The Buccaneer's Apprentice by V. Briceland Page B

months. Then yes, there was an assassination attempt. My daughter did not take it well.” Nic felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the girl. He’d thought her cold and hard. Perhaps she had to be, with her father’s life in constant danger. “So we left,” Jacopo continued. “I told our household that my daughter and I were taking a month in the countryside, to settle our nerves. A trusted servant helped us gain passage on a craft from Côte Nazze sailing for Cassaforte. A mere sailboat, really—a pleasure craft that had belonged to one of the Azurite aristocracy. My plan was to report back to King Alessandro and beg him to relieve me of my duties, so that my daughter would be assured her father might live for a little while more, at least.” He reached out and stroked his daughter’s hair. She, in turn, returned his affectionate gesture with a sunny beam that exposed all her teeth. After a moment in which they basked in each other’s smiles, they both turned to Nic.
    “Of course, signor,” said Nic, inclining his head to them both. Inwardly, however, his heart thudded. For a little over a year now, he had been spectator to many a drama on the stage. He could tell when someone was acting. “Yet how came you to this island?”
    “Oh.” Jacopo seemed surprised he’d skipped over that part of the narrative. “Of course. There was a storm …”
    “We lost the wind …” Darcy began to say at the same time as her father. Panic-stricken, she stopped talking.
    “There was a storm and you lost the wind?” Nic asked, cocking his head. He felt even more uneasy.
    “There was a storm,” Jacopo said, slowly and carefully, as he watched his daughter’s reaction. “We lost the good wind, then found ourselves stranded.”
    “And your boat?”
    Darcy looked stricken, somehow. She turned her head to conceal her emotions. “Gone,” said Jacopo. It was obvious he wished to bring the story to a hasty close. “But surely I’ve convinced you that returning to Cassaforte as quickly as possible is in all of our best interests.”
    Nic nodded gravely. Jacopo and Darcy Colombo had convinced him indeed—convinced him that they were lying, at any rate. Little of their story added up. Their conflicting tales about how they’d come to be stranded were only part of it. Why, for example, would a debt collector carry on a vendetta against an ambassador, much less murder him? And why would the same debt collector attempt the same with a man of no blood relation to his predecessor? Perhaps parts of the story had been cobbled together from half-truths. It was obvious that Darcy was highly protective of her father. Something must have happened to frighten them both.
    “Of course,” Nic murmured, trying to seem understanding. In the near-darkness, his face gave away none of his misgivings. “But perhaps rescue might be closer at hand than we thought,” he said, suddenly inspired. Once convinced he had the Colombos’ full attention, he explained. “There was a man from Pays d’Azur who boarded the Pride of Muro at Massina. His name was …” Nic pretended to think. “Dumond?”
    Oh, yes. The white lie had the exact effect as he’d thought it might. Darcy ceased her restless fidgeting and sat still. If it had not been so dark, Nic might have been able to see how white her skin had gone. Jacopo, too, froze. He drew in one very long and raspy breath. “Dumond?” he finally asked. “It’s a common enough name in that country.”
    “He was quite tall,” Nic said. “He wore a blue military coat with gold braid, insignia upon his shoulders, and sported a mole upon his cheekbone. He was looking for someone. Cassaforteans, he said. Perhaps the court at Côte Nazze was worried at your disappearance and dispatched him to assure your safety?”
    Nic was not mistaken in his suspicions. Jacopo quelled whatever his daughter was about to say with one raised finger. “Oh,” he said, weighing his words carefully. “That sounds very