Blaggard's Moon (43 page)

Damrick nodded, but didn't take his eyes from Talon. He looked her in the eye for a moment longer, then said. “You've seen. Now go.”

“How many escaped?” Talon asked, apparently oblivious to the threat, or to any other part of the conversation of the last few moments. Jonas Deal rolled his eyes.

“Not many,” Damrick answered.

“What is your name?” she asked. There was accusation in her tone, somehow made more ominous by the thick accent.

Damrick studied her but didn't answer.

The big man spoke instead. “We're headed to Skaelington, is why she asks. Cap'n Wilkins, he'll tell the Conch about ye, make sure it's you gets the reward.”

“I'll tell the Conch myself.” He leaned down and picked up his pistol, keeping an eye on Talon's sword. Then he stared hard at the woman. “Maybe I didn't make it plain enough. You aren't welcome here anymore.”

“You have something to hide,” she told him. And her eyes flashed. “I would dearly love to make you reveal it.”

“A charming proposal. But no.”

She smirked. Then she sheathed her sword, looked around at the men on deck. They did not lower their weapons. She turned as if to leave, but instead walked up to Hale Starpus. “You fought the Gatemen?” she asked him, looking at the blood on his shoulder.

His jaw was set, his pistol aimed at her heart, but looking into her cold, piercing eyes, he felt off his guard. “Aye.” His chin came up in defiance.

“A hard morning's work. This wound will heal.” She reached up with her right hand, as if to touch the gash on his right shoulder. But instead she grasped his pistol hand, a movement so quick and agile that it did not seem threatening until she had already twisted his thumb up and away from the pistol grip, causing a sharp, popping pain that levered the gun from his hand. It fell harmlessly to the deck. Gatemen surrounding her gripped weapons more tightly as a murmur rose and faded. But Damrick just shook his head. The moment of danger had already come and gone. She did not raise her weapon. They all watched, riveted.

Without acknowledging any enemy, without a change of expression, as though she and Hale were the only two people in the world, Talon cocked her head, let her eyes fall on Hale's good shoulder. She moved her pistol barrel to his left upper arm, pushed it at the cloth there. “But what would cause a ring of sweat, right here…I wonder?”

Hale recoiled, then looked down at the obvious sweat line, the wrinkled cloth, evidence of the armband that had been there during his exertions. He looked back up at her, his mind reeling. She had caught them; she had figured it out. She'd disarmed him without any effort, and now she could see right through him. She could see through all of them. He could think of nothing to say, and there was nothing he could do. His eyes reached out to Damrick, pleading for help.

“He was one of our infiltrators,” Damrick said easily. “You and Scatter Wilkins might attack the Gatemen head on, and beat them. But we're not that good. We needed men on the inside.”

She scanned the deck again, looking for similar signs. “You had many infiltrators.” Then she locked onto Damrick once more. “My proposal stands.”

“I'll try to remember.”

They all watched as Talon descended the gangway.

Jonas Deal hung back.

“Is she always like that?” Damrick asked him.

“No. Sometimes she's worse. She suspects everyone of everythin'. But don't worry, I'll give the Captain a good report.”

“Thank you.”

Damrick watched as he followed down the gangway, caught up with Talon.

“That was good thinkin', that about me bein' a spy.”

Damrick didn't respond. He watched Talon and Deal pick their way through the dead. Finally, they climbed back into their jolly boat.

“Let's get these ships ready,” he sighed. “Seal off the docks again—no one in or out. When the Sheriff arrives, bring him straight to me.” He raised his voice, making sure all his men heard it. “You're mercenaries and bounty men now. Spread the word that all the Gatemen are either dead or joined up and turned pirate. And if anyone asks, tell them Damrick ran again.”

“I don't know, Damrick,” Hale said, when only his boss could hear. “Seems like a real bad idea. We won't get recruits again, they think we all got kilt.”

“We don't need recruits.”

“You'll get a reputation won't help us.”

“I don't care about reputations. I care about killing pirates.”

“Seems like we just let two bad ones go. And there's a whole ship full of 'em about to sail off.”

“Yes. I would have liked to have killed Talon. But I have to get to the Conch while I have this chance. After that, we can kill all the Scatters and Talons and Jonas Deals we want.”

“You don't need to tie me,” Ryland tried again. It came out a muffled mess, much like all his previous attempts.

The rough sack was now off his head, but his hands were bound behind him, pressed hard against the wooden seat of the carriage. His gag had not been removed, and he faced an insistent pistol barrel. The bumps and jolts of the ride caused Lye Mogene's weapon to rise and fall and swing to and fro like some bizarre churchman's blessing.

Beside Lye sat the droop-eyed Gateman, pistol in hand, though his was pointed at the bound and gagged Motley. Next to Ryland on the other side was another Gateman, the solid young man.

“Oo hoh hee hoo hi hee,” Ryland told Lye once again.

“All right,” Lye said with a sigh, admitting defeat. “Get the gag off 'im. I'm tired of all this hummin' and mumblin'.”

“Thank you.” Runsford said when he could, wiping spittle from his cheek onto his shoulder. “All I was saying is, you don't need to tie me. I'm not dangerous.”

“Yeah, well,” Lye answered.

“I'm no threat to you,” Ryland insisted, hoping to make his point clearer.

“Unh hi hee, hoo!” Motley raged.

“Yer both stayin' trussed,” Lye told them. Then to the goon, “And yer mouth's stayin' stuffed, so might just as well shut it.”

Ryland took a deep breath. Unlike Motley and himself, the three Gatemen in the coach were stained and spattered and smelled of drying sweat and blood. Little about his current situation appealed to him. “Where are you taking me?” Ryland asked.

Lye said nothing.

Ryland tried the stern young man at his elbow. “Where are you taking us? Can't you give me the least idea?”

Nothing.

He looked at the Gateman across the carriage, seated next to Lye—haggard, scraggly, with protruding eye misted over with cataract. Runsford opened his mouth to ask him the same question, but he hissed. He actually made a sound like an angry cat, revealing as he did a gold tooth and several gaps where teeth should be.

“Unpleasant fellow,” Ryland murmured.

“I wouldn't cross ol' Murk-Eye,” Lye counseled.

“I'll take it under advisement.”

Murk-Eye glared from his one good eye, and hissed again.

Ryland focused back on Lye Mogene. “I want to speak to Damrick Fellows.”

“Hee hoo!” Motley demanded through the gag.

“Shut up, Motley,” Ryland told him.

“I need to see Damrick.”

“Oh, you'll see him all right. I wouldn't be so anxious, though, I was you.”

It was all the information Ryland needed. He was content to remain silent the rest of the trip, as they stopped in the middle of a dense wood, and walked through a narrow path past a rotting cabin and toward an inlet that might have been a lake. While Motley kept up a stream of muffled curses and required rough treatment to keep him moving, certain that he would be shot at any moment, Ryland did not suspect Lye Mogene's comment was anything but sincere, nor did he suspect the Gateman was misinformed.

The party found a rowboat moored to a pine at the water's edge. Lye gestured for the prisoners to get in. But Motley pulled back, and refused to move further.

“Oo hahn uh hoo huh, hoo huh hee.”

“Jus' shut up and get in the boat.” Lye smacked Motley in the back of the head with his fist, then poked the pistol hard into his back.

But Motley planted his feet. He shook his head. “Oo hahn uh hoo huh, hoo huh hee.”

“What's a' matter with him?” Lye asked Runsford.

“Remove the gag, and I'm sure he'll tell you.”

Lye nodded toward the solid young man, the one they called Stock, who belted his pistol and untied the rag.

“You wanna shoot us, shoot us here!” Motley repeated, glaring his defiance.

Ryland sighed. “He speaks for himself only,” he informed his captors,
then stepped awkwardly into the rowboat. It rocked back and forth like a hobbyhorse until he managed to position himself in the stern seat.

Lye climbed in and sat beside Runsford. “Comin' alive, or stayin' dead?” he asked Motley. “You choose, but make it quicklike. Murk's itchin' to shoot ye.” The red-haired goon frowned at Murk, pursed his lips tightly, eyed Ryland suspiciously, and then stepped into the prow.

When they rounded a small finger of land, Ryland saw his own sloop,
Success
, anchored about twenty yards from shore. Standing on the deck was Damrick Fellows.

“Hello, Mr. Fellows,” Ryland called out as they drew close. “I hope you've made yourself comfortable.”

Damrick didn't answer.

When the prow of the rowboat banged into the hull of
Success
, Damrick spoke softly. “Mr. Ryland goes below. Tie the other one to the mast.” And he disappeared from the rail.

Murk and Stock took care of securing Motley while Lye kept a firm grip on Ryland's elbow, maneuvering him toward the tight stairway that led below deck.

“I'll take him,” Damrick said.

Seeing he was dismissed, Lye nodded, and let Damrick steer the prisoner below.

Runsford Ryland found a familiar face waiting for him in the saloon. “Hello, Mr. Ryland,” the old gentleman said. “Prisoner on your own ship, are you?” Windall Frost stood and put out a hand.

“Quite true, Mr. Frost,” Ryland answered dutifully. “But for that fact, I'd shake your hand.” Damrick, standing behind Ryland, pulled his knife and sliced the bonds. Ryland rubbed his wrists briefly, then shook hands with Frost.

Lye yanked on the knots. Motley was seated with his back to the mast, his wrists bound behind him. Then he checked the gag. Satisfied, he joined Stock at the rail.

“Nice boat,” Stock said appreciatively.

Lye looked around him and grunted. It was larger than Windall Frost's, and except for the ostentation of its multi-colored woods and polished brass accoutrements, it was of the same class. “Looks like we're the crew, though,” he sulked. Three Gatemen who had sailed here with Damrick now pulled on the oars of the rowboat, back toward shore. “I ain't much a sailor, comes down to it.”

“Them boys said we're half a league from the ocean, just up around that point,” Stock told him.

Lye nodded. “I thought it was a lake.”

“Nah. An inlet.”

“What're they doin' with Ryland down there?” Murk asked. His one good eye was focused on the small door.

“How do I know?”

“Oughta be shootin' 'im, ask me,” Murk brooded. “Don't know why we started takin' prisoners all a' sudden.”

“Ain't arguin'. It's Damrick's business, though. He's got some plan he's cookin' up, just wait.”

“So you've underwritten the return of the Gatemen.” Ryland, Damrick, and Frost stood in the saloon. “A rather expensive hobby to take up so late in life, isn't it, Windall?”

Frost was sunny. “Not nearly so expensive for me as it will be for you, if you're willing to lead us to the Conch.”

“I am quite willing.” Ryland looked at Damrick, who as yet had not spoken a word to him. “That was a nice little strategy, Mr. Fellows, moving your men to the rooftops.”

Damrick's eyes were blank. “You came with three times the numbers we expected, two hours earlier than planned.”

“And yet you were ready, thank God. I wanted to warn you, of course. But I was unable to find a way, surrounded as I was with that army of hooligans.”

Damrick's eyes only grew colder.

“Dear man, I hope that is not accusation I read in your eyes. Once you light a fire in the woods, it's very hard to control what burns.”

“So!” Windall Frost offered into the icy air, “Something to calm the nerves, gentlemen?” He gestured toward the saloon's bar, which he had arrayed with brandy, rum, and several liqueurs. “Ryland keeps his boat well-stocked.”

Damrick and Ryland disengaged their mutual stares.

“Splendid,” Ryland agreed with a sigh. “A cordial would be perfect, Mr. Frost.”