Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2

by Teresa Edgerton

  Mr. Hawkins raised a delicate eyebrow, as if astonished at such vehemence—especially from this particular source. "But this is fascinating. I've always found in the past that smugglers inspire a certain amount of sympathy and support in the surrounding countryside. Yet am I to suppose that is not the case here?"

  "That is not the case here. If it was just tea and brandy, folks would be sympathetic just as you say—the duty being so high. But these ain't ordinary smugglers. There's plenty of reason to suppose they've been up to . . . darker things."

  For a moment, Hawkins seemed to hold his breath. "What sort of . . . darker things?"

  "There's a circle of black witches over to Blagmoor—no one knows who they are, but we know that they're there, because of their mischief—and there's reason to believe them smugglers is providing that coven with crocodiles and grave dust out of the East."

  Ned leaned up against a clammy stone wall, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "But that ain't the worst. It's not what them smugglers is bringing in, it's what—or who—they been taking out. There's too many disappearances of young boys and young girls from the villages hereabouts. "

  Hawkins narrowed his eyes. "White slavers!"

  "Yes, sir, we fear so."

  "And you'd be willing to help put an end to this pernicious practice?"

  "I would," said the highwayman, "under the conditions I discussed with your friend, Mr. Evans."

  Mr. Hawkins reached idly into a silken waistcoat pocket and produced a tiny box made of gold and ivory. "I will tell you, then, that I am working with the government of Mawbri—though I am not regularly employed by any government—and I am here, among other reasons, to entrap and capture these smugglers. But I require a local man on the inside of the ring, to help me set up my trap."

  He gave Ned a keen glance. "But I am told that you are . . . I believe road agent is the term which gentlemen of your calling generally prefer?"

  "What I am is a bridle-cull, plain and simple," said Ned, with a grim smile. "It's not something I'm proud of, but I won't deceive you, sir, nor try to make the thing sound any better than it is. And my name is Edward Talbot. Like yourself, I've used a number of different names over the years, but I reckon you'll need to know the real one so you can write it down proper on my pardon."

  "Your pardon . . . yes." Hawkins flicked open the lid of the tiny box he held in his hand. It did not contain snuff, as might be supposed, but a pale, crystalline powder. "I've been empowered to offer you a full pardon for all your past crimes, providing you prove to be useful. But this pardon is offered to you on the assurance that those crimes do not include murder."

  As he spoke, he took a tiny pinch of white powder between his thumb and forefinger. "I mention this because it's very important for you to continue to restrain yourself from killing anyone. Otherwise, I can't help you."

  "I'll make precious certain that I do restrain myself. That pardon means everything to me, sir. I've a second chance at happiness, a second chance to make things right with the sweetest girl in the world—and I don't reckon that I'll be offered a third opportunity."

  As Hawkins inhaled the white powder, the highwayman made a grimace of distaste.

  "Yes, it is Sleep Dust." A faint, cynical smile played across the pale face. "An unfortunate habit of mine, but one I'm no more likely to abandon than you are to give up this woman of yours. But I wonder which of us has formed the more dangerous attachment?"

  "You don't care much for females, I take it."

  Hawkins closed the box and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket. "Not for the grown ones, no." The smile faded, the gray eyes became suddenly very earnest. "For the young innocents carried off to spend the rest of their lives in shame and despair in Eastern brothels—in their welfare and rescue, I have the deepest interest."

  Ned unfolded his arms, stood up a little straighter. "I'll do what I can for you, sir. Them free-traders is careful who they lets in, so everyone says. And it may be—for all my years on the High Toby—they don't regard me as a suitably desperate character."

  "Well, well, that we shall see," said Hawkins. "Meet me here in three days' time to report on your progress." He reached out to dim the lantern. "In the meantime, a word of caution: if you should think you recognize me loitering about the neighborhood in any other guise, please be discreet and do not speak to me."

  Now it was Ned's turn to smile. "I do most of my own loitering after nightfall. And I think you can rely, sir, on my eyesight being very weak, once the sun goes down."

  ***

  Now here's a queer start, thought Ned as he mounted up.

  And he's an odd gentleman to be sure.

  This Mr. Emmanuel Hawkins (so-called) was a strange combination of cynicism and idealism—though what business he had being cynical, with his fine clothes and his soft white hands, Ned could not guess. Let him try living rough, as I have, out on the moors, with never a decent roof over his head and every man's hand turned against him.

  But there was no use bewailing the past or feeling ill-used, Ned reminded himself as the stallion carried him down the road. Especially when it had been his own blamed fault to begin with, him being fool enough to trust that devil Elijah Fitch, despite the fact they were both in love with the same girl, despite that Ned knew that Fitch had some vicious habits about him, and was no-ways so respectable as everyone thought.

  "Just you take this watch and these other things of mine over to that goldsmith in Braddon, and I'll make it worth your while. I've arranged everything in advance, but I don't dare be seen with the man myself. People would ask questions, and if my father knew that I'd gambled away a quarter's rents and had to borrow money just to live on . . . Come, be a good fellow, Ned. And if you don't trust me to keep my word, why, I'll pay you two guineas in advance."

  And there was Ned, needing money himself, and so he had made the biggest mistake that he ever made in his life. Even the two guineas he had in his pocket when the lawmen stopped him had counted against him.

  "Two golden guineas, a watch, two buckles, a ring, and a snuffbox. The very same items that was taken from Mr. Fitch at gunpoint . . . and how did you ever imagine, Ned Talbot, you wouldn't be recognized because of your size?"

  Naturally, Ned had protested his innocence, naturally neither the bailiffs nor the magistrate had believed a word. Not with Elijah so apparently respectable, and not even hurting for cash, as it turned out. Ned had originally been marked for the gallows, but the sentence was commuted, at the last moment, to transportation.

  But the ship that was meant to carry him to Nova Imbria had run into a storm and wrecked herself on the rocks near Brantley. In the confusion that followed, Ned and two other convicts had overpowered a trio of guards and escaped in the very boat those guards had meant for their own salvation.

  Once on shore, the convicts had split up. Penniless, ragged, outlawed, Ned had known it was impossible to find honest work. His first theft, accomplished from ambush with the aid of a cudgel, had gained him a pistol and a suit of clothes. His second had provided a horse and set him up properly in business as a highwayman—a trade, as he later learned, that conferred considerable honor among thieves, and was generally regarded as more respectable than that of footpad or "scamperer."

  So he had continued for fifteen years, with occasional secretive visits back home, to see how his family was doing, to pass a few coins on to his widowed mother. On one of these visits he had learned that Mary had married Fitch. Not of her own choice, for the devil had found a way to purchase her father's debts.

  By that time, Elijah had dropped even the pretense of respectability, and a miserable life he had led her, so everyone said. Many was the time that Ned considered going back home, and putting a bullet through Fitch's skull; he was never quite certain what prevented him. He hoped that it wasn't cowardice but his faith in Providence—or perhaps just an unshakeable conviction that a fellow like Fitch, who was reckless and dissipated, would do for himself one way or another, given enou
gh time.

  Six months ago, Elijah had obliged by getting drunk, walking off a roof in full view of his friends, and breaking his neck.

  "And I'm certain sure that Mary still thinks of you," said the cousin who gave Ned the news. "And if you was to ask her to leave the country and start a new life with you, she wouldn't say no."

  But Ned had been adamant. "From all you tell me, she had a hard life tied to that rascal. And now that her troubles is all behind her, she won't hear a word from me . . . not until I've got something more to offer her than what I've got now."

  At the time he had reckoned that was the same thing as giving her up. And he had put all hope of a reconciliation right out of his mind—until the mysterious Mr. Evans had spoken of a pardon, and promised an introduction to the man who could provide one.

  "And more than likely I'll end up dead," said Ned aloud, as this reverie came to an end. "If I do, I only hope someone will bring her the word, and she won't spend the rest of her life waiting to hear from me."

  Yet the thought by no means discouraged him. Without Mary, the long years stretching ahead were completely meaningless, and he would gladly risk his heart's blood for this last chance at happiness.

  ***

  The tavern was located far out on the moors. It was a scowling, sullen, ramshackle old place, and its appearance, quite as much as its remote location, caused respectable people to shy away. For that reason, it had become the resort of thieves, poachers, smugglers, and all the scaff and raff of two counties.

  In a smoky corner at the back of the house, where the eaves came down so low that it was sometimes possible to hear the mice chewing on the thatch, Ned sat in close conversation with a man he suspected of being one of the smugglers. Tankards of ale sat on the scarred table in front of them. Though there was usually someone on hand who was willing to stand the highwayman a drink, tonight it was Ned who was buying.

  "It just ain't profitable anymore. And I'm getting on now. A fellow remains on the High Toby too long, he ends on the gallows with a noose 'round his neck. What I need is to start putting a bit aside for my old age. I'm willing to do most anything, no matter how desperate bold, so long as there's plenty of money in it."

  "You thinking of free-trading?"

  Ned refreshed himself with a sip from his tankard. "That I am—but I don't know how to get in with the right people."

  His companion hesitated, gazing darkly down into his own stoup of ale. "I don't say that I know who the right people may be, but from what I heard, they don't let anyone in without he proves himself first."

  Ned leaned forward and lowered his voice. "But how does a fellow prove himself if he ain't in already?"

  The smuggler, otherwise known as Jem, hemmed and hawed. He scratched his head and looked up at the low, smoky ceiling.

  "I may know of something in another few nights," he finally admitted. "Something as won't be profitable, but it will be dangerous, and a fellow who had the nerve to take part, it could be that he'd show himself fit for . . . other work."

  "Then I'm in," said Ned, offering his big rough hand. "Supposing, that is, you're the one to arrange it."

  "Then just you keep yourself ready," said Jem, clasping the hand in return. "When the time comes, we'll let you know. I won't say nothing more than that."

  After another bumper of ale, they parted on the best of terms. Jem left the tavern at once, but Ned lingered on for another half hour. He was lounging by the fire in the sooty inglenook, with a third and final tankard in his hand, when he thought that he spotted someone he knew.

  A man from Blagmoor had just slouched in, in company with a seedy-looking clergyman: a square little fellow with very white hands, somewhat threadbare and dissipated for a man of the cloth. Ned was in the act of approaching the pair, when he suddenly drew back.

  Blister me! What ails me that I was ready to make such a mistake? I don't know him, and he don't know me.

  In any case, the highwayman reminded himself as he returned to his place by the fire, the hour was late, and his eyesight was likely to be at fault.

  ***

  Several nights later, Ned found himself, along with Jem and two other men, outside an abandoned tin mine, with a horse and wagon. As the vein had played out long years ago, the shaft had been boarded over.

  But it was not so now. Several of the planks had been removed, and Ned was obliged to help the others lift, by means of a rope and pulley, a long black box like a coffin, and manhandle the thing into the wagon. If it was a casket, it was the biggest that Ned had ever seen, and its weight was so great that it slipped out of Jem's hands as it passed over the side, and landed in the bottom of the wagon with a loud crash.

  "Now see, you've broken the bed of the wagon," someone muttered. On inspection this proved not to be true, but there was a place on the side of the coffin which had split open.

  Jem, Ned, and one of the other men took their places around the box, while the fourth man drove. A bloated Goblin moon was rising in the east, and the road they traveled was all silver and shadows.

  "Wouldn't choose to do this with the Hag so bright, but the roads has been crowded with excise men these last ten nights," said Jem. "And our friends has arranged a little distraction over to Brantley. We should be able to win through to Blagmoor with this little shipment."

  In his place near the back of the wagon, Ned cast sidelong glances at the long box. Through the crack in the side, he thought that he caught a glimmer of gold.

  "Don't you worry none," said one of the others, with a chuckle. "He won't disturb us. They say he was a Gyptian prince in his time, but he's been dead these fifteen hundred years. Reckon he won't sit up in his coffin and wish us the time o'day."

  So . . . they were transporting a mummy to the Blagmoor witches. Ned felt genuinely sick at the thought that he was taking part in anything so wicked. Let alone, if he was caught with this lot on his hands, felon that he already was, he would never escape the gallows. Suddenly, he had very little trust in Mr. Evans or Mr. Hawkins, or in their fine promises.

  The wagon creaked on across the moors, while Ned brooded in his place at the back. He reached inside his coat where he kept his pistols stuck into a belt 'round his waist, and he slipped his fingers around one of the stocks. There was something reassuring about the solid weight of the pommel.

  Around midnight, they turned off the road and onto a narrow track, leading uphill between immense rugged boulders. They continued on for a little longer, and then paused in front of a wooden gate. Jem swung over the side and opened the gate, so the wagon might pass through. At last they stopped outside a lonely farmhouse.

  The farmer who came out to greet them seemed concerned to assure himself that the shipment was exactly as promised, for he climbed up inside the wagon and began to pry open the lid of the coffin with a crowbar. Ned recognized him as the man from Blagmoor, the one he had seen talking with the seedy clergyman several nights past.

  The nails came loose with a screeching sound. The farmer lifted the lid of the box, and examined the gilded sarcophagus inside. "Well enough," he grunted, and climbed back down.

  The driver took him aside from the others, where they conversed for a while in low voices. But Ned's ears were amazingly keen, and he was able to hear most of what passed.

  "I hear you've been thinking about getting your bodies from somebody else," said the driver reproachfully. "And after all these years we've done business! I call it mean, and I expect that the boss ain't too pleased neither."

  The farmer only laughed in response. "Churchyard bodies—fresher than this one but not so fresh and lively as them other bodies you deal in. Never you fear. We know you're the cheapest and best source for these old dead'uns, and you can be sure of our business for a long time to come."

  That seemed to satisfy the driver. He climbed up into the wagon and drove it off to the barn. He was to bring it back innocently empty by daylight, but the others would go home on foot. By cutting across country instead of following t
he road, it would be possible to shave several hours off of their journey.

  The farmer sent them off with a brief warning. "Whatever you do, don't go back by way of Grimley Water."

  Taking this to mean that the Blagmoor witches were abroad and up to mischief under the full moon, the smugglers assured him that they had no intention of going that way. At the foot of the track, Jem and the other man agreed to split up.

  "You'll come with me," said Jem to Ned, heading off in the wrong direction entirely. And as soon as the other fellow was out of sight, he turned to Ned with a broad grin. "Do you want to see a bit o' fun? We'll go 'round by Grimley Water and spy on them witches. You ain't afraid, are you?"

  Thinking it might be another test of his nerve, Ned reluctantly agreed.

  By now, the moon was so high, it was almost as light as day, but the shadows were deeper and darker than they were at noon, and the silver light which painted the landscape gave everything a wan, sickly look. With Jem in the lead, they descended a slope, and so came down to the stream. This time of year, it was only a sullen trickle between the rocks. After trudging along the bank for a quarter of a mile, they detected a red glow of firelight in a field on the far side of the rivulet.

  By moving from stone to stone, they were able to cross without getting their feet wet. Then, keeping as low to the ground as possible, and by dodging behind boulders and scrubby bushes, the two men were finally able to reach a good vantage point.

  What they saw when they got there caused a cold thrill to snake down Ned's spine. He had always been told that witches danced naked. These did not—though some of the women were scantily clad—and they were all wearing masks: hags, gargoyles, death's-heads, animals. They cavorted in the firelight, savage figures slicked with blood.

  But it was what they were holding that made Ned sweat and wish to be sick: wings . . . claws . . . hoofs . . . trotters . . . and here and there what might have been a human hand or arm . . . all of these things the witches held aloft and shook at the Goblin moon.

  Ned reached blindly for Jem, who was crouched on the ground beside him; it was impossible to tear his eyes away from the figures around the bonfire. "This ain't magic, it's madness," he whispered. "Come away now. We've seen enough."