Twelve: Master Buddenbrooks

Marcus Barkle was in a foul mood.

It was the sort of thunderous glowering funk that only caught him up when he was ashore, beset by the complications of landsmen and politics and blue-bellies.

The Blue Oriole had passed a fortnight in her drydock on Nail, caught like a dragonfly in a web.

Mr. Handy, the ship's carpenter, had discovered that the Mother storm had done more damage to their ship than first understood.

The keel had suffered a dangerous wrench, causing a half-dozen of the massive ribs to come unseated.

Worse yet, one of the small pelvic masts -- which jutted at 45 degrees from the Oriole's hull -- had popped free from the massive iron sleeve that held it fast.

"While we were dangerously preoccupied with gyrwights," wrote Captain Marsh in his log, "the vessel very nearly came apart under my boots."

Such disasters were not unheard of in the Dream.

A half dozen times in his career, the Captain had come upon a mess of timbers and wrack, subsiding by degrees into the magical fog below.

They had escaped with their lives and their own ship intact, but the temper of the crew was no less venomous for that.

While the Oriole's smiths and carpenters and joiners went about their trade, Barkle had gone about his own disreputable business.

"How many have you got, Marcus?" asked Captain Marsh, at the morning confab.

"Sounds like he's got a regular herd of brats in that brig," grumbled Falconer. "Ain't there any way to quiet them?"

Barkle ignored the First Mate and said, "We lost a dozen young ones in the storm. I've got nine in the poke so far. I can make do with ten or eleven."

"What's the trick of it?" said Sgt. Imple good-naturedly. "The streets of Piketon are swarming with orphans and starvelings. Give me a belay pin and a half hour and I'll fill the hold with snotty noses."

"Shroud-walking ain't for everyone," Barkle said simply. "They got to be small and quick and agile. Half the kids I picked won't survive out on the lines, not when the first cat's paw comes out of nowhere and gives them a playful push."

The other officers shrugged and went back to their own concerns.

From their vantage point upon the solid deck, the children who manipulated the lines and sails of a dream vessel were little more than monkeys, a necessary inconvenience.

Even those who had begun their own careers out in the far jungle of the rigging preferred not to think upon such matters.

"Anyway there's time for you to be choosy," said the Captain. "We've another two weeks of drudgery at the very least."

In truth, Marcus Barkle was being choosy.

He admitted as much to himself as he prowled through the streets of Piketon, wandering farther and farther from the port district.

In part, he strayed so far because the folk next to the harbor had got word that several ships were impressing children.

Prey was scarce where moms and dads were cautious.

But it was also a fact that Barkle had been shaken to the quick by the battle with the gyrwights.

His own view of things had taken a twist almost as sharp as the one that nearly broke the Oriole's spine.

Watching one kid after another fall away into the void, harassed and tormented by gyrwights: it was a memory that haunted his dreams.

Of course, he had no real choice in the matter. He had to recruit a new batch of kids to fill out his crew.

Yet he wanted to make some gesture, offer some protest against the foul and miserable ways of the world.

After some deliberation, Barkle had decided that he would kidnap a child of consequence.

He knew that Captain Marsh would be furious if he knew, for it was generally understood that the children of wealthy or noble persons were untouchable.

Violating this unwritten rule would mean trouble. If he was caught at it, Barkle might even lose his place.

He found that he didn't care. The poor folk of Piketon had given up plenty of kids; now the fat merchants and guildsmen would pay the blood tithe as well.

So it was that the Lord of Shrouds made his way by streetcar out into the suburbs of the city, where the ugly drabness relented a little and a few trees lined the avenues.

Tenements and shanty-towns gave way to order and ever-greater displays of wealth and power.

Nail was an ugly world, but it was profitable and here there gathered the cream and the polish.

Downtown, the ships huddled behind iron grill windows; here Barkle saw glass and crystal.

Close to the cargo docks, mothers could be seen cooking for their kids on open fires at the margin of the street.

Here there were blue-bellies on every corner making sure no one forgot their place.

Barkle had worn his finest jacket and was carrying what appeared to be a message with a hand-scrawled address, written so as to be illegible.

Twice in the first quarter-hour of prowling he was stopped by a copper and had to pretend to be a messenger.

"Please, sir, I am looking for the mansion of Lord Dudeney. Am I gone the wrong direction?"

"It's none of my care if you've gone to Purgatory," replied the blue-belly, losing interest. "Get on about your own damned business. And don't let me catch you begging for nibs."

It was bare bones until the early afternoon, when various schools and academies opened their doors and released gaggles of children into the avenue.

They were a fine, sleek lot: rosy-cheeked, stout, confident. They went along with entourages of nannies and tutors.

Barkle's mood darkened. Upon close inspection the kids he spied were all too fat or two long-of-limb for shroud-work.

"They feed their brats too well uptown," he muttered. "They would snap my spars like dry twigs."

Dusk was coming on and he had begun to contemplate giving up his scheme when he saw a smallish boy come out of a doorway.

At first, Barkle thought the child must be very young -- five or six -- but no, the lad was only slight.

What's more, the boy began to play an abent-minded game as he went, walking heel-to-toe along the narrow curb.

He practically skipped along, showing perfect balance.

Barkle had begun to move up for a closer look when the door flew open and a hard-faced man stepped out onto the street.

"Don't forget, Master Buddenbrooks!" he called. "You've a make-up lesson tomorrow at a quarter shy four bells. Practice your counter-thrust beforehand -- and don't dare be late!"

The boy pirouetted on the curb, gave a wave, then demonstrated what must have been a counter-thrust.

Without missing a beat, he twirled again and went on his way, his feet never leaving the curb.

Barkle grinned and turned away. He had seen enough to lift his spirits immensely.

"And a whole-hearted welcome to you, Master Buddenbrooks," he said. "I believe it is time you went on a little cruise."

Fourteen: A Hard-Won Prize