Blaggard's Moon (44 page)

“Nothing for me,” Damrick said. “We have some rather detailed plans to make. I'd like to keep a clear head.”

The forecastle echoed with “Whoa, whoa!” and “Hang on!” and “Wait!”

“Are you sayin' that fight was rigged? Ryland, he crossed Damrick, right?”

“Sure he did,” Sleeve answered. “Ryland wouldn't lead Conch's men to get slaughtered a' purpose.”

“Those weren't Conch's men fightin' Damrick,” another countered. “Other than the three goons with Motley. The rest was signed on fer a fee.”

“Ryland's a slink,” Mutter Cabe intoned. “He gave 'em all up to die.”

“He's a slink all right,” Sleeve insisted, “but he did his best to double-cross Damrick, bringin' all them extras. He just got outfoxed when Damrick put his men on the rooftops. Otherwise, Ryland's men would a' won the day. Ryland is Conch's man still. You'll see.”

“So which side is Mr. Ryland really on?” Dallis Trum asked Ham.

Ham puffed his pipe calmly. “You gents done talking? I'd like to go ahead on with the tale, if you don't mind too terribly.”

They all agreed he should.

“All right. So the
Success
set sail, headed back to Skaelington and Conch Imbry, staying well ahead of the three rogue Ryland ships, which now also claimed that port as their destination. While all the Gatemen sailed southward, there in the city of pirates our Miss Jenta has had herself a difficult time. True to her word, she had concealed nothing from Conch Imbry. Or should I say, almost nothing.”

“Hold on now! You ain't gonna tell us where Ryland stands? You ain't gonna say what was what, with the fight in Oster?”

“Or what they're plannin' against the Conch now?”

Ham puffed his pipe again. “Gentlemen. Have I been with you so long, and you don't understand yet how this works? Maybe that's enough for tonight…”

But the pirates wanted more. So Ham, seeming somehow both reluctant and satisfied at once, continued.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

THE CLEAVER AND FORK

C
APTAIN
C
ARNSFORD
B
LOODSTONE
“Conch” Imbry entered his pub with a swagger. The saloon doors popped, and all eyes turned toward him. He stood tall, arms outstretched, hands holding the doors wide.

“Captain Imbry!” and “The Conch!” and “Hello, Captain!” greeted him from behind raised mugs and glasses. Two men stood immediately, one at the bar, one in a front corner, and drew their pistols. They did not look at the Conch, however, but watched the patrons with anxious eyes, should there be any of their boss's enemies among them.

A great, proud grin spread across the Captain's face. The Cleaver and Fork wasn't big, but it was his. It shone with silver and gold trim, dark walnut and fine red cherrywood. The patrons were equally well-adorned, in silk and satin and gold brocade. They were seated at linen-covered tables, mostly, though a few leaned on the enormous bar that ran three-quarters of the length of the main room, left to right, then made a hard turn away into the back room and continued on as a heavy burgundy and gold velvet curtain separated the main room from the private dining and gambling area.

“Good day to ye all!” the pirate called out in a booming voice. “How's the ale?”

“Excellent!” and “Perfection!” Mugs were held high in delight. Many of those here today came on the outside chance they might catch a
glimpse of the celebrated pirate, knowing he sometimes made appearances just like this.

“Ought to be at these prices!” he told them.

They laughed.

“And how's the grub?”

“Splendid!” and “Couldn't be better!” Hunks of meat on the bone were raised in toast.

“And the service?”

The patrons nodded and mumbled. There were a few whistles.

Conch scowled. “Somethin' wrong wif the service?”

“No!” one answered. “Not at all!”

“It's…gorgeous!” another shouted. And then the rest laughed.

Conch's good humor returned. “And where is that splendid servin' wench?”

The curtain parted, and Jenta Stillmithers emerged. Lithe and tall, she flowed when she walked, her hair tied loosely behind her neck from where it cascaded in soft waves down her back. Her bright blue eyes fixed Conch Imbry steadily as she approached him.

“Ah, there's my Jenta,” he said with a depth of satisfaction few had seen in him before. He took her in his arms to kiss her, but she gave him only a peck on the cheek.

“Hello, Captain,” she said. “Your table is ready for you in the back.”

“Ah, but I cain't stay to enjoy it, more's the pity,” he said. “Just stoppin' in to see the fine, fine fruits of all my labors.”

“Not even time for a pint?” she asked. Her voice betrayed disappointment, laced with the faintest hint of need.

“Ah, maybe just a pint, then…”

The patrons laughed and clapped as the two walked arm in arm behind the curtain. A whistle or two sang out. And then the pub returned to its business, buzzing a bit louder than it had before.

There were no others here, as Conch had signaled ahead his intention to pay a visit. “Ye sure yer well?” he asked her, when she brought his mug to the table.

“Do I look well?”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “Ye look very well.”

She sat beside him, watched him drink. “What's the news from the Church? Has the annulment come through?”

“Girl, ye'll be the first to know.” The pleasure ran away from his face.

“What's the delay?”

“Papers gotta come from Mann. Their high holy priest is takin' a unholy long time to put a scratch on a piece a' parchment, ye ask me. 'Specially since his men didn't even do the marryin'.”

“You're a gentleman, Conch. I knew that. You are patient, too.” Her eyes drew him in. She put her hand on his hard knuckles. “It's a worthy trait.”

“Aaaah,” he brushed off her compliment, but not her hand. “And yer still all right wif all the work yer doin' here?”

“I prefer it. It keeps my mind occupied. And here, I feel a connection with you.”

“Ye do?”

“Of course. Everyone comes in looking for you, asking about you. They hold you in such high esteem.”

“Wouldn't put much stock in that. They're mostly crooks and villains.” But he beamed.

“Oh, but they're not. The mayor comes in often. Bankers, businessmen. They all talk of you.”

“I bet they do.” Conch took a drink. He watched her eyes, then nodded once, satisfied. “I'm still waitin' on word a' that Gateman.”

Her heart beat faster. She picked up the pitcher and topped off his mug. “What word is that?”

“I want to hear he's dead and hung and quartered and fed to sharks. But I ain't hearin' none of it yet. He's still causin' me mischief. So I want ye to be careful.”

“Do you think he may be headed back here?”

“I ain't heard he is. But I ain't heard he ain't. That one, he slips in and out like a…shadow or somefin'.”

“I'll keep a close eye out.”

“Ye know what to do, when he shows.”

She looked him deep in the eye. “I know your men, Conch. They're always here.”

“Ain't many ever set eyes on the Gateman. So it'd be hard for 'em to spot 'im. But you, ye've seen 'im four times, so ye know 'im.”

“Three times, Conch. The dance, the docks in Mann, and the docks here.”

He nodded. “That's right. I ferget.”

“I've told you only the truth, Conch. Always, and no secrets. He promised to find me.”

The pirate captain grinned. “That's my girl. Ye see 'im, ye jus' say. A nod or a wink is all it takes.”

“What will they do?”

“Why, they'll kill 'im.”

“Right here?”

Conch shrugged.

“But your guests…”

Conch looked thoughtful. “Yer worried it might take 'em off their feed?”

“Most of them aren't used to such things.” She paused. “Nor am I.”

“Ah, well. Fer you then. I'll have a word with the boys. They'll be sure to take 'im out to the street first if they can.”

“Thank you.”

Conch took another drink. “Ye don't mind bein' bait, then?”

She stroked the back of his hand. “Why should I mind? It was my idea.”

He took a deep breath. “Yer my kind a' woman, Jenta Stillmithers. And I'm proud to have all the folks of Skaelington know it.”

“So am I, Captain.”

“You can call me Conch. I told ye that.”

Her eyes went soft. “But you are my captain.”

His chest swelled. He stood. “Well! Got business to attend. Give us a kiss, and we're off.”

She brushed her lips against his cheek again. He held her tightly around the waist.

“Not yet,” she said into his ear, in a whisper. “Not yet, Captain. But soon.”

“Ye drive me crazy, woman!” But he didn't seem to mind it. He turned her loose, turned away, and left her in the private dining room. She could hear the patrons calling out to him as his proud boots struck the polished planking, and she heard him calling right back to them. She walked behind the bar, but stayed behind the curtain. She didn't want to face the customers out front right now; she knew the sort of looks she'd get. She put her apron back on and looked down at the dishes in the washbasin. A small pile of steak knives lay drying on a towel.

It crossed her mind that any one of them could end her misery.

“Misery!” Sleeve called out. “See, I told you boys she had it bad for the Conch! He'll get everythin' in the end!”

“Aw, shut it, Sleeve,” one of them answered. “She don't want to kill
herself 'cause she can't marry the Conch yet. She wants to die 'cause she hates her life!”

“Well,” Sleeve offered sullenly, “she'll get over that in time.”

And that was at the heart of it, Delaney thought as he glanced at the line of shadow on the lagoon, just what Sleeve said. Sleeve hadn't known it when he said it; he hadn't known he was saying the whole secret of things. But he was. Life is about what things you can get over, and what things you can't, in time. And the trouble is, you really don't know which are which when they're happening. It takes years, maybe all your life, to figure out what you can't run away from no matter how hard you try, and what will dim and go away, if you just let it be. It's almost like people don't really know who they are, not completely. It's like they're all taking a guess, until they can sort out what's there, inside them, built in. And that can only be sorted out with time.

He looked up from the water to the sky. Evening wasn't here yet, but it was slowly coming on. Just a shade darker, a shade gloomier. He looked around at the reeds and marsh grasses at the edge of the pond. Rustling seemed to be everywhere now. The Hants were coming to watch him die—he had no doubt of it. “Get a good seat, now!” he called.

He straightened his back, and it sang out in pain. He stretched, arching it, until he felt it
pop-pop-pop
right down the middle. Then it felt better.

And it seemed to Delaney like it was usually women that made up those things a man couldn't ever get over. Like Yer Poor Ma, who he could never forget. She'd been his whole world once, though she was in fact just a small, no-account woman who got herself married to a drunk, and had a kid. She wasn't any kind of special person in any way. But she was still his Poor Ma. She still had magic in her songs, and a heart that blazed like a cookstove in his memory, and she was all inside him and would never leave him. She would always be singing him lullabies as the dark waves rose.

And Maybelle Cuddy. Just a barmaid, a plain barmaid, not like Jenta, but a regular girl serving up ale and getting pinched and slapping away rude hands and counting her tips at the end of a day. But oh, those eyes. That voice. Those things she said to him. He thought he could leave her behind, but he couldn't. She'd always be in his heart now, always promising she'd love him forever. Didn't matter it didn't prove out that way. She was there for good and all, and she was still making him that promise.

And the little girl.
Autumn
was her name. Same deep blue eyes as Jenta.
But her sweet song was so pure, and her little heart was so big, as big as the ocean and the night sky above it. He wondered now whether she'd be the same, whether that song and that heart would just rip him up inside, always. He supposed it would. But he wouldn't know for years.

And he didn't have years. He took a deep breath. He let it out. He watched the reeds rustle, and wondered if Hants had the same trouble with their women.