Cinnamon and Gunpowder (39 page)

The Serpent’s Tail was long and narrow. There were several thick oaken tables along one side of the tavern—in craftsmanship and dimension, they were little more than stumps—and a tin-plated bar on the other. Above the tables, a narrow set of stairs led to a loft, which was hidden by heavy tapestries. There were armed men, fifteen or more, near the back wall, where a single open door cast a dusty light upon the sawdust floor. By their surly silence, I assumed they were the Fox’s men, and that they had been expecting us.

I was standing behind Feng, who was shifting her weight on the floor with her head cocked. Then, as if deciding that the sawdust there was not good enough, she guided Mabbot away from the bar toward the tables. A sweep of my boot revealed wooden planks beneath the sawdust; those that were directly beneath me seemed to shift independently of the others—I was standing on a trapdoor. This was one of those bars where one may take a single sip of beer and wake chained to a galley oar and bound for the gold mines. I followed Feng’s example and moved closer to the others.

Like armies staging for a battle, our factions glowered at each other across a no-man’s-land of empty tables and reeking piss buckets. Sheets of leather, emblazoned with tattoos of sinking ships and mermaids, hung like pennants from the rafters. The blows to my gut had left me decidedly nauseated and I gagged when I realized what the pennants were: the tattooed backs and bellies of dead men, preserved for posterity—a grisly museum of former patrons.

Mr. Apples announced, “Hannah Mabbot is here for the Brass Fox. Where will we find him?”

The men at the other end of the building neither answered nor moved. Mr. Apples took two steps toward them and roared, “Speak!”

The Fox finally parted the loft curtains and showed himself; his hair, oiled to a deep bronze, nearly brushed the top of his high starched collar and cravat. His polished boots clacked as he came down the stairs. The horribly scarred Gristle carried his pistol and bandolier. “Do show a little patience, man! You’ve only just arrived,” said the Fox, as he strolled to a table in the center of the room and sat down.

We all turned to Mabbot; she was frozen, her eyes locked on her child. For a moment, it seemed she would stare at him forever, then she regained her composure and joined him at the table. “But we have been waiting for much longer than that,” said Mabbot, “to see you.”

“Well, you see me now.”

“I do,” said Mabbot softly.

“Wine!” shouted the Fox. Gristle ran to fetch a pewter tankard and quickly poured two glasses. Mabbot waited for the Fox to drink first, then emptied hers in one gulp.

Mr. Apples pointed to a series of wooden kegs lashed to the rafters. “That’s not wine.”

“Those keep things from getting out of hand,” said the Fox. “The barkeep puts enough powder and shot in them to ruin anyone’s day. It encourages civility.”

“They could be full of sand,” muttered Mr. Apples.

“Care to take aim and find out?” the Fox taunted.

Mr. Apples rolled his shoulder and stared at the cask above him, clearly considering whether to try to jump and grab it, but Mabbot tsked. “We’re not here to quarrel. Let’s talk somewhere quiet.”

“We’ll talk here,” said the Fox.

Mr. Apples huffed, the veins on his neck rising. “Captain, I don’t like this—”

Mabbot shut him up with a glance. Like a chastened dog, Mr. Apples grumbled and retreated. “Give us some room,” she said, and we all backed toward the front wall to give her the semblance of privacy at the table.

Gristle refilled their wine. Mabbot did not take her eyes off the Fox’s face. “More and more the handsome man,” she said.

“I credit the buttermilk baths you gave me every night before singing me to sleep!”

They laughed together, and it echoed off the rafters. The Fox’s men shifted, looking as disconcerted as I felt. Of all the strange things I had seen thus far, the bared fangs and blue underbellies of the misbegotten globe, this was most unexpected. Surrounded by the bristling ruffians, in a city of cutthroats, in a world turned by the forks of avarice, here at the center they were laughing. It was all too brief, though, for now the Fox was draining his glass again, fortifying himself for what was to come.

It was then that Kittur padded slowly down the staircase from the loft. Her eyes were bright behind the spectacles, and I saw fear there. For some reason this upset me more than the shoddy grenades dangling above us or the posturing brutes. She knew what was about to happen, and it was not good.

“And who is this? Won’t you introduce me?” said Mabbot.

But the Fox only winked at Kittur, who pushed past the assembled gang and made her way out the back door. I decided then that we would be safer waiting outside with Braga and the others. My hand went to Joshua’s shoulder to guide him toward the front, when two of the Fox’s ursine men came in and stood barring our escape. One held a medieval iron club with a knobbed head; by the blackened lacquer in its grooves, it had not been cleaned since its last use.

An expectant hush fell upon the tavern. Only the soft scuffing of boots in sawdust and the clink of weapons against buckles could be heard as Mabbot and her strange son looked at each other.

“You know the next part, Mother Goose. You must have guessed.” A lock of hair fell into his face, and Mabbot pushed it behind his ear. He let her.

“Tell me,” said Mabbot.

“I do wish there was another way.” The young man lifted his glass again but seemed to lose his thirst all of a sudden—staring into the wine as if seeing an insect there.

“How good can this plan be if you can’t even speak it aloud?” Mabbot prodded.

“Are you so eager for the noose?” The glass came down hard and shattered in his hand. The explosion seemed to calm him. He pulled a shard from the meat of his thumb without so much as a grimace and watched the blood trickle. “Your sacrifice isn’t unappreciated.” He sighed as he stood. On cue, his men drew their sabers and guns.

“Are you still having nightmares?” Mabbot asked casually.

“Oh, they never stop, do they?” purred the Fox. “They only merge one into the other.”

Mr. Apples and the twins had taken up fighting postures, ready to meet the mob as they came, but Mabbot remained stubbornly, insultingly seated. She said, “You have just this one moment to explain yourself before things get impolite.”

“Impolite? Will courtesy bring the couriers to my door with my inheritance in a saddlebag? If I powder my hair, will Pendleton recognize me for Ramsey’s heir? No. I must make my case in earnest, or they will not hear me.”

The Fox’s men were rocking on their heels, just waiting for the sign to rush against us.

Mr. Apples grunted. “It’s like I said. Nothing here but ambush, Captain. It’s time to be on our way.”

Mabbot grabbed the back of his belt and yanked him behind her, like a trainer keeping a bear in check. “We’ve come all this way, Mr. Apples. I will have this out.”

“And why, exactly, have you come all this way?” asked the Fox.

“To stop you—to
ask
you to stop smuggling opium,” Mabbot said.

“Ah yes, the poor smoke-eaters still have your sympathies.”

“They do, and besides, it is far too dangerous a game. Pendleton will—”

“But which is it? Is it wrong or is it dangerous?”

“Both!” Her voice broke, and, for the first time, I saw Mabbot frantic. “You must consider the forces you’re playing with.”

“Am I really listening to Mad Mabbot council me on prudence?” The Fox’s men snickered.

“I can trust my crew,” said Mabbot. “But you’re betting on the winds. You cannot trust a bribed man.”

“What, then, shall I be? A tailor, perhaps? Or a baker? Something safe and plain, is that what you were preparing me for when you taught me how to cut a man above the knee where the blood cannot be stanched? When you showed me how to break a neck with the butt of my pistol?”

“What do you want, Leighton?”

“What do you have?”

“Do you want an apology?” Mabbot’s voice was barely audible now.

“
That
would be very interesting indeed.”

“I’m sorry.”

Here Mr. Apples clenched his fists so hard I thought I could hear the sinews straining deep in his forearms, but he kept his mouth shut.

The Fox, drinking this moment in, leaned forward and asked, “What
exactly
are you sorry for, Hannah?” The blood from his thumb pooled in his loose fist.

“I did not—” Her voice seemed to come from the bottom of a well. “… Whatever you needed, I didn’t have it.”

For a moment, it seemed the Fox was moved by her words. Then he shook the blood onto the table, where it made darker clouds in the spilled wine. “Enough,” he said. “It’s already decided.”

Mabbot said, “Think it through. Pendleton would never give shares of the company to a known brigand, let alone Ramsey’s shares. On the other hand, if you decide to act sensibly—”

“Is that what you call your petty skirmishes? Sensible? You waste your time with piecemeal scraps in lonely seas. They build them faster than you can sink them. Pointless. You never dared go for the heart. Forever foaming at the mouth about slaves and opium to convince yourself that you’re something more than a bloody cutpurse. What exactly is my birthright? What scrap of this filthy clod can I call home? Have I no better fate than to be hunted down by privateers and bounty men? No, I’ll take what is mine. I’ll not be ignored. You mistake me, Mother. I didn’t ask your permission, and I don’t need your advice.”

A wave of his hand brought Gristle and the others forward, their pistols and muskets fixed on Mabbot. Some held ropes and shackles.

“It would seem we’re at an impasse.” Mabbot sighed.

“Then you’ll come without a fuss?”

A look of disgust twisted Mabbot’s face. “Just where are we going?”

“Let’s not make a scene, please. We’re not really at an impasse, are we? You’re outgunned. Though, believe me, I would much prefer to do this gently. Maybe you’ll escape from the gallows. You’ve done that before. Regardless, I’m handing you over to Pendleton to demonstrate my sincerity as a company man.” He turned away, and to his men, he shouted, “Take her whole—don’t bruise the lady.”

At this Mabbot finally stood. Her poise was broken. She swayed and had to brace herself on the table. “Whole for the gallows? Oh, Leighton.” She moaned. “What have you become?”

“Become?” He turned, and, to our astonishment, the man was crying. “What a sweet thought: to become. But I was
made
, wasn’t I? What could twist the sinews of my heart? Yes, Mother, I remember your lessons—every word. What hammer and what chain? In what furnace was my brain? Come, you remember it, don’t you? Well, for good or ill, your work is done. Go easy, you’ve earned your rest.” Tears made sooty streaks upon his face. The room was bristling with drawn weapons. Mabbot’s crew had formed a tight nucleus around her, and their every gun was cocked and aimed at the Fox.

“You’ll be my peace offering,” he said softly. “That is the
sensible
thing. You see, I have thought it through—thought it through to the letter. The papers love nothing more than a captured pirate to parade down the streets, and they’ll paint me a patriot. If they still refuse to negotiate, I’ll sink my teeth in. I’ll strangle the Pearl River to a trickle and let the tea barons starve for a few months. And if needs be, I’ll drop their warehouses into hell. Nothing speaks quite so eloquently as a well-placed bomb.” He was proud of his plan, and by the wet eagerness in his eyes he wanted her to be proud too—proud of her boy, even as he hanged her.

Mr. Apples could stand no more. With a single stride he crossed the distance to the Fox and lifted him like a sack of beets, one massive arm around his throat.

In a pinched falsetto, the Fox said, “She won’t let them harm me. Take her!”

Then the fighting began. The blow to my head earlier must have been worse than I thought, for the tavern seemed to me a grisly dance hall, goaded into motion by the music of grunts and screams. Men cleaved to each other in urgent passion. To my relief, out of respect for the bombs hanging just above our heads, the guns were not fired, but swords and daggers glinted in the lantern light, and there was no escape from the sound of bodies colliding and the clotted mewls of men drowning in their own blood.

Looking for shelter, I crawled toward the bar. It was then that the trapdoor opened and more thugs emerged like spiders, grabbing at the feet of those above and dragging them below. I turned and scampered in the opposite direction. The twins had seized Mabbot under the arms and were carrying her, despite her struggling, toward the front. They had not made it ten feet before a wave of brigands forced them to stop and fight.

Mr. Apples, with a blade in one hand and a wooden stool in the other, was sweeping through the Fox’s men like a reaper in the wheat. I was cowering with Joshua behind an overturned table, looking for a safe moment to dash out, when Braga and the reinforcements burst through the front door.

And the shooting started.

One of the powder kegs was immediately shattered, spraying sand over the writhing melee. There was the briefest pause as the fighters took in this information and reached for their guns. Every pistol in the world went off then—the keg might as well have been filled with powder and shot. The tables, the chairs, the whole building shuddered with the violence of the retorts. Gun smoke immediately filled the long room while brilliant seams of sunlight cut across the murk, as the bullets knocked holes into the walls and ceilings. The lanterns hopped and danced in a furious jig.

Thinking the trapdoor must lead to tunnels away from the pandemonium, I tugged Joshua a few feet toward it before our path was blocked by a dying man—I could not say for sure whom—who fell in a heap before me, trying weakly to pull a blade from his back while blood dribbled from his mouth.

Then I was hit.

I felt the bullet immediately and fell again behind the shelter of the table. Upon examination, though, I found that it was not my skin that had been pierced but the tin containing my yeast sponge batter. The ball had made its way into the tin case and lay lodged in the dough.