Blaggard's Moon (45 page)

Probably. It was as though men just couldn't help themselves. Look at Conch Imbry, as fierce a man as ever was, and yet Jenta Stillmithers had softened him all up. She was stroking his hand, and he was a puppy dog. It was like…it was like women were made to do that to men. Like men were made with a big soft spot, and no matter how tough they got they couldn't protect themselves there. Like maybe, when God took that rib from the man to make the woman, the way the priests told it from their Scripture books, He left a hole in the man. One that she could always slide into. And the man couldn't stop her doing it, either.

Why were men made that way? If the priests and the holy books were right, then it was all on Him. He made it all. He didn't seem to care much about changing things, either. He just let it all roll on. He let people who did good get whammed down, and people who did bad get rich. And He would let Delaney get eaten by
Onka Din Botlay
, just for helping Autumn go free.

One thing he was sure of now, now that he'd had time think. There was a strong pull in men to do good in the world. Even inside Smith Delaney. He had a great desire to protect that little girl, to do right by Maybelle Cuddy, to be loved by Yer Poor Ma…nothing he knew in life was stronger. Even though doing good was hard and often got you hurt, and even though doing wrong was easy and hurt only other people, leaving you be, doing right was still better. He'd have made that choice all day long if he could just be by himself, without having the need to make some money, without having to run from pirates or do what captains said and whatnot. If there was a straight choice to be made between good and evil, forget the consequences, why good was just better, no matter what Sleeve said. A man's conscience was there to drive him to do good, not to drive him to shut the thing down so it wouldn't bother him anymore. Good had to be chosen, or the choice was, well, just bad.

Delaney felt a sense of being clean, thinking that way. Like a dip in a clear pond. Yes, choosing good was
right
.

Then he sighed. It was
after
choosing to be good that the problems
came. That's where it got complicated. He could see that, even just looking at the men he knew who chose to be good. Avery took one way, and Damrick took another. Where Damrick seemed to turn bad in order to do good, or least he seemed to turn almost bad, why, Avery seemed to turn good and just let bad go on its merry way. Which was better?

After a short ponder he concluded that if a man had to stick around in the world a while, putting up with pirates and brigands and who-have-you, then Damrick made the better choice: clean up the mess. But if a man's time was already up, and he was about to stand before God Almighty, then Avery's choice seemed a whole lot safer. He felt he'd much rather be Avery standing at the Judgment, having just said no to pirates and got himself shot, then to be Damrick, having just said no to pirates and shot one of them himself.

But he wasn't sure why he felt that way.

Jenta put the key into the lock and turned it around once, feeling the heavy deadbolt slide into the wooden frame. The back door of the Cleaver and Fork was locked tight.

“I'll take that, ma'am,” a stoop-shouldered pirate told her. She handed him the key, then walked between him and his hulking partner as the two pirates escorted her back to the
Shalamon
.

The sun's light was creeping upward from the eastern sky. For most of her life she had loved the morning time, loved being awake to hear the call of the songbirds. They always seemed to be laughing the world to life, announcing that a new day had dawned and all who slept were missing out. But these walks back to Conch Imbry's dark ship every morning had cured her of that. The sun's light seemed harsh and unwelcome; the bird's trills were brash and tactless, even mocking. She found herself relieved on those nights when the regulars left early and the pub shut down before dawn. Then she could walk the eight blocks to the wharf in the still, silent shroud of night, the streets lit only by meager lamplight, and perhaps a cold and distant moon.

Reaching the ship, she climbed the gangway and thanked her escorts, inwardly grateful that they had been instructed not to speak to her. She climbed from the main deck to the quarterdeck and fished her own key from her pocket. But she stopped short outside the door to her cabin. It was ajar. She leaned in close and heard the hard, heavy breathing within. Conch Imbry was not quite snoring, but was definitely asleep.

She blew out her cheeks and swept a wisp of hair from her forehead.
She hated when he did this. Though he had thus far been true to his word, making no effort to force her affections, he was quite consistent about arranging little events like this, opportunities for her to change her mind. She turned her back to the door, looking around, wondering where else she could go, even for a few minutes. The galley? Yes, the cook would have made coffee by now. He would give her a cup. But then he wouldn't stay. No sailor cared to answer the Conch's inevitable questions about how he came to be alone with Jenta, and what, exactly, transpired between them.

Now she heard footsteps down on the main deck. She didn't want to be observed standing outside her own door, hesitating. But she didn't want to enter, either. She looked at the large double doors of Conch's cabin and suddenly wondered…were they locked? She crossed the four steps in a silent hurry, turned the knob, and the door opened inward. Instantly, she was inside and the door was closed behind her.

She stood in the dark for a moment, listening. The footsteps did not approach. She turned around. A lamp burned low on the table before her. She walked to it, turned the flame up. Then she sat quietly on the bench of the captain's saloon and looked around at the familiar space. She took most of her meals here, with Conch and Mr. Mazeley and sometimes others of the crew. She had also spent many evenings here alone with the Captain, talking to him as he drank and told his stories, as he eyed her approvingly or teased her. Testing her. Wooing her. The space was not plush, nothing like Runsford Ryland's accommodations. But it was the sort of place he found most comfortable—worn, smoke-stained, smelling of lye and rye and old tobacco. It was the bear's den.

The bear. She and Wentworth had poked him with a stick, and he had snapped it in half, cornered her, devoured him. She hung her head. Poor Wentworth. Slipping her hand into her dress pocket, she fingered the delicate gold band she kept on a chain there. She pulled it out and looked at it. Her wedding ring.

Suddenly she stood, snatched up the lantern, and walked boldly into Conch Imbry's private quarters. She had not been within these walls, had not desired to see them, but now she had a mission. Starting with Conch's dresser drawers, she began looking through all his things. She went through drawers of clothing, finding nothing. Moving to his nightstand, she pulled on the one small drawer. It stuck. Pulling harder, it came out in her hands, and she nearly dumped its contents onto the floor. Instead, she dumped it all on his bed. Setting the lantern on the bed as
well, she poked through the items: sealing wax, various brass seals and signets, matches, gold coins, silver coins, a bosun's whistle, two pocketknives, various beads and carved ivory trinkets, all prized and kept for one reason or another. But no gold wedding band. She scooped the contents back into the drawer with two hands, carefully sweeping the dust from the bedclothes.

The ship creaked loudly.

She froze, listening. Her heart beat quickly, insistently. But she heard nothing more. She picked up the drawer to put it back into the nightstand, and her hand came to rest on a piece of parchment affixed to the outside of it at the back. She looked at it in the lamplight. It was folded, aged, covered with dust, tacked at its four corners. It was something important, something he kept secret. But it wasn't a wedding band, so she returned the drawer to its rightful place.

Then she went to his wardrobe. She looked around the base, his shiny boots and his buckled shoes. Then she went through his hanging clothes, the jackets, vests, shirts, checking all the pockets. At the far end of the rod, she found a small velvet bag hanging from a braided silk cord. She set the lantern on the floor and opened the drawstrings of the pouch, then poured the contents into her hand. Rings, diamonds, gold earrings, even a few gold teeth. Holding them down by the light, she found what she was looking for. A gold band, inscribed on the inside with the single word, “Jenta.”

A pang shot through her. It was such a simple inscription, almost childlike. Certainly more innocent than any of the circumstances surrounding it. She slipped it into her pocket and scooped the remaining valuables back into the pouch. She drew the drawstring tight, closed the doors, looked around her. Everything was as it was—undisturbed. She took the lantern and left the room.

Seconds later, she returned, an unnamed anger driving her, a bitterness not aimed at the Conch, particularly, but at the world, at the ways in which good things were twisted and manipulated, in which hearts were wrung and cheated, lied to and coerced. She set the lantern on the bed, and yanked the small drawer from the lampstand. Using the blade of one of the pocketknives, she prised the tacks from the corners. She pocketed the tacks and the parchment, and returned the drawer to its place.

Assessing the cabin one more time, sure she had left no traces of her visit, she drew the door closed behind her, replaced the lantern on the table, and turned the light down low. She listened at the door for any
telltale sound. She heard footsteps, waited until they faded away in the distance. She straightened her dress, then her hair. She raised her chin. And she stepped back out the door, closing it quickly behind her. She looked around. No one.

She walked boldly into her own cabin, leaving the door open behind her. “Why, Captain Imbry!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “What a pleasant surprise! Can I get you some coffee?”

“Those knots holding tight?” Runsford Ryland asked Motley.

“No thanks to you, ye traitor!” Motley growled. Night had fallen, and the small ship was anchored in a silent, craggy, wooded cove several miles from Skaelington. The red-haired goon was still tied at the base of the mast. His fine clothes were soiled; his long red hair greasy. He smelled bad.

“Let me check those,” Ryland said, leaning down as though to test the knots. He glanced up at Murk-Eye, who stood at the rail, back turned. Then in a whisper he said to the prisoner, “Damrick's gone on a raid. Just me and that Murk fellow are left here to guard you.” He put a small knife into Motley's upturned palm, then dropped a derringer into his front pocket. “You shoot him. I can't be the one to do it.”

“Hey, keep away from him!” Murk-Eye ordered. “Damrick says!”

“Damrick says!” Motley mocked. “Ye disgust me.”

Murk sighed. “Now that's gonna keep me up all night.” He turned away again, watching the woods along the shoreline. His pistol remained in his belt.

“The Cleaver and Fork,” Ryland said in a whisper. “Tell Conch it's the Cleaver and Fork. Damrick's going to raid the pub tonight, steal his woman.”

Motley nodded. “Cleaver and Fork,” he whispered back.

“Tonight!” Ryland emphasized. Then he left the prisoner at the mast and stood next to Murk at the rail. The two men spoke softly to one another.

“You give 'im the pistol?” Murk asked, now whispering himself.

“And the knife,” Ryland nodded. “I can't believe I agreed to do this.”

“Ye've agreed to a whole lot worse, I reckon.”

“Well, I can't argue that.” Ryland heaved a sigh. He turned his head until he could just see Motley out of the corner of an eye. Then he faced away again and whispered, “He's free.”

“Ready, then?”

“You're sure the pistols were loaded properly?” Ryland looked nervous.

“Loaded 'em myself,” Murk assured him.

“That doesn't give me a warm feeling.”

Murk turned to Ryland and gave him a grin that was more gaps than teeth. “Well,” he said in a voice plenty loud enough to be overheard, “since everyone else is gone and left us, think I'll just check on the prisoner!” He stretched. “Then maybe get some shut-eye.” He turned from the rail and walked toward Motley.

With a leer that spoke of great satisfaction, Motley raised the small pistol, aimed it at Murk, and fired. The Gateman clutched his chest and went to his knees as the crack of the derringer echoed around the rocky cove. Then he fell forward onto the deck and lay still.

Ryland ran to him, knelt beside him, put a hand on his neck. “Dead!” He looked up at Motley, who stood at the mast with a haze of gray smoke hanging in a small cloud before him. Ryland took the pistol from Murk's belt, stood, and held it out toward Motley. “Take this.” But behind him Murk moved. And then a second small pistol cracked. Now Ryland dropped to his knees. “I'm shot!” he announced.

Motley cursed, took the weapon from Ryland's hand, and fired at the wounded Gateman. This pistol boomed, throwing out a blinding yellow flash. The echo was like a roll of thunder. Murk jerked, and lay still.

Ryland slumped backward now, and stretched out on the deck. “The blaggard's killed me!” He seemed more surprised than angry. “Go! Tell Conch.” He squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace. “There's no time to waste.”

Motley watched for a moment longer, his own eyes wide. He looked once more at Murk-Eye, who lay still. When he looked back down at Ryland, the businessman was also silent and still. Motley knelt beside him. There was no breath in him. He stood up again, looking into the darkness of the woods, listening. Finally he took two steps and leaped over the rail, splashed into the water, and swam for all he was worth toward shore.