Rowankind (3 Book Series)

by Jacey Bedford

  “Understood, Cap’n.”

  We left Billy to saunter back into the Compass and followed Jim through the yard to the kitchens. The door stood open, which was not unusual. The heat from the fire and the ovens could be unbearable otherwise. Sneaking in was out of the question. We’d have to risk that the kitchen staff were either neutral or friendly.

  Jim walked in first. Somewhere inside a pot crashed to the floor, and a voice said. “Don’t move if you want to live.”

  35

  Old Nick

  “CAP’N JIM!”

  “Yes, it’s me, Bronwen. Put that skillet down. Are we safe in here?”

  “No one’s safe these days, but we’re as safe as we can be.”

  I stepped into the kitchen behind Jim. Corwen followed me, pushing the door closed behind him.

  A ripple went through the room, from the pot-boy to the scullery maids, nine people in total, three of them rowankind I’d seen on my last visit. The eldest of the rowankind was dressed smartly as a butler. His face lit up in a smile when he saw Jim.

  “Captain Mayo, it’s good to see you back, sir. Have you come to stay?”

  “One way or another, Alfred.”

  I remembered Jim had told me about finding three very seasick rowankind on a Portuguese vessel that the Black Hawk had taken. He’d brought them to Ravenscraig and given them work at the Compass. They couldn’t leave again, since going anywhere would involve a sea voyage. I wondered whether they were aware of the freeing of the rowankind in Britain and whether they’d regained any of their wind and weather magic.

  “You’re going after him, aren’t you?” Bronwen, broad and florid, pushed her sleeves up to her elbows.

  Jim didn’t reply. I knew what he was thinking. His cook, someone he must have trusted not to poison him, was now working for Old Nick.

  “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

  “We weren’t given a choice,” Bronwen said. “Captain Thompson can be very persuasive.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you poison him?” Jim asked.

  “Can’t you feel it?” The cook gestured toward the air.

  “It’s a geas,” I said. “If they do harm to Nick, they’ll suffer the same effects themselves.”

  “So we’ve been doing him nothing but good.” The cook grinned. “Rich food and plenty of it. Beef, lamb, pork, all served up in fancy sauces. And the best wines. As much port as he can drink, and that’s a lot.” She sighed. “We’re taking bets on whether the flux or the gout gets him first. Too much rich living isn’t good for a man.”

  Jim laughed. “My mother always told me to eat my vegetables.”

  “I don’t think Captain Thompson had a mother. If he did, she didn’t know his father.”

  “What about his guards?”

  “There’s not much point in poisoning them. There are always more where they came from. You’ve seen the new barracks?”

  “Heard about it. Too dark to see.”

  “Guards from there can be here in minutes.”

  “So we need to deal with Nick without raising the alarm.”

  She nodded.

  “Do they know about . . . ?” Jim nodded in the direction of the cellar.

  Bronwen shrugged. “I’ve never seen them use it ,and they don’t guard the entrance. I’ve never volunteered information that’s not asked for.”

  “Do you cook for the guards in the barracks?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “They have a plain cook. He’s not a real artist, so I sometimes send them a treat.”

  “Could you do that tonight? Laced with a strong laxative?”

  She grinned. “I can do better than that. I have ipecac. It’s a strong emetic. Half an hour after they take that, they’ll be casting up their accounts all over the place.”

  “Have you got syrup of figs as well?” I asked.

  She grinned at me.

  “You’re a wonderful woman, Bronwen Williams.” Jim flashed her a grin. “How long will it take you to deliver your treat?”

  “Give me half an hour to make a respectable sauce that will disguise the taste. I have a pudding almost ready. Then half an hour after that it should take effect.”

  “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” Jim kissed her florid cheek and led the way down into the cellar.

  “We can wait down here for an hour. We have to go down in order to go up,” he said. “My predecessor was a cautious man. He had an escape stair that only he had the key to. That key has been lost.”

  “How do you know that?” Corwen asked.

  “Because it was around my neck when I was thrown overboard, and it wasn’t around my neck when I was hauled onto the Flamingo. You can pick a lock, can’t you, Ross?”

  “I can, but not as fast as Lazy Billy, and not silently. There’s always a rattle or a click to give it away for anyone who cares to listen. Where does the door come out?”

  “The paneling in the bedroom.”

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t retired early.”

  We waited for an hour, every minute dragging like ten.

  The access to the secret stair was in the ceiling of the cellar above a stack of barrels. It didn’t look like much from below, but Corwen boosted Jim on his shoulders and Jim knew exactly how to stick his finger in an unlikely looking crack in the ceiling, twist and pull. The panel swung down, dislodging plaster and dust, and revealing a cobweb-laden hole barely the width of a man.

  Jim went first with only a moderate amount of low cursing, then he reached down a hand for me while Corwen gave me a shove from below. Then Corwen leaped, and together Jim and I drew him up. The hole was exactly that, a hole that had not been used for years. It smelled of old plaster and neglect. There was a small flat area and a stair that was more like a ladder. It was designed for only one person.

  “You’ll have to be first, Ross,” Jim whispered. “It’s as tight as a coffin, so it’s the only way you can get at the lock.”

  I had my roll of lockpicks wrapped around my forearm, so I pulled them out from under my jacket before ascending the stair.

  My heart pounded in my chest. The higher I climbed, the worse I felt. This was never going to work. Visions of snakes crowded into my head. Were there vipers in this tiny space? I hesitated. Jim tapped my calf impatiently from below. His touch plainly said, “Go on. What are you waiting for?”

  I raised my right foot and mounted another step. My head began to pound, and I felt as though the dust was choking me. Left foot. Right foot again. Now I’d lost contact with Jim’s hand on my calf. I felt above me. There was another step. The stair was almost vertical now. I reached up and found a small platform, the stair head. Suddenly, I was filled with dread. There was no point in going on. We were doomed to fail, so we should give up now or simply lie down and die. My heart felt as though it was about to explode in my chest or pound its way through my breastbone. My head was full of all the torments that awaited if I climbed right to the top.

  Below me, Jim’s hand flailed against my ankle, not a firm enquiring touch as before, but a plea for help. It wasn’t only me. Jim could feel it as well, and probably Corwen below him, though I had no way of knowing how he fared without shouting down. Right at that moment, if I could have, I would, even though it would have given our presence away. But the feeling had left me mute, my throat dry and choked with fear.

  I tried to breathe, but the air I sucked into my lungs seemed to have no sustenance. I was getting dizzy, slowly fading into unconsciousness.

  Jim’s hand brushed against my calf. He’d managed one more step. Then he touched the back of my knee. He was still managing to climb against the spell.

  Spell.

  Of course it was a spell, a magical working to sap confidence and even life itself from anyone susceptible. I was the most susceptible
of all, attuned as I was to the ebb and flow of magic. This wasn’t a trap laid for me, specifically, however; it was a general working surrounding Nick’s private apartments, set to attack anyone arriving with ill intent.

  Once I recognized it, I began to dismantle the separate elements. First, I sent a witchlight up above me to dispel the darkness. Then I sent another down to Jim and one to Corwen. I could still perform my magic. Good. The spell was one that preyed on the mind, not the body.

  Jim’s hand steadied on my calf.

  I fought the fear element by element. I couldn’t remove the spell, but I could negate its effects on me, and I hoped that would negate its effects on Corwen and Jim, too. First of all, breathe. Do not choke. There’s no reason to choke, nothing to choke upon. The air is clear.

  I used my wind and weather magic to stir up a gentle current of air, bringing the cool, damp cellar air into the still air of the passage. My dizziness began to clear, and with it the pounding in my chest subsided to a manageable level. I climbed another step and then one more, concentrating on gaining the landing one step at a time.

  Finally, there were no more steps. I was standing in a small space roughly the size of an upright coffin.

  Coffin. Death. Despair.

  I knew those feelings were from the spell, so I pushed them aside and listened for any sounds coming from the other side of the door.

  Nothing.

  I began to relax.

  Then there was a knock. I jumped back, but there was nowhere to go.

  Calm down. The knock wasn’t on this door, but the outer door of Nick’s suite of rooms. Sometimes my hearing was too good.

  I heard a voice say, “Come.”

  Then the voice of the rowankind butler Alfred announced, “Cook sent up some new baked pasties, sir. She thought you might like to try them fresh from the oven.”

  While there was conversation in the other room, I tried a pick in the lock, found it too big, and tried a narrower one. Holding the pins with one lever, I pushed a second into the lock and felt around.

  “Put them over there.” Nick sounded annoyed, as though Alfred had disturbed something.

  I continued to feel for the sweet spot in the lock.

  “Yes, sir. Cook says to eat them hot.”

  There was a series of clicks as my pick slipped. Dammitalltohell! I’d have to start again. I pushed the first pick into the lock one more time and held the levers back.

  “I know how to eat a damn pasty. Get out.”

  I groped about with the second pick.

  “Yes, sir.”

  And groped.

  “Alfred.”

  And groped.

  “Yes, sir?”

  And groped.

  “I’ll have Delia tonight.”

  A click and the lock yielded.

  “Yes, sir. What time?”

  I released a breath and pushed the panel an inch. It gave, but with a slight creak and a scrape of wood upon wood.

  “Ten of the clock.”

  I pushed the panel open and stepped out into a bedroom that didn’t look substantially different from the last time I’d been in here at Jim’s invitation. Nick wasn’t one for change . . . except, on a side table was a shallow bowl filled with an assortment of surgical looking knives and a cutthroat razor with a notebook open at a page with a diagram. I started forward, but it was obvious it wasn’t Walsingham’s book; rather, it was Nick’s diagram of muscle layers beneath a flayed face. I swallowed down rising gorge.

  “I’ll send her up, sir.” Alfred’s voice was followed by the door clicking closed.

  Jim and Corwen crowded behind me, and I saw from the looks on their faces that they were still suffering from the effects of the spell, Jim more than Corwen. With our entry into the room, however, the effects were fading fast. We’d crossed the barrier into Old Nick’s inner sanctum.

  I heard a curse as Nick bit into a pasty and found it too hot.

  “Now,” I mouthed. There would never be a better time.

  * * *

  We burst through the door from the bedroom into the living room, again familiar from my visit two years ago, though Nick didn’t keep it as neat as Jim used to.

  We caught Old Nick bent forward, letting hot jam pasty fall from his lips and reaching for a glass of wine on the table, presumably to cool down his burned mouth.

  I dived to the left, going straight for the door, turning the key in the lock and leaving it there. Jim ran straight ahead, a pistol in each hand. Corwen ducked right.

  Old Nick barely had time for a curse. He dropped to his knees, thus avoiding Jim’s first shot, which shattered the elegant mirror above the mantel, and reached into his pocket.

  Oh, I knew that gesture. Walsingham’s pockets had always contained preprepared spells that only had to be tossed at an opponent to take effect. Jim, being the most obvious threat, was the one Nick lobbed a spell at. Time slowed; instead of getting a second shot off immediately, Jim took precious seconds to bring his left hand up, level the second pistol, and fire it at the point where Nick’s head had been fully five seconds earlier.

  In the meantime, Nick grabbed a cutlass from where it rested by the fireplace and swiped toward Jim’s head. Jim had to have seen it coming but caught in the slow-time spell, he couldn’t even defend himself. Corwen, however, had not been caught by Nick’s spell and as the cutlass swept down, he leaped between Jim and Nick and parried with the sword we’d taken from the dead guard captain.

  The guards in the corridor, alerted by the noise, tried the door and found it locked. There was much shouting and kicking of the door panels.

  Right boys. Now’s the time!

  I hoped Lazy Billy, Windward, and the Greek were rushing up the stairs doing their concerned citizen’s act and thoroughly confusing matters outside. I heard the thunder of booted feet on the staircase and Lazy Billy yelling, “What’s going on? Was that a shot? Do you need help?”

  I hurled my small knife at Nick. Had I been an expert at throwing knives, and had the balance of the instrument been better, I might have stuck him with the blade. As it was, I clanged the heavy handle into the bridge of his nose, which was enough of a distraction for him to drop the slow-time spell, which needed concentration from the wielder to keep it working. Jim snapped back into real time and, both pistols spent, flipped the one in his right hand so he was holding it by the barrel and clubbed Old Nick between the eyes.

  That would have done for any normal man, but though Nick went down, he wasn’t out. He was fighting on pure instinct now, his eyes full of madness but lacking intelligent calculation. He kicked out and swung his cutlass again. Corwen slashed at his sword hand, and the cutlass and three fingers went flying. Jim stamped down hard on Nick’s wrist and used the pistol again, smashing hard against Nick’s skull—one, two, three times.

  It was messy but effective. With half his forehead caved in, Nick writhed on the floor, choking out his last. Everything went quiet.

  Then a door panel smashed in, and a loud voice shouted, “Cap’n, are you safe?”

  “Quite safe, thank you,” Jim shouted. “There’s a new captain in town.”

  “We got ’em covered, Cap’n,” Lazy Billy shouted. “And the whole room’s cheering downstairs. I don’t think Old Nick was any too popular with the locals.”

  I unlocked the door and let it swing open. Billy, Windward, and the Greek had the six guards sitting in the corridor with their backs against the wall and their hands on their heads.

  “What do you want us to do with these?” Windward asked. “Shall I kill ’em?”

  Jim stared at the men and scowled at one of them. “Davy Blunt, what are you doing with this scum?”

  “Trying to keep from being flayed alive, Cap’n Jim.”

  “Go to the barracks and tell Robbie and his men to pass the message. There’s a p
ardon for everyone who throws down his weapons and comes out of there naked.”

  I laughed. Jim certainly had the right idea. Being naked puts you at a distinct disadvantage when you’re up against men both armed and clothed, especially when you’re still suffering from the effects of ipecac and syrup of figs.

  In the end, Jim’s rebellion occurred with very little loss of life, though he wasn’t inclined to trust the land-captains who’d supported Old Nick. Unsurprisingly, they were from Nick’s old crew. He had them all taken down to the Flamingo and locked in her hold while he considered what he should do with them. I didn’t care. Jim was on his own now, all debts paid.

  I called the Heart and was pleased to see her sailing into Ravenscraig Harbor ready to take us home. We’d fulfilled our promise, and now Jim had to fulfill his.

  We needed Walsingham’s book.

  36

  Atlantic Crossing

  THE FIRST THING I checked was the notebook on the table in the bedroom. I’d been correct in my first assumption. This wasn’t Walsingham’s, but Old Nick had obviously made a copy of some of the pages for his own use and had added notes as well as making his own notes on the flaying of a human. His writing was remarkably neat and his drawings technically correct, but oh so disgusting. Muscles and tendons drawn with the loving accuracy of a surgeon, but not for the purposes of curing the sick.

  I was suddenly very glad the man was dead.

  I burned the book in the grate, watching it turn to ash. Then I scooped up the ash and tossed it out the window, sending a powerful breeze to spread it on the ocean beyond the harbor.

  Jim had Nick’s corpse removed to the square outside the inn and tied upright to a post to display—very publicly—that Old Nick was no more and things were about to change. I thought it gruesome. Then I realized Jim knew his townsfolk better than anyone, and if that’s what it took to convince them, then who was I to argue?

  We searched every drawer and cupboard in Nick’s rooms but found nothing except the trappings of Nick’s life.

  Corwen and I went down to the Flamingo to look through everything in the captain’s cabin. We found only more flaying knives and a few sheets of what looked like parchment but could have been human skin.