Sir Roger And The Witches - Prologue

   The tempest in her head had only worsened with time. When she had awakened that morning, the white noise and sharp colours would have fit inside a teacup. Now they spilled the brim, sticking to the inside of her skull and making a home there like rogue spiders. One look at her brother’s stiff face told her he had the sense of it too. Neither could say quite what it was. Neither knew what might make it go away. Wordlessly, as were most of their decisions made, they set out for the market as planned. All that could be done, came the silent decision, was to act normal, hard as that may be even without the stormy intrusion of the day.

   It had been her idea, and at her insistence. Go to town. See people. Meet them and talk to them. Her brother had opposed this, staunchly at first, but she’d worn him down slowly and surely. The straw that broke him had been the reminder of how their mother had lived and died; alone, friendless, both hateful and hated, in this very castle not a mile from town. He still had reservations about mingling with the common folk. With the ‘normals’. Though, these reservations were now outweighed by his fear of becoming the reviled hermit his mother had been.

   They had started with short walks along the main street. Then, long walks. Taking the leap to lunch at the inn had been a hard one, but they both survived relatively unscathed. After taking a few days off to recover, they tried the market in the town square. Now they went every week without fail. Her brother was still a bit lagging; he didn’t talk much, though this was true even when they were alone. He was working on ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. But he walked among the common folk almost invisibly now. She was proud of him, and of herself, and justifiably so. Breaking the eons-old barrier between humans and sorcerers was deserving of pride.

   Harvest season had truly begun; potatoes and pumpkins and apples and parsnips crept into the market stalls, replacing the summer berries bit by bit. One man had an orchard’s worth of apples, all shades and sizes, surrounding him like a fortress of fruit. She always enjoyed stopping by this stand. She didn’t feel any particular way about apples.

   There was no way of guessing how old he might be. His skin seemed too pale and smooth for a man who worked a farm. He appeared a dainty, freckled child that had somehow had children of his own. The youngest often stayed with him as he peddled, busying herself atop the counter with whatever she could lay her tiny hands on. As the tall dark woman approached, the baby looked up from her scattered pile of toys, face slack with the look of permanent wonder that all children possessed. Her father looked up as well, though he had the sense of mind to smile. He lifted his hat to his visitor, the tiny bouquet of feathers in the band riffling in the breeze.

   “Good morning, madam! How does the day find you?”

   She could see it in his eyes. She could always see it, and it always hurt. Behind the warmth and cheer on his face, there was fear. Worry. Uneasiness. Completely unconscious, she knew. People never knew why they felt anxious around her. She didn’t know the mechanism behind it, herself, but it was plain they could feel her wild energy. Though the hurt stung her heart, it was always assuaged by the gratitude she felt that they tried to hide their unease. She smiled graciously at his warm welcome.

   “Very well, sir. I am enjoying the weather. It is most pleasing.”

   She reached across the fields of apples on display, towards the small child staring at her in wonderment. She patted it twice on the head.

   “And good day to you, young one,” she intoned. The fear pulling at her aura loosened slightly, as the apple seller relaxed. He tensed immediately after as someone called him, not by name, but by title.

   “Dad! Dad!” A boy no older than five weaved his way through the crowd towards the apple seller’s stand. He leapt out of the throng, grabbed the wooden edge of the display and pulled himself up on his tiptoes to see the man of the hour. “Dad, can I have a penny?”

   The apple seller gave his tall, dark customer a knowing smile.

   “Pardon me,” he apologized, and leaned over to speak to the boy. “What’s it for, then?”

   “There’s a lady selling rock sugar,” said the boy sheepishly. His father stood straight and reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out two pennies and dangled them in front of the boy, just out of reach of his eagerly extended hands.

   “You get two,” he ordered, “and bring one back here for your sister, alright?”

   “Okay,” said the boy, nearly dancing with excitement.

   “Anything else?”

   There was an infinitesimal pause.

   “Thank you,” came the hurried response. The apple seller dropped the pair of pennies into his son’s hands. The boy ran off, dodging the crowds like a pachinko ball.

   She had been formulating the words in her head all the while. She was glad for the boy’s interruption, as it gave her time to make them sound right.

   “You have beautiful children,” she said, slowly and carefully. “And so very polite. Your son is quite the gentleman.”

   His proud smile was a rich reward.

   “How kind of you to say, madam,” he said with a nod. “Unfortunately, I can’t take the credit. They got it from their mother.”

   She believed this to be a joke, and so offered a smile of her own. It went over smashingly. She slid a coin from the lining of her cloak and offered it to him.

   “May I take an apple ‘for the road’?”

   “Of course, madam.” He diverted his daughter’s attention towards their customer. Her unsure gaze followed his pointing finger.

   “Go on, then, sweet,” said the apple seller. “Give the nice lady an apple!”

   The baby looked to him, eyes wide with confusion. She turned the same look on her customer. Her father helpfully pointed to one of the hundreds of apples before her. She leaned forward and grabbed one in both chubby fists, raising it up and out to the nice lady. The lady accepted it in one long, graceful hand.

   “Why, thank you, my darling,” she said, with a quiet laugh. She slid the apple into a cloak pocket, then pressed the coin into the baby’s palm. Tiny fat fingers closed instinctively around it. When they opened closer to the baby’s face for examination, the apple seller swooped in and stole it before it could be eaten.

   “Most welcome, madam,” he said in his moment of preoccupation. “Have a lovely…”

   He trailed off, as he looked up. She had gone. He didn’t have long to dwell on her, much as he wanted to, as other customers began to come around.

   She hated to leave like that; vanishing into the crowd like the mysterious wispy woman whose image she preferred to shed. Hated it but could not have avoided it. It was louder, now. Louder even than the buzz of the market surrounding her on all sides. That the apple seller had not fled in vicarious terror was a testament to her achievement in the field of appearing normal. She was feeling ready to flee herself.

   As she dissolved into the market crowd, a man fell into step behind her. She led him to a quiet corner of the square, at the mouth of an alleyway. Only then did she turn to look at him. He wore a flat cap to keep his wild shock of white-blond hair under control.

   “You can feel it, can’t you?” he asked quietly.

   “Of course I can.” She looked around, lowered her voice. “Not ‘it’. ‘Him’. I think it is Old Skull. Something is wrong.”

   Her brother paused a moment, listening. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

   “Gone,” he breathed. He did not look at her.

   “Gone,” she agreed. “And coming for us.”

   He looked sharply at her, as if she’d cursed. “What makes you say that?”

   “It has only gotten louder. Have you listened?”

   He thought carefully for a moment. His sharp glare turned into a sideways squint, eyeing up the milling crowds in the market. She took his silence for a yes.

   “Why,” said her brother. “Why would he come for us?”

   “Why would a moth fly to a flame?” She took him by the arm, clinging like an insistent child. “We have to get away from the crowds. There is no telling the harm he could do here.”

   She switched her grip to his hand, and began to lead him around the edge of the market square.

   “You have a plan,” he observed.

   “No. I do not. I only hope to keep the town innocent of mad sorcery. We must make plans elsewhere to help Old Skull.”

   They paused in their discussion as she dodged a man pushing a cart of potatoes. Her brother followed her handhold fluidly around the curve.

   “He…cannot be cured,” said her brother, apologetically. “I hope you know that.”

   “Of course I do,” she snapped. Her bear of a brother looked suddenly sheepish.

   “I’m sorry. I did not want you to be disappointed.”

   Her pace relaxed slightly, though the grip on his hand did not falter.

   “I won’t be,” she said, quietly. “I will even do it myself, as long as no one is hurt.”

   She stopped suddenly. Her brother ran a few more steps, carried by his larger momentum, before he slowed to a halt beside her. Their handhold did not break. They studied the street before them with blank intensity.

   Black. It was all black. The whine had stopped. The colours had faded. The world had returned to its everyday hum. The siblings looked to eachother across the span of their arms. Each got a glimpse of the other’s bewildered face before the white crashed down upon them.

    It was everywhere; stinging her brain, ringing her ears, blinding her like errant sunshine. Her brother squeezing her hand as the same overwhelmed him was only a butterfly’s touch on her fingers. She stifled a cry as her senses were torn to shreds.

   She could not stifle the one that came forth as teeth sank into her shoulder. Strands of her luxuriant curls caught in snarling snaggles of yellow bone. She threw her elbow backwards instinctively; it connected with rail-like ribs. The grip on her shoulder did not waver for an instant. She hit again, and again, harder, and harder…

   The teeth were ripped out of her flesh, more painfully than the bite itself. She turned, ready to fight. Her brother had pulled the assailant away and thrown him to the ground. He stood between them, prepared to defend his sister with fists or with magic.

   At a glance, he looked like any other old man. Frail and skinny, liver-spotted and long-bearded. Bald as a baby and hunched as an ancient grandfather. Blind, it was plain to see. No light could pierce the pearly clouds in his jaundiced eyes.

   His teeth, what remained of them, ran over with brittle foam. It stained his beard all the way to his waist, down the front of his tattered and filthy robes. He panted like a dog in the dead of summer as he fought to stand.

   What no one could see, save the two he had come for, was his aura. They could feel it, certainly, those astonished observers. He radiated death and madness. His wild energy raged about him, searching for something to consume.
   The siblings fought to keep their focus. They had only one: harm as few people as possible. This proved to be difficult, as more and more townsfolk had gathered around to watch this inexplicable spectacle. They kept their distance, though this hardly mattered. A sorcerer on the edge of his sanity had a destructive potential that rivalled a small supernova.

   One man ignored the border of the crowd. She saw someone running from the edge of her vision; as he pushed past the silent observers, her heart froze. He went straight for the old man.

   “Please, do not!” she shouted. “Stay away!”

   The apple seller ignored her, falling to his knees next to the thing that looked like an elderly man trying to stand. He hooked his hands under the thing’s arms, cradling it carefully.

   “It’s alright, sire, I got you,” he said softly. “No worries.”

   “Let him go,” said her brother. His voice was low, deep, rumbling like the earth. “Very slowly. Back away. Do not startle him.”

   The apple seller bore into her brother with a glare as vivid as the unseen tentacles of energy flailing around him.

   “Startle him?” he barked. “You mean like throwin’ him to the ground? At his age? Who do you think you are, tough guy?”

   She broke, then. The apple seller looked at her. The hatred in his eyes shot a crack through her already ice-cold heart. That kind face, twisted in contempt, almost pushed the danger from her mind.

   She watched helplessly as a gnarled, veiny hand reached up and grabbed the apple seller by the cheek. The thumb fell across his lips. One yellowing fingertip dug into his ear. He looked down to the old man in his arms, not confused but concerned, wanting to help. To the very end, wanting to help.

   His eyes widened, widened, taking up most of his face. He moaned incoherently into the thumb blocking his mouth. He released his grip on the old man, grabbing his wrist instead and trying to push it away, but that bony hand was stronger than it looked.

   The skin underneath it started to crackle and peel, crisping and breaking like weathered bark. Oils and fats ran down his chin, down the old man’s wrist, dripping onto the ground between his knees where they sizzled in the dust. The moan turned into a scream soon enough, though it was muted by the molten flesh sealing his lips like wax on a letter.

   The apple seller fell backwards, trying to scramble away, but the old man leapt on top of him, keeping his scorching hold tight. The mad sorcerer let out a roar not human, not even mammalian. He planted his other hand over the man’s eye, the heel of his palm against his nose, fingers in his hair. Smoke rose from these fingertips. A sickening, sticky smell arose as the concealed eyeball began to melt into its host’s head.

   The apple seller’s boots, scrabbling to find purchase on the packed earth, began to slow. His flailing fists ceased their frantic beating on the old man’s chest. The screaming was the last to stop, dying down gradually to soft, twitching grunts.

   Most of the crowd had caught on, and were fleeing with screams of their own. The apple seller had gone from a helpful young man to a disfigured vegetable in a span of seconds. The eye still intact was wide and blank, staring unseeing at the autumn sky. His body shivered and writhed under the old man’s weight, baptized by drops of brittle foam from the roaring maw.

   A few of the bolder marketgoers that had stumbled forward to help were now backing away. She and her brother were the only ones slinking towards the grisly scene.

   “Old father,” said her brother quietly, “are you there?”

   The old man turned, still crouched over the apple seller. He huffed at the air like an animal. The electrical thorns in the air around them started to prick harder.

   “Answer if you know me,” continued her brother. “If you remember.”

   “Or me, old father,” added his sister cautiously. “Answer us. Please.”

   The old man lurched to his feet, dripping yellow ooze from one corner of his lips. He turned to face the siblings and began to shamble blindly towards them. He half-raised his hands, coated with tatters of crispy skin.

   “Back,” breathed her brother. “Back away. Let him follow.”

   She knew it would hurt, but she felt it was owed. She looked back at the splayed body on the ground. It had not stopped twitching. The fingers jerked over and over, begging her to come hither.

   Two small figures had appeared in the road, only a few feet away from the charred spectre. Nobody to shield them. Nobody to turn their eyes away. The small boy held tightly to his smaller sister’s hand.

   “Don’t look,” said her own brother. “We can’t worry for them if we want to keep them safe.”

   Struggling to avert her gaze, she kept careful tandem with her brother’s pace. Staring into that monster’s face pained her greatly. They had known Old Skull, though not well. Nobody could. In his elder years he had been reclusive, and more often than not in a bad mood, but he had been human. There had always been something to talk to and reason with when they crossed paths. Now he was a creature they hoped to lead to a quiet corner and put out of its misery.

   She heard a soft sound, like the mewling of a grouchy kitten. Her eyes snapped instinctively towards it. The tiny girl was struggling in her older brother’s grasp.

   “No, Anna!” she heard him hiss. “Don’t!”

   The baby was not of an age to understand. She mewled louder, trying to shove her brother with all the force she could muster in her two-foot frame.

   The fine hairs on the old man’s arms raised up. He stopped shambling. His breath whistled slightly through his nose as he paused, scenting and listening. The boy, too young even for school, knew precisely where the danger lay. He fixed on the old man, frozen, trying not to be seen. His sister slipped his grip as fear overwhelmed him. On unsteady legs, she toddled towards her father’s fallen figure.

   “Hey!” barked the sorceress. The blind eyes turned back to her immediately. With a low growl, the creature started slouching after her once more.

   “Get the children,” she whispered to her brother. “Bring them to safety. I will keep him away.”

   “I won’t leave you. The risk is too great alone.”

   “Kill him, then. Right now. End this.”

   “We have to think, not act. If I make a mistake he could go off.”

   She knew this. Had seen it before, even, had seen the towering cloud of destruction that nothing could endure. Now, she could see the baby girl, crawling towards her father. Could hear the contented cooing give way to shocked silence as what remained of the apple seller’s face formed in her undeveloped vision.

   Nobody could have stopped the sudden wail that burst forth from the tiny girl. That shrill siren shattered the sorcerers’ trance on the creature. He clapped his curled claws to his ears with another reptillian growl. Hunching, slavering, he turned his back on them, loping unsteadily towards the children.

   The sorceress threw her arms wide as she leapt in front of him. The air between them cleared and hardened, distorting the light like a pane of thick glass. The constant wild whine of his madness was muffled to her ears. He ran up against her barrier like a slow, drooling bird, rebounding off it with a hiss of indignation. A far-flung gob of spit hovered before her, bubbles drying and bursting in yellow streaks on the air. After a quick shake of his head his cloudy eyes settled in her direction.

   He leapt, howling with rage. His animal brain beat his body against the shimmering shield, hoping to break through with sheer stupid strength. Fists pounded, fingers scratched, teeth tried to gain purchase, leaving more oozy streaks. She pushed the children from her mind and focused. Clawing and biting could not hurt the barrier, as the mad monster refused to learn, but his poisonous energy could. She could feel it thinning at that very moment. 

   Her brother was by her side in an instant. The shield doubled in strength as he added his power to hers.

   “This is making it worse,” he warned. “We need to calm him.”

   The tiny girl behind them was still wailing, driving nails of insanity into the remains of the old man’s brain. His eyes rolled like a frightened horse’s as he pawed and bit at the solidified air.

   “We need to kill him,” she replied. “Go. Take whatever you can and drive it through his head.”

   “Are you sure you can hold him?”

   “Yes!” she said sharply. “Please, go! Hurry!”

   “Do not lie to me,” said her brother, calm as anything. “Are you sure?”

   She shot him a glare, but it quickly softened. He asked out of love, not of doubt. She took a deep breath to remove the frantic tremor from her voice.

   “I am,” she assured. “But you must go now. He—“

   The siblings turned in unison as a bright streak of scarlet lit up the air. It spattered like a virulent sneeze across the waning barrier. As one, they looked to the old man beyond their safeguard.

   Streams of red were pouring from his nose, his ears, even the tiny ducts in the corners of his eyes. His growling and hissing had stopped, replaced by rattling heaving breaths. His thin chest was pulsing in and out at an alarming rate. They smelled it before they saw it; smoke. The soft, wet, wispy kind that arose from roasting meats. The blood from the old man’s ears and nose was turning black as it dried to a crisp. The invisible tempest around them had faded to a low toll of thunder. All topics of debate vanished from their minds as the monster collapsed to its knees, the pearls in its eyes rolling up to red-streaked white.

   He reached for his sister and pulled her into a bear hug, breaking their shield.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 17 - End

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Weatherdecker hauled himself up over the lip of the platform, scrabbling on wet wood. It was dangerous and stupid to be up here, but he saw no other choice. He could make a stand from this height. He only had to watch the ladder and cut down whatever came up it.

   The captain settled with his back to the mast, and kept his sword trained rigidly on the ladder, just in case. Just in case Airedale was feeling reckless.

   He kept his eyes and his weapon focused on that same spot. Never once did he bother to check the rigging behind him. Though, he may not have seen Airedale anyway, in the dark. The first mate only appeared when lightning lit up the sky; crouched on the yard of a mast, or crawling on the ropes like a monkey. Dangerous and stupid. Two could play at that game, and Timothy Airedale played every game to win.

   Weatherdecker didn’t see the hand gripping the planks behind him, illuminated by a strobe flash of lightning. The sound of the wind drove out any noise that Airedale might have made as he pulled himself over the edge, a long dagger gripped in his teeth.

   The dagger was shortly at Weatherdecker’s neck. He jolted in fright as he felt the cold edge across his windpipe; Airedale’s hand slid under his chin and held it up, immobile. The captain tightened his grip on his sword, hard enough to make his arms tremble.

   “You could try it,” said the first mate, calmly. “But, you do not have a clear shot. You would be flailing like a fish and I would gut you as one. Drop it.”

   The captain did not make a move.

   “It is no good being stubborn, Richard. You are only delaying the inevitable. Drop the sword, and be sure to drop it over the edge.”

   It took only a tiny tear of blood nicked from the captain’s neck to spur him to action. He yelped and released his hold on the weapon; it shuddered like a leaping silver shark from the impact and tipped over the ladder lip, disappearing into the dark.

   “Good,” sighed Airedale. “That is the first good decision you have made in a long time.”

   “What’re you waitin’ for?” grunted Weatherdecker. “I yielded. I’m unarmed. Point me down the ladder so you can throw me in the clink, you traitor.”

   “I could. I could do that,” agreed Airedale thoughtfully. “And yet…I hesitate.”

   Weatherdecker’s stomach dropped as his first mate gripped him more tightly, pulling himself in to whisper in his ear.

   “You have given me such a grand opportunity, Richard, and I must consider it carefully, if you would indulge me a moment. We are forty feet off the deck. The rain is pouring, and we are slashing away at swords. You might not see the edge as you move to strike. Your foot might slip, it just might.”

   Weatherdecker swallowed precariously around the dagger.

   “I did not enter this fight hoping to kill you, but, I may never have such a chance again. It could look an accident this high up, could it not, Richard?”

   “You’re not the type, Tim,” quavered the captain. “You wouldn’t kill a man at your mercy. You got more honour than that, I know you do.”

   The world stood still for a moment; then, slowly, Airedale withdrew the dagger, tucking it back into the sheath. A few strands of his perfectly coiffed hair fluttered in the wind, illuminated in another lightning flash.

   “How kind of you to say, Captain,” said Airedale graciously. “I am flattered that you would think so highly of me.”

   After a pause, filled only with the sound of wind and rain, Weatherdecker began to turn.

   In a blink of fine cotton, the loop of an ascot tie fell over his head and hugged his neck. The ends were pulled tight.

   He growled and gasped as his head pulsed with trapped blood. He reached over his shoulder, clawing at the tie, but Mr. Airedale’s grip overpowered his. He tried to slide his fingers between it and his neck, but the cotton did not yield.

   “I apologize, Richard,” said Mr. Airedale quietly. “I wanted to end it peacefully. However, a sword spills evidence. A shove from a height may not silence, not always. But, throwing a dead man over the edge - the hard work is already done, is it not? An accident, a fall in the rain. Who will argue, Richard?”

   He wrenched his arms back, tightening the loop.

   “Who will argue?”

   Mr. Vesco burst through the hatch onto the deck, leaping immediately to his feet. He held his lantern high, though its light did not go far into the stormy night.

   “Tim!?” he shouted as he ran along. “Tim! Captain!”

   He looked frantically around the dark boards, searching the orange shadows, ignoring the water dripping down his neck. He didn’t know who he was worried for; he just knew he did not want either of them to do anything they’d regret.

   Nobody. The deck was barren. Perhaps they’d gone below through the aft doors. He hurried along, lantern bobbing in time with his steps, eyes and ears searching the darkness.

   As he passed the mainmast, his foot nudged something heavy, and he shied back in a panic, tense as a violin string. Skirting around it, he extended his lantern, and stopped.

   A sword, clean as anything. Not a drop of blood anywhere near it. He exhaled. A good sign, he supposed, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. Where could it have…

   He looked up just in time.

   “By the gods!” he shouted, staggering backwards. He slipped and fell hard onto the deck. His captain followed his lead a second later, only much, much harder.

   The sounds. There were so many sounds, sharp and clear in the constant patter of rain, all ringing at once. The dry tearing of skin as the deck met it at speed. The slimy burst of muscles and organs on impact. Bones shattering, vertebrae crunching. Teeth rattling across wood as they split from seeping gums.

   The silence lasted longer than the sounds. Vesco stared, unable to take his eyes away. He’d seen gore, and blood, and he’d even seen a neck twisted that way before, but it had never been his captain.

   The rain diluted most of the blood, helping it spread through the wood of the decks. It washed oozing organs clean. There was orange. There was purple, and blue. Vesco finally looked away, and up, and paused.

   Mr. Airedale was climbing down the ladder. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Calm and collected, as ever.

   Vesco stood himself up on shaky legs, trying not to look at the wreck of his captain. He glowed in his lantern light, pale and sickly.

   The first mate set one boot on the ground, and the other. He turned, with his usual stony indifference, to study the body of Richard Weatherdecker.

   When he finally looked up, he saw Vesco staring at him, gaping in shock. Rain ran down their faces, dripping through sodden hair. Mr. Airedale didn’t blink the water from his eyes. When he spoke, he spoke softly, in a sad choking whisper.

   “He fell.”

   Mr. Vesco did not argue.

   The next day, Mr. Tiller said goodbye to Damian on the Port Nichols docks. The crew of The Ship said goodbye to Captain Weatherdecker, though this event was surrounded by less pomp and circumstance. The ship’s doctor did his best to gather the captain into one piece, wrapping him in linen to hide what he could not fix, and then a dinghy of crewmen rowed him out to the deeps. The cannonball roped to his ankles quickly dragged him from sight. Mr. Airedale watched from the deck of the ship - his ship. From that distance, he could hardly see the splash.

   Adam was readying the SS Cartleblat to pull out and head home. Tiller met Susan on the dock, next to the berth of the hardy little tugboat. She held Damian in her arms. Mr. Tiller held the large rucksack he’d packed last night.

   “You should take this,” he said, offering it to her. “Got some extra clothes for the kid. Snacks and the like.”

   “Oh, Mr. Tiller, thank you,” said Susan. She let him drape one of the straps over her arm, and she hefted it onto her shoulder. “That’s so kind.”

   “Some toys in there too, just in case you want ‘em. Figured he might like ‘em for the trip home.”

   “I’m sure,” said Susan, smiling, “but, are you? How much did you spend on all this?”

   “It was nothin’,” said Tiller. “Don’t worry about that.”

   “I’m going to, you know. I hope you didn’t put yourself out.”

   “Not at all. It went to a good cause.” He was suddenly unable to look at her. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and studied the dock boards underneath his feet. “I should get goin’, I suppose. Let you folks on your way. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime, eh?”

   She lunged at him as he turned to go, seizing him by the wrist.

   “Mr. Tiller, you did me a favour I can never repay. You know where I’ll be. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, let me know.”

   He had stopped, but he kept his head down. He turned towards her the tiniest bit.

   “I s’pose…there’s maybe somethin’ right now you could do.”

   “Anything!”

   “Can I hold ‘im one last time?”

  A tear fell from the tip of his nose onto the dock. Without a word, she turned Damian around in her arms and offered him up onto the boatswain’s shoulder. Tiller squeezed him tight, crying silently into the boy’s soft curls. Susan dove in and wrapped her arms around the both of them, her head on Tiller’s other shoulder.

   In that quiet moment, she thought, and thought, and thought some more. About all the things that had happened. About this kind, gentle man. About how much he cared for her son.

   In the next quiet moment, she began to whisper in his ear.

   The new captain insisted on seeing the SS Cartleblat home as a security escort. He knew the Benefactor would have something to say about it, but he was not troubled in the least, as he knew what to say back.

   They anchored in the bay, and rode a dinghy to the docks. Acting Captain Airedale and his first mate Vesco met the young family, and the boatswain that had joined them for the trip home, by their tugboat.

   “Miss Carruthers,” said Airedale, taking her by the hand, “I must apologize for this brief farewell. I regret we must take our leave as soon as we may.”

   “I understand, Mr. Airedale. Oh! I mean, Captain Airedale. Thank you for all your help.”

   “You were most welcome to it, Miss Carruthers. My crew and I remain in your service whenever you have need.”

   He released her hand, and took up the hand of Captain Cartleblat.

   “The same is true for you, sir. I hope our paths across the seas may intersect again.”

   “Sure,” said Adam. “Here’s hopin’. Thanks, Cap’n.”

   Mr. Vesco shook the hands of Adam and Susan in turn, as his captain had done.

   “I’ve seen folks crazier than you two, no doubt about that. What I ain’t seen yet is anyone braver. Your kiddo’s gonna have a hell of a time keepin’ up with mum and dad.”

   Susan laughed and hugged him.

   “I can never thank you enough, Mr. Vesco. Any time you’re in Port Victor, please, come see us!”

   “Any time an’ every time, miss. You give junior my best, eh?” He turned to Adam. “Cartleblat, let’s make a deal.”

   “A…deal?” said Adam, confused.

   “What’s say the both of us give up cards for a while? Seem to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

   This cheekiness earned him a half-laugh.

  “Don’t have time for cards anymore, man,” said Adam. “I got a kid to look after.”

   Vesco grinned and clapped Adam on the shoulder. Captain Airedale offered his own polite little smile, before addressing his boatswain. Tiller held Damian in his arms.

   “I apologize for our haste, Mr. Tiller, but we must be on our way. Have you any farewells left to say, say them now, and we shall set sail.”

   Mr. Tiller looked nauseous. He clutched the boy tightly, and glanced briefly at Susan. She smiled and nodded encouragement. Tiller handed the boy to her, and took a step forward to face Mr. Airedale.

   “Uh, Cap’n…” said Tiller quietly, “…permission to take shore leave?”

   The captain’s eyebrow twitched upwards, ever so slightly.

   “On which grounds, Mr. Tiller?”

   “Well, y’see, Tim, there’s a home for foundlings an’ orphans, here, and Susan’s one of the Misses, there, an’ they’re gonna be short-staffed soon on account of a new baby on the way, and since, well, I really felt like I was doin’ good by lookin’ after this little guy, more of ‘em would just be better, right? Susan says I have the knack for it, and I ain’t had the knack for many things in life so I figured I had to take the chance while it was here for me.”

   The Captain studied him for a moment, thinking. Mr. Tiller’s stomach tightened all the while.

   “I-I know it’s short notice, Tim. I’m sorry. I just don’t know when we’ll be back here again!”

   “Mr. Tiller,” said Airedale, “I don’t either. No one can say when we may return. Though, I take comfort in knowing that you will be here, with the people that need you most.”

   “Is that…was that yes?” said Tiller nervously.

   “Jeremy, I am not a father. If I were, nothing would put me more at ease than knowing, were something to happen to me, you would be the one to look after my children. Go with my blessing. You are discharged with full honours, Mr. Tiller, from my service.”

   He didn’t think about it; he just hugged his captain, the same way he breathed, or blinked. The message went straight from his brain to his muscles. Airedale was too tall to hug around the shoulders. The Captain patted his former boatswain’s head a few times as his waist was manhandled.

   “Thank you, Tim! I’ll never forget you boys!”

   “Nor we you, Mr. Tiller. May your land-legs find you swiftly.”

   When Tiller finally let go of his captain, Vesco dived in and grabbed his hand. He didn’t shake it, he only squeezed it tightly in both of his.

   “Good on ya, Jerry. Stay outta trouble, eh?”

   Tiller grinned back at him.

   “I’ll try, Vesco. Thanks.”

   The three (four, if the sleeping baby was counted) left on the dock watched the dinghy bob away, watched The Ship raise its anchor, lower its sails, and cruise out of the bay. It was late afternoon when they made their way back home.

   Mr. Tiller carried the sleeping Damian on his shoulder. Adam and Susan walked behind him, hand in hand, enjoying the quiet. Their son’s face was peaceful.

   “I think he’ll work out just fine,” observed Adam. “With the kids.”

   “I know he will,” agreed Susan.

   “Great stroke of luck to find someone so quick, before you’re down a hand. Who’s expecting? Anyone I know?”

   They walked on in silence. After a few seconds, Adam looked to Susan. She looked up at him and started to smile. He slowed his pace, and she fell back with him.

   “You’re kidding,” said Adam blankly.

   “You weren’t, when you said your cot would do the trick.”

   He smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

   “Sure wasn’t,” he agreed.

   “Are you going to stick around for this one?” she asked.

   “Sure am.”

   She hugged him around the waist as they walked home.

In For A Penny - Part 16

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   The bright and sunny today was replaced by a grey and dreary tomorrow. The sky had clouded over by the time they reached Port Nichols, and after the moon had risen, it had begun to pour steady rain. After the moon had set, Mr. Tiller hefted his rucksacks onto his back, gathered the boy into his arms, and left his cabin for the last time. He crossed the deck under cover of night, casting cautious looks around but never back.

   He knocked three times on Vesco’s door, propping Damian in the crook of his arm. The boy was tugging an overlarge sealskin hat over his ears to keep dry.

   “That’s a good lad,” said Tiller quietly, adjusting the boy’s similarly outsized coat. “Keep warm. We’ll be back with Mummy in just a minute.”

   The door opened, dousing them in lantern light. Tiller took a hurried step forward, followed immediately by a hurried step back, squeezing Damian to his chest.

   The sight of Captain Weatherdecker was not what had him worried. It would have been easy to make up an excuse for this late-night visit. What had him worried was the line of steel crossing the threshold. The sword that the captain held jutted out into the rain, only a few inches shy of Tiller’s belt.

   “Uh…” said the boatswain. “S’just me, cap’n. No need for a fightin’ stance!” Damian was staring at the captain with laser intensity.

   “No, there’s need, Jeremy. I figured you’d argue, so I wanted to cut it short. Put down the boy and back away - then, I can either drag you to the hold or you can walk and save me some work. What’ll it be?”

   Tiller did back away, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Damian. Weatherdecker matched his steps.

   “What’d you do to Vesco?” demanded Tiller.

   “He’s in the brig, with his little lady. What, you think I hurt ‘em?” he asked, of Tiller’s suspicious glare. “I’m not that crazy, Jeremy. I’m just gonna keep ‘em there ’til I get a chance to debark ‘em. You’ll be joinin’em, don’t you worry. Now, drop the kid.”

   “W-what lady’s’is?” asked Tiller hurriedly. “W-why would you put me off ship, Cap’n? Vesco only asked me to meet him here, I don’t know what’s-“

   He staggered backwards as Weatherdecker rushed the sword forward. It was only a warning, but an impatient, unforgiving one all the same. Tiller slipped on the wet deck, hitting it hard on his back. He carefully braced Damian against the fall, which ended up making his own bruises much worse.

   The point of the sword was immediately in his face.

   “Don’t you dare treat me stupid, Jeremy. You been part o’this since the start. Now, let go o’ the kid. If I have to ask again, I’ll ask with steel.”

   Tiller looked to the boy in his arms, staring up at the Captain with tearful awe. The boatswain reached up and set his hand on the crown of the water-slick hat, pulling the boy’s head to his chest, hiding his face.

   “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re safe. We’ll get you back to Mummy, okay?”

   With a grunt of frustration, Weatherdecker pulled the sword back, ready for a stab. Tiller winced and closed his eyes, ready for the worst. He did not let go; he only held tighter.

    In that single dark second, he heard a pair of hard, fast bootsteps, then a sharp, squeaking clang, followed immediately by a dull wooden thump. Then, quiet. And rain. And the creak of the ship. Was this death? He felt no pain. Not so much as a scratch. He risked a peek.

   A second figure was silhouetted next to Weatherdecker in the pouring lamplit rain. Even without his bicorne, there was no mistaking the stature of the first mate.

   Airedale had driven the point of Weatherdecker’s sword into the deck beside Tiller’s leg. His own sword was crossed overtop, weighing it down. It would have been easy enough for the captain to pull it out and have another go, but he was staring, eyes locked with the first mate’s.

   “Drop your weapon,” said Airedale. Weatherdecker only glared at him some more. His hand stayed firmly wrapped around the sword’s hilt.

   “I told you to drop your weapon. I did not ask.”

   “I don’t take orders from you,” snapped Weatherdecker. “Get outta here. This ain’t your business.”

   Carefully, still keeping his lock on Weatherdecker’s sword, Airedale took one long step sideways, settling himself between Tiller and the captain.

   “If it happens,” he said, pressing down on the sword, “aboard my ship…” He suddenly let go, arcing his own sword through the air to reestablish a good grip. “…it is my business. If you want to kill an innocent man on my deck, you’ll have to get through me. Pull that sword up and face me, Richard, if you’re eager to kill. Show me you aren’t a coward.”

   Weatherdecker hauled on his sword, dislodging the point from the deck. With a growl, he raised it to Airedale’s own.

   “I’se killed men bigger’n you with my bare hands,” said the captain lowly.

   “Before, or after they were hogtied?”

   Weatherdecker thrust his sword forward with a savage growl; Airedale caught it with his, and held it.

   “C’mon, you fuckin’ poof,” snapped the Captain. Both their locked arms were starting to tremble. “We gonna talk, or am I gonna cut you open?”

   He slid his sword along Airedale’s, making them sing. He pulled back, and tried another, lower cut. The first mate got his weapon under it and threw it aside before it could hit. Thus separated, he said:

   “Mr. Tiller.” It was a command, catching the boatswain’s attention. Mr. Airedale reached into his jacket and withdrew a ring of keys, which he tossed in Tiller’s direction. They landed with a jangle on the deck beside him. He could have caught them, if not for the baby in his arms. The first mate had not diverted his eyes from the captain for a single second.

   “Get to the brig,” said Airedale. “Release Mr. Vesco and Ms. Carruthers. Get off the ship. Mr. Cartleblat’s vessel is docked not far from here, to our stern.”

   Tiller had grabbed the keys and scrambled to his feet, still clutching the boy to his chest, though he did not leave.

   “But, Tim…what are you…?”

   “Either I will meet you shortly, or you will have gotten a sufficient head start. Go, now. Do not argue.”

   Mr. Tiller took a few hesitant steps away. Mr. Airedale still had not looked in his direction once.

   “Thank you,” he whispered. The steps turned into a run, towards the hold. Mr. Airedale stared his captain down, sword at the ready.

   “I would rather not do this with weapons, Richard. If I admit that I am, in fact, a poof, are you willing to have a reasoned discussion?”

   The captain’s face darkened, his eyes bright with hatred. He bared his teeth. With a sudden gargling yell, he raised his sword high in both hands, bringing it down as hard as he could. Mr. Airedale met it in a cross over his head, and threw it off once more.

   “Shut your mouth!” bellowed the captain. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, you fag! Quit tossin’ your fancy words around an’ fight me like a man!”

   Quick as a wink, Mr. Airedale swept the point of his sword a few inches from Weatherdecker’s belly. Had he been trying to, he would have opened his captain hip to hip. Weatherdecker staggered back a few steps, startled, wide-eyed. He looked like a child who had just discovered the claws on his pet cat.

   “I do not hope to fight you, Richard. I hope to make you see sense. I am distressed and disappointed that we had to come to swords over this. Do you really wish to add assault to the list of charges against you?”

   For once in his life, Richard Weatherdecker listened. He stayed silent.

   “Miss Carruthers has gotten away with her child. It is over, Richard. There are plenty of witnesses willing to put this to court against you, myself included. If you kill me, there are others. You aren’t going to get out of this. If you put your sword down, and come with me, it will be better for you.”

   The wind whistled in their ears; it whistled through Weatherdecker’s nose as he breathed, hard and fast, his brain whirring.

   He swiped again, suddenly, but Airedale had seen it coming a mile away. He deflected deftly, locking their weapons once more.

   “You can take me to fuckin’ court,” growled the captain, “when you drag in my dead fuckin’ body.”

   “I will do no such thing, Richard. If I have to drag you, I will drag you alive.” He pressed harder. “I want you to see their faces. See the pain you caused. You do not get to escape that easily.”

   Weatherdecker shoved him back, bracing the flat of his sword against Airedale’s, but the first mate knew he had already won. The look in his captain’s eyes was all he needed.

   “Fuck you, fag,” spat Weatherdecker. “Always knew you for a traitor. Never shoulda let the lady pick my first!”

   Mr. Airedale’s cut came down on him so hard, so quickly, he barely had time to lift his sword over his head to block it. It rattled his teeth and the bones in his fingers. Sharp ringing sounded in his ears from the slash of metal on metal so close to his head. His arms started to tremble as Mr. Airedale forced the sword down, harder.

   “I always knew you as an oaf, as an ape, as a dangerous man and a terrible captain. I never should have let Miss Bankshead make me your first. I deserved a proper captain and you deserved a drowning in a sack in a river, you cur!”

   Weatherdecker was so fixed on the sword from above, he missed the boot from below until it had already kicked him in the liver. He doubled over, breathless, stumbling backwards out of Airedale’s reach; but only barely out of the reach of Airedale’s weapon. The captain looked up, groggily, to see a point of steel aimed right for his face.

   “Put it down, Richard,” said Airedale, with finality. A pause passed between them, filled only by the patter of heavy rain on the deck. The captain stood a little straighter.

   With a huge grunt of effort, he swept his sword up and out. It clanged against Mr. Airedale’s, knocking the first mate’s arm aside as the steel in his hand vibrated angrily. He recovered in an instant, ready to parry his captain’s next strike, but it never came. Weatherdecker had not been attacking. He had been distracting, throwing his first mate off balance just long enough to turn tail and disappear into the dark.

   Mr. Airedale leapt after him, after a brief pause to sort through his confusion. He had been expecting a poor fight from his captain, certainly, but not outright cowardice.

   His long, steady strides caught him up to Weatherdecker in no time at all. At least, they would have, had Weatherdecker stayed on deck. Mr. Airedale slowed to a halt in a few awkward steps, before he ran into the wall of the foredeck. He looked around, looked behind, weapon at the ready. Impossible. Where could he…?

   A lightning flash illuminated the rain, freezing it in tiny slivers of glass. The rigging of the ship burst in silhouette like a spider’s web in black. On the ladder of the mainmast, partway up to the flat platform that served as a fighting top, was the spider himself. Airedale’s eyes locked on as if drawn there by magnets.

   He sheathed his sword, keeping his captain clear in his sights. From the sheath on his other hip, he drew a long, sharp dagger. Then he moved, slinking along the dark deck. Had the thunder not rolled, had the wind not roared, he still would have been silent as a shadow.

   The captain had left a pair of kerosene lanterns for them, his one small gesture of goodwill. They hung on the wall opposite their cell doors. He had made plenty more small gestures of bad will, however; locking them in, taking the keys, manacling Mr. Vesco by the hands after threading the chain around a cell bar. Mr. Vesco was an able lockpick, and Weatherdecker knew this, having employed his skill on several occasions.

   His throwing knives had been cut from his wrists. He couldn’t reach the bigger ones at his ankles. He was having trouble remembering how he got here, much less how to rifle around in a lock. The bruise that the captain had flowered at the base of his skull was pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed.

   “I’m sorry,” he murmured. It was quiet in the brig, and Susan heard him well enough. She looked up from her knees, hugging them tightly in the corner made by cell bars and wooden wall. From that flat angle, she could only see his hands hanging from the bars, and the edge of the cuffs around them.

   “He was asleep,” continued Vesco. “I swear to gods he was asleep when I looked in.”

   “Don’t be sorry,” said Susan. She sounded calm, though whether this was actual serenity or simply shock even she couldn’t say. “You couldn’t have known. It’s the easiest thing in the world to fake.”

   “Couldn’t’ve known,” he said. “Should’ve thought.”

   He sighed again, letting his forehead rest between two of the cold cell bars. Susan watched his hands for a while, dangling uselessly from their manacles.

   She turned suddenly as the hatch in the ceiling cracked open. Beyond it was only darkness. As it was overturned, a few raindrops snuck through, spotting the floor of the brig in a square. The rope ladder kept at the top dropped through with a rattle and hiss, like a snake from a branch.

   She didn’t immediately recognize the feet that hooked themselves into the rungs, but she knew they were not the captain’s. She stood as Mr. Tiller dropped to the floor, one hand letting go of the ladder, the other arm holding tight to her baby. Relief swept her away like a sudden riptide.

   “Tiller!” she cried. Mr. Vesco’s chain rattled against the cell bars. She could see his hands tighten around them.

   “Jeremy, thank gods! You alright?”

   “Fine. Just fine!” Tiller pulled a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and started to flip through them. Damian tried to help, unhelpfully. “I’ll have you outta there in a sec, just hold on…”

   He unlocked Susan’s cell first. She pulled Tiller into a strangling hug, then took Damian from his arms and hugged him even tighter. The boy chirped and showed off his new hat as Tiller freed Vesco, from both cell and cuff.

   “Did he catch you?” demanded the quartermaster.

   “We got away,” said Tiller. “We have to hurry, Vesco. I dunno how much time we have. We have to get to—“

   “How much time before what?”

   “Mr. Airedale’s keepin’ him busy. He told me to get you and head for—“

   Mr. Vesco’s hand dropped absentmindedly to the scabbard at his hip. The one that Weatherdecker had so helpfully emptied for him before locking him away. That sword was not just for ceremony, not tonight. Vesco had been careful to sharpen it.

   “Fuck,” he breathed. He looked up at Susan. “Get off the ship, all of you. Go on without me. I’ll catch you up.” He grabbed a lantern off the wall as he ran past. He nipped the handle in his teeth and leapt onto the ladder like a monkey, climbing as fast as he could.

   “Where you goin’?” called Tiller. “Vesco, he said to—!”

   The quartermaster ignored him, vanishing into the rainy night.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 15

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Susan had noticed some odd things in her days in Mr. Vesco’s bedroom. It was hard not to, in such proximity to a man’s most personal space. The time she had spent aboard Adam’s tiny tin can and the time she had spent in the cramped prison of sailor’s bunks below had taught her what the space of a working man looked like. Mr. Vesco’s did not line up in quite the same way. It was messy in some places, but never dirty. A pile of clothes here and a tented book there did not a mess make. He kept himself the same way, a bit salty and sunburned but never unclean. He washed and brushed and shaved and coiffed. It finally came to Susan when she had a look through the books keeping watch over the bed, flipping through them by candlelight for some bedtime reading. First of all, and most plainly, they were books. Bound in leather and printed by professionals. She knew Adam could read, but had never seen him do so for pleasure. Like most working men she knew, he did not own a book that was not mostly diagrams on how to fix things. Mr. Vesco’s books were of poetry. Classical tales, from civilizations ancient, far-off, or both. Tracts on philosophy, theology, sciences. The most telling thing was the style of the script that had written ‘A. Vesco’ inside the cover of each book. It had style that could only be learned in a school, after years of regular practice. Educated, thought Susan, and not on the sea.

   She looked up from her reading as she heard a knock on the door. Mr. Vesco was always careful to knock, though only to warn. She didn’t reply, didn’t call him to come in. She closed the book of philosophy she’d been on around her finger to mark her place.

   Mr. Vesco slipped in without a sound. He closed the door behind him, and slouched back against it. He seemed tired, distracted, not quite looking her in the eyes. His hands opened and closed at his sides. She waited for him to speak.

   “We’re only one more night from our next port,” he said quietly. “I’m goin’ to put you off there.”

   She had known it would happen eventually. She still felt her stomach turn as it was said out loud, set in stone. After another pause, Mr. Vesco willed himself to look at her, his eyes steely and bright.

   “And,” he continued, “if the fates are good to me, I’m puttin’ your son off with you.”

   The next day was a lovely one. Sunny and cloudless, as far as the eye could see. Windy, naturally, else the ship would not be moving much, but it was a pleasant breeze instead of a gale. Mornings such as this were perfect for tea on deck. Today, Mr. Airedale stood at the stern railing, overlooking the wake of the ship. In the distance, only a dot riding the waves of the galleon, was the tugboat. Mr. Airedale watched it carefully, and sipped his tea.

   “Still there?” asked the captain, appearing beside him. Weatherdecker felt infinitely annoyed when Airedale did not so much as blink at his sudden intrusion. He kept staring out over the waves.

   “Still there,” agreed the first mate. He sipped his tea. Weatherdecker stared at him for a moment; realizing he would not be stared at in return, he turned his attention to the tugboat.

   “Think they’ll catch up?” asked the captain offhandedly.

   “I could not say,” said Airedale.

   “They shouldn’ be able to,” said Weatherdecker. “Them, just a tiny tug. Us, a huge galleon with the wind behind us. Determined little bugger, that Cartleblat.”

   Airedale did not have anything to say to this. He didn’t even nod.

   “S’funny, though,” continued the captain. “Just this mornin’, I found out somethin’ - or someone - had been at the riggin’. Ropes cut. Gashes in some o’ the sails. A pulley or two just flat out missin’.”

   “My word,” said Airedale, as if nothing in the world could be less exciting.

   “An’ no accident, I’m sure,” said the captain. “Cuts are too clean. Ropes pulled right out, whole. Not tryin’a stop us, just to slow us down. An’ you know what’s funny, Tim? Our speed’s toppin’ out just below the average of an ocean-goin’ tug.”

   “Is it,” said Airedale. “What a strange coincidence.”

   “Oh? Coincidence, you think?”

   “What else could it be, Captain?”

   “Well, maybe someone did it deliberate. Someone who wanted to make sure Cartleblat din’t fall behind.”

   “I cannot imagine who.”

   The captain was staring at the first mate again. Studying every inch of his face. Airedale was aware of this. He turned his head, looking his Captain right in the eye. He sipped his tea, and set the cup back down on the saucer. A few seconds passed. Then he turned back to the ocean. His expression had not moved once. He had not even blinked.

   Mr. Airedale could out-wait a glacier, but he had been enjoying his solitude in the sunshine and wished to return to it. He gave the captain a few more minutes to glare at him in silence.

   “If you suspect wrongdoing, Richard, we could place another watch or two in the rigging. Failing that, perhaps we could find a willing barmaid to keep an eye on things around the table.”

   The glare’s intensity did not fade, but the captain’s eyes widened.

   “What did you say?” he demanded.

   “I said that we could perhaps revise our watch schedule, Richard. Was that unclear?”

   The captain’s hand tightened on the railing. Mr. Airedale met his angry stare with an innocent one of his own devising. The glare turned into a scowl.

   “No,” muttered the captain. “No, it’s all clear.”

   Mr. Airedale let him stalk away with the last word. It was the least he could do.

   None of the crew had asked Mr. Vesco why he had been leaving the galley lately with two of everything. Most hadn’t noticed, and the ones that had knew it wasn’t their business to question the quartermaster. Technically speaking, there was only one man who could and that was captain, who also hadn’t noticed. He didn’t notice even as he cornered Vesco at the bottom of the mess hall stairs that he had a bowl of porridge in each hand.

   He swung his arm out like a bear catching a leaping fish, corralling Vesco against the wall as the quartermaster tried to move past him with only a nod. They remained largely alone in their dark corner beside the stairs.

   “Been chatty, ain’cha?” said the captain without introduction. Vesco was not quite as good at Mr. Airedale at stony faces, but could still hold his own.

   “Have I?” said Vesco. “What about?”

   The captain leaned in, bending the arm against the wall, and lowered his voice.

   “I thought it went without sayin’, Vesco, that when you agree to a swindle you keep your mouth shut about it. You really that thick, to need remindin’?”

   “Don’t need no such thing, cap’n,” Vesco returned in a low murmur. “I know how it is. But, I agreed to a swindle, not a kidnapping. Not puttin’ the whole ship at risk with watchmen aboard. Wouldn’t’ve said nothin’ if you’d been smart enough to quit when you could.”

   “This ain’t on me,” said the captain. “Cartleblat’s the one that shoulda been smart enough to pay up.”

   “To pay up what he don’t owe you?”

   “He don’t know that, does he?” snapped Weatherdecker. “He knew he was skippin’ out on a debt. He knew he was tryin’a fuck me over. I don’t care ‘bout the money anymore, Vesco. What I want now is for him to understand that that don’t happen. Nobody pulls one over on me and gets away with it.”

   The captain relaxed slightly, straightening his arm.

   “Speakin’ o’which, I’ll forgive your little slip if you help me make an example outta Cartleblat.”

   Mr. Vesco cast a skeptical sideways glance at him.

   “Meanin’ what?”

   “Meanin’ we pay him a visit when we reach port. He’s still right behind us. I know he’ll be there. We can rough him up like we should’ve back in Port Victor. No money in it, but we’ll be even all the same. We could finally put him behind us.”

   Weatherdecker’s smile at this prospect set off a flare of anger inside Vesco. It was worse than anything he’d felt before, worse than anything even when the captain had been drunkenly kicking his door down.

   “He was behind us,” growled Vesco sharply. “That whole fuckin’ fiasco was behind us before you decided to trawl it all up again. This is your problem and your fault and you can deal with it yourself. I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you. Keep my cut and leave me out of it. If you can do that for me, I’ll forgive YOUR little slip. Hell, I’ll even keep your stupid secret.”

   The smile had broken down under this tirade. It had been replaced by a chilly thin-lipped grimace. The captain kept staring, much as he’d stared at Mr. Airedale, trying to intimidate. It used to be so easy. What had happened? He’d been surrounded by these jackasses that used words instead of fists, that’s what.

   “Can I go now, sir?” said Vesco icily.

   The captain let his hand fall to his side, freeing Mr. Vesco’s path, but neither moved.

   “I thought you were a friend,” said Weatherdecker.

   “Once upon a time, Richard, I thought so too.”

   He sidled past his silent captain without another glance in his direction. Weatherdecker still had not noticed the bowls of porridge in his hands.

   Tiller did not know about the swindle, the barmaid, any of it. He only knew that he was disobeying his captain on an unforgivable scale. It was possible to stay, perhaps. He could probably think up an excuse as to how the boy had disappeared, one that wouldn’t get him beaten too badly. Staying on the ship was not the worst outcome for him; being separated from Damian, was.

   He did not like the idea of being branded a deserter. A traitor. He liked even less the idea of living out his life as a fugitive from Captain Weatherdecker. He could never feel safe again. He would have to watch corners and shadows for knives and pistols. None of these visions, however, could compare to the one where he had to say goodbye to the boy. He would not hesitate to become a fugitive if it meant he could delay that moment. He liked The Ship, but he loved Damian, and would see him all the way back to Port Victor if that’s what felt right.

   He packed a small rucksack for himself and a larger one for the boy. Toys, diapers, and clothes for Damian, a few beloved trinkets and pairs of socks for Jeremy. Damian, oblivious as always, clacked his toys together on the rug as the boatswain bustled around him, gathering supplies.

   They would be making their move tomorrow night.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 14

   If you have not already, please start here! 

...Previous

   The captain returned a bit earlier than Vesco had anticipated. This was not the issue. The issue was that he returned much, much drunker than Vesco had anticipated.

   The quartermaster was at his desk doing sums in the ration books. He kept his ear open on the door behind him, where mother and baby were enjoying the day alone. Mr. Tiller had let them be in order to attend his neglected deck crew. Vesco did not have a fraction of his attention on the door before him; even so, the kick to it had him up with his knife drawn in an instant. Not his tiny throwing knives, the big leather-handled thing he kept in his boot. He heard the baby’s quiet chirping fall silent.

   The office door was kicked again, so hard he heard a crack of wood. Vesco leaped over the desk, knocking his books to the floor. He wrenched the door open with one hand, knife ready to meet his visitor in the other. Had the captain not been stumbling drunkenly at that moment, he might have lost an eye.

   He steadied himself as he saw Vesco, ready to lunge; he paused as he noticed the six inches of steel aimed at his face. The quartermaster took a step forward. Weatherdecker took a step back, growling like a bear.

   “You’d draw on yer cap’n, you goddamn traitor?” he rumbled.

   “You’d kick down my door?” snapped Vesco. “Back up. Right now.”

   Uneasily, with slow care, Weatherdecker did, putting a few more steps between him and Vesco. Vesco kept the knife pointed at him as he slipped his keys from his pocket and locked the door behind him. He barely looked at it. He looked instead, quite firmly, at his wavering captain. Once he’d replaced his keys, he said lowly:

   “The hell you think you’re doin’?”

   “Said you’d go for a stroll, eh? Said you’d see the sunshine, whatch’ya doin’ inside, then, huh?”

   “I was busy,” said Vesco sternly. “Didn’t find the time to go get pissed, like some.”

   “The fuck you hidin’ in there?” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Don’t think I ain’t seen you hangin’ about! You show me what you got ‘fore I give you the lash!”

   Mr. Vesco looked at the crowd of crewmen that had gathered; it was a large one, though it had given them a wide radius. Others were hanging in the rigging, enjoying the balcony view. He saw one figure descending fast.

   “Think you’re imaginin’ things, cap’n. Nothin’ I could show y’in there that y’ain’t already seen.”

   “Bullshit,” spat Weatherdecker. “Lemme through!”

   He charged forward, but Vesco called his bluff. He also stepped forward, the knife poised to drive into his throat if he got closer. The captain stopped dead. This close, Vesco could smell the sweat on his skin and the strong liquor on his breath.

   The figure from the rigging burst out of the crowd, ignoring the safety radius. Mr. Tiller ran for them at top speed, but stopped a few feet away, no longer sure of what his plan was. He looked to Mr. Vesco, asking silent questions, but the quartermaster kept focused on his knife’s proximity to the captain. Weatherdecker was the one that turned to look at him. He broke away from Vesco, already forgotten.

   “You,” spat the captain. “Where’s the kid?”

   “Uh…he’s at a nap, sir,” lied Tiller calmly. “In my quarters.”

   “Go get it,” ordered Weatherdecker. “We’re gettin’ rid of it.”

   “Oh,” said Tiller. “You got paid off?”

   Weatherdecker spat on the deck.

   “No. Don’t care about the fuckin’ money anymore. That kid’s goin’ overboard in a fuckin’ sack. An’ you,” he said, whirling unsteadily back to Vesco. “You an’ I are gonna hunt down that fuckin’ tug monkey and slit his goddamn throat. I’m done with this bullshit!”

   Vesco lowered his voice, so the crewmen could not hear.

   “Fine,” he said, “but not today. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere with you in this state.”

   “It was a goddamn order, Vesco!” shouted the captain, loud enough for the both of them.

   “I don’t take your orders when you’re full o’piss!” snapped Vesco. “We can talk plans once you sleep it off. Get to your cabin and stay there ’til you can stand straight.”

   “You don’t tell me what to do! This is MY fuckin’ ship!”

   “Oh yeah?” breathed Vesco. “What would the Benefactor say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”

   Rage boiled over inside Weatherdecker. His hands tightened into fists, his face red-hot. Had something been in his reach, he would have pummelled it to pieces. The rage, however, also locked his muscles. He couldn’t move for his anger.

   “It’s in my fuckin’ name,” he growled through gritted teeth. “It’s my fuckin’ boat.”

   “Sure thing,” agreed Vesco. “But you’re laid up drunk right now. Airedale’s not back. That leaves me as commanding officer. Just go, Richard,” he urged quietly. “Sleep it off. You can’t give orders if you’re not straight in the head.”

   Weatherdecker wanted to fight; he felt ready. But his steam had already been let off. The thought of the Benefactor had been a dunk of baking soda in his vinegar. He staggered unsteadily to the door beyond which lay the officer’s cabins. With a wobbly jerk, he slammed it behind him.

   Finally allowing himself to exhale, Vesco slipped the knife back into his boot. Then, he remembered the crew. He looked, not at one particular man, but at the crowd at large. He didn’t have to say a word. They scattered back to their posts, leaving him alone with Mr. Tiller. The boatswain hurried forward.

   “Are they okay?” he whispered. “Did he find them?”

   “No,” said Vesco. He didn’t protest as Tiller followed him into his office, then into his quarters. Susan was holding the boy, trying to keep him still and silent, to not much avail. There were toys and blocks all over the floor. They both looked up, wide-eyed, as the door opened.

   “Oh, thank gods,” sighed Susan, as she saw who it was.

   “Tir!” proclaimed Damian. “Tir Tir! Baaah!”

   “What happened out there?” asked his mother, shushing him.

   “Capn’s a bit…unruly, right now,” said Vesco. “But we got ‘im down. He’ll be fine.”

   “Is everything alright? Do you need Damian back?”

   “It’s okay,” assured Vesco. “Keep ‘im for now, if it suits you. We’ll talk later.”

   It certainly did suit her, though she kept a worried look about her as they closed the door. In the office, Tiller looked up at him, similarly concerned.

   “D’you think he’s on to us? To her?”

   “He knows somethin’,” said Vesco, “but he doesn’ know what it is.” He was quiet for a moment. “I gotta think. We should get back to work. For now, nothin’ happened, alright?”

   Tiller nodded frantically. “Nothin’ happened. Sure.” He didn’t need to be told twice. Vesco locked the door after him. He returned to his sums, just as before, but the rest of his mind kept running.

   To Miss Bankshead’s credit, the tea had been utterly delicious. That perfect brew had been the bright spot of the afternoon; the only real bright spot for Mr. Airedale. It had gone on too long, far too long. He was too polite to leave without a dismissal, which also left him too polite to object to her touching his person. She listened, enraptured, to his conversation, and offered her own with eloquence and charm. That would have been fine, had she not been in the habit of patting his knee. Touching his arm. Trying to snare him in those dark, clear eyes. She even had the gall to brush the toe of her boot along his shin, twice. Timothy Airedale had been brought up not to squirm, and it had taken all of his upbringing to stay still. Because it was so irritating, obviously.

   He returned from his sojourn as the streetlamps were being lit. The world around them was dark, only stars and a few windows lit by candles adding to their glow. He had removed his necktie and returned his bicorne to its proper place. One did not wear one’s hat indoors, even in the company of irritating ladies.

   Mr. Vesco was leaning back on the railing at the top of the plank when Airedale arrived at The Ship. The first mate nodded a good evening.

   “Evenin’,” said Vesco. “You got a minute?”

   “Certainly.” Airedale stopped in his tracks, turning his polite attention on Mr. Vesco.

   “Not here,” said the quartermaster. “Like to talk in private, if it’s the same to you.”

   Airedale nodded again, a bit more slowly. “If you wish. Will my quarters suffice?”

   Vesco paused for a moment, thinking. Mr. Tiller had taken a turn keeping gate in his office, and in any case, the captain had tired himself out. Mum and baby would be safe for now.

   “Can’t be overheard,” said the quartermaster quietly. A single solemn eyebrow was raised at him in question.

   “I see,” said Mr. Airedale, entirely unruffled. “Where, then?”

   There was only one place on The Ship from which eaves could not be dropped. One room, lined with lead and plaster, far below the waterline.

   Mr. Vesco led the way down staircase after staircase, ladder after ladder, an oil lantern swinging in his hand for the former and in his teeth for the latter. Mr. Airedale followed him into the soggy storage holds of the deep lower decks.

   The room was squat and rectangular, four walls and a ceiling in the centre of the floor. All were several feet thick, layers of wood, lead, plaster, and copper protecting the delicate cargo inside - more accurately, protecting the outside from the delicate cargo. The door facing them was built of the same. There were several square glass windows cut in to each face, staggered in the semblance of a pattern, each sunken in to the room to leave a ledge from the outside. Mr. Vesco placed his lantern in one of these next to the door, sending weird shadows into the room beyond.

   “Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Vesco? I imagine there are safer places to hold a conversation.”

   Mr. Vesco had already cracked open the door. It swung heavily, weighed down by its numerous layers.

   “No eavesdroppers in here,” he murmured. Mr. Airedale still hesitated.

   “I was under the impression that one was to wear slippers inside, Mr. Vesco. I believe this is to prevent the striking of sparks?”

   “Sure, runnin’ back an’ forth in a battle,” said Vesco. He jerked his head into the room. “Just take it slow. You won’t spark nothin’.”

   With one last nervous adjustment of his jacket, Mr. Airedale stepped over the threshold of The Ship’s gunpowder magazine. When Mr. Vesco closed the door behind him, the sounds of the creaking vessel disappeared. They were alone in a room stacked with barrels, crowding in on all sides. The room was half as tall as it was square, though this was still enough to leave the towering Mr. Airedale room to stand. The light from Vesco’s single lantern burned surprisingly brightly through the window.

   “So,” encouraged Mr. Airedale. The lined walls gave his voice a strangely flat tone. Mr. Vesco took a deep breath, inhaling the gunpowder smell.

   “I wanna know what you think of this kidnapping business.”

   Mr. Airedale gave this some careful thought before he answered.

   “I think nothing of it, Mr. Vesco. I had no part and I hold no opinions. It is the captain’s personal business.”

   “I get havin’ no part. What d’you mean you hold no opinions, Tim? You feel nothin’ about a kid bein’ stolen away from his family?”

   Mr. Airedale continued to study him, silently, but Vesco could hear the gears turning. It was a frosty silence, and a pained, rusty turning.

   “Naturally,” said Airedale, “I am disgusted. As any decent person would be. As any decent first mate, however, I stay quiet and do not interfere in my captain’s affairs.”

   “I’m through with decency,” said Vesco. “This is gettin’ stupid. The bronze are lookin’ into it. How long’s it gonna be before the navy’s involved? It’s risky for us an’ it’s hard on the family, especially mum an’ baby. You wanna talk about havin’ no part? The fuck part did they play in that damned game o’ poker?”

   Vesco won some ground, then, as Mr. Airedale looked away at a darkened glass panel in the wall.

   “If I recall,” he said quietly, looking back, “you had a hand in that damned game, Mr. Vesco.”

   It was the quartermaster’s turn to look away, at the floor.

   “Sure,” he murmured. “Sure, I did.”

   “It seems this affair is your business as well, then. What opinions do you hold?”

   “Tim, you’re right,” he snapped, looking up. “I could get some cash if I kept on with this plot. But, I can’t anymore. It’s gone too far.” He paused, struggling with his words at first. Once they got out, there was no stopping them. Even here, in the utterly private darkness, he lowered his voice.

   “You don’t understand, Tim. Weatherdecker…he…he wasn’t playin’ fair hands that night. He cut in a barmaid to spy ‘round the table - had a code all worked out. He cut me in to make a show of losin’, to get the rest off their guard. Cartleblat ain’t the only man he stole from that night, but he’s the only one that din’t pay up.”

   Airedale’s expression had not changed, as was his ancient custom, but his eyes were bright and alert, riveted on Vesco.

   “How do I know this is true?” he asked quietly.

   “Why would I make it up?”

   “To woo me to mutiny.”

   “I’m not cryin’ for his head, Tim. I just want this nonsense done with. I turned a blind eye to get some spare change, but it’s not worth it anymore. That mum needs her baby more’n I need cash. ‘Specially cash that weren’t mine in the first place.”

   Mr. Airedale stayed very quiet, his arms crossed over his chest, thinking.

   “You holdin’ any opinions now?” asked Vesco.

   “If I may, Mr. Vesco…what is your plan in telling me this? What is it you would like me to do with this information?”

   “I’d like you to back me up when I tell the cap’n that the kid’s goin’ home.”

   “And when would that be?”

   “After he sobers up, but before we get to Port Nichols. I want ‘em off there.”

   “That leaves me a very short time to decide, Mr. Vesco.”

   “Decide WHAT, Tim?” snapped Vesco. “Get your brain outta your stiff upper lip and HELP me, for fuck’s sake. Help Susan. Help the kid.”

   The lip in question stiffened further.

   “My brain is where it should be; the realm of care and discretion. I have not refused you, and I, in fact, agree that this nonsense should end. I simply wish to consider all possible outcomes.”

   Vesco’s eyes flashed white in the dim lantern glow, as he rolled them in exasperation.

   “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll take care of it myself.” He turned and strode towards the door. Airedale turned after him.

   “Mr. Vesco, I have not refu—“

   “I heard whatcha said, Tim. Thanks anyway.” He shoved the door open, and left it hanging for the first mate. “Take the lantern. I’ll be fine.”

   His flat footsteps faded into the dark beyond. Mr. Airedale waited until he was surrounded by silence. He waited some more. Then, he made his move, carefully, so as not to strike any sparks.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 13

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Captain Weatherdecker had drunk himself silly the previous night. He always did before a meeting with the Benefactor. The afterglow of a good night drinking put him in a better mood for their rendezvous. This time, he didn’t feel much different. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t agitated. There was nothing to be nervous about. Even if there had been, he had drowned his nerves last night. It was a simple meeting, same as always; it had been called a bit early, that was all.

   The crew knew nothing about this. To them, Crownsmouth was simply another place where the captain liked to do business. He had gone there of his own free will to ply his wares and have wares plied to him. He always debarked at Crownsmouth, no exceptions. Must be good trading in town.

   Mr. Airedale always followed, about an hour later. Never together. They never returned together, either, following the same pattern in which they’d left. The only other man on board to know where they were going was Mr. Vesco; even so, he knew nothing other than they were meeting with the Benefactor. He knew no address, no street, no name other than Benefactor, and he kept even that to himself.

   Vesco was returning to his quarters that morning at the same time his captain was leaving for town. To his dismay, Weatherdecker made a sharp detour in his direction. The quartermaster paused with his key in the lock.

   “Mornin’, Vesco,” said the captain. “How’s the day treatin’ ya?”

   “Just fine, cap’n. Howzit with you?”

   “Good,” insisted Weatherdecker. “Goin’ into town for a bit. See the sights.”

   “Dandy,” said Vesco. The Benefactor’s name was rarely spoken between them, and never, ever on deck. Weatherdecker stuck his arm out straight, to lean against the wallboards of the officer’s cabins.

   “Will you be gettin’ out today, Vesco? Good weather for it.”

   “Certainly is, cap’n. With any luck, I’ll have time for a stroll.” His hand was still lingering on the key. He had made no move to unlock the door.

   “Here’s hopin,” said the captain. “You been in your office an awful lot, lately. Hope yer paperwork isn’t gettin’ you down.”

   Vesco kept up his polite smile as he met Weatherdecker’s eyes. Pointedly, deliberately, he twisted the key. The bolt cracked back with a metal squeak. The door, however, stayed closed.

   “Been busy, yeah,” said Vesco. “But I’ll get some sunshine today, don’t you worry.”

   “I won’t.”

   The door stayed closed.

   “Work to do, eh?” asked the captain. Mr. Vesco nodded.

   “Got somewhere to be, don’t you?”

   Weatherdecker’s smile curdled. He stood straight, pushing off from the wallboards.

   “S’pose I do,” said the captain quietly.

   “Wouldn’t want you to be late on my account, cap’n. Don’t lemme keep you.”

   Vesco waited until the captain was out of sight down the plank. Once his footsteps had faded into the general murmur of the docks, he opened the door, and quickly locked it again behind him. He poked his head in his bedroom door without hesitation.

   “Tiller and the boy’ll be by in a few minutes,” he told Susan. “Ready fer yer playdate?”

   The town of Crownsmouth rimmed the edge of Crowns Bay, and ran haphazardly into the tall tropical hills beyond. It was one of the biggest and busiest towns in all the Moonfall Islands, a hub of commerce, culture, and who was anyone kidding, piracy.

   There was one particular house in the hills, overlooking bay and town from the west. It was just a bit higher up than the other houses, just a bit larger, and just a bit more secluded by branch and vine.

   On the veranda, a woman stood, enjoying the sights. She was not a woman that normally set aside time for such frivolities as leisure, but, today was special. She needed a moment to take in the sea air and the smell of tropical flowers, lest she commit a murder she was likely to regret.

   Likely.

   The Ship had docked not an hour ago. She could see it clearly, nestled among its fellows in the bay. In that hour, she had managed to find some peace, and not break any vases, of which she had her pick. But, no, that wouldn’t solve anything. She drew in a deep breath, and sighed slowly. The wind joined her, rustling her severe skirts with a gentle warm breeze.

   She wondered what had compelled her, all those years ago. Why in the world had she trusted her business to Richard Weatherdecker? The man was crass, and rude, and dumb as a dog. Though, he was a dog with his own ship. She owned plenty of other ships, but they conducted business as commercial vessels flying the Bankshead banner. To carry anything less than legal aboard these would have been suicidal, but, to put her own name to The Ship would have been an unnecessary risk. That was why, she supposed, she had to keep him, no matter what stupid thing he did. Mr. Airedale was there to hold the leash, wasn’t he?

   A faint smile touched her features. She heard the footsteps approaching from the veranda doors, though she waited to be properly summoned. Mr. McCrea was the one to open them.

   “He’s here, mam,” said the footman.

   Miss Bankshead turned and smiled pleasantly at him.

   “Thank you, Michael.”

   He bowed and stood aside, holding a door for her as she swept past. Though she had a walking stick in her possession, she carried it today rather than using it. Mr. McCrea closed the doors after her, and followed her dutifully to the parlour.

   In truth, she had several parlours. There was no one parlour in which she met her beneficiaries. Some days, she preferred the one painted blue, or the one papered green, or the vaguely fuchsia one infested with lace trimmings that her grandmother had loved so much. Today, on such a bright breezy morning, she had chosen the yellow parlour. It, and the gold-trimmed furniture in it, glowed in the sunshine.

   Michael held the door for her once more, and closed it after her. He stood guard in the hall, leaving her utterly alone with Captain Weatherdecker.

   The captain was seated on the end of a long chaise facing the door. Her stare riveted on him right away. He was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark trousers. She had relented long ago that he would not be required to wear the, quote, ‘faggy’ neckties she asked of her compatriots, as long as he remained presentable.

   Miss Bankshead held his gaze for a moment, pausing at the door. He did not stand as she entered. Strike two.

   “Why, Richard,” she sighed sweetly. “How good it is to see you!”

   She perched herself ever so gracefully on the chesterfield opposite, her back straight, her hands resting on her walking stick. She smiled angelically. A smart man would have seen the storm brewing from a mile away. Richard Weatherdecker was not a smart man.

   “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Good to be back, ma’am. Why’d you call us here, ma’am?”

   “My goodness, you get right to the point, don’t you? Are you in a hurry, Richard? Somewhere to be?”

   “I mean, we were on our way to Port Nichols, ma’am, ‘fore we came here.”

   “As I am aware, Richard. Thank you for the information. And thank you for reassuring me that you actually understood my directions. The last I checked,  you were quite content to dilly-dally, my dear captain.”

   “Uh, ma’am?” he asked politely.

   “Or, perhaps I was misled,” said Miss Bankshead. “Was your detour to Port Victor not a dilly-dally? Pressing business? Emergency repairs? Avoiding a line?”

   She knew. Of course she knew. This was no bluff.

   “It was a quick jaunt, ma’am. Just a day for the boys to have a little fun. Get some rest, y’know.”

   “Well, if it was for the boys, how could I be angry? I’m sure you worked hard while they were off enjoying themselves, to make up for the delay to Coraqua.”

   He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He looked at the wall, scowling.

   “Weren’t much of a delay,” he protested.

   “Any avoidable delay is too much, Richard.” She tried to will him to look back at her, and failed. He stayed silent. “Have you nothing to say to me, dear captain? Any excuses to make? Apologies to give?”

   “Won’t fuckin’ happen again,” he muttered.

   Cussing. Strike three. She tilted her head slightly, and upped the smile.

   “I’m glad,” she said sweetly. “While I have you here, Richard, would you care to tell me about the visitors you had in Charleston?”

   The scowl faded slightly, his face going blank instead. He glanced back at her, brow furrowed.

   “Uh…what d’you mean, ma’am?”

   “I mean, the police that were on board my ship, Richard,” she said, her voice darkening with each syllable, her smile fading. “Would you care to explain?”

   “How’d you find out about that?” growled the captain.

“My dear Michael was dropping off a parcel that night to Mr. Airedale. He witnessed two armed watchmen descending your plank. Why were they there, Richard? And what did they see?”

“Nothin’, ma’am, I swear,” insisted Weatherdecker. “They didn’t find anythin’ out of sorts. Just me and the crew, to them.”

   “Good,” said Miss Bankshead, though it sounded anything but. “And why were they there?”

   “Just, uh…just an inspection, ma’am.”

   “Watchmen do not ‘just do inspections’, Richard. What stupid thing did your crewmen do to attract their attention?”

   “Ma’am, it’s…it’s nothin’, it’s just, it’s…”

   “One more stutter out of you and I will teach you the true meaning of ‘mutiny’, Richard. One more lie and I’ll be sure you’re promoted to the bilge. Am I understood?”

   Weatherdecker sighed.

   “It’s collateral, ma’am. On a hand in poker. The guy hasn’t paid me back yet so I’m just waitin’ ’til I get my money. After that, I swear, I’ll have no dealin’ with him. We’ll be in the clear. Won’t be long, now, I promise.”

   She stared at him levelly.

   “WHAT is collateral, Richard, for this stupid, stupid bet you’ve made?”

   “His…kid, ma’am. His son. A lil’ baby.”

   The stare dragged on, though the eyes were wider now.

   “Richard, am I to understand that you have kidnapped a baby as collateral on a bet?”

   “Well, yeah.”

   She breathed in heavily through her nose.

   “You have kidnapped a child. For collateral. On a bet.”

   “Ma’am, really, there’s no need to worry,” insisted Weatherdecker. “It’s all under control—“

   In one swift heartbeat, she had stood. In the next beat, the walking stick was brought down across the coffee table, making a noise like a cannon shot. It absorbed all other sound in the room, including Weatherdecker’s reply. She planted the walking stick firmly at her side, stabbing the carpet.

   “It is under YOUR control,” she barked, “meaning it is one stupid decision away from a serious problem. If that child is on board the next time we meet, Richard, I will make certain you never have to worry about children ever again. If I hear about you in a police report, dearest captain, they will never find your body. If I hear about guardsmen aboard my ship once more there will not be a body to find. Has anything that I’ve told you today been unclear?”

   Weatherdecker’s mouth wormed around, trying desperately to form a comeback. After a few seconds, he paused, and sighed.

   “No, ma’am,” he grunted. “All clear.”

   “WHAT is all clear, Richard?”

   “Gonna get rid o’the kid soon as I can.”

   “As soon as I can…?” she prompted. Weatherdecker sighed again.

   “Ma’am,” he muttered.

   “My word,” she breathed, in mock astonishment, “it’s almost as if it understands me!” Her face changed in an instant, darkening, hardening. “Get out of here, Richard. Get out of my sight. Get back to your ship and to your duties and pray to all the gods you know that I don’t find out about another of your schemes.”

   Scowling, he stormed past her without another word. She didn’t look at him as he wrenched the door open and disappeared down the hall. As the sound of his boots faded, the sound of Michael’s voice rose.

   “Good timing, mam,” said the footman from the doorway. “Mr. Airedale’s just arrived.”

   Miss Bankshead sighed with relief.

   “My dearest Michael, show him up right away.”

   Mr. Airedale, now…he liked the faggy neckties. He liked the sharp waistcoats and pressed trousers, and she liked them, as well.

   The smile she gave him as Michael showed him through the door was much, much different than the one she’d given Weatherdecker. She sat on the chaise lounge this time, leaving the chesterfield free for Mr. Airedale.

   “Why, Timothy,” she sighed, “don’t you look handsome, today!”

   He nodded slightly as he sat down facing her, though remained stone-faced.

   “Thank you,” said the first mate. “You look lovely.”

   “Oh, pish,” she chided. “I do apologize for making you come all this way, Timothy. I’m afraid I required an urgent audience with Captain Weatherdecker.”

   He immediately won a theoretical gold star by sighing in exasperation.

   “Yes, I can imagine you did.”

   “What part did you have to play in this nonsense?”

   “I didn’t,” said Airedale. “This is entirely on Richard.”

   “The visit to Port Victor, or his luck at poker?”

   “Both,” said the first mate. “When I confronted him on our course to Victor, I told him you would not be happy. He did not care. And the child; I had no say in that. I wasn’t with him at the time. I only found out when we were under sail, and I wasn’t about to spend more precious time turning back.”

   “Oh, I knew there was a reason I kept you around, Timothy. Such a reasonable gent you are. Tell me - how was business at the Mermaid’s Corset?”

   He presented her with the dictionary-sized package in his hands. She accepted it with a graceful nod.

   “Thank you, my dear sweet postman. Not merely on time, but early. What service!”

   She undid the string with a quick pull, letting it drape over her knees. The parcel paper was unfolded without a single rip. It was indeed a book, a black leatherbound volume with gold print on the cover. It read: ADVANCED TAXATION FOR MODERN ACCOUNTANCY IN COMMERCE. It was the title she preferred; easily explainable as a gift for the bearer’s boring nephew, should it be unwrapped in the wrong hands. It had never been, thus far.

   She turned to page one hundred seventy six, took it between thumb and forefinger, and pulled. There was a leathery snap as the spine of the book popped inward. Carefully holding the book at arm’s length over the coffee table, she pulled the pages out further, drawing the inner panels away from the cover. As it happened, the space between them was not cardboard, but paper. Dozens of bundled bills slithered out onto the table. She gave it a good shake, dislodging a few more thousand dollars.

   “I apologize,” said Mr. Airedale. “I am afraid it slipped my mind to check the sum while we remained in Port Angel. There was an abundance of other business to see to.”

   “Heavens, Timothy, not to worry - though you are sweet to do so.” She gave him a quick smile and a bat of the eyelashes. “Dear Frances would never try to be cheap with me.”

   With the speed and swiftness of a blackjack dealer, she flicked through the mountain of money, making a neat pile to one side as she counted.

   “Just as promised,” she assured, once all the bills had been stacked. She picked one of the bundles and flicked through it, splitting it in half and neatly squaring off the two resulting piles. She set one back on the stack and leaned forward with the other in hand, across the table, and hooked her fingers into Airedale’s breast pocket. She gave the bills a few little tucks out of sight.

   “Buy something nice, my dear pirate. You’ve earned it.” Her hand lingered flat, over the pocket, over his heart, for a brief moment. Smiling, she sat back straight.

   “Anything more to report, then?” she asked.

   “Nothing of interest, no,” said Mr. Airedale. “Shall I presume we will be resuming our course to Port Nichols?”

   “You shall.” He had been expecting her to stand, the signal for dismissal, but she did not. “Though, there is no need to rush on such a beautiful day. Have you plans this afternoon?”

   Mr. Airedale’s expression remained blank. Miss Bankshead circled the tip of her finger around the jewelled head of her walking stick, over and over, awaiting his reply.

   “Well,” sighed the first mate, “none that are particularly pressing…”

   “You look positively parched for a cup of tea, Timothy. It’s getting to be that time, isn’t it? Would you care to join me on the veranda to quench yourself?”

   He looked from her, to the walking stick, to the window. She watched as, ever so slightly, his fists tightened atop his knees. When he looked back at her, she was smiling that particular smile that he utterly despised and could not refuse.

   “Certainly,” was all he said.

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