Drake's Quest by Angela Jurgensen

By Pat Croce and Adam Slutsky Illustrations by Angela Souza

All rights reserved. Drake’s Quest first published in Canada by Brighter Books Publishing House. Glow, an Imprint of Brighter Books Publishing House. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2010 by Adam Slutsky and Pat Croce Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Angela Souza Special thanks to our editor Amy Bright for working with us on this book. We use only kid and environmentally-friendly paper. One tree has been planted for this book. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Croce, Pat Drake’s quest / Pat Croce, Adam Slutsky, Angela Souza. ISBN 978-1-927004-16-6 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927004-19-7 (bound).-ISBN 978-1-927004-17-3 (dust jacket) I. Slutsky, Adam II. Souza, Angela, 1974- III. Title. PZ7.C885Dr .C C888855D Drr 22012 012 01 012

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Contents Chapter

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

..................................... 1

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132

Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Chapter 11

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164

Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 Chapter 14

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

Chapter 16

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223

Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 1

Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249

Chapter 20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 Chapter 21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278 Chapter 22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289

Chapter 23 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305

Glossary

..................................... 318

The

blazing orange sun ruled a

cloudless sky. After too many days of Bristolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s usual unrelenting rain and gloom, Charlie took this as a favorable omen. The port bustled with activity. Charlie adjusted the duffel on his shoulder and strode toward the docks. His presence, he saw, was not going unnoticed. Handsome, tall, and strong for his age, Charlie was used to commanding attention; but it was some quality he possessed unrelated to his appearance

Croce & Slutsky that made men shoot him furtive glances, even as they hurried about their business. In his 15 years, Charlie was no stranger to trouble, some even of his own making, but he seemed to attract more than he incited. However, this didn’t pose a problem; in the face of conflict, Charlie never backed down, even when fear suggested he should. He continued to walk toward the vessel with purposeful strides. The jeweled hilt of the dagger thrust in his belt glittered in the sun. Maybe someone would be foolish enough to try to take it from him. A grin tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth at the thought. There were perhaps a half-dozen ships moored at the docks. Tame merchant vessels, mostly. These held little appeal for Charlie. He paused, searching. Ah, there. A privateer ship, heavily armed. Sleek and dangerous, masts tall. That would suit his purposes well. He read the lettering on the hull: Churchill. A steady procession of crewmen hauled supplies from the docks onto the ship by means of a narrow gangplank. Charlie walked over to the great pile of provisions and intercepted one of the men just as he hoisted a heavy sack of grain to his shoulder. “Where’s she headed?” Charlie asked, gesturing with his chin in the direction of the ship. The crewman paused and shifted the sack to redistribute the weight. He was young, no more than sixteen, a full

Drake’s Quest head shorter than Charlie, with a strong, compact build and an intelligent face. Despite the accumulated sweat and grime of honest labor, there was a refinement to him, a pedigree of sorts, that suggested a background of education and wealth. Not the kind of man Charlie would expect to find crewing for a privateer. “Caribbean waters,” the young crewman said. “A privateer fighting for Queen Anne?” Charlie asked. The crewman shrugged. “As long as the war continues, we’ll plunder the French and Spanish for Her Majesty … and our ninety percent share of the booty.” With a nod at Charlie the crewman headed down the dock toward the gangplank. Charlie didn’t want to keep him from his duties any longer. Besides, he’d learned all he needed. He hoisted up one of the sacks of grain from the provision heap, slung it over his free shoulder, and fell in step behind his new acquaintance. A sturdy gangplank led up to the deck of the Churchill. Two hardened sailors stood on either side of it, supervising the activity on the dock. When Charlie moved to follow the crewman onto the ship, both men stepped in front of him and blocked his path. “Just where do you think you’re going, lad?” one of the men asked. He had a mess of straw-colored hair and a thick neck, and he stared at Charlie with a mixture of amusement and menace. “To fight for Queen and country,” Charlie replied.

Croce & Slutsky The man’s companion stepped forward. Smaller and wiry, with tiny eyes and a ratlike face, he sneered at Charlie’s statement. “Not on this ship, you’re not. Now go on, make yourself scarce. This is a ship for men, not boys.” Alerted by the commotion, two men strode over from the other side of the dock. The taller of the two had silver hair, neatly arranged, and wore a long blue coat over a tidy gray waistcoat. Everything about him, from his white cravat to his bronze buttons, was immaculate. Charlie realized he was staring at the ship’s captain. “What’s this?” the captain asked. Ratface thrust his shoulders back. “Sir. This little boy seems to have lost his way. I was just about to send him home to mommy.” Keen eyes fell on Charlie. They had the odd colorless look that came from years of staring at distant horizons. The captain raised his eyebrows at Charlie, inviting a response. “I’d like to join your crew, sir,” Charlie said, voice strong and unwavering. The man beside the captain spoke for the first time. He was squat and barrel-chested, with sapling-like forearms and ruddy cheeks mostly obscured by a thick, bristly beard. He held a quill in one hand and a thick ledger in the other. Charlie glanced down and saw he was checking off supplies from a long, meticulous list as they were loaded onto the ship.

Drake’s Quest “Have you any sailing experience?” the man said in a deep, gravelly voice. By admitting he had never been to sea, Charlie realized he might just end his journey before it began. But real men didn’t lie. They didn’t need to. “No, sir,” he said firmly and without hesitation. “Son, there’s no guaranteed wages for a privateer crew. No enemy ships captured, no pay.” The captain smiled to himself, lost in a private thought. “You either join because you’re running from something, or because you’ve got salt in your bones. So which is it?” Charlie met his stare, his gaze even. “Both, sir.” The captain chuckled and stroked his chin. He shook his head. “I don’t know. My crew is well seasoned. Perhaps a merchant ship would better suit you.” Ratface leaned in, his face just inches away from Charlie’s. “You heard the Captain. Bugger off, pretty boy!” His breath stank of rotten teeth and sour ale; a fine spray of foul spittle landed on Charlie’s nose and cheeks. Charlie paused for just a moment. He shifted the grain sack on his shoulder, as though the weight was troubling him. He crouched slightly, feeling the muscles bunch in his thighs and legs, and hurled the sack into the air with as much force as he could muster. Surprised by the action, Ratface looked up at the airborne sack. In that moment, Charlie whipped his duffel off his

Croce & Slutsky other shoulder and, holding it by the straps, whipped it down and around in a powerful arc aimed at Ratface’s legs. Upon impact, Ratface’s legs shot out from under him. He landed on his rear on the dock with a satisfying thud. The grain sack reached the natural conclusion of its airborne journey by falling on Ratface’s head with an equally satisfying thud. Infuriated by the attack, the straw-haired man lowered his head and charged at Charlie like an angry bull. Charlie held his ground and let the man collide into him, falling back at the exact moment of impact. He dropped downward to the deck, taking the weight of the fall onto his elbows and forearms. Unable to slow the momentum of his charge, the man tumbled on top of Charlie. It was a simple thing for Charlie to catapult him up and off of him. The man sailed off the edge of the dock and splashed into the dark waters of the harbor. In a flash, Charlie got to his feet and brushed the dust off his clothes. He shouldered his duffel again and smiled at the captain and the quartermaster as if nothing had happened. “But I do have a little fighting experience,” he said wryly. The captain evaluated his prospective new crewmember in silence. “Your call, Mr. Bonz,” he said to his quartermaster at last. Mr. Bonz’s ruddy cheeks ballooned out in a sudden grin. “In that case, welcome aboard, Mister…” “Drake. Charlie Drake,” Charlie said.

Drake’s Quest He thought his name produced some small, almost unnoticeable response. The captain lifted his brow a fraction at his name, but made no comment. “This here is Captain Overton. On this vessel, his word is law. I’m the quartermaster. Do you know what that means?” Bonz asked. “It means I do as you say, sir.” “That it does. Good lad. Now put yourself to proper use and get those supplies on board. We aim to set sail before the sun gets much higher, and with the way these men have been dawdling and slacking all morning long, there’s a lot of work to be done yet.” Charlie nodded once. He scooped up the grain sack from where it lay next to Ratface, who sat like a lump on the dock, his expression dazed and stupid. He narrowed his eyes in a glower at Charlie. The quartermaster gave him a curt nod. “Better fetch your sidekick before he drowns his sorry arse,” Bonz said, gesturing with his head toward the water, where the straw-haired man splashed and spluttered, trying his best to keep himself afloat. Charlie headed up the gangplank and stepped onto the deck of the Churchill. The deck bobbed and swayed with the motion of the sea beneath his feet. He paused for a moment to get his bearings. Once he trusted himself to walk without stumbling or pitching forward from the odd rocking motion,

Croce & Slutsky he carried his sack across the deck and deposited it in a growing pile of supplies. The young crewman whom he’d spoken to earlier shot him a quick grin. “Made yourself right at home, didn’t you?” He gestured toward the dock. “Better watch your back around your two new friends. The ratty little one is Schilling; Griffith’s his crony, and they’re a mean pair. They’ll slip a knife between your ribs first chance they get … if they can.” “They can’t,” Charlie said self-assuredly. The crewman shrugged. “You’d best be right. Otherwise this will be a mighty short voyage for you.” He nodded. “Welcome aboard.” “Thank you,” Charlie said, but his new acquaintance was already headed back down the gangplank to load up ess.. more supplies.

On the ddock, ock ooc ck, Bonz Bo B on nzz w watched aattch cheed d aass S Sc Schilling chi hiilllllllin liin ng lla lay ay on his stom-

ach and extended both arms over the side, hauling Griffith up out of the drink. He shook his head. “Captain, we’ve got some real scallywags joining us on this cruise,” he said.

Drake’s Quest Captain Overton tugged at the hem of his waistcoat and made a minute adjustment to his cravat. “I have no doubt you will keep the crew squarely focused on the enemy.” Bonz snorted. “Aye, sir. Let’s just hope the French don’t surrender ‘fore we fill our hold with riches.” They paused in their conversation to watch Charlie walk down the gangplank, a slight swagger to his walk. With a nod at the captain and his quartermaster, Charlie strode down the dock toward the provision pile. He looked crisp and confident, wholly unaffected by the scuffle that took place mere moments earlier. “That one’s got trouble written all over him,” the captain said. “Aye, Captain,” Bonz replied. His eyes glinted. “A fitthe cco th omi miing ngg vvoyage.” n oyag oy agee.. ting omen forr the coming

Charlie ie llay ay in in his hiiss h hammock, ammo am ammo mock ck, wi w wide ide de aawake w in the

cramped, dark berth. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but he was aware of the ceiling too close above him; if he reached up, he could touch the boards. The hammocks, stacked three high, were tied to the support beams of the lower deck. The room had the stale smell of too many unwashed men in too small a space. In the hammock just beneath Char-

Croce & Slutsky lie’s, a slumbering crewman snored, the bothersome noise reverberating loudly in the cramped room. The noise and the smell were minor distractions, ones Charlie could sleep through easily enough. But his mind was still active, endlessly turning over the day’s events, caught up in wild thoughts of this new life he’d embarked upon—a life it seemed he was destined to live. He sat up, careful to make sure he wouldn’t bonk his head on the low ceiling, and groped around in the darkness for his duffel, which hung on the same peg that fastened his hammock to the beam. He rolled out of the hammock and dropped the several feet to the deck as quietly as he could. Already fully clothed, dagger still at his belt, he slid on his boots. Shouldering his duffel, he navigated his way out of the dark room. He entered the communal area, below deck, where four crewmen sat around a wooden table playing a game of whist, a pile of coins in front of each player. Charlie nodded at them in greeting, but didn’t interrupt their game. A flickering oil lamp rested on an overturned barrel used as a makeshift table; Charlie picked it up and mounted the creaky wooden stairs to the deck. Having never been to sea before, Charlie had fully expected to be seasick. Prior to setting sail he had worried what might happen if other crewmen saw him throwing up over the side of the ship or, worse, below deck. Strangely, the only sen-

Drake’s Quest sation he experienced was excitement. Perhaps this type of lifestyle was in his blood after all. A blast of crisp wind and salt air and the constant low roar of the sea assailed his senses. The Churchill’s masts were silhouetted against the moon, which was white and round and full. The deck was bathed in its pale light. A solitary figure on the night watch stood at the railing of the raised gun deck. Charlie raised a hand to acknowledge him; the man raised a hand in silent reply. His duty was a cold and lonely one, Charlie imagined, staying awake and alert for a four-hour shift in the middle of the night in the damp and chilly air. He found a secluded area of the main deck, sheltered from the wind by the raised forecastle, and crouched down. After glancing around to make sure he was alone and unobserved, he rummaged around inside the contents of his duffel. He pulled out a wooden box, made with meticulous craftsmanship, with clamshelled edges protected by scalloped slivers of metal and carved dragons throughout. On the front of the box was an unusual triple keyhole lock. He slid his jeweled dagger out of its sheath and stuck the tip into the keyhole. He twisted it experimentally, testing to see if he could somehow jimmy the lock. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Charlie stood upright and whipped his head around at the sound of the voice behind him. He gripped the dagger by

Croce & Slutsky the jeweled hilt and raised it to his side, ready and willing to introduce it to flesh if need be. The young crewman he’d first spoken to on the docks moved out of the darkness and into the circle of light cast by Charlie’s oil lamp. He smiled easily at Charlie, and motioned to the dagger. “Relax. I mean you no harm. Just curious about that trinket,” he said, eyes indicating the ornate box. “It’s none of your affair,” Charlie replied. The young crewman shrugged. “Suit yourself, but three-lock boxes like that are often booby-trapped with acid or black powder. If the locks aren’t opened with the proper keys, anything inside is destroyed—along with the unlucky fool opening it.” Charlie stared at him for a moment, trying to determine if he was pulling his leg. Deciding it was best to err on the side of caution, he stuffed the box back into his duffel. The young crewman seemed to be no threat, so he resheathed his dagger in his belt. “Charlie,” he said, sticking out his hand. The crewman shook it, his manner open and friendly. “Michael Arthur Cross. The Third, if you want to be precise. But all my friends call me Mac.” “Are we friends?” Charlie asked. Mac smirked, taking no offense. “We’re crewmates. That puts us more than friends and just shy of blood.”

Drake’s Quest For the first time, Charlie noticed Mac was carrying a bound leather volume. He gestured toward it. “What’s that?” Mac held it up. “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d find a quiet place for this,” he said. “Do you read?” “Yes,” Charlie replied. Shrewd eyes examined him. “Schooling?” “Enough.” “Enough for what?” Mac asked. “Enough to know there are better ways to spend my time than in a schoolroom,” Charlie said. “Fair enough. See what you can do with this,” he said and passed the book over to Charlie. Charlie flipped it open. Sketchy, delicate line drawings of contraptions filled the pages, the purposes of which he couldn’t begin to guess at. There were words too, written in a small, cramped handwriting. He squinted at the page, then shook his head. “It isn’t in English,” he said. “And it’s …” “Backwards. Yes. And the language is Italian. This man, Leonardo da Vinci, wrote all of his journals that way.” “What for?” Charlie asked. “Who knows? Privacy, maybe. Maybe he didn’t want anyone stealing his inventions.” Mac scratched his chin, his expression somewhat wistful. “He’s been dead almost two hundred years, and everyone still knows his name on the streets of Rome. There’s immortality for you.”

Croce & Slutsky Charlie felt a brief surge in his chest at Mac’s words. Immortality … “Have you ever seen Italy?” Mac asked. Charlie shook his head. “This is the furthest I’ve been out of England,” he said. “Rome might suit you. Dark-eyed women and plenty of good wine.” “How do you know so much for someone so –” “Young?” Mac said, finishing Charlie’s sentence. “I started as a cabin boy, what seems like ages ago. And while I’ve seen my fair share of the world, there’s still so much more to lay eyes on.” Charlie was impressed, and more than a bit jealous. But he was skeptical, too. He cocked an eyebrow. “How is it that you were able to prove yourself among the crew?” “I’d be lying if I said it was easy,” Mac admitted. “And it took some doing. But what I lack in size and stature, I more than make up for with this.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Muscles and brawn are great for showing off, but a keen mind is the real key to keeping your blood within your skin. But enough about me. Tell me, Charlie, is this your first voyage?” “First on a privateer heading for action,” Charlie replied. Mac grinned. Despite Charlie’s rough-and-tumble, ready-for-anything approach to life, it was quite obvious this

Drake’s Quest was his first time on a ship, let alone a ship destined for armed conflict. But there was no reason to call the obvious bluff. As Mac had learned early on, pride was often far more valuable than even the greatest of treasures. “In that case, stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes and our roles, some of which aren’t too damn pleasant.” “I think I already met two of the unpleasant on the dock,” Charlie said. Mac chuckled. “Indeed. You seemed to handle yourself well with them.” “Growing up in Bristol, you learn to handle yourself well with anyone.” By Mac’s expression, it would seem he understood Charlie’s statement completely but had no experience with that sort of harsh upbringing. Mac gestured toward Charlie’s duffel. “So tell me, where’d you get that fancy box of yours?” “None of your concern,” Charlie replied. “Fair enough,” Mac said, unoffended. “But a word of advice: keep it well hidden from prying eyes. It’s a pretty trinket, and men on this ship have spilled life’s blood for less.” “What about ‘more than friends and just shy of blood’?” Charlie asked. “Blood doesn’t mean much to some. Some of these scoundrels would kill their own mothers to gain a single shiny bauble.”

Croce & Slutsky Charlie considered this. Mac looked at him, his expression sharp. He glanced over at the dark horizon and smiled to himself. “Do you know the most marvelous thing about a life at sea, Charlie?” Charlie looked at him, confused. Mac continued, “Once you step aboard a ship, it’s as though your life on land never existed.” He turned back to Charlie. “A clean start. That’s what many of the men here are looking for.” “Is that what you’re looking for?” Charlie queried. It was Mac’s turn to be coy. “That’s none of your concern.” Charlie smiled. “Fair enough.” “Well. I’ll leave you to your affairs.” Mac patted Charlie on the shoulder once in a friendly manner and disappeared into the shadows of the deck. Charlie leaned against the railing and stared out across the sea, into the dark void. It was impossible to tell where the sea merged with the horizon, but he knew that, even if the sun had been high in the sky, he wouldn’t be able to see land in any direction. He looked forward to finding out how fast the ship could travel and how much ocean it could cross in a single day. There was much about life at sea that was unknown to him, and he couldn’t wait to discover it all. He rested his elbows on the rail and looked straight down. The sea was black as ink, unfathomable and deep. He thought about Mac’s words. Back in Bristol, Charlie would be

Drakeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Quest a wanted man, a common criminal, but aboard this ship, he had a destiny. He thought about how much his life had changed in only a day â&#x20AC;Ś

24 hours earlier â&#x20AC;Ś

Night

had

already

fallen by the

time Charlie returned home. The skies over Bristol had been filled with ominous dark clouds all day, and now theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d bro-

Drake’s Quest ken open, pouring a deluge of cold, miserable rain down on his head. Fitting. Why should today be any different? Even though it was his birthday, it wasn’t as if he were special; far from it. Just another impoverished sot trying to survive the life he was born into. Weary from the day’s labor, Charlie felt his spirits sink. Not even the thought of his mother fussing about in their shambles of a kitchen to prepare him a special meal, or baking him a cake to commemorate the occasion, could brighten his mood. As his father had no occupation to speak of, or certainly not one that Charlie would be proud to inherit, he’d accepted an apprenticeship with the local tanner. The foulsmelling work held little interest for him, and the hours were long and tiresome, but at least he was learning a trade, as well as earning a few coins to buy food for his mother and himself. But that wasn’t the only thing that kept Charlie coming back each day. The tanner was an old fighter—a man who’d seen action all around the globe, including some countries Charlie couldn’t pronounce properly—and he found in Charlie a willing ear to listen to his many stories of action. He’d even taught Charlie some unusual fighting maneuvers, skills that Charlie considered far more valuable than learning how to work with a freshly-skinned hide. And Charlie’s innumerable flesh-andbone escapades with the local riff-raff, all of which saw him emerging victorious, were proof enough that he was consider-

Croce & Slutsky ably more competent with his hands and feet than with the tools of his trade. His father hadn’t been seen since late winter. He was prone to periodic disappearances, but this was the longest stretch he’d been away. Privately, Charlie hoped he’d drunk himself to sleep and frozen to death in an alleyway somewhere. Suddenly, Charlie’s instincts took over. Something was wrong. As Charlie approached the small, shabby wooden home, he could hear a raised, angry voice. The sound of something breaking, followed by a woman’s cry of terror or pain. His mother. That meant … He burst through the front door. A broken oil lamp blazed and sputtered on the rickety wooden table, casting flickering shadows onto the wall. The single room of the house was in shambles: one wooden chair in pieces, another overturned. An earthenware mug lay shattered on the floor. His mother crouched against the wall, her hands up to protect her face. Charlie saw raised welts on her arm where she’d been struck. When she glanced at him, Charlie saw her eye was purple and swollen. A fresh welt lay across her cheek and her lip oozed red blood. Caught up in his rage, his father didn’t notice Charlie’s arrival. Charlie stared at the man’s broad back and saw his matted and unwashed hair. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of something—cheap rum, judging by the smell in the

Drake’s Quest air—while in the other he held his wide leather belt, stained red with droplets of fresh blood. His mother’s blood. “Not so pretty now, are you?” his father laughed. His mother cowered beneath the feeble protection of her raised arms. “Please, stop!” “Stop?” His father raised the belt into the air and cackled. “I’m just getting started.” For years, Charlie had been unable to do anything to stop his father, whatever he did to his mother or to Charlie himself. His father had seemed an enormous brute, almost ogre-like, and Charlie had only been a boy. But as of today, he was fifteen, not fully a man but well on his way, and there were some things a man just couldn’t permit. Charlie strode forward and seized his father’s wrist before he could bring his arm down to strike his mother again. His father turned his head, absolute shock in his eyes. “No, you’re finished,” Charlie said, his voice little more than a snarl. “Now it’s my turn.” And with that Charlie snapped his head forward, hearing a satisfying crunch when his forehead connected with his father’s nose and mouth. The blow had enough force to knock the larger man off balance and send him toppling to the floor. His father looked up at him, his lip cut open, mouth smeared with fresh blood. As soon as the initial shock wore off, he grinned. His teeth were pink with spit and blood.

Croce & Slutsky “You were always a mama’s boy,” he said. He spat a gooey wad of phlegm and pink spittle on the floor. “And you were always a poor excuse for a man,” Charlie said. The belt lay on the floor, forgotten in the sudden chaos. Charlie snatched it up. Almost before he knew what he planned to do, he slipped it in a loop around his father’s neck and cinched it tight. His father’s eyes widened in shock and terror. Some of the drink-induced confidence drained away from his face as he realized his predicament. His hands came up to the belt at his neck; his fingers pried at the leather. He kicked his legs out at Charlie and struggled to take a full breath. Charlie kept up the pressure. Such a small, simple thing, to squeeze the life from this man, this monster who had caused his mother and he so many years of pain … “No!” his mother screamed. She rose from the floor at last and flung herself at Charlie’s back. “No, Charlie, don’t kill him!” She pulled at his arms, trying to pry him away from her husband. Charlie paused, uncertain, before eventually letting go of the belt. He straightened up, his mother standing just behind him, and stared at the man on the floor. The fierce tide of murderous rage ebbed a bit. He took a deep breath. “The blood we share is the only reason you still breathe,” he said. His voice sounded cold and distant, like he

Drake’s Quest was speaking from somewhere far away. “But it won’t save you the next time you touch me or my mother.” His father stared up at him, eyes wide. Charlie couldn’t tell how much he even understood through the fog of pain and delirium of rum, but at least he knew enough not to press the point. He got to his feet, unsteadily, and looked around. His rum bottle had broken against the floor, its contents saturating the floorboards. He looked at Charlie once, then turned and stomped out of the house. The door slammed in his wake. His mother sank into a chair and began to weep. She bent her head and covered her battered face with the apron of her tattered housedress, sobbing openly. Charlie crouched in front of her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. “It’s okay, Mother. He’ll never hurt you again.” She shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her hands were wrinkled and worn, aged before their time by a lifetime of hard labor. “That’s not why I’m crying,” she said. She rose to her feet and tried to compose herself. She smoothed out the skirt of her apron and tucked a disheveled shock of hair back into her untidy bun. She stared at Charlie, and Charlie glimpsed a new resolve in her face. She extended a hand. “Come,” she said. “I have something to show you. Something I wish I could have shown you long ago.”

Croce & Slutsky Confused, Charlie took her hand. She picked up the cracked oil lamp and led the way up the narrow wooden staircase to the tiny, cramped attic. The roof of the small house rose to a sharp point directly overhead, much too low to allow them to stand upright. The air was stale and thick with dust. His mother moved aside a stack of dirty blankets and some rotting burlap sacks. Wedged into a dark corner, mostly obscured by the beams of the roof, was a large sea chest. Charlie’s brow furrowed. He had never seen this before; he had never even known it was up here. She knelt down and, with some effort, managed to pull the chest forward. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, but Charlie could see it was of good quality. Made of iron, it had a large, ornate keyhole lock on the front. One that, upon first glance, seemed more about finery than function. His mother set down the lamp and turned to him. “I’ve lied to you all of these years, Charlie,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, betraying none of the evening’s drama. “James is not your father.” Charlie stared at her, unable to make sense of her words for a moment. He stared at the chest, then back at her. “I don’t understand. Then who—?” She placed a hand lightly to his lips, silencing him, then pressed a massive iron key into his hand and gestured to the chest. “Look and see for yourself.”

Drake’s Quest With a small smile at her son, she rose up. She paused. “Jeffrey would have been proud to see you grow up to become a fine man like himself.” She nodded at him once and withdrew from the attic, leaving Charlie alone with the chest. Charlie’s hand shook with nerves and excitement as he started to fit the key into the lock. Despite appearing to be of the proper size, the key would not enter. Thinking this was due to his unsteadiness, he forced himself to inhale deeply and get control of himself before trying again. Only then did he realize the problem. The keyhole was a ruse, nothing more than a small indentation in an otherwise solid wall. While it certainly looked the part—as it was designed to—this was clearly not the way the chest was breached. Charlie began a thorough examination of the chest, searching out every seam and crevice with the tips of his fingers, hoping touch would reveal more than sight. Nearly ten minutes into his investigation, he found the answer. Atop the lid, in the very center, one of the many square panels was raised a mere fraction above the others. Charlie hooked a fingernail under the panel and twisted. To his amazement, the panel rotated to the side, revealing another keyhole. By the darkness within, Charlie knew this keyhole was no con.

Croce & Slutsky He found it curious that his mother would not tell him about the false lock—perhaps she did not know, herself—but soon surmised that her silence was, in fact, a test. A test to see if he was truly worthy of whatever it contained. Tremors of excitement overtook him once again as he thrust the large key into the lock. The hole swallowed half the key’s length, stopping with a metal-on-metal thunk. Charlie sucked in another deep breath and turned the key. His efforts were rewarded with a satisfying click. Rusted hinges creaked as he raised the lid. His mother’s words were a swirl in his brain. His father wasn’t his real father. That meant he was a bastard, and that meant that the owner of this chest … On the underside of the lid was an elaborate engraving. Charlie raised the oil lamp close to it to see it in full detail. It was a coat of arms, intricate and glorious, with some words in a strange language—Latin, he guessed—written below a magnificent dragon. Inside the chest was a pile of clothing. Charlie lifted them out. Breeches, yellowed with age, and a dark blue frock coat, plain but of good quality. After a hearty sniff he was certain he smelled traces of the sea. Beneath the clothes were a few books—journals, actually—wrapped in layers of protective vellum, which had prevented them from deteriorating during their long storage. Charlie held one in his hand, tempted to begin reading, but

Drake’s Quest put it aside for the moment to explore the remainder of the chest’s contents. He extracted a small leather pouch containing a heavy medallion. Formed from a perfect meld of silver and ebony, it was shaped like a dragon and hung on a slim leather cord. When Charlie lifted up a second pouch, it jangled with the sound of coins. He looked inside. Gold and silver glinted in the light of the oil lamp. The pouch was filled with coins, of various sizes and shapes, the currencies of countries Charlie had never seen. He sat back on his heels. This fortune had been in the attic for all these years, his mother’s long-kept secret. Who had been the owner of this chest? What was the source of all this wealth? Who was his real father? But his questions would have to wait, for there were more treasures still to discover inside the chest. A bejeweled dagger wrapped in a silk handkerchief. When Charlie drew it from the ornate scabbard, he saw the same coat of arms from the trunk lid engraved on the sharp silver blade. The blade was short, but finely honed, the kind of tool that would wreak havoc on fruit or flesh. Charlie touched a cautious finger to the point. He knew who would be feeling its sting soon enough. He sheathed the dagger and tucked it into his belt. There was a small wooden box in the chest, elaborately

Croce & Slutsky carved—more dragons—with an odd triple lock mechanism on the front. There seemed to be no key to it, so Charlie set it aside for the moment and turned his attention to the final item in the chest. A flintlock pistol. Ebony and gleaming, fine and lethal. The head of a magnificent dragon was expertly carved into the rounded butt, inlaid with silver filigree. Jaws open, fangs bared, split tongue flickering, the carved dragon’s head was undoubtedly a symbol of danger and power and death—much like the pistol itself—not to mention a warning to all who would oppose the weapon’s wielder. But he believed there was also a deeper meaning, one that he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Charlie hefted the pistol experimentally, feeling its weight in his palm. It was the first time he’d ever held a pistol, and this one fit his hand as though it had been designed and crafted specifically for him. He looked around at all the treasures, lost in thought. Who was his father? And, more importantly, who was he?

PUBLISHING HOUSE

TM T M

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