'Watch your words! We don't take kindly to people who walk in here accusing us of smuggling and the like.'
Halt shrugged, unimpressed. 'I didn't say anything about "the like",' he rejoined. 'I simply said I'm not worried by the fact that you're a smuggler. I just want some information, that's all. Tell me what I want to know and I'll bother you no further.'
O'Malley had leaned forward over the table to issue the warning to Halt. Now he sat back angrily.
'If I wouldn't tell the boy,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the silent figure by the doorway, 'what makes you think I'll tell his grandfather?'
Halt raised an eyebrow at that. 'Oh, that's a little harsh. Uncle might be closer to the truth, I think.' But now the smuggler had decided enough was enough.
'Get out,' O'Malley ordered flatly. 'I'm done with you.'
Halt shook his head, and those dark eyes bored into O'Malley's.
'Maybe,' he said. 'But I'm not done with you.'
There was a threat and a challenge implicit in the words. And they were delivered in a tone of thinly veiled contempt. It was all too much for O'Malley.
'Nialls. Dennis. Throw this fool out into the street,' he said. 'And if his little friend by the door raises that bow an inch, cut his throat before you do it.'
His two henchman started round the table towards Halt, Nialls going to his right, Dennis to his left. Halt waited until they were almost upon him, then said one word.
'Horace . . .'
He was interested to see how the young warrior approached the problem. Horace began with a straight right to Dennis's jaw. It was a solid blow but not a knockout punch by any means. It was simply intended to give Horace a little room and time. Dennis staggered back and before Nialls could react, Horace had pivoted and hit him with a crushing left hook to the jaw. Niall's eyes glazed and his knees went slack. He dropped like a sack of potatoes and hit the floor, out cold.
But now Dennis was coming back, swinging a wild roundhouse right hand at Horace. The young man ducked under it, hammered two short lefts into the smuggler's ribs, then came up with a searing uppercut to the point of Dennis's jaw.
The uppercut had all the power of Horace's legs, upper body, shoulder and arm beneath it. It slammed into Dennis's jaw and sent an instant message flashing to his brain. The light went out behind Dennis's eyes like a candle in a hurricane. His feet actually lifted several centimetres off the floor under the force of that terrible blow. Then he too simply folded in place and crashed to the rough, sawdust-strewn boards.
The entire sequence took a little less than four seconds. O'Malley goggled in amazement as his two bodyguards were dispatched with such contemptuous ease – and by a young man he had dismissed as no threat. He began to rise. But an iron grip seized his collar, dragging him back down and across the table. At the same time, he felt something sharp – very sharp – against his throat.
'I said, I'm not done with you yet. So sit down.'
Halt's voice was low and very compelling. Even more compelling was the razor-sharp saxe knife that was now pressing a little too firmly against the smuggler's throat. O'Malley hadn't seen him unsheathe the weapon. It occurred to him that this greybeard must be capable of moving with alarming speed – just as his young companion had done.
O'Malley looked at those eyes, seeing in the foreground a blurred picture of the murderous steel that rested against his throat.
'Now I'll let the grandfather remark pass,' Halt said. 'And I won't even take offence at the fact that you just tried to have your bully boys assault me. But I will ask you one question and I will ask it once. If you don't answer me, I will kill you. Right here. Right now. Will!' he called in an abrupt aside. 'If that big fellow by the sideboard takes another step towards me, put an arrow into him.'
'Already saw him, Halt,' Will replied. He raised the bow in the general direction Halt had mentioned. The heavily built seaman who had thought he was unobserved suddenly held up both hands. Like most of the others in the room, he had heard of the two arrows that shot between Nialls and Dennis the previous evening. Initially, he'd thought it might be worth his while to lend a hand to O'Malley. But it definitely wasn't worth getting himself shot.
Will gestured with the arrow and the man sank down onto a long bench. The gleaming arrowhead was enough to worry him. But of even greater concern was the fact that the bearded man hadn't seemed to glance in his direction once.
'Now,' said Halt, 'where were we again?'
O'Malley opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. This was new territory. He was used to setting the agenda, used to having others defer to him. He didn't deceive himself that he was liked by the other men who frequented the Heron. But he knew he was feared and that was even better. Or so he had thought. Now that the people in the crowded tavern could see someone who instilled more fear in them than he did, he was left totally powerless. Had he been liked, maybe someone would have interceded on his behalf. But without Nialls and Dennis, he knew he was on his own.
Halt studied him for a moment, understanding the thought process that was going on behind the other man's eyes. He saw the flicker of doubt and uncertainty and knew he had a winning position. Everything that Will had told him about his earlier confrontation with the smuggler had led him to believe that O'Malley was not a well-liked figure. Halt had been depending on that and now he saw that it was true.
'Some days ago, you transported a man called Tennyson and a group of his followers somewhere out of the country. Do you remember that?'
O'Malley gave no sign that he did. His eyes were locked on Halt's. Halt could see the barely suppressed fury there – fury fanned by O'Malley's helplessness in the current situation.
'I hope you do,' Halt continued, 'because your life may well depend on it. Now remember what I said. I'm going to ask this question once and once only. If you want to continue living, you will tell me what I want to know. Clear?'
Still there was no response from the smuggler. Halt took a deep breath, then continued.
'Where did you take Tennyson?'
There was an almost palpable silence as everyone in the room seemed to lean forward expectantly, waiting to see what O'Malley was going to say. The smuggler swallowed several times, the action causing the tip of the saxe knife to dig painfully into the soft flesh of his throat. Then, his mouth dry and his voice almost a croak, he replied.
'You can't kill me.'
Halt's left eyebrow shot up at that. A strange half smile twisted his mouth.
'Really?' he said. 'And why might that be?'
'Because if you kill me, you'll never find out what you want to know,' O'Malley told him.
Halt gave vent to a brief snort of laughter. 'You can't be serious.'
O'Malley's forehead creased in a frown. He'd played his only card and the stranger was treating it with contempt. He was bluffing, O'Malley decided, and his confidence, at its lowest ebb, started to grow once more.
'Don't try to bluff,' he said. 'You want to know where this Tennyson fellow went. And you want to know badly, else you'd never have come back here tonight. So take that knife from my throat and I'll consider telling you. Although it'll cost you.' He added the last four words as an afterthought. He had the whip hand, he thought, and he might as well use it.
Halt said nothing for a second or two. Then he leaned across the table. The knife point stayed where it was against O'Malley's throat.
'I want you to do something for me, O'Malley. Look into my eyes and tell me if you can see any sign there that I'm incapable of killing you.'
O'Malley did as he was told. He had to admit the eyes were a chilling sight to behold. There was no sign of pity or weakness there. This man would be capable of killing him in an instant, he knew.
Except for the fact that Halt needed him alive. And that made his victory even sweeter. This grey-bearded wretch would kill him in an instant. He probably wanted to kill him right now. But he couldn't.
O'Malley couldn't help a smile forming on his face as
he thought about it.
'Sure, I'm convinced you would,' he said, almost breezily. 'But you can't, can you?'
It'd never do to gamble with this one, he thought. His eyes showed no sign of the frustration and uncertainty he must be feeling now that O'Malley had called his bluff.
'Let's just review this, shall we?' Halt said softly. 'You say I can't kill you because then I'll never find out what you know. But at the same time, you've told Will over there that you won't divulge that information . . .'
'Ah, well now, that may be open to negotiation,' O'Malley began but Halt cut him off.
'So if I kill you, I'm not losing anything, am I? But it will be some compensation for the trouble you've caused. On the whole, I think I rather want to kill you. You're an annoying person, O'Malley. In fact, now I think about it, I'm glad you don't want to tell me because then I would feel duty bound to spare your miserable life.'
'Now look here . . .' The returning confidence O'Malley had felt had gone again. He'd pushed this man too far, he realised. But now the tip of the heavy knife left his throat and pointed at the tip of his nose.
'No! You listen to me!' Halt said. He spoke quietly but his voice cut like a whip. 'Look around this room and tell me if there's anyone here who owes you any sense of loyalty or friendship. Is there anyone here who might protest for one second if I simply cut your throat?'
In spite of himself, O'Malley's eyes wandered quickly to the watchful faces. He saw no sign of help there.
'Now answer me this: once you're dead, are you sure there's not somebody in this room who might know where you took Tennyson, and who might be willing to share that knowledge?'
And that was the point where O'Malley knew he'd lost. There certainly were people in the room who knew where he had taken the white-robed man. At the time, it had been no big secret. And if he, O'Malley, wasn't around to ensure their silence, they'd fall over themselves telling this grim-faced tormentor what he wanted to know.
'Craiskill River,' he said, almost in a whisper.
The knife wavered. 'What?' Halt asked him.
O'Malley's shoulders slumped and he lowered his gaze. 'Craiskill River. It's in Picta, below the Mull of Linkeith. It's one of our rendezvous points where we deliver cargo.'
Halt frowned, disbelieving him for a moment. 'Why the devil would Tennyson want to go to Picta?'
O'Malley shrugged. 'He didn't want to go there. He wanted to get away from here. That's where I was going, so that's where I took him.'
Halt was nodding slowly to himself.
'I could take you there,' O'Malley suggested hopefully.
Halt laughed contemptuously. 'Oh, I'm sure you could! My friend, I trust you about as far as Horace could kick you – and I'm tempted to find out how far that is. Now get out of my sight.'
He released his grip on the other man's collar and shoved him back. Off balance, O'Malley tried to regain his feet, then Halt stopped him.
'No. One more thing. Empty your purse on the table.'
'My purse?'
Halt said nothing but his eyebrows came together in a dark line. O'Malley noticed that the saxe knife was still in his right hand. He hurried to unfasten his purse and spill its contents onto the table top. Halt poked through the coins with a forefinger, and selected a gold piece. He held it up.
'This yours, Will?'
'Looks like it, Halt,' Will called cheerfully. After having been humiliated by O'Malley, he'd enjoyed this evening's confrontation.
'Take better care of it next time,' Halt told him. Then he turned back to O'Malley, his face set, his eyes dark and threatening. 'As for you, get the hell out of here.'
O'Malley, finally released, rose to his feet. He looked around the room, saw nothing but contempt in the faces watching him. Then he did as he was told.
Six
'Your friend isn't looking too happy.'
The ship's captain nudged Will with his elbow and gestured with a smirk at the figure huddled in the bow of the Sparrow, leaning against the bulwark, the cowl of his cloak drawn up over his head.
It was a raw, overcast day, with the wind gusting at them out of the south-east, and a choppy, unpredictable swell surging in from the north. The wind blew the tops off the waves and hurled them back at the ship as it plunged into the troughs, smashing its bow down into the racing grey sea.
'He'll be fine,' Will said. But the shipmaster seemed to be uncommonly amused by the thought of someone suffering from seasickness. Perhaps, Will thought, it gave him a sense of superiority.
'Never fails,' the skipper continued cheerfully. 'These strong, silent types on land always turn into green-faced cry-babies once they feel a ship move an inch or two under their feet.'
In fact, the Sparrow was moving considerably more than that. She was plunging, lurching and rolling against the opposing forces of wind and wave.
'Are those rocks a problem?' Horace asked, pointing to where a line of rocks protruded from the sea as each line of rollers passed over them, seething with foam. They were several hundred metres away on the port side of the ship, and the wind was taking the ship down diagonally towards the rocks.
The skipper regarded the line of rocks as they disappeared then reappeared in time to the movement of the waves.
'That's Palisade Reef,' he told them. He squinted a little, measuring distances and angles in his mind, making sure the situation hadn't changed since the last time he'd checked – which had been only a few minutes previously.
'We seem to be getting a little close to it,' Horace said. 'I've heard that's not a good idea.'
'We'll come close, but we'll weather it all right,' the captain replied. 'Land people like you always get a little edgy at the sight of Palisade Reef.'
'I'm not edgy,' Horace told him. But the stiff tone of his voice belied his words. 'I just wanted to make sure you know what you're doing.'
'Well now, my boy, that's why we've got the oars out, you see. The sail is powering us, but the force of the wind is sending us down onto the reef. With the oars out, we're dragging her upwind enough so that we'll reach the back-lift with plenty of room to spare.'
'The backlift?' Will asked. 'What might that be?'
'See how the reef line runs in to the edge of the Mull?' the captain told him, pointing. Will nodded. He could see the line of troubled water that marked the reef. It did run into the foot of the large headland to the north-west – the Mull of Linkeith.
'And see how the wind is coming from over my shoulder here, and setting us down towards the reef itself?'
Again, Will nodded.
'Well, the oars will keep us far enough to the east to avoid the reef. Then, as we get closer to the Mull, the wind will hit it and be deflected back at us – that's the backlift. In effect, it'll reverse, and we'll go about so it's actually blowing us clear of the reef. Then we've got a simple run for a few kilometres down the bay to the river mouth. We'll have to row that, because the backlift will only last for a few hundred metres – enough to get us clear of the reef.'
'Interesting,' Will said thoughtfully, studying the situation, and assessing distances and angles for himself. Now that it had been pointed out, he could see that the Sparrow would pass clear of the end of the reef as they ran in under the Mull. The captain might be lacking in sensitivity, but he seemed to know his business.
'Maybe I should go for'ard and point out the reef to your friend,' the captain said, grinning. 'That should be good for a laugh. I'll wager he hasn't noticed it yet.' He laughed at his own wit. 'I'll look worried, like this, shall I?'
He assumed a mock-worried look, puckering his brows and pretending to chew his fingernails. Will regarded him coldly.
'You could do that,' he agreed. Then he added, 'Tell me, is your first mate a good seaman?'
'Well, of course he is! I wouldn't have him with me, else,' the captain replied. 'Why do you ask?'
'We may need him to handle the ship when Halt throws you overboard,' Will replied mildly. The captain started to laugh, then sa
w the look on Will's face and stopped uncertainly.
'Halt becomes very bad-tempered when he's seasick,' Will told him. 'Particularly when people try to make sport of him.'
'Especially when people try to make sport of him,' Horace added.
The captain suddenly didn't look so sure of himself. 'I was only joking.'
Will shook his head. 'So was that Skandian who laughed at him.' He glanced at Horace. 'Remember what Halt did to him?'
Horace nodded seriously. 'It wasn't pretty.'
The captain looked from one to the other now. He'd had dealings with Skandians over the years. Most seafarers had. And he'd never met anyone who'd bested one.
'What did he do? Your friend, I mean?' he asked.
'He puked into his helmet,' Will said.
'Extensively,' Horace added.
The captain's jaw dropped as he tried to picture the scene. Will and Horace didn't bother to explain that Halt was wearing the borrowed helmet at the time, nor that he was under the protection of the massive Erak, future Oberjarl of the Skandians. So the captain assumed that the smallish, grey-bearded man in the bows had ripped the helmet off a giant Skandian's head and thrown up into it – an action that would normally be tantamount to suicide.
'And the Skandian? What did he do?'
Will shrugged. 'He apologised. What else could he do?'
Halt's Peril Page 4