Blaggard's Moon (48 page)

“Do you know that he's here, in Skaelington?”

“Well, I seen his ship.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder.

“Your men were ‘beat real bad.' Yet Wilkins and his crew came through with no casualties at all.”

Motley looked suddenly thoughtful. “That's kinda funny, then.”

“Hmm. Why did Damrick Fellows believe that Mr. Ryland was working with him?”

“I guess Ryland fooled 'im?” Doubt began to gather like a mist.

“But now Ryland's dead.”

“That's right.”

“So…all of Ryland's men died, and so did Ryland, and you are the only one left alive to tell the tale. Except for Wilkins's entire ship, who tell the opposite tale…that the Gatemen were slaughtered in Oster.”

“They do?”

“Yes.”

Motley swallowed hard. “Sounds kinda funny, then.”

“That is not the word I would choose, Mr. Motley. What makes you think that Ryland isn't actually working for them, against us? What makes you think he didn't let you go, to bring Conch Imbry false information?”

Motley's eye twitched as he thought hard about the question, and felt the gaping maw of its implications as they opened under him. “ 'Cause he was shot tryin' to help the Conch.”

“Was Ryland shot trying to
help
your captain? Or was he shot trying to
hurt
him? Or are you just a liar?”

“I ain't no liar, Mr. Mazeley!” It was a plea. “I swear I'm honest.”

“You're honest? Well, that won't endear you to many pirate captains.”

“I mean, no…I'm jus' honest about what I'm sayin' to ye now. I can lie good when I need to.”

“I'm quite sure of it. What exactly did Mr. Ryland instruct you to tell the Captain?”

“He said Damrick's goin' to the Cleaver and Fork tonight on a raid, and ye can catch 'im there.”

Mazeley rubbed his chin. “Ryland told you that Damrick could be captured at the Cleaver and Fork.”

“Aye.”

“And then he cut you loose so you could come tell the Captain.”

“Aye.”

“Isn't that something, then.” Mazeley was silent, thinking. Then he stood up and beckoned two sailors over. “I need you to go find Captain Imbry, below. Tell him—”

“Conch! Conch Imbry!” The cry came from the dock.

Pirates rushed to the rail. A well-dressed gentlemen stood below. “There's a fight at the Cleaver and Fork! There's someone come after Jenta Stillmithers!”

Jenta stared hard at Damrick. She did not lower her pistol. Then the corner of her lip rose. “So that's what this is about? You came here to marry me?”

“No.” Then he thought better of it. “Yes. That's why I came here, though I didn't know it until just now.”

Her expression did not change.

Damrick's face went slack with fear—fear that she would yet turn him down. He took three long strides and stood before her, the pistol now pressed into his chest. He looked down at it, then up into her blue eyes, then he stepped forward into the pistol and put a hand on her waist, as though he was prepared, finally, to dance with her. He stepped closer. The pistol slid away. He kissed her. She let him. But she did not embrace him in return. He pulled away, took her left hand in his right. Her pistol pointed at the floor.

“You're the pirate's woman,” he told her. “But you are no man's wife. You are free to choose your husband.”

She stared up at him, stunned, searching. “I can't. He'll kill…”

“He'll kill who? You? No, you'll be with me. Your mother? I've already sent a carriage for her. She'll be safe.”

Jenta blinked. Then she said, “He'll kill Wentworth.”

Damrick studied her eyes until the realization dawned within him. “You convinced Conch to spare Wentworth. That's what all this is about. This is how you saved Wentworth.”

She closed her eyes. “You have to go. Don't you see that?”

“No, I don't. It's too late.” He took her by the shoulders. “I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. I will stay here and fight for you.”

“You'll die.”

“Then I'll die.”

“I…” She looked into his eyes, searching.

He saw light there. He saw a spark. He dropped to a knee, took her left hand in both of his. “Marry me, Jenta. Marry
me
.”

Her look was longing.

“Tell me how that would be a worse fate than marrying the Conch.”

“But Wentworth—”

“We will go find him, together. I will save him, if it's in the power God gives me; if any man can save him, I will.”

“You would do that?” And suddenly her eyes were awash in an unexpected hope.

“That, and more. Will you marry me, Jenta?”

Her search suddenly ended, she absorbed the light she saw, the hope she felt rising in her, rising up from him, carrying her somewhere she had not imagined she could go. “Damrick Fellows.” She said the two words as though they were an incantation, as though the name itself would ward off unseen evils.

The guests gasped in sudden recognition, repeating the incantation to one another.

And then Jenta said two more words in reply, in rebuke of the storms that raged around them, in defiance of the dark waves that rose to crush them, in agreement with and submission to this new, sudden promise of hope. “I will,” she said. A tear rolled down her cheek. From the midst of the reckless light and warmth that washed through her, she said it again. “I will.”

He stood and kissed her again. Her right hand, still holding the pistol, wrapped around him, pressed into him, and she kissed him back.

The room stirred, chairs creaked, and a low whistle rose from the back.

“Can we get now?” Lye asked. He wiped at the corner of his own eye. “I can't take no more a' this.”

The pirates listening to Ham expressed wholehearted agreement with Lye Mogene…though in most cases for quite a different reason.

“Battle stations, everyone!” Mart Mazeley called, rising to his feet. “I expect an attack on this ship at any moment!”

“What?” Motley asked, still seated on the decking. “Damrick's at the Cleaver and Fork, jus' like I said!”

“It's a diversion, you idiot.”

“It's a what?”

“The fight is coming here.”

“Ye still don't believe me!”

“No, I still—” Mazeley paused, looked to the stairway, recognizing the booted footfalls approaching.

Conch Imbry climbed up from below. “Who's that hollerin'?”

“Them Gatemen's down at the pub, Captain!” Motley blurted. “Mr. Mazeley won't—”

Mazeley kicked him in the jaw, a quick, savage thrust with the sole and heel of his shoe. Motley's head snapped back, and then his skull hit the decking. He rolled over on his side, holding his mouth with both hands. He groaned.

Conch's eyes widened, impressed.

“Apologies, Captain. But Motley here has just escaped from Runsford Ryland's boat. He claims Ryland told him that the Gatemen plan to raid your pub and steal your girl.”

“Who's that yellin' below?”

“Not one of ours, though he is providing the same report.”

Conch drew his pistol. His eyes took in Motley, who lay on his side with his eyes closed, probing a loosened tooth with a bloody finger. Conch turned back to Mazeley. “Explain yerself, Mr. Mazeley, why ye ain't moved to save Jenta. And be quick.”

“The last thing you want to do, sir, is move your men off this ship.” Mazeley calmly ticked through the list on his fingers. “First, Motley claims that the Gatemen won the fight in Oster, and completely overran Ryland's men.”

“That wasn't Talon's report.”

“Indeed. Second, he says that he and Ryland were taken prisoner during the fight.”

Conch now eyed Motley with suspicion, as the ragged man struggled back to a seated position. “The Gatemen have never left a man alive.”

“My thoughts as well. Third, he claims that the Gatemen all believed Ryland was working with them, and against us. Yet when Motley made his daring escape, they somehow shot Ryland and let our Motley get away.”

“Ryland's shot?”

Still dazed, Motley stared at the blood on his fingers.

“And finally, the urgent message that Ryland gave Motley, for your ears only, was that you should send all your men to the Cleaver and Fork, where you'll be sure to capture Damrick Fellows.”

Conch took two steps, squatted in front of the miserable Motley. “Did he say all that right?”

Motley blinked several times, his mouth drawn down, his eyes focused on Conch's pistol. “I don' know. Wasn't really listenin'. Cap'n, I'm jus' tryin' to do ye right, sir.”

“Ryland said we'd best catch Damrick at the Cleaver and Fork, did he?”

“He said it. Aye, sir.”

Conch chewed a lip. “What d'ye make of it, Mr. Mazeley?”

“Either Motley's a lying traitor, or he's a complete, witless fool who can't see when he's being used to trick his own captain.”

“I'm a fool, then,” Motley managed thickly. He spat blood. “ 'Cause I sure ain't no traitor.”

Conch stared hard at Motley one more time, then stood. “I believe ye.” His eyes drifted over the docks, across town. “Maybe he got the rest of it wrong, but for Ryland's message.”

“The only message I'm hearing is, don't trust Runsford Ryland,” urged Mazeley. “Why would Damrick Fellows risk everything for a woman? He wants you.”

“Aye. He wants me. But not in the same way.” Conch walked to the rail, leaned on it. “Yer not the sort to understand such things, Mr. Mazeley. But sometimes smart men get foolish over women.”

“Then they're not smart men.”

Conch turned his head, his narrow eyes cornering Mazeley. Then he walked back to Motley, loomed over him. “Ye saw Ryland take a musket ball, did ye?”

“In the back. Shot dead!” Motley couldn't have opened his eyes any wider. “Breathed them words a' warnin', and never again moved after that.”

Conch stood. “I hate to ignore a man's dyin' words.” He sighed. “Make yer recommendation, Mr. Mazeley.”

“I recommend we strip Motley to the waist and tie him to the grate. Then I recommend battle stations. Should there be a fight here at the
Shalamon
, and should Motley survive it, then I'd like permission to take the skin off his back until we learn what he's made of underneath.”

“Very reasonable, as usual. All right. Prepare this ship to fight, Mr. Mazeley.” But he spoke without his usual bluster, and his eyes were drawn again toward the lamp-lit streets of Skaelington.

The couple left the pub through the front door, Jenta under Damrick's left arm, her pistol still in her right hand. Damrick now held his own pistol in his hand as well, once again ready to face any opposition. Lye Mogene followed them, walking backward, the barrel of his weapon swinging back and forth in a wide arc to take in the entire room.

“Nobody moves, hear me?” he said as he pushed through the doors. As they closed he turned and saw for the first time the size of the crowd now gathered on the streets. “Damrick!” he called. “I hope ye know where yer goin'!”

“Follow me, and keep your eyes open.”

“Oh, they're open.”

But though the crowd was large, it was quiet, and did not seem hostile. No one reached for a weapon before the trio ducked up a dark alley. Then the gathered citizens dispersed. The pub emptied, too, leaving two downed pirates to come to their senses in their own time.

Minutes later in a small church with a red door, down the alley and up two blocks, a broken, scarred, blinded priest with barely the strength to stand, voice rasping but assured, stood before them in the glow of a single candle. He led them through their vows.

Though he was but the witness, Lye was more nervous than the groom. He kept his back to the ceremony and his gun in his hand, watching the doors.

“We can skip the rings, if you like,” the priest asked at the appropriate point.

“I'm afraid we don't have any—” Damrick began, but stopped when he saw Jenta's eyes widen in something that looked much like amazement.

“I have these,” she said, and produced two gold bands from her pocket. “Wentworth bought them and had them inscribed,” she explained, as he took them from her open palm. “But we never said vows over them, and never wore them.”

Damrick read the inscription inside the larger one. “ ‘Jenta.' ” He shook his head. “I'm not sure…”

She looked at him. “But I am. He and I were never married in the eyes of the Church. If he were here, and I do wish he were, he would bless this. I want to honor him, Damrick. I want to honor his highest, best intentions. With this gift, he is here, and a part of us for as long as we live.”