Blaggard's Moon (51 page)

“Rain's comin'!” Conch shouted over the wind at the bloody figure. “Clean them wounds some!”

The dark-headed man's head lolled.

Conch grabbed his hair, twisted his head around so he could look him in the face. “What's a' matter, Mr. Mazeley? Got nothin' to say to yer Cap'n?”

Mazeley opened one eye. “What's our heading?” he managed.

“Mumtown! Have ye forgot? I saved Ryland's son alive, just fer that wicked woman who done me so bad wrong. But I've repented of it now! And I mean to correct the error of my ways!”

“I'll kill him for you.” It was an offer. A request.

“A' course ye will, Mr. Mazeley.”

Mazeley closed his eyes, grateful.

Conch patted the back of his head. “A' course ye will.”

“Ships! Starboard bow, hull down!” shouted one of the hands aboard
Success
.

Damrick was on deck for the first time this morning. He opened his telescope and watched three sets of masts, sails unfurled, angled away from the wind. “I believe those are ours. Change course to intercept.”

As
Success
moved in closer, they could see smoke from the furnaces rising on deck. A cannon boomed from the
Destiny
.

“It's a salute,” Damrick said to Lye. “Hale recognizes us.”

“Good thing.”

Then he and Lye exchanged glances. “Couldn't hurt to run up the white flag, though.”

Lye agreed fully, and complied immediately.

The sloop's port gunwale banged and knocked against the starboard hull of the
Destiny
before Damrick was able to grasp the rope ladder and climb. The two ships parted ways as he topped the main deck's gunwale. He embraced Hale Starpus, and shouted into his ear, “Good to see you, friend!”

“Aye, likewise!” But the big man seemed a bit uneasy with the uncharacteristic show of affection.

“We haven't much time!” Damrick called. “Change course, to Mumtown!”

“Mumtown? The Cabeebs?”

“Yes!”

“What happened?”

“Too much to tell!” Damrick turned to the rail, waved for
Success
to
come back for him. “Skaelington isn't safe…Wentworth's alive, and being held in Castle Mum. We need the Gatemen to break him free!”

“Wentworth? How'd ye learn that?”

“Jenta!”

Hale nodded, though he looked confused. His muttonchop sideburns blew in the wind. “Wentworth's Jenta?”

“Mine now. I got her!” Then he pointed to
Success
.

“You
got
her?”

“I got her!” Now he pointed to his ring finger. “Jenta Fellows!”

“
You
got her?”

“Long story!”

“Ain't been long enough fer a long story!”

“I'll tell it in Mumtown! We'll fly ahead, you anchor in the bay—don't moor at the docks until I give the all-clear!”

“Aye, aye!”

“Watch for Conch and the
Shalamon
!”

“Don't I always?” His eyes were alight.

Damrick grabbed the rope ladder and swung over the edge.

“You
got
her!” Hale shook his head.

“Now let's get Wentworth!” he shouted.

Hale nodded, watching him descend.

But Damrick stopped. He climbed back up a few rungs, leaned in to Hale. “Is there a brush aboard?”

Hale looked like he'd just gone hard of hearing. “A brush?”

“A hairbrush…for a lady.”

“Oh…so she got
you
, too!”

“You have one or not?”

Four minutes later, Hale Starpus came back with a piece of canvas wrapped and tied around Damrick knew not what. “Take this to yer…yer missus! The boys collected up some things!”

Damrick nodded. “Thanks!” Now he climbed down the rope, leaped to the deck of
Success
.

Ryland sat on that beach the rest of the night, untrustworthy in life, faithful only in death, until the moon rose high and sank again and the sun began peeking up over the horizon down the beach. And then, suddenly, he stood. His eyes went wide. A grin came over his face. Energized, he began walking up the beach and toward the rising sun, toward daylight. Toward Skaelington.

Oblivious to questions and second glances, he walked through the back streets to his home. He cleaned himself up, shaved, dressed, and walked to the cottage of Shayla Stillmithers. Finding her gone, he sought instead the burned and tortured priest. Finding him unavailable for services, at least on this earth, he paused outside the church. He walked past the burned-out remains of the Cleaver and Fork. He found there a handful of citizens determined to clean up its charred remains. He saw the flowers laid out in the street, marking the places where loved ones had departed this world. He rolled up his sleeves, picked up a shovel, and began working alongside them. He said not a word about why, introduced himself to not a soul, just went to work, speaking only enough to be sure his efforts were somewhat coordinated with those of the citizens around him.

He heard their whispers, felt their looks, the glares, and he ignored them. When lemonade was brought out, and all the others stopped to drink and wipe their brows, he kept at it, hands filthy and blistered, shoveling wet black coals and soot into creaking wooden wheelbarrows.

Finally, one of the men walked up to him, carrying an extra glass. He watched a while, then said, “Don't you want a little somethin' for your thirst?”

And Runsford said, “My thirst is a bit deeper than what squeezed lemons can quench.” And he kept on working.

After another moment, the man said, “You're Runsford Ryland, ain't you?”

“I am.” He kept shoveling.

“Then what in the entire nation are you doin' this for?”

“Conch Imbry killed my son,” he said. “And I've vowed not to rest until every patch of green earth he's scorched in his evil life has been cleaned up, restored, and grows freely again.” He didn't look up. It was a fair piece of speech. It should have been; he'd been working on it all morning. He kept shoveling, and the man walked away. But pretty soon another came up to him, an older man who hadn't been digging and carting and cleaning.

“What you said earlier, about going after Conch. Did you mean that?”

Now Runsford ceased his labors, and leaned, panting, on his shovel. “I've said a lot of things in my life I didn't mean. That's to my shame. But I meant that, and will mean it until Conch is dead and gone, or I draw my last breath and join my son.”

The older man was earnest, intelligent, his brown eyes piercing. “I
don't trust you, Runsford Ryland. You're known to be Conch Imbry's man.”

“I don't blame you for that. But I'm his sworn enemy now.” He went back to digging.

The man nodded. “I want to believe you.”

“Believe whatever you will.”

After a while, the man said, “Follow me. I know a way you can take a big step toward redemption. If that's what you want.”

“It's what I want.” Runsford gladly dropped the shovel.

The man took him inside a nearby general store, then into the back room. He directed Runsford to sit at a worktable, where he lit a lamp. He left the room, came back with a small scrap of folded parchment. He put it on the scarred table in front of Runsford, who picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

“Open it,” the man said.

Ryland did, and saw a handwritten “S,” its only marking.

“Ever seen anything like that?”

“No. But I've heard about the Black S. Is it yours?”

The man nodded.

“You're a Gateman.”

“I am. Sworn to be such until my own dying breath.”

Ryland nodded, set the paper down. “Your people helped Damrick get Jenta Stillmithers out of town.”

“Your son's fiancée. Taken by the Conch.”

He nodded. After a long pause he said, “I guess I owe you for that.”

“You owe for a lot more than that.”

“What can I do to repay?”

“You can join us.”

“How would I do that?”

“You'd take the oath. In front of witnesses. Other Gatemen.”

“I'll do it. Then what?”

“Then we'll talk.”

And Ryland did.

“Where are we headed?” Jenta asked. She was seated at the writing desk, working a small comb through her hair, rather unsuccessfully. She'd found one of Ryland's robes and was wearing it over one of Damrick's shirts. His duffel lay open on the floor by the bed. Her dress hung on a hook
beside the table. Damrick stood silently, leaning back against the closed door, just watching her.

She smiled at him shyly. “Damrick.”

“Yes?”

“Are we headed for Mumtown yet?”

“Oh. Yes, Mumtown.” Then he remembered the package in his hands. “Here, I brought you this.” He held out the canvas, tied with twine.

“What is it?”

“I have no idea.”

She laughed.

Now so did he. “Well, it's from Hale and the boys aboard the
Destiny
.”

She untied the twine and opened the package. In it were four men's combs of various sizes and shapes, most missing several teeth, a small, petite pair of scissors with a cracked handle, a length of faded, frayed ribbon that at one time had been crushed velvet, a large brass button with a curlicue pattern on it, two small hairbrushes, one of which was cracked with its bristles askew, and a half a bottle of sweet toilet water. All things that the men thought were ladylike. “That was sweet of them,” she said. “Truly.” She picked up the second hairbrush, looked at the greasy gray hairs wound all through the bristles.

“Wedding presents,” Damrick said with a shrug.

“It was wonderful of them.” She set the brush down. “And of you.” She grew thoughtful. “I have something to show you.”

“What is it?”

She reached over to the dress hanging beside her, picked up the hem, held it out between her hands. “Go ahead.”

“What?” He took the hem, felt something inside it, sewn into it.

“It's a map,” she said. She did not look away from his eyes.

“What kind of map?”

“It's Conch's. I found it when I was looking for Wentworth's wedding ring.”

“So you took it.”

She nodded.

A corner of his lip rose. “He never noticed?”

“It didn't look like it had been disturbed in a long while.”

“What does it show?”

“It's a drawing. With instructions. Very detailed instructions. It tells where he keeps his gold, and how to get it out.”

“How to get it out?”

“When you see it, you'll understand.”

He felt the object again. It was about six inches wide and three inches tall, just a half an inch thick. He bent it. It didn't crinkle or rattle.

“I wrapped it in oilcloth,” she explained. She held out the little pair of scissors to him, so he could cut open the hem.

He watched her eyes. “To keep water out. So you meant to escape. You planned to swim from the
Shalamon
.”

She lowered the scissors. Her eyes grew distant. “I don't know what I meant. It was more an act of rebellion, I think. I could have tried to escape several times, but didn't.”

Damrick returned his attention to the map. He felt further down the hem. “What's this? Are these coins?”

“Yes. Given me by Windall Frost.”

He nodded. “Maybe it's better to leave this sewn in here, where it is.”

She looked at the dress, then at him. “You're worried about what may happen in Mumtown.”

“We'll get Wentworth out.”

She looked away. “I keep thinking he's in that dungeon, paying the price for what I've done.”

“He did what he chose to do.”

“But I encouraged him.”

“You saved his life, Jenta.”

Now she was very present, her eyes crisply focused on him. “I paid a high price to protect him. I don't want you to pay an even higher one.”

He knelt down beside her, took her hand in his. He kissed it. “I don't want to pay that price, either.” He touched her cheek. “After Mumtown, when Wentworth is safe and Conch Imbry is dead…then I'm finished.”

Her eyes searched his. “Damrick. You expect to meet Conch in Mumtown?”