Debts of My Fathers (Father Chessman Saga Book 2)

by Dan Thompson

Collins nodded and pushed the card across the table. “Well, I imagine you paid well for it, so I would not want you to be deprived.”

  She took it, ran her fingers around the edges, and slipped it into a pocket in her slacks. “Indeed.” She looked down at her salad. “Shall I ask for another menu?”

  “I believe I can be brief. I want to know who made that card for you.”

  “I’m sure you do, but alas, I went through intermediaries.”

  Collins drummed his fingers on the table in one quick roll. “I understand. I work with intermediaries as well. I rarely bring the weight of the Navy down on someone. I often do not even need to involve the local authorities. But I do know an insurance adjuster in Stonefall who would be very motivated to investigate your finances, especially after his company had to pay the museum for its losses.”

  She shrugged. “Start with the junior concierge at the Carleton. I think his name is Billy.”

  Collins shook his head. “No, you can do better than that. Someone with your appreciation for fine art would have wanted to know the artist, and that card is truly a piece of art.”

  She frowned. “I never got his full name. You understand it’s better not to ask, but he goes by Alphonse. We never met, but I believe he is on station.”

  Collins raised an eyebrow.

  Giselle shook her head. “That’s all I have.”

  “I’ll see where it leads me.” He pushed back from the table.

  “Tell me,” she prompted. “Even after what I’ve paid for that ID, should I simply be throwing it away and moving on?”

  Collins stood with a smile. “Like I said, I’ll see where it leads me.”

  Stefan checked the numbered mailbox account and finally found something from Elsa. It was as short as it was sweet. “White Knight, indeed. Everything is set for Ballison. Will have three passengers ready to board when you arrive. –Winged Lady.”

  He smiled in the darkness of the booth. He only had to play nice to his captain for another week, maybe ten days. Then he could teach the little snot some real life lessons, for all the good it would do him.

  For now, it was time to find himself a marrow club. Cost was no matter. Payday was almost here.

  Michael checked himself in the mirror and brushed a few flecks of dust off his dress jacket. He had cleaned it that very morning, but it was evidently impossible to walk through the docks without picking up at least a little mess. He unhooked the collar, straightened the shirt beneath it and hooked it again. The goatee was a little thin, but he had evened it out and made the edges neat. He gave himself one last nod in the mirror and walked out of the bathroom and into the Guild lobby.

  An attendant stood by the door to the Hall. Michael fretted for a moment but in the end he stepped forward. He had nothing to be afraid of.

  “Your credentials, sir?” the attendant asked.

  Michael pulled his freshly embossed card from his pocket and presented it. The attendant took it and examined it closely, turning it over twice, almost as though he were admiring it.

  “It is legitimate,” Michael assured him.

  The attendant smiled. “Of course, sir. You were expected.”

  “Then why …” he paused, wondering for a moment if this had all been some elaborate joke. “If you were expecting me, why did you want to see it?”

  “Because this is your first time through those doors on your own, sir. One suspects you would have been disappointed if you had not been given the chance to show this.” He handed Michael back the card, stepped to one side, and opened the door. “Have a pleasant evening, Captain Fletcher. If you desire any guidance on protocols, the head bartender will be at your disposal.”

  He nodded and went through. He had to admit, though, that he would have been genuinely disappointed had he not been challenged at the door. He supposed it was as much a rite of passage as any other part of this. He took a quick look around the hall. There were perhaps fifty or sixty guests packed in at tables and the bar. He had had not expected nearly so many, but in truth, he was glad for it.

  A waiter approached. “Would the captain like a table?”

  “No, I would not,” he replied, enjoying the formality of it. He had forgotten that detail from his two trips in with Malcolm. “I will start my evening at the bar.”

  The waiter nodded and turned, the long white napkin draped elegantly over his arm. “This way, sir.”

  He followed him to a seat at the bar. It was not made of metal or plastic but appeared to be genuine wood, polished as smooth as glass. Three others sat at the far end of it: two captains and a first officer, from the looks of it. One of them nodded but made no other motion. The waiter departed, and the bartender approached. Most of the staff was in white, but this man was dressed all in black, except for a white tie.

  “Good evening, Captain Fletcher,” he said. “Am I to understand this is your first visit?”

  Michael nodded and put his card down on the table. “Yes, I’d like to open a tab for tonight.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. He made one brief swipe of the card beneath the bar and returned it. “There are certain traditions often observed on occasions such as this. Would the captain desire any assistance with these matters?”

  Michael nodded solemnly. The bartender made it all seem so serious, nothing at all what he was used to back at places like the Lucky Black on Taschin. “I would certainly appreciate it. I believe there is a tradition of buying a round for my fellow captains.”

  “Indeed, sir. Would the captain like to do that now?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  The bartender bowed his head briefly and stepped back. He reached into a lower cabinet and retrieved a large brass bell on an ornate stand. He placed it in front of Michael and set a small metal mallet beside it. “If the captain would like to do the honors himself, the traditional call to orders is six bells, done in three quick pairs. One cautions the captain, however, that the bell is deceptively loud and does not require much force when striking it.”

  Michael picked up the mallet and glanced around the hall. It seemed as though it was already growing quiet, and the three men at the end of the bar were all staring at him intently. Ding-ding, he struck, surprised at how much sound rang out. Ding-ding, he struck again, wishing desperately that Malcolm were here to see it. Ding-ding, he struck finally and acknowledged to himself that Peter would have wanted to be there just as badly. He set the mallet down and nodded to the bartender.

  “If one might have the attention of those assembled ...” The bartender paused for effect, but there was no need. The only sound in the room was the fading echo of the bell. “Our newest member, Captain Michael Fletcher, would like to purchase a round of drinks for this fine company of captains and guests.”

  A small army of waiters swarmed out of the kitchen carrying trays of champagne flutes out to the tables, with one swinging through the bar to serve the three there. The bartender opposite him popped a fresh bottle and poured a glass for Michael. He blinked in amazement at the coordination of it all. Clearly it had all been arranged, events set in motion from the moment he arrived in the lobby if not before. He did not know if this was the standard treatment for all new captains, but he knew he had one more thing to thank Terry Johansen for.

  The captains and their guests began to stand, and one by one they turned to face Michael. He reached for his own glass and found the bartender leaning forward. “One hesitates to remind the captain, but the tradition calls for a toast. One has every confidence.”

  Michael took his glass, turned to his audience, and raised his drink in the air. He opened his mouth to speak and stopped. He had always thought to toast to his father Malcolm, but now he thought he should perhaps toast Peter as well. Yet neither of them were present to hear it.

  He shook his head, looking out at all the captain looking to him. His fathers were here in spirit. “To the captains who came before us,” he said at last. “May we be good sons and daughters to them all.”

 
Chapter 14

  “This civil war is such a bloody business. Men whom I’ve dined with are lining up on the other side, ready to kill me. If you ask me, there’s nothing civil about it at all.” – Peter Schneider

  GRADUALLY, THE EVENING TURNED from solemn to raucous as the drinks piled up. Michael only had to pay for the first round, but it seemed that over half the captains there wanted to congratulate him with a drink of their own. After eight, Michael began to wonder how he was going to survive the evening, but he noticed that each successive drink seemed a bit more watered down than the last.

  He shot a quizzical look to the bartender who leaned in close while collecting the shot glasses. “One is doing what is possible to keep the captain vertical, but by all means, if the captain desires to lose himself, he can return to full strength.”

  Michael shook his head. “I put my fate in your hands.”

  The next to congratulate him arrived. “Two scotch and sodas,” he said.

  Michael accepted his glass from the bartender, amazed that he smelled almost no alcohol while the color matched the other captain’s drink perfectly.

  “To health, profits, and friendly beds,” the captain pronounced.

  Michael struggled to keep a straight face as he repeated the saucy toast. He slammed the drink back, tasting only a hint of scotch.

  The next arrived and slapped her hand down on the bar top. “There is only drink worthy of a new captain, and that is vodka, pure, in a chilled glass.”

  Michael voiced his agreement and enjoyed the water he was given.

  It went on like that for almost an hour, though the last few came in twos and threes. He tried to remember all of them, but before long, it was an endless sea of names and faces, highlighted by the few whom he had met before with Malcolm.

  When it was done, he ordered a light dinner, afraid to put too much on top of whatever alcohol he was still working off. The bartender asked if he wanted a table, but Michael had seen a few others eating at the bar, so he opted to stay. If nothing else, the bartender had been an excellent guide through this night, and he wanted to remain with him.

  A short, older man sat near him and nodded. Michael wondered if this was one more toast in the making, so he gave the man his best smile. “Good evening, sir.”

  The man looked back to him and gave a smiling nod. “You certainly seem to be in fine spirits.”

  “First night in the Guild.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? You looked a little young for that.”

  “Early starter,” he replied with a shrug. He eyed the man briefly, noting he was not in any kind of uniform and did not seem to be in the company of anyone who was. “And how about you? You don’t look like much of a captain, either.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then how …”

  “I’m on the Guild advisory board. We help form policy and coordinate with the various regulatory agencies and such, even smooth things over with the corporate shippers.” He turned to Michael and extended his hand. “Xavier Foshey,” he said. “Congratulations on your first night. Sorry I wasn’t here for your toast.”

  Michael took the hand and shook it. “Thank you, Mr. Foshey. I’m Michael Fletcher.”

  Foshey’s eyes went wide. “Fletcher?”

  Michael nodded and let go of Foshey’s suddenly limp hand. “You’re probably thinking of my father, Malcolm.”

  Foshey nodded slowly. “Yes, Malcolm Fletcher. Indeed, I was thinking of him. I’m in his debt, actually. He quite handily saved my life back during that unpleasant Caspian business.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes, most definitely. I was on the Magellan Aurora, coming in from Union territory, and we ran into some kind of pirates or perhaps merely Caspian privateers, and he ran them off. I was only a passenger, so I never quite got all the details, but I understand he stood them down. The Swordfish, was it?”

  “Close. Hammerhead.”

  “Hammerhead, yes. I grew up on a desert world, so I don’t really know a trout from a tuna, but I did remember it as some big fish.” Foshey glanced around. “Is he here? Surely, he didn’t miss his son’s big night.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Michael replied.

  “Whatever was his excuse?”

  “He died last year.”

  “Oh, dear me … I blundered right over that. I’m so sorry. I hope it wasn’t anything left over from the Caspians.”

  “No, a simple accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  Foshey took a step closer and sat on the seat next to Michael. “Still, I was in his debt, and now I suppose I’m in yours. What are you up to these days? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m not so sure you can, but thanks.”

  Foshey looked at him for a moment. “You might be surprised. I don’t mean to boast, but I am actually quite influential. I have significant stakes in both Takasumi Lines and Helliker Shipping as well as a number of smaller endeavors here and there.”

  Michael considered it. “How significant?”

  Foshey shrugged. “I don’t like to talk numbers for that kind of thing, but at my level, it’s not worth getting involved if I can’t pick a director of my own.”

  “But you’re not into Schneider &Williams?”

  He shook his head. “I know it’s publicly traded, but S&W will always be a family shop, and I don’t have the right last name to wield any significant influence there. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, simply that they’re the other big fish.”

  “Yes, big fish indeed. So, did you take over the Hammerhead from your father?”

  “Sort of, but we switched over to the Sophie’s Grace about ten years back. It’s faster, smaller crew, but carries almost as much cargo.”

  “And what are you and your fast little Sophie up to? Are you chasing good profits, or did your father pass along any of his old quests?”

  Michael turned to look at him hard. “What do you mean?”

  Foshey tossed it off with a nod. “Nothing much, but I had heard rumors that Malcolm had never quite left the Caspian business behind. That’s why I worried he might have met with a more sinister end.”

  Michael glanced around, but even the bartender was keeping a discreet distance. “It wasn’t Caspian business he left behind. It was Yoshido.”

  Foshey jerked back. “Surely, no. I can’t believe he would have it in him.”

  “No, not that,” Michael assured him. “He didn’t join. He was hunting them.”

  “Ah,” Foshey replied with a hint of a frown. “Well, the Navy certainly hasn’t done much about them. I suppose it’s some comfort to know that your father was. But I suppose that’s over.”

  Michael shook his head. “Not as much as you think. I suppose he did leave me some of his old quests.”

  Foshey lowered his voice. “You’re hunting Yoshido? Just you and your one ship?”

  He grinned. “I already took out one of theirs, and that was before I even had all of Malcolm’s research. Their captain got away, but I figure I’ll track her down before long.”

  “That’s equally impressive and ambitious. If you do manage to pull it off, what will you do then?”

  “Climb the ladder from there. Hell,” he said, his words still slurring some from the alcohol, “I might even go after Chessman himself someday.”

  “Chessman?”

  “I assume you’ve heard the stories about Father Chessman.”

  Foshey shrugged. “I might have heard the name a time or two, but I always thought he was a myth, like some old bogeyman or … what was that old seaman’s devil … Davy Jones?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, he’s real enough. He may not run the Yoshido fleet, but they’ll feel it when he falls.”

  Foshey gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. “I hope they will, but surely that’s a lot to take on. Do you have any help?”

  “I know a guy in Naval Intelligence. I’m actually heading toward Arvin to s
ee him.”

  “But you must have more help than that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged, not quite willing to admit that he was charging solo against such a formidable foe. “I’m taking allies where I find them.”

  Foshey reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. “Then please do me the honor of counting me among them. Those Yoshido bastards are the scourge of half the Confederacy. I would be more than happy to help you in any way I can.”

  Michael took the card. It listed him as Xavier Foshey, Captain’s Guild Advisory Board, Chairman. “Chairman?”

  Foshey shrugged. “Oh, that’s hardly my most impressive title. It simply happens to be the card I have with me tonight. But it does have one of my priority contact codes on it, and I’ll be sure to have my secretaries add you to the approved list.”

  Michael tucked the card into his pocket. “Well, thank you, Mr. Foshey. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell me you’ll keep me up to date on your investigation. I have access to quite a bit of information myself, and while it’s technically confidential, I think I can bend the rules for a cause like this.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” he said.

  The bartender returned at that moment and slid a plate and silverware in front of Michael. Foshey tapped the countertop with his own credential card. It was gold, compared to Michael’s silver. “Good sir,” Foshey said, “I wasn’t here earlier to buy our new captain a drink, but do be kind enough to put his dinner on my account.”

  The bartender merely tapped the card with his finger. “Certainly, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Well, thank you again, Mr. Foshey.”

  The older man waved the bartender away. “A trifle compared to your company, good Captain. So tell me, what tales of this Father Chessman did Malcolm tell you?”

  Michael thought back over what he had read in Malcolm’s files. “Well, for starters, he had narrowed his identity down to about a dozen people, but a few of them are officially dead.”

  “Oh, officially dead. I like the sound of this already. Go on.”

  And he did. He did not have it all memorized of course, but they went back and forth for almost an hour, and true to his word, Foshey had more information than Michael would have expected. He rattled off the locations and ships involved in half a dozen recent piracy attacks.