Blaggard's Moon (17 page)

It was odd, Delaney thought, coming back to himself. Ham never seemed to feel the emotions he created. The men could be hollering and swearing, and he was calm as sunset on a summer's eve. Like he could direct their anger anywhere he wanted, flame it up, douse it down. One thing was sure, though. Ham always made the men feel better about pirating.

But that was Ham's job, wasn't it? It was Mutter Cabe who revealed that to Delaney one time, when some part of the story, maybe this very part, made him mad as a hornet and ready to attack the next ship with a Ryland flag and tear it to pieces.

“Ever wonder, Delaney, why a first-rate cutthroat like Belisar keeps a middling deckhand and a worthless swordsman like Ham aboard?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say worthless—” Delaney began to argue.

“Stories lead places,” Mutter continued, ignoring the halfhearted objection. “Ham says it himself, all the time. Our job is to cut the hearts out of honest citizens and take their gold. Wouldn't do for us to get thinkin' on that too much, would it? Better if we get all riled up about the likes of Runsford Ryland, who we never even met. Kind of justifies all the men we killed. Not to mention women and children.”

Delaney felt a heave in his chest, and knew he was about to feel a great remorse. He'd never killed a child. That he would never do. But he'd helped to put a few on boats, to send them out to sea with their mamas and their papas, without food nor water enough to survive.

It was always the little ones who least understood what was happening, who asked the hardest questions.

“Mama, why are you crying?”

“Why are we getting off the ship?”

“Where are we going now, Papa?”

If they lived, Delaney knew, they'd just grow up to turn pirate one day anyway, in the sway of either the Rylands or the Conchs of the world. For some, like Delaney and the Trum boys, it would come early, and no bones about it. For others it would come later, like it did to Jenta Flug, who lasted more than nineteen years a true young lady, against all odds.

“Innocence,” he said aloud. “It's hard to see it, and harder to see it go, in such a sorry world as this.”

That's what the song was! Delaney understood it now, all of a sudden.

A true lang time,

A lang true la…

That's why it was haunting. It was the innocence of it. Sung by a young girl, a sweet thing who loved her mama and didn't understand about the wild, cold places of the world, and how they crushed and trampled sweet things, lovely things.

…And down the silver path into a rushing sea,

Where moons hang golden under boughs of green…

That voice didn't know about such darkness, and yet it felt the shadow
of it. Sure, that was it. A lullaby. A lullaby did that same thing, sweeping your heart away from the hurtful parts of the world, even though it's sung in the very shadow of the rising wave, the crushing that is to come, that always comes. A lullaby like that finds a place where, for just one moment, no bad thing will happen. Just for a moment.
Where moons hang golden under boughs of green, A lang true la 'tis true…

And then Delaney remembered his own mother. He remembered her lullabies. Not the words, not even the melody so much, but the sound. The feel. The safe place. He remembered. She would hold him. A long time ago, she would hold him tight and sing to him, sweet and lovely and deep and pure, and light was everywhere, and nothing bad could happen.

And suddenly he missed her, oh so much.

He put his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

ACES OVER QUEENS

Captain Carnsford Bloodstone Imbry was known to play cards. He often dropped in on the guests in the private area of the famous Skaelington pub he owned, the Cleaver and Fork. There he would swoop in, make small talk, and encourage both the winners and the losers to continue to gamble, offering a free round of drinks, cigars, and plenty of good food. But he rarely played himself, except in even more advantageous surroundings. Whenever he was in the port of Skaelington, a night was chosen, invitations were sent, gamblers were ushered aboard the
Shalamon
, and poker was played until the early morning hours. When a man received an invitation to the Conch's table, it meant three things. First, he was wealthy. Second, he would pay his debts. And third, he would lose. No one refused the honor of such an invitation, and no one managed to leave the ship with any of Conch's gold. Or much of his own, either.

“But Father,” Wentworth protested, looking up from the luminous script of the invitation in his hand, “I understand it's an honor to be invited. But why me? I have no money of my own. Everyone knows that.”

“True enough.” Runsford paused and swallowed, patting traces of egg from his mouth. “And you will have none of your own until you earn it, and none of mine until you prove you can manage it. And yourself.” He drank from a large juice glass.

Wentworth rolled his eyes. The Lecture.

“But you have been invited,” Runsford continued, “because I have had a chat with Captain Imbry. I have asked that he invite you. And not just you, but also Jenta. And her mother.”

Wentworth paused, his slice of toast hanging in the air. “They're to play cards with the pirate?”

His father just laughed. “No, my dear boy. They will not play.” He slathered butter onto bread. “They are invited because you will set foot aboard the
Shalamon
a bachelor, and return to shore a married man.”

Wentworth lowered his toast. “I'm to be married at a poker game?”

“Imbry is a ship's captain, registered as such in the Skaelington books. He has the legal authority to join you to your bride. A pause at the gaming table is all it will take. Quiet, discreet, done in minutes.”

“But he's a pirate! That's not a wedding.”

Runsford grew irritable, swiping his knife briskly across the bread, now leaving jam behind in swaths. “No, it's not. It's a
marriage
. You asked to marry her, if I recall. Did you not? Demanded it. Even the secrecy was your idea.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then marry her in secret you shall. You can court her in public, and…here is the important point, son…she will have little choice but to remain interested in you, regardless of your indiscretions. We wouldn't need such conniving if you hadn't sent so many fine young ladies packing with your drinking and gambling and all your indecent—”

“Yes, yes!” He leaned into the argument. “And when those young women found out I had no inheritance, that you will give me none, that's when they lost patience!”

“You have no inheritance because you have yet to earn it! You behave like a drunken rogue!”

“And you treat me like a child!”

“Nonetheless!” Runsford held his forefinger in the air, and took a deep breath. He was not going to argue the entirety of it again. He lowered his hand. “You've got your bride now. She's the girl of your dreams. You begged me to let you marry her. So perhaps she's not the girl I would have chosen. Perhaps it's not the wedding you desire. That wedding, the glorious affair that I'm sure is her entire life's goal, will happen in due time.”

Wentworth shook his head, defeated. “To be married by a pirate, though. It seems…like madness.”

“Yes, and that is why no one will believe it, even if word leaks.”

“Word
will
leak. He'll talk.”

“I'm not worried about Conch Imbry. I plan to lose quite a bit of money tonight to ensure that he doesn't talk. Your public wedding could hardly cost more. Captain Imbry is a lot of things, Wentworth, but he is a man who understands that a bargain is a bargain.”

Wentworth's look was full of venom, but he aimed it across the screened porch, out onto the yard, at the cottage where Jenta and Shayla lived.

“What is it, son? Say it.”

“I don't trust his intentions with Jenta.”

“Quite. But you see, that's why I've chosen him, of all captains. He and I have struck a bargain.” He put a hand on the table, patted it as though it were Wentworth's shoulder. “She is off limits to him.”

Wentworth came back to the moment, and looked hopefully at his father.

“You call it madness. But Wentworth, no policy is madness unless it fails. And this one will not fail. You'll see.”

“Gentleman's ante!” Conch announced, tossing five gold coins onto the red felt of the table. The pirate was in fine form, wearing his bright yellow vest over his silk shirt, his wavy hair cascading down to his shoulders, his moustache waxed and drawn out, two perfect tips pointing left and right. His mood was light.

Wentworth gasped. Five in gold? The amount was incredible; it would take him months to spend so much, even in the most expensive alehouses. It was a life savings for many hard-working families. Worse, Wentworth had already bought his chips, a huge investment in neatly stacked slices of colored, polished marble, and this “gentleman's ante” was almost double his chip count. But no one else around the table, all proven and capable businessmen, even blinked. His own father tossed his five coins onto the red cloth serenely, as though buying penny candies.

When it came Wentworth's turn, he reached into his pouch, pulled out five coins, and left two. Feigning nonchalance, he tossed them onto the table. One caught an edge and rolled directly toward Conch, circled twice, then settled in front of him.

The pirate swept the coin away, clinking it into its fellows at the center of the table. “Pot's right,” he declared. “Seven-card stud is the game. House rules. Three down, three up, one down. Three bets to a hand: one after the hole cards, one after the up cards, one at the end.” Conch turned
to his right-hand man, who happened to be sitting on his left, the unimpressive fellow who followed him everywhere. Conch slapped a paw on his shoulder. “This here's Mr. Mart Mazeley, who ye've already met by way of buyin' yer chits. He'll be doin' all the dealin' tonight. Not that I don't trust each of ye with my own life, I do. It's just that I trust Mazeley more. Any questions?”

“Ah…just one,” a heavy-set man with long, gray whiskers offered. This was Glemm Gorsus, banker, in his first visit to the pirate's game. “In a friendly card game the deal is generally passed. Is your Mr. Mazeley professionally licensed, perhaps?”

Conch's eyes went cold as stone, making Glemm Gorsus quite uncomfortable. “He's dealin' because I trust 'im. I thought I said that.”

“You did, so you did!” Glemm exclaimed happily. He dug into his ear with a finger. “Hearing is the problem. Old age, you know!”

“Age, eh? Well, let's see how old we can make ye feel before the evenin' is out. And so a toast to begin!” Conch announced, his good mood returned. “Where's the rum?” A barmaid stepped forward with a platter of crystal tumblers and put one in each man's hand.

Conch Imbry stood. “To the gentlemen of means who grace this table. May ye leave here with even more grace…and a good deal less means!” He held the crystal high as his targets laughed at their own impending doom, then he swallowed his rum in a single slug. The others followed suit.

“Well I'll be,” Imbry exclaimed at the end of the first hand. “An ace on the final card. Ain't that somethin'!” And he raked in the pot.

“He's cheatin'!” the young Trum boy shouted, alarmed. No one answered him. “Ain't he?” he asked into the silence, suddenly less sure of himself.

“Button yer flap,” Sleeve told him. “It ain't cheatin' if yer name's Conch Imbry.”

The others heartily agreed. “It's just regular ol' piracy,” one explained.

“Let us just say,” Ham Drumbone suggested, “that the rules of Conch's game were somewhat skewed from what you might consider the usual.”

“Aye, Conch skewed 'em. He skewed 'em real good!”

Laughter.

“That is to say,” Ham's bass voice rolled out, gently lapping over the others, “in the usual poker contest, the game is to match wits with
opponents, all the while testing the fickleness of fate herself, as together you ride the unknown ebbs and flows of blessings and curses known to men as
luck
. Whereas, in Conch's little den of thievery, the game was simpler. More like a child's game, really. For at Conch's table, it wasn't poker at all, but more a game where gentlemen
pretended
to play poker.”

Agreement all around.

Dallis Trum nodded. “Play-pretend,” he said. Now he understood.

So did Delaney. He'd done that.

“That's it for me,” Runsford Ryland said, well after midnight. “I'm cleaned out.” Mart Mazeley scooped up one more pile of chips and stacked them before the Conch. Runsford stood, swayed for a moment, then pulled the insides of his pockets out. “Empty,” he said to laughter all around. The men were in good spirits. Conch's minions had kept drink glasses full and cigars lit, and Conch himself had kept the stories coming, tales of dark nights and fearsome attacks, hidden gold, close escapes from the clutches of the Royal Navy, and from the jealous husbands of beautiful women. The gentlemen soaked it all in, even as they kept up their extraordinary run of bad luck. As the hours wore on, the inevitable was fully embraced and the mood grew lighter and lighter.