Nineteen: Inquiry Into the Whereabouts of A Certain Master B.

Two days later, Ballko turned up in Marcus Barkle's cabin. He grinned sheepishly and said, "There's a pair of bluebellies asking to see Captain Marsh. Thought you'd want to know."

"What do they want?"

"You think they'd tell me? They only said it was official business."

Barkle winced. "Admiralty official or local official?"

"Local. I think."

"Okay, Ballko." Barkle pointed upward with his thumb. "How goes it in the rigging?"

"She's knotted like a widow's yarn. We're too short of hands to do it proper."

Barkle nodded. Captain Marsh had used their weeks in drydock to reset the Blue Oriole's mizzen and bowsprint, both of which had taken a beating in the Mother Storm.

That meant completely reworking the lines and sheets, no easy task when you were short handed.

"Let's start training some of the new kids," he decided. "Have to try them sooner or later. We'll put them the lower spars, right? See who's handy and who's got two left feet."

"All of them?"

"None of the runners. Last thing we need now is a rabbit chase. Ask the girl -- Nail. Ask here which ones she thinks will stick. Tell her to pick three or four."

At that very moment, Nail was exploring a part of the great warehouse she had never seen before.

From every corner of the vast barnlike building, the dream clipper loomed like --- well, like a dream. From some angles, she looked like a great bird perched on a nest.

From other angles, she looked like a fish out of water, awkward and exposed. Her masts jutted in all directions, a tangle of unsecured ropes and dangling squares of canvas.

The impression of disorder was made even worse by her sailors, who had put their laundry out on lines to dry.

Down in the shadow of the Oriole, the warehouse included a half-dozen different workshops and buildings: a smithy, a seamstress shop, a joinery.

It was a village unto itself, separate from the larger bustle of Piketon.

But Nail was well aware that it wasn't a happy village. Many of the merchants were clamoring to be paid. The sailors -- having exhausted their meager pay in the town's saloons -- were growing tied of life ashore.

There were arguments and fistfights. The new physician, Dr. Soonoo, spent a part of each day sewing up cuts and making poultices for bruises.

In the brig, the mob of shanghaied kids were homesick and mournful. The new boy, Aramis, helped by doing magic tricks and entertaining them with stories, but even that was growing stale.

Nail herself was bored and restless. "How long until we actually go somewhere?" she asked Ballko.

"Another week at least," the boy said. "That storm beat us up pretty good. And the Captain's still trying to sort out a cargo that'll pay."

To pass the hours, Nail had taken to exploring, and trying to make sense of the vast, complicated business that went into tending a dream-clipper.

"We can go a year and more on our own once we're underway," Ballko told her. "But all the wear and tear adds up. The Oriole was long overdue for a shake-down."

Down a stairway, Nail found a row of stalls made for keeping livestock.

Before they set sail, the Oriole would take a small herd of cattle and goats and sheep aboard, along with chickens, ducks, rabbits and Guinea hens.

Peering through one of the gates, she saw something unexpected: A boy with bright red hair sitting on an overturned bucket.

A manacle had been clapped over his wrist and a chain fixed him to the wall.

He was younger than most of the kids in the brig, but he was sitting bolt upright, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-closed.

"Hey, you," Nail said. "Are you asleep?"

The boy blinked once, slowly, then looked at her. He had startling yellow eyes.

"You're the one they call Nail," he said. "The one who likes numbers."

Nail's mouth dropped open. "How do you know my name?" she said. "How do you know I like numbers?"

"I listen," the boy said simply. "I watch. And I make deductions."

She frowned at him. She didn't like the idea of anybody watching her, or knowing things about her that she didn't tell them.

"Who are you?" she said.

"My name is Buddenbrooks," he said. "Josef Buddenbrooks. They kidnapped me almost a week ago. I've been sitting here ever since."

"Why didn't they put you with us -- with the other kids?"

"Because I'm dangerous."

Nail looked at him for a moment, smirked and said, "You don't look very dangerous to me."

"That's because you're not really looking."

"I can see you're just a little boy." She stressed the word little. "You look posh, but your family can't help you now, if that's what you mean."

"I don't want my family to help me," he said.

The boy held up his manacled arm, made a curious gesture with his free hand, and before Nail could properly see what had happened, he was free.

The handcuff dangled useless from its chain. Then the boy did something very strange: He clapped it back on his wrist and locked it again.

"Are you a magician, like Aramis?" Nail said.

The boy shook his head and said, "You're still not looking."

"That's really irritating. If you're not a magician, what are you?"

"I'm an assassin. Or I'm supposed to be."

Nail laughed scornfully. "You? An assassin? How many people have you killed?"

"None. And I don't want to, either. That's why I'm glad they kidnapped me."

"Wait. You're glad you were shanghaied?"

He nodded. "If I'd known what they were doing, I would have gone eagerly. I thought it was a test, put on by my weapons master, or my parents. I hope I didn't hurt anyone too badly."

Nail said nothing. The conversation was simply too puzzling. She turned on her heel and went away, determined to sort things out.

As she left, the boy was silent. She imagined that he must be sitting there again on his bucket, back straight, arms folded.

At that very moment, Captain Marsh was seated behind his desk, a chart of the Thirtyworld Main spread before him and a set of calipers in one hand.

A pair of Piketon's local police -- bluebellies, people called them -- stood across from him in their stiff blue coats, arms folded behind their backs.

"What can I do for you gentleman?" the Captain asked.

"We are making an inquiry," said one of the fellows. He spoke as if reading from a proclamation: "Into the whereabouts of a certain Master Buddenbrooks."

"Never heard of him."

"He is a boy, a child of nine years," said the other man. "Smallish, red hair. He was abducted five days ago."

"So? Since when do cops on Piketon care about missing kids?"

"This kid was a person of quality," the first officer said. "The Buddenbrooks family are -- influential."

"We found this at the scene of the crime," put in the other. He held up a broken belaying pin. "Looks like something a napper crew might use."

"It's not in our interest to take kids from uptown neighborhoods," said the Captain.

"Especially not this particular kid," said the cop. "His parents are muckety-mucks in the Hemlock League. They're licensed killers. Assassins."

"I'm surprised they even bothered reporting him gone," said the other fellow, in a musing tone. "Usually they sort things like this out there own way."

"I'm not sure what this has to do with the Blue Oriole," Captain Marsh said. "I've looked over our fresh recruits. No one fits that description. You're welcome to look for yourself."

"We'll do that," the cop said. "Best to be thorough, isn't that right?"

While Marcus Barkle watched, the bluebellies prowled through the brig, looking at each of the children. Some of the kids watched silently; others begged for help, asking to be taken home.

"Please, sirs," said one boy. "Can you just take a message to my parents? Tell them where I am?"

The cops ignored him. "Our brat ain't here," one bluebelly grumbled. "Let's try the next ship."

Twenty: Into the Rigging