by Conrad Mason
Whatever you thought of the Wyrmwood family, the gardens were beautiful. Even Slik seemed to be lost in wonder as he rode on his master’s shoulder, hanging on to his collar. All the same, Newton felt uneasy. He was so used to the noisy, untidy bustle of the port he’d left behind. He glanced down at his grubby coat and nearly worn-out boots with a twinge of embarrassment. Ahead of him, the footman’s golden jacket and white stockings were spotless.
At the end of the path, before the front doors, they came to a huge, antique bronze statue. It was of a human warrior from the Dark Age, wearing a serene expression and stabbing an ogre with his spear. Newton winced. It was probably a fine statue, if you were an art lover. Not so fine if you were an ogre, of course. But then, the Wyrmwoods had never been famous for their tact.
Newton realized he was rubbing at the red marks on his wrists again and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
Two blackcoats snapped to attention as the footman climbed a short flight of steps to the entrance. Newton glanced up at the manor before following. It towered against an overcast sky. It brooded. Could buildings brood? He didn’t know. Either way, it made him nervous, that was for sure.
“Yuck,” said Slik. “Ugliest heap of stone I’ve ever seen.”
For the first time that morning, Newton smiled.
The hallway was dim and so cavernous that he could barely make out the vaulted ceiling. It was like something out of a ballad from the Dark Age. Softly glowing crystal chandeliers hung way above their heads. Murky oil paintings of long-dead Wyrmwoods covered every inch of wall. Their footsteps clicked on a black marble floor, echoing loudly.
“Wait here, please,” said the footman, and disappeared up a wide, carpeted staircase.
Slik jabbed Newton in the neck.
“Just curious, but how are you planning to talk your way out of this one?”
“It’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t at all sure that it would be fine.
“If you say so,” said Slik cheerily. “I’m sure the governor will understand. I mean, I suppose it’s a shame you didn’t actually catch that old witch. And the damage to the ship was a bit unfortunate. And the firework, and wrecking the party. I’m sure you’ll think of something though.”
Newton bit his lip. The fairy wasn’t making things any easier, but he still felt better for having someone with him. Even someone like Slik.
He considered the man he was about to meet. Eugene Wyrmwood, director of the Cockatrice Company and, as of yesterday morning, governor of Port Fayt. The three trading companies had shared power in Fayt for longer than anyone could remember—Cockatrice, Redoubtable, and Morning Star. They took it in turns to rule, swapping every year at the start of the Festival of the Sea.
It was an old tradition that the new governor’s company paid for the celebrations, in order to show off their generosity and enormous wealth. That meant that causing a scene at the Grand Party was a bad idea. And the fact that Eugene Wyrmwood also happened to be the single wealthiest and most well-connected man in all three companies didn’t help matters.
Newton wasn’t scared, of course. But perhaps he was a little bit concerned.
The footman reappeared at the top of the stairs.
“The governor will see you now.”
Newton took a deep breath.
“Do me a favor and keep quiet for this,” he muttered.
Slik snorted and blew a raspberry.
Governor Eugene Wyrmwood stood with his back to them, his oily-blue dressing gown shimmering like the skin of some strange sea creature, and gazed through a vast viewing window at the back of his office. Beyond, far below, lay the sparkling expanse of the Ebony Ocean.
Thin strands of purple smoke coiled lazily upward from a pipe in the governor’s hand. Scrubbs’s Purpurea tobacco, Newton reckoned. The finest that money could buy.
The governor turned to his visitors with a weak smile, and Newton saw that he was pale and anxious-looking. In the official portraits, Eugene Wyrmwood was a young man, bold and arrogant, with a fierce stare and shining black hair. In real life, he was a good deal older, with gentle eyes and gray hair, combed carefully to conceal a bald patch. He looked like a man who was longing to put his feet up.
“Good morning, Mr. Newton. Come in, come in. Your first visit here, I believe?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very good, very good. Architecture has always been one of my greatest interests,” said the governor thoughtfully, as if Newton had asked him. “The exterior of the manor house is chiefly based on the Old World castle of Vorlak the Strong, from the Northern Wastes, you know. Late Dark Age. But, of course, our architects have made certain adjustments, mainly to the interior. For reasons of comfort, you see …”
Newton felt Slik shifting restlessly on his shoulder. Frankly, he sympathized—he’d never been that interested in buildings either. His attention wandered to the large bookcases of leather tomes that lined the room from floor to ceiling, to the globe sitting on Wyrmwood’s desk, to … was that a child’s doll, propped up beside it?
“And the east wing has been altered substantially since Mother died,” Wyrmwood was saying, “although there’s much work still to be done.” His eyes glazed over. “Mother was quite tireless in her dedication to the manor, of course. A splendid woman.”
He sighed.
“But forgive me. To business.” He pushed aside mountains of books and paper on his desk and set down his pipe, before noticing the doll and hastily shoving it into a desk drawer. “Ah, ahem, you, er … know Colonel Derringer, I believe?” He waved vaguely at a corner of the office.
Derringer stepped from the shadows, holding out his hand and smiling. Somehow, the elf had managed to brush up his black uniform to look even more perfect than usual.
“Mr. Newton and I are very well acquainted, Your Honor.”
Newton nodded but ignored the outstretched hand. He wasn’t going to pretend they were friends. Not even for the governor’s benefit.
Wyrmwood had settled into a large armchair behind his desk and begun fiddling with a large gold signet ring.
“Very good. Well, gentlemen, I gather there has been a … misunderstanding.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Colonel Derringer informs me that the Watch were a little disruptive, shall we say, at the Grand Party last night?”
“Dangerous and destructive,” put in Derringer.
Newton cleared his throat.
“We were following a smuggling lead. Turned out to be more serious than we’d—”
“Hardly the point though, is it, Mr. Newton?” interrupted Derringer. “You’re talking as if you were some sort of appointed official.”
Still, that smile.
Slik piped up. “Better that then being some sort of—”
Newton coughed hastily to cover the last word. Slik had lasted almost a minute without saying anything, and that was probably the best he could have hoped for. At least the fairy was trying to be supportive. Not that he needed an excuse to throw insults around.
Cyrus Derringer’s smile turned icy.
Governor Wyrmwood frowned.
“Mr. Newton, I’m sure you’re aware that it is the duty of the Dockside Militia to police the town? That is the way it has always been. And whilst the, ahem, ‘Demon’s Watch’ has, admittedly, been highly successful at dealing with the, er, less salubrious elements in Port Fayt, its activities have never been properly sanctioned.”
Newton nodded, not quite trusting himself to reply. He might end up telling the governor exactly what he thought of that arrangement.
“Well, it’s all most disagreeable. I can hardly approve of this sort of behavior. Especially during the festival, and with the Pageant of the Sea a mere two days hence. We simply can’t afford to have any distractions, and I daresay—”
“There’s a witch, Your Honor. Here, loose in Port Fayt. A powerful one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Derringer laughed unpleasantly.
�
�A witch?” he sneered. “Surely you can’t be serious. Everyone in Port Fayt knows that magic is prohibited without an official warrant.”
“A witch,” Newton went on, ignoring the elf. “She used a draining gaze on Hal, and she can levitate, for Thalin’s sake, and who knows what else.”
“How dare you tell such outrageous lies in front of the governor?”
“You were there, Derringer. If there was no witch, how do you think we got up onto the top yard?”
“I dread to think, but I imagine your own ridiculous excuse for a magician had something to do with—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.”
Governor Wyrmwood pulled a silk handkerchief from his dressing gown and mopped his brow.
“Now then, a witch, you say. That sounds most unlikely. We haven’t seen the kind of magic you describe for decades. If this was the Old World, perhaps, or if we were still stuck in the Dark Age …” He chuckled. “But we are a trading port. Not here, Mr. Newton, not here.”
Newton opened his mouth and was silenced by a raised hand.
“In any case, it seems to me that there is no real threat. A scuffle at a party. Undignified, yes. But nothing to be concerned about at such an important time of year. An investigation by the Watch would be both troublesome and unnecessary. Therefore, for the duration of the Festival of the Sea you are to cease all operations.”
“Your Honor—” said Newton and Derringer at the same time.
The governor raised his hand again.
“Enough, please. I’ve made up my mind. My mother would never have stood for such nonsense if she were still with us. The Watch is not to operate during the festival.”
“But—”
“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have several other appointments this morning, and I fear I can already feel a headache coming on. You may show yourselves out.”
Stunned, Newton bowed and left the room. The governor had spoken, and he had no answer.
In the corridor he stood motionless, breathing heavily.
“That went well,” said Slik.
Newton grunted and rubbed at his ribs, still sore from the witch’s grasp.
“You’ve been very lucky, Mr. Newton.”
Derringer. The elf had followed him out of the room.
“Destroying a government vessel, vandalism, arson—I’d be perfectly content, if I were you. In any case, the town’s safe with the Dockside Militia looking after it. Who knows, maybe this will teach you to leave the job to the professionals.”
Newton liked to think he was a patient man, but he’d already put up with a lot this morning.
“Remind me, are these the same professionals who let Captain Gore escape from the Brig?”
Derringer’s smile froze. Slik sniggered.
“The ones who spectacularly failed to uncover the Mer Way unicorn rustlers? And then there’s the Mandeville Plot …”
For once, Derringer stopped smiling and snarled.
“Even your marvelous watchmen couldn’t save Governor Mandeville.”
“At least we were there. Where were you, laundering your uniform?”
The elf stepped in closer, his blue eyes narrowed with fury.
“Understand this, Mr. Newton. If you step out of line just once, I’ll have you in the Brig yourself, with all the scum you’ve locked up over the years. They’ll be delighted to see you, I can assure you. So you’d better not let me catch your watchmen snooping around. Because if I do, it’ll be the end of the Demon’s Watch. For good.”
Tabitha couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“He can’t do that! No one can do that!” She shot up from her stool in fury, then sat down again just as angrily. “I mean, just because a silly, wet mama’s boy of a governor wants to show off with his stupid Pageant of the Sea … He can’t shut us down like that! Can he?”
The watchmen sat hunched around a table in the small, cozy serving room at Bootles’ Pie Shop—their regular meeting place. There were no other customers in today, and as usual, Mrs. Bootle had provided a vast platter of steaming hot pies and jugs of cold grog. Even so, the atmosphere was gloomy.
“Don’t worry, Tabs,” said Frank. “I’m sure Newt’s got a plan here. Right, Newt?”
Newton shrugged and bit into a wedge of seagull pie.
“He’s the governor,” he said, juggling the hot meat around his mouth. “He doesn’t want the Demon’s Watch to investigate; that’s his decision.”
Tabitha banged the table in frustration, making the plates and mugs rattle.
“But Newt … that’s just not fair! Wyrmwood’s nothing but a spiteful, twisted old fool, and all he cares about is money and his stupid Cockatrice Company and his silly, stupid pageant. While him and his rich, fat friends are sitting on their bums getting even richer and even fatter, that smuggler and that crazy witch are going to be on the loose, and you’re saying that we can’t do anything about it?”
She jumped up again and began to pace around the room, fists tightly clenched. They couldn’t give up without a fight, just when things were getting interesting. She was scuppered if she was going back to playing triominoes again.
“Tabs has got a point, Newt,” said Paddy. “I mean, about that witch. Whole of Port Fayt could be in danger.”
Newton nodded slowly. “Yep. Whole of Fayt could be in danger, right enough.” And he tore off another mouthful of pie.
“This ain’t like you, Newt,” said Old Jon.
The room fell silent.
Old Jon was sitting with his pipe, a little apart from everyone, puffing and gazing into the middle distance. From what Tabitha had heard, the elf had been a watchman back when Newt was still in his cradle. So if he had something to say, you listened.
Finally, Newton put down his pie.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re not going to let this go. No witch is going to run around causing havoc in this town. Not during the Festival of the Sea. Not any time.”
Tabitha collapsed back onto her stool with a sigh of relief. Frank and Paddy exchanged grins. Old Jon carried on smoking and staring, while Hal nodded as he polished his spectacles. He was looking especially pale after what had happened on the Wraith’s Revenge.
“But listen,” Newton went on. “No one can know what we’re up to. If we’re found snooping around, Governor Wyrmwood won’t give us another chance. And if Cyrus Derringer even suspects something’s going on, we’re sunk. Understood?”
“Understood,” said the watchmen as one. Tabitha felt a cold thrill run through her. Disobeying the governor was dangerous, of course. Very dangerous. But then, being a watchman wasn’t exactly supposed to be a stroll by the quayside.
“So first things first. Does anyone have any idea who this witch is or what she’s after?”
Silence. Tabitha racked her brain.
“Any clues at all?”
“Well,” said Hal, frowning and replacing his spectacles. “I very much doubt that she’s a Fayter.”
“Right,” said Paddy. “Unless she’s really been keeping her head down, we would have heard about her before. A witch that powerful … I reckon she’s new in town, and from the Old World, most likely. Yow!”
Frank had jabbed him in the ribs.
“Nice work, genius.”
“All right,” said Newton. “That’s not a lot to go on. So here’s my idea—we find that contraband. Once we know what it is, we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on. And if the witch still wants it, she can come and get it.”
Hal raised an eyebrow.
“Forgive me, but is it really sensible to antagonize her so? A witch like that will be capable of—”
“It’s not sensible. But we don’t have a choice. The blackcoats couldn’t handle this. And who knows what she’s up to. So we’ve got to find that cargo. Way I see it, there’s only one person who can tell us where it is, and that’s—”
“Clagg,” interrupted Tabitha, determined to show she could help. “Captain Phineu
s Clagg.”
“Exactly.”
Hal was still looking doubtful.
“That’s all very well, but do we have any idea how to track him down? I’m sure you’ll recall that he was somewhat … absent from the Grand Party last night.”
“We’ll track him down, all right. We just need a little help.”
The pie shop door swung open, and all eyes turned to it.
“Afternoon, all,” said Jeb the Snitch.
He sauntered in, dressed in a particularly violent pink-and-blue waistcoat and grinning smugly. Tabitha groaned. Crafty, sneaky, treacherous … Jeb was a perfect example of everything that the League of the Light said was wrong with goblins.
“Well, if it isn’t the Snitch,” said Paddy. “Reckon that look says you know something we don’t.”
“Know a lotta things you don’t, mate.”
THUNK!
Tabitha found she had slammed a knife into the table.
“We don’t need this clown, Newt. He’s trouble, and anyone can see it.”
“Oh, clown, is it? That’s rich, coming from the circus troupe who smashed up the Wraith’s Revenge last night.”
Tabitha began reaching for another knife but found her arm trapped firmly in Frank’s big, green fist.
“Where’d you pick up this one?” sneered Jeb. “Down the shark pits?”
“All right, enough,” cut in Newton, before Tabitha could come up with a halfway decent retort. “Jeb, have you found out where Captain Clagg has been hiding himself?”
“ ’Course I have. What do you take me for, an amateur? First things first though. Got my payment, have yer?”
“Aye. The usual. No more, no less.”
Jeb sighed.
“Then I got two words for yer—Captain Gore.”
It took a few moments to sink in.
“Captain Gore, the pirate?” said Frank. “The sickest, bloodthirstiest pirate in the Ebony Ocean?”