DUNCAN WOKE WITH A FOUL TASTE in his mouth and a head that felt as if it had been hit by a hammer. To complicate things, he was swinging back and forth, his hair was sopping wet, and he had to throw up.
He gripped the ropes of the hammock and struggled to sit upright. Immediately he felt worse. He groaned, collapsed on the rough wooden deck, and hit something that felt like a bucket.
It was a bucket. He crawled after it as it rolled away, and grabbed it with a desperate hand. He put his head over it in the nick of time.
Afterward the taste in his mouth was worse. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked around. A shaft of dim light illumined low wooden beams overhead and what seemed to be a space full of hammocks, all swinging gently.
He hauled himself back into his hammock. He didn’t know where he was or why, but he felt too horrible to care.
“Meow?” Fia’s inquiring voice came from the beams overhead. “What were you doing with your head in that bucket?”
“None of your business,” Duncan muttered.
Fia’s high meow pierced his head like a skewer. “I’ve been exploring all the between-places, but humans keep chasing me—”
If he shut his eyes, Duncan wondered, would the room stop going round and round?
Fia dropped down onto Duncan’s chest with a jarring thump and rapped his chin with her paw. “Get up, will you? Come on!”
Duncan covered his ears.
Bang! A hatch flew open. A shaft of light filtered down, illuminating the dust floating in the air. Heavy boots clumped down a ladder, and a loud voice called, “Heeere, kitty, kitty, kitty!”
In an instant, Fia was wriggling her way inside Duncan’s shirt, poking his skin with her sharp little claws.
“You, boy! Have you seen a kitten?”
Duncan’s shoulder was roughly shaken, and he struggled to sit up. He could feel Fia trembling inside his shirt. “It’s too dark in here to see anything. What do you want a kitten for?”
“What for?” the sailor repeated, grinning. “You’re new on this ship, aren’t you?”
The deck swooped beneath Duncan so violently that he clutched for the bucket. He didn’t have the strength to ask what the sailor meant. He bent his head over the bucket one more time, heaving, and the sailor chuckled.
“Rough waters, mate,” he said. “You’ll feel better once you get your sea legs.”
“When will that happen?” gasped Duncan.
“Two or three days. Buck up, lad—they’ll put you to work soon enough, and that will take your mind off your stomach.”
“I can’t stay here even one day.” Duncan fell back with a moan. “My mother doesn’t know where I am. I’ve got to get home—or at least get a message to her.”
The sailor shook his head, his loose, stringy hair flying back and forth against the shaft of light. “Take my advice and forget about her. Little nancy boys who whine for their mamas don’t last long on this ship, see?”
Duncan was determined not to be the sort of boy who whined for his mother, though he thought of her often enough in the miserable night that followed. He lay curled in his hammock, weary and ill, swaying with the roll and plunge of the ship, trying to sleep while the ship’s crew snored in hammocks all around him. Their bodies were so close that if he put out a hand, he could touch one, yet he had never felt so alone.
He did not know why he had been locked in and drugged, but it seemed clear that he had. Bertram was the most likely culprit—with the cook a close second. Duncan thought back to the way Bertram had first suggested refreshments, then spoken privately to the cook. When the earl had left Duncan in the great cabin, Bertram had been the one who shut the door—and locked it behind the earl’s back, no doubt.
The next morning, as soon as he could stagger on deck, Duncan asked to see the earl.
The earl was not quite so friendly as he had been. He ran his eyes over Duncan and did not ask him to sit down. And when Duncan told him of his suspicions, the lines in the man’s face deepened, and his brows snapped together.
The Earl of Merrick drummed his long fingers against the armrest of his chair. “I was prepared to give you a chance; you seemed a likely lad. But now I am not so pleased with you. First off, Bertram has been my faithful servant since boyhood. He would never do such a thing.”
“But—” Duncan protested.
“And I will get exceedingly angry if you continue to make unfounded accusations. For one thing, that cherry punch was meant for me as well. Would Bertram try to drug me? To what end?”
“I don’t know,” said Duncan stubbornly, “but the cook was in on it, too.”
The earl laughed. “All the cook did was add rum to the punch, as always. Here on board ship, we drink a great deal of rum, man and boy both—it is the sailor’s drink. Clearly you liked it, for the pitcher was drained when I returned to the cabin, and you were passed out, drunk, on the floor.”
Duncan gaped at him. Drunk?
“I was not impressed,” said the earl with a downward flick of his raven-wing eyebrows.
“I wasn’t drunk—I was drugged,” Duncan said hotly. “And I didn’t drink the whole pitcher, and I was locked in.”
The earl’s mouth curled in sardonic amusement. “Are you entirely sure that your memory is accurate? A boy who had his first taste of rum might easily overdo it. Here is what I think happened: You got drunk with rum, you fumbled with the door latch and imagined that you were locked in, you fell and hit your head and were knocked out. That’s enough to fuddle anyone’s brain.”
Duncan shook his head. It had not happened that way—he was sure of it. But he could see how the earl might think so.
“Drunkenness on board is a punishable offense. You will have extra duties for two weeks.” The earl pulled a piece of paper toward him and made a note.
“Two weeks?” Duncan cried.
“Would you prefer a flogging? That can be arranged.” The earl tapped his pen.
Duncan’s mouth was open, but his voice did not seem to be working. At last he squeaked, “I thought you were going to sail for two days, to Capital City and back to Dulle!”
“Plans change,” said the earl, waving a dismissive hand. “You were still lolling about in your hammock yesterday when we stopped at Capital City. I got new information that makes it imperative to sail south.”
“But—you promised—”
The earl’s long fingers strayed to his bandage, toying with the frayed edge. “Perhaps you don’t understand honor and duty. Perhaps you think I have nothing better to do than to ferry a penniless boy back to his dull, tame, fearful life.”
Duncan flushed. More than ever, he wished he had not confided in the earl.
“Some people get drunk because they try to find courage in a bottle.” The earl’s lip curled slightly. “You were afraid to come on as a ship’s boy. Perhaps you drank the whole pitcher to give you the bravery to stay.”
Duncan’s cheeks burned as if he had been slapped. “I’m not a coward!”
The earl smiled thinly. “You’ll have the chance to prove it. If you don’t back down from any duty, however dangerous, you will—in time—earn my trust.”
* * *
The mast surged and swayed under Duncan like a living thing. He gripped it tightly and pressed his cheek against the weather-beaten wood. He was in the crosstrees, the open platform high on the mainmast, and far below was the ship, looking small and impossibly narrow on the wide, wide sea.
Looking down gave Duncan a hollow, scooping sensation behind his ribs. He was used to heights—he had climbed the cliffs at home often enough—but he wasn’t used to heights that moved. The ship’s mast didn’t just bob up and down; it swung forward, back, and side to side, and Duncan, clinging near its top, felt as if he were a pen writing great curving loops on the sky.
If he lost his grip, he would plunge straight into the sea. Or he might fall onto the deck and break his back. Or maybe he would bounce off the rigging, hit the railing, and then fall into the water. Would the ship come about in time before he drowned?
It was better not to think about it. And it was definitely better not to look down. Duncan twined his legs around the crosstrees, pulled a spyglass from his pocket, and scanned the far-off line where sea met darkening sky. If he saw a sail or land, he was supposed to give a shout to the crew on deck. That was the lookout’s job.
A small grin spread over his face as he adjusted the telescope’s focus. If someone had told him a month ago that he would have lookout duty on the Earl of Merrick’s ship, he would never have believed it. But it was true! And he did more besides—scrubbed the deck and spliced rope and went aloft in all weathers, learning to set sail, take in a reef, and steer by sun and stars, and the thousand and one things a ship’s boy could learn if he was bright and attentive. He was busy, but not too busy to think—or to watch Bertram.
Clearly Bertram was the earl’s trusted right-hand man. Bertram was sent on errands to the small islands they stopped at; Bertram gave directions to the sailing master; it was Bertram who was with the earl most often, poring over charts of Arvidia and the surrounding sea.
Duncan was being careful. He had never taken another drink of cherry punch (or rum, for that matter) or eaten any food that he hadn’t seen another sailor eating first. No one was keeping him safe anymore, so he would have to do it himself.
All the same, he’d had more close calls in the past month than seemed natural. He’d almost gone overboard twice; he’d nearly fallen off the foresail yard when the footrope broke; and when a backstay parted and a heavy wooden block came swinging at his head, it was pure chance that he’d happened to duck in time.
Bertram had been standing at the taffrail, a silent, hulking presence, watching each time that Duncan had nearly lost his life. But Duncan didn’t see how Bertram could possibly have caused all those accidents.
Still, Duncan made sure he was never alone with the big-shouldered man, or standing too near. And he was always watching for Bertram to make some mistake—to say or do something that would convince the earl that the man should not be trusted.
For Bertram’s crimes were not just drugging Duncan and locking him in. They also included stealing a crate full of kittens. Duncan didn’t know why Bertram was interested in kittens, but he intended to find out. He felt certain that Bertram had not reported the kitten incident to the police back on Dulle when he went off in the carriage with Duncan’s key.
Duncan went hot and cold each time he thought of how stupid he had been to give Bertram his house key—and his address. Sure, the earl may have wanted to send Sylvia McKay flowers, but Bertram could have taken advantage of that to harm Duncan’s mother. The one thing that saved Duncan from tormenting himself was the fact that he knew she had been gone, teaching piano lessons, the whole time.
He missed his mother most dreadfully. During the day, of course, he was too busy for more than a brief snatch of memory or a piercing sense of loss. And most evenings he rolled into his hammock so exhausted that he was asleep within thirty seconds. But when the bell tinged to mark the middle watch and he woke in the night, it was different. There, in the slow-breathing dark, with men swaying in their hammocks all around him, thoughts of his mother, Grizel, and home hollowed out Duncan’s middle and left a stone on his chest.
Then the bell rang, the sun leaped up, the day’s duties started, and Duncan would run up the rigging with a gasp of laughter as the wind blew through his hair. He had never felt so alive. He didn’t bother to wear his cap; his hair was stiff and harsh with salt. His hands were growing calluses, and he was having the adventure of his life.
Of course, the sailors were a little rough and teased him more than he liked—but at least they never teased him about having red hair, for which he was grateful. Fia had gone into hiding so she wouldn’t be chased, but there were plenty of spaces where she could curl up in comfort, as she told Duncan at night, and she was learning the passageways between. And though Bertram was an ever-present worry, Mr. Corbie, the sailing master, was friendly.
The master was an old salt with stumpy legs, curly gray hair, and bright blue eyes in a weather-beaten face, full of interesting information about the ship and how to sail her. He was teaching Duncan how to steer by the stars. Duncan knew the major constellations, of course—the Cat and Kitten, the Huntress, the Dog, the Crown—but he had not known that a line drawn from the Kitten’s tail, crossed with a line from the Cat’s right ear, would lead him home.
Now, high in the crosstrees, the breeze grew cool as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the first stars shone in the east, tiny pale fish swimming out of deep indigo blue. Duncan lowered the spyglass and gazed across the wide sweep of darkening sky. Soon he would not be able to see at all.
If he never got to go to the Academy, it wouldn’t be so bad to just stay on a ship. He would love to keep sailing on and on, exploring all the different islands. There were more than he had ever dreamed, many more than there were on Friar Gregory’s classroom map. Duncan had only to shut his eyes to see the map’s carefully drawn islands, penned in brown ink, scattered across the sea like pebbles tossed from the hand of a giant. In school, he had been taught that the islands were all one nation, but he had not realized how very wide Arvidia was from one end to the other or how long it took to sail between islands. And he had not known that there were many, many more islands, small, rocky, and uncharted, that weren’t on any maps at all.
There was a sudden shout from below and a blast of laughter. Duncan looked down to be sure that no one was calling for him, then snapped the brass telescope to his eye once again. He couldn’t get so lost in his thoughts that he forgot his duty. He wanted the sailing master—and the earl—to think he was reliable.
The shouts from below grew louder, and there was a sound of stamping feet. A thin, high meow pierced through a momentary lull in the noise, and then a streak of white leaped for the mainmast and went up it like a rocket.
“Meow meow meow meooooow!” shrilled Fia. “Help me help me help me—”
Duncan held out his hands as the kitten clawed her way through the crosstrees. But Fia, in her unreasoning terror, dodged his grasp and ran out to the very end of the topsail yardarm.
“Great,” muttered Duncan. He looked down at the knot of laughing, shouting men at the base of the mast. If Fia had only jumped into his arms, the men might have thought she was hidden somewhere among the rigging or in a bunt of sail, and he could have kept her safe. But now the white kitten was trembling at the very tip of the horizontal yard, clearly visible against the darker sky, and every eye was on her.
“Fia,” Duncan said, his voice low and calm. “Walk back to me. Come on.”
The kitten’s fur was on end, ruffling in the wind. “I can’t!” she mewed desperately.
“Sure you can. You got out there by yourself, didn’t you? Just put one paw in front of the other.”
Fia’s eyes were wide and panicked. She dug her claws more deeply into the wooden yardarm. “You mean—let go?”
“Just lift one paw at a time,” coaxed Duncan. “But don’t look down, whatever you do—no, I said don’t look down! Look up! Look at me!”
It was too late. Fia stared at the waves far below, clearly paralyzed with fear.
“Catch the cat, boy!” came a shout from below. “Crawl out on the yard and grab it!”
A sudden silence, and then the earl’s voice, pitched loud enough for Duncan to hear: “If he’s not brave enough, I’ll send someone else to do it.”
Duncan scowled. Of course he was brave enough to rescue Fia. But if he brought her down, what would the crew do to her? Old Tom had said this was not a ship for cats—and he had been right.
Duncan eyed the topsail yard, a pole like a long, thick branch extending at right angles to the mast. It had footropes. It had a jackstay to hang on to. It was just the same as the foresail yardarm—only higher, of course. And thinner. And of course there was more wind, and more sway, and farther to fall if he lost hold.…
Duncan swallowed hard and stretched one leg out to the footrope.
“Noooo!” came a howl from below. “Get on the windward side!”
Duncan pulled his leg back. He had almost done a very stupid thing. Of course no one should ever climb out on the leeward side of a yard—any little jolt or gust and the wind could push him right off. But if he were on the windward side, the wind would be pushing him flat against the wooden yardarm, helping him hang on.
He slid onto the footropes. There was no one on the other side of the mast for balance, and he felt a sudden lurch as the topsail yard sagged under his weight.
His hands tightened on the jackstay until his knuckles went bloodless. But Fia was mewing pitifully, and below him, a shaking of the rigging told him someone else was climbing up. He had to get to the kitten first.
With the stout wooden yard pressed hard against his stomach, and the wind blowing firmly against his back, Duncan inched out. He kept his eyes on the far horizon—no looking down for him—and he was almost all the way out to Fia when he realized that he had been looking at a dark mass for some time.
“LAND HO!” he cried. “Two points off the starboard bow!”
Below him, the shouts and laughter ceased at once. Duncan didn’t have to glance down to know that every eye was turned to the southwest and that everyone who had a telescope was looking through it attentively.
Now was the time. He took two more long sliding steps and reached. His hand slipped behind Fia’s forelegs and tucked her inside his jacket with one smooth motion.
“I was so scared!” Fia’s triangular face turned up to his, and her tiny pink mouth opened in distress.
Her whiskers tickled the underside of Duncan’s chin. “Shh!” he said.
“Hey!” The sailor on the rigging below pointed to the yardarm. “Where’s the cat? Didn’t you catch it?”
Duncan called, “I was looking out at the island, and when I looked back, she was gone. Did you see her fall?”
The sailor shook his head. “She’s probably already drowned.”
Duncan squeezed out a short laugh. “Too bad for her.”
The sailor grunted as he made his way down the ratlines. “Too bad for you. There’s a reward if you catch ’em fresh.”
Duncan didn’t know what the sailor was talking about. He climbed back to the crosstrees and took his spyglass from his pocket. The island ahead was small, with a huddle of buildings beside a bay.
A small head bumped his chest, and a white paw poked up to pat his throat.
“Would you please stay hidden?” Duncan whispered, exasperated. If Fia wouldn’t stay quiet and still, he was never going to be able to protect her.
“But I have to show you something.” Fia’s meow was urgent. “It’s in the very bottom of the ship, and if you sniff it, it smells just like—”
“Show me later,” said Duncan, and he buttoned his jacket to the top.