by Adam Carter
“The glittering lure can corrupt even the noblest soul. I fear when Sir Phileas learnt just how much gold was being stored by the church, he could not help himself. It was as though the Serpent itself was whispering into his ear.”
“Why’d the church have so much gold anyway? I thought you distributed wealth to the poor.”
“My dear, whatever gave you that impression?”
“So he stole your gold and now you’re chasing him halfway across the world?”
Peterson nodded. “Sir Phileas had a fast ship waiting, and has since transferred to the Red Scorpion. The king’s men would travel no farther than England’s borders, although Sir Phileas is not foolish enough to commit such a grave error.”
“If he’s changed ships once, what makes you think he’s even still on board the Red Scorpion?”
“Because my eyeglass tells me that he is there, and because he mocks me with obscene signals each time our two glasses meet across the waves. The gold may not be there any longer, it is true, but it is certain the man is, and should I find the man, he shall lead me to the gold.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I shall turn him over to some monks to ferment the man into beer.”
Tarne blinked. “You wouldn’t?”
“I would.”
“And then what? Offer the entire keg as libation?”
“You have a ready wit, my dear.”
“Father Peterson,” a deep, resonating voice said, and Tarne barely managed to control her involuntary shudder of sudden fright. The voice was both terrifying and masterfully sexy, and she supposed that such an explanation also suited the man to whom the voice belonged. Mbana, first mate to the Sharpoon, was a solitary man who seldom spoke, but when he did speak, all listened. He did not acknowledge Tarne’s presence, however, as he spoke with the preacher, and Tarne found herself angrier than she perhaps should have been about it. “Captain Shawe wishes to speak with you again, Father,” he continued almost without pause. “He believes if we sail through the straits, we’ll be able to catch the Red Scorpion more quickly.”
“Is the man insane?” Peterson grumbled. “This time he goes too far.”
“He’s in his cabin, Father,” Mbana said simply, caring neither way.
“Then I shall speak with him.” Peterson turned and performed a modest bow towards his companion. “I shall return speedily, my dear. It seems I must make an attempt to reunite a man with his sanity.”
Tarne realised that within moments she would be left alone, which would make it easier for Kiel to tackle her. With Peterson leaving, her only chance at retaining a bodyguard was with Mbana.
She acted quickly. “Mbana, perhaps there’s something I might do to be of use?”
Mbana shrugged. “There are floors to be cleaned. There are always floors to be cleaned.”
He turned to go, although Tarne caught his arm. “Wait!” Then she realised from his expression of faint amusement that perhaps this was an odd thing for a slave to have done. She did not release her hold, however. “I, uh, was wondering whether I might be able to come with you? That is, whether you needed any assistance in doing whatever it is you’re about to be doing?”
“I have my duties,” he told her, “and have no time for such things.” The humour upon his face, however, remained.
Tarne quickly released her hold. “That wasn’t entirely what I was implying.”
Mbana frowned, wondering about this strange woman, and said, “You’re afraid of someone, girl. I see it in your eyes. Has someone aboard this vessel made threats against you?”
“Not sure about that. I haven’t seen her around yet, but I know she’ll find a way on board sooner or later.”
“You suspect we have a stowaway?”
Tarne saw her opportunity to have Kiel branded an enemy to them all, and seized it. “Her name is Sara Kiel. Back before I was taken by your crew, she vowed to kill me. I don’t know why, but she has it in for me. She killed two friends of mine and has been after me ever since.”
“You were hiding in that village, then?” Mbana asked calmly. “No wonder you were not like the others we took that day.”
“That’s right,” she said, feeling instantly terrible for lying to someone so perfect. “I don’t know why she wants me dead, I swear I don’t, but she’s coming for me. And she’ll find her way aboard.”
“It would be very difficult for someone to sneak on board now we’re at sea.”
“But not impossible for someone as wily as Kiel. I mean, I’m sure she’s a professional assassin or something.”
This caused a flash of true concern to flit across the features of the first mate. “I’ll arrange a ship-wide search,” he promised. “In the meantime you are not to leave my side, Heather Tarne.”
“That won’t be a problem, Mbana.” She paused. “You know my name?”
“And you know mine, it seems.” He smiled.
Tarne shook her head fiercely. She could not be getting into something like this now. “I’m sorry. In fear of my life and everything?”
“Of course. But by my side, you shall never come to harm.”
That Tarne did not doubt for a moment.
*
The Sharpoon had been searched and there was no sign of Kiel, although Mbana had instructed his people to keep a careful watch for approaching boats. Tarne knew, however, that Kiel would not arrive through conventional means but would simply appear somewhere below-decks, possibly in the same place in which Tarne had herself emerged. She could conceive of no logical way by which she could make Mbana understand this, so had opted not to inform him.
Tarne could see there was some activity on deck, however, and enquired of Mbana as to its cause.
“The Scorpion’s slowed,” he informed her with a small smile tugging at his usually placid features. “There’s a chance it’s been attacked and is taking on water.”
“It could well be a trick, Mbana.”
“And I’m certain we could have reasoned that ourselves.”
“Sorry,” Tarne mumbled.
Mbana laughed. “It’s good that you have a canny head upon your shoulders, Heather Tarne.”
“Are we going to try to catch up to them tonight?”
“I believe that’s the captain’s intention.”
“In the dark?” she asked fearfully.
“Darkness usually comes with the night, yes.”
Mbana was forced to tend to his duties following this, although Tarne did not allow for him to stray too far from her side. She helped in whatever she was able, although sensed she was in the way more often than not. Mbana, however, did not once chide her for anything.
Before long, there were shouts from several of the sailors, and Tarne asked Mbana what was happening. He replied simply that they were drawing closer to the Red Scorpion, and somehow, from his tone, Tarne could sense this was a truly worrying thing for him.
“It’s too quick,” he told her when she enquired further about it. “They’ve tried to flee and failed, so they’ve turned to fight. But I didn’t expect them to fight so soon; we should have had another hour or two of the chase yet. It would benefit Mayhew to face us during the daylight hours, and so long as they keep wind to their sails they should be able to draw out the chase for that long. But instead they’ve chosen to stand their ground, so to speak, and this worries me.”
“Perhaps their ship is more damaged than we realise,” Tarne suggested.
“They’ve taken damage in some measures,” Mbana agreed, “although even through the darkness we can see the Scorpion is not damaged so badly as that. They don’t appear to be taking on water, although their sails seem to have been torn and one of their masts is splintered. They still possess sufficient strength to evade us for a while, however, which only leads me to suspect that they want us to fight them.”
“Could they have wounded their own vessel?”
“Possibly. And it’s worrying that we are both thinking such thoughts, Heather Tarn
e.”
Captain Shawe was on deck by this time, for the Red Scorpion was at last in range of their cannon. The Scorpion presented her side to the Sharpoon, revealing tight rows of forty-pounders, and Captain Shawe barked orders for his slaves below-decks to be priming his own cannon array. The Scorpion fired first, and Tarne had never heard such a terrible thunder of death. The entire side of the Scorpion exploded as every cannon was fired at once. Great clouds of billowing black smoke erupted from the enemy vessel and flashes of momentary fire illuminated the skies to make them seem as daylight. Tarne had never before heard a gunshot, and to be confronted by an entire ship-worth of cannon exploding only a short distance from her was enough to send her hands to her ears and very nearly deafen her entirely.
The balls slammed into the side of the Sharpoon with the ferocity of a starving lion tearing at the throat of a jackal attempting to steal its first meal in a long time. The deck shifted beneath her and Tarne almost fell over the side. Balls gouged great chunks out of the decking and side of the Sharpoon, and she was only thankful that many of the mighty cannonballs splashed uselessly in the black waters, sending great gouts of spume spraying into the air.
Captain Shawe seemed not even to notice the damage done to his vessel and barked orders for his own array to fire, and Tarne watched as the Sharpoon responded to its foe’s initial volley.
Having allowed the Scorpion to fire first, the advantage lay with the Sharpoon, for the two vessels were closer now, so more of the balls struck the Scorpion than had hit the Sharpoon. Tarne watched in sheer horror as men fell about screaming, collapsing through the destroyed wood to topple either over the edge or into the ship’s destroyed and fiery interior. One of the balls struck an unlucky man directly through the knee, and he mercilessly survived, staggering blindly as he attempted to regain his footing with a leg he no longer possessed.
Shawe cried in triumph as the smoke began to clear and he could see the enemy’s mainmast had been torn down entirely. He drew his sword and bade his pirates to charge.
“That was too convenient,” Tarne told Mbana.
“Granted,” he replied, “but we follow the captain’s commands. Stay here, Heather Tarne. It shall be safer for you.”
“Give me a knife and I’ll fight for you,” she said determinedly.
“You know how to fight?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“I do not believe I am,” Mbana said, handing over the knife she had requested, and together the two of them joined the mad rush of sailors who had thrown ropes across to the Scorpion. The sailors made their way quickly to the enemy vessel, hacking down any opposition before them, and Tarne found herself upon the enemy deck without even realising she had begun to cross. She looked about herself quickly, gauging the lay of the land, and saw carnage everywhere. The wood beneath her feet was slick with human blood diluted through the efforts of the onrushing seawater, the wood rising in many irregular positions where the great cannonballs had torn. The pirates of the Sharpoon cut their way through their victims, slicing through their purse-strings without even making certain first that their former owners were yet dead. Tarne saw one man convulsing upon the deck, clutching at a wrist which had at one time been attached to a hand; she saw another trying to hold his guts inside his body; another whose right eye had been gouged out cruelly by a chance piece of flying debris, and who was still trying to fend off the advances of the thief who desired his earrings.
Disgusted and extremely disturbed, Tarne turned to search for Mbana, then hastened after him, knowing that at least beside him she would be safe beneath his protection. She knew then she had few worries concerning Sara Kiel, for the mariners of the Sharpoon would prove her end if they were able to catch her.
“This is it, Mbana.” Captain Shawe was laughing as he reached them. “This is what ah’ve chased this wreck haffway across the ocean for.”
“The treasure should be below decks, Captain,” Mbana informed him.
“Treasure’s mine, Mbana,” Shawe said defensively. “Ah’ll secure it, I’m gonna need ta make sure none a mah boys gets greedy wiv it.” He grinned a black-toothed grin. “Scoundrels and ruffians, the lot a ‘em.”
“What do you need me to do, Captain?”
“We can’t let Mayhew loose round here. He might have some strange ideas about stoppin’ us, eh?”
“Most likely, sir.”
“Then find ‘im, Mbana, and make certain he don’t have none a them ideas fer much longer.”
“Understood, Captain.”
Tarne shook her head as Captain Shawe charged off in search of his gold, and said to Mbana, “You do realise he has no intention of sharing anything with you?”
“He is the captain. I believe he’s a crafty and clever individual, and he has need of me yet.”
“How so?”
“He called our crew scoundrels and ruffians, and that they are. If the captain takes the gold on board the Sharpoon, he’ll never make it to shore. There shall be mutiny and he’ll be killed, for while he is a hardy fighter, he would not be able to fight everybody. I, however, am very large and very intimidating. With the two of us standing side by side, none shall be quick to oppose us; and by the time someone does, the Sharpoon should have made it back to land.”
“You’d better hope you’re right about the captain’s cleverness.”
“If I’m wrong, then at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I’ll not be venturing to Hell alone.”
Mbana and Tarne moved through the ship then, in search of Sir Phileas Mayhew, knowing he would pose their greatest threat to obtaining of the gold. As they moved through the decks, the fighting became less common, and any foes they saw were more preoccupied with escape (along with whatever treasure they could hold) or with trying to stay alive. For the most part did Mbana ignore them, although should any be foolish enough to attack him, he would tear into them with his rapier. Tarne felt bile rise in her throat at one point, and she winced at the sight of a falling man, his life’s fluid spraying upward in a dirty crimson arc into the night air.
“Feeling a little squeamish, Heather?” Mbana asked.
“Just not used to killing people in order to make my living, Mbana.”
“Do not fear; there is little more killing to be done.”
They continued across the deck until they came to a ruined doorframe, whose door had long since splintered and collapsed inward. Mbana leaped through the shattered portal, landing expertly down the three steps linking the door to the cabin beyond. Tarne followed a little more cautiously, although they were both greeted with the same sight. There was a man standing within the chamber. He was tall, distinguished, and wearing fine armour cast thin to his frame. He seemed extraordinarily worried when he caught sight of them and drew from his side a thick broadsword.
“I would advise you, sir, to take no further steps,” he informed Mbana carefully.
“Your advice is so noted,” Mbana said with a small smile of superiority. “Might you perchance be Sir Phileas Mayhew?”
The man’s eyes widened for but a moment, although it was a moment Tarne could identify. “And who might you be, sir?”
“A man with orders to fulfil,” Mbana said. “What’s in the box?”
Tarne had not even noticed a box, although as all eyes turned to it, she took it in also. It was a small chest of the finest workmanship, inlaid with diamonds and rubies and no doubt hiding a plush interior.
“Nothing,” Mayhew said nervously. “Prithee, sir, leave me the box.”
“If there is nothing contained within, what would be the point in leaving it to you?” Mbana asked tiredly.
“Maybe we should do as he says,” Tarne said nervously.
“What?” Mbana asked. “What do you mean by that?”
“Look, Mbana, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but suddenly I’m not convinced it’s as straightforward as we were led to believe. I just think perhaps we shouldn’t mess with things beyond our control
or understanding.”
“And what kind of talk is that?” Mbana asked heatedly.
“Judging by the worried, yet pleading expression upon the face of Sir Phileas,” Tarne said anxiously, “probably very sensible talk.”
“Sensible it is,” Mayhew said. “Please, sir, leave me the box.”
“Open it,” Mbana bade.
“But, sir ...”
“Open it!”
Mayhew realised he no longer had a choice and licked his lips nervously. “As you wish.”
Mayhew set the box upon the table and took hold of the lid with both hands. “Slowly,” Mbana cautioned, and Mayhew nodded. He flicked the catch and lifted the lid, dropping it fully open. A strange and glorious glow filled the cabin and Mbana took a curious step forward. “What’s in there?”
“A jewel,” Mayhew sighed. “I was trying to keep it from him.”
“From whom?”
“From me.” The voice had come from the doorway, and Mbana and Tarne spun about to find Father Darius Peterson standing before them, a pistol to each hand, a wide grin upon his face. “I wouldn’t,” he warned Mbana as the large first mate made a move for his cutlass. Mbana slowly let his hands drop back to his sides. “Now,” Peterson said, “isn’t this pleasant?” His smile vanished swiftly. “Hand over the box, if you please.”
“No,” Mayhew said defiantly, his voice cracking. He coughed roughly, then said, “No, Darius, you shall not have it.”
“This is what all this has been about?” Mbana asked of Peterson. “You had us chase the Scorpion for one jewel? Is there any treasure at all?”
“No,” Peterson said, “but by the time the good Captain Shawe discovers this, I shall be long gone.”
“You have a way off the ship, then?” Tarne asked.
He smiled. “Heather, I didn’t see you there.”
“Hi,” she waved.
“Uh, yes, hello. Anyway, the jewel, Mayhew.”
“Still no.”
Peterson sighed, then a tremendous explosion tore through the chamber. Mayhew collapsed backwards, clutching his shoulder, and Peterson discarded the spent gun, keeping the other firmly positioned upon Mbana and Tarne. Slowly, without word, Peterson carefully made his way about the cabin, keeping his eye ever upon Mbana even as the large man placed himself purposefully before Tarne. Peterson reached the table then and groped unseeing for the jewel. His fingers found the box, and he prised the gem free.