Blaggard's Moon (40 page)

“Thank you for telling me my business. You got your own bodyguards. Use them.”

“I don't want a shoot-out. I want my ship. My ship. Ryland Shipping & Freight. I'm Ryland. Do you see the insignia on the stern?” He took off his cap. “Do you see the insignia here? I don't want a fight, I want your protection. As a citizen of Nearing Vast, I demand your protection.”

“We can protect you, Mr. Ryland,” one of the four men standing by said. He was tall, with long red hair, and his skin was blotched. Motley. “We don't need no lawmen.” His look was a confident sneer.

Ryland ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Thank you, Motley. I'm sure Fellows will respect your authority here.”

Now the thick Sheriff spoke. “How do I know it's your ship? You got papers on it?”

“Papers?” The taller man grew apoplectic. “You want me to show you my papers? He's the one you need to ask about papers!”

The Sheriff spat.

Ryland stepped in front of him, locked eyes. “What was your name again?”

“Haggarty.”

“Haggarty. Don't think I'll forget it. If my men are required to engage in gunplay to capture back my own ship, their blood will be on your hands.”

“You got papers prove you own that ship, then we can talk.”

“The
papers
are on the
ship
!”

The Sheriff was silent. He rubbed the bristles at the back of his neck with a big hand. Then he crossed his arms again, saying nothing.

Ryland looked upward, grinding his teeth. “I pity the people of Oster. What kind of law must this town have?”

At this point the shorter man turned to the taller one. Arms still crossed, he squinted up at the bitter face. “The kind of law that don't much like pirates.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

SLOW SLIM'S REVENGE

“R
UNSFORD
?” D
AMRICK ASKED
calmly. “Runsford Ryland?”

Lye Mogene nodded. “He's on deck, dressin' down the Captain, askin' after you.”

Damrick, still lying on his bunk, now with his hands laced behind his head, just stared up at the ceiling. Word was out then, in Skaelington. Word had gotten to Ryland almost immediately. “Is Wentworth with him?”

“Didn't see the son.”

Damrick sat up on the bunk. “Well, show him in.”

“He ain't happy.”

“Show him in.”

“He's got goons with 'im.”

Damrick shook his head. “Just Ryland.”

“Aye.” His lieutenant gone, Damrick stood slowly, then carefully picked up a pistol from the small table beside the bed. It was one of two new ones he'd purchased in Skaelington, as part of the refit of the Gatemen. It had two barrels, side by side. He turned it over, checked the loads. It felt good in his hand. He tucked it into his belt behind his back.

The door burst open. Damrick expected Runsford Ryland to come in like a hornet's nest rolling down a hill. But he didn't. He walked straight to Damrick, stood before him. “Damrick Fellows, at last. What an honor.” He put out a hand.

Damrick watched him carefully, declining to shake. Runsford wore a
silk shirt under his blue jacket. He was awash in cologne. “Close the door,” Damrick said quietly, but not to Ryland.

The door closed.

Ryland didn't turn away. “Well. I would say we have much to discuss.”

“Do we?”

“I think so, yes. You are illegally in possession of my ships.”

“I have a contract with Wentworth Ryland.”

“Let's see it.”

Damrick glanced down at the writing desk. He pulled a folded parchment from the bottom of the pile, and handed it to Runsford.

Runsford tore it in half and tossed both pieces back onto the desk. “You have nothing.”

“I have your three ships full of my armed men.”

Ryland sighed, and turned away. “I'm not afraid of you, Fellows. Obviously you are not afraid of me.” He turned back. “That's good. We can speak as equals. But I'm here to tell you that you and your men are hanging upside down over an alligator pit. You need a new contract, a new deal. I have come here to offer you the terms.”

“What happened to Wentworth?”

“He's no longer in charge. You need to deal with me, and I'll tell you why.”

Damrick waited.

Ryland stepped in close, rising to his full height, his hands folded behind his back. “I'll speak in a language I know you'll understand. I can have the Royal Navy hunt you down on the sea. I can have the Royal Dragoons hunt you down on land. I can put a price on your head in every port in every country on the ocean, a price so high mothers will be begging their sons to kill you. You will have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. Do I have your attention?”

Damrick studied him. “You won't do any of that.”

Runsford lowered his eyebrows. “My dear sir, I didn't get where I am by making idle threats. I run the largest shipping line in the world. Perhaps you've heard.”

Damrick's hand came up like a viper striking, grabbing Ryland at the neck. He shoved the older man backward, three quick steps across the cabin, and pinned him roughly and painfully to the wall with a thud—Ryland's skull cracking on wood. His boatman's cap fell to the floor.

“You're a pirate, Ryland,” Damrick breathed. Now his pistol flashed,
in an instant its cold barrels were pressed to Ryland's cheek. “I shoot pirates.” He cocked a hammer back, and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you've heard.”

Ryland's head spun and his throat gurgled. He grabbed at Damrick's hands, but they were like rocks, like oaks. “You can't kill me,” he croaked.

“Can't I?”

“That would be murder.”

“Yes. Murder. Just the way you and your pirates do it. You think honest men and women will never cross that line? You pay pirates; you bribe governments; you play all sides. And you think you're safe. You think you can come in here and threaten me and never worry what I might do. Not because of your strength or your wits or your money or your deals, but because you're sure decent people won't murder you. You're protected by the goodwill of the very people you cheat and rape and slaughter, because you know they won't quit being good just because you're evil. They won't become like you, just to destroy you. And you count on that. But give simple men and women hope that someone who holds their principles will fight you, let them believe there's one of their own who'll stand up for once, toe to toe, and they'll rise up. And you'll be gone. That's why I scare you and Conch and every other pirate. And that's why I'll kill you.”

Finally, doubt drifted through Ryland's eyes. “We can talk about this.”

“No, we can't.” Damrick moved the pistol's double barrels from Ryland's cheek to his temple, pressed hard. Ryland tried to turn his head away, but the pistol pinned it to the wall. “I'm not a complex man, Mr. Ryland. I see a rat, and I kill it.”

“Please.” He let go of Damrick's hands, brought his own up, palms forward. “Please. Let's just talk about this. We can come to an arrangement.”

Damrick shook his head. He cocked back the other hammer. “I don't make deals with pirates. Goodbye, Mr. Ryland.”

“I can give you Conch Imbry.”

Damrick hesitated. “And why would you do that?”

Runsford Ryland closed his eyes. “Because he killed my son.”

Damrick lowered the pistol. He watched Ryland until he was convinced he saw truth, then turned away. He sat on the bed. He crossed his arms,
pistol in his right hand. He studied the old man before him, who now looked weak and spent. “What happened?”

“I tried to stop him,” Ryland said, rubbing his temple. “But there was nothing I could do. It caught me by surprise. If I had known of your deal with Wentworth, I could have saved him.”

“By double-crossing me, no doubt.”

“Yes. Maybe. I don't know. But I could have planned something to stem Conch's vengeance. He felt betrayed. He
was
betrayed.”

“Wentworth was a good man.”

“He was a fool.” Now he looked hard at Damrick. “He hired the Gatemen, signed a contract, helped you recruit all those members right under Conch's nose, and then had you sail out of his home port, flags flying, without so much as a way to explain any of it.”

“How much do you know?”

“I know everything. Wentworth kept books on everything.”

“What does Conch know?”

“He found out before I did.”

“From Wentworth?”

“No.”

“How, then?”

“How would I know? He has ways.”

“Guess.”

He took a deep breath. “I'd guess it was Jenta who told him.”

“Jenta? Why would she do that?”

He shrugged. “She's a woman. I saw her dance with Captain Imbry. I've seen them…together…a couple of times. There is a spark there. He's a persuasive man. Wentworth was extremely jealous. She never actually liked Wentworth very much.”

“But she was engaged to him.”

“Engaged! That little arrangement was between her mother and me. Jenta's heart was elsewhere.”

Damrick's darkness turned foul. “Where is Jenta now?”

“With Conch Imbry aboard the
Shalamon
, as far as I know. Look, Mr. Fellows, I didn't come here to threaten you. I blustered a bit, no harm in that…I like to negotiate from strength. But I'm not so foolish, whatever you may think, as to come in here unarmed expecting a fight. Ryland Shipping & Freight needs you. Wentworth was right to believe I would favor your help. He was only wrong to hide it from me. And of course, to reveal all his plans to that lowbrow little girl.”

Damrick's jaw tightened. “So.” He looked hard at Ryland. “Tell me how you're going to get me the Conch.”

“Yer all dead men,” the goon said, raising the tension level to one notch below fisticuffs. “Ye know that, don't ye?” There were only four of them, and they were surrounded by some twenty Gatemen. But they had no intention of being intimidated. Rather, their leader seemed eager to provoke. “Conch Imbry'll see to that,” Motley said.

“I swear, if Damrick wasn't talkin' to yer boss right now,” Lye Mogene told him, “you four'd a' been bled out like slit pigs long before ye got one fancy boot heel aboard this ship.” He didn't take his eyes off the long-haired villain in cut coat and vest. By trade, Ryland's goons were sailors, though they adapted easily enough to the role of bodyguards and mercenaries in the employ of a shipping magnate. By dress they might have been confused with high-ranking dignitaries of some foreign city. But by action and habit, they were easily identified as pirates. Conch Imbry, after all, supplied Ryland with his muscle.

Motley just laughed. “All talk. Why not shoot me now? Afraid to pull that little popper at yer belt?”

“I'd like nothin' better. Looks to me like ye come aboard dressed for burial anyways.”

The Gatemen laughed.

Motley took it, then said, “Sorry we ain't got the style to suit you boys. I'm sure the ladies in these backwater towns go all atwitter when they see ye wearin' them stirrup straps on yer arms, and them plucked chicken feathers in yer hats.”

Motley's fellow goons now laughed. “Red chicken feathers!” one of them said with dull glee. “That's fancy, all right!”

Lye thought a moment, then said, “Well, I'm sure yer women think yer just the king's britches in them boots and vests. Course, when yer payin' 'em, I reckon they'll say about anything you want.”

Now the Gatemen crowed. But Lye watched the goon's eyes, and saw he was ready to draw.

“Do it,” Lye dared him, his hand on his pistol hilt. “A dash a' red will look good with that shiny white shirt.”

“You first,” Motley answered. “Or maybe ye want to dye them feathers yellow?”

Lye held his tongue but kept his hand on his pistol hilt.

At that moment, Damrick and Ryland walked out onto the main
deck together, and all eyes turned. When their two leaders turned to one another and shook hands, the goons and the Gatemen looked equally bewildered.

“Good doing business with you,” Ryland said.

“We sail in three days. For Skaelington,” Damrick told him. There was a warning in the words.

“Three days. I'll be ready.” Ryland nodded. He turned to his men. “Let's go.”

“What the…” Lye began, watching the five men depart the ship. “What happened in there, Damrick?”

Damrick took a deep breath. “I made a deal.”

“With the devil.”

“Maybe.”