Blaggard's Moon (18 page)

They all watched the amazingly dexterous hands of their dealer as he cut and shuffled, cut and shuffled, then flipped the cards around the table with swift, unerring precision. Unimpressive in most venues, Mart Mazeley was a master here. They never saw a fault. Not that they would have mentioned it if they had, for they all knew what they bought with their time and their money, and it was more than drinks and company. Conch would remember them. His raids on their ships would be few, perfunctory, and generally bloodless. Skaelington's carefully crafted balance between altruism and treachery, liberty and lechery, fairness and foul play, would hold for another few months. A few gold coins at a poker game was a small price to pay for the continuation of a highly profitable way of life for all.

“Perhaps a walk on deck would clear my head,” Runsford said, to no one in particular.

The others paid him no mind, and Mazeley kept dealing. But Ryland did not leave, and finally Conch looked up at him.

“All right, I'll join ye, then,” Conch said gruffly, tossing his cards onto the tabletop. “I'm foldin' this one in. The rest of ye play on.”

“If you're sure” and “Well, why not?” were the responses, as it dawned
on the gathered sheep that if Conch wasn't in the game, he could hardly fleece them further. There was a buzz of excitement as they realized that in his absence one of them might actually win something.

Runsford cleared his throat loudly, and finally Wentworth joined his mind to the moment. “I'll walk with you, Father,” he offered. He stood unsteadily, wondering vaguely if he had drunk too much, and then followed his elders out of the room.

The pirate led the way to the captain's quarters, but the short walk up from the Poker Deck, as Conch called his richly refitted aftmost cargo hold, had substantially worsened the pirate's disposition. “Where's the wenches?” he growled once they were inside his saloon.

Wentworth stared a moment, not understanding to whom Conch referred, then said, “Oh, right. In their quarters, I'm guessing.” He looked from Conch to Runsford. “I'll get them,” he offered at last, and went to collect his bride, and the mother of his bride.

Jenta could not remember the last time she saw such sorrow in her mother's eyes.

“Perhaps you'll grow to love him,” Shayla told her daughter. She looked at, and then past, Jenta.

“Perhaps,” Jenta answered, hoping to ease Shayla's pain. They were seated in the two chairs of a close but comfortable cabin just below the captain's quarters. Jenta had a prayer book in her hand.

“But I hope for your sake that you never do,” Shayla continued, from that same place of darkness. Jenta searched her mother's eyes. Something lived there in that distance, something she had never let her daughter see. As Jenta watched, the years were turning back, and an old, deeply wrought memory came to the fore. “When you give your heart away,” she told her daughter, “you can no longer protect it.” And now, for a moment, Jenta saw the young girl that Shayla once had been. “When you love, dear girl, you give another the power to hurt you.” Shayla lived within her memory for a while longer, and then said, “If you love deeply enough, you give another the power to destroy you.”

The words were spoken gently, but the force of them was harsh. Jenta shook her head. “Wentworth will not destroy me.”

A rap on the door. “Ready, my sweet? My Jenta?” The words were slow and slurred.

Shayla closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the mask of protection she always wore was fully in place.

Jenta stood, handed the prayer book to her mother. She straightened her dress, a gray evening gown with white lace trim. “We shall make the best of it,” she said to her mother with, if not great hope, at least a full measure of confidence. Then she opened the door.

Already dark, Conch's mood now seemed threatening. “I don't like doin' yer dirty work.”

Runsford blanched. “My dirty…? Dear Captain, marrying a man and a woman is hardly that. It's an honorable duty.”

“So is buryin' 'em. I'll want payment for this,” he then added in a low murmur.

Runsford's mouth formed unspoken words. Then he managed, “But we've agreed to the payment.”

The pirate only harrumphed. He had more to say, but Jenta stepped through the open door, followed by Shayla and then Wentworth.

“Are we ready, then?” Runsford asked, one eye on the Conch.

Conch grunted, barely glancing at the women.

Shayla produced the prayer book, and from it took a folded parchment with the words of the ceremony all written out in careful script. She held out the sheaf. Only Jenta noticed the tremble in her hand.

Conch took the page roughly, frowned at it. “Here gathered,” he began, then trailed off, his lips moving. Then he said, “Let's see. This and that, this and that, to be wed in holy mat…matrim…Wait, here we go. Do you Jenta Flug…” he paused, looked at the girl. “Flug?”

Her eyes dropped to the polished planking at her feet. With a look and a word, Conch had knocked all the wind from her sails. The question was ungentlemanly. Even brutal.

She had tried to catch his eye as she walked into his quarters, expecting to see the dashing, powerful man with whom she had so recently danced, expecting to nod and curtsey in pleasant recognition while he formed some appropriate words of greeting. She had prepared for this exchange—how could she not? He was the captain of the ship, the pirate legend of Skaelington, the man who would marry her to her husband. She was a lady. She wanted this moment to be memorable, and everything about it to be as gracious as possible under the circumstances.

She had no reason to believe it would be otherwise. After all, it was less than a month ago at the dance that he had been a perfect gentleman. His grammar might have been poor, but his manners were not. He had bowed to her as he let her go, and said, “Thank ye, miss. We'll meet again,
I hope,” and she had responded, “I do hope so, and I hope it's soon.” So she had readied her greeting for this evening, hoping to pick up just where they left off, to let him know that she remembered it all precisely.

And so we do meet again, Captain Imbry,
she would say,
just as you had hoped. But not, I think, quite as you expected!
She would speak the line cheerfully, a small, shared secret, but perfectly open for all who cared to enter in. This was what she loved about polite society—there was always the dance, always the secret, and then always the opening of the secret.

But the instant she entered the room she knew there would be no small secrets tonight. She saw the dark fire in Conch's eyes. When he spoke, she heard the wolf's growl. And now his first and only word to her, his first acknowledgment of her actual presence in the room, as he raced and fumbled through what was clearly an unpleasant duty for him, was a question—and not any question, but the question of her name, her identity. And it was delivered to her on a hard spike of alcohol and tobacco and annoyance. Here was the pirate revealed after all.

“She goes by Stillmithers,” Ryland said at last.

“Well, she can go by Sam Hill if she wants. But if Flug's her name then Flug's her name.”

Jenta knew she should meet his eye, but she could not. She looked at her shoes, gray silk like the gray of her dress. Not wedding garments at all. She felt her face flush. She wanted to run from the room.

Conch cleared his throat. “Will you Jenta take this man Wentworth to be yer laughable wedded husband?”

There was an awkward silence.

“Wait. Excuse me?” Wentworth protested groggily. “What did you say?” His eyes were wide, his voice slurred, his stance unsteady. Jenta looked at her mother, but Shayla was far away. The porcelain mask. Jenta closed her eyes and bowed her head again. She prayed it would be over soon.

“Oh, fine. Lawful, then,” Conch corrected himself.

There was another long, uncomfortable pause. Then Jenta raised her head, looked straight into the eyes of the pirate. “I will.”

Conch Imbry looked back at her a moment too long, Wentworth thought, and at the end of the look he was sure one of Conch's eyes narrowed. Not a wink, precisely, but some shared exchange nonetheless. He searched his bride's face. Her look was intense and riveted, and locked on the pirate. There was fire in her.

“And do you Wentworth Ryland take this here Jenta, whatever her last name may be, to be yer laudable wedded wife?”

Wentworth stared hard at the pirate, weighing the words. But they did not seem to be insulting. “Yes, I most certainly will,” he answered, as firmly as he could.

Imbry suppressed a laugh at the drunken twit. “Then I pronounce ye married. Good luck to ye—ye'll need it.” He slapped the prayer book shut, crunching the parchment between the pages. “That it?”

Wentworth's head was swimming. This was too soon over. The rum had clouded everything, but surely there was more. “I believe,” he offered, finally remembering something, “that it is customary for the broom the kiss the guide.”

The others looked at him oddly.

“The groom…I mean, for the groom to kris the bide.” He corrected. A pause, then, very carefully, “The groom to kiss the bride.”

One corner of Conch's mouth rose, but his eyes were cold. “Why by all means let's do what's customary,” he said.

All eyes watched Wentworth, and none were sympathetic. He looked around, surprised. All he'd wanted was to kiss his wife. What was wrong with that? Now completely self-conscious, he could only manage a small, misplaced peck that Jenta returned too late, kissing air.

Now Conch turned to Ryland. “I'll be wantin' my payment. Now.”

“But sir…” Ryland trailed off. He had several minutes ago regretted that he had insisted on this particular officiate, and now he repented of the choice entirely. “I…have paid you all that I promised. At the card table, sir.”

“
That
? That's not payment. That's money lost gamblin'. I want my ten in gold.”

Jenta and Shayla exchanged shocked looks. It was a ridiculous sum, more than enough to buy the entire ship inside of which they all stood.

Ryland was aghast. “Perhaps we should excuse the young couple while we discuss this.” He nodded at Wentworth, who took Jenta by the arm, though awkwardly.

But suddenly Conch had a pistol in his hand. He aimed it at the floorboards, but he cocked back the hammer for emphasis, freezing everyone where they stood. “I want my money.”

Pulses rose. Chills ran up spines. Runsford spoke. “My dear sir, I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I don't know how it could have happened. My fault entirely, I'm quite sure. I can pay you as soon as the bank opens in the morning. Mr. Gorsus can vouch for me. He's a banker.”

“I know what he is.” Conch studied the set of the room. Shayla
Stillmithers stood stonily, eyes piercing him. Beside her stood the girl, looking somehow offended. Beside her, the boy, chin up, trying to look brave. Trembling? Probably. And then beside him, the father, shaking his head, pleading for calm while offering money. Conch sighed. The angry mother, the haughty daughter, the cowering son, the bargaining father. And Conch threatening them and taking their gold. “Ah, the lot of ye make me feel like I'm workin'.” Then to Wentworth, “How much do you have left, boy? Down at the table.”

“A small stack of chips and two gold coins to spare, I believe.” The click of the pistol's hammer had cleared his head with amazing effectiveness. “Not enough.”

“Well, you done better than yer old man. Once ye've lost all that, then we'll see what I'm still owed.”

“But…” Wentworth looked to Jenta, who stared hard into the pirate's eyes.

She would never hang her head before this brute again.

Conch looked back at her with sudden admiration, as if he had finally found in her the fire he knew was there, waiting to be drawn out. “Back to the game,” he said, uncocking the pistol and replacing it in his belt at the small of his back. He slapped Wentworth on the shoulder, then pushed him toward the door. “All else can wait.”

“I'll join you,” Runsford suggested.

But the Conch turned and put the forefinger of his left hand into Runsford's chest. “Ye got no money. I'll have no spectators. House rules.” And he and Wentworth left the room.

Jenta watched them go, then exchanged looks with her mother. Shayla's eyes betrayed a warning. “What, Mother? Say it.”

A sailor suddenly appeared, armed, at the doorway, to escort them out.

Jenta did not move. “Tell me what is happening, Mother. What is Captain Imbry going to do?”

“How would I know, child? He's a pirate.” She looked at Ryland with a withering scorn, and walked away, ahead of him, out the door.

“It'll be fine,” Ryland said after her, sounding none too confident. “He's a businessman at bottom. It'll all be fine in the morning. You'll see.”

But the bride slept in a stateroom with her mother, while her new husband went back to the darkened bowels of the pirate's hold, to gamble.