though, obviously. Come in, come in, take those filthy boots off. How are you? You're taller. Ew and you smell! How long have you been at sea? You need a bath. You missed my fifteenth birthday, you know. You'll have to make it up to me somehow. Where have you been? Lancer's dead, isn't he?'

India had forgotten about the deluge of words Salia could thrust on him at once, and was left rather stunned at the last question. 'He is, yeah . . . How did you know?'

She waved her hand in the air. 'I know lots of things,' she said. 'Dead, then.' She heaved an enormous sigh. 'Well, it was going to happen sooner or later. I've made my peace with it already, as you can see. Come on, sit down. I want to hear about your adventures. You're a pirate now, aren't you? I can tell. You're _bad_. Just look at you. Definitely taller. Maybe even stronger.' She reached out and squeezed his bicep. 'Well, getting there,' she said. 'So, have you missed me?'

'Maybe,' he said.

'Yes, you have,' she said. 'Don't be silly. Do I get a present?'

India reached into his pocket, and withdrew a beautiful ruby necklace, and handed it over as casually as he could manage.

Salia squealed. 'Oh, it's beautiful!' She swiftly put it around her neck. 'Where did you get it? Was it expensive? Did you steal it? It's very nice, it goes with my dress I think. Do you like my dress?'

India nodded.

Salia's smile disappeared. 'What's wrong? Something's happened, hasn't it? Where . . . Where's Eli?'

India lowered his eyes and clasped his hands together, and he told her. When he was done he saw tears in her eyes, and her face frowning in anger – yet there was a level of control there that was remarkable. _I know she cares more than she lets on_ , he thought. _I wonder how she'll be after I've left?_ _Or will she just get on with things?_

'Lancer deserved what happened,' she said, her fists tightened. 'He was horrible and cruel. I can't believe he did that. My own cousin – I lived in this house all this time and I never thought he'd be _that_ bad. Not until he murdered his father, but even then, not _Eli_. I'm so happy I managed to stay out of his way at the end. Lancer was _evil_.'

'I'm not so sure,' India said. 'He wasn't a good person, but perhaps if I'd had the life he'd had I wouldn't be either. In another life perhaps he would have been our friend. I don't know.'

'What? Don't you _hate_ him?'

India stared at the wall for a moment before answering. 'I don't know. I don't think it's worth hating him anymore. He's dead, ain't he? He's dead and gone. Why hate the dead?' He sighed. 'It was hate that killed Treymeir Main, it was hate that killed Eli, and it was hate that killed Lancer. The sooner it stops the better. And I want it to stop with me.'

Salia sniffed. 'Quite the gentleman pirate,' she said. 'I suppose that's what Eli would want. Would you like a scone?'

'I'm okay,' India said, smiling. 'I need to see your father.'

'You do? Why's that?'

'I have something to give him.'

'Is it that sack you've got slung around you like some silly trapper? Is it more jewels? You should give them to me, you know. My father is quite fine as he is. You know he's been acting governor since Lancer left?'

'Is that so?' India said. 'That's good.'

'I've been helping him quite a lot. Well, come on then,' Salia said, standing up and smoothing down her dress and leading him out the drawing room. She knocked on the door to her father's study and entered before a word was spoken.

Jone Crescent was sat behind a mound of papers, scribbling away with a quill. He looked up as they entered. 'Salia, my dear,' he said. 'And – oh – and Master India Mancer? Or was it India Bones?'

'Either will do, sir,' India replied.

'And for what do I have the, um, honour?'

'It's my duty to report to you, sir, that the Carolina is sunk and Lancer Main is dead.'

Jone Crescent blinked at him, his spectacles dangerously close to falling off the end of his nose. 'Yes, the news had come to me,' he said. 'You can confirm these reports and rumours, then?'

'I saw the ship sunk. And I saw Lancer's body.' India kept silent on his own part to play. The whole crew had agreed: not a word was to be spoken about it. They all knew that accepting responsibility for the killing of a Kingston governor would put a Yorkish-painted target on all of their heads. Even Bilge Joe admitted bragging rights wasn't worth the trouble it could bring.

'Excellent,' Jone Crescent said. 'I mean, terrible, a tragedy all round. Will you stay, and fill in the details? I have many letters to write.'

'Sure,' India said. 'And, um, those wanted posters . . .'

'Those wanted posters died with Lancer. It was always his personal business. My orders were already sent – it is likely they are being torn down as we speak.'

'Thank you, sir.' India let out an audible sigh of relief.

'Don't thank me, young man. Thank Salia. She's been fighting your corner tirelessly. She convinced me there was no time to lose in removing the bounty, and stalling a few other measures of Lancer's.'

India smiled at Salia, and she looked pointedly back at him, as though to say, _Well, there you go_.

'You should succeed Lancer as governor, sir,' India said. 'You'd do a much better job.'

'I appreciate the vote of optimism,' Jone replied. 'Unfortunately, I'm not sure I have quite the means to take the job on . . .'

'Kingston needs a good man behind the helm. The whole Caribbean needs one.'

'And an even better woman right behind him,' Salia added.

'Yes, my dear Salia has been quite invaluable . . . But still, the running of Kingston is a terribly complicated business . . . Quite corrupt, too . . . I swear, if you want anything done you have to bribe half the people of Kingston. Make that half the Caribbean.'

India removed the bag he'd been carrying and dropped it on the table with a _clunk_. 'Perhaps this'll help, sir.'

Jone's brow creased and he opened it up. His jaw fell. 'My, my boy . . . this is . . . these are _jewels_!'

'Very rare ones I expect, father,' Salia said. 'Isn't that so India?'

'Yeah,' India said. 'They're yours. Property of the Crescents.'

'But why?'

'Think of the good you can do with this,' India replied. 'I want you to help the poor here. Help anyone you can who deserves it, in Kingston and beyond. Make this place _better_.'

'My dear boy, I cannot thank you enough. This is truly remarkable. Truly remarkable.' Jone sniffed and dabbed at his eyes behind his spectacles. _Are those actual tears?_ India wondered.

'You're welcome, sir,' India said.

'Father, can India stay for a little while?' Salia said in a loud, brisk voice.

'Of course, of course! As far as I'm concerned, after that . . . donation to my governorship, the boy can stay for the next ten years!'

'Only a very short while,' India said. 'I have a ship being built that awaits my attention.'

'A ship? Oooo!' Salia cried, clapping her hands.

'Taking up the merchant way of life, are you?' Jone Crescent said. 'Very good, very good. A fine profession. I was in it myself you know, Crescent Trades. Well I – if you'll excuse me, please excuse my rudeness, but I have some _very_ pressing letters. Perhaps we could continue talking later? After supper, perhaps?'

'Sure,' India said, as Salia linked her arm around his and guided him out.

'A _pirate ship_ ,' Salia whispered to him in excitement outside the study. 'That's _dangerous_!'

'You could come with me, if you like,' India said. 'See the ship, maybe join the crew . . .' He knew before he'd finished talking that it wasn't going to happen.

'Oh you silly boy India,' Salia said. 'Of course I'm not going to get on any smelly, dirty pirate ship with you. My dress would be completely ruined, and I'd get _wet._ But bring me back some more nice jewels will you? And better stories. I like stories.'

'You don't even want to come to Tortugal?'

'The _pirate haven_? I'm not ready to have a lot of grubby men leer at me, thank you.'

'There's women there, too.'

'Grubby men _and_ grubby women. Maybe in the future. After more presents.'

India rolled his eyes.

'Come on, sit back down, I want to hear the whole tale. With all the nasty bits left in.'

'Alright,' India said heavily. 'By the way, what happened to Lady Rosary? Is she still here?'

Salia shook her head. 'She passed on only recently. What with Sir Treymeir's death, and Lancer . . . She always was ill, poor thing. Well I assume she was, I barely ever saw her.'

'Oh,' India said. _How many deaths has this brought? How much blame can be laid at our feet?_ He glanced at Salia, wondering what went on in her mind. _Does she feel any guilt for her part? We poked the snake. We did that. Should I tell her how I feel, how_ she _should feel?_

No. Say nothing. Nothing can make things better.

*

He'd stayed longer in Kingston than he'd meant to. After he'd finally said goodbye to Salia he was at odds with himself. He'd kept changing his mind about whether to come here. It felt weird and he was nervous. He felt the tugs of both childhood and adulthood at him, and for the first time he was deeply uncomfortable in his own body. In the end though it'd seemed like the right thing to do.

He knocked on the door.

The woman who opened it was shorter than he remembered, although no slimmer. She stared at him unseeing for a moment, and then clapped a hand to her forehead and staggered back a step.

'Hello Mrs Wayles,' India said.

'India Bones!' Mrs Wayles cried, and lunged in and grabbed him in a bear hug that lasted no more than a second before she pushed him back, a fierce grip on his arms. 'I knew you weren't dead, I knew it! And look how you've grown!'

'I'm sorry -' India started, before Mrs Wayles cut him off with a look that could melt steel.

'You should be, boy! Leaving me without so much as a word. Nothing! Where'd you go then? Making it pretty in Mohawk were you? Back on the streets? Look at the state of you, your hair needs a hard brush and a sharp cut.'

'I've been all over the Caribbean,' India said.

Mrs Wayles shook her head fiercely. 'Oh no no no no no no _no_. I see you didn't listen to me did you? Got in all sorts of horrible scrapes no doubt. No, just up and leaved. Not so much as a – as a thank you for all I did for you.' She sniffed and turned around, shuffling into the room and dabbing at her face in a manner that seemed to India a little affected.

India followed her into the house. _Was it always this small?_ It seemed more like a large cupboard than somewhere he'd bedded so many nights.

'I didn't really have a choice this time,' India said, staring about the room with his arms crossed in a protective manner.

'Kidnapped was it? Knew it'd happen, of course. Did they hurt you?'

'It wasn't quite like that. I'm okay though. And Mrs Wayles . . . thank you for looking after me when others didn't.'

She sniffed again, still with her back to him. 'Alright,' she said. 'Why did you come here then? Try and give me a heart attack? Or laugh at – at how little things have changed here. You all world-wise and all. I'm busy, you know. I've got things to do.'

'I know,' India said. He thought about bringing up the Book, and his father, but decided against it. It still hurt, and it would hurt her too. He didn't need to know anything more. He didn't _want_ to know. He didn't even want to think about it.

'I came to give you something,' he said at last. 'Where is Mr Bassard?'

Mrs Wayles gave him a quick glance. 'He's been dead from the drink three months now.'

'Oh. I'm . . . sorry.' He waited for the shock to hit him, but it never did. _That was another life, another me._ All he felt was tiredness.

'What are you apologising for, hm? What did you want to give me then?'

India opened his coat and withdrew two small bags from his belt. 'I guess with Mr Bassard gone, both of these are for you.' He put them on the table.

'What are these then? Nuts?' She loosened the drawstring on one of the bags and looked inside.

India had seen people faint before, and saw it coming before it happened. He watched in what appeared to be slow-motion as her expression went slack and she dropped to the floor.

'I'm heading off now,' he said to Mrs Wayles's unconscious form. 'Don't spend it all on yourself. You should use it to fix this place up.' He looked around one last time, one hand pushing the door open. 'Make it into a proper orphanage.'

On the way back to the Eyeless docks India stopped in the street, thinking. Then he turned and walked back to the ragged, shock-haired girl he'd just passed scrapping with another kid. He approached her as she sent off her rival with a final kick and a glare that could have sunk a thousand ships.

She turned the glare on him. 'Yeah?'

'What's your name?' he asked.

She eyed him suspiciously. 'What's it to you?'

'I don't mean you no harm.'

'Good for you.'

'C'mon. What's your name?'

'Tom.'

'Tom?'

'Lizzaby Tom,' the girl said, her face dirty, her clothes torn, her explosion of brown hair stuck out in all directions.

'My name's India Bones. How old are you, Lizzaby?'

'How old are _you_?'

'I'm fourteen.'

'Hm. I'm twelve,' she said. 'What do you want? Do you have food?'

'I have a ship. Well, I will soon. Do you want to join it?' The words came from his mouth before he even knew what he was asking.

'I want food. I can't eat a ship.'

'There'll be food in the ship. You'll be fed every day if you join the crew.'

Lizzaby's face scrunched up. 'This is a trick,' she said. 'I'll bite you.'

'I'm sure you would,' India said. 'But it's not a trick.'

'Why me? Why would you want me?'

'Good question,' India replied. _I'm not sure I know myself. What made me come over to you?_ 'I guess it's cause I don't want everyone on the ship to be so much older than me. I don't want to be the only kid, especially after Flynn leaves, and he's not really a kid anyway.' He sighed, feeling a weight in his chest that he struggled to push back. 'It wouldn't have been like this if Eli was still alive.'

'Who's Eli?'

'Eli Manson. My friend, he was murdered.'

'Hm,' Lizzaby said. She was silent for a while, her eyes flicking over him. 'Why'd you want me?' she said again. 'Not just any kid.'

'I don't know. I just saw you and . . . I don't know. You seem nice.'

'Ha!'

'And you seem like you'd make a good fit. That we could get on. You're a fighter. Tough, for a kid. I was raised on these streets too, you know. I guess you remind me a bit of myself.'

'I bet it wasn't the same.'

'Maybe not. But you're an orphan too, ain't you?'

Lizzaby was silent.

'I'm offering you a chance at another family,' India said. 'Maybe it is a trick,' he added. 'But if it is, what have you lost? You can only get more from this moment. It's worth a try, ain't it? Maybe it won't work out, but maybe it will.'

Lizzaby seemed to be thinking. She scratched her hair. 'There's food then?'

India smiled, and nodded. 'In the schooner I hired to take me here. And there'll be more, much more where we're going.' He offered his hand.

'You don't touch me,' Lizzaby said.

'I don't touch you,' India agreed.

'Show me this ship then,' she said. 'It better be nice.'

' _My_ ship's not built. But we'll take one to Tortugal – you heard of it?'

Lizzaby nodded, unable to betray a small flare of excitement in her eyes. _Just like me_ , India thought.

'Pirates,' she said.

'That's where we're going.'

'Uhuh,' Lizzaby said. 'We gonna go then or are you gonna keep on talking?'

India grinned. 'We're going.'

'Just don't make me bite you.'

*

On his return to Tortugal, he spent many hours of each day watching his ship being built. It fascinated him, dominating even his dreams, but it was also like a watched kettle never boiling. He found if he forced himself to stay away from the construction for a week at a time, to give it as little attention as he could, then he'd be all the more impressed with its progress when he returned. There was no doubt that the process would have been quicker and more efficient at San Dillinger, but nonetheless India was impressed with the resourcefulness and energy that was displayed here. At times it seemed the ship was being worked on morning, noon and night.

Lizzaby Tom had quickly made herself at home, eating everything put before her (and a good deal else), and scampering all over the island on her own. She got in scraps with the locals on an almost daily basis. Flynn (who still hadn't left to York) was left bemused by her, but Lizzaby was fascinated by Grimmer, and he quickly became the only company she wouldn't avoid and would even sit with (though she never managed to sit still for long). She didn't seem too willing (or able, perhaps) to communicate at any length, even with Grimmer, and India realised she'd be a tough nut to crack. For now, India left her to her own devices, knowing she'd follow when the time came. Even if it was only because he was a source of free food.

Old Neg arrived at the docks unannounced one morning. He'd been sent by the rest of the crew to see how the process was going and report back. He seemed a little calmer than when India had last seen him, and India was glad none of the others were around to make him anxious again, Lizzaby especially.

'How's the treasure? Still some of it left, I hope?' India asked him, after warmly greeting him.

'Quite a bit,' Old Neg replied, looking at the floor.

'Have you buried it? Where is it?'

Old Neg tapped his nose secretively and India rolled his eyes.

'Is everyone good to join this new ship, as crew?'

'You don't want me,' sniffed Old Neg, pawing at himself a little. 'You've got money now, you can afford the best.'

'Oh, you silly old prune,' India said. 'You _are_ the best.'

Old Neg raised his head, and India could have sworn he gave a little smile before he turned away. 'I'm not a prune,' he said.

The ship grew.

*

' _What_ did you say the name was?' Quarter Rackle put down his mug and stared at him.

'The Devil's Dress.'

'Good lord. I did hear right. It's a bit girly, isn't it?'

'I thought ships are supposed to be female.'

'Well, yes, but . . .'

'Are you a good quartermaster?' India asked.

'Kid, I've been a quartermaster in more ships than you've had hot dinners. I've always been a quartermaster. I'm the best at my job, and I don't come cheap.'

'Still without a ship?'

'Yes. I've had offers.'

'And are you a good person?'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

'Can't say I've ever been asked that,' Quarter Rackle said, his lip twitching. He ran a hand through styled black hair. 'I won't betray you, if that's what you're asking. Not unless the money is amazing, but then so would most others in that position.'

'That doesn't sound comforting.'

'Always trust one who follows the money, kid. It's the most trustworthy thing there is. Better than folk you don't know which way will turn.'

'What happened to your last ship?'

'I was . . . let go.'

'Why?'

Rackle sighed. 'You sure do ask a lot of questions. Look, I don't want to ferry slaves, and that was the cargo. Is that a good enough reason?'

India paused, then nodded. 'Okay. We'll have you.'

'Settle down, kid. I haven't said I wanted to be hired, yet.'

'I thought you followed the money. You know about the treasure.'

'Money isn't everything. It's most things, sure, but so's my life. And coin always comes from more than one place.'

'If you've got questions, ask them.'

Rackle smiled and stroked his waxed black moustache. 'How's the ship?'

'It's almost finished. It's beautiful.'

'Beautiful, beautiful. I've seen the damn thing, you can't miss it. You've been on board. I said how is it?'

'It's good.'

'Good. Guess we won't really know till it's at sea. What about the captain?'

'Also good.'

'Who is it?'

'Me.'

Rackle stared at him, then threw back his head and laughed. 'Look, _kid_ , you can't be captain. No, I don't care if it's your ship. I don't care that you paid for it. You're gonna need a full crew for it, and nobody is gonna take you seriously. They won't do what you say.'

'They will if I pay them,' India said, hands on hips and looking challengingly at Rackle.

'No, they won't. Not when it matters. Not in battle, or in a storm. You can't just command their purses, you gotta command their hearts and minds. They need to _trust_ you, trust that you won't just pay them but save their sorry hides too, and always know what's best.'

'I _do_.'

Rackle rolled his eyes. 'I'm sure you do, kid. But they don't know that. Look, you're just too young. That's just the truth of it, and you know it too. You haven't earned your stripes. You think everyone doesn't just want to be captain? You have to _earn_ it. Maybe in a few years. But till then, you're gonna have to pay your due like the rest of us. Then when, _if_ , you finally get the big hat, you'll be all the stronger for it.'

India scowled. 'You be captain then.'

Rackle hesitated. 'No,' he said at last. 'Everyone wants to be captain, but me. I'm a quartermaster. It's in the name. It's what I do and it's what I like and that's not going to change. Just enough responsibility. Too much to suffer disrespect, too little to be hated.'

'Alright,' India said, somewhat deflated. 'Well . . . Come see the ship anyway and come aboard, have a look around. I think you'll like it.'

Rackle sniffed. 'Now?'

'I'll meet you there at midnight.'

'Ooh, ominous.'

'Just be there.'

'Maybe.'

*

He saw Quarter Rackle walking towards them out of the darkness, his long pirate coat fanning out from behind him as he walked. His boots were loud on the jetty. India saw him slow as he approached, really slow, as though the energy was falling out of him.

But he kept going.

'A skeleton on the crew,' Rackle said as he stopped in front of them. He swallowed. 'How . . . quaint. Grimmer.'

'A moustachioed man,' Grimmer said. 'How quaint. Rackle.'

Rackle's face made a peculiar sort of contortion that he tried to control, and then he tore his eyes off Grimmer and at the ship behind them. 'Yes,' he said, and his voice came out a little reedy. 'Yes,' he said again, deliberately lowering it. 'It looks decent enough.'

'Uh-huh,' India said.

'So . . . there's still that matter of the captain.'

India stepped forward, opened his mouth, then closed it again. He narrowed his brow, then took a deep breath. 'Quarter Rackle, it is my honour to present to you Captain Grimmer of the Devil's Dress.'

There was silence for a few moments, where Grimmer turned and looked at India with his black hollow sockets, and India looked back at him, feeling a slight shiver run down his spine.

'Do you think you can serve under a skeleton?' India asked, turning back to Quarter Rackle as Grimmer still stared at him.

Rackle coughed. 'I've spent a little time with them, at the Dead Sea Inn. I might always be stone drunk then, but still. I just didn't expect one to loom out of the dead of night.'

'My looming days are long past me,' Grimmer said, a little distantly.

'Indeed. Well . . . do you know ships, sir?'

'Yes,' Grimmer replied, finally turning his head from India.

'He's been on them his whole, uh, life,' India said. 'He knows them better than you know your own moustache.'

'Well . . .' Rackle said again. 'I've served under the dead drunk before, and the dead lazy, and the dead useless.'

'I am neither a drunk, lazy, nor useless,' Grimmer said.

'Then I think I could give just dead a go.' Rackle made a good attempt at a smile. 'But as, um, for the rest of the crew . . .'

'You'll join us then?' India said.

'Indeed. Of course. How could I resist?' This time the smile was almost convincing.

'We'll need your help getting the rest of the crew.'

'A crew that won't mind being captained by a skeleton, you mean.'

'That's right,' Grimmer said.

'Okay. I might know a few names . . . Who do you have so far? I know you have Bilge Joe. A good first mate, sort of. You have the rest of the Talisman?'

'Those that survived,' India replied. 'Six others. One of whom is an ohdwaa, Old Neg.' India looked around to make sure they weren't being spied on, and leaned in closer. 'He can be a bit of a sorry state sometimes. So we'll need a crew that's not prejudiced, nobody who'll give him too hard a time.'

'You mean on top of being prejudiced against dead people?'

'A good-hearted crew.'

'You mean like me?'

'If that's the closest we can get, then yeah.'

'Alright. I'll try. I would have enlisted Fast Eddie but he's shacked up with Bonnie. So, a crew of good-hearted scurves, who won't have the fear of god put into them by a walking, talking skeleton, begging your pardon Captain, and won't be mean to the ohdwaa. And who won't get their hackles raised by being talked down to by a child. Coming right up.'

'Tell them they'll be paid well.'

'Believe me,' Quarter Rackle said, 'I fully intend to.' He sighed. 'What has happened to my life. If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I'm going to see what kind of shape below decks is in. No doubt I'm going to need an items list a mile long.' He walked up the gangplank and quickly descended into the heart of the ship.

India stepped back to take in the whole of the ship, for what seemed like the millionth time. His heart burst with pride. The ship – _his_ ship – _was_ beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous. It was large for a brig, and yet terribly sleek. It looked like it could cut through the waves. It was black-and-scarlet-boarded, lined all-over with silver that began to shine as the moon came out from behind a cloud. The masts towered into the sky, the figurehead at the prow a snarling female demon with red eyes and jagged wings spread out and back _._ _A_ s _uccubus_ , Flynn had called it. Above deck, jet black cannons glared out against intruders; the rest were hidden eager and hungry beneath closed gun ports.

A black flag trembled in the air. A single grinning skull in a red cocked hat.

India walked up the gangplank, feeling Grimmer watching him go. He headed up the polished black stairs to the helm and took the wheel, breathing deep.

Captain or not, it's mine. We can do what we want, go where we want. We've got the whole world at our fingertips.

India gripped a black and silver spoke with one hand, and laid his other hand palm out on its blood-red centre. He closed his eyes, feeling the light sway of the wind. 'It's a pirate's life for me,' he said.

190

