Blaggard's Moon (49 page)

Damrick nodded. “For Wentworth, then.” And he closed his hand around the rings.

“Let us continue,” the priest urged. “Time is short.”

When Father Dent closed with a prayer, he drew the sign of the cross in the air above the couple's bowed heads.

“May God have mercy on your souls,” he said in benediction.

Damrick looked up at him sharply.

The priest coughed once. “I'm sorry. I meant to say, you may now kiss the bride.' ”

As Damrick complied, Lye muttered under his breath. “Got it right the first time.”

“So where's the attack, Mr. Mazeley?” Conch asked. His gruff voice was calm, but a storm brewed behind it.

Mazeley stood beside him at the ship's stern, scanning both the city and the seas. “Motley likely got everything wrong.”

Conch put a hand on his sword hilt, belted around his waist in preparation for a fight that now did not seem inevitable. “I'm thinkin' it was you got everythin' wrong.”

“Wait,” Mazeley said, pointing.

“Those are our men!” Conch's tone was a threat, his teeth bared. “Ain't them the two was guardin' Jenta?”

The pair approached the docks, walking unsteadily. One was a big man with a scarred face, the other was thin, and slouched. Both looked haggard. Each had a bottle in his hand.

“Doesn't look like good news, does it?” Mazeley asked serenely.

Conch did not answer, nor did he wait for the two men to reach the ship. He ordered the gangway lowered and walked out to meet them. Mazeley followed Conch. Half a dozen cutthroats, obeying silent gestures from Mazeley, followed both of them. Threescore more lined the rails of the
Shalamon
, watching.

These sailors had seen Conch Imbry's wrath before. They stood stonily, watching it again, grateful to be at a distance. They saw their
Captain begin the grilling even as he strode up to the pair. Both men hung their heads. Then they shook them, each in turn. A few words, no more than a sentence or two, passed their lips in their own defense. The big man held up his right hand, pointed at the back of it, demonstrating for his captain the distinguishing mark of a stitched scar carried by the perpetrator. Then Conch Imbry took the bottle from the big man's hand, held it up to the light, smelled it, and gave it back. He stood inches away, and the sailors could hear his voice, ragged and commanding. They saw the big man raise the bottle to his lips, obediently. Then the sailor put his head back, drinking down the contents in long pulls. They watched as the Captain put his pistol's barrel under the big man's chin, and fired. They saw the flash, heard the report, saw the man's body go suddenly stiff, as though a bolt of lightning had run through him, and then collapse backward onto the wooden slats of the dock. The bottle shattered on the planking.

They watched as Imbry held out his left hand, and Mazeley put a pistol into it. They saw the slouching man cringe, trying vainly to duck even as his feet were planted and unmoving, as though unable to decide whether to flee or stand. Conch pressed the barrel into the back of his neck. The man's bottle hit the deck, rolled away. He made his decision, bolted for the water at the edge of the dock. Conch raised the pistol, fired. They all saw the man fall forward, as though diving too soon for the safety of the sea. He hit the dock with his knees, then his stomach; then he flipped forward into the water. From the ship, the splash sounded like a single, solid thud. He floated on his back for only a moment, unmoving, and then he rolled over as he sank, bubbles gurgling upward.

They all watched as Conch strode away, headed toward the Cleaver and Fork, his sword swinging at his side.

“First watch!” Mazeley cried, turning back to the ship. “First watch, follow me!”

And one third of the ship scrambled to obey.

“Not again.” Shayla squinted past the driver, trying to identify the carriage parked out in front of her cottage. It looked like one of Ryland's, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. She pulled her robe up around her neck against the chill. “It's two o'clock in the morning.”

“And my apologies for that, ma'am,” He was not one of Runsford's regular drivers; at least not one Shayla recognized. He was stiff and formal, dressed more like a businessman than a coachman.

“And you can't tell me who insists on seeing me at this hour?”

“Only that he is a person of some note, with questions bearing on your daughter's well-being. That is all he has instructed to me to say. Forgive me.”

“Well, you're polite about it anyway. I'll need time to dress.”

“The issue is rather urgent. How much time will you need?”

“An hour would be sufficient.”

He blanched.

“But ten minutes will do.”

He bowed. “We shall wait.”

Fifteen minutes later, Shayla swept down the front steps of her house in a cream-colored gown, matching gloves to her elbows, a stole around her shoulders. Her hair was down—imperfectly brushed but perfectly disheveled, as if in defiance.

There was only one person waiting in the carriage, and she recognized him as soon as the door was opened for her. “Oh,” she said with disappointment. Then lifting her chin, she said with perfect grace, “To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Frost?”

“Please join me, and I shall tell you.”

The driver held her hand and helped her up into the cab. When the door was shut and locked, and the dark carriage lurched forward, Windall said, “Damrick Fellows sends you his greetings, and his apologies. As do I. But this is not a social visit.”

“Really? How surprising.”

“Last time I visited you and Jenta, I asked you both to leave Skaelington. This time, it's not a request. I'm afraid your time in Skaelington has come to an end.”

She hesitated. Then she said, “I see. Poked the bear but good this time, did we? Where is Jenta?”

“She's fine. She's with Damrick.”

Shayla took a deep breath, then put her head back against the seat. “She's with Damrick.” She let thoughts flow through her mind. “I suppose that's where she wants to be?”

He said nothing.

“Are we going there, too?”

“Where is that, ma'am?”

“Wherever they are.”

“No. With any luck, they are already sailing away from this island.”

“Headed where?”

“I do not know. It's safer for them that way. I have arranged another boat to take you back to Mann.”

“With you, I suppose?”

“Yes, ma'am. I hope that's acceptable.”

After another long moment's reflection, she looked down at her hands, then up at Windall Frost. Her eyes were clear, her expression open. “I have done all I could. I tried to break the rules, but they have broken me.” She spoke with no bitterness, but as someone who had thought it all through over a long period of time. “Jenta is with Damrick Fellows, a person of her own social stratum. And I am going back to Mann with no place, no position, no possessions, no family.” She rubbed a thumb along her fingertips. She smiled. “And the calluses were finally gone.”

His look was compassion laced with regret. “You don't need to believe this, Shayla. But I admire you more than I can say.”

“Thank you for giving me permission to doubt.” Then after another moment, her head held high, she said, “Sir, I have treated you poorly. I have made…serious errors of judgment. But I ask you, if you could see fit, would you allow me to return to my old position? I promise that I will cause you no more trouble.” A tear welled in the corner of one eye, and she made no move to hide it, or to wipe it away.

He shook his head. “Mrs. Stillmithers, I have no idea what you're talking about. I understand that you are fleeing Skaelington with only the clothes on your back, having faced up to the pirates here and thus put yourself in peril. You not only have my protection, you also have the thanks of all those who work to rid the seas of the scourge of piracy. I would be honored if you would stay in my guesthouse. It isn't much, but it's yours for as long as you wish it. I can only hope you will not find the accommodations too modest for a lady of your stature.”

Shayla remained silent as they rode through the darkness.

Conch stood in the streets outside the Cleaver and Fork, a loose ring of men around him. Six bodies lay strewn at his feet. Two were shot with spent pistols now lying on the paving stones, four were run through with the bloody sword he still held in his hand. He looked around, caught Mazeley's eye.

“Who else helped 'im?” He raged.

Mazeley shook his head. “I can give you more citizens, Captain, but I doubt they'll know any more than these whom you've already…
questioned.” He gestured with an open palm toward the corpses of the random, unlucky dead.

Conch bared his teeth. Then he raised his face to the heavens. He held his arms out to his sides, dropped the sword. It clattered onto the stones. “Ye'll pay fer this, Damrick Fellows! Ye'll pay with blood! Ever last man, woman, and child that sides wif ye, I'll quarter and burn 'em! I'll see yer head on a pike! Ye stole my woman, and if ye harm one hair on her head, I'll ram ye—”

“He won't harm her, Captain.”

Conch stopped, stunned by the interruption, the gall of it, the confident tone of it. He turned slowly and looked behind him. It was the skinny priest, the one the Hant had cut up. The robed figure walked forward. Conch's men moved aside, aghast at what they saw.

“What'd ye say to me?” Conch asked him.

The hollow, empty eyes seemed to bore in on Conch Imbry. Yet the scarred, marred face, yellow with jaundice, carried no expression. “He married her. I officiated as they pledged their lives to one another. Damrick and Jenta Fellows are man and wife.” He held out the letter from the Church, which had been left with him by the fleeing couple.

Conch walked up to him, grimaced at the disfigured face. He grabbed the letter, read it, threw it aside. “He forced her.”

“No, Captain. You did. All your life you've set yourself against man and God, forcing your will on those around you. ‘But do not be deceived. God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap.' Your time is at hand, Carnsford Bloodstone Imbry. Repent while you still can.”

Conch looked at him as a king might look at a jester who has made a joke at his lord's expense. “Repent?”

“Yes. I can forgive you for all you've done to me. If a man like me can do that, then certainly God can forgive the rest.”

Conch laughed. He looked around at his men. They did not seem to share the joke. He turned, walked back to his bloody sword, picked it up. He hefted it in his hand, feeling its weight and balance as he returned to where the priest stood. “The Hant's poison been addlin' yer brain.”

“No. It's been killing my body. My mind is clear.”

“And so yer sayin' straight? Ye can forgive me?”

“I'm saying I will forgive you. And so will God. But you must repent.”

Conch thought a moment. “Ye married my woman off to my enemy. Way I see it, ain't me needs forgivin'. It's you what's done me wrong. The question ye should be askin' is, will I forgive
you
?”

As Conch drew back his sword, Father Dent bowed his head. The sword tip penetrated the priest's robes just above the rope of his belt. The hilt struck his belly so hard that it doubled him over, forcing wind from his lungs in a great, sudden rush. Then Conch's sudden jerk upward forced blood from the priest's mouth and nose. He choked on it, his body trembling, and he coughed up more blood.

Conch pulled the sword free. Father Dent was still on his feet, but doubled over. With his left hand, Conch raised the man's chin with two fingers, an almost gentle move, straightening him upright. He watched the priest's face flush as he struggled to breathe. Then Conch put a hand on the back of the priest's head, and bent him over again. Raising the sword high, its point aimed downward, he drove it with both hands hard into the priest's back, through his ribs, piercing his heart. The priest fell to his knees dead. Conch left the sword there, a foot of blade visible between the hilt and the robe.

“I forgive ye,” Conch said to the lifeless, kneeling body. He leaned down. “Ye see, sir, I would a' held a grudge had ye lived. Now yer dead, and yer deed is punished, I can see fit to let it pass.”

He stood up straight and grinned a crooked grin. Now his men laughed out loud, in solidarity, obedience, and relief. Conch pulled the sword free from the priest's back and tossed it, clattering, onto the street. He then grabbed the dead man's elbow with two hands, and pulled him upright, turning into him, twisting the limp arm across his shoulder, and stood up straight. The bloody priest now dangled like a gruesome rucksack. The pirate captain carried his burden to the Cleaver and Fork and kicked the doors open. Inside, he laid the body on the bar, and walked back out.

“Burn that place to the ground,” he ordered. “I never want to see it again.”