And like Delaney, who was just sitting on a post now, but who had nowhere to put his mind, nowhere for it to go but back to the story. He felt like a loop of line in the world was pulling him right down again, back to Mumtown. Ham would tell the story again, starting with that dream of the fast ship and the girl singing, and Delaney would wake up in that jail cell. And pretty soon there would be Conch Imbry again, standing next to Mart Mazeley, the unimpressive man, bleeding from Conch’s whip. And there would be Dallis Trum, pleading for Delaney to save him, and Delaney would save him and Kreg both by swearing to follow the Conch, to kill when Conch said kill, and die when Conch said die. And then there’d be Avery, doing a good thing. Doing a right thing. A hard thing. Sent straight to heaven, all prepared and ready, by that single shot from Conch Imbry’s pistol.
But that wouldn’t be all.
No, there would be more. And Ham would tell it.
The next thing that he would tell, that’s the part that always kept Delaney’s mind running away, or his feet moving, so he wouldn’t ever have to remember it, so he wouldn’t ever have to face it. But Ham would tell it. Everyone didn’t have to listen, but no one could stop the tale. That was the vortex, the dark maelstrom he could ignore for a time, but would always pull him back. It was the loop in the line of the world that caught his foot. It happened, true and certain, and it would be told. Ham only told what was.
“Called hisself a ‘true hand,’ ” Conch Imbry intoned. Smoke rose from his pistol. “My own feelin’ is somewhat different.” He addressed an attentive, silent, dumbstruck audience. “True hands, ye see, are true only if they’re true to me.” Now he looked from eye to eye until he’d seen into every living captive soul whose body was tied to a cell bar in Castle Mum. Avery Wittle no longer fit that category. His wrists were still tied, and his body was captive, slumped back away, arms outstretched, head lolled back, mouth open. But it housed a living soul no more.
The gunshot still rang in Delaney’s ears when he heard himself say, “Look away, now, youngster.” He said this to the Trum boy, Dallis, who was standing there with his mouth dropped open, too.
Dallis tore his eyes away, blinking against the sting of a tear.
“You.” Conch pointed at Delaney with the smoking pistol. “Ye got a soft spot fer the boy. It’ll hurt ye.”
“He’s a bit young for such, is all,” Delaney answered with a sniff.
“Aw, I shot my first man when I wasn’t yet his age.”
“Still…” Delaney started, but couldn’t think of a way to finish.
“Seems to me,” Conch said, walking to Delaney, “that all you men jus’ swore to kill when I say kill and die when I say die. Ain’t that right?”
There were nods all around, but no one spoke up. Other than Sleeve, who swore allegiance again on the spot without even being asked.
“Anyone wanna go back on that promise?” Conch asked, looking at Delaney.
Every man shook his head. Except Sleeve, who said, “No, sir!”
“Mr. Meeb, bring me my other prisoner.”
Horkan Meeb nodded and left.
“Mr. Mazeley, would ye be so kind as to reload my pistol?”
“Gladly.”
The jailor returned in less than a minute with a thin, sick-looking man in tow. The prisoner was tall, but hunched over. He dragged his feet and his ankle chains clattered. His wrists were manacled together and his arms hung straight down, like the chains were too heavy for him. His eyes were black and sunken. His clothes, which were clearly of a fancy make and design, were stained and matted, torn here and there. His eyes were dull. The skin of his face and hands was caked and cracked and blistered, so it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was canker. He smelled strongly of urine.
“Set him on the stump,” Conch ordered.
Meeb helped the man sit on the wide, natural platform in the center of the courtyard. The prisoner slumped forward, shoulders sagging, head hung down weakly. Delaney thought he might fall over, but he stayed seated as the jailor stepped away.
“Ye crossed me,” Conch said to the hunched man. “I shoulda stepped on ye then, like the mouse ye are. But yer woman, turns out she ain’t a mouse. She’s a rat.”
Now the man’s face came up. “She’s escaped,” he croaked. Then, as Conch’s face went sour, the man’s face went calm. A peacefulness stole over him. And he lowered his head again. That’s when Delaney got the idea that maybe Wentworth wasn’t just tired and sick, and hanging his head because of it, but maybe he was praying.
“This man crossed me,” Conch announced, walking up and down in front of the prisoners. “I want him dead. Now, who will help me out?”
Sleeve said, “I will, Cap’n.”
“Cut that man loose,” Conch replied. Horkan Meeb obliged. “Stand over there,” Conch said to Sleeve, pointing to a spot beside the tree-trunk platform. “Let’s see who else is willin’ and able.”
No one else volunteered.
Then Conch walked up to Delaney again, and looked him in the eye. “You, sailor.”
“So how was I supposed to know?” Delaney said aloud to the dank air of the pond, and to the invisible Jom Perhoo below the surface, and the invisible God above. “He was just a ragged prisoner, half-dead already. I figured he was a cutthroat who crossed the Conch.”
But he didn’t seem to be a cutthroat, did he?
“I guess not. But Conch, he woulda killed me if I hadn’t done it, and then Sleeve or some other body woulda killed Wentworth anyways. And then I’d a’ died for no reason.”
Except for Avery’s reason.
Delaney held his breath. That was the sticking point. That was the barb that hooked him every time. That was the pile of rocks at the bottom of the whirlpool. It was Avery’s choice that made Delaney’s look so poor. A good man dies before he’ll do bad. It doesn’t have anything to do with anything else. And there’s no way around it, once you’ve seen it up close like that. Good men do good. And they pay whatever price is to be paid for doing it. Avery did. That priest did. And then Wentworth did.
And that’s the way it works.
But Delaney did not do good. He did bad. He did it, and it was done, and it could never be undone.
The Trum boys, they never looked up to Delaney the same way again. It was like they were scared of him, and it seemed like they gave him a wide berth even when they were right nearby. And always, they gave him that look. Like he was dangerous. Like he was some sort of monster. Or at least, some sort of animal. And so Delaney knew he was truly a pirate. He’d turned.
And the worst of it was, killing Wentworth Ryland was not the end of Delaney’s crimes that day.
Success sailed into Cabeeb Bay just ahead of the rain. It had been threatening all day, with that wall of dark clouds building up behind them like some fell prophecy not yet fulfilled. Lightning could be seen jumping around within it, and an occasional low rumble reached out from it, reminding them of what was coming. Another five minutes and it would be on top of them.
Damrick scanned the bay carefully, ship to ship to ship, but did not see the Shalamon. He lowered his spyglass. “Conch isn’t here. Head into port,” he ordered. Success was already flying straight toward the inlet, where the docks were built deep into the city.
“Yer sure?” Lye asked. “What if he’s moored up in there?”
“Not like Conch to corner himself. And if he is there, we have the faster ship. We’ll have time to turn and run, wait for our Gatemen.”
“But if not, we still got a castle to scale.” He was gazing up at the blackened rock fortress above and behind the city.
“But that’s where we’re headed. No one knows this ship. Surprise is on our side.”
Lye took a deep breath, let it out in an unduly drawn-out sigh.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll get the boys ready fer a fight.” But he didn’t move.
“Lye, we’ve been through a lot. Yo
u’ve always trusted me before. What’s bothering you this time?”
“Ye want me to say it?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Lye took a deep breath. “All right then. I’ll say it. What are we doin’ here, Damrick?”
“You ask that every time.”
“Well,” he grumped. “Don’t mean I don’t want an answer. What are we doin’ here?”
“Other than getting Wentworth out of that prison?”
“I’m sayin’, why not let’s moor up in some cove like we did in Skaelington. Go in quiet, find out what’s what.”
“Cabeeb Island has no coves like that.”
“An inlet then.”
“Once Conch gets here, he’ll turn the town loose on us. Now’s our chance to get in and get out. We don’t have time.”
“We cain’t just walk in and pull our guns and say, ‘Give us the skinny man with the crooked teeth.’ This ain’t a pub we’re takin’ over. It ain’t even the Savage Grace. It’s a castle. A fortress.”
“You’ve always gone in with me before. And we’ve always come out.”
“Aye, but it’s always been about killin’ pirates before.” He said it darkly, almost under his breath.
“What is it about now, Lye?” Damrick’s voice had an edge.
“I don’t know, but it ain’t about what it was about back when. Yer takin’ crazy chances, and I don’t know why.”
“You said the same before we went after Sharkbit Sutter.”
“But ye shot the pirate and shut me up. We were in Skaelington, Skaelington, fer two days. But we didn’t shoot no pirates, Damrick. Not a one. Hit a couple of ’em in the head. Stole another one’s woman. Then we ran. Din’t even kill Ryland, who’s as big a pirate as they come. Nor Motley. No one.”
Damrick spoke calmly. “We didn’t have the men take on Conch Imbry in a straight fight.”
“Well, we didn’t wait for ’em to show up, neither. Did we?”
Damrick turned hard eyes on his lieutenant. “Are you accusing me of something?” There was a threat in his voice.
Lye lowered his eyes, groused under his breath. “I din’t think ye wanted to hear it.”
“ ‘I guess everyone dies somehow. Might as well cash out doing the world some good.’ Those are your words.”
“Well, if I do got to die, I want it to be while doin’ the whole world some good. Not just…” he wagged his head toward the door leading downward, “yer whole world.”
“We can’t die,” Damrick said. “We’re going to take down Conch Imbry. The priest said so.”
“Is that what he said? We cain’t be kilt?”
Damrick watched the Mumtown harbor approach. The black clouds were almost overhead now. The temperature was dropping, carrying the scent of rain and the crackling air of the storm that would be upon them in minutes. Lightning fired now, and thunder pounded. Finally Damrick said, “You may be right. I’m getting tired of killing.”
“Oh Lord, don’t tell me that. Not now.”
Damrick didn’t look at him.
“Okay, here’s what we do,” Lye said earnestly, holding out a hand to demonstrate. “We go blast a few Cabeebs, break Wentworth out. Then we kill the Conch. Right? After that, why, ye can get tired a’ whatever ye want.”
Damrick smiled. “After.” He pulled one pistol, checked the load, then pulled the other. Satisfied, he put them back in his belt and pulled his hat down snug. “Yes. After.”
The docks were built close along either side of the inlet, so that they lined a long narrow path of water that led deep into town. At the end of that narrow path was a rocky cliff, and on top of that cliff was Castle Mum. And on the rampart of Castle Mum stood Conch Imbry. With him were his new recruits: Smith Delaney, Spinner Sleeve, Nil Corver, Mutter Cabe, the two Trum boys. All were there, fresh from their prison cell, along with a dozen crewmen the Captain had brought along just for this purpose. Each of the new men had been given their own pistols back, and a musket courtesy of Horkan Meeb. Conch also took his place, armed, on the parapet. Cabe, Corver, and the Trums manned a cannon. Four other cannons were manned by Conch’s other men. Sleeve and Delaney stood side by side, muskets at the ready.
“The ship is called Success,” Conch instructed. “She’s a sweet little sloop. Woulda liked to own her myself. Shame to mangle ’er all up.” He paused, staring down at the docks. “And that’s her right there.” He pointed. “When the shootin’ starts, start firin’ and don’t quit ’til she’s sunk.”
“Who’s aboard?” Sleeve asked with a hungry grin.
“Don’t ye mind about that. You jes’ sink ’er to the floor.”
“Yer enemies are my enemies, Cap’n!” he exulted.
“Who’s to start the shootin’?” Mutter asked.
“Ye’ll see when ye see. Then commence to firin’.”
“Not a berth to be had.” Damrick noted.
“No,” Lye agreed. Their mainsail was struck, and they were drifting slowly. A few rain drops spattered here and there on the decks. The end of the navigable water was in sight, and still they had found no place to moor the sloop. “Everyone’s gettin’ in out a’ the storm, I reckon.” He scanned the docks. “Sure a lot a’ people watchin’ us, though.”
They were silent for a moment. From ships, from docks, from moored boats, from houses along the shore, many silent eyes followed them, and they seemed to be joined by many more even as they watched.
“Why are they standin’ outside with the rain comin’? Ye think they recognize Ryland’s ship?”
Damrick shook his head. “They aren’t looking at the ship. They’re looking at us. Conch’s already here.”
“Uh-oh,” Lye said.
Damrick followed Lye’s line of vision. The thunderstorm was upon them. Lightning flashed, and a crack of thunder rumbled down the little pathway from the bay. But Lye wasn’t looking at the sky.
“Shalamon,” Damrick said.
And so it was. Coming up from behind was the dark ship, still under sail, filling the inlet. Her canvas billowed, and she moved with amazing speed. And with her came the rain, as though she carried with her the wave of black clouds. Suddenly, the wind drove water horizontally at the sloop, and the drops came stinging.
“All hands, prepare to fire!” Damrick ordered. But not one of them needed to move in order to obey. Then to Lye he said, “How’d she hide from us?”
Lye was dumbfounded. “Rode the storm in.”
Gunfire came now with the stinging rain, peppered from plumes of smoke and flashes of yellow fire. And all those faces, all those who lined the docks watching, now brought weapons up to squinting eyes. Pistols, muskets, rifles—small arms fire ripped from shore to ship, a thousand tongues of flame lashing, an echoing of thunder to match that of the storm, rolling back up the narrow valley.
The sloop was riddled in an instant.
Stock was at the helm, and he fell first, a thud of lead into flesh and bone, a rush of breath from his chest. Then Murk-Eye went down clutching his neck at the starboard rail, shot through the throat. Four more musket balls struck him where he lay. Stock raised his pistol, fired lying on his back, and then tried to reload. But now he was hit in the arm, the hand. He lay there, looking helplessly at his pistol, trying to determine how he might get a powder packet into its barrel with only one hand, when another musket ball ended his quandary.
“Devil blast that pirate, he owns this town, too!” Lye muttered. His pistol came up and cracked, but it was a paltry reply to the downpour now unleashed against him. He ducked behind a stern rail that provided the merest cover, squeezed off one more shot, and then fell to his backside, struck square between the ribs. He dropped his pistol and turned over, crawling for the small doorway to get below. He was hit three more times before his body lay still, face down across the reddening deck.
A double-barreled pistol in each hand, Damrick fired four times in rapid succession, moving backward, also trying to make his way to the door, but he too pinwheeled to the
deck. He was shot through, just below the right shoulder. He crawled, and was hit again in the left side as he reached the open door mouth.
Now the whistle and sploosh of a cannonball drove a flume of water high into the air just off the bows. It was followed immediately by the bellow of a cannon. From the castle above, the musket shot was erratic. But the big round shot came in with deadly accuracy. A second effort exploded into the stern of Success, splintering it in an instant, bouncing the craft as though it had been tossed on a mammoth wave.
Damrick looked back, saw Lye Mogene’s head move, and then his face turn toward him. He reached down with his left hand, grabbed Lye by the collar, and pulled. His boots scrabbled against the wet, slick wood beneath him. But Lye crawled forward until he was beside Damrick, looking at him through bloody, gritted teeth.
“Dropped my pistol,” Lye groused.
“Get below,” Damrick ordered. Then he sat up and grabbed Lye by his belt and pulled, slinging his lieutenant forward, propelling him through the open hatchway and down the stairs.
Another musket ball slammed into Damrick’s right thigh. He cried out, turned over, and pulled himself forward, willing himself through the opening. He slid face-forward down the steep stairs, somersaulting onto his back near the bottom, landing on Lye Mogene.
Darkness rose as the pain overwhelmed him.
When it cleared, he saw her face.
She was heartbreakingly beautiful, dressed again in her serving gown, her hair hanging down toward him. She was not the cold barmaid of the Cleaver and Fork. She was the young woman at the docks, flowing up the gangway, rising above him, bearing the weight of the world. And now, there was something else in her. There was joy within the sadness. He reached up for her. She floated, smiling, as though under water. She took his hand, pressed it to her cheek. “Is it over already?” she whispered. “Tell me it’s not over.”
He felt her tears, warm on his hand.
The crashing of another cannonball rocked the sloop, and brought him to consciousness. The ship listed badly, toward starboard astern. Jenta was nowhere to be seen. He pulled himself up to one elbow, saw Lye Mogene lying beside him on his back.
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