by Conrad Mason
“Go on,” said Newton. “Keep talking. Tell us everything.”
Color was returning to the governor’s cheeks.
“Yes, yes, of course. I will tell you what I can.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if preparing himself. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm.
“My mother … She began the study of magic when she was a child. By the time I was born, she was the most gifted magician in Port Fayt, although she kept it a secret, of course. She never married, and I never knew my father. He was a gentleman from the Old World, I believe. Mother and I were so happy until … Until she began to meet with agents of the League of the Light, and to speak of continuing the work of our ancestor Corin. Then—it was ten years ago—something … something terrible happened, and she had to leave Port Fayt in secret.”
There was a knock at the door, but everyone ignored it.
“Afterward, the Cockatrice Company announced that she had died. Only a few of us knew the truth—that she was forced into exile and told never to return. She left because of a crime that she had committed, on behalf of the League of the Light. We couldn’t … we couldn’t let her go to the Brig.”
“What crime?” said Grubb. But even as he asked it, he realized what the answer was going to be. Tabitha’s words were coming back to him. That old fool Wyrmwood knows something …
“The crime of murder,” said Governor Wyrmwood, in a hollow voice. “The murder of the governor of Port Fayt, Alfred Mandeville, and his wife, Jessica Mandeville. It was my mother who threw the bottles of griffin blood. My mother who killed them. My mother.”
Another knock at the door, louder this time.
“The Mandeville Plot,” breathed Hal. “And now she has Tabitha Mandeville too.”
“Oh, Thalin,” said Grubb.
The door crashed open and blackcoats barged their way in, muskets leveled at the intruders.
“Go away,” screeched Wyrmwood. “Leave us alone.”
“Can’t do that, Your Honor. Colonel Derringer’s orders are to protect you and keep out intruders.”
“I’m the governor of Port Fayt, you idiot!”
The sergeant wrestled with the problem and failed to find a solution.
“Just lay down your weapons,” he said at last. “Then we can talk about—”
BANG!
The sergeant’s head jerked backward, and he went down like a log. Panicked, his men let fly with their muskets.
Old Jon’s cudgel swung into the nearest blackcoat, knocking him into a bookcase and dislodging several massive tomes.
“Hold fire,” someone was shouting. “For the sky’s sake!” But the militiamen were already drawing sabers and pistols.
Grubb dived behind a bookcase as more shots were fired. He heard a strangled whimper of pain and turned to look. It was Governor Wyrmwood, staggering back against his desk, his face screwed up in agony. One hand gripped a smoking pistol, still pointed at where the militia sergeant had been standing.
“How dare they?” he rasped. “This is Wyrmwood Manor …”
Across the library floor, Newton fired a pistol from behind another stack of shelves, while Hal raced past and came crashing down behind the governor’s desk. Grubb saw his lips moving as he worked on a spell. He hoped it was a good one.
Peering round the edge of the bookcase, he saw Old Jon knock out another militiaman and run back toward them. The other blackcoats seemed to have taken cover. Reloading, probably.
There were a good twenty yards of library floor between the watchmen and the blackcoats now.
“Mr. Wyrmwood?”
The governor groaned. He was slumped against the front of the desk, blood seeping into the carpet from where the stray militia musket ball had hit him. He turned glazed eyes toward Grubb.
“Find her. You must find her.”
“Where?”
“Out at sea. Aboard the frigate Incorruptible. It’s loaded with all the necessary equipment …” He coughed, and red drool bubbled down his chin.
“Go on,” said Grubb desperately. “Where exactly?”
“Two leagues south of the Lonely Isle. But you must hurry. Tomorrow is when she’ll do it. The day of the pageant.”
“And Tabs? Where’s Tabitha?”
“Mother took her.” He spluttered, choking on blood. “She wants her dead, of course.”
Grubb shot a nervous glance past the bookcase. There was a volley of musket fire, and several more books fell onto the floor. He spotted one of the blackcoats scuttling closer, using the bookshelves as cover.
“Mr. Wyrmwood,” he said quickly. “What is the wooden spoon for? What is your mother planning to do?”
The governor said nothing.
“Mr. Wyrmwood?”
And with a jolt, he knew that Eugene Wyrmwood was dead. The governor’s lifeless body slouched, head lolling forward, just like the doll on the desk. Grubb bit his lip.
Hal stood up from behind the table, throwing his arms wide. The room seemed to tremble for a moment, and he collapsed against the wall, instantly drained of energy.
There was a creaking sound, and on every side the vast bookcases began to fall, knocking into one another like giant triominoes and crashing to the floor in clouds of dust. By the time the noise had subsided, the library was unrecognizable. The Demon’s Watch were surrounded by a barricade of bookcases, blocking them off from the militiamen. Books were scattered everywhere. For a few seconds there was silence.
Old Jon smashed the window with his cudgel. Behind him, there were scuffling sounds as the militiamen tried to find a way over or through the bookcases.
Newton swiped along the windowpane with his staff, clearing the broken glass, while Old Jon pulled a coil of rope from his knapsack and tied it to the desk.
“Should hold the weight,” he said. “As long as that desk’s been made properly.” He tossed the rest of the coil through the gap where the window had been and nodded at Grubb. “Off you go, lad. Time to get out of here.”
The Bootle twins were waiting for them at the gates of Wyrmwood Manor. It was almost dawn, and the sun had begun to appear on the horizon.
“Hello, you lot,” said Paddy, slinging his blunderbuss over a shoulder. “Did you find Tabs?”
Old Jon shook his head.
“Wait,” gasped Grubb. It had been a long sprint from the manor house, and he was only just getting his breath back. “I know where she is. The Lonely Isle. That’s where the witch is heading, and she’s taking Tabs with her.”
Newton looked at him curiously.
“You’ve done well, Joseph,” he said. “Better than the rest of us, that’s for sure.”
At any other time Grubb would have been pleased, but he didn’t feel like celebrating right now.
“So, we’ll be needing a ship then,” said Paddy. “And a fast one.”
“A vessel, on the eve of the Pageant of the Sea,” said Hal. He was pale and breathless, still recovering from the ordeal of his spell. “That won’t be easy to find.”
“True enough.”
“No, wait,” said Grubb again. This time they all turned to look at him. “I think I know where we can find one. I think I know where we can find the fastest ship in the Ebony Ocean.”
Slik was having a terrible night.
It had started well enough. The fight at the pie shop had been a riot, and after that, he’d just needed to find an idiot stupid enough to employ him. How hard could it be?
He’d tried the Marlinspike fairy market first, hoping to undercut the fairy dealers by selling himself cheap. But it was late, and the market was shut up by the time he got there.
So he’d flicked the rainwater from his wings and taken off again, still optimistic, this time heading for the grogshops. Drunkards were easy to swindle, in his experience, and during the Festival of the Sea they were always in good supply. The first customer he tried was a little too drunk—a stinking great troll who announced that he’d never tasted fairy before and promptly tried
to eat him. Everyone in the tavern seemed to think it was an excellent joke, apart from Slik.
At the next inn he’d found an elf who seemed interested. Slik had always believed that elves were honorable, trustworthy folk—perfect. But just as they were negotiating prices, the scrawny bilge rat slammed a mug down over him, trapping him on the table and drenching him with a stale slop of grog. Slik managed to escape only when a fight broke out and the elf got a dagger rammed between his ribs.
Wet, hungry, and sticky from the grog, Slik was starting to wonder if leaving Newton had been the biggest mistake of his life. He could still go back to Jeb, he reckoned. Except that the Snitch would probably think he had something to do with the blackcoats turning up at the pie shop. That was what you got with goblins.
Finally, a few hours before dawn, he found a dry patch under an awning and began to arrange an old canvas sack on the cobblestones as a mattress. He could hardly believe that he, Slik, the fairy who double-crossed Captain Newton of the Demon’s Watch, was going to have to spend a night sleeping out in the cold. He felt deeply sorry for himself.
“So,” said a voice from behind him. “What have we here?”
Before he could move, his wings were pinched firmly together and he was lifted up to his attacker’s face. What in all the blasted sea …? It was a cat. A common cat had managed to sneak up on him and trap him. This was a new low.
For a few moments, Slik lost all self-control. He knew a wide range of colorful words that Newton hadn’t liked him using, and this seemed like the perfect moment to try them out.
“How delightful,” said the cat, when Slik had finished.
At once the ginger fur drew back up to its forehead to become ginger hair, and the snub nose grew to become a human nose, and the paw that clamped Slik’s wings together became a finger and a thumb. The ginger-furred cat was a ginger-haired man. Only his yellow eyes stayed the same.
A shape-shifter. Slik was impressed and tried his best not to show it.
The man produced a sugar lump, large, silvery white, and glittering. Slik only just managed to hold himself back. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.
“You want some sugar, little friend?” said the shape-shifter. “Because I’m in need of a fairy.”
Grubb pushed open the door and stepped inside the Legless Mermaid.
It was strange. Everything looked the same—the same smoky air and flickering lantern light, the same driftwood tables and chairs, the same crowd of half-cut sailors, despite how early in the morning it was—but it was all different, somehow. Smaller. After everything that had happened, to think that he had spent the last six years living here, day in, day out … It made him shudder.
The watchmen came through after him, and Frank closed the door. Grubb scanned the room. No sign of Mr. Lightly, but there was Phineus Clagg, just as he’d hoped, sitting at the same table he’d sat at on the day of the Grand Party. This time he’d brought company. They were smugglers, by the looks of them—five or six, all leaning in to listen and nodding earnestly as their captain held forth. The youngest, a boy not much older than Grubb, was frowning as he tried to keep up.
“So, Cap’n,” Grubb heard him say, above the chatter, “when you escaped from this ‘Demon’s Watch,’ was that before you killed all of the pirates?”
“Aye, before,” said Phineus Clagg. “No, after. But before the battle with the shark.”
His audience all nodded and chorused hmms and aaaahs.
“And what about the beautiful governor’s daughter, Cap’n?”
“Yeah, where is she?”
“Oh,” said Clagg, waving his hand as though it was unimportant. “She, er … She went away. Now then, I reckon it’s time for another round o’ them bowelbusters, eh? And another plate o’ them delicious eels!”
Grubb approached, with Newton and the twins behind him, ready to step in if they were needed. It made him feel ten times more confident.
“Excuse me, Mr. Clagg,” he said.
Clagg peered up from his tankard and recognized him. A broad grin spread across his face.
“Well, blow me down if it ain’t young master Grubb.”
Then he noticed the watchmen looming behind, casting a shadow over the table.
“Oh. You lot again.”
“That’s right,” said Paddy with a wink. “Us lot. Did you miss us?”
“Grubb,” said Clagg. “I trusted you, matey, and now this? It’s low, that’s what it is.”
“No, don’t worry,” said Grubb quickly. “They’re not going to throw you in the Brig. I made them promise. We’ve just come to ask a favor.”
“A what?”
Grubb took a deep breath.
“We need to, er … borrow your ship and crew.”
The smugglers chuckled.
“Are you pulling me leg?” asked Clagg.
“We need to set sail at once, and we’re headed for the Lonely Isle. It’s less than a day’s journey.”
The captain pulled a face and downed his tankard.
“Less than a day’s journey … Well, matey, since you asked so nicely, I might consider helping you out. But if I do, I’ll want something in return.”
“Name it,” said Frank.
Phineus Clagg jerked a thumb at the watchmen.
“This lot off me back for a year; let me do business in Port Fayt, in private. How does that sound?”
“A month,” said Newton sternly.
Clagg opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. His eyes flicked upward, as if he was trying to calculate how much cargo he could run in that time.
“All right, me beauties.” He grinned at last. “Anything for old friends.” He turned to a fat dwarf sitting beside him. “Bosun. Ready the Sharkbane. We leave in one hour.”
“That’s more like it,” said Paddy.
There was a shout from the other side of the tavern.
“MONGREEEEEEEEEL!”
Grubb felt his ears twitch, and a jolt ran through his insides, as if his heart had fallen right through his body and onto the floor. He’d just been starting to think they might get out of here without hearing that voice again. No such luck.
There was a commotion among the other customers, as the large, purple-faced figure of Mr. Lightly shoved his way toward Captain Clagg’s table, wringing a dishcloth as if he was trying to throttle it. Grubb edged round the table, making sure there was some solid furniture between him and his uncle.
“MONGREL!” barked Mr. Lightly again, and he slammed his fists down on the wood, making the tankards rattle. “You stinking, sneaking cockroach! You troll snot! Where in all the blue sea have you been?”
“Mr. Lightly, I—”
“How dare you run out like that, you mongrel maggot! I’ve been up to my ears in work here, and without a soul to help me. Did you even think of me for one minute, you selfish little grayskin scum? You useless mottled bilge brain? Well, let me tell you, mongrel, I’m going to have you mopping floors until you beg for mercy. I’m going to have you scrubbing dishes until—”
“Excuse me,” said Newton. “Did you say mongrel?”
The tavern seemed suddenly very quiet. Oblivious, Mr. Lightly shoved a plump finger at Newton’s chest.
“Yes, that’s what I said. And who in the name of Thalin the stinking Navigator do you think you are, stealing my tavern boy away without so much as a—”
“Mongrel,” said Newton thoughtfully. “That’s a word for a dog. Not a person.” He stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the innkeeper, who was beginning to look a lot less sure of himself.
“My grandfather was an ogre,” said Newton. “Do you want to call me a mongrel?” He took the dishcloth from the innkeeper’s trembling fingers and laid it on the table.
Mr. Lightly shook his head, eyes wide as cannonballs. Grubb had never seen his uncle look so pale.
“You see these marks?” Newton held out his arms, showing the red blister scars that ran round his wrists. “The League gave me these. The Le
ague of the Light. Long time ago, I worked in the zephyrum mines in Garran, back in the Old World, on account of my grandfather being an ogre. They took him, and I went too, along with all my family. We couldn’t leave him in there alone. Ten years I was in those mines. The things that happened …” He trailed off, leaving a long pause.
The tavern was in total silence now.
“I was a boy when I first went underground. I was lucky though—I got out and came to Port Fayt. Wish I could say the same for the rest of my family. So you see, I didn’t come over the Ebony Ocean to hear talk like that. Understand?”
Mr. Lightly nodded.
“Now, we’ll be needing Joseph. And it’s time we were off. You going to say good-bye?”
The whole tavern was watching. Mr. Lightly opened his mouth, searching for anything to say that might save face. And then, he crumbled.
“Good-bye,” he murmured. “Good-bye, Mongr—er, Grubb.”
“Joseph,” corrected Newton.
“Er, yes, sorry. I mean, good-bye, Joseph.”
For the first time in his life, Joseph Grubb looked his uncle straight in his bloodshot, piggy eyes.
“Good-bye, Uncle,” he said. “I …” He stumbled to a halt. He could say whatever he wanted now. The Demon’s Watch would protect him. He could call Mr. Lightly names, or try to explain how angry it made him when Mr. Lightly had spoken about his parents—called his mother goblin-lover or traitor, or called his father grayskin or sneak or thief, or worse. But after all those harsh words, all he felt was exhaustion, and relief that he would never have to listen to it, ever again.
“I won’t be coming back,” was all he said.
The dawn was beautiful. Soft pink and orange light spread from the distant horizon, picking out the peaks of the rolling waves. Unfortunately, Tabitha was feeling far too ill to appreciate it. She groaned and retched violently over the gunwale.
“Never been out to sea before, eh?” said the helmsman.