Lye yanked on the knots. Motley was seated with his back to the mast, his wrists bound behind him. Then he checked the gag. Satisfied, he joined Stock at the rail.
“Nice boat,” Stock said appreciatively.
Lye looked around him and grunted. It was larger than Windall Frost’s, and except for the ostentation of its multi-colored woods and polished brass accoutrements, it was of the same class. “Looks like we’re the crew, though,” he sulked. Three Gatemen who had sailed here with Damrick now pulled on the oars of the rowboat, back toward shore. “I ain’t much a sailor, comes down to it.”
“Them boys said we’re half a league from the ocean, just up around that point,” Stock told him.
Lye nodded. “I thought it was a lake.”
“Nah. An inlet.”
“What’re they doin’ with Ryland down there?” Murk asked. His one good eye was focused on the small door.
“How do I know?”
“Oughta be shootin’ ’im, ask me,” Murk brooded. “Don’t know why we started takin’ prisoners all a’ sudden.”
“Ain’t arguin’. It’s Damrick’s business, though. He’s got some plan he’s cookin’ up, just wait.”
“So you’ve underwritten the return of the Gatemen.” Ryland, Damrick, and Frost stood in the saloon. “A rather expensive hobby to take up so late in life, isn’t it, Windall?”
Frost was sunny. “Not nearly so expensive for me as it will be for you, if you’re willing to lead us to the Conch.”
“I am quite willing.” Ryland looked at Damrick, who as yet had not spoken a word to him. “That was a nice little strategy, Mr. Fellows, moving your men to the rooftops.”
Damrick’s eyes were blank. “You came with three times the numbers we expected, two hours earlier than planned.”
“And yet you were ready, thank God. I wanted to warn you, of course. But I was unable to find a way, surrounded as I was with that army of hooligans.”
Damrick’s eyes only grew colder.
“Dear man, I hope that is not accusation I read in your eyes. Once you light a fire in the woods, it’s very hard to control what burns.”
“So!” Windall Frost offered into the icy air, “Something to calm the nerves, gentlemen?” He gestured toward the saloon’s bar, which he had arrayed with brandy, rum, and several liqueurs. “Ryland keeps his boat well-stocked.”
Damrick and Ryland disengaged their mutual stares.
“Splendid,” Ryland agreed with a sigh. “A cordial would be perfect, Mr. Frost.”
“Nothing for me,” Damrick said. “We have some rather detailed plans to make. I’d like to keep a clear head.”
The forecastle echoed with “Whoa, whoa!” and “Hang on!” and “Wait!”
“Are you sayin’ that fight was rigged? Ryland, he crossed Damrick, right?”
“Sure he did,” Sleeve answered. “Ryland wouldn’t lead Conch’s men to get slaughtered a’ purpose.”
“Those weren’t Conch’s men fightin’ Damrick,” another countered. “Other than the three goons with Motley. The rest was signed on fer a fee.”
“Ryland’s a slink,” Mutter Cabe intoned. “He gave ’em all up to die.”
“He’s a slink all right,” Sleeve insisted, “but he did his best to double-cross Damrick, bringin’ all them extras. He just got outfoxed when Damrick put his men on the rooftops. Otherwise, Ryland’s men would a’ won the day. Ryland is Conch’s man still. You’ll see.”
“So which side is Mr. Ryland really on?” Dallis Trum asked Ham.
Ham puffed his pipe calmly. “You gents done talking? I’d like to go ahead on with the tale, if you don’t mind too terribly.”
They all agreed he should.
“All right. So the Success set sail, headed back to Skaelington and Conch Imbry, staying well ahead of the three rogue Ryland ships, which now also claimed that port as their destination. While all the Gatemen sailed southward, there in the city of pirates our Miss Jenta has had herself a difficult time. True to her word, she had concealed nothing from Conch Imbry. Or should I say, almost nothing.”
“Hold on now! You ain’t gonna tell us where Ryland stands? You ain’t gonna say what was what, with the fight in Oster?”
“Or what they’re plannin’ against the Conch now?”
Ham puffed his pipe again. “Gentlemen. Have I been with you so long, and you don’t understand yet how this works? Maybe that’s enough for tonight…”
But the pirates wanted more. So Ham, seeming somehow both reluctant and satisfied at once, continued.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CLEAVER AND FORK
CAPTAIN CARNSFORD BLOODSTONE “Conch” Imbry entered his pub with a swagger. The saloon doors popped, and all eyes turned toward him. He stood tall, arms outstretched, hands holding the doors wide.
“Captain Imbry!” and “The Conch!” and “Hello, Captain!” greeted him from behind raised mugs and glasses. Two men stood immediately, one at the bar, one in a front corner, and drew their pistols. They did not look at the Conch, however, but watched the patrons with anxious eyes, should there be any of their boss’s enemies among them.
A great, proud grin spread across the Captain’s face. The Cleaver and Fork wasn’t big, but it was his. It shone with silver and gold trim, dark walnut and fine red cherrywood. The patrons were equally well-adorned, in silk and satin and gold brocade. They were seated at linen-covered tables, mostly, though a few leaned on the enormous bar that ran three-quarters of the length of the main room, left to right, then made a hard turn away into the back room and continued on as a heavy burgundy and gold velvet curtain separated the main room from the private dining and gambling area.
“Good day to ye all!” the pirate called out in a booming voice. “How’s the ale?”
“Excellent!” and “Perfection!” Mugs were held high in delight. Many of those here today came on the outside chance they might catch a glimpse of the celebrated pirate, knowing he sometimes made appearances just like this.
“Ought to be at these prices!” he told them.
They laughed.
“And how’s the grub?”
“Splendid!” and “Couldn’t be better!” Hunks of meat on the bone were raised in toast.
“And the service?”
The patrons nodded and mumbled. There were a few whistles.
Conch scowled. “Somethin’ wrong wif the service?”
“No!” one answered. “Not at all!”
“It’s…gorgeous!” another shouted. And then the rest laughed.
Conch’s good humor returned. “And where is that splendid servin’ wench?”
The curtain parted, and Jenta Stillmithers emerged. Lithe and tall, she flowed when she walked, her hair tied loosely behind her neck from where it cascaded in soft waves down her back. Her bright blue eyes fixed Conch Imbry steadily as she approached him.
“Ah, there’s my Jenta,” he said with a depth of satisfaction few had seen in him before. He took her in his arms to kiss her, but she gave him only a peck on the cheek.
“Hello, Captain,” she said. “Your table is ready for you in the back.”
“Ah, but I cain’t stay to enjoy it, more’s the pity,” he said. “Just stoppin’ in to see the fine, fine fruits of all my labors.”
“Not even time for a pint?” she asked. Her voice betrayed disappointment, laced with the faintest hint of need.
“Ah, maybe just a pint, then…”
The patrons laughed and clapped as the two walked arm in arm behind the curtain. A whistle or two sang out. And then the pub returned to its business, buzzing a bit louder than it had before.
There were no others here, as Conch had signaled ahead his intention to pay a visit. “Ye sure yer well?” he asked her, when she brought his mug to the table.
“Do I look well?”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “Ye look very well.”
She sat beside him, watched him drink. “What’s the news from the Church? Has the annulment co
me through?”
“Girl, ye’ll be the first to know.” The pleasure ran away from his face.
“What’s the delay?”
“Papers gotta come from Mann. Their high holy priest is takin’ a unholy long time to put a scratch on a piece a’ parchment, ye ask me. ’Specially since his men didn’t even do the marryin’.”
“You’re a gentleman, Conch. I knew that. You are patient, too.” Her eyes drew him in. She put her hand on his hard knuckles. “It’s a worthy trait.”
“Aaaah,” he brushed off her compliment, but not her hand. “And yer still all right wif all the work yer doin’ here?”
“I prefer it. It keeps my mind occupied. And here, I feel a connection with you.”
“Ye do?”
“Of course. Everyone comes in looking for you, asking about you. They hold you in such high esteem.”
“Wouldn’t put much stock in that. They’re mostly crooks and villains.” But he beamed.
“Oh, but they’re not. The mayor comes in often. Bankers, businessmen. They all talk of you.”
“I bet they do.” Conch took a drink. He watched her eyes, then nodded once, satisfied. “I’m still waitin’ on word a’ that Gateman.”
Her heart beat faster. She picked up the pitcher and topped off his mug. “What word is that?”
“I want to hear he’s dead and hung and quartered and fed to sharks. But I ain’t hearin’ none of it yet. He’s still causin’ me mischief. So I want ye to be careful.”
“Do you think he may be headed back here?”
“I ain’t heard he is. But I ain’t heard he ain’t. That one, he slips in and out like a…shadow or somefin’.”
“I’ll keep a close eye out.”
“Ye know what to do, when he shows.”
She looked him deep in the eye. “I know your men, Conch. They’re always here.”
“Ain’t many ever set eyes on the Gateman. So it’d be hard for ’em to spot ’im. But you, ye’ve seen ’im four times, so ye know ’im.”
“Three times, Conch. The dance, the docks in Mann, and the docks here.”
He nodded. “That’s right. I ferget.”
“I’ve told you only the truth, Conch. Always, and no secrets. He promised to find me.”
The pirate captain grinned. “That’s my girl. Ye see ’im, ye jus’ say. A nod or a wink is all it takes.”
“What will they do?”
“Why, they’ll kill ’im.”
“Right here?”
Conch shrugged.
“But your guests…”
Conch looked thoughtful. “Yer worried it might take ’em off their feed?”
“Most of them aren’t used to such things.” She paused. “Nor am I.”
“Ah, well. Fer you then. I’ll have a word with the boys. They’ll be sure to take ’im out to the street first if they can.”
“Thank you.”
Conch took another drink. “Ye don’t mind bein’ bait, then?”
She stroked the back of his hand. “Why should I mind? It was my idea.”
He took a deep breath. “Yer my kind a’ woman, Jenta Stillmithers. And I’m proud to have all the folks of Skaelington know it.”
“So am I, Captain.”
“You can call me Conch. I told ye that.”
Her eyes went soft. “But you are my captain.”
His chest swelled. He stood. “Well! Got business to attend. Give us a kiss, and we’re off.”
She brushed her lips against his cheek again. He held her tightly around the waist.
“Not yet,” she said into his ear, in a whisper. “Not yet, Captain. But soon.”
“Ye drive me crazy, woman!” But he didn’t seem to mind it. He turned her loose, turned away, and left her in the private dining room. She could hear the patrons calling out to him as his proud boots struck the polished planking, and she heard him calling right back to them. She walked behind the bar, but stayed behind the curtain. She didn’t want to face the customers out front right now; she knew the sort of looks she’d get. She put her apron back on and looked down at the dishes in the washbasin. A small pile of steak knives lay drying on a towel.
It crossed her mind that any one of them could end her misery.
“Misery!” Sleeve called out. “See, I told you boys she had it bad for the Conch! He’ll get everythin’ in the end!”
“Aw, shut it, Sleeve,” one of them answered. “She don’t want to kill herself ’cause she can’t marry the Conch yet. She wants to die ’cause she hates her life!”
“Well,” Sleeve offered sullenly, “she’ll get over that in time.”
And that was at the heart of it, Delaney thought as he glanced at the line of shadow on the lagoon, just what Sleeve said. Sleeve hadn’t known it when he said it; he hadn’t known he was saying the whole secret of things. But he was. Life is about what things you can get over, and what things you can’t, in time. And the trouble is, you really don’t know which are which when they’re happening. It takes years, maybe all your life, to figure out what you can’t run away from no matter how hard you try, and what will dim and go away, if you just let it be. It’s almost like people don’t really know who they are, not completely. It’s like they’re all taking a guess, until they can sort out what’s there, inside them, built in. And that can only be sorted out with time.
He looked up from the water to the sky. Evening wasn’t here yet, but it was slowly coming on. Just a shade darker, a shade gloomier. He looked around at the reeds and marsh grasses at the edge of the pond. Rustling seemed to be everywhere now. The Hants were coming to watch him die—he had no doubt of it. “Get a good seat, now!” he called.
He straightened his back, and it sang out in pain. He stretched, arching it, until he felt it pop-pop-pop right down the middle. Then it felt better.
And it seemed to Delaney like it was usually women that made up those things a man couldn’t ever get over. Like Yer Poor Ma, who he could never forget. She’d been his whole world once, though she was in fact just a small, no-account woman who got herself married to a drunk, and had a kid. She wasn’t any kind of special person in any way. But she was still his Poor Ma. She still had magic in her songs, and a heart that blazed like a cookstove in his memory, and she was all inside him and would never leave him. She would always be singing him lullabies as the dark waves rose.
And Maybelle Cuddy. Just a barmaid, a plain barmaid, not like Jenta, but a regular girl serving up ale and getting pinched and slapping away rude hands and counting her tips at the end of a day. But oh, those eyes. That voice. Those things she said to him. He thought he could leave her behind, but he couldn’t. She’d always be in his heart now, always promising she’d love him forever. Didn’t matter it didn’t prove out that way. She was there for good and all, and she was still making him that promise.
And the little girl. Autumn was her name. Same deep blue eyes as Jenta. But her sweet song was so pure, and her little heart was so big, as big as the ocean and the night sky above it. He wondered now whether she’d be the same, whether that song and that heart would just rip him up inside, always. He supposed it would. But he wouldn’t know for years.
And he didn’t have years. He took a deep breath. He let it out. He watched the reeds rustle, and wondered if Hants had the same trouble with their women.
Probably. It was as though men just couldn’t help themselves. Look at Conch Imbry, as fierce a man as ever was, and yet Jenta Stillmithers had softened him all up. She was stroking his hand, and he was a puppy dog. It was like…it was like women were made to do that to men. Like men were made with a big soft spot, and no matter how tough they got they couldn’t protect themselves there. Like maybe, when God took that rib from the man to make the woman, the way the priests told it from their Scripture books, He left a hole in the man. One that she could always slide into. And the man couldn’t stop her doing it, either.
Why were men made that way? If the priests and the holy books were right, then it w
as all on Him. He made it all. He didn’t seem to care much about changing things, either. He just let it all roll on. He let people who did good get whammed down, and people who did bad get rich. And He would let Delaney get eaten by Onka Din Botlay, just for helping Autumn go free.
One thing he was sure of now, now that he’d had time think. There was a strong pull in men to do good in the world. Even inside Smith Delaney. He had a great desire to protect that little girl, to do right by Maybelle Cuddy, to be loved by Yer Poor Ma…nothing he knew in life was stronger. Even though doing good was hard and often got you hurt, and even though doing wrong was easy and hurt only other people, leaving you be, doing right was still better. He’d have made that choice all day long if he could just be by himself, without having the need to make some money, without having to run from pirates or do what captains said and whatnot. If there was a straight choice to be made between good and evil, forget the consequences, why good was just better, no matter what Sleeve said. A man’s conscience was there to drive him to do good, not to drive him to shut the thing down so it wouldn’t bother him anymore. Good had to be chosen, or the choice was, well, just bad.
Delaney felt a sense of being clean, thinking that way. Like a dip in a clear pond. Yes, choosing good was right.
Then he sighed. It was after choosing to be good that the problems came. That’s where it got complicated. He could see that, even just looking at the men he knew who chose to be good. Avery took one way, and Damrick took another. Where Damrick seemed to turn bad in order to do good, or least he seemed to turn almost bad, why, Avery seemed to turn good and just let bad go on its merry way. Which was better?
After a short ponder he concluded that if a man had to stick around in the world a while, putting up with pirates and brigands and who-have-you, then Damrick made the better choice: clean up the mess. But if a man’s time was already up, and he was about to stand before God Almighty, then Avery’s choice seemed a whole lot safer. He felt he’d much rather be Avery standing at the Judgment, having just said no to pirates and got himself shot, then to be Damrick, having just said no to pirates and shot one of them himself.
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