30.4.16

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.

Next...

24.4.16

In For A Penny - Part 12

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Mr. Vesco, in the face of the grim scowling evidence, was a good host. She was provided her rations, a facecloth, clean linens, and even the bed to go with them. It was more than she’d expected from a man that had met her twice and thrown a knife at her both times.
   She tried the door while he was gone; clearly nothing. He’d locked it and taken the key. She’d never picked a lock before, and wasn’t sure how to try besides poking around with a hairpin, which she didn’t have anyway in her new short style. She tapped around a while, searching for hidden panels in the walls and floor, but she knew as much about finding them as she did about locks.
   She curled up on the bed, thinking about the situation as hard as she could, but it only made her head hurt. There was nothing she could do. If she did escape, there was nowhere to go but overboard. Here, at least, there was a bed instead of a hammock and the faint aroma of aftershave instead of…whatever was below decks.
   Mr. Vesco returned for good after dark. Susan had lit a candle, though she was admiring the moonlight on the water below the window. It was not full, but plenty bright. She turned as the door unlocked and Mr. Vesco came through, carrying a mug of something hot and a plate of rock-hard biscuits. He gave her an odd look as he set these down on the tiny desk.
   “You weren’t waitin’ by the door to jump me,” he said. It was a question.
   “Where would I go?”
   He conceded this point with a nod and crossed the room to the basin and mirror. Susan slipped past him to examine the mug of, she now saw, tea.
   “For me?” she asked.
   “If you wan’ it,” he said. “Thought you might like somethin’ ‘fore bed.”
   “Where did you get tea?”
   “Stole it from Mr. Airedale,” he said factually. “He wants to let a lady aboard, the least he can do is offer her tea.”
   She gave the pirate’s back a faint smile. She took the mug and biscuits and sat on the bed with them, leaving one to soak in the tea that she might actually get a tooth or two into it. Mr. Vesco kept busy at the basin, unrolling a shaving kit.
   He reached into his sleeve and unhooked his tiny wrist sheath, knife and all, setting it down beside the basin. Its twin joined it from the other arm. He stood straight, and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it half-off, revealing a trunk of muscle; then he remembered Susan, nibbling her biscuits on the end of the bed. He met her eye. He slowly slipped the shirt back on.
   “Sorry,” he muttered. “Used to boys only rules.”
   “It’s alright,” said Susan. “Do what you’re comfortable with. I’m no stranger to men.”
   He thought for a moment; then he stripped off the shirt and tossed it over the back of his desk chair. He slipped his eyepatch over his head and flicked it away in the same arc. Turning back to the mirror, he said:
   “S’pose you wouldn’t have a kid if you were.” He smiled at her only briefly. She watched as he dissected his shaving kit, piece by piece, laying them out in a row by the basin. She didn’t know why, she didn’t know how it was possible, but she felt better. Just a little bit.
   “Yeah,” she sighed, quietly. “At least one kid.”
   Vesco raised his eyebrows, though he didn’t look up from his busywork.
   “At least?”
   Susan wondered why she had said it. She didn’t know this man. It was no business of his. Then again, it hardly mattered what he knew. He was a pair of ears in the middle of a dead, dark ocean. That was all she cared about.
   “I don’t know. I might be due for another,” she admitted. “I can’t be sure yet.”
   “Well, congratulations. Cartleblat’s again?”
   “If it is an ‘again’…yes.”
   He paused for a moment, as he began to spread the mousse he’d been working on over his face and neck.
   “Now, I can’t say I know Cartleblat well,” he continued, “but it seems to me he isn’t the fatherly type.”
   “He doesn’t think he is, either,” she said, “but, he really is. He loves Damian more than he knows.”
   “Guess he wouldn’t be followin’ us around if he didn’t.”
   Susan gave a small smile. She looked into her tea, worrying it with a biscuit. Mr. Vesco snapped open his straight razor and guided it along his jaw by the candlelight in the mirror.
   “Damian, eh?” he murmured awkwardly around the blade. “Nice name for a little lad.”
   The smile grew. “Thanks,” said Susan. “Mr. Vesco, I don’t suppose you know how Damian is doing, do you? He’s being looked after, right?”
   The pirate didn’t speak again until the razor was clear of his face.
   “He is. He’s keepin’ well.” He flicked the mess of stubble and foam into the basin and went in for another stroke. Susan couldn’t stop a sigh of relief. Not just because her son was safe, but because, after weeks of asking questions, she had finally heard a clear answer.
   “He is on board, isn’t he?” she asked. “Did the captain drop him off somewhere?”
   Again, he waited.
   “No, the lad’s on board.” Flick flick flick. “Safe an’ sound. Cap’n didn’ want him too far out of his sight.”
   Her heart trembled. He was close.
   “Who’s looking after him?”
   Vesco’s small chuckle could have meant just about anything.
   “Someone very reliable, miss. Don’t you worry about that.” With a few more strokes, and a couple of careful touch-ups, he wiped the razor down for good and set it aside. He picked up his towel, looped it over his shoulders, and started to pat his face dry.
   “Mr. Vesco, while we’re talking about my son, do you think you could…”
   She paused to study his face as he looked over at her. Clean shaven, strands of hair in his face, with both dark eyes on her and his customary snarl replaced with kind attention, he looked young. Almost innocent. Handsome, she’d say, though only to herself.
   “Could what?” he asked.
   “I’d like to see him,” she said quietly. “I’ve missed him so much. These past few weeks have been a nightmare without him, especially not knowing he was safe. Is there any way I could say hello, at least?”
   “At least?”
   Susan looked down at her feet, suddenly shy. Vesco thought for a moment, stroking the towel.
   “Miss, he ain’t my business, an’ you’re not s’posed to be seen. I can sure ask about it, but I can’t promise more’n that.”
   “If you ask,” she said, looking up, “you’ll already be doing more than I could have hoped for.”
   Vesco leaned in against the basin stand on one straight arm, the other cocked on his hip. The fingers on the stand drummed up and down as he scrutinized Susan.
   “We’re dockin’ at Crownsmouth tomorrow,” he said, “an’ that’s where you’re gettin’ off. You’re gone as soon as that plank is down.”
   “So, it would have to be tonight, then?”
   Mr. Vesco continued to stare at her, thinking. It was nerve-wracking and awkward, but she stared right back, because he wasn’t saying no. He was thinking, and hard.
   The quartermaster suddenly sprung into action. He traded his towel for his shirt, pulling it on over his head.
   “Just wait here,” he murmured, as he turned to the door. He left without locking it. Susan, as instructed, waited there.

   There was a knock at Tiller’s door that evening. He opened it onto a clean-shaven Vesco.
   “Howzit,” said the quartermaster. He pointed his chin at the room behind Tiller. “There room in there for three?”
   “Sure,” said Tiller, opening the door wider. “Just keep it a bit quiet. The boy’s gettin’ ready for bed.”
   Sure enough, Damian was seated on the floor, playing with a handful of blocks. He was slowly, deliberately stacking them up. His eyelids were heavy, his movement sluggish. He didn’t pay Vesco much attention.
   Tiller shut the door.
   “On the thought of keepin’ it quiet in here, Tiller...the boy’s mum is on board.”
   Tiller stared at him, silent, disbelieving. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at Damian, back again.
   “This boy?”
   “Yeah.”
   “But, why? How?”
   “She snuck on. Tryin’a find him..”
   “Well, it’s good she did,” said Tiller. There was something strange in his voice. It wasn’t quite panic. It wasn’t quite sadness.
   “Yeah, and she wants to see ‘im. Thing is, thing we gotta discuss is, she can’t be seen. I don’t want crew or captain gettin’ wind of her. Can you bring the boy to my quarters?”
   “Right now? Well, I s’pose…”
   “Not right now,” said Vesco. “But tonight. I’m kickin’ her off tomorrow morning at Crownsmouth, but I promised she could see the kid first. Before we move, I gotta find the cap’n and make sure he isn’t likely to bust down my door. You’re gonna get the boy ready for a little excursion and wait ’til I come to get you, alright?”
   “Sure,” said Mr. Tiller, his throat dry. “Sure. We’ll be ready to go.”
   “Thanks, Jerry.” Mr. Vesco gave him a nod, and left, closing the door behind him quietly. Tiller turned to look at the boy, endlessly building his tiny tower. He stayed there, frozen, watching, processing Mr. Vesco’s words. Mum. Wants to see him. Tonight. Bring the boy.
   Kickin’ her off tomorrow.
   Mr. Tiller relaxed a bit.

   Susan jumped and turned from the window as Mr. Vesco came back. He shut the door behind him, but let his hand linger on the latch.
   “Cap’n’s busy gettin’ drunk below,” he said quietly. “Even so, you’re stayin’ here. Just to be safe.”
   She gazed up at him, confused but hopeful.
   “Does that mean I can see him?” she whispered.
   “He’ll be by in a few minutes,” said Vesco. “Told Tiller to give us a headstart. He’s gonna be the next one through this door, with the baby. I’m gonna keep watch in the office just in case we have unexpected company. Remember - no pokin’ your nose out this door, no matter what.”
   “No matter what,” she agreed, her voice buzzing with excitement. “Thank you, Mr. Vesco. Thank you for doing this.”
   “Yeah,” he said gruffly. He slipped back out the door, hardly making a sound. Susan waited the longest wait of her life, sitting straight as a board. It hurt physically, having to wait to see her son again when he was so close.
   Her next visitor was so quiet, when the bedroom door opened, she jolted in fright. The first and only thing she had eyes for was her beautiful baby. She riveted on him immediately, checking every superficial detail she could pick out in the dim candlelight. Without a word, she rushed forward, her arms out to take back her son. He stirred slightly in his sleep as she pulled him onto her shoulder.
   The pain, the worry, both vanished in an instant. She was holding her son again. He was breathing against her neck, alive and well. She hadn’t felt so wonderful since she’d held him the first time. She could have hugged him for a minute or an hour; she had no idea. Elation was all she felt.
   With a small sigh, Damian raised his head, squinting sleepily at her. Her heart burst at the sight. She stroked his hair, her smile trembling.
   “Hi, baby,” she whispered. “You sleepy? It’s okay, you go back to bed. Mumma’s here.”
   She cuddled his head against her shoulder, breathed him in. It was like they had never been apart.
   Susan took a deep breath, and opened her eyes. She finally allowed herself to wake up to of the rest of her surroundings. Of course, she was aware that someone had handed Damian to her, but who that someone was and what species they were couldn’t have mattered less until she knew her baby was still happy and healthy.
   The someone turned out to be a thin man about her age. He had a red kerchief on his head, and an eyepatch flipped up on top of that. Ready for action, any time of day.
   “You must be Mr. Tiller,” she said, smiling. A faint, trembling smile flashed across his own face, and was gone.
   “Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s me.” He looked down at his shoes. “I, uh…I’ll leave you two alone.”
   He glanced briefly at the boy, and away again. He hardly looked at Susan. He turned and strode towards the door, head down.
   “Wait!” breathed Susan. “You can’t just go like that!”
   He turned to her, startled. She grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers together.
   “Mr. Vesco said you’d been looking after Damian. Is that right?”
   The pirate seemed speechless, almost sad.
   “Damian,” he said, with a cough. “Is that the little lad’s name?”
   Susan assured him it was. Mr. Tiller tried his best to smile at her.
   “It’sa good one,” he said. “Very nice. Say, I’ll leave you alone,” he said, pulling out of her grasp.
   “You don’t have to!” insisted Susan. “Please, I want to thank you! Really, truly, Mr. Tiller…thank you. I’ve spent weeks wondering if Damian was safe. You don’t know how much it means to me to find out he was, all along.”
   “Yeah, well,” murmured the pirate. “It was nothin’. No problem.”
   He turned away quickly and strode towards the door, head down. Susan wanted to call out to him again, but Damian beat her to it.
   “Bye bye Tir,” he said quietly.
   Mr. Tiller stopped in his tracks. His hands clenched into fists. When he looked back, over his shoulder, the shine in his eyes was very plain, his face twisted in sorrow.
   “Sweetie,” gasped Susan, “you talked! I thought you’d never start.” She gave him another kiss on the forehead as he snuggled against her. Then she looked at Tiller, a soft sympathetic smile on her face.
   “Are you sure it was nothing?” she asked quietly.

   They sat on Vesco’s bunk together. It would be hours before either of them made a move to go. Damian fell asleep in his mother’s arms. She didn’t care; his mere presence was enough to keep her high the whole time.
   She told Tiller about her journey across the sea. About her life in Port Victor. He was a good listener, hanging on her every word. He was a good speaker as well, when he finally had the chance to be; he told her what he and Damian had been up to. How they’d met, how the tiny specks of knowledge he’d gleaned from his mother’s midwifery had suddenly become hugely important in his life.
   “Good sleeper, this one,” said Mr. Tiller. He took Damian’s hand in his, stroking it gently with his thumb. “Hardly any trouble gettin’ him down. Naps like a champion.”
   “Ever since he was born,” said Susan. She laughed a bit. “Maybe even before that. I remember checking a few times to make sure he was still in there.”
   Tiller gave his own polite laugh at this.
   “I’m so glad he kept it up for you,” said Susan. “Has he behaved himself? He can be a fussy eater sometimes.”
   “Not more’n any other kid I ever met,” said Tiller with a shrug. “Doesn’t care much for sardines. I disagree, but I see his point. He eats his fruit an’ veg so I let it slide.”
   Susan smiled down at her son. Mr. Tiller’s thumb still dragged slowly over his hand.
   “Gonna be a good sailor, too,” said the boatswain. “Got his sea legs right quick. Y’know he called out a storm before the crow’s nest?”
   “He did?” breathed Susan.
   “Pointed right at it. Knew the rain was comin’ and told us so.” Tiller beamed at the boy. “He’ll be hittin’ the waves just like his dad, for sure.”
   She was silent. Tiller looked up at her after a pause. Her eyes were glistening, though no tears fell. She was smiling, so radiantly that she rivalled the candle burning short on the desk. Slow and careful, Mr. Tiller moved his hand back to his own lap, looking to the floor.
   “I’m sorry, miss. I shouldn’ be tellin’ you that. Ain’t my call what your boy gets up to.”
   Susan touched his arm. He looked up at her, sheepishly.
   “Don’t apologize,” she whispered. “I think you’re right.”
   Tiller hunched up a bit more, but he didn’t try to pull away. He averted his gaze once more.
   “Could be. It still ain’t proper,” he sighed. “I shoulda let you have your time alone. A man my age has no business bein’ round kids what aren’t his.”
   “Why not?”
   “Y’know. Lots o’people don’t think it’s right. They’d think I’m a creep.”
   “I don’t,” said Susan. “Damian certainly doesn’t. And I know for fact that Adam wouldn’t. If none of us mind, why should you?”
   There were three rivals now: the candle, Susan’s loving smile, and Tiller’s hopeful grin. The competition was interrupted by the slow, careful opening of the door. Mr. Vesco poked his head around it. His eyes were half-closed.
   “Sorry to butt in,” he yawned. “Don’t have to stop, just askin’ how much longer you’ll be. I’m wonderin’ if I need coffee or not.”
   Susan looked from him to her sleeping son, and back at Tiller.
   “I guess it is getting late, isn’t it?” she sighed. She brushed her hand over Damian’s forehead, flipping aside a few errant curls, and kissed him there. The boatswain shied back a bit as she offered the boy to him. Then, carefully, he lifted Damian out of her arms and held him against his chest. Susan set her hand upon Tiller’s shoulder, and kissed him chastely on the cheek.
   “Thank you, Mr. Tiller,” she whispered.
   “No problem,” said the boatswain. “Uh…” But, he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He stood and started for the door, Damian dead asleep on his shoulder. Susan waved to her son as he faded into the dark.
   “Bye, baby,” she whispered, smiling. Tiller and Vesco traded places at the door, then Vesco closed it behind him. He looked to Susan with peaked curiosity. She had continued to smile at him, even as Mr. Tiller disappeared.
   “You look happy,” he said suspiciously.
   “I am,” she assured. “Damian’s safe.”
   Vesco had seen smiles like that before, but never without an opium pipe sticking out of them. He cleared his throat.
   “Look, uh, we’re dockin’ in the morning at Crownsmouth.”
   She knew what he meant. The smile faded a bit. She looked away at the candle on the desk. Mr. Vesco came forward, leaning his hand against the back of the chair.
   “I know I said you’d have to go, but…I was thinkin’ out there, y’know, it’s a ways from Port Victor. I don’t wanna put y’off so far from home with no money or nothin’. So maybe, y’know, I’ll wait a while. ’Til we turn back closer to home. Just so it goes a bit easier for you. An’ you can have some more time with the boy - just to say goodbye, mind you.”
   Susan stood. Vesco tensed as she lunged at him, but it was only to wrap his shoulders in a hug. He patted her on the back a couple of times, unsure.
   “Thank you, Mr. Vesco. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
   “Well, y’know,” he said, as she pushed away. “Just thinkin’ practically. You still gotta hide, mind. Still can’t have the captain sniffin’ around.”
   “Of course,” she agreed.
   “Good.” Mr. Vesco yawned suddenly. “Speakin’ of practicality, it’s past my bedtime.”
   “Mine too.”
   She fell asleep as soon as she snuffed her bedside candle. With the feeling of her baby lingering in her arms, and Vesco keeping guard in his little office den, she slept more at peace than she had in weeks.

Next...

18.4.16

In For A Penny - Part 11

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Susan had known there would be a lot of men aboard. Exclusively men, as a matter of fact. She had prepared herself for the amounts - the amount of odours, the amount of cussing, the amount of spitting, growling, and wrestling - but she hadn’t prepared for the density of these things. When the order came down that the deck needed swabbing, she leapt at the chance; though tedious and largely redundant what with all the spitting, it meant a modicum of fresh air and space to stretch out. Below decks, the ceilings were low, and the odours plentiful. The decks contained more men than air, by volume.
   She and a few of her low-ranking fellows filled buckets from the sea, dredging them up on ropes and pulleys from the lower portholes, and hauled them upstairs into the blazing sunshine. They gave eachother a wide radius to scrub, Susan even more so, being the odd one out. Some talked between eachother, but not to Susan. She was perfectly happy with that. The fewer chances her voice had to betray her, the better.
   She splashed a bit of water from her bucket onto the deck, and knelt down to get to work. The huge wire brush she’d chosen was as long as her arm. She leaned hard into it, pulled it back, strangely enjoying the faint sea salt smell on the sun-toasted wood. She thought of Adam. Then she thought of Damian, and her smile faded.
   Where? That was the most important question right now. ‘How’ could come later. Where? She hadn’t seen him at all. Not even a sign. She imagined she would have heard him, at least. Either he had gotten over the crying phase already, which she doubted…he couldn’t have been taken off the ship, could he? Was it a mistake to be here?
   She scrubbed, lost in her thoughts, keeping one ear open for the sounds of her son. She paid no mind to the sounds of a group of crewmen at the railing, watching her. Evidently they were not on duty, as they stood talking, and laughing at what was said.
   Susan only looked up when a gob of chewed tobacco splattered on the board she’d been scrubbing. She jolted away from it, sitting back in surprise. She looked up to see four mangy crewmen chuckling to eachother, leaning casually on the railing. They all had dark stains on their teeth.
   She stared back at them, staring at her. Her brow furrowed only slightly. With care, she tipped some more water out of her bucket, diluting the mangled nicotine, and scrubbed at it. It was disgusting. Putrid, even. But she was damned if she was going to pick a fight in a place like this. She wouldn’t survive six seconds, and so, ignored the men and their tobacco.
   She was well aware of the footsteps, but she ignored them too. She tried to scrub the nervousness away as they gathered around her.
   “Awful eager to scrub the deck, you are,” said the one in front of her. She paused, and looked up at him, as blank as she could. He was bald in front, with a truly terrible party happening in the back.
   “Yes,” she said. “I am.” She left it at that, hoping to look simple. The man laughed lowly.
   “You like bein’ on your knees, eh?”
   Susan jolted and scrambled to her feet as someone brushed against her from behind. She whirled to see one of the other tobacco-stained crewmen crouching down where she had just been. She couldn’t help glaring at him as he laughed along with his fellows.
   “Oh, he’s a spirited one, this boy,” said the balding one. “Come on now, lad. We been a long time without a proper woman. Soft little cherub like you might do in the meantime.”
   “You’ll wanna watch your back below decks,” said a third, quietly. Susan look at him sharply…and forced herself to relax.
   “I will,” she said curtly. “Thank you.” She looked back at the first. “May I get back to work?”
   The balding one gave her a quizzical look.
   “May you?” he sneered. He reached down for his fly, making her infinitely nervous, though she stood her ground. “Poncy little fag. Here’s some fuckin’ work for ya.”
   He slipped his penis from his drawers and immediately got to work dousing the deck. He was careful to spread the piss far and wide across the freshly scrubbed wood. Susan looked on in distaste while the others guffawed.
   “BENNIGAN!”
   The shout shook the air around them. The ringleader froze, his stream drying up in an instant. He scrambled to tuck his member away.
   Susan wasn’t sure where Mr. Vesco had come from. He appeared like a flash of lightning beside Bennigan, fingers reaching out to grab an ear. He twisted, making the sailor yowl.
   “BILGE.” commanded Vesco. “RIGHT NOW. If I come down there and you aren’t running the pump it’s a KEELHAULING first!” He yanked the sailor around by his ear and let go, shoving him in the direction of the hatch. “You can PISS down there all you like you fuckin’ savage!”
   Bennigan glared at the quartermaster, but, Susan saw, he was also trembling. With uneasy steps, he slunk off towards the hatch. The others tensed as Vesco turned his eye on them. With a snap of his fingers, he pointed at the bucket and brush Susan had been using.
   “Clean this the fuck up,” he barked. “You scrub ’til I tell you to stop. If I happen to forget about you lot, so be it.”
   One got to his knees immediately, the others disappeared to get more brushes. Mr. Vesco looked to Susan last of all. It was obvious around whom the group had gathered.
   He held her eyes for a long time. Her own watered; his glimmered. It was a good few seconds before she looked away. She thought briefly of thanking him, but there were some waters she wasn’t eager to test. She started to kneel down, keen to return to swabbing so she could gather her rattling nerves.
   “Nah, son, you an’ I aren’t done here.” said Vesco. “Stand up.”
   She did, looking him in those glimmering black eyes once more. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping her together.
   “New boy, eh?” said the quartermaster.
   “Yes, sir,” said Susan quietly.
   “Old boys thought they’d give y’some trouble?
   “I-I suppose so, sir. Thank you, for—“
   “Don’ thank me,” cut in Vesco. “Son, I’d like to see y’in my quarters. Got a special job for you. This way, if you don’ mind.”

   She was hesitant to follow, hanging back as much as she could, but she had no choice. She couldn’t NOT go. The last things she needed right now were questions. There were eyes on her, the eyes of the other deck rats that had seen the altercation. She was suddenly the centre of quite a few attentions, and every single one put her at more risk. Head down, stay quiet, she thought. Follow the leader. Make them forget you even exist.
   Mr. Vesco held the door to the quartermaster’s office for her. She moved from blazing sunshine to a brightly lit room. Most of one wall was a window, many panes overlooking the sea. Mr. Vesco skirted around the desk in the centre of the office, to another door set in the wall behind. He held this one for her as well. It was slightly smaller, slightly gloomier, though palatial compared to the claustrophobic maze of sailor’s bunks below decks. There was room enough for a cot, and a smaller desk, a bookshelf, a trunk, and even a basin next to a private garderobe. Room enough for clothes and books to be all over the place, she noticed.
   Behind her, Mr. Vesco closed the door to his quarters, and locked it. Susan tensed at the sound.
   She turned just as something whizzed past her head, nearly nicking the end of her nose and leaving a tiny cut in the shoulder of her shirt. It hit the wall behind her, buzzing as it stuck in the wood. She froze, not daring to look at Mr. Vesco, settling for the corner of the room instead.
   “You still ain’t made me bleed, miss. Oh, but you’re hurtin’ me somethin’ bad. You just made my life aboard real fuckin’ hard.”
   He came forward to retrieve his knife, brushing past her without a glance. He pulled it out of the wall and slipped it back home up his sleeve. That’s when he looked at her, and sighed, more tired than angry.
   “Does Mr. Airedale know you’re here? Or did you sneak aboard?”
   She finally met his eyes, trying to keep the fear from her own. She knew by his stare there was no sense denying him. This was no bluff. He knew, sure as sunrise.
   “H-he knows,” she murmured. “He warned me against it. Against thugs like you,” she added sharply. Vesco grinned, of all things, and leaned back against the wall.
   “I’m not the kind you have to worry about, miss. There’s much worse than me below decks. Now, now,” he added softly, as nausea crossed her face, “I’m not gonna let ‘em touch you. Don’t fret. Just be thankful I’m the one that got you alone first.”
   He stood, straight and tall. Susan instinctively shuffled a step back.
   “What we’re gonna do here,” said Vesco, “is confine you to this cabin. You don’t leave. You don’t make a sound. You don’t so much as poke your nose out the door. Next port o’call you’re off this boat to get home how you may.”
   Susan’s fear gave way to her anger in an instant.
   “I’m not leaving this ship without my son!” she snapped.
   In another instant, her anger had relented to a hot primal fear as Vesco closed the distance between them.
   “Keep. Your voice. Down,” he said lowly. “There’s worse than me above decks, too. Cap’n still believes that tripe about women at sea givin’ bad luck. Only reason you’re safe right now is he doesn’t know you’re here. If he finds you, he won’t bother to keep the crew away. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tossed you overboard to keep a curse from the ship. Yeah,” he sighed, when he saw the look on her face, “he’s that stupid. Best not risk it.”
   She was still angry, he could see that much, but she had understood. Fiery, this one, but not irrational. She stared at him silently, processing his words.
   “Now, I have things to see to,” said Mr. Vesco. “Busy ship at the moment. I’d be much obliged if you could stay here and make as little noise as possible ’til I get back.”
   Susan looked up at the tiny mantel clock on the bookshelf over the bed.
   “I have to take Mr. Airedale his tea this afternoon,” was her only response.
   “Don’t worry,” said Vesco. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

   Mr. Airedale had allowed himself a brief moment without paperwork, or letters, or accounts. He stood at the grand window wall of his office, watching the waves flutter and spout beneath his feet. According to the clock, it was almost teatime. They would be at Crownsmouth tomorrow. Everything was looking lovely, from his perspective.
   He heard the door open, and turned with a smile to greet his newest tea-monkey. He inhaled…paused. His smile flattened out again. Mr. Vesco shut the door, tea platter balanced on his hand.
   “Afternoon, Tim,” he said politely. “Howzit today?”
   “Er…very well, Mr. Vesco. Er…”
   The quartermaster set down the fine porcelain on the desk with barely a rattle.
   “You alone in here, Tim? Expecting a visit any time soon?”
   “Er, not that I am aware, no.” He came forward from the window. “What happened to the new boy? I understood that he was to be in charge of tea.”
   “Funny you bring him up, Tim.” Mr. Vesco set his fists on the desk. “Are you talkin’ about the lady you let on board, you moron?”
   Mr. Airedale gave him a thin-lipped squint.
   “I do not appreciate being called a ‘moron’, Mr. Vesco.”
   “You shouldn’a been one, then. What were you thinkin’?” he demanded. “Do you know what kinda hell would get loose if the cap’n found her out? Gods forbid, if the crew got there first? Who knows what coulda happened?”
   “She did, Mr. Vesco. She understood her situation. It is not my place to tell her which risks she may or may not take.”
   Vesco slumped back a bit, rolling his eyes. He sighed, but stayed otherwise silent.
   “If I may be so bold,” continued Airedale, “where is she?”
   “I got ‘er safe,” said Vesco. “Confined to my cabin ’til we reach port.”
   “She may stay with me, if that is easier for you. I would not want to—“
   “No, Tim, she can’t.”
   The first mate’s brow creased.
   “Why not?”
   “You’ll let ‘er free again in a fit o’chivalry. You did well, but I’ll take it from here.” He stood, and tossed a hand in the air, waving Mr. Airedale away as he headed for the door. “Thanks for your help,” he said to the wall. “Enjoy your tea, you moron.”
   The door closed again. Mr. Airedale did not, particularly, enjoy his tea.

Next...

10.4.16

In For A Penny - Part 10

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Blaine was a good host as far as fresh-faced young constables went. He didn’t talk much, but he checked in regularly from whatever he was up to in the back. He brought Susan a mug of coffee at her request. Nothing else was to be done, really, in the waiting room of a guardhouse.
   Every time someone came through the front door, left open for the breeze, Adam and Susan looked up. Mostly patrolmen coming on or off duty. A mailman. A courier. A cheeky bird looking for crumbs.
   After a long hour of this slow come-and-go, the two men they had been waiting for finally returned. Susan stood up half out of her chair; Adam grabbed her and urged her back down. Edison continued on past them without a glance, notebook in hand. He sat down at the front desk, and began to copy out of it onto a fresh pad of paper.
   Dunwhaite removed his cloak and hung it by the door. He came and sat next to Susan, putting her between he and Adam in the row of chairs. He looked her directly in the eye, leaning forward attentively. She had seen the moment he had walked in that he was not holding Damian. She hadn’t been expecting it, exactly, but the distant hope of it had been glowing the whole time he was gone. When it faded, she realized it had been brighter than it looked.
   “We found no sign of your son, ma’am.”
   She sighed, suddenly tired. Adam touched her hand.
   “That does not mean we’ll stop looking,” said Dunwhaite. “Smugglers are very good at hiding things, naturally. We’ll need to carry on with the warrant for a proper search of Captain Weatherdecker’s property. I’m sorry we couldn’t end it here and now.”
   “That’s alright,” said Susan quietly. “It’s been this long. What’s a few more weeks?”
   Dunwhaite’s expression softened as he heard the sad break in her voice.
   “You have helped us immensely, Miss Carruthers. We obtained certain details about the registry of Weatherdecker’s ship, certain details that look a bit strange to the law-abiding citizen. There will be telegrams sent, and with some carefully coordinated ’luck’, a patrol might happen across a few more certain details that look incriminating.”
   Susan tried to smile at him, sadly. Dunwhaite touched a quick finger to his lips.
   “Of course, none of that is true. We are simply concerned for the safety or your son and will act accordingly.” He paid Adam a quick glance, looking back and forth between he and Susan. “Now, speaking of acting accordingly…I am required to tell you not to follow Captain Weatherdecker or his vessel any further. I am obliged to suggest that you return to Port Victor and leave the investigation to us.”
   He shifted forward in his seat slightly, getting ready to be on his way.
   “Though, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Guard is not able to dictate the movements or actions of the innocent citizenry. I suspect I will not be able to stop you should you choose to continue.”
   He stood; Adam rose to meet him, and encouraged Susan to do the same with a supporting arm. Dunwhaite shook both of their hands.
   “Take care,” he said. “The both of you. Wherever you go.”
   Adam returned his knowing smile. Susan tried to, though the sudden darkness from her faded glow was overwhelming. Her smile was a shrunken, feeble little thing. Dunwhaite tipped his hat to them as Adam led Susan from the guardhouse, one arm around her shoulders.

   Adam and Susan took a break from talking to guardsmen for a while. They had spent a few days at sea on the journey to Port Angel, and they had become accustomed to the silence. The solitude. The intimacy. They allowed themselves a moment to wait. While they waited, they fished.
   Adam anchored the tug out in the harbour, away from the main crush of traffic. Still in view of The Ship, of course. He and Susan stood at the bow, arms on the railing, each with fishing rod in hand. The sun had the sky all to itself, though it held back its baking heat.
   Susan tipped the end of her rod up and down restlessly. Adam stood like a statue, his eyes only on the water.
   “What is it?” he asked, after a half hour of this. Susan glanced at him.
   “What’s what?”
   “You’re thinking about something. What is it?”
   She kept staring. He didn’t look at her. His eyes didn’t even move on the water. She sighed, and looked back out over the harbour.
   “I don’t know.”
   “You don’t know what you’re thinking about, or you don’t know if you should say it out loud?”
   “Neither, it’s just…” she paused. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”
   “You won’t know that until you say it.” He gave a little shrug, his idea of encouragement.
   “Look,” said Susan. “The Guard are doing all they can for Damian. I just don’t feel like I’m doing everything I can. Out of all the people on this planet, his own mother be doing the most and working the hardest to get him back.”
   “Nothing too stupid about that,” said Adam. “Unfortunately, we’re in a position where there isn’t much to do, even if we wanted to.”
   “That’s what I mean. Why don’t we make something for ourselves to do?”
   “Like?” said Adam, after it became clear that she was waiting for him to say it. She lowered her voice, as if a merperson might be listening in.
   “What if we were to sneak onboard? We could disguise ourselves, find Damian, and get him home without them even knowing we were there!”
   Adam was silent. He continued not looking at her.
   “You think it’s stupid,” she sighed.
   “No,” insisted Adam, “no, I don’t. I think…it’s probably pretty dangerous. I think neither of us have any experience going undercover. I think we’d be outnumbered if something went wrong - and I think I wouldn’t be able to pull it off anyway. Weatherdecker and Vesco both know me, and some of the crew do too.”
   “Do you think I could?” asked Susan. “As a man?”
   “Man or not, Susan, you would still be outnumbered. In fact, you’d be twice as outnumbered without me.”
   “So, it is stupid.”
   “It’s risky, and it requires skills that we don’t have. It’s not stupid. But, that doesn’t mean we should do it.”
   Susan fell silent. She began to reel in her line. A few nibbles, but nothing had bitten. The sun was starting to ease down into late afternoon.
   “You ready to go in?” asked Adam.
   “Yeah,” said Susan. “Let’s get some food. And I want to stop by an apothecary before they all close.”
   “What for?” Adam was distracted by his reeling rod. Susan gave him a wry smile that he did not see.
   “Things that ladies don’t discuss in public,” she said, tying the hook around the line.
   “Oh. Sure. Yeah. Let’s go.”
   In truth, Susan was not having her period, but there was no reason for Adam to know that. If it didn’t come within the next week or so, well, maybe she would need to tell him then. In the meantime it made a good excuse.

The Benefactor had dozens of meeting points across the Moonfall Islands. Most of the time they served as a place for the crew to pick up new orders. Postboxes, in a way, without a pesky postman to witness who had dropped off what or who had signed for that strange parcel.
   The Mermaid’s Corset in Port Angel was one such postbox. It was a bar. It was a bar that Mr. Airedale did not like very much, but he didn’t have to stay long, so there was no reason to complain. All he had to do was say the magic words, trade parcels, and be gone.
   Mr. Airedale stepped up to the gaudy turquoise bar and deposited the strange, hideous-lamp shaped parcel onto its surface. The barman looked at him; Mr. Airedale looked back, both stone-faced. There were mostly alone at this time of day. Mr. Airedale moved to lean his elbow against the bar, thought better of it as his coat stuck gently to it, and told the barman:
   “I am here on business.”
   The barman did not ask which business. He knew whose parcel was whose when he heard those words. He reached under the counter and withdrew another brown-wrapped package, the size of either a large brick or a small dictionary. He handed this across the bar to Mr. Airedale, who took it and tucked it under his arm. He waited until the barman had safely stowed the hideously shaped thing away to turn and leave. They did not exchange more than those five words. Not even a nod. Mr. Airedale stepped back into the sunshine, carefully avoiding drifts of sawdust on the floor.
   He examined the parcel as he walked. Turning it over in his hands, he found a letter tucked into the string that bound the brown paper. There was one word written on the envelope, and nothing else. The word was Richard.
   The hand that had written it had been careful, and graceful, and ever so gentle. It may as well have been written backwards in blood. Airedale knew immediately that Weatherdecker was in the trouble of his life. And that meant that they were all heading to Crownsmouth.
   On his return to the ship, Airedale gave the letter to Weatherdecker, in person, at his desk. Then he went to the aft deck above, where his midmorning tea was waiting. He sipped it, watched the harbour, and waited.
   After a few minutes’ silence, he heard the captain’s door open. Weatherdecker knew where he’d be. Airedale turned at the sound of him coming up the ladder.
   “Goin’ to Crownsmouth,” said the captain, his head poking above the deck. He didn’t bother to complete the trip up the ladder.
   “Very well,” said Airedale. “Was any reason given?”
   “No,” said Weatherdecker. “Just said Crownsmouth.” He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I dunno,” he continued. “No point askin’ questions. We’ll get on our way first thing in the morning.”
   As the captain descended the ladder, Airedale turned back to the sea. He allowed himself the tiniest, most innocent, trace of a smile.

   Susan awoke in the wee hours of the morning. Truth be told, she had hardly slept.
   Adam owned two pairs of trousers. She stole one of them. His legs were weirdly long, and he was taller than her anyway. She had to roll up the cuffs quite a ways.
   The hardest part was the roll of linen. Not only because she’d had to buy several metres of it, leading to questions from the apothecary, but because she could not bind herself and hold her arms out at the same time. In the end, it wasn’t as tight as she’d have liked, but underneath one of Adam’s shirts it wasn’t immediately obvious.
   She surprised herself with the ease with which she cut her hair. It was not hair that would launch a thousand ships, but she was still fond of it. It came off quickly. She did not hesitate.
   In the end, she did not look a man. No hair on her face, not even stubble. A dainty chin. Wide, bright eyes. If she kept her head down, she did look a boy. A young man run away. A child wanting to sail the seas and see the world. That was good enough to get on board.
   She wrote a note, folded it into a little tent and pitched it next to Adam’s head on his pillow. Then, she was gone.

   The early morning mist on the docks was thick with sea salt and herbal smells; Susan could have tossed a cucumber in the air and had it come down as a dill pickle. She didn’t notice the smells, however, or the men shouting from dock and deck or the huge barrels rolling past her, making the boards shudder. All her focus was on The Ship.
   There were dozens of men loading crates and kegs across the flat planks to a lower deck. She thought briefly about jumping in and joining them, slipping onboard when she had a chance…but they were moving in practiced rhythm, a well-oiled machine of seasoned sailors. She felt she would be as much help to them as a wrench in their gears. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention, especially by tripping over her own feet. She tucked herself out of their way, and studied the main plank.
   Two men at the top, chatting quietly. Both had arm muscles the size of piglets, crossed over chests nearly as large as the ones being loaded onto the ship below. One slightly less sizeable man stood at the bottom of the plank, watching the activity on the docks with a sharp eye. His head scanned back and forth slowly, alert to any malfeasance. Susan watched him for a few minutes, observing the observer. A few men, he waved on with neither a word nor a glance; some he stopped, checking for a password.
   Susan rightfully doubted she would be able to get through with only a wave of a hand. So, she’d have to be the new boy after all. She steeled herself and wove through the crowd towards the vigilant doorman. He watched her as she approached, mildly curious but mostly disinterested.
   “Hey, uh,” said Susan in her best growl, “who do I talk to, uh, if’n I wanna join up with you guys?”
   The man’s curiosity dialled up a notch, raising an eyebrow.
   “You lookin’a sail, son?”
   “Yessir,” she assured gruffly.
   “You real sure ‘bout that?”
   “Yessir. I am.”
   A sly smile overtook his features. Susan’s heart throbbed in a panic, unable to bear the silence. But, the man shrugged, and indicated the dock to his left with a jerk of his head.
   “Best talk to Mr. Airedale, then. Tall guy in the green with all them buttons. He’ll sort y’out.”
   “Thank you. I mean…thanks. Yeah.”
   She hurried away before she could be examined too closely.
   Mr. Airedale was not hard to find. Among the grease and dirt and drab colours of the sailors, he stuck out like a well-dressed lighthouse. His coat was dyed seagreen, and as the doorman had said, resplendent with polished badges. He seemed to be supervising the rabble from his quiet corner of the dock. He held a small flat book that he occasionally wrote something in, after comparing notes to a stack of paper in his hands. A fine teacup and saucer with an elaborate rose motif was balanced masterfully on top of a piling next to him.
   Chills ran up Susan’s spine as he looked at her. His gaze was polite, and stony, and unreadable; that was not what spooked her. He had looked up from his receipts, to her. She was one person among dozens, dressed in the same drab colours, and was still a good thirty feet away. His eyes locked onto her and remained there as she approached him. She had to force her own eyes not to water as she met his gaze.
   “Uh, mornin’,” she said quietly, trying not to squeak. “I’m lookin’ for a spot on the high seas.”
   Mr. Airedale closed his book, folding the papers up inside it.
   “Good morning to you, young man. By ‘looking for a spot’, am I to understand you wish to join the crew?”
   “Uh, yes. Sir,” she added quickly, suddenly remembering her manners through her nerves. “Yes, sir. I wish to be a sailor.”
   Mr. Airedale looked up suddenly. Slowly, carefully, his eyes traced around the dock. Up the side of The Ship. Then, he looked back at Susan, and smiled politely.
   “A fine wish to have, young man. I would be happy to have you join us.” He looked around again. Behind. Up. Forward. Across the mob of sailors. His smile stayed firmly in place. When he spoke, his voice was low, audible only to her.
   “As a man of morals,” he sighed, “I have to warn you against this.”
   Susan cleared her throat, and stood tall, her shoulders thrown back.
   “Sir,” she said bravely, “I’m as ready as the nautical life as any.”
   “Forgive me - it is ‘Miss’ Carruthers, is it not?”
   Her throbbing heart sped up to the point of being painful. Blood rushed through her ears, loud as the ocean breaking under a hull.
   “I, uh, I…”
   She thought to deny it. Then, she looked deep into those emerald eyes. They saw all. They knew all. Lying to him would just be childish.
   “H-how did you know?” she muttered sadly.
   “Boys with an eagerness to join a crew are not nearly so eloquent as to use the phrase ‘I wish to be a sailor’. Nor do they use words such as ‘nautical’. Nor, usually, do they have a complete set of both teeth and fingers; I am often forced to choose one.”
   Rage flooded her. She had to fight to keep from shaking.
   “You listen to me,” she snapped, blinking back tears of anger, “I’m getting my son back, no matter what. You may have caught me this time, but I’m going to follow you bastards to the ends of the earth until I see my baby again!”
   She turned to storm off, but Airedale caught her lightning-quick by the arm.
   “I am sure you are,” he said calmly. “That is why I was not going to stop you, Miss Carruthers. I simply wish you to be fully prepared for that which you may encounter.”
   She tried to glare at him, but it was hard through the hope in her eyes.
   “I apologize for my presumption,” continued Airedale. “I am sure you do not need a knight in shining armour. From what I have heard, you are as tough as any man - but the crew on this vessel are not any men. I am the only conscience they have, and I cannot be with them all the time.”
   He let go of her arm, stood straight, and smoothed down his jacket. She turned back to face him head-on, listening intently to every word.
   “I will not keep you from your son. I am not personally involved in this business, though, naturally, I did not approve of the captain’s actions. I do not want to keep the boy from you, though I cannot be seen aiding those whom my captain sees as enemies. Take the chance, if you wish, as long as you take it forewarned.”
   She stared up at him, silently, the hope glowing on her face. Mr. Airedale found himself made a bit uncomfortable by the constant wide-eyed admiration.
   “If you have changed your mind,” he said, to break the silence, “I would be pleased to escort you to your vessel and see you on your way.”
   “And if I haven’t?” asked Susan quietly.
   “Then, I take tea at six, noon, four, and eight. I will introduce you to the galley staff and they will show you the proper methods for a cuppa. I will not help, for my own benefit, nor will I hinder, for yours. I do not know you, nor you I, you are one deck rat among many and will do anything asked of you lest you raise suspicion among the crew. Do we have an understanding?”
   “Y-yes,” said Susan. “Yes, we do.”
   He offered his hand to be shaken.
   “Welcome aboard, Mr. Carruthers.”

   Adam rolled over in his bunk; there was a tiny crinkly noise as his face crushed the little tent of paper. He snorted indignantly and opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep. The crumpled paper stuck to his face for a moment before he lifted his head, letting it flop onto the pillow.
   With his awake hand, he grabbed it, slid it open between thumb and fingers, and read. He only got a few sentences in before he leapt out of bed. He didn’t bother to finish the rest.
   He burst onto the deck to face a foggy dawn. He could not see the sun. He could not even see the town. The world seemed to end at the boat across the planks.
   Adam leapt over the railing of the SS Cartleblat and pounded down the dock, to where The Ship had been anchored last night. He nearly ran over the edge before he finally admitted he could not have passed it. It was already gone.
   “Goddamnit, Susan,” he panted. “Goddamnit!”
   He sprinted back to the SS Cartleblat as fast as his bare feet could carry him.

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3.4.16

In For A Penny - Part 9

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Mr. Tiller opened his cabin door angrily to silence the frantic loud knocking upon it.
   “Oy!” he hissed. “The lad’s almost down for a nap! Cut your fuckin’ racket! Sir,” he added half-heartedly. Weatherdecker grabbed the boatswain by the front of his shirt.
   “Listen here,” said the captain, pulling him close, “there’re two guardsmen at the plank wantin’ onboard to look for the baby. I’m lettin’ ‘em on so they don’t find nothin’ outta place. Are you followin’?”
   Tiller felt his heart skip.
   “The police? But if…f-for the lad? What do we do?”
   “‘We’ don’t do nothin’. ‘I’ show ‘em round the ship, the perfectly normal ship, an’ ‘you’ take that kid an’ you hide him. Anywhere. Keep him outta sight and outta earshot. If he starts cryin’, jam summat down his throat.” The Captain’s grip tightened, and he leaned in closer. “You fuck this up an’ we’re off to the clink together, unnerstand?”
   Mr. Tiller did, though he didn’t get a chance to say so. Weatherdecker shoved him back into the cabin and stalked away towards the plank. After a moment of frantic thought, Tiller closed the door, and began to think calmly instead. They could look anywhere…anywhere a baby could go…
   He looked to the boy, almost asleep on the cot. Mr. Tiggles was held tightly in his fist. With any luck, he would stay sleepy. Tiller gathered the boy carefully into his arms.

   Officers Dunwhaite and Edison looked up as they heard boots on the deck. Captain Weatherdecker appeared at the railing, smiling broadly, and descended the plank towards them.
   “Good afternoon, officers! A good afternoon indeed. How’s the day find you?” He shook both of their hands. Before they could reply, he said: “I’m Captain Weatherdecker, pleased to meet you both!”
   “Likewise, Captain,” said Officer Dunwhaite. “We apologize for the intrusion, though, it is an important business that brings us here.” In an effort to dot his i’s and cross his t’s, he flashed his badge again. “We’re investigating the disappearance of a young child, and we have reason to believe he may be aboard this vessel.”
   “Oh, heavens,” sighed Weatherdecker, “that’s awful! Please, lads, come aboard. Take all the time you want!”
   He was smart enough to notice the corporals exchange a quick look, but not smart enough to understand entirely what it meant.
   “You have no objections, Captain? We don’t wish to disturb your crew.”
   “No, you’re not! Not at all. Always happy to help the boys in brass!” He stepped aside, and gestured towards the plank. “Please, make yourselves right at home!”
   The look was traded once more, a bit longer this time. Then, Dunwhaite led his fellow up the plank, their cloaks bobbing in unison. Weatherdecker followed them up. Mr. Airedale was waiting at the top, and nodded politely at them as they passed.
   Edison was clearly the eyes and ears. He looked around the deck, masts, railing, assorted crew, horizon, barrels, seagulls, flags, and various other riggings, ears perked for any strange sounds. Dunwhaite was the voice and the brain. His own gaze was set strictly upon the Captain.
   “Have you yourself seen any sign of a child on board, sir?”
   Weatherdecker pretended to reflect upon this.
   “No, can’t say I have, officer, can’t say I have.”
   “Nothing strange? Any odd behaviour among the crew?” Dunwhaite began a slow saunter across the deck, following Edison’s seemingly random wander. The captain kept up with the corporal; the first mate hovered at a polite distance.
   “Ah, none that comes to mind,” chirped Weatherdecker. “Been fairly quiet ‘round here lately, bein’ honest.”
   The guardsmen’s neverending scan of the deck made him want to punch someone, preferably Dunwhaite.
   “In what capacity does this ship serve, captain?”
   “The ship? Why, a merchant vessel. We’re merchants, the crew and I. Traders. Freighters, if you like.”
   “Merchants?” said the corporal. “This appears to be a warship, sir, on first glance…”
   “She would, officer, because she was! Off to be scrapped by the navy, sir. Bought her for a song to start my, uh, merchanting business. Fixed her up ourselves, the crew and I.”
   “Did you? How nice,” said Dunwhaite. “Captain, has this vessel recently called at Port Victor?”
   Weatherdecker forced his jaw to unclench.
   “Victor,” he mused aloud. “Port Victor…hmm…” His eyes darted over the corporal’s shoulder to where Airedale stood. Imperceptibly, the first mate nodded.
   “Ah, yes! Indeed it did, officer. Yes, we stopped in a couple of weeks ago. Just for a bit of a holiday, eh? Just a day for the lads to have some fun.”
   “And you noticed nothing odd among the crew after you departed?”
   “No, not that comes to mind. Save a bit more beer around, eh?”
   Dunwhaite smiled tersely. “Quite so.” He looked to his constable, who came to his side without a word. “Captain, would you mind if we had a look around the ship? We will do our best not to disturb the crew.”
   Another tiny nod from Airedale over Dunwhaite’s shoulder.
   “Why, certainly!” beamed Weatherdecker. “Take all the time you like, gents. Would you like me to show you ‘round?”

   Tiller opened the door from the officer’s cabins as slowly as he dared. He flinched as he saw the two cloaked guardsmen, being talked to by an animated Captain Weatherdecker. Mr. Airedale stood a bit behind, keeping calm enough for the both of them. The boatswain took a deep breath, and strode out onto the deck. He had a bundle of sailcloth strapped into a sling on his back, a belt of tools around his waist.
   Mr. Airedale immediately fixed him with a piercing look; had he been a cat, his ears would have been flat on his head. He was quick enough not to let the officers notice him staring over their shoulders. Weatherdecker, however, glared at him like a dog pointing out a rabbit in the heather. Mr. Tiller kept on for the ladder at the mainmast, paying the four men no mind.
   “Mr. Tiller,” growled the captain stiffly, “what do you think you’re doin’?”
   Tiller paused with both hands and one foot on the ladder. Calmly, he addressed his captain, under the stare of the two guardsmen.
   “Just finished repair on the topgallant staysail, sir. Off to rig it before we leave. Sorry to’ve kept it so late.” He spoke as meekly and quietly as possible. He looked to the officers, looking at him. If they were suspicious, they didn’t show it. “There a problem, sir?” he asked innocently.
   Mr. Airedale’s cat-worthy look returned. Weatherdecker’s fists tightened. Corporal Dunwhaite, ever the opportunist, spoke up before the Captain could.
   “No problem, I assure you, Mr….Tiller, was it?”
   “Yessir. That’s me.”
   “Which position do you hold on this ship, Mr. Tiller?”
   “Boatswain, sir. Head of the deck crew.”
   Not an iota of nerve shone through. He shifted the sailcloth on his back a bit, never breaking eye contact with Dunwhaite.
   “I see. Mr. Tiller, are you aware of any children having been aboard this vessel?”
   Tiller scrunched his nose. “Children, sir? Heavens no, sir. No place for children at sea. Most certainly not in the riggin’, sir.”
   “Quite so,” said Dunwhaite. He held that innocent gaze for a moment longer. Nothing. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Tiller. Please, don’t let us detain you any longer.”
   “Not at all, officers.” He looked to his captain. “Have that staysail up in a wink, sir. Sorry for the delay, sir.”
   He climbed the ladder with the grace and speed of a squirrel, disappearing in a flash. With that, he vanished from the officer’s minds.
   He climbed and climbed, until they were the size of toy soldiers below. He pulled himself up onto the fighting top, out of sight as well as mind, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. In a scramble, he slung the bundled sail off his back, into his arms, and carefully unfolded it. The boy squinted up at him, sleepily, Mr. Tiggles tucked tight to his chest. Tiller hugged the bundle close, pressing his back against the mast.
   Let them search all they wanted.

   They searched the ship from one end to the other. In reality, Dunwhaite knew he and his constable were as likely to find the child as to find a live mermaid. If there was anything less than legal happening aboard, it had been safely hidden away. Had Weatherdecker’s crew been in the habit of getting caught they would not have earned their reputation. Still, the corporal considered this visit a success. Weatherdecker had been radiating tension the entire time. Once the captain’s nervousness turned to annoyance, Dunwhaite called it quits. Well…mostly quits. There was one last matter to see to in the name of justice.
   “I must thank you for your cooperation in this matter, sirs,” said Dunwhaite, as he and Edison were escorted to the plank. “We truly appreciate your patience. I hope we did not intrude.”
   “Not at all!” insisted Weatherdecker, with his best attempt at a disarming grin. “Sorry we weren’t any help. Hope you find the tot!”
   Dunwhaite’s disarming smile was much better. “I believe we shall, Captain.” He reached into his coat and removed a notebook. “Pen, Edison.” The constable produced a fountain pen seemingly from magic and handed to his superior.
   “I hate to bring this up,” said Dunwhaite, “after such a pleasant visit, but I’m afraid I must. I could not help noticing that this vessel’s trailboard does not bear a name nor a shipyard’s number, captain. To whom is it registered?”
   “Oh, that!” said Weatherdecker. “I’ve got the registry, officer, no worries there. Just haven’t had a mo to get the name up, that’s all. Busy life it is, merchanting.”
   “Certainly, captain. May I see the registry papers?”
   The tension returned. He watched Weatherdecker’s hands curl into fists.
   “Certainly,” said the captain, stiffly. “Mr. Airedale, would you be so kind?”
   The first mate turned and glided away to the officer’s cabins without a moment’s hesitation.

   Mr. Tiller held on tightly to the rigging as the two watchmen chatted at the plank with Weatherdecker. In between keeping the lad quiet, and thinking his deeply troubled thoughts, he barely had the mind to do so.
   The boy was slung to his back in the makeshift carrier of wrapped canvas, gripping his shoulders as he enjoyed the view from the top. Every squeal at the sight of a seagull, every giggle at the dizzying height was quickly shushed by a wiggle of Mr. Tiggles.
   “Please, lad,” whispered Tiller, “come on, now…it’s quiet time.”
   Why did it have to be, he wondered. Why was he hiding? The Captain had told him to, but, the bronze were here to take the boy home. He could send the kid on his way, safe and sound. He would have to be on his way too, if Weatherdecker caught him giving up the game.
   A tiny hand seized his red kerchief and pulled it smoothly off his head. Tiller looked over his shoulder to see the boy draping it over his own face.
   “Ba!” declared the tiny pirate. He giggled. “Dah dah dah dah…” He pulled it back further, hanging loose from his curls, and giggled again as he caught Tiller’s eye. “Ba! Tir! Tir Tir! Baaa!”
   Tiller raised a finger to his smiling lips. “Shh! Keep the noise down, y’little bugger.”
   As he watched the boy chewing on his kerchief, he wondered some more. The boy would go back to his parents, Weatherdecker would send him away, if he didn’t kill him first. If they both didn’t end up in jail. But, after that, he could find work on another ship. It would only be a matter of…
   The lad tugged on his short sandy hair. “Tir!” he proclaimed. “Tir!” The kerchief was mushed against the back of his head. Tiller accepted it over his shoulder with a soft laugh.
   He could find work on another ship, he reasoned. A stranger among a crew. Alone. Back to the old times. Being the small guy, the soft-hearted one that nobody would notice gone. He would be replaced and no one would bat an eye. None of the crew, anyway…
   “Tir! Tir, Tir. Ba.”
   The lad started drumming his shoulderblades. Mr. Tiller smiled, looked back at him, and stayed silent.

   Dunwhaite took his slow, careful time copying the details from the ship’s papers into his notebook, savouring the anxiety radiating off the captain. He relished each pang of fear as he asked perfectly innocent questions.
   “We’re quite a long way from Taercanon, captain. You have not transferred the registry to the islands?”
   “Like I said,” said Weatherdecker, “ain’t had the time. What with all the merchanting.”
   Dunwhaite looked at the papers in his hand, paused, then directed a cocked eyebrow at the captain.
   “How long ago did you purchase this vessel, captain?”
   “Uh, ten years or so…”
   “You have not found the time for a registry transfer in ten years?”
   “Well, I ain’t been a merchant that whole time, y’see. Only started that a few years ago.”
   Behind him, Mr. Airedale inhaled slowly through his nose, which was his equivalent of an exasperated sigh.
   “What did you do before that, Captain?”
   “Oh, well, I mean, I weren’t a merchant in the islands. Traded on the mainland coast before that, mostly.”
   “I see,” said Dunwhaite. “As the vessel spends most of its time in Moonfall waters, sir, I suggest you see to a transfer as soon as possible. It makes paperwork easier.”
   Weatherdecker squinted sideways at the guardsman. “What makes you think we’re mostly in the Moonfalls?”
   Dunwhaite gave him a pleasant smile as he handed back the papers. “We pay attention, my fellow officers and I. We would be doing a disservice if we did not know what our citizens got up to in their spare time.”
   Slowly, hesitantly, Weatherdecker took the papers in his hands. He had locked eyes with Dunwhaite, frowning. The officer tucked his notebook away without blinking.
   “I would suggest you choose a name as soon as possible and stick to it,” said the corporal. “Otherwise, it might look…suspicious.” He nodded to Airedale, and tipped his hat to Weatherdecker. “Gents,” he said to them. “Edison?”
   His corporal followed him dutifully down the plank. Neither looked back. When they were out of earshot, Airedale turned to his captain, still holding the papers and still scowling.
   “Are you quite pleased with yourself, Richard?”
   “They didn’t find anything,” snapped Weatherdecker.
   “They were looking,” said Airedale firmly. “That is plenty.”
   “Fuck off,” growled the captain. He stalked away, muttering to himself. Airedale didn’t bother to listen in. He looked back at the plank; a figure on the dock caught his eye. He looked up at a man in a black cloak, leaning against a piling opposite the ship. He was watching the guardsmen go on their way, mild curiosity on his granite face. There was a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm.
   Airedale headed straight for the man in black, his long strides thumping on the plank. The man’s curiosity turned on him as he approached.
   “You rubbin’ elbows with the bronze, now, Tim?” said Mr. McCrea. On the surface, it might have been mistaken for a casual conversation starter.
   “I know you have to pass this along,” said Airedale. “It is not my fault. The reason they were here is nothing to do with me. You will have to speak to Richard if you want the story.”
   “Sure thing, kid.” Mr. McCrea held out the book-shaped parcel. Mr. Airedale ignored his little term of endearment and swiftly tucked it under his own arm. The instant this was done, Mr. McCrea stood straight, tipped his top hat, and started up the dock.
   “Stay outta trouble, now,” were his departing words. Mr. Airedale watched him go, hoping that could be managed.

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