Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (14 page)

Then he heard roaring laughter, a demented giggling, and a minute later, James made his way down into their quarters, the dog right behind him. He hadn't given her a name yet, despite Thomas's urging to do so, since he wasn't convinced that the animal wasn't going to take off the moment they reached their destination. “If I don't give her a name,” he had reasoned, “I won't feel betrayed and abandoned.”

“You worry about things that don't bother any normal person,” Thomas had said, but didn't push the matter.

So now came James and his nameless pet, and he seemed entirely too pleased with himself. That self-satisfaction immediately prompted a trill of alarm in the back of Thomas's head, but he tried to tell himself that he was being paranoid for no good reason. “What's with you?” said Thomas. “You seem in an awfully good mood.”

“I am indeed.” James grinned like a fool. He pulled out his money purse and held it up for inspection. “Notice something different?”

It was hard not to. It was bulging, so packed with coins that their outlines could be seen pressed against the sides.

“You didn't.”

“I most certainly did.”

“You
gambled
with these men? These sailors?”

“They invited me,” James said in mild protest. “They were playing at cards, they challenged me—”

“Which was it? Invited or challenged?”

“A bit of both, actually. They obviously thought I'd be easy pickings, Thomas.” And it was clear that the notion irked him. “Now they know differently.”

“James ...” Thomas was shaking his head. “What were you thinking? Were you thinking at all?”

“It's not as if I cheated! I won fairly!”

“I know! You always win fairly! But have you forgotten that that hasn't stopped you from having major problems with sore losers? And the only way you've avoided getting the crap kicked out of you was that we've gotten out of there, sometimes as quickly as humanly possible?”

“So? I still don't ...” Then his voice trailed off. “Oh.”

“Yes. Exactly. ‘Oh.' ” Thomas had gotten to his feet, and he was standing several feet from his friend, his arms folded, regarding James with exasperation. “There's nowhere to go on this vessel. Putting some distance between yourself and a pack of sore losers isn't an option. Unless you're about to suggest we jump overboard and throw ourselves on the sea's mercy.”

James, who had been waving the sack of coins around with such pride and relish, was now staring at it with as much enthusiasm as if he'd been holding a bag of pus. “What should I do? I mean . . . I could just return it . . . but won't that seem like I'm admitting that I cheated? Like I have a guilty conscience, trying to make things right even though I didn't do anything wrong?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe the smartest thing to do is ask the captain. He knows his men best, after all.” He paused, and then, eyes narrowing, he said, “Was the captain one of the players?”

“No.”

“Then we should be thankful for small favors, I suppose. Toss it here. Let's see how much there is.”

Obediently and reflexively, James lobbed it toward Thomas.

It never got to Thomas's outstretched hand.

Instead, the dog, which was between them and apparently under the impression that a game was being played, leaped up with unexpected enthusiasm and snagged the bag of money between her teeth.

“Poxy cur!” James shouted. “Give it here!” He lunged for it, but the dog—still thinking it all a game—deftly dodged him and bolted from their quarters.

“Oh,
fantastic
!” said Thomas with a moan. James was already out the door after the fleeing animal, and Thomas hesitated, wondering if he should bother to go in pursuit as well. This was, after all, James's problem. But Thomas had noticed that James's problems tended to become his problems as well. Even as he headed out after James and the dog—the latter being easy to track because there was no great trick in following James's string of outraged profanity—he was already coming to the conclusion that they would have been far better advised to have let Sawkins toss the damned beast overboard when he had originally wanted to.

Down, down into the bowels of the ship did James and Thomas pursue the dog. Obviously, she was heading for the place where she felt the greatest safety: the hold of the ship, where she had first stowed away. Why the hell couldn't she have stayed there, hunting rats, slinking around, and keeping out of their way and not needlessly complicating their lives?

The smell of brine became stronger in Thomas's nostrils, and the rocking of the ship was becoming even more severe. Several times, as Thomas clambered down short ladders chasing after the continued cursing of his friend, he staggered and nearly fell, catching himself at the last moment. He jumped down from another short ladder and landed on what he realized was the bottom of the vessel. His boots hit water: not much, not enough to make him think that the ship was sinking. But it was enough to make him believe that there was a slow leak somewhere, and the sides of the ship could stand with some maintenance.

That was when he realized that he wasn't hearing anything from on ahead. Not the dog barking and not the stream of profanities from his companion. “James,” he called tentatively. “James—?”

“Thomas,” James's voice floated from the darkness ahead. “I think you need to see this.”

There was naught but darkness ahead of him for a moment, and suddenly light was glowing. It illuminated James's face, and Thomas realized that James was holding up a lantern that must have been hanging from a peg nearby. “I should see a lamp?” said Thomas, not quite understanding what it was that James was trying to show him.

“No. This.” James raised the lamp higher and turned a key in the bottom, causing the light within the lantern to burn a bit more brightly. When he did that, it gave Thomas a better view of their surroundings.

There was an amazing assortment of things, from rugs to perfumes, foodstuffs to clothing, and weapons, all kinds of weapons. They were on slightly raised platforms to avoid any chance of seepage getting into them and damaging them.

“So what? We knew they had cargo; they told us that.”

“But of such variety? There's no rhyme or reason to it. And this.” And he held up tags that were attached to one of the tapestries. “It says ‘Property of W. Maheras.' ”

“Maheras.” The name was familiar to Thomas. His brow furrowed as he tried to recall why that should be, and then it came to him. “He was a merchant. My father had some dealings with him. And then he ran into major financial difficulties because he had a shipment that was stolen by ...”

He stopped, his throat closing up, paralyzed by the dawning realization.

“Pirates,” said James, who had already had sufficient time to process that which Thomas was only now just grasping—including the immensity of their situation. He was rummaging through other materials in the cargo. “This store of wine, from another merchant vessel that was raided. There's no telling how long some of this has been down there.”

“They sell or trade as need, and live off that which can be of use to them,” said Thomas.

“What do we do? What the hell do we do?” said James, and then he froze, his eyes widening.

Thomas realized immediately that James was looking behind him. He turned and saw, standing on the ladder that led down into the hold, Rackam. Despite the rocking of the ship, which was becoming increasingly violent as the storm built in intensity, Rackam was standing perfectly still. Still as death. He was holding a pistol in his hand, and it was leveled at Thomas. Despite the extreme jeopardy of their situation, Thomas could not help but be impressed by the fact that he kept staggering this way and that, fighting not to be thrown off his feet, while Rackam remained unperturbed.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Rackam said in what was almost a purr—like a lion studying helpless prey and enjoying the anticipation of a kill—“we were likely as not going to dump you over the side tonight anyway. You are, after all, rather well-funded young men, and there's no earthly reason to deliver you to your destination with your wealth intact, let alone with your lives still within your bodies. But Master Skeleton here made the decision that much easier for us. Not just easier: pleasing.”

“All right, now you're just getting my name wrong deliberately simply to annoy me, aren't you?” said James.

“I'll be having your money now,” said Rackam. “All of it.”

James stared at him levelly, and then said with what seemed to Thomas absolutely supernatural calm: “What money?”

Rackam was clearly in no mood for trading words with James. “I was hoping you would cooperate and then head up to the deck on your own, so that my men wouldn't have to haul your dead bodies topside. But”—and he shrugged—“we will do what must be done.” And he shifted the gun so that it was now aimed squarely at James. The cocking of a hammer on a gun produces a sound like none other in the world, and that singular noise was like an explosion in the cargo hold.

The sound of it catapulted the dog from the shadows nearby. The dog, which had been relatively meek in fighting to defend her own life, was unstintingly, unhesitatingly vicious in responding to a direct threat to James. With a snarl, she leaped through the air, bounding once off a crate, and clamped her jaws on Rackam's extended arm a split second before he fired. The shot went wide, exploding harmlessly against the bulkhead. The gun tumbled from Rackam's hand, and the pirate captain roared and cursed and tried mightily to shake the dog off his arm. But the distraction was enough to cause even the seasoned pirate to lose his footing, and the dog managed to drag him off balance, the animal given additional sure-footedness by dint of her being on all fours. Rackam went down, pounding furiously on the animal, who resolutely refused to let go of Rackam's arm.

“Go! Go now!” shouted James, gesturing frantically for Thomas to head up the ladder while Rackam was distracted. Then he turned toward the weapons and grabbed up a cutlass, a large, fearsome-looking blade. With a roar, he charged straight at Rackam, who was on the ground, wrestling with the dog.

The instant he drew within range, Rackam lashed out with one booted foot, catching James directly in the pit of the stomach. James doubled over, staggering, falling against the ladder that Thomas was already halfway up. Briefly distracted, the dog's hold on Rackam's arm loosened, and it was just enough for Rackam to yank his arm free and then shove the dog away. He grabbed for his fallen pistol, reached it, swung it, and fired it into the shadows into which he had thrown the dog. There was a pained yelp from the darkness, and then Rackam turned his attention back to the boys.

They were gone.

Thomas and James sprinted back to their quarters, quickly gathering up their gear. “What about the dog?” said James, but the look Thomas gave him immediately quieted him. Thomas knew he should be angry with his friend for bringing up something as relatively trite as an animal when their own lives were at stake, but he really couldn't blame him. The dog had saved their lives just then against Rackam's weapon. Certainly that should have entitled the animal to some loyalty on their part. Perhaps James was the one with the right idea, but in any event, Thomas was hardly in a position to discuss it just then.

He checked his rifle to make sure it was loaded, then slung it over his shoulder and grabbed his other weapons and supplies as well. James whipped his newly acquired cutlass through the air once or twice, nodded approvingly, and then shoved it through his belt. From outside, they could hear the howling of the wind and deafening roar of thunder. “Now what?” James called, trying to get above the noise that was surrounding them.

“We grab a lifeboat!”

Going topside seemed unthinkable, but waiting around in their cabin for Rackam or his crew to come after them wasn't exactly an option either. James nodded and then followed Thomas.

They emerged into chaos.

Sawkins was at the wheel, lashed to it so that the huge gouts of water wouldn't knock him over the side. The night sky was black as pitch, the moon afraid to show its face, and lightning ripping across the roiling clouds providing the only illumination. The sails were furled since they would have done no good under the circumstances. When Sawkins saw Thomas and James emerge onto the deck, he shouted at them, gesturing wildly for them to get back below since he was unaware of what had transpired belowdecks. They ignored him, instead trying to stagger across the deck to get over to the lifeboat. Sawkins screamed at them, demanding to know what they thought they were doing, but the wind carried his words away . . . not that it would have made any difference even had they heard him.

Thomas made it to the lifeboat first, grabbing on to the ropes that were holding it in place, but before he could loosen them, a blast of water slammed over the side and hammered into him, lifting him off his feet, crashing into his body with the force of a thousand blows. Thomas had no chance and was thrown backwards, and the only thing that prevented him from being knocked clear to the other side and off the boat was James, clutching onto the main mast for dear life while making a desperate, all-or-nothing grab for Thomas as he hurtled past. James snagged Thomas's wrist, and Thomas felt a sharp pain lance through his shoulder as the force of the sudden stop nearly yanked the arm from its socket. He shoved the pain away into the furthest recesses of his mind, figuring he would deal with it later should there actually happen to
be
a later.

They both clutched onto the mainmast for a few seconds, hoping that the furious seas would subside long enough for them to take refuge in the lifeboat and get clear of the ship. Thomas knew that the odds of their survival in a small vessel in these waters were minimal, but if they stayed on the ship, their chances were nonexistent.