“Not without you,” Violet told him. “Don’t wanna hear any more about it.”
“This is as close as you’ll get to me,” Sharpe told her. “And . . . hells. Violet, someone’s coming.”
Violet scrambled up, on her feet, heart pounding. “I don’t hear anything.”
“In the floor, the vibrations, never mind. Just hide.”
But there was nowhere to hide. Sharpe’s cell by its nature was in a dead-end cul-de-sac of internal corridors. Only one way in and . . .
Two glowing eyes in the dark, looking down at her. Bandit, squeezed into the pipes running through the top third of the wall. There was space up there. Not much but maybe enough. Violet could hear the footsteps now, grabbing hold of the pipes and hauling herself up as quiet as she could. The pipes felt strange under her touch. She could feel movement, wondered for a moment if they might burst or rupture. But they held solid and she squeezed herself into the crawlspace, slowing her breaths. Bandit’s face was pressed right up against her, eyes huge in the dark. She gently, very carefully, brushed her fingers down his face. The eyes closed at her touch.
It was the captain. Not alone, two marines accompanied him, but the sight of the man himself was what made Violet’s heartbeat faster. There would be no explaining herself if he saw her, even worse if she was caught trying to hide. Raines stopped in front of Sharpe’s cell.
“Step away,” he ordered. He didn’t wait for confirmation, setting one hand to the wheel and turning. The door creaked open and Raines stepped inside, the door swinging close but not shut behind him. His guards followed him inside.
Was this it? Her chance? Raines wasn’t alone, but the cell was unlocked. Overpower the captain and his guards, escape with Sharpe. There were other ships now, a whole town full of them. That should be enough.
Not much of a plan.
So what? Figure it out. Skipper always did.
You’re not her. And she didn’t. She left you. Was that her plan?
Fine. Not yet. But soon.
Violet rolled out of the pipes, slowly, setting bare feet to the floor. Quiet. She nudged Bandit, his eyes flashing open again. He jumped down too, darting out the open corridor. Violet cast one longing look at Sharpe’s cell. She was tempted to listen but there was still nowhere to hide. She had to go now.
She got caught a hundred feet away. Almost screamed the ship down when he grabbed her by the arm. There was no hiding the alarm on her face.
“Been looking for you,” Kaspar said, releasing her.
“Me? Why? What happened?”
“You’re not supposed to wander alone,” he reminded her. “What are you even doing down here?”
“Exploring,” she said quickly. “Been here weeks and there’s still places I don’t know.”
“This area is off limits.”
“So?”
“So you don’t come here, alone especially.”
“Not alone.” Violet pointed up. Bandit in the pipes again, above the ensign’s head. Kaspar’s face tightened at the sight, some barely restrained comment.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got company. Need to make sure you aren’t found exploring on your own when they step aboard.”
Violet’s heart lurched again. “Company? What company? Who? How’d they find us?”
Kaspar shook his head. “You’ll see.”
She’s dead. You saw her die.
You saw her.
Didn’t you?
Chapter 19
THE CHAIR CREAKED under her, legs even bowing a bit. Nel listened carefully for the sounds of splintering wood as she leaned it back just a little, placing her booted feet on the corner of the table. She didn’t hear anything, so dismissed it as shoddy, inferior timbers used in the construction. Or maybe worn down in old age and hard use, like most things aboard a decent ship.
Not me, that’s for sure. Been puking up every other meal on my liquid diet. And now I’ve got to eat Jack’s cooking to put my weight back on. Gods below, done it to myself this time.
She looked at the cup of black sludge in her hand. It looked thick, soupy enough to rest a quarter mark on.
Taverns that see too much of the pressing gangs ought to hire Jack to pour their drinks. Won’t nobody miss a shiny silver floating on top of their drink instead of sinking to the bottom.
Ah well. Here’s to me then. To the first drink of whatever comes next.
Nel swallowed hard as she raised the coffee to her lips, closing her eyes and swallowing fast. She started coughing. Her guest had the good graces not to laugh.
“That as nasty as it looks?”
“Not so bad as I feared,” Nel rasped, clutching at her throat. “Tastes all right. Just too damned hot.”
“That’ll get you burnt then,” Lock said cheerfully, tugging on one of her green braids. She looked around, constantly, rather like a rodent. Her nose almost twitched too.
“What am I going to do with you?” Nel asked, setting the mug down to cool some more. Her tongue was scalded, almost numb. She could practically feel the skin blistering off already. The worst part was it was making her think of chilled beer or wine to soothe it.
Can’t be having that, though.
“You should redecorate,” Lock said. “Captain Flint didn’t have much sense for fashion. You could do a lot with this room, this whole ship, really, if you put some time into it.”
“If her taste was so poor what were you stealing from her?”
“Oh that? Boredom mostly. And silver. She had a nice set of goblets. And knives. Just the one spoon. No forks. Wonder what happened to them.”
Nel recalled her own encounter with a drawer full of forks once, what seemed so long ago. She shook her head to clear away the fog of memory.
“What’d you want silver for?”
“To sell, mostly,” Lock said. “I suppose you could melt it down and stamp coins out of it. Or even into bars and ingots if you had enough. Like if there had been forks. But selling seemed easiest. Least effort for most reward.”
“To what end?” Nel frowned.
“Oh, to desert, why else? Seemed silly to go without taking it, so I did.”
Nel stared. “That’s not the sort of thing I’m used to hearing so . . . honestly.”
“Why not? You found me trussed up in the hold, not much sense being dishonest about why I was there. Where are we going?”
“Off world,” Nel said. “Then on to Haven.” Haven was the world Sharpe had met up with Stoker. It was along their back trail and made a convenient heading, according to Quill. It was as plausible as anything to tell Lock until Nel figured her out.
Woman was locked up. Probably lying about why. Locked . . . hells, she got the imagination to lie about it?
“Haven? Been there, don’t really care for it. Going anywhere else? Why are you making that face? If you’re not careful it will freeze like that, that’s what my ma used to say. Then she fell in a river, middle of winter. Really did freeze. Took a week before she could make another one. Face, that is.”
“No,” Nel said. “We’re not . . . going anywhere else.”
Lock sighed, tilting her head up to the ceiling. “Well, maybe someone will be. At least it’s not an Alliance planet. Had enough of that lot. Can’t talk to them. I mean, do I look like a sailor to you? Who in their right mind thought that was a good place for me?”
“You were pressed, weren’t you?” Nel said.
“Yeah, stayed one hand too many at a card game and got knocked on the head on the walk home. You were right.”
“I was?”
“About . . . you know, so long as there’s drinks there is no walk home. Remember?”
“Right.”
Lock shrugged. “Got a head for numbers and letters, not for whatever a ship runs on. But seems like they’ll take anyone these days. Anyone they can get. Work is scarce but once you’re in the High Lanes there’s not so many options.”
“So I hear.”
“Wonder what they need th
em all for. The High Lanes.”
“Sailing. Takes a lot of bodies to make a ship move.”
“Never seen sailors like yours,” Lock said.
“But then you don’t sail, like you said.”
“Not the sailing, but the coming and going at the ports, seen a lot of that. Draugr normally do the dock work, not the sailing.”
Nel shrugged. “No one else wants to be a sailor, I guess. They don’t complain much.”
“Guess that’s true.”
“We can drop you at Haven,” Nel said. “Think you’ll manage fine there.”
“I’m grateful. Maybe I can return the favour.”
“Two favours,” Nel said, eyeing the woman. “If you’d listened to my advice it would be three. Or maybe none.”
Lock smiled. “Fair point. Looks like our time’s up though, cabin boy wants a word.”
It was Sharpe standing in the doorway. Man was still wearing his marine colours. Stepped aside to let Lock past him, watching her until she was out of earshot. He shut the door behind him.
“This a private conversation, Sharpe?” Nel asked him. She reached for coffee and found it had gone cold, congealed into a gelatinous form. Looked like black pudding. And about as appealing.
“A few words, now that we have the time.” Sharpe took the seat Lock had recently vacated.
“By all means,” Nel waved. “Make yourself at home.”
Sharpe hesitated, frozen mid squat, then continued to plant his behind on the chair. It creaked, just like Nel’s did, which gave her some amusement.
“Sorry, Captain,” he apologised. Almost seemed sincere. Hard to tell behind the beard.
“Not the captain,” Nel corrected him. “That hasn’t been decided.”
“Would you prefer Commander?” he asked with a grin.
“Not after the way you used it at the dock.”
“I was technically correct,” he reminded her.
“The best kind of correct,” Nel agreed. “In the fleet.”
“This is you reminding me we are no longer in either the fleet or Alliance Lanes?”
“Shouldn’t have to. You look plenty smart.”
“You’re sweet. Think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me. Then why the obstinacy over being our captain then?”
“Haven’t had the best captains myself. No hurry to be like most of them.”
“Really,” Sharpe didn’t blink as he looked at her. “Captain Phelps was a good man.”
“Aye, a good man. Doesn’t make a good captain. Horatio was the kind of man who did the right thing for the right reasons and still got it wrong,” Nel sighed.
“We’d be lucky to be remembered that way ourselves.”
“Not if the Alliance writes our epitaphs. Be lucky if anyone remembers our names and don’t spit on them.”
“Most of your bad captains were Alliance fleet, weren’t they?”
Nel shrugged.
“That message from Heathen,” Sharpe said. “I never would have found it.”
“Probably not. What’s your point?”
“Feels like she meant it more for you.”
“Far as she knew I was dead.”
“You sure about that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Taking a lot on a little faith here, Nel.”
“Who else do you think she meant it for?” Nel asked him. “Violet?”
Sharpe blinked. “That’s . . . not the worst idea.”
“Now that doesn’t make much sense either. Message there was meant for someone to follow it. You and Violet were already there, so it had to be for someone who wasn’t. Heathen gave it to you, makes you the messenger. Except for the part where you lost it.”
Sharpe rubbed at his face with his knuckles. “Are all you Alliance types so tricky and shifty?”
“Former Alliance,” Nel reminded him, staring at the mug of coffee. Sharpe had lost the deed.
“You and your former captain both.”
“The Alliance is rotten,” Nel told him. “The kind of rot that spreads. Things I saw . . .”
“Made you leave it,” Sharpe nodded. “A career officer, no less. If they’d have you, would you go back? Join the fleet?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could fix it. Has to be easier from the inside than out.”
Nel shook her head. “Da was a career sailor. Never amounted to much himself. Was proud of me, when I made third mate. Then second, then first. But the more I saw of those above me, less I wanted to be them.”
“Never heard you talk about your father, or any family.”
“Was a quartermaster,” Nel told him, remembering. “Except not really. Other hands just called him that ’cause he did all the steward’s work while the man was sleeping it off. Ran a card game on the side, most ships. Pocketed about the same coin as he would have that way.”
I remember Da’s games. Always rigged, said he was trying to teach us a lesson.
“Man never made officer,” Nel said. “Was always bitter about that. Felt he was doing the work without the brass to show for it.”
“What’s he doing now?”
Nel shrugged. “Old bones, bad back. Took a dockside job. Customs. Tariffs. All the same as being a quartermaster, less thieving crew members trying to tap the barrels. Keeps the same card game going, I think. Keeps a rod under his desk for when bad players take exception.”
She made a face. “Took me for two months’ pay last time I saw him. No exceptions for family. Probably why Ma left him.”
“You see them much? Your family?”
“Not for the last five years,” Nel said.
“That’s sad,” Sharpe said.
“Made my choice,” Nel shrugged. “Found a new family. Trying to save what’s left of it.”
“That’s what the Free Lanes is all about, isn’t it?” Sharpe said. “Being able to make your own choices but having to live with them too.”
“Making it sound trite there, Sharpe.”
He grinned. “Prefer the Free to the High and I’ll say that to anyone who asks.”
“That’s your problem though, never wait to be asked.”
“Never was very good at waiting.”
“Found you doing nothing but waiting,” she reminded him.
“And for that I’ll be forever grateful. All right, I take your point. I’ll go be a pest in someone else’s ears.”
“Wait,” Nel said.
“Yes?” Sharpe paused, halfway out of his chair.
Nel held out her cup. “Tell Jack to send more of this.”
Sharpe took the cup. “I ever tell you how much I admire your bravery, Chanel?”
Nel scowled at him. “Get out.”
THE MANGONEL FALLING remained the biggest ship Violet could ever recall seeing. It was three times the size of the Fata Morgana and with its sails unfurled it masked out the stars in the black.
“Monstrosity,” someone said. “Stupidly big. Oversized tug. Couldn’t wallow its way out of a nebula.”
The last time she’d seen the ship it had been chasing her. Vice. The mountainous underworld. Before that it had carried the golem now sitting in the Fata Morgana’s hold. Was it so far-fetched that the Guildswoman Scarlett might be aboard? Plucked from the black the same way she herself had been? And coming to retrieve Onyx?
Someone else had been aboard the Mangonel too. Heathen, the skipper’s own former captain. Would the Kelpie recognise her? They’d never spoken but she might. And then what?
“You all right there, Miss Violet?” Gravel nudged her in the ribs. Violet winced, clutching her side. She almost fell but felt a hand on her shoulder steady her.
“Fine,” she said. “Was just . . . somewhere else.”
“You do that,” Gravel told her. “Go someplace else in that head of yours. Getting all little-girl-lost on your face.”
“Leave her alone, Brandon,” Kaspar told him.
Gravel shrugged. “Was just saying. Gots to have imagination
to do that, what she does. Always wondered what that would be like.”
“All I’m imagining right now is that beastly thing ripping our panels off if it strays too close,” Kaspar scowled, pointing at the faint shimmer around the Mangonel.
“Stupid big,” Violet agreed with him. “Wouldn’t worry though. They’ll send over a tender rather than get any closer.”
Kaspar nodded. “They’d better, wait, look, they’re signalling.”
Flashes of coloured light, a three-point signal repeated twice. Presumably there was an answer from their own ship because the next message was a standard one-two flash, acknowledgement and end of conversation.
“I was right,” Violet said. “Officers away and en route.”
Kaspar gave her an odd look. “You read Alliance signals?”
“They supposed to be secret?”
“That one wasn’t but most trader folk don’t learn them.”
Violet shrugged, ignoring the obvious question.
Ain’t that different to what we sent. Feels familiar almost, just like a foreign accent. Same rules, right?
Bigger it might be, particularly when right up alongside them, but the dry and creaking timbers of the dreadnought made it appear tired next to the sleek outline of the steel-clad Morgana. Their ship was clearly the faster, but the Mangonel wasn’t meant for speed. It was meant to annihilate its target.
“Just like its captain.”
“What about them?” Kaspar said.
“There,” Violet pointed to the just launched tender. It was one of the assault types she’d seen at Rim. Like a stripped-down sloop, shallow and flat bottomed with an iron prow covering. Single mast with its own thaumatic driver. There were a half-dozen passengers, all Kelpies.
No Scarlett. She is dead. Has to be.
“Intimidating bunch of swamp turkeys aren’t they,” Gravel said.
“Please don’t call them that,” Kaspar winced. “If anyone heard . . .”
“Aye, there’d be squawking.”
“Those are her old crew,” Violet said. “From her old ship. Must be all that’s left of them.”
“Left of who?” Gravel asked.
“Captain Heathen. She’s the tall one at the back,” Kaspar told him.
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