Talon raced eastward toward the port just ahead of the rain. Her horse, stolen from among those tied in the alleyway behind the sheriff’s office, was wild-eyed, foaming, at an all-out gallop. It feared and loathed, but obeyed absolutely, the fiery monster that had leapt with hissing strength upon its back.
“I have authority to put you in prison on a single word,” the prince threatened. His easy demeanor seemed little changed, but the threat was real. He spoke slowly, with a voice like oil. “And worse. You do understand who I am, don’t you?”
Panna was unmoved. She’d seen enough death today to be weary of it; her own imprisonment seemed a small matter. “I mean no disrespect.”
“You have something to hide, then?”
“No. The contrary. Senslar Zendoda’s last instructions were to run here, to you, and tell you everything that has happened, sparing nothing.”
He pondered. That would have been a difficult quotation to simply invent for the present purpose. But then, what was her purpose? “And yet you refuse to do so? I don’t understand.”
Panna looked at him, saw nothing but the oily certainty of his rank, his lineage. “Mr. Zendoda must have respected you greatly,” she said. “Surely you are a good man and a just prince, or he would not have put such faith in you. But you must understand that I speak the truth. If what you hear are only the wild ravings of a foolish girl…” she trailed off, not wanting her voice to crack. She swiped angrily at a tear in her eye.
Now the prince nodded, recognizing the backbone of the woman before him. This was principle, not evasion.
The valet strode back into the room, wide-eyed.
“Well?” Mather demanded, standing.
“It is…bad news.”
“Speak it.”
“I repeat only what I am told. Mr. Zendoda and at least three deputies, sir.”
“What of them?”
“The report I have received—”
“Just say it, man, I will not hold you accountable.”
“They are dead, sir.”
“And Bench Urmand?”
“He’s now investigating.”
“Bring him here. Tell him I’ve got Panna Seline.” Mather looked at Panna. Her expression was unchanged. He wondered for the first time if she might be dangerous. “And send a guard up here.”
“Yes, sir.” The valet left them.
Panna looked at him for just a moment, studying his face, and then said, “I am now prepared to tell you my story.”
Talon finally reined the creature to a halt on a small bluff overlooking the bay. The docks spread out below her, two great piers angling out from a common boardwalk. Her horse trembled beneath her, blowing great breaths through its nostrils, dancing and anxious. There were half a hundred ships in port, in all sizes and shapes. She looked for one that seemed ready to sail. She would steal a small one, or commandeer a large one; it didn’t matter to her. The wind was to her back; it had changed to her advantage. Any ship with a sail would head straight out to sea in this weather.
And then she saw it, a tall ship near the end of the northernmost pier, sails ragged, mast broken. “Idiots!” she hissed as she turned her horse and galloped at full speed down the bluff, across the boardwalk, and then right out onto the wooden pier, reining in the beast only as she approached the gangway and a single, terrified sailor who had been left on guard.
The horse’s iron-shod hooves slipped and scrambled as it attempted to stop abruptly, and it almost went down. But Talon leapt easily from it, even before it regained its balance. She slapped the horse away with a single stroke to its hindquarters. The animal bolted, running blindly back the way it had come, escaping with its life.
The sailor stood wide-eyed, as if in a waking nightmare. He was still bent over a rusted kettle in which he’d been trying to light a fire. She recognized him immediately. Fenter was his name, but they called him the Weasel. He certainly recognized her, and in his panic forgot all protocol.
She didn’t need to ask many questions. The Camadan had undoubtedly been caught in the storm, separated from the Trophy Chase. This was unknown to Scat Wilkins, of course, who never would have ordered one of his ships ashore here. This was John Hand’s doing. She never did trust him.
“Where is your captain?” she demanded.
“On board the Chase last we saw him, sir. Ma’am.” He was every bit as frightened as her horse had been, his Adam’s apple bobbing and jerking like it had a life of its own.
“Where is the Marchessa?”
“Haven’t heard from her either, sir. Ma’am.” The sailor was growing alarmed at her intensity. Had anyone on board believed for a moment that it was remotely possible that Talon, the Chief Security Officer of the Trophy Chase, was ashore, and might find them tied to a pier in the Port of Mann, none of them would have considered docking here, not for all the ale in the city. “There was a storm, and we just came here to make repairs to the sails and the masts…refit, you know,” he whined in explanation.
“Where are the crew?”
“On shore leave, sir. Ma’am,” he croaked.
“All of them?” It was an accusation.
He nodded miserably. “Almost all.”
“And they left you on guard.” She said it with disdain. She knew the reason he was chosen. The Weasel didn’t have the guts to stand up to the rest of them.
“Ma’am.” He nodded.
Talon’s eyes flashed. “And who was it, exactly, who gave orders to make port here?”
He shook his head. “It was the first mate who took command, Bemus Doherty.” He left out the part about how the rest of the crew had threatened him, to force him to make the decision.
“Doherty is a mutineer. This ship is not to be in port! Those are Captain Wilkins’ standing orders, and every last crewman on this ship knows it. So every last mother’s son of you is guilty of disobeying a direct order. You are a mutineer.”
“But I…” His fear turned to terror. Mutiny, as everyone knew, was punishable by death. She was perfectly capable of executing him here and now.
“Is anyone else on board?”
“One, in sick bay.”
“Is he able? Can he sail?”
“I think so, but he was—”
“You will cast off and board this ship, sailor, and raise the gangplank. We will sail from here, now!”
“Yes, ma’am, sir!” he said, utterly relieved he wouldn’t die in the next few seconds. “Thank you, ma’am.” The poor sailor wasted no time obeying.
As he was releasing the mooring ropes, Talon went up the gangplank, casting her eyes up and down the pier for witnesses. She saw no one who seemed to be paying the least bit of attention. They were all scurrying to avoid the cold rain, which was just now beginning to fall. She watched as Fenter untied the great ropes and ran at a clumsy canter toward her, up the gangway.
The Camadan drifted away from the dock.
Packer stood on the forecastle deck, cold wind blowing through his hair. The rum kept a bit of the chill away, and the wet salt-sea air seemed like a breath from another world. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the familiar gulls were silent as they roosted on the yardarms and decks and wherever else they could avoid the weather. The rocking of the ocean, the sound of blue water slapping the prow, the mists blowing across the waters, the smooth movement toward home…If only he were home now. If only he could see Panna safe this moment. But he could not make himself believe that she was safe.
When the wind had changed, all able-bodied seamen had been sent to the rigging to adjust the sails. This did not include Packer, who had resumed his spot at the helm, where his injuries would not impair his duties. Minutes ago, Andrew Haas had offered to give him a break, and Packer had accepted it gladly. Now he stood above the face of the great cat on the prow, and watched the seas rise and fall.
If Panna were alive and well, then all was still possible. Anything might be true. If Talon had found her and…well, then there was no life for him and no plac
e for him anywhere on this earth. He had no control over it. He knew he should be trusting God, absolutely. But knowing now that Scat had sent Talon for revenge, had let her loose ashore to fulfill her bloody promises, it was near impossible. God could stop her. But Packer couldn’t imagine how.
“Nice night for a sail,” a familiar voice said behind him.
“Not bad,” Packer answered.
“May I join you?” Delaney asked.
Packer smiled. “Always.” His friend, his brother.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Delaney asked earnestly, as though this were an odd occurrence.
“Home.”
“A’ course. I don’t have much of one of those, anywheres.”
Packer stopped himself before he said, “Lucky you.”
“I do think about people I know, though. I miss my mother, God rest her. And I had a girl once, Maybelle Cuddy. You probably wouldn’t a’ known her.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And a’ course Marcus.”
Packer looked at Delaney, wondered if he should tell him about the Captain’s log. But Delaney should know. “I believe now that Captain Wilkins shot Marcus down from the yard, in the storm.”
Delaney blanched. “In that gale?” He thought a moment. “That’s one heavin’ good shot.”
It was not the reaction Packer expected. “It was in the logbook when I wrote the roll of the dead.”
Delaney nodded, looked out to sea. “It’s a hard thing, then. I suppose Captain thought it was the only way to save the ship.”
Packer stared hard at him. “He shot Marcus.”
Delaney took a deep breath in through his nose, looked up into the clouded sky. “You know, I’m glad I don’t got to face the judgment that Scatter Wilkins will face.” He looked at Packer suddenly. “The men say he’s feeling better. They reckon he’ll pull through.” He waited for confirmation.
“Mr. Haas told me the same,” Packer said finally.
Delaney nodded. “Well, whenever he does die then. But I got my own sins to worry with.” He looked at Packer. “You never killed a man in anger, probably.”
“No.”
“You’re a good man. But there’s a lot of bad men in the world. Like I was, though I’m trying to be good now. But when you carry that guilt around a while, what Captain did looks different. He didn’t do it in anger. Marcus was a goner when he clutched, and Captain knew it. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Marcus like a brother, and I hurt when he went, and I still hurt. I miss him. But it’s the losing him that hurts, not the how it happened. That’s God’s doing.”
Packer watched the waves. Was Delaney just finding a way he could justify serving Scat, or was there real wisdom in his words? Either way, Delaney seemed comfortable, and Packer didn’t want to trouble him further. “I guess God is in charge of life and death no matter how it comes.”
“Like I say, I sure wouldn’t want to answer for what Captain did. It was cold and heartless maybe, I’m sure it was. But what a terrified voyage this has been. And Marcus, he’s been safe somewhere looking down. He was a good man too, but he didn’t have your sword about him. I’d a’ hated to see him get hardened like the rest of this lot. Which he would have—either that, or been dead by now. And that makes me feel peaceful about it.”
Packer smiled. It was just possible—no, it was more than possible, it was quite probable—that for all Packer’s wrestling with God and his calling, for all his anxieties about theology and about truth, about how to love and how to obey God, that Delaney was simply the better man.
In fact, Packer at this moment knew it to be so.
CHAPTER 21
Duel
“It’s a ghost ship,” Mutter Cabe insisted in a whisper. The crewmen standing on the deck of the Chase could see no lights, no people, nothing aboard the Camadan but darkness. The moon shone brightly; the wind flapped what few sails were unfurled. The Camadan moved slowly through the water in a southeasterly direction, but not a soul tended the sheets, nor the yards, nor the wheel, nor the crow’s nest.
“Shut up, Mutter,” Delaney said, but he stared hard with the rest, hoping it wasn’t so.
“Ahoy!” Captain Hand shouted through the mist. The Camadan was certainly within earshot since the Chase was upwind of her. “Thunderation, who’s got a voice that carries?” he asked. He looked around for Jonas Deal. “Where’s Deal?”
“He hasn’t moved from the Captain’s door except to make water,” Andrew Haas said quietly. Others laughed, but only those who thought he was exaggerating.
“Ahoy!” Andrew Haas yelled impressively.
No answer.
“The mainsail’s gone completely. So’s the foresail,” Haas pointed out.
“Ring the ship’s bell,” Hand ordered.
Andrew Haas obeyed, but the clanging echo received no more response than had greeted the hails.
“Where in blazes did they all go?” Hand asked, seeming angered. They were far from Achawuk territory now. And if the Achawuk had attacked the Camadan, they’d have burned the ship. Wouldn’t they? The Chase would sail past her within a few minutes, and while the great cat still had the muscle, Hand didn’t have enough crew left to come about in short order, or with any measure of precision. He couldn’t risk ramming her.
“I’ll take a boat,” Packer volunteered. “See what’s aboard.”
Hand grimaced. “No, it’s my ship. I’ll go.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain,” Andrew Haas said carefully, “but Captain Wilkins is ill. If you go aboard and find some danger…well, I believe we’d all rather the Chase had a captain than the Camadan.”
The other crewmen agreed quietly.
“I’ll go with him,” Haas then offered.
“Ahh, you can’t go either, Haas. I need you to help me get this beast hove-to. Who will go with Throme?”
“I’ll go,” Delaney said immediately.
John Hand nodded his thanks. “Good. One other.”
Silence.
Then, “Mutter’ll go,” Delaney offered. “He loves ghost ships.” The men laughed as Mutter turned deep red.
Hand didn’t laugh. “Fine. Throme, Delaney, and Cabe.” Mutter’s eye grew big, then narrowed on Delaney as the others chortled. “Go armed,” Hand added. “Here, my pistol’s loaded. Doesn’t look like you’ll do much good with a sword.” He held it out to Packer by the barrel, but the young man simply drew his rapier, smoothly and easily, falling into a perfect fighting stance, left-handed. Hand smiled, returned his pistol to his belt. “As you wish.”
Mutter Cabe got no sympathy. Ghosts were one thing, orders another. The men were happy to help him find his way to the jolly boat.
Within three minutes, Delaney and Mutter Cabe were rowing with Packer Throme across the rolling black water toward the tall, dark ship, their way lit with three lanterns. Their oars—little more than paddles, really—dripped, then dove into the cold green water, then dripped again. It was slow going. The jolly was the largest of the ship’s boats, equipped with sails and rations for a long voyage. It was not the preferred vessel for a quick foray, but it was the only one left. The longboat had gone with the huntsmen, one shallop with Talon, and the other with Marcus Pile.
But they made headway, and as they neared the Camadan, their mood was overshadowed by the emptiness of the huge, rocking vessel. The silence, except for the creaking of masts and flapping of canvas, turned their blood cold. This was not right. This was not what tall ships were created for, to be alone, dark, and adrift.
Talon watched the jolly approach. She sat perfectly still, blending into deep shadows on the quarterdeck. It was an amazing thing to her, this sudden appearance of the Trophy Chase, and then, more amazing yet, the approach of Packer Throme. There was meaning in it, destiny. He was being reeled to her, or she was being blown to him. The horse that had carried her to the docks, the Camadan waiting for her there, the wind that had blown her straight out to sea, the Trophy Chase passing within a few h
undred yards, and now Packer Throme paddling to meet her.
She hadn’t really sailed the ship. She had let it drift. She was heading east, that was all that mattered for now. There was food and water aboard, enough for months of travel for a single person.
Fenter had abandoned her with a splash before they’d cleared the point at the Bay of Mann, jumping ship the first time Talon let him out of her sight. Apparently, he preferred to take his chances deserting his post rather than as the lone object of Talon’s attention.
And this other crewman, the sick one Fenter had mentioned, had not shown himself, if he was on board at all. She had looked for him briefly, in the sick bay, in the forecastle, in the various officers’ cabins. She had ordered him to show himself, but he hadn’t, and she hadn’t found him. She had little desire to hunt him down. If he was aboard, he was hiding. She’d find him eventually.
She watched the jolly boat approach, felt the rhythm of the sea, breathed in the thick, salt air. She had longed for another chance to kill the fair-haired boy, and now she would have it. But she felt nothing, no joy in the hunt, no seething anger. It puzzled her.
It was interesting to her that Packer had been sent out to investigate what danger might be lurking in a dark and silent ship. Cabe and Delaney she knew; they were but deckhands. So it was Packer who was performing the duty of a security officer. He had not only won acceptance aboard ship, he had replaced her. His sword had proven itself, undoubtedly. Scat trusted him. So much for her warnings.
And yet, even with that knowledge, she felt no deep or burning passion, no kindled desire for revenge. She would kill Packer, of course. She must. But this sense of calm, this resignation to the inevitable, was new to her.
Delaney was a good sword. Mutter Cabe, superstitious though he was, was also a fearless fighter. She would likely need to kill all three of them if she were to kill Packer. It seemed to her a waste. She wished these other two had not come along.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 36