Blaggard's Moon

by George Bryan Polivka

  But he wasn’t sure why he felt that way.

  Jenta put the key into the lock and turned it around once, feeling the heavy deadbolt slide into the wooden frame. The back door of the Cleaver and Fork was locked tight.

  “I’ll take that, ma’am,” a stoop-shouldered pirate told her. She handed him the key, then walked between him and his hulking partner as the two pirates escorted her back to the Shalamon.

  The sun’s light was creeping upward from the eastern sky. For most of her life she had loved the morning time, loved being awake to hear the call of the songbirds. They always seemed to be laughing the world to life, announcing that a new day had dawned and all who slept were missing out. But these walks back to Conch Imbry’s dark ship every morning had cured her of that. The sun’s light seemed harsh and unwelcome; the bird’s trills were brash and tactless, even mocking. She found herself relieved on those nights when the regulars left early and the pub shut down before dawn. Then she could walk the eight blocks to the wharf in the still, silent shroud of night, the streets lit only by meager lamplight, and perhaps a cold and distant moon.

  Reaching the ship, she climbed the gangway and thanked her escorts, inwardly grateful that they had been instructed not to speak to her. She climbed from the main deck to the quarterdeck and fished her own key from her pocket. But she stopped short outside the door to her cabin. It was ajar. She leaned in close and heard the hard, heavy breathing within. Conch Imbry was not quite snoring, but was definitely asleep.

  She blew out her cheeks and swept a wisp of hair from her forehead. She hated when he did this. Though he had thus far been true to his word, making no effort to force her affections, he was quite consistent about arranging little events like this, opportunities for her to change her mind. She turned her back to the door, looking around, wondering where else she could go, even for a few minutes. The galley? Yes, the cook would have made coffee by now. He would give her a cup. But then he wouldn’t stay. No sailor cared to answer the Conch’s inevitable questions about how he came to be alone with Jenta, and what, exactly, transpired between them.

  Now she heard footsteps down on the main deck. She didn’t want to be observed standing outside her own door, hesitating. But she didn’t want to enter, either. She looked at the large double doors of Conch’s cabin and suddenly wondered…were they locked? She crossed the four steps in a silent hurry, turned the knob, and the door opened inward. Instantly, she was inside and the door was closed behind her.

  She stood in the dark for a moment, listening. The footsteps did not approach. She turned around. A lamp burned low on the table before her. She walked to it, turned the flame up. Then she sat quietly on the bench of the captain’s saloon and looked around at the familiar space. She took most of her meals here, with Conch and Mr. Mazeley and sometimes others of the crew. She had also spent many evenings here alone with the Captain, talking to him as he drank and told his stories, as he eyed her approvingly or teased her. Testing her. Wooing her. The space was not plush, nothing like Runsford Ryland’s accommodations. But it was the sort of place he found most comfortable—worn, smoke-stained, smelling of lye and rye and old tobacco. It was the bear’s den.

  The bear. She and Wentworth had poked him with a stick, and he had snapped it in half, cornered her, devoured him. She hung her head. Poor Wentworth. Slipping her hand into her dress pocket, she fingered the delicate gold band she kept on a chain there. She pulled it out and looked at it. Her wedding ring.

  Suddenly she stood, snatched up the lantern, and walked boldly into Conch Imbry’s private quarters. She had not been within these walls, had not desired to see them, but now she had a mission. Starting with Conch’s dresser drawers, she began looking through all his things. She went through drawers of clothing, finding nothing. Moving to his nightstand, she pulled on the one small drawer. It stuck. Pulling harder, it came out in her hands, and she nearly dumped its contents onto the floor. Instead, she dumped it all on his bed. Setting the lantern on the bed as well, she poked through the items: sealing wax, various brass seals and signets, matches, gold coins, silver coins, a bosun’s whistle, two pocketknives, various beads and carved ivory trinkets, all prized and kept for one reason or another. But no gold wedding band. She scooped the contents back into the drawer with two hands, carefully sweeping the dust from the bedclothes.

  The ship creaked loudly.

  She froze, listening. Her heart beat quickly, insistently. But she heard nothing more. She picked up the drawer to put it back into the nightstand, and her hand came to rest on a piece of parchment affixed to the outside of it at the back. She looked at it in the lamplight. It was folded, aged, covered with dust, tacked at its four corners. It was something important, something he kept secret. But it wasn’t a wedding band, so she returned the drawer to its rightful place.

  Then she went to his wardrobe. She looked around the base, his shiny boots and his buckled shoes. Then she went through his hanging clothes, the jackets, vests, shirts, checking all the pockets. At the far end of the rod, she found a small velvet bag hanging from a braided silk cord. She set the lantern on the floor and opened the drawstrings of the pouch, then poured the contents into her hand. Rings, diamonds, gold earrings, even a few gold teeth. Holding them down by the light, she found what she was looking for. A gold band, inscribed on the inside with the single word, “Jenta.”

  A pang shot through her. It was such a simple inscription, almost childlike. Certainly more innocent than any of the circumstances surrounding it. She slipped it into her pocket and scooped the remaining valuables back into the pouch. She drew the drawstring tight, closed the doors, looked around her. Everything was as it was—undisturbed. She took the lantern and left the room.

  Seconds later, she returned, an unnamed anger driving her, a bitterness not aimed at the Conch, particularly, but at the world, at the ways in which good things were twisted and manipulated, in which hearts were wrung and cheated, lied to and coerced. She set the lantern on the bed, and yanked the small drawer from the lampstand. Using the blade of one of the pocketknives, she prised the tacks from the corners. She pocketed the tacks and the parchment, and returned the drawer to its place.

  Assessing the cabin one more time, sure she had left no traces of her visit, she drew the door closed behind her, replaced the lantern on the table, and turned the light down low. She listened at the door for any telltale sound. She heard footsteps, waited until they faded away in the distance. She straightened her dress, then her hair. She raised her chin. And she stepped back out the door, closing it quickly behind her. She looked around. No one.

  She walked boldly into her own cabin, leaving the door open behind her. “Why, Captain Imbry!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “What a pleasant surprise! Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Those knots holding tight?” Runsford Ryland asked Motley.

  “No thanks to you, ye traitor!” Motley growled. Night had fallen, and the small ship was anchored in a silent, craggy, wooded cove several miles from Skaelington. The red-haired goon was still tied at the base of the mast. His fine clothes were soiled; his long red hair greasy. He smelled bad.

  “Let me check those,” Ryland said, leaning down as though to test the knots. He glanced up at Murk-Eye, who stood at the rail, back turned. Then in a whisper he said to the prisoner, “Damrick’s gone on a raid. Just me and that Murk fellow are left here to guard you.” He put a small knife into Motley’s upturned palm, then dropped a derringer into his front pocket. “You shoot him. I can’t be the one to do it.”

  “Hey, keep away from him!” Murk-Eye ordered. “Damrick says!”

  “Damrick says!” Motley mocked. “Ye disgust me.”

  Murk sighed. “Now that’s gonna keep me up all night.” He turned away again, watching the woods along the shoreline. His pistol remained in his belt.

  “The Cleaver and Fork,” Ryland said in a whisper. “Tell Conch it’s the Cleaver and Fork. Damrick’s going to raid the pub tonight, steal his woman.”


  Motley nodded. “Cleaver and Fork,” he whispered back.

  “Tonight!” Ryland emphasized. Then he left the prisoner at the mast and stood next to Murk at the rail. The two men spoke softly to one another.

  “You give ’im the pistol?” Murk asked, now whispering himself.

  “And the knife,” Ryland nodded. “I can’t believe I agreed to do this.”

  “Ye’ve agreed to a whole lot worse, I reckon.”

  “Well, I can’t argue that.” Ryland heaved a sigh. He turned his head until he could just see Motley out of the corner of an eye. Then he faced away again and whispered, “He’s free.”

  “Ready, then?”

  “You’re sure the pistols were loaded properly?” Ryland looked nervous.

  “Loaded ’em myself,” Murk assured him.

  “That doesn’t give me a warm feeling.”

  Murk turned to Ryland and gave him a grin that was more gaps than teeth. “Well,” he said in a voice plenty loud enough to be overheard, “since everyone else is gone and left us, think I’ll just check on the prisoner!” He stretched. “Then maybe get some shut-eye.” He turned from the rail and walked toward Motley.

  With a leer that spoke of great satisfaction, Motley raised the small pistol, aimed it at Murk, and fired. The Gateman clutched his chest and went to his knees as the crack of the derringer echoed around the rocky cove. Then he fell forward onto the deck and lay still.

  Ryland ran to him, knelt beside him, put a hand on his neck. “Dead!” He looked up at Motley, who stood at the mast with a haze of gray smoke hanging in a small cloud before him. Ryland took the pistol from Murk’s belt, stood, and held it out toward Motley. “Take this.” But behind him Murk moved. And then a second small pistol cracked. Now Ryland dropped to his knees. “I’m shot!” he announced.

  Motley cursed, took the weapon from Ryland’s hand, and fired at the wounded Gateman. This pistol boomed, throwing out a blinding yellow flash. The echo was like a roll of thunder. Murk jerked, and lay still.

  Ryland slumped backward now, and stretched out on the deck. “The blaggard’s killed me!” He seemed more surprised than angry. “Go! Tell Conch.” He squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Motley watched for a moment longer, his own eyes wide. He looked once more at Murk-Eye, who lay still. When he looked back down at Ryland, the businessman was also silent and still. Motley knelt beside him. There was no breath in him. He stood up again, looking into the darkness of the woods, listening. Finally he took two steps and leaped over the rail, splashed into the water, and swam for all he was worth toward shore.

  When the splashing turned to crashing through the woods, Ryland raised his head. Murk winked his good eye. Stock came up from below. “Lotta ruckus,” he said with a grin.

  Damrick’s calm eyes peered out from under a broad-brimmed hat as he walked in the shadows of the side streets of Skaelington. He wore a full-length riding coat and kept his hands in its pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around two loaded pistols. Beside him was Lye Mogene, wearing a shorter coat and no hat. The two finally stopped in a pool of darkness at the foot of a small church. Damrick glanced once at its towering spire, then looked back down the street.

  Satisfied they were not followed, and had drawn no one’s attention, he motioned to Lye with a nod. Damrick climbed the seven steps to its red front door, Lye Mogene right behind him. He didn’t knock, but turned the large brass handle and both men entered.

  “Wait here,” Damrick told his lieutenant.

  Lye nodded, and positioned himself in front of one of the two small windows of the dark foyer. Damrick went through the door into the sanctuary.

  It was black dark within, as though the shadows here cast shadows, and it smelled of must and dust. But it was not unpleasant. In fact, Damrick breathed it in deeply, finding its silence and the feeling of remoteness comforting. He sat in the back pew until his eyes grew accustomed to what starlight came from the few high windows above. He could just make out the shimmering outline of a cross on the wall above the altar.

  A door creaked. A shaft of light fell on the cross, and the altar. Then a thin, frail priest in a hooded gray robe shuffled down the center aisle. He was little more than a shadow himself, with only the dim light from the doorway behind him to outline his robes. Damrick slid over, making room, and the priest sat. He was breathing heavily, like a rasp on wood, as though the trek had taken all his strength. He kept his head bowed. The hood shrouded his face.

  Damrick waited for him to regain his breath. Then he said, “I have a question to ask you, Father.”

  “And I have a message for you.”

  Damrick took a folded, sealed parchment from his pocket. “Is this legitimate?”

  “What is it?” The priest reached out for it. Damrick could see that his left hand was badly scarred, front and back. Not burns or ragged cuts, but concentric and interlocking patterns, as though his skin had been carved very carefully but very deeply with tiny knives. His hand trembled as though with great age. Damrick placed the parchment in the priest’s palm. He felt it, turned it over, examined the broken seal and the ribbon with the fingers of his right hand, the skin of which was similarly patterned.

  “This is an official letter from the Church,” the priest said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “The size, the weight, the paper, the seal. Or it’s a very good imitation.”

  “We found it hidden on Runsford Ryland’s boat.”

  “Unopened.”

  “It’s addressed to Conch Imbry.”

  There was a pause. “You want me to open it.”

  “I didn’t feel it right…” He trailed off.

  With one trembling hand the priest lowered his hood, revealing a face covered with the same patterned scars that tattooed his hands and arms. His skin was sallow and jaundiced everywhere except where the reddened scar of an old burn marred and puckered his cheek. “I can do little with the short time left me.” He raised his head, turned it toward Damrick. Father Carter Dent’s eye sockets were empty. “But I will do anything I can do to bring down Conch Imbry.”

  Damrick swallowed his revulsion until it turned to bitterness in his belly. “Did he do this to you?”

  “His Hant chieftain, yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do it. He did.” The priest’s carved fingers fumbled, and the seal broke. He unfolded the parchment, and handed it back.

  Damrick read it silently. He stared at it a long time. Then he said, “It grants an annulment of marriage to Jenta and Wentworth Ryland.”

  “I didn’t know they were married.”

  “Nor did I. Why would it be addressed to Conch Imbry?”

  “Only if he was the one who made the formal request. And I can think of only one reason he would do so.”

  Damrick set his jaw. “Yes. It is signed by Jenta also.”

  “Coerced?”

  Damrick didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “But why all this effort? Ryland says Conch killed Wentworth. That’s a much quicker annulment, and much more Conch’s style.”

  “Maybe she believes Wentworth is still alive. Maybe Imbry lied to her.”

  “Or maybe Wentworth actually is alive, and Ryland lied to me.”

  “But why?”

  “So I would believe he has motive to kill the Conch. So I would believe I should trust him.”

  “I hope you don’t. Now I have a message for you from the Gatemen.”

  He cocked his head. “What is it?”

  “It comes from those who call themselves ‘The Black S.’ ”

  Damrick nodded, waited. The priest referred to the scrap of parchment that designated some Gatemen as those who Serve.

  “They want you to know that Conch has put Jenta to work at the Cleaver and Fork.”

  “I’ve heard she works there.”

  “He’s given her the pub, to run. Their message is this: Conch expects you will t
ry to rescue her. He is sure you will at least attempt to contact her. But do not go there. It’s a trap.”

  Damrick bowed his head, rubbed his eyebrows.

  After a pause, the priest asked, “What will you do?”

  He sighed. “What I must do. If that’s what Conch expects, so be it.”

  “What you must do to get the Conch? Or to get the girl?”

  Damrick squinted at the priest. “She and Wentworth stood up to Conch Imbry. They did it by throwing in with me. They’re both paying for that decision. Don’t you think I owe them?”

  “Whatever they have done, they have chosen to do.”

  “Thanks for the message, Father.”

  “I have another message. This one from a higher power.”

  A tingle went down Damrick’s spine. “What is it?”

  “I don’t hear voices as a rule. I believe people know what is right, and are expected to do it. But this…this was different. I don’t have much time left here. And I have been given a word of knowledge to pass on to you.”

  Damrick waited.

  “You will bring down Conch Imbry.”

  The message seemed to deflate Damrick, and he put a hand to his forehead. And then, just as quickly, he sat up straight, his shoulders back, and seemed to grow stronger. “Thank you,” he said. And in his voice was a world of gratitude that reached out far beyond a marred and mangled priest in a dark, quiet church.

  “It’s the pirate’s pub!” Lye said urgently. “We don’t know who’s in there.”

  Damrick eyed the Cleaver and Fork from across the street. Like most Skaelington pubs, it was quiet and dark from the outside. But this one was distinctive, painted black with crimson and gold trim, with rich velvet curtains visible through big, wide windows. People inside were visible from the street.

  “It’s just you and me here,” Lye tried again. “Two men, four pistols. If this is yer plan, Damrick, I got to say it ain’t much a’ one.”

  Damrick still said nothing.

  “That priest,” Lye tried, “said it’s a trap. Right?”

  “He said that’s what people believe. He said a lot of other things besides.” He did not take his eyes from the big windows of the pub.