The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  Rod Duncan

  The Outlaw &

  the Upstart King

  being volume two of

  the Map of Unknown Things

  Social Robotics

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  Part One

  The bookmaker and the gun smuggler: brothers in a way, rivals without a doubt. Each knows enough to recognize himself in the other. They would be the humble servant, always, of gambler and warrior. Loss is the subject of both trades. But not their own. Their payment is a peppercorn. Who would be without such servants?

  Chapter 1

  Elias chose a booth at the back of the Salt Ray Inn. Furthest from the lamps. Hiding against the risk that one of the other drinkers might have known him from his life before. His eyes were the giveaway. Their upward tilt came from his grandfather, the gemstone blue from his mother.

  Setting down his tankard, he hid his hands under the table and set to watching the room. A young trader here, a fishwife there. Most would be carrying knives. But no big weapons. Modest folk of modest means. No men of the Blood. Hushed talk made a gentle hubbub. He would be safe enough.

  Even with those distinctive eyes, Elias would have been hard to recognise. His face had weathered in his time away. His rich clothes too, thinning and fading. The cloak had been a fine thing once. Now there might be only a year left in it. But tomorrow he’d buy himself a new one. It would be hemmed with silver thread. There’d be garnets big as blackberries in the clasp. Tomorrow he’d have the money. Tomorrow he’d get even.

  Always tomorrow.

  With enough time, he might have earned such silver and gold by regular means. He could have set up a place of his own. A fixed address with house rules and a roof that didn’t leak. He could have sold liquor and hash instead of paying to sit far from someone else’s fire, next to a wooden pail already half-full from dripping rainwater.

  He sipped the bitter ale, just to wet his mouth.

  On seeing a man carrying three flagons from the tap, he beckoned. The man faltered, as if the “come hither” might have been meant for someone else.

  So Elias asked him, “Have you seen this one?”

  The man glanced to the booth where his friends were waiting for beer. Elias lifted a Lucifer from the uneven table, gripping it between two fingers. The man approached. Elias took a second match with his other hand, the same awkward finger-grip. He turned them until they were end on end in a vertical line, then let go the top one, as if attempting a balance. It fell. No surprise there.

  “What?” the man asked.

  “I bet I can make one stand on top of the other.” This spoken in a whisper, so the man had to come closer to hear.

  “How much?”

  Sliding a clipping from a silver coin over the table, Elias took a deep breath and held out the matches again. The man set down his flagons. He sat, leaning closer for a clearer view in the low light. Some people want their money taking.

  “Ready?”

  The man nodded.

  Elias struck one match on the rough wall and held the flaring head against the other, lighting that also. He blew out the flame. The phosphorus of the two match heads had fused forming a single lump of ash, fixing them together.

  “You cheated!” the man said. “They’re not balanced!”

  “I never said they’d balance. I said they’d stand. And they do. Look.”

  The man balled his fists. “I did not agree to the bet!”

  Elias leaned back and waved in dismissal. “No matter,” he said. “I don’t want your silver.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he said. It must never be him against them. “But I’ll teach you how to play the same trick. Then you can bring your friends over. If it works, you can give me a tip. What do you say?”

  So it began. The playful bet of matches first. Then cards. He did the setting out of them, so the men could be sure there would be no double dealing. For an hour he had them. Until their tempers frayed. With each other. All he’d done was take the dealer’s cut, once in a while, when the hands scored like for like.

  After they left, stomping out into the squally night, Elias began drinking the rest of the half pint in his pint flagon. He’d planned to make it last, then head out to the back and sneak past the stable boy so he could bury himself in straw. Shallow enough to not be smothered. Deep enough not to freeze. Newfoundland could be cold in any season.

  But the three gamblers had proved richer than their clothes and drunker than the hour. They’d carried real American coins. He’d made enough to take a room for the night if he wished. Even a bath.

  He was thinking on the sweetness of life when a squat man stepped into the Salt Ray Inn, leaving the door swinging, as only one could do who’d forgotten what it felt like to need to be polite. His hair was long on one side. But as the wind pulled it back, Elias saw the scarring and the missing ear. On the other side, the man’s head had been shaved to stubble.

  The rain outside had turned to snow. A flurry swirled in. Drinkers near the door hunkered down into cloaks and coats. They wouldn’t complain. The town was unaligned, meaning a fighter of any oath could show his face.

  He took a couple of paces, peered into shadows here and there, as if checking for threats, then beckoned towards the open door. In marched half a dozen men with swords or pistols at their belts. The last of them had to stoop to pass under the lintel. His left coat sleeve had been knotted below the elbow. A missing forearm. Most had lost something: a finger, a hand. Hazards of the oath-bound life. But not the man they guarded. That was Jago: unmistakably barrel-chested. No other Patron would have dared to travel with so small a band.

  Elias had already scooped the hacksilver and foreign coins from the table. He hoped the shadow had covered his move. The drinkers in the best seats had been evicted. They stood, bowed and gestured for the warriors to take their places, as if making the offer by choice.

  Patron Jago sat, propping his feet on a stool near the fire. His muddy boots steamed. The men sat with him, but for the knot-sleeved giant who remained on guard in the draft near the door. Elias watched it all over the rim of his empty tankard, trying to seem more casual than he felt. The owner of the Salt Ray was hurrying across, arms laden with bottles. Imported wine, most likely. She wouldn’t risk offering them the ale they brewed at the inn. A dark-haired barmaid followed with glasses and a tray of something. It made for a fair distraction. The girl bent to serve food. The man at the door leered at her arse.

  Elias picked up his hat and slid out from behind the table. A narrow passage led towards the rear yard. It was the first thing he had checked on arriving. Patron Jago was a man he’d need to speak to. But not here. Not yet. Elias would need to choose his own place and time.

  Lifting the latch, he slipped out into the night. A storm lantern squeaked as it swung on its bracket, lighting a halo of drifting snowflakes. Slipping the winnings and cards into the pocket at his belt, he drew the old cloak tight around him. One more night in a hayloft wasn’t going to hurt. He started across the yard towards the stables.

  But a figure loomed from the shadow to block his way. A gatherer. One of Jago’s men. Damn, but of course he’d left a guard at the back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Going for a pish,” said Elias, adding the slur to seem more helpless.

  “Then you’re going wrong,” said the man, pointing towards the latrine with a long knife. “The pisser’s over there.” He must have done something to displease his Patron or he wouldn’t have been given that dismal watch.

>   “Drunk too mush,” said Elias.

  “Show me your face,” said the man.

  Elias removed his hat and scrunched his eyes in a squint that he hoped would seem drunken.

  “Have I seen you before?” asked the man.

  “Dunno.”

  “Got any money?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he patted down Elias’s side with his free hand, finding the pocket inside the cloak. Metal chinked.

  “There’s a fine for being drunk,” said the man.

  “Never heard of it,” said Elias.

  “Yeah. It’s new.”

  “How mush?”

  “Show me what you’ve got.”

  There was nothing to do but obey. Elias opened his cloak and poured the silver from the pocket. A couple of ounces all told. He held it out on his upturned palm: four fingers delicate and long and the stump that had been the base of his thumb. If only he’d had time to pull on his gloves.

  “Show me your other hand,” said the gatherer.

  Elias did.

  The man licked his lips and grinned in the manner of one who’s just found a way back into the warmth. “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re Elias No-Thumbs. Jago’s been wanting to speak to you.”

  Being spoken to by a Patron Protector didn’t mean a conversation. Not for someone like Elias. It meant lying in the mud while three or four gatherers took turns to kick him in the guts. A reminder of his place in the world. In case he needed it.

  Oath-bound to no man, Patron Protectors were the un-ruled, doing as they wished, upholding their rights through war. There was honour in that. But there was still a seemly way to go about things: a custom and practice for which Jago showed little respect. The others wouldn’t have killed him there on the unaligned land of New Whitby. But with Jago it was hard to know.

  Steered by pricks from the gatherer’s long knife, he stumbled back down the passage into the saloon, his hands raised. The other drinkers couldn’t look away quickly enough. At least he got to be next to the fire, though kneeling on the flagstones with a blade touching his shoulder.

  Jago smiled that fickle smile of his. “Well met, Elias,” he said. “It’s been a long time. Eighteen months pass so swift. Though not for you, eh? But here you are, back in the motherland.” The underside of his boots were caked in horse shit.

  Elias bowed.

  “How’s business?” the Patron asked.

  The gatherer held out Elias’s winnings, or some of them. “Found this in his pocket.”

  “A wealthy man!” said Jago.

  The others laughed.

  “Who did you rob?”

  “No one.”

  The gatherer with the knife handed over Elias’s playing cards. “He had these.”

  Jago flicked through them. “Do you deal with your teeth?”

  “They’re a keepsake,” Elias said.

  “A reminder of the old days, eh?”

  Elias nodded. His cloak was steaming. His back and shoulder were getting too much of the fire. Jago shifted his feet and some of the drying horse shit dropped to the floor.

  “When did you get back to the Mother Land?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “You should have come to see me. Enjoy your travels?”

  “No, Patron.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “West. The Hudson Bay. Churchill.”

  “And what did you see there?”

  “Bears and drunk trappers.”

  Jago laughed. Elias wasn’t sure if this was a good sign. He tried to lean away from the fire but the gatherer behind him jiggled the knife at his neck so he had to kneel straight again.

  “You didn’t go any further west then?” Jago asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not? Churchill’s a shit-hole.”

  “No guide would take me,” Elias said.

  “That would be the stink of you!”

  The gatherers laughed again.

  Elias could smell burning cloth. He lowered his head, as if to abase himself, but in truth to allow a glance to where the trailing edge of his cloak lay in the hearth. An ember had landed on it and a thread of smoke was rising. He bowed lower still, placing his forehead on the cobbles next to the drying filth. In the same movement, he pulled his cloak clear of the fire.

  “Have mercy,” he said.

  “Why? What have you done?”

  “I don’t know. But if I’ve displeased you…”

  “You have me wrong, No-Thumbs. You weren’t man enough to die back then. Now I’ve the pleasure of seeing you reduced.”

  The blade lifted under his chin, forcing him back to a kneeling position.

  “Eighteen months are up. The outlawing over. And back you crawl to New Whitby. Back to your old ways. But not up to your old tricks, eh? Can’t play your old tricks without thumbs.”

  Jago’s feet clomped down onto the flagstones and the great man stood. He turned and Elias risked a glance around the room. All the other drinkers were looking down into their flagons and beakers.

  “See this man,” Jago said, his voice loud. “You’re not to show him your money, unless you want to be losing it. He’s a liar and a cheat.” He flourished the worn pack of playing cards by way of proof. Not that anyone dared to look. “And don’t you go pitying him. He was born with a silver spoon up his arse. The famous Elias No-Thumbs.”

  So saying Jago tossed the playing cards towards the fire. Elias watched them catch. He’d rather have taken a beating.

  “Now clear out, all of you. Blame No-Thumbs if you like.”

  His cloak was no longer steaming. All the moisture had gone from it. He was so hot it felt as if his flesh might be next to smoulder. The giant one-armed gatherer held open the door and all the drinkers trooped out into the snow. All the witnesses.

  Jago kicked it closed after them, then strode back to the fire. “What else have you got to give me?” he asked.

  “I’ve nothing.”

  Jago took the knife from his gatherer and ran the tip around Elias’s ear. “Some other amusement? Will you bark like a dog?”

  Elias might have done it: yapped and rolled in the dirt for them. Anything so they’d leave him alone. But he’d seen enough of the courts of the Patrons to know better than that. Bark and he’d be given a worse test. Something more humiliating, more dangerous, searching for his limits. It would end badly.

  “Well? Will you not bark?”

  “No.”

  Jago would kick him, for sure. He braced for the impact, tensing his stomach muscles. But the blow came to his head and from behind. Lights burst in the air.

  He became aware of the uneven meeting of two damp flagstones under his cheek. Saliva must have run from his slack mouth. He hoped it was saliva. He’d forgotten about the gatherer standing behind him, the one who’d caught him trying to leave. Jago’s voice drifted somewhere above. The Patron Protector was addressing his men. The words seemed far away but they were sharp and angry.

  Elias blinked, clearing his vision. The flagstones were the floor of the Salt Ray Inn. Only a few seconds could have passed. That surprised him. It felt like longer.

  Someone grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. The room heaved. So did his guts, but he didn’t throw up. One of the gatherers chucked a cup of wine into his face. Somewhere in his mind, he marvelled at how good it tasted. It paid to be oath-bound to a wealthy man. He closed his mouth.

  Jago’s face loomed. The Patron must be bending down.

  “See what happens when you don’t do what you’re told?”

  “Shorry,” Elias managed, the slur real this time.

  “You should know. You, of all people.”

  “I’m a shlow learner.”

  Jago frowned, as if his kindness was being mocked. Elias braced for another blow, but it didn’t come.

  “How did you get away when you were outlawed?” This the Patron asked in a whisper, as if not wanting his men to hear. It was the real question, the reason for the
talking to. How does any outlawed man get across the straights to Labrador?

  “I stole a boat.”

  “And no one saw you?”

  “It was a very small boat.”

  “Jokes get men killed.”

  Jago was very close now, his voice little more than a breath. He smelled of something sweet. “A boatman helped you to get away. I want to meet him, Elias, whoever he is. Bring him to me and you’ll have a reward. You need to know who your friends are. I’ll give you one week.”

  Chapter 2

  In Labrador they joked that more Newfoundlanders had been killed in arguments over fish than had ever been killed over women. But what did they know? Feudal Newfoundland was a place apart, even in the wilds. The thing they fought for, died for, was to hold a stretch of coast. Fish, seals and seaweed would be part of it. Whales, too, if the gods were kind. But the meat of it was this: someone might try to smuggle weapons across. Without a harbour at his command, a Patron could do nothing to stop such a crime. Nor could he try to do it himself.

  They were dangerous waters.

  The coastline of Newfoundland that no Patron could hold was Cape Ray and the bays and inlets around New Whitby. Whichever of them had tried to thrust his will on it in the past had been laid low by the swords of the others. It wasn’t a law exactly. That would have been impossible. It was merely custom and practice: an understanding born of history.

  This tract spanned twelve miles and two furlongs east to west as the raven flew, marked with cairns at either end, with a hinterland of seven miles and five furlongs northwards from the coast. A boat docking there could be inspected by any free man. If the cargo wasn’t contraband, the owners would be left to go about their business. A graveyard of smuggling ships lay out in the bay, rotting timbers showing at low tide like the ribcages of drowned men. Such was the price of freedom.

  Contraband was chiefly weaponry and powder. But also women or men bearing oath-marks. And the outlawed.

  That was the problem with being outlawed. You couldn’t stay, because you’d be found and killed for sure. You couldn’t sail, because no captain would risk his life for such a cargo. Many were the outlaws who, against all reason, made their way to the coast where the straits were narrowest, and there gave up. They would be found sitting on the rocks, watching chunks of ice flowing past and on the other side, unreachable, the land of safety.