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Bold, courageous and wise beyond his years, Charlie is a natural born leader. After he meets ingenious Mac, an unstoppable duo is born. Drake’s Quest is Tom Sawyer meets Treasure Island; it is an exciting, swashbuckling tale of honor, providence and friendship.
Citation preview
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 CroceIllustrations 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 2012 j813’.6 C2012-900941-5.............C8C8C8C8C8C8C8C88C8C8C8C8C8C88C8C8C8C88CCC888CC888CCC 8585858585858585858585858585585858585858585885888885555DrDDrDDrDrDrDrDrDrDrDrDrDrDrDDrDrDDDrDrDrDrDDrDrDDrDDDrDDDDDDDrD 2 22222 22 22222 22222 222222222 2222222222 22222220101010101010101010100101010101010101010110100101010110111011101001010000000000000000010122222 2 222222 2 2 222 2222222222222 j8j8j8j8j8j8j8j8j8j888j8j8j8jj8j8888j8j8888j8jjj8j8j88jj81313131313131313131331313131331313131311131113113331 ’’.’’.’’.’.’.’’.’.’.’.’’’.’.’...6 6 6 66 6 66 6 66666 666666 6 666666 C C CC CCC C C CCCCCCCCCC CCCCC CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC202020202020202020202020202020200200002020022022022220121212121212121212122122212121212121211212121212122121121222211112-9-9-9-9-9-9-9-9-99-9-99-9-999-999-9999-999999-9999-9-9999-99-99999000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000999999999999999999999999999999999
Contents
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 1Chapter 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223Chapter 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229Chapter 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241Chapter 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249Chapter 20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260Chapter 21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278Chapter 22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289Chapter 23 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 18
The blazing orange sun ruled a
cloudless sky. After too many days of Bristol’s usual unrelent-
ing rain and gloom, Charlie took this as a favorable omen.
The port bustled with activity. Charlie adjusted the duf-
fel 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
1
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 prob-
lem; in the face of conflict, Charlie never backed down, even
when fear suggested he should.
He continued to walk toward the vessel with purpose-
ful strides. The jeweled hilt of the dagger thrust in his belt glit-
tered 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 ap-
peal 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 inter-
cepted 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 redistrib-
ute the weight. He was young, no more than sixteen, a full
Croce & Slutsky
2
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 need-
ed. 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.
Drake’s Quest
3
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.
Croce & Slutsky
4
“Have you any sailing experience?” the man said in a deep,
gravelly voice.
By admitting he had never been to sea, Charlie real-
ized 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 Char-
lie’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 air-
borne sack. In that moment, Charlie whipped his duffel off his
Drake’s Quest
5
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 jour-
ney 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 fore-
arms. 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 crewmem-
ber in silence. “Your call, Mr. Bonz,” he said to his quarter-
master at last.
Mr. Bonz’s ruddy cheeks ballooned out in a sudden
grin. “In that case, welcome aboard, Mister…”
“Drake. Charlie Drake,” Charlie said.
Croce & Slutsky
6
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,
Drake’s Quest
7
he carried his sack across the deck and deposited it in a grow-
ing 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. Other-
wise 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
more supplies.
On the dock, Bonz watched as Schilling lay 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.
Croce & Slutsky
8
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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 con-
fident, 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 fit-
ting omen for the coming voyage.”
Charlie lay in his hammock, wide awake in the
cramped, dark berth. He couldn’t see anything in the dark-
ness, 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-
Drake’s Quest
9
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lie’s, a slumbering crewman snored, the bothersome noise re-
verberating 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 ex-
pected 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-
Croce & Slutsky
10
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 unob-
served, he rummaged around inside the contents of his duffel.
He pulled out a wooden box, made with meticulous crafts-
manship, with clamshelled edges protected by scalloped sliv-
ers 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
Drake’s Quest
11
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 deter-
mine 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.”
Croce & Slutsky
12
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 draw-
ings 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 ex-
pression somewhat wistful. “He’s been dead almost two hun-
dred years, and everyone still knows his name on the streets of
Rome. There’s immortality for you.”
Drake’s Quest
13
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,” Char-
lie replied.
Mac grinned. Despite Charlie’s rough-and-tumble,
ready-for-anything approach to life, it was quite obvious this
Croce & Slutsky
14
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 your-
self 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 trin-
ket, 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.”
Drake’s Quest
15
Charlie considered this. Mac looked at him, his expres-
sion 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 Char-
lie 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
Croce & Slutsky
16
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 …
Drake’s Quest
17
24 hours earlier …
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 they’d bro-
……………………………………………………………
18
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 cer-
tainly not one that Charlie would be proud to inherit, he’d
accepted an apprenticeship with the local tanner. The foul-
smelling 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 will-
ing 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-and-
bone escapades with the local riff-raff, all of which saw him
emerging victorious, were proof enough that he was consider-
Drake’s Quest
19
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 wood-
en 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 flick-
ering 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 Char-
lie’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
Croce & Slutsky
20
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 cack-
led. “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, hear-
ing 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.
Drake’s Quest
21
“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,” Char-
lie 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 be-
hind 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
Croce & Slutsky
22
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 cry-
ing,” 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.”
Drake’s Quest
23
Confused, Charlie took her hand. She picked up the
cracked oil lamp and led the way up the narrow wooden stair-
case 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. Char-
lie’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 eve-
ning’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 un-
derstand. 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.”
Croce & Slutsky
24
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 in-
dentation 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 fin-
gers, 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 twist-
ed. To his amazement, the panel rotated to the side, revealing
another keyhole. By the darkness within, Charlie knew this
keyhole was no con.
Drake’s Quest
25
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 moth-
er’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 engrav-
ing. 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 mag-
nificent 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 cer-
tain he smelled traces of the sea.
Beneath the clothes were a few books—journals, actu-
ally—wrapped in layers of protective vellum, which had pre-
vented them from deteriorating during their long storage.
Charlie held one in his hand, tempted to begin reading, but
Croce & Slutsky
26
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
Drake’s Quest
27
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?
Croce & Slutsky
28
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Drake's Quest available
Spring /Summer 2012!