by Garth Nix
“We ain’t gentlemen,” grunted the piggy ruffian, smacking a meaty fist into an opposite palm. It made a sound rather like a stone dropping in the carp pond back home, thought Truthful, and was probably just as hard.
“And neither is we,” said another voice, this time from behind.
Truthful whirled around. There were two more thugs behind them now, and both of them carried long cudgels.
“Back to back!” cried Harnett. “If you have any sorcery, use it now Chevalier!”
Truthful moved to press her slight back against Harnett’s broad one, and raised her fists. One of the thugs moved forward, laughing, and was confounded by a sudden crackling of sparks from the signet ring on Harnett’s fist, that set the rogue’s hair alight and sent him screaming from the room shouting for water.
But the other three attacked, all at once. There was a hurried exchange of blows, Harnett was borne to the floor by two of the thugs, and Truthful’s guard was demonstrated to be merely decorative. Two seconds later, a scientific jab to the chin sent her reeling to the floor. She tried to get up, was hit again, and everything went black.
++++
When she regained consciousness, Truthful awoke to an aching jaw and complete darkness. A few attempts at movement also conveyed the fact that she was bound hand and foot, and tied around her middle to some large object. When it groaned and shifted, she realised the object was Harnett, and they were tied back-to-back. A few more foot taps then told her they were in a cupboard, albeit a strange cupboard, with curious rounded walls and a very strong stench of some strong spirit . . .
“A barrel,” husked Harnett, as she kept on knocking with her feet. “Once a butt of brandy, judging from the odour. Rather ignominious, I feel.”
“What will happen to us?” asked Truthful quietly. She felt herself leaning back against his wide shoulders, and stiffened. Would her great-aunt’s glamour continue to hold in the current circumstances? She had a vague recollection that being touched for any length of time had a deleterious effect on most illusions . . .
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” replied Harnett. “Fortunately, I did arrange a contingency with the hackney driver and some of my friends, so there will be a rescue in due course. However, the thing with rescues is timing, and we shall just have to hope its comes sooner rather than later. How tight are your bonds?”
Truthful flexed her feet and arms, but found no movement in the rope. Nor could she strain free from Harnett, as there was a rope wound several times around both their waists.
“I can’t get free, Major.”
There was silence for a moment, then Harnett laughed, and Truthful imagined his smile flashing for a moment in the darkness.
“I think you may now safely call me Charles,” he said. “As we have become rather close.”
Truthful smiled for a moment, and almost started to laugh, before she suddenly stopped and scowled instead. How could Harnett laugh, unless he was very confident his friends would come to the rescue? She could see no happy ending, tied up in the dark, in a barrel that absolutely stank of brandy.
“I suppose you had better call me Henri,” said Truthful.
She laughed as she said it. It seemed so ridiculous that they should be learning each other’s first names while tied up inside a barrel. In fact, everything seemed rather ridiculous. Truthful stopped laughing and took in a deep, brandy-laced breath, only to discover to her mortification that her laughter had turned to tears, which she quickly stifled, ending in a series of sniffs.
“Laughter is a strong weapon against fear, Chevalier,” said Harnett. “But I think none the worse of manly tears.”
Truthful almost interrupted to ask how he felt about womanly tears, but managed not to speak. She felt very light-headed and wondered what on earth was wrong with her. Besides being trapped in a barrel, of course.
“I knew a man who wept like a baby before every battle in the Peninsula, but there were none braver,” continued Harnett.
“What happened to him?” asked Truthful.
“He was killed at Waterloo,” replied Harnett. “So many were. But we’re still alive . . . and where there’s life, there’s . . . um . . how does that go? I confess to feeling a little astray, I suppose the fumes—”
He stopped speaking suddenly as they heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps stopped near them, and they heard the cold voice of Lady Plathenden.
“Take this barrel out to the Undine,” she said. “Tell Captain Fontaine that he is to throw it overboard mid-channel, without looking inside.”
“But it isn’t sealed,” protested a male voice. Truthful recognised the sensitive, religious-minded thug. “It’ll sink. I don’t hold with drowning, ma’am, it’s an ugly way to die. Even for kittens, let alone—”
“Silence! See to it at once, and make sure Fontaine understands exactly what he is to do.”
Her footsteps receded, and the barrel suddenly lurched, leaned in balance for a moment, and then crashed on its side. Shaken, Harnett and Truthful braced their legs against the sides, and managed to stay reasonably steady as the barrel rolled, bumping over an uneven floor.
A few minutes later, they heard a heavy door open, the rush of the Thames beyond it, and the creaking of a wharf. More footsteps echoed on the stone, and they felt the barrel being lifted. The carters feet clattered out onto the wharf, there was a thud as the barrel was dropped a few inches, then they felt the tell-tale sway of a ship or boat.
“So,” said a scornful, French-accented man. “Another one of milady’s presents to Neptune? Make it fast on deck — there’s no room in the hold. And secure the pigeon loft, you fool!”
“No room at the inn,” chortled Harnett. For some reason Truthful found this incredibly funny. In an instant, they were both laughing.
“Stop that!” shouted the voice outside, his words accompanied by a strong kicking administered to the barrel.
This seemed funnier still. Truthful couldn’t stop giggling, and Harnett brayed like a donkey, and the sound of their laughter just encouraged more, and more and more until eventually the kicking stopped.
Slowly the laughter ebbed away. Truthful yawned, a huge yawn, and wriggled against the ropes.
“I think I’m ready to be rescued,” she said. “Any time now.”
There was no answer, but Truthful was not alarmed. She felt so tired. Nothing mattered except letting her eyelids continue their slow drift towards complete closure.
She let them close, and fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
All at Sea
Truthful woke with a start as she felt her stomach climbing up into her mouth, stopping just short in her throat. A wave of giddiness swept through her, and for a second she was disoriented, then the pain in her wrists and ankles reminded her of the ropes, and she felt Harnett’s back against her own.
“How . . . long have I been asleep?” she whispered, screwing up her eyes against the faint rays of light that were sneaking through the uncaulked lid of the barrel. She felt absolutely terrible. Her throat was parched and sandpapery, and her stomach very uneasy. “How did I fall asleep?”
“I think three or four hours, perhaps even more,” replied Harnett, in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve been asleep too. There was more than a little brandy left in the bottom of this cask, we were mazed by the fumes. But there’s a wind blowing out there now. You can feel it through the cracks, and it’s cleansed the air in here. Mind you, I’ve the devil of a hangover.”
“So have . . . I think,” said Truthful, a dull throbbing in her head coming in to join the dryness of her throat. “I’ve never had one before.”
“Bad time to start,” muttered Harnett. “I think we must already be entering the Thames Estuary, judging from the swell. They’ve got a fair wind to carry us away, too, damn their eyes.”
“And it will only strengthen over the day ahead,” said Truthful, instinctively. She could feel the nature of the wind, deep inside herself. It was steady enough now, but there wa
s more to come.
“How can you tell . . . ah . . . you have weather magic?”
“A little,” said Truthful. “It runs in the family.”
“Could you do something to slow us down or hold us back?” asked Harnett eagerly. “I am sure my . . . my friends will be in pursuit, but time is of the essence. Could you reverse the wind, perhaps?”
“I have only a little, local power,” said Truthful regretfully. “Not enough to turn a sea-wind so firmly established.”
She could feel the strength of the breeze in her bones, but the sounds of the ship also confirmed it, the heel of the deck and the crack of canvas filling overhead.
“Do you think your friends will be able to rescue us?”
“They’ll try,” grunted Harnett, who seemed to be engaged in some form of contortionist’s exercise. “It depends on whether there was a ship at hand to be commandeered, or if the Navy could be roused to act, if the word was got out quickly enough. But we can’t depend on it, I’m afraid. I have a knife in my boot, a sghian dhbu from a Scottish friend, but I can’t reach it. My arms are wrapped right down to the wrists. What about you?”
“I’m only tied around the elbows,” replied Truthful. “If I wriggle down a bit, I can move my arms a little.”
“Good!” exclaimed Harnett. “Now, if I move my legs back towards you as far as they will go, do you think you could twist around and reach my boot-top?”
“I can try,” said Truthful determinedly. She felt Harnett twisting his legs around, and started to wriggle around herself, only to pause as there was a sudden loud snapping noise.
“Good God!” cried Harnett. “Was that the rope?”
“Ah, non,” muttered Truthful, regretting the eagerness of her wriggling, for the snap had been the sound of her corset breaking, and several buttons of her coat flying off. She looked down, but in the dim light, couldn’t see if the corset was completely broken or not. If it was, the glamour alone might not be enough to maintain her disguise. “My coat has torn.”
A little more cautiously, she continued to struggle, till her body was partially turned and her left hand fell on Harnett’s calf. Instantly, she snatched it back, a blush rising in her cheeks. What was she doing?
“Good!” said Harnett. “Now work you way down to the boot-top. The knife should come out easily enough.”
“I . . . I . . .” faltered Truthful.
Before she could say anything more, the ship plunged more dramatically than it had been, and she heard the crash of a wave breaking against the bow. A second later, spray fell against the barrel, a fine mist coming through the cracks between the staves.
This reminder of their impending drowning overcame the deeply ingrained lessons of modest behaviour. Taking a deep breath, Truthful squirmed around, her hands sliding down Harnett’s thigh, past his knee to the cool leather of his boot-top and then to the hilt of the knife. There was a brief struggle, straining every muscle in Truthful’s fingers, then it was free and in her lap. But at a cost. The remaining stays on her corset had burst, her shirt was torn across the front and under the arms and her ensorcelled moustache felt very insecure upon her upper lip.
“Well done, lad,” whispered Harnett, as Truthful gripped the knife between her knees and started sawing at the rope between her wrists. “There’s few Englishmen who can handle themselves as well, my religious friend.”
Truthful bit her lip and tried to quell the rather pleasant feeling she got from his praise by imagining what he would say when she revealed her deception. Or when it became obvious …
With her thoughts otherwise occupied, Truthful was rather surprised when her hands suddenly came free. She started cutting the rope around their respective waists, but as each strand parted, she couldn’t help thinking that as they got closer to freedom they also got closer to what would be an unpleasant revelation. What could she possibly tell Harnett?
At last, the rope parted. Truthful hastily re-wrapped her coat around herself, and keeping her knees well up she slid around and cut the ropes from Harnett’s hands, then started on her ankles. It was tricky work now, for the ship was cutting diagonally across a heavier swell, and the breeze had increased to an extent that the ship was now running fast with the wind on her quarter. More water was being shipped across the deck and the barrel was soaked with spray every few minutes.
Concentrating on her cutting, Truthful heard nothing above the wind and crash of waves, but Harnett suddenly craned back and joined his hands to hers to force the knife through the last strand of rope that bound his ankles.
“Quick,” he cried, his large, muscular hands pressing down on her slim fingers. “Someone is opening—”
His words were lost in the crash of another wave. Light suddenly flooded the barrel as the lid was flung open, revealing a stormy sky, a towering mast and sails — and a ring of armed men, the closest of them holding a cutlass, its blade resting on the edge of the barrel.
“Stand up,” he said. Truthful recognised his voice as that of the Frenchman she had overheard when they were being loaded aboard the Undine. “I see that you have managed to free yourselves.”
Blinking, even against the weak light that filtered through the storm-clouds, Truthful and Harnett stood gingerly, clutching at the sides of the barrel for support. The Frenchman and his men watched them carefully, their weapons ready. Now that Truthful was on deck, she saw that the sea was not as rough as she had supposed. The breeze was fair for France, and the ship had a good amount of canvas up.
“I am Captain Fontaine,” said the man, inclining his head a fraction, so that his dark forelock slipped slightly across his brow. But his eyes didn’t leave them, and the cutlass only wavered as he changed his footing to allow for the roll and pitch of the ship. There was cruelty in his eyes, Truthful thought, and his voice was harsh.
“Who are you, my barrel-friends?”
“I am Major Harnett of His Britannic Majesty’s 95th Regiment of Rifles,” replied Harnett slowly, his eyes flickering over the rest of the ship and the men around them. He didn’t look at Truthful, who leant against him as if she wished she could disappear into his shadow.
“And I am the Chevalier de Vienne,” said Truthful wretchedly, clutching her coat around herself with one hand, the other white-knuckled on the iron-rim of the barrel.
“Really?” asked Fontaine, lazily running his eyes up and down her. He reached forward with his left hand, and with one swift motion, neatly ripped off her moustache. It came away so easily that Truthful realised that it must have come unstuck with all the water, and had already been sliding down her upper lip.
As it parted from her skin, the glamour left her.
She saw the men start, and Fontaine begin to smile. But it was Harnett’s reaction she cared about. Truthful turned to him and felt him flinch as if he had been struck by a bullet. He stared at her, not speaking. She saw disbelief in his eyes, then a growing spark of anger. But he didn’t say a word, he just kept staring till she turned away.
“Take the woman to my cabin,” snapped Fontaine. “Lash the man to the bowsprit. Let’s send him to Neptune slowly, eh?”
The men surged forward. Harnett brandished his little sghian dbhu and leapt at Fontaine but his legs, cramped and weakened from their imprisonment, failed him and he fell over the side of the barrel. Fontaine laughed and brought the hilt of his cutlass down upon his head, knocking him senseless.
Truthful shouted and swung a fist wildly at Fontaine, but one of the sailors grabbed her from behind, wrapping his beefy arms around her while his sardine-laden breath blew across the back of her neck, at least until she jerked her head back and smashed him in the nose, a trick she had seen watching a mill when disguised as a boy with the Newington-Lacys. He let go, gasping, but two more sailors pinned her arms and another gripped her around the knees. She struggled violently, but they pushed her against the mast and held her there.
“Take her to my cabin,” ordered Fontaine. “I will attend to her later. But she is
not to be harmed! Tie her up, but take care not to hurt her, you understand!”
Fontaine’s cabin was the main saloon at the stern of the vessel, under the quarter-deck. It was surprisingly clean and neat, not at all like Truthful’s expectations of a festering pirate ship. There were several low wooden lockers against the walls, a polished table bolted to the deck in the centre of the cabin and a red plush lounge under the stern windows, which were currently closed against the elements.
The three sailors rapidly tied Truthful’s wrists, then the other end of the rope to the table leg, carefully checking that there was enough rope to allow Truthful to reach the lounge. They tested this by dragging her there and throwing her on it, ignoring her kicks and attempts to bite.
But after doing so, the three merely grinned, and left. Truthful heard the last locking the cabin door behind him, and then their footsteps clattering up the short ladder to the main deck. She lay still for a moment, her head still dizzy from the brandy-fumes. Even though the motion of the ship had quietened, the slight roll and pitch did not help her head or her stomach.
“I refuse to . . . be . . . sick,” muttered the Admiral’s daughter, who’d been raised from an early age to sail a dinghy and had often been at sea on her father’s yacht, though never in bad weather or with the additional scourge of brandy.
Seasickness pushed aside, she staggered to her feet and lurched across to the table, to see how the sailor had tied the rope to the table-leg. A quick examination of the knot brought a smile to her face. He had used a trickster’s knot, counting on a landlubber (and a woman) being unable to fathom its tortured windings and loops within loops. Truthful undid it in several seconds, humming a sea-shanty to herself, a song that Hetherington had used to whistle when he went over the ropes of the Admiral’s yacht with a younger Truthful, or when they tied knot after knot for the Admiral to inspect.