“All an act then?”
“Not an act,” Gravel frowned. “More a side of the lad.”
“Seen the other side have you?”
“Talk a lot with a fellow when you’re marooned aboard a broken ship.”
“That’s not what marooning is. You’re thinking of adrift,” Violet pointed out.
“Aye, thanking you kindly, lass. I surely was. Adrift and desperate for distraction. Man might confess all his secrets, if he has any to tell, that is.”
“Who confessed? You or the prim and proper gentleman?”
“Not much to tell about myself, truth. Grew up in a mine and got named after what we pulled out of it.”
“And the ensign?”
“Started talking in his sleep. Right embarrassing really, moaning his dockside sweetheart’s name and then waking up and realising he was stuck on a boat with me. Been having nightmares ever since.”
Violet bit back a laugh. Gravel grinned at her as he deftly played out the next hand.
“Don’t try too hard to hold back, lass, your face might crack.”
“Your face might crack.”
“Cracked long ago, I’m afraid. Think that’s why ma gave me up so young.”
Chapter 9
THE REARMOST MINDER never saw Sharpe. Never even heard him coming. By the time he was grabbed and with an arm wrapped around his windpipe it was too late to make noise. He did struggle, kicking the cobblestones, but no one came to help. Nel crept up on the second, taking him down just as quietly. The third one had a torch. They made sure to wait before trying for that one. A sudden change in the light could alert the whole group. Not what they wanted at all. Nel went through the pockets of her mark. Nothing useful, nothing like what she was looking for.
“Nel.” Sharpe’s voice, distinctive in the night. Hopefully only to her.
“Find something?”
“Pretty little bird caller.” Sharpe dropped in beside her, held up a collection of clay whistles strung together on a leather cord.
“You’re sure?”
“Aye, I’m sure, colour coded, these ones go for this up ahead there. They’re the ones we want.”
“Which one tells them to fall in and follow the piper?”
“This one, but breaks down to groups.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Want me to sound them out?”
“Hold the thought, Castor.”
A ghost of a smile on his face in the dark. Nel shook her head ruefully. That was the easy part done.
“You realise we don’t need the whistles to make these particular Draugr dance,” Sharpe said as they crept forward. “Not sure dancing is in their repertoire, but asking nicely might work better.”
“Whistles aren’t for them,” Nel said. “Whistles are for when it all goes wrong and we need a distraction.”
“Think that’s likely?”
“More than likely. Counting on it.”
“This plan of yours . . .” Sharpe mused. “Anyways, what comes next?”
“Fellow with the torch,” Nel pointed. “One of us grabs him, other grabs the torch. No shadow puppets. Not part of the plan.”
“I hear you. Prefer the torch or the man himself?”
“Been eyeing up the torch.”
“Colour me surprised. Fine, let’s make this quiet.”
“Quiet but not the forever kind of quiet,” Nel said, hand on his arm.
“Don’t like killing, Nel,” Sharpe grimaced. “Maybe you hadn’t noticed.”
Nel shrugged. Truth was, she hadn’t thought about it, at least as far as Sharpe was concerned.
Sharpe jumped the guard. He threw up his hands, letting the torch go. Nel grabbed it before it dropped too far, then turned to put a knee into the man’s side. He went down just like the other two; with muffled choking sounds. Sharpe dragged the body to the side of the street, propping them up against some steps. Nel kept pace with the Draugr procession, keeping the torch thrust in front of her. Anyone looking back should be blinded by the light, at least enough not to be able to identify her.
They were coming up behind Stoker’s group now. Last in line, just like Nel had been promised. That was gratifying. One of them turned around, one with enough facial muscles left in working order to look surprised. She heard Sharpe jogging up beside her, finger pressed to his lips. Their spotter turned back, kept marching. Didn’t so much as nudge his fellows.
Good man, don’t need no jabbering Draugr sailors ruining our surprise. Going to be tricky enough to slip away as it is.
“Pass me a whistle,” she told Sharpe.
“You want the two-note call,” he told her. “Fingers over the first and third hole, then just the second. Two pipes. Tells them to head home, should do an about-face when they hear it. Yours is the group up the front, if I’m reading the colours right. Tell my group to march double time, them at back ahead of us. Should be enough of a muddle.”
“They teach you those tunes growing up?” Nel asked. Her words caused Sharpe to pause for an oddly thoughtful gaze at the whistles he held.
“Suppose you could say that.”
“Useful skill.”
“Not hard to learn. Could teach you if you want.”
“Show me this is gonna work and we’ll get to that.”
“You can read notes?”
“I can read,” Nel scowled.
“I meant music.”
“Ah, then no. Learnt the bosun calls, though.”
“About the same,” Sharpe conceded. “But you have to learn it the hard way, no writing it down.”
You think I got time to look at papers on the deck? Nel bit back saying as much. Sharpe still made her wonder. The man was a collection of skills and bits and pieces of knowledge but there was some glaring gaps when you started looking at the whole. I’d wonder more except I know there ain’t no answers there.
“Going up front,” she told him. “You let Stoker know the plan and be ready to run. I blow then you blow, got it?”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” he winked at her.
Nel shook her head, wondering if she’d missed something. She hurried her pace, passing the Draugr. Clapped Stoker on the arm as she passed. He made eyes at her but didn’t so much as open his mouth.
Good man, Stoker, always did like him.
And that was it, she thought. She could see the Draugr ahead of her, groups of about twenty in each, squad-like. Another dozen guards or minders or handlers, however you thought of them. They must have been slowing because she caught the odd disgruntled look back their way. Pushed their luck as much as they dared. She set whistle to her lips and blew, just like Sharpe had said to.
She heard him do the same behind her, then the Draugr immediately in front of her broke into a brisk trot. Not quite a run but more than their minders were expecting. She heard shouts of alarms, throwing her own voice into the mix to add to the confusion. There was mayhem when she saw more bodies coming her way, the lead group sauntering back the way they’d come and no one seemed prepared to get out of the way. Nel dropped her torch and belted back down the cobblestones to Sharpe and Stoker.
“Aye, all right lads and ladies, follow the piper, this way, this way, mind your heads,” Sharpe called out, quiet but loud enough for Nel to hear. Her eyes were still half-blind from the torchlight but she found them, tucked into a side alley. Sharpe kept them moving. They’d targeted a dry goods and sundry store three streets over. There were no words exchanged until they’d put distance between them.
“Skipper,” Stoker said with what might have been a grin. There were teeth showing and lips pulled back. “Sight for sore eyes, you are.”
“What about me?” Sharpe asked.
“You’re a sight,” someone else said. Half the Draugr were speaking over one another.
“To make eyes sore.”
“Your eyes are sore?”
“Only when I check to see if thems still there.”
“What took you so long, Sharpe? We was wait
ing.”
“Didn’t expect to see you again,” Stoker said to Nel. “Heard the worst. Was sorry to hear it.”
“Not the worst,” Nel told him. “Just not much better. Keep moving, got to get you all dressed then find ourselves a ship.”
“What’s wrong with what we’re wearing?” someone asked. Hells, have to find out names soon as we get a chance.
“What’s wrong or what’s left?”
“She say find a ship? Sharpe, you lose the ship as well as lose us?”
Sharpe winced. Even in the dark Nel didn’t miss it.
“Don’t worry,” she told Stoker. “Got a new one all picked out for us.”
“You coming with?” he asked her.
“Planned to. That all right with you?”
“Pulled my frozen body out of the black, Skipper. Happy to have us both on the same ship any day.”
“She thought you were me,” Sharpe told the Draugr midshipman.
“Did ya?” Stoker asked.
“Thought no such thing,” Nel said. “Where’d you even hear that?”
“Careful, Sharpe, gonna get yourself locked up again,” the jeering came.
“Locked up.” Nel slowed to a stop. “Aw, hells!”
“What?” Sharpe stopped with her, looking around anxiously.
“Jack,” she said grimly. “Just figured it out.”
Figured out why Quill was so sure where he was and wasn’t going nowhere. Damnit.
Sharpe’s face was vacant for a moment, then caught up to her. “Go find them,” he said. “We’ll manage. Meet you at the docks.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go get your crew.”
Nel looked over at the rest of them. All staring at her. Her new crew, she realised. “Won’t be long,” she told them. “Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone.”
Sharpe cocked his head to the side. There was still yelling to be heard a few streets over. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
“YOU DID NOT waste much time. Finally you find quarters suitable to yourself.”
Korrigan Jack stirred from his cot, blinking up at the shadow-covered grate. His cell was below street level, that one grate letting him look out onto the foot traffic. Not that there was much at night. Refuse piled up against the back of the gaol, runoff trickled or gushed into the cell depending on the weather. He could make out the silhouette of a hunched figure against the night sky. Tapered head, legs that bent the wrong way, lashing tail. There was a clink when they moved, a sound familiar to Jack, that made the scars on his wrists ache. Chain. Coils of it looped over the shoulder.
“Kelpie.”
They both waited but neither seemed inclined to say anything further. Finally Jack relented.
“What’d you want?”
Quill peered down at him. “How did you manage to acquire accommodations such as these, Jack? One must almost admire your efficiency in the matter.”
“Stabbed someone. They screamed a lot. Ended up here.”
“This screamer, they offended you in some way?” Quill asked.
“No. Never met them before.”
“No? I assume they died then.”
“Probably did. Wouldn’t be such a fuss if they didn’t.”
Quill considered this, nodding thoughtfully. “Vaughn has found us a new job. We are going after the ones who attacked us. Shall I extract you from your predicament?”
“No.”
“No?” Quill echoed his surprise. “You wish to remain? Here?”
“Room’s fine. Got some rats under the bed. You should stop by again. For dinner.”
Quill scowled. “Perhaps you did not understand. We are going after the one who killed the cook. I thought that would be of interest to you.”
“Why?”
“Revenge.”
“Won’t bring Gabbi back,” Jack said. “No point.”
“You will remain here then? You will be sent to a prison, Jack. Perhaps a mining camp.”
“That’s the idea, Kelpie.”
“You wanted this?”
“I understand this,” Jack shrugged.
“I do not understand you, Jack.”
“Never liked you neither, Quill.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Still don’t like you.”
“We intend to steal a ship. It will require crew. Vaughn is greatly opposed to involving others. This is one of the few things I would consider you useful for.”
“You stole ships before, Kelpie.”
“A criminal exaggeration. It was but one time.”
Jack shrugged, going back to lay down on his cot. The bed creaked under his weight.
“I truly do not understand you, Jack.”
“You’re ugly.”
“What?”
“You’re ugly, Kelpie. That’s why I don’t like you none.”
There was a scraping sound from the street above. Quill stepped into sight again, dragging a barrel of fish. From the smell they were none too fresh. The Kelpie pushed the barrel in front of the cell grate.
“Goodbye, Jack. I will look you up after we are done. I look forward to it.”
“Oi, Kelpie!” Jack called out.
“What?” Quill’s voice carried back, full of suspicion.
“You’re still ugly. Just ’cause I can’t see you don’t change that.”
There was silence from outside. Then the sound of another barrel being dragged across the street.
Jack chuckled.
“THAT,” VIOLET PEERED down the length of the deck, “is a lot of big guns.”
Another day, another tour. Always there was a new part of the ship to see. Today it was Kaspar guiding her. She’d asked to see the gun deck. On a trader ship it would be the secondary cargo hold and also where most of the crew hung their hammocks. In fact there would be almost no guns to speak of, guns being less valuable than cargo in the trader scheme of things.
On the Fata Morgana it was a different story.
“Actually, for a ship this size, we’re considered under-gunned,” Kaspar told her, leaning his shoulder against a post running from floor to ceiling. “We should have two to three times as many cannon, but all the ship mounts is thaumatics.”
“How many are there?” Violet asked. These were the same guns they’d been killing rays with. Raines said it was due to the fluids in the ship’s pipes. The fluids that were actually gases, mist. The way they moved, the dynamics he said, of what happened inside the pipes was similar to the mating call the rays put out. Not something audible to her ears but the rays could hear it from leagues around. And it was getting them killed.
And not just rays.
“Twenty a broadside,” Kaspar said. “A few mounted in the stern and a half-dozen large calibre lances in the forward battery.”
“Why no cannon?”
“Weight,” a sharp voice interrupted them. The pair of them jumped when Mors Coldstream emerged out of the shadows behind them. “Cannon weigh twice what their counterparts do and require shot and ammunition. This is a much more elegant solution.”
The half-breed looked them both over, fixing his eyes on Kaspar, who stood rigidly at attention.
“I don’t believe the girl should be here.”
“Apologies, sir,” Kaspar said stiffly, “but she has the captain’s permission to move around the ship while under escort.”
“And that freedom extends to the gun deck? Curious. Regardless, this deck is under my control and I don’t want her on it. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be going then.”
“A moment.” Mors’ hand flicked out and grabbed Kaspar by the shoulder. He drew one of his duelling wands with the other.
“You have some problem with thaumatic weaponry, Ensign?”
“No, sir.” Kaspar looked straight ahead.
“No?” Mors chuckled. “Come now, be honest with me, Ensign. What are the tactical advantages of cannon over a lance?”
“Range, power,” Kaspar
answered quickly, then winced.
“True.” Mors took a step to the side, tracing a pattern in the air with his wand. “A traditional cannon has a superior range and possesses more raw power than a lance. But what you fail to consider is the trade-off. A lance requires a single gunner, a cannon needs a small crew. A cannon requires reloading after each shot, a lance does not. A lance is a far more accurate, indeed, more elegant weapon.”
“The accuracy and efficiency of a weapon relies largely upon the skill of its user, sir,” Kaspar replied.
“Yes,” Mors grinned. “Oh yes, it does. I couldn’t agree more, Ensign. But we seem to be at something of an impasse, you and I. How shall we settle this?”
The duellist made another small circle with his wand, sharpened teeth bared eagerly. “There was an attempt, many years ago, before wands and thaumatic diversions became common, to develop hand cannons for soldiers. Single-shot, and then little more than a club. You can see why a thaumatic approach was more favourable. A core premise of this ship is the minimal effect a broadside of cannon would have on it. I look forward to the day when we test the theory.”
“I have every confidence in the ship and its crew, sir,” Kaspar told him.
“Unfortunately, the feeling is not mutual. You are aboard this ship because of the role you played in her development. I have yet to see evidence you deserve that placement. I wish you to prove me wrong.”
Mors held up his wand, the weapon spinning lazily between his long fingers.
“Kaspar, let’s go,” Violet tugged on his arm.
Kaspar took a deep breath, standing his ground. “With respect, sir, the captain has banned duelling aboard the ship.”
“Not on my deck, Ensign. Not here. And as you can see, the captain is not here.”
The muscles in Kaspar’s jaw bunched. “Sir . . .”
“Let me make it clearer for you, Ensign.” Mors strode to a small metallic locker mounted near the door. He unlocked it with a set of keys from inside his jerkin. He retrieved a wand and threw it in Kaspar’s direction. Kaspar caught it one-handed.
“You are not leaving until we settle our disagreement. Are you refusing an order from a superior officer to do so?” Mors struck a pose, wand levelled at the ensign.
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