Lock winced. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be. Had it coming. Could have saved me the mother of all dryings if you’d taken the rest of it the same night. Come on, up top, may as well introduce you to folk. But no more gambling,” Nel pointed, “got enough headaches without my crew indebting themselves.”
They emerged into the bright sunlight, dawn breaking and the sky burning all kinds of red gold. It had been too long since Nel had seen a sunrise. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been on water to catch the light reflecting on one. And that was a shame.
Piper would have loved this one.
She saw Quill at the bridge, doing his best to ignore them. Jack and Sharpe waited for them.
“Who’s this?” Jack asked bluntly.
“Who’re you, old man?” Lock asked right back.
“I’m Sharpe,” Sharpe introduced himself before Jack could reply, extending his hand. “Castor Sharpe, former marine in the service of the Alliance.”
“And now?” Lock seemed reluctant in taking his hand.
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. What do you do now?”
“Ah. Well . . . ,” Sharpe looked at Nel. “Good question. What am I now, Skipper?”
“Cabin boy,” she deadpanned.
“Cabin boy?”
“Can you sail?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“You want to be Jack’s assistant?”
“Castor Sharpe, cabin boy,” Sharpe announced.
“Then who’s my assistant?” Jack asked. “Her?”
“No,” Lock said flatly.
“You smell funny,” Jack told her.
“That would be soap, Jack,” Nel told him.
“Soap,” Jack repeated. “Be in the galley. Tell my assistant.”
“You get used to him,” Sharpe said once Jack’s back was turned.
“Why would I want to?” Lock asked.
“Because I still haven’t decided what to do with you,” Nel said. “Unless you’ve a request?”
“Turning around and dropping me back at the docks not being one of them?”
“Wouldn’t be healthy or helpful for any of us. Unfortunately for you there’s not much but a few archipelagos between us and the edge. Which means you’re coming along for the trip.”
“Trip to where?”
“About to discuss that with Mister Quill,” Nel said. “Sharpe, take a tour around. Our new friend can go with you.”
Sharpe raised his brows at her. “Might be she knows her way around the ship better than any of us.”
“Good point, she ought to take you. What’d you do here, Lock? Don’t have the hands for a sailor.”
“What?” Lock looked down at her hands.
“No tattoos,” Nel said. “Not nearly enough callus and no scars that I can see.”
“Cargo,” the woman said. “I was a clerk. Am a clerk.”
“Ah, the rebellious life of a scribe,” Sharpe nodded. “I hear that will get you locked up.”
Lock gave him a quizzical look, perhaps trying to decide if he was being serious.
“Take a walk,” Nel said.
“Aye, Skipper, walking as ordered,” Sharpe said, steering Lock away.
“Your tendency towards homing strays is frustrating,” Quill told her when she joined him on the bridge. Stoker was with him, giving her a questioning look. “I always thought it was the captain’s peculiar madness.”
“Keep yourselves quiet,” Nel told him. “Quill’s opinion notwithstanding, we might end up offloading her at the first opportunity. No reason to send her off with tales of overly eloquent Draugr.”
“No danger of that, Skipper,” Stoker grinned. “No danger at all. I’ll pass the word. Quiet-like.”
“If that is your intention then why release her at all?” Quill demanded.
“Haven’t said what my intention is. And I let her out because it means less chance of her bearing ill will our way, that’s why.”
“You do not even know why she was locked up,” Quill said.
“I asked. Nothing that worries me.”
“And you believed her, of course.”
“Records will be in the log books, Quill. I’ll check if it worries you so much. And no matter what it is, I can’t see her causing trouble on a ship full of strangers in the middle of a crossing. Woman doesn’t strike me as stupid.”
“She is an unknown factor,” Quill said. “I suggest you get rid of her at the earliest opportunity.”
“Get rid of, Quill?”
“Put her ashore. Nothing more.”
“That’s always your argument. It change your mind if I let slip that Jack agrees with you?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t like her either. Says she smells funny.”
“Jack . . . she . . . smells?” the Kelpie’s eyes bulged.
“Soap, Quill.”
Quill frowned at her. “I have a course to plot,” he told her abruptly. “And I will require a summary of the ship’s provisions. I must know if we will require any stopovers to sustain our journey and its return.”
“Return trip,” Stoker winked. “Sounds hopeful.”
“That’s what I keep him for, Stoker,” Nel said. “Beacon of hope, our Quill. Got Jack and Sharpe looking the ship over. Let you know what they find.”
“Good,” Quill said. “For now we can maintain our heading to the horizon. At the very least, this time we are not being shot at.”
“See?” Nel said. “Beacon.”
THE FIRST GLANCES they received were wary. Then furtive, then fearful. People drew away from them in whispering huddles. It was not the sort of attention Violet was used to receiving. In fact it made her realise how little attention she normally received when she went anywhere.
Children should be seen, not heard. But some children are not even seen.
Not a child, Violet thought angrily. Just me alone now, can’t afford to be no child. Just me.
Don’t be you.
“Been here before?” she asked to break the silence.
“Aye, didn’t get so many looks last time though,” Gravel said. “Get to ourselves more.”
“What were you doing here?”
“Investigating.”
“Why? What for?”
“Rumours,” Kaspar said. “Stories that come out of this port are dark. Brutal.”
“They don’t like Alliance,” Gravel muttered. “And here we are, all dressed up to say hello.”
“Kaspar,” Violet stopped in the middle of the street, turning in a half circle, her head on a swivel.
“I see it,” he replied, only confirming her suspicions. His hand was rigid at his side, kept far enough away from his weapon to be obvious.
“See what?” Gravel eyed them both. “I don’t see nothing.”
“That’s it,” Violet said. “Everyone’s gone, gone inside. We’re alone.”
Gravel looked around, voicing choice dockside words. Kaspar grabbed his friend’s hand when it reached for his belt.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Kaspar told him.
Their isolation was already over, but then they’d never been alone to start with. The townsfolk had just realised it before the three of them had and made themselves scarce. They were surrounded now, figures stepping out of alleyways and around corners. Maybe a dozen, too many folk and too few options to think about causing trouble.
“Now what do we have here?” one called out. Violet couldn’t identify them at first glance, somewhere halfway between Korrigan and Troll.
Could be a half-breed, could just be ugly. Smells ugly, even from here.
“Alliance pretty boys,” they said. “And so far from home. This one’s pretty enough to be a girl. Does your papa know you’re all out wandering in the dark like this?”
“Not looking for trouble, sir,” Kaspar told him, taking half a step forward, clearly intending to do the talking.
“Sir?” The lead henchman looked around at his fellows. Violet h
ad mentally named him Trog, unable to make up her mind about his background. Names didn’t seem forthcoming and names were important. Trog’s sub-henchmen were as much a mixed bag as he himself—Violet didn’t count more than three the same.
“You hear that, lads, boy called me sir. You all remembering that for later now, yeah?”
Violet very deliberately stepped onto Gravel’s foot, stopping him from taking the half step forward to stand next to Kaspar. The sailor half staggered, but not noticeably, glaring down at her. She shook her head in warning.
“See, not looking for trouble, and going around dressed like that,” Trog pointed at Kaspar’s crisp white uniform, “is asking for trouble. We don’t care for lime and starch round here, pretty boy. So what did you think were gonna happen, dressed up so?”
“Kaspar,” Violet stepped forward now.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s not. And I ain’t gonna get took again.”
“Don’t see many of your sort around, little lady,” Trog inclined his head to her. “Didn’t think there were many of yours with the Alliance at all.”
“Not too many to start,” someone else called out.
“Aye, that’s true,” Trog agreed. “Shame that. Tell you what, Miss. Seeing as how you’re not dressed like your friends here, I’ll make the assumption that you’re not with them. Fallen in with bad company, as it were. So let’s say you just . . . step aside. And we and the boys conclude our business here, never minding you. How do you say?”
For a moment, Violet considered the offer. Actually considered it. After all, what loyalty did she owe anyone else right now? Where had it gotten her in the past? Anyone she might have actually cared for or felt a bond to was gone. The problem was though . . .
You can’t count on anyone but yourself.
She snatched the wand from Kaspar’s belt, swinging it in a wide cast. The bolt hit Trog right in the forehead, knocking his head back. He hit the dirt of the street, kicking up a cloud, and didn’t move. Neither did anyone else.
Violet whipped Kaspar’s wand back the other way, striking a second henchman in the shoulder. Not such a good strike, but at least it was his weapon arm.
Shouts all around them now, a yell she recognised as Gravel’s, and more brightly coloured lights flashed through the air. She started to pull Kaspar towards a side street. There was an opening there a moment ago but she saw more people rushing towards them now. Reinforcements, things going from bad to worse. Kaspar’s uniform rumpled in her hand, coming loose, and she lost her footing then found herself flat on the street, being pressed down.
No, she thought, not again, not again.
She fought to free herself, seeing only white, and realised it was Kaspar atop her. He let her up, offering his hand. The sound of the chaos was over, Violet realised, except the moans of the injured.
“Unorthodox,” Aristeia appeared behind Kaspar. The first mate had a staff slung over her shoulder, shod with copper ferrules at both ends, one of which drifted smoke. “But effective.”
Violet batted away Kaspar’s outstretched hand and pushed herself to her feet. “What just happened?” she demanded.
“Marines happened,” Gravel told her. He was clutching at his thigh, limping slightly. “Surrounded the folk who surrounded us. One of them got me good, too.”
“They weren’t aiming for you, Brandon,” Kaspar told him. “You just didn’t duck in time.”
“Aye, sir, huge comfort to my leg, that is. Perhaps next time if you could let us know to be getting down that might save the other one? I have some words you could use. Might shout them, even.”
“You knew?” Violet turned an accusing stare on Kaspar. She closed in when he didn’t respond immediately. “This was planned, wasn’t it? What she, what Quinn said to you on the way over. You knew!”
“Easy, Miss Violet,” Gravel tried to pull her back, calm the situation.
“No,” she shook off his arm. “I want an answer. Were we bait? Was I?”
“Not bait, little girl,” Aristeia told her. “A distraction, if it happened.”
“What did you expect to happen?” she demanded.
Kaspar looked away. “Aristeia to do her job. Like she always does.”
Unable to help herself, Violet’s eyes found the woman. Scarred. Smirking. Surrounded by her marines. They were trussing up the ones who’d attempted to waylay them. Captives bound.
“Now what?”
“Now, I’d wager,” Gravel told her, “we go after the big fish.”
“And who’s that?”
“Few of these bully boys on this world,” Gravel pointed to the prisoners. “Smugglers and no good traders. Pirates. But there’s always a big one at the top looking down on everyone. In this port he calls himself the Night Cricket.”
“As in the bug?” Violet asked, to be sure.
“Not the most traditional of names,” Kaspar said.
“You be quiet, still mad at you,” Violet told him. “Why? What’s it mean? There a story? Must be a story, what is it?”
“Probably is,” Gravel agreed. “Not sure as I know it though, or could do it justice. Who knows how these things get started?”
“Stupid name,” Violet said.
“Aye, well, you tell them that. If you can find them.”
“Ever tried hunting crickets, Violet?” Kaspar asked her. “Not that easy.”
“Remember telling you to shut up,” Violet told him.
“Kill if you have to,” Kaspar said.
“What?”
“That’s what she said,” Kaspar said. “Aristeia. Kill if we have to. To protect you.”
He pushed past her, without explaining any further. Violet turned to Gravel for that.
“What they both said, Miss Violet,” Gravel elaborated. “They want you kept well, the captain and Mistress Quinn there. Which means . . . no holding back from us.”
Yet they’re not worried about putting me and us in harm’s way, are they?
She said as much, trying to gleam something from Gravel’s reaction. But like always he was much as he appeared. “Might have been the plan, might not. Might just have been Aristeia and the lads making the most of what they saw. The first mate is a cold hard one, Miss Violet. Just stay this side of her, less shade here.”
“You’re saying this is her good side?” Violet was sceptical.
“Saying she’s got much worse than what she’s shown.”
Chapter 18
THE TOWN HALL, or whatever the tall building that dominated one face of the square was, appeared to double as the town prison. Metal bars were set on all of the ground floor windows and shutters covered the top. An iron-banded double door of dark hardwood covered the entrance. It looked designed as a makeshift fortress, something to exert authority on the township around it.
Aristeia’s marines were drawn up in front of it, as if they intended to lay siege. A languid, unhurried siege. The marines stood in doorways and peered around corners, with a few flanking Aristeia in the empty street, uncovered and open in front of the building. They appeared to be waiting.
“Now what?” Violet asked. “Do they knock? Wait for the Cricket to come out? Or shall we just make camp and sing songs?”
“Impatient lass, aren’t you?” Gravel said.
“Kaspar,” Violet addressed the ensign. “What do you know?”
The boy shrugged. “Aristeia doesn’t tell me her plans. But she will have one.”
“Guess you two have that in common.”
“Should have brought Mors along,” Gravel suggested quickly. “Could challenge them all to a duel, honourable-like.”
“Don’t think they’re the honourable types,” Violet said, not bothering to be specific about who.
“It’s all relative,” Kaspar said.
“Meaning what?”
“Nothing, stop talking. Pay attention.”
“To what?”
“Don’t know, but you’ll m
iss it, I’ll miss it. You’re distracting.” There was a touch of irritation to his voice that Violet found she enjoyed. Another crack in the ensign’s shiny facade.
“Something’s happening,” Gravel pointed.
Shouts and shots fired from inside the town hall. Aristeia and her towering bodyguards stirred. The woman went so far as to remove the staff from her shoulder and plant the butt in the ground.
“Sounds like a mutiny,” Violet suggested. She moved to get closer for a better look but Kaspar held her back. When she turned to berate him she missed what happened next. A brief cheer went up from the marines, cut short at a gesture from Aristeia. Violet heard the crash that preceded it and the groans that followed. By the time she looked back it was over.
The front door to the town hall was open, both halves swinging out wide. Between them stood Mors Coldstream, wands in both hands as he walked out onto the street.
“When did he get here?” Violet demanded.
“There’s always a plan,” Kaspar told her quietly. “Guess we weren’t the only distraction.”
Mors’ target was obvious: the prostate and crawling figure in the middle of the street. Looking up, Violet could see the blown open shutters from the second floor. They’d been thrown out of the building. Probably by wand-fire.
“Is that the Night Cricket then?” Violet asked. Mors had reached them, kicked them over onto their back and had one booted foot planted on their throats. Aristeia and the marines were moving to join him. A half-dozen, a squad, rushed past them into the town hall.
“Wouldn’t be betting against it, Miss Violet,” Gravel said. “You know what this means though.”
“No,” Violet said grumpily, watching as the figure, a woman, middle-aged and weathered, was hauled up by two marines. “What does it mean? What happens now?”
“Watch,” Kaspar told her.
Violet resisted the urge to kick him. He was lucky he’d taken his wand back. Aristeia and Mors were talking. Mors looked past the woman, over her head, directly at Violet. His eyes narrowed and her skin crawled because of it.
“There,” Kaspar pointed.
Atop the building the squad of marines had reappeared. They’d reached the flag pole and had struck the colours of the Night Cricket, red on a black field. They were raising the Alliance’s own now.
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