“Excellent, then I’d expect to get a bushel of them for a half-pence today, then, yeah?” Tom retorted, getting a good laugh out of Jake.
“This lot? No, unfortunately they know what they’re worth, especially the ones who work hardest!”
“Plenty of those around?”
“Plenty indeed.”
“Should you mind if I buy them up, then?”
“I think a few of them are already shining up their boots. Ears like dogs, they have.”
Sure enough, some of the sailors had stood up and come to linger closer to Tom and Jake, talking amongst themselves while hoping to soon hear the call of opportunity.
Molly stood close to Tom, wrinkling her nose and dreading the company she’d soon have the displeasure of traveling with to who-knew-where. Before she knew Thomas she had sailed once, and privately, with some of the Wilks family. Often she thanked her lucky stars that the ship she jumped in Barbados belonged to Thomas Crowe, of all possible men.
“Let them know I’ll be in the Old Richard with the papers,” Tom instructed Jake, giving him a slap on the back.
“I’ll give you a head start.” Jake howled at the joke and waddled off.
The Old Richard must have been the biggest, busiest, loudest place to get a drink on the Thames. It was perfect for Tom’s purposes, which is why he had bought it when he was twenty, a couple of months after he bought Hutch’s Wharf. Neither business required much of his attention, which pleased Tom, who wasn’t in the habit of working for his earnings. Six years later, he still owned both the Old Richard and Hutch’s, and traffic never ceased to flow from one to the other both ways.
Eleven or twelve men were already lined up in Tom’s direction before he’d set up a table off to one corner. Five more came to the line just because it was there. Geoffrey and Leon sat behind the table with Tom and Molly, allowing Tom to handle his applicants, of which he made speedy assessments.
“Age?” he asked the first man.
“Fifty.”
“Real age?” Tom asked, looking up at the old man and setting down his pen.
“Sixty-two.”
“Next, please.” Tom dismissed the downtrodden old salt and made a face before the next applicant stepped forward.
“Age?” asked Tom.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Sailed before?”
“Six years.”
“To where?”
“To Bombay, mostly. Three years of it was construction work for the Hornby Vellard project.”
“Welcome aboard, sign your name here,” Tom said, passing him a contract and shooing him to the side. “Next, please.”
Leon in particular watched Tom’s process with admiration for the next three hours. Geoffrey became bored and wandered off, while Molly silently assessed every man herself, sorting them into grades of unpleasantness, rewarding extra marks for missing body parts, noticeable scars, memorable tattoos and a number of self-defence items decorating their belts. Tom’s pattern, she learned, was to hire the ones who looked like killers, so long as they had no official record of killing. Fascinating characters aside, Tom was able to pick up a number of educated and experienced men, all of whom spoke with a full set of teeth and were apt to be assigned to position of navigator, quartermaster or any number of other managerial duties.
Three and a half hours passed, and the crew had grown from four to forty. As Tom prepared to roll up his contracts and turn away the remaining hopefuls, a young man pushed his way through the line and called out.
“Sir, beg your pardon, but I’d like to sign myself on!”
“Morgan!” exclaimed Tom, looking up and recognizing his former chief mate. “I’ll need someone to speak on behalf of your qualifications. I don’t trust a man who wears no boots,” Tom said in a flat tone, crossing his arms and mocking Morgan’s bare feet.
“To hell with qualifications! I got a ship!” said Morgan, taking no offense to Tom’s raillery.
“A ship? I got a ship. Where did you get a ship?” demanded Tom, thinking that Morgan meant to kid.
“I won her from a fellow who came in from overseas. He drank himself stupid, right here in the Old Richard. Kept talking about how he was a war hero, and how ‘we would have had the Yanks if Cornwallis had listened to him,’ and such rubbish.” Morgan had an audience by this time, and the men whom he’d cut in the line seemed to have forgotten the offense, smiling dumbly as he divulged the tale. “I told him it was a terrible shame that he had to leave behind his Savannah estate and post-war accommodations when his beautiful, golden-haired Loyalist wife deserted his forces for a Yank stallion. He, in turn, wagered that I couldn’t have done anything to win the war either.”
“So how did you win back the war, General Shaw?” Tom inquired. The audience drummed their drinks on their tables.
“I told him,” said Shaw, pausing for silence, “that there was never a war to win! A Yank will never have as good a woman as an Englishman, for England’s got a foot in every land from here to China! And what’s the only thing really worth fighting for?”
The crowd responded in unison with what can be tastefully summarized as, “Women!” Most of the mouths chose a more colorful euphemism than was necessary. Morgan accepted his applause and signed his name on to Tom’s charter. Molly pressed two fingers to her forehead and rolled her eyes.
“You won a ship in nothing more than a game of wit?” Tom didn’t believe it.
“The man was very drunk, Thomas,” Morgan insisted.
“I’ll need to inspect the vessel.”
“Oh, it’s magnificent, Thomas, and I figured you may want to leave the Scotch Bonnet here so the authorities don’t know you’re even gone, should they come looking.”
“Welcome aboard, Morgan.”
“Happy to be back, Captain,” said Morgan, shaking hands with Tom. “Now, about that ship. I’ll sell her to you for three quarters her original value and accept half of your estate in place of the rest.”
“Or, seeing as you cheated her off an English officer of high rank in an establishment of which I am the proprietor, you can let me have her and I’ll plead ignorance when the authorities come searching for the property in question,” Tom suggested, patting Morgan on the shoulder. “Of course, I’ll let you come along for a jaunt on her, if you like.”
“Either you’re a charismatic man, or I can’t pass up a bargain,” replied Morgan, enjoying the game. “How lucky am I, to learn the trade from—”
“Call me anything but Captain Walsh and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Tom reminded him. “Flatter me and I’ll sew it on your backside and cut it off again.”
A sudden scuffle was heard at the other end of the room, and then all became quiet. Tom and Morgan looked up from their papers. Molly craned her head to look over all the others. A table lifted off the floor and rolled a man into a corner. One chair followed it and another exploded to pieces. The crowd scampered away as a silvery streak cut the air and a woman’s shout burst from the crowd.
“She warned ye, lad.” A tall, thin man was lecturing the one lying in a puddle of ale under the overturned table.
The drinkers parted as the source of the calamity, a young woman with soft black hair and dark eyes, strode toward Tom’s table. The trousers she wore—too large for her—swept against one another as she walked. Her shirt, spacious and having baggy sleeves, was foreign in design and style. Asian tones of blue and yellow colored it, and it was tied with a sash. Hiding the bagginess of her trousers, two light pieces of armor guarded her thighs, and her feet were strapped to a dainty pair of sandals. As she stopped in front of the table, she slid a shining sword back into its sheath on her hip. Thomas did not recognize the shape as belonging to an uchigatana, a blade of Japanese design which is worn cutting-edge-up in the sheath. As far as he knew, she was blind, and her sword was on upside down. He’d have laughed if the young woman had not then addressed him so seriously.
“Mr. Charles Walsh,” she said, lowering her head.
“Yes?” said Tom, since she seemed to wait for his acknowledgment.
“My name is Matsuda Ine. I want to join your crew,” she answered. The delicate way she mumbled hardly reminded Tom of the bellicose bark he’d first heard seconds before. Nothing about her resonated temper or impatience, but her easy yet feminine face passively challenged the beholder. The air around her looked as though it were softened by her presence. Never did she shift her weight or drop her gaze, standing gracefully still with her hands by her side, relaxed in a state of preparedness, like the uchigatana on her hip. Molly liked her immediately, and so did Leon.
“Age,” said Tom, staring at the funny sword.
“Welcome aboard,” Molly cut in.
Tom turned to her without making much of an expression. Molly smiled and stood, inviting Ine over and shaking her hand.
“That’s the last one!” Tom announced, turning to the crowd. A chorus of groans and hisses ushered life back into the room, and soon the Old Richard was bustling with business as usual.
In the interest of secrecy and ease, Tom insisted that he, Molly, Geoffrey and Leon return home as quickly and with as few detours as necessary. The business of assembling a crew had been swift; if not for luck and good timing, Tom might have had to wait another couple of days for the next substantial shipment to come in and produce a few dozen unclaimed and ready-to-sail crew.
Tom took notice of every stranger in the streets on the way home. Normally the thought of standing out in crowds didn’t cross his mind. No one knew who he was, and most would never care, but since learning of the Eight and remembering Molly’s description of the odd man outside his house, every passerby, just for a moment, was a soldier or spy in civilian’s clothes. As Gabriel Vasquez had said to Molly, a taste of change was present in the everyday. All the world was behaving too simply and too routine. The stagehands and playwrights were working behind curtains to prepare a new act, and these people in the streets—these props and backdrops—had lost some of their life and substance. There was no conflict or conspiracy to prod them to action, conversation or emotion. Thomas, and those like him, still acting independently, stood out easily, and this is why he felt exposed even behind a mask and with allies to look to.
When they entered the house, Geoffrey and Leon disappeared upstairs, Molly following, while Tom was called aside. Ozias, standing between the stairs and the foyer to the sitting room, informed Tom that he had a guest. Molly, overhearing this, turned and came back down the stairs and listened, keeping out of sight.
“Thomas this is…” Ozias began, forgetting the name of the man who stood up from his seat and removed his hat as Tom walked into the room.
“Decius O’Delle,” the man said, introducing himself. “I’m from the Bureau of Immortal Affairs.”
The first thing that struck Tom about this man was his appearance. Youth and strength were not typically the characteristics of non-military government representatives. If he’d seen Mr. O’Delle in the street, he would have been more apt to assume he was from the country and not a city-dweller. His short, thick hair, though naturally dark, had seen long days of sun. The resulting discoloration looked much like a lion’s mane when it first comes in. In addition to these traits, Decius’s words were touched with an American accent.
“A pleasure,” said Tom, joining the man and taking a seat. “And what do you do, Mr. O’Delle?”
“I am an extension that speaks on behalf of the Bureau in situations such as this, say, when we need to contact someone directly or quickly. You’re a traveling businessman and understandably difficult to reach, so I am here to do you a courtesy by bringing important news and information from the Bureau.” Decius spoke so smoothly that Tom thought he’d make an excellent con artist if he weren’t with the authorities.
“I see. Well what news do you bring?”
“The Bureau of Immortal Affairs simply wants to make business owners and good patriots of England aware of the growing immortal threat here in London and abroad. The recent riots in Paris and the rebellion in the north may be far away, but danger looms on England’s doorstep, and we believe it is every Englishman’s duty to—”
“I heard about Paris. How awful!” said Tom, sounding acutely interested in what Decius was saying.
“Our sentiments exactly, Mr. Walsh,” agreed Decius, smiling and thrusting a finger out as if to shoot a bull’s eye hanging over Tom’s head. “This is why Parliament has agreed with the Bureau’s new initiative, designed to help prosperous friends of England, such as yourself, protect and manage business endeavors that may be at risk outside the safe and watchful eyes of London.”
“If you don’t mind my asking…” Tom held out one hand and stopped Decius, who smiled and blinked his lion eyes, yielding with a nod. “I wonder, what does the Bureau propose to do? In order to ‘protect and manage’ business endeavors, I mean?”
Decius’s phrasing couldn’t have been more innocent, but Tom’s ears—a thief’s ears—heard nothing but the discordant ringing of deceit.
“Yes, well, the Bureau now controls a small fraction of military personnel,” Decius began, “the same ones we raised to fight in the war and hunt pirates, in case you’re concerned about their fortitude,” he added. Tom pretended to cough and bit his tongue so he wouldn’t grin. “What Parliament has allowed is for the allotment of soldiers, in your case, to fill a number of positions onboard ships carrying cargo, which are otherwise ill-equipped to protect themselves. These soldiers’ expenses are paid for at no cost to you, and they are supervised by a commanding officer appointed by the Bureau, so you needn’t bother yourself with them or their operations.”
“If the Bureau wants to spy on citizens, why not post soldiers in the streets and have ships scoured by navy personnel before they even reach the coast?” asked Tom, perforating the façade that Decius had attempted to construct.
“Spy? Oh, no, you misunderstand, Mr. Walsh!” Decius kept up the act even as Tom was setting it on fire and watching it burn. “The Bureau’s initiative is a small and temporary response to recent threats, not a permanent change in security practices, and certainly not meant to impose upon innocent civilians.”
No, certainly not, thought Tom, because it’s magesmiths and werewolves and vampires you’re looking for. “Ah, I see. That’s much different,” Tom said. “I apologize. Still, I’m afraid I’ll be embarking from London in the morning and I have a full crew. I do appreciate the Bureau’s concern.”
“Oh, but arrangements have already been made for your ship, Mr. Walsh. That’s what I came to tell you,” said Decius. No one but a good liar would have been able to tell that he was enjoying having the upper hand. “The initiative is already in effect, and no ship can depart without Bureau representatives onboard. I took the liberty of volunteering myself for the position of commanding Bureau officer, and this offer has been approved by my superiors.”
Tom’s ire glowed hot as red coals. Leaving England without raising a question from the authorities had been an effortless success until now. The scenario unfolding, though, was worse than anything Tom could have conjured up in his nightmares. What kind of farfetched tale was going to cover up his identity when Decius began to ask questions about where Tom’s ship was headed? How could Tom pretend he had no idea who Alecandre Love was or to what his map led? Even if he could lie his way out of that, what was keeping the Bureau, the Crown or the Eight from catching wind of the whereabouts of the genamite stone? Tom ground his teeth together and picked at the fabric on the seat of the sofa. If Decius didn’t leave soon, the pressure Tom was fighting back inside was going to snap him in half like a stretched steel cable.
“Is there any alternative?” Tom asked plainly.
“The initiative states that if any proprietor should prefer to operate his vessels without Bureau representatives onboard, both the proprietor’s residence and business must be searched before and after every business transaction that is to involve foreign entities.” Decius recited the initi
ative like a parrot. While his mouth was busy, his eyes had a habit of studying his surroundings. While one part of his attention was invested in Tom, the greater part was making memorizations, and Decius assumed Tom did not notice.
“I think I would rather have the Bureau on my ships than in my home,” Tom decided. “I don’t make a habit of hosting company, and I keep a clean house.”
“And a wonderfully kept home it is!” declared Decius, standing and gazing around. “I’m glad we had an opportunity to become acquainted, but I’m afraid I must be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Walsh.” Decius placed a hat on his head and was out the door in a few blinks. The way he’d slowed down as he said ‘Mr. Walsh’ made Tom uneasy.
“Mr. Wal—…Oh, he got me saying it! Mr. Crowe?” said Ozias from the foyer between the stair and sitting room.
“Yes, Ozias?” Tom sighed and locked the front door, whispering a spell over the bolts.
“I wanted to wait until Mr. O’Delle left to show you this. It could be nothing of consequence, but there’s plenty of reason to take precaution.” Ozias handed Tom a letter. It was addressed to Lucia Vasquez.
“Oh, yes, thank you. This is actually not for me. Molly!” he called up the stairs.
“Yes! Yes! I’m right here, Thomas,” she called back, coming out of hiding.
“Oh, well … Here, this came for you.”
“This is from my father!” she exclaimed, opening it up and unfolding the letter. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, closing it again and going upstairs to her room.
Shutting the bedroom door, Molly unfolded the letter again and sat on the edge of her bed while she read:
Lucia,
When you last visited, we could not talk about everything we should have had time to talk about. It had been so long since I had last seen you. Too much has happened during the time I spent away from you, and it would be impossible to tell you all the stories I wanted to impart. It was impossible to explain who I am and why I have done the things I have done.
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