by J. P. Sheen
The daylight hours were just as horrible. At the worst times, Blake imagined that he felt whiplashes on his back, sinking into and dragging through his flesh. Or a rope wrapping around his neck, so tightly that his eyeballs would surely burst from their sockets. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop these nightmarish scenes from replaying, over and over again in his mind, until his brain felt tortured and the pain was close to physical.
Then his clothes started squeezing him tight.
His coat pinched his shoulder blades, and his breeches grabbed at his extremities in an awful way. Blake shrank back, but he couldn’t stop his clothes from touching him.
Trapped, trapped, trapped!
Blake’s rationality slipped away, leaving only a mindless panic. For as long as he could endure it, he suffered a silent agony. He knew that Kingston’s courtiers were watching him. Judging him. He was nothing but material for gossip, vermin that had somehow gotten over the palace walls. He loathed them all! Their hearts were just as black and rotten as his, but they had the advantage. They could mask their twistedness behind empty courtesies and honeyed gallantries. Blake had no such luxury. There was nothing courteous about shoving people aside as he fled through Kingston Palace’s gilded halls. There was nothing gallant about throwing himself into Kingston Court’s manmade lake, the closest thing he could find to the sea. It was almost funny because he always terrified a few ducks, sending them off flapping and quaking.
He set to work.
His clothes felt like a big body hugging him tight. Fighting down a scream, Blake stripped himself naked on the lakebed.
Then the scream came out.
Blake was left alone in the brig to relive some very painful memories.
For hours, the only person who visited him was the surgeon, who came to apply salt to his wounds. The procedure was so excruciating that Blake growled like a bear, thinking of the rotten little royal who had gotten him into this mess. It was cruel of Blake, leaving Eselder to fend for himself. Then again, hadn’t Jaimes once told Blake that he could support a naval career? Well, here was Jaimes’s son, making his mark in the Royal Navy! Why, Blake had never seen anyone so gifted at scrubbing down the shitpots! Now, that was talent! Full of promise, that one!
Blake’s lips twisted into an ugly smile. He shifted, and his back blazed with pain.
Wouldn’t Jaimes be proud of his son if he knew? No wonder he had traded Blake in so willingly! Blake just couldn’t compete with the boy! After he escaped, maybe he’d pass the message along. Let Jaimes know how his son was faring. Maybe.
Blake’s stomach grumbled. But the next time a guest called on him in the gloomy brig, it wasn’t to give him food. Blake heard several boots thumping down the stairway outside his cell. He sat up, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the whitewashed bulkhead.
“He is manacled, correct?” came Captain Thornhill’s low murmur.
“Aye, captain.”
How sweet. Captain Thornhill was coming to call on him. Blake sneered. He was starting to get lonesome.
“Good, good. You may go.”
As his lackeys plodded up the stairs, Captain Thornhill fumbled with his keys. Why was he coming to see Blake? Wasn’t his royal guest far more interesting than an insubordinate Jacktar?
There was a jangle of metal and a shrill screech as the door to Blake’s cell swung open. Somebody was falling behind on the job, Blake noted. Wasn’t the Royal Navy supposed to keep everything in tip-top shape?
He made sure he was wearing a pleasant expression when Captain Thornhill entered his cell. After all, Thornhill was his commanding officer. Blake grinned like this was all a merry joke to him.
“You look surprisingly well,” Thornhill coolly remarked. It was stifling down in the orlop deck. Sweat poured in sheets down the man’s fleshy, familiar face, but Blake was still at a loss to place him. The Swift’s captain walked like a man who didn’t know that he wasn’t the spry young buck he’d been twenty years ago. His stomach and rump bulged out comically in his tailored Navy uniform.
“I have a high tolerance for pain,” Blake replied with a shrug. He could have kicked himself afterward. Why not just beg the man to bring the cat ‘o nines back out?
Thornhill just smiled. His eyes were cold as ice, and Blake was stunned to see loathing in them. The captain looked at Blake like he was a rat discovered in the brig.
“That wasn’t the case last time, Ransom. Was it?”
Blake shot him a careless glance. He wasn’t going to jump at Thornhill’s bait, if that’s what he wanted.
“Do I know you?” he asked dully.
Captain Thornhill lifted his cocked hat to wipe his drenched forehead, and Blake noticed his birthmark. Red. And crescent-shaped, like the moon.
Thornhill replaced his hat and observed his prisoner’s expression.
“Oh, I think you do,” he said softly.
An involuntary shiver seized Blake. It felt like dozens of harsh fingers scrabbling against his body. He shivered again, his skin blazing fiery hot. Then he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He flushed and bent over low, trying to block out the world.
“You don’t look so well anymore, Ransom,” Thornhill commented pleasantly, “Aren’t you the spitting image of your papa! I never forget a face…especially not of the devil who murdered my own father. I’d heard that you’d gone into your daddy’s line of work…well, like father, like son.”
Thornhill’s face turned stony. Then it brightened.
“Isn’t it marvelous how things always work out in the end?” he reflected, “Why, it’s practically providential! You clearly didn’t learn your lesson then, so here you are again: under my thumb, where you belong. It would seem the fates want you in my power. The gallant captain, protecting the world from vermin like you.”
Blake’s head shot up. His eyes screamed with pain.
“Is that how you remember it?” he hissed, “The gallant captain, protecting the world from a defenseless boy who only wanted to save his brother?”
If he was trying to provoke some remorse out of Thornhill, he failed miserably.
“Ah! You bring up an excellent point.” Thornhill spoke briskly, flicking up a trimmed finger. As if they were negotiating a business deal. “And I think you’ll find it the most uncanny similarity of all…but you can be the judge.”
He looked at Blake, his eyes agleam. Blake’s sanity rapidly slipped away. He couldn’t stand to be looked at by the monster! But he couldn’t stop Thornhill from scrutinizing him, head to filthy toes. He was shackled hand and foot. Trapped. Subdued. Helpless. Thornhill could do anything to him. Whatever he wanted.
“Twenty years ago, you begged me to spare your brother. How’s he doing, by the way?”
Thornhill laughed at Blake’s expression.
“Don’t look at me like that! I know he was let off. It all turned out all right in the end.”
Blake let out a strangled cry and lunged at his tormentor, but his manacles held him fast. Thornhill glanced nervously at the door, as did Blake. No Admiral Ashby was coming to check on him today. Nobody in this heartless world cared about what happened to Blake Percimillus Ransom. Except perhaps a royal brat in distress, locked inside Thornhill’s cabin. What was happening to the boy at that very moment?
“Good to know those chains hold up,” Thornhill murmured, “Wouldn’t want vermin running around loose, would we?”
But Blake stared in horror at Thornhill, hardly comprehending what he said. He couldn’t leave Eselder in the hands of this demon! Like he knew what Blake was thinking, Thornhill’s tone turned brisk again.
“So! The young prince. Mr. Kurzon tells me that you two struck up quite a rapport these past couple months. So here’s my question for you. What would you do to save him?”
All the fire drained from Blake’s body. Thornhill looked Blake maliciously over and chuckled, “Don’t worry; this time you can keep your breeches!”
Blake’s face flamed with diabolical rage. Then, slow
ly, it sagged until all the defiance there faded. A haunted shadow gradually dulled his eyes. Then they went dead. Blake hunched over, his head between his knees, like a man utterly defeated. Thornhill didn’t press him to reply. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy watching him as Blake ran through his options and realized he had none.
“Surely, you don’t want to see the lad dance with Jim Twining?”
Blake didn’t move a muscle. He whispered to the deck, “Go to hell.”
Thornhill burst out laughing. “I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you! But that’s where I’ll be sending you soon enough!”
“You’ll be sending me?”
Blake’s head jerked up. He looked straight at Thornhill, his eyes bloodshot and wild, and roared, “You sent me to hell twenty-five years ago!”
Thornhill stepped back, glancing over his shoulder. Blake’s voice dropped to a truly frightening whisper.
“And you’ll pay someday. That’s right, Charles Thornhill. Every day, every hour, we’re being watched by unseen witnesses, and they see everything…even what’s done under cover of darkness and silenced by fear. If I pay for my crimes in this life…well, I’ve been to the Sunken Slaughterhouse, and I’ve come out. I know I’m the lucky one. But you.”
Thornhill actually flinched.
“You won’t escape. You belong in the slaughterhouse. Because you’re a demon. You butchered my body and soul that night, and if you die at sea, Keel Cutlass will come for you and do to you what you did to me!”
Thornhill looked nervous, even frightened. He opened his mouth, but Blake shouted over him.
“Someone else was in that storeroom, someone you couldn’t see! Your dear father was there, watching you send me to hell, and it’s only thanks to him I got back out!”
Thornhill’s fist shot up to strike him, but seeing the pirate’s feral eyes and bared teeth, he seemed to lose his nerve. His face white with fury, he settled for bending low over his prisoner, just out of reach.
“Your father killed my father!” he hissed, “He’d be proud of me! I avenged him! I followed in his footsteps; I’m a captain of the Royal Navy! My job is to stamp out vermin like you! Now I’m going to see to it that his murderer’s son gets the due reward for his crimes—”
Blake barked hilariously, his spit splattering Thornhill’s hammy cheeks. “You self-deluded son of a bitch, you’re nothing like your father! He never would have done what you did to an innocent boy! And don’t think for a second that he’s proud of you! He’s not. In fact, he sent me to you with a warning. Would you like to hear it?”
Thornhill raised his chin defiantly. His nostrils flared. He refused to answer.
“You’re on your way to the slaughterhouse, Thornhill,” Blake sneered, “I’d change my ways if I was you!”
“How d-dare y-you…p-pirate s-spawn…tell m-me t-to…”
Thornhill swallowed hard.
“I think we’re getting off the subject,” he remarked, but his voice shook. “What I want to know is what you’ll do to save the boy—”
“You think I’m falling for that again?” Blake interrupted him contemptuously, “You’re not dealing with a frightened little boy anymore, Thornhill. I’ve grown up. You shaped me into the man I am today. Aren’t you proud of your handiwork? Aren’t you glad you ensured Elioth had its fair share of vermin running around? Aren’t you pleased with how you dealt with that naked ten-year-old threat on Moanamiri? Aren’t you satisfied with your—”
Thornhill stormed out of the cell, slamming the door shut. Metal scraped metal as he fumbled madly with the keys while Blake jeered at him. He finally succeeded in turning the lock and stumbled for the hatchway, and Blake Ransom’s wild laughter followed him all the way up the stairs.
As soon as Thornhill was out of earshot, Blake stopped laughing. He slumped back, exhausted. For a while, he just breathed.
He ought to treasure each breath he took, seeing as he likely didn’t have many to spare. Charles Thornhill, Jr. wasn’t the most imaginative blighter, and this pirate’s spawn could well guess the fate he had in mind for Blake Percimillus Ransom. Yet surprisingly, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Blake was at peace. Ready to keel over from pain and exhaustion, aye…but at peace.
The feeling was wonderful…like breathing fresh air after years spent in silent suffocation.
As Blake rested his head gingerly against the hull, he recalled his father’s tale from long ago…one of those silly legends Jaimes had scorned so much. The one about the Lady in Blue and her sworn enemy, Keel Cutlass. Once, the Lady in Blue had battled the Demon of the Sea and won. Now Blake had done the same. Like mother, like son.
Blake closed his eyes and smiled wearily.
Like mother, like son.
King George the Sixth kicked the bucket not a month after they arrived at Kingston Court.
There was a big hubbub, with lots of curly-wigged lords yelling at each other. Then they went and crowned Jaimes king in a huge ceremony, with crowds of people in a lavish throne room draped in red and gold, and Jaimes sitting on a throne at the head of the room, positively swimming in precious stones, velvet, and ermine. And Blake couldn’t deny that Jaimes looked like a King. His spectacles were off, his countenance calm and lordly, and the gold threads on his elaborate waistcoat glinted in the noonday light. Blake finally understood why their father had acted so maliciously toward his eldest son. He’d been jealous, and now Blake was jealous too, jealous that he wasn’t in Jaimes’s place. The worst part was when the Head of Parliament placed a magnificent golden crown on Jaimes’s head, and everyone in the room bowed. Then Blake remembered the Sea Captain’s prophecy, and he would have refused to get down on his knees, except that two of the lords had foreseen this and shoved him down. He’d make them pay for that someday.
After the ceremony was over, King Jaimes held a private meeting with Master Simmons and his lovely daughter. The pair had journeyed from Yaletown expressly to attend the coronation. Blake detected a subtle smugness in Jaimes’s manner as he accepted Master Simmon’s well wishes and thanked him for all his kindness. All the while, the new King’s deportment clearly told the shopkeeper that he did not intend to continue their acquaintance, and that they were not to expect anything more from him. Except to cordially acknowledge her curtsy, he entirely ignored Miss Simmons, which was a slap in the face, for even Blake could see that the young lady had invested much attention in her coiffure and wardrobe (and with great success). And he felt sorry for them both: for one thing, because his brother was a traitorous asshole; and also because Master Simmons had given him drinking chocolate last year as a Candelwedde present.
After Master Simmons and his daughter left, members of Parliament congregated about Jaimes like drones around their queen, congratulating him on his coronation and smooth severing of ties with his old master. Blake grew more and more disgusted with the lot of them, especially Jaimes, and nobody was paying him any attention, so he decided to slip into one of the adjoining rooms. As he practiced his father’s trade, he cheered himself up by fantasizing about his own coronation after he found the Black King’s Crown. Meanwhile, the conversation from the throne room drifted through the open door, but Blake didn’t really listen until one of them suggested gravely, “It would be wise, Your Majesty, if the public did not see much of the boy for awhile.”
Blake blinked, and realized that he was “the boy.” He tiptoed to the door.
“They’ll ask questions, rumors will start…which will raise questions about your lineage and give…some…the opportunity to plant seeds of doubt in your subjects’ minds regarding the legitimacy of your claim to the throne. At best, it would undermine your authority, and at this precarious time, the start of your reign, that would be most unfortunate.”
Blake didn’t know half of those big words, but he understood the heart of the matter: He was bad luck. Why? Because he looked so much like their father? He couldn’t help it if he didn’t take after the ugly side of their family. Unl
ess…there was something Jaimes wasn’t telling him...
“What do you advise me to do, Lord Crickton?”
Blake’s jaw dropped. Jaimes was actually going to listen to them, and do whatever they said! Traitorous, four-eyed arse! He grabbed a porcelain vase and was about to hurl it when Lord Crickton replied, “Send the boy away.”
Blake froze. His heart leapt. Aye, send him away! To the sea, to the sea!
“With respect, Lord Crickton,” said Jaimes hesitantly, “My mother charged me to look after the boy. I…I’d prefer him to remain at Court for now.”
Blake’s brows lifted sky-high. Really, Jaimes? He was ‘the boy’ now? He thought for a moment. Then he threw the vase and sauntered back into the throne room. Everyone was looking in the direction of the shatter. Bobbing up and down, Blake pleasantly remarked, “Something broke in there. It’s all in pieces.”
Lord Crickton glanced at Jaimes as if driving the point home. Jaimes flushed until he was the color of his royal robes. He stared at Blake like he wished he would vanish into thin air.
After that public appearance, Blake was hidden away behind Kingston Court’s brick walls. For weeks, he only saw Jaimes in passing. His brother was too far busy playing King to pay attention to his troublesome sibling. And on the rare occasions that they were obliged to cross paths, Blake saw only bitter disappointment looking at him from behind Jaimes’s round spectacles. Like he was an embarrassment to have around. Like he had let Jaimes down.
“I hate it here!” Blake shouted, stalking back and forth in the King’s study, “I want to go back to Yaletown! Let me leave!”
“No,” said Jaimes, his hands entwined on his desk.
“Let me leave, or you’ll be sorry!” roared Blake, his cheeks tomato-red.
“No,” replied Jaimes, cool as ice. That was all he said. He didn’t have to state his reasons; he was the King. But Blake could guess them anyway. He knew Jaimes too well; he read it in his eyes. If he couldn’t even control his brother, how could he maintain authority over a kingdom? It was a battle of wills, and Jaimes wasn’t going to back down until Blake begged for mercy, perhaps on his knees. Well, Blake had begged. He’d begged in Yaletown, and he wouldn’t beg anything from His Majesty ever again.