The Goblin's Gift (11 page)

Enough trying to be nice.
She turned to Slik, who was lying on his back, kicking his legs in the air, his wings, face and body covered in sugar.

‘Right. Where is this mermaid? And if you don't know, I'm going to take you down to the cellar and dunk you in a barrel of Mr Bootle's home-made scrumpy.'

The stupid grin faded from Slik's face, and he sat up.

‘Well, if you're going to be like that …' he said. ‘I'll tell you where she is. Starting to feel a bit sick actually.'

Mrs Bootle headed back into the kitchen as Joseph and Tabitha leaned forward. Slik cleared his throat and settled on the rim of the sugar bowl.

‘Pallione was a shark fighter. One of the best too. Only been in Fayt a couple of weeks, and she was the crowd's favourite at Harry's.'

‘I know where Harry's is,' said Joseph, his eyes
wide. ‘Remember, Tabs? That's where I was kidnapped just before I met you. If we can get in, we can—'

‘Slow down, mongrel,' said Slik. ‘She's not there any more. Things change in the Marlinspike Quarter, see? Folk are always scrapping over turf. Harry's has got a new owner now. Cove called the Boy King.'

‘I've heard of him,' said Tabitha. ‘Nasty piece of work.'

‘You don't say? A nine-year-old child ruling the biggest gang in the Marlinspike Quarter isn't likely to be all sweetness and light, now, is he? He's more dangerous than a dragon with toothache.'

‘Nine years old?' said Joseph. ‘How does he … ? I mean—'

Slik raised an eyebrow at Tabitha. ‘Your boyfriend doesn't know much, does he?'

‘He's not my—'

‘Whatever you say. Anyway, this youngster's pa used to lead the crew – King Ketteridge, they called him – till one night he got lucky at cards with the wrong crowd. Went home in a box with an axe in his head. After that all the top dogs were squabbling over who should take over, and Lord Wren stepped in. He was Ketteridge's right-hand man. He suggested the old man's son take charge, save them killing each other over it.

‘Well, it worked. Each of them bully boys reckoned they'd sooner have a child leading them than one of their rivals. And as it turns out, the boy's got a certain talent for it. Ruthless. Cross him once and you'll feed the fishes. The lads love him. 'Course, Lord Wren's always there with him, making sure he doesn't do anything too crazy.'

Tabitha waved her hand impatiently. ‘I've heard all this before. What does it have to do with Pallione?'

‘If you'll just shut your trap and listen, I'll tell you. See, the Boy King loves a show. And he doesn't need to go out for it. He has the money and the muscle to get the best performers in Port Fayt brought right in. Musicians, dancers, whatever. And Pallione's one of his acts now. Turns out that besides being a mean shark fighter, she's got one of the best singing voices in the Ebony Ocean. So the Boy King snapped her up. He owns her now.'

‘Better than fighting sharks, I suppose,' murmured Joseph.

‘So,' said Tabitha, determined to take charge, ‘where do we find this show?'

Slik slid back down into the sugar bowl, putting his hands behind his head. The smug grin on his face was spoiled only by the granules of sugar still clinging to his lips.

‘I can help you out with that.'

‘Too right you can.' Tabitha took a sip of her velvetbean and reached for a shokel cake. Things seemed to be looking up. Now they knew where the mermaid was, they could rescue her, whisk her back to her father and bring the merfolk into battle in no time. Save Port Fayt and their fellow watchmen into the bargain. Simple.

‘Can I ask you something?' said Joseph.

‘Fire away.'

‘Why are you helping us? I mean, we got you thrown into the Brig in the first place. I don't want to be rude, but you sold out the Demon's Watch before – so how do we know you're telling us the truth this time?'

Slik chuckled, as though the question was ridiculous.

‘I've got no reason to lie, mongrel. If you go into the court of the Boy King, you're going to get yourselves killed. And I want to be there when it happens.'

‘SEE ANYTHING YET?'

Old Jon said nothing, just kept gazing through the spyglass towards the distant green hump of Illon. It was early afternoon, bright but overcast, with a fresh breeze. Good weather for a battle.

Newton strained his eyes but he couldn't see any enemy vessels. They were close, though. They had to be.

He realized he was rubbing at the old red marks around his wrists, and forced himself to stop. He always did that when he felt anxious. And there was a lot to feel anxious about. The troll twins and Hal stranded on a rock somewhere. Joseph and Tabitha trying to rescue
a mermaid princess from Thalin knew who. The size of his fleet and how nervous the crews were. And the sight that would soon appear before them – the sails of the enemy ships rising above the horizon, rounding the headland of Illon and closing on them …

Stop rubbing.

He let go of his wrist and turned back to his captains, huddled together on the foredeck of the
Wyvern
. Their pale, anxious faces were turned up towards him, waiting to hear the plan. The only trouble was, he didn't have one. At least the
Wyvern
itself was a good vessel, fast and tough, and loaded with cannon. He would have to lead the attack. Set an example. If he was scared he couldn't show it.

And yes, he was scared.

A swarm of fairies swooped out of the sky and landed on the gunwale beside him, clinging on tight against the sea breeze. Ty was their leader. He saluted and his friends all followed suit.

‘We've seen the armada, Cap'n,' said Ty.

‘And?'

‘It's big.'

‘Ruddy big,' added one of his friends unhelpfully.

Newt glanced at his own motley fleet, stretched out in a ragged line on either side of his flagship. ‘Ruddy big' wasn't how you'd describe it.

‘Any clue what their plan is?'

‘Reckon they don't need a plan. Other than just to sail right for us and blow us out of the Ebony Ocean. Their flagship's the biggest vessel I ever seen. She's in the centre, and I'm guessing she'll lead. Probably head straight for the
Wyvern
. Anyone needs a plan, it's us.'

Newton cast another glance around at his captains. Most were blackcoat sergeants who didn't know the first thing about sea battles. There was a dwarf privateer. A human merchant who looked familiar. Yes – Newton had seen him a fortnight before at the Pageant of the Sea, dressed in a red lobster costume and playing a squeezebox for a dance. Then later, eyes crossed from too much firewater, hugging his fellow musicians and telling them how much he loved them. He didn't look so cheerful now.

Someone moved at the back of the group, and Newton noticed a trio of imp captains – tough-looking seafarers, but so short they were mostly hidden behind the other captains.

Which gave him an idea.

‘You lads at the back. Have you got dhows? The small, nippy ones?'

‘Aye, Captain.'

‘All right,' he said. ‘Here's the plan. Odds are the League'll try and drive a wedge through us, engage us
at close quarters where they can bring their guns and men to bear. So we'll let them. Get our whole fleet lined up bow to stern and let fly with broadsides. Except for you three.' He pointed at the imps. ‘You bring your ships up behind the
Wyvern
. The dhows are small enough that they'll be good and hidden there. Then, when the enemy flagship comes through, you strike. If we can bring her down, there's a chance of forcing them to surrender. Agreed?'

The captains nodded, and for the first time, Newton could see a little hope in their eyes. He felt himself smiling. Even Cyrus Derringer managed a curt nod. Old Jon didn't seem to be paying attention though. He had lowered the spyglass and was looking in the opposite direction, at something beyond the knot of captains. The old elf's jaw fell open. Newton followed his gaze.

Maw's teeth!

Something was happening beyond the side of the ship. Some strange disruption to the air, as if they were seeing through warped glass. Which could only mean …

‘Magic!' he roared. ‘Battle stations!'

Across the deck, blackcoats unslung muskets and crossbows and drew sabres. Some of the captains readied their weapons, while others stood, gawping like fish on a line.

From the smudged air a form began to take shape. Rigging and a mast – no, two masts. Three. A wavecutter, and a flag flying above it – the Golden Sun … And then, all of a sudden, figures were scrambling aboard the
Wyvern
. White-coated figures. Butchers. Sabres flashed and pistols cracked, sending up puffs of gunpowder.

Already there were howls of pain.`

Newton pulled the Banshee from his belt, slotting the three gleaming black pieces of wood together with quick, deft motions. It was the only close-quarter weapon he ever used. He twirled the staff once, checking it was locked in place, then leaped up onto the ship's gunwale, taking a moment to make sure of his balance before running along it and jumping down into the surging mass of black- and white-coated soldiers.

Instinct took over. His staff blurred as he swept it low, knocking a League marine off his feet. He jabbed at a second, forcing him back to the gunwale and then over it, wailing.

Another butcher came at him, sabre slicing, but the blade glanced off the Banshee. Newton shoved his knee hard into the man's stomach, leaving him coughing and retching on the deck. More butchers closed in, but a white-haired whirlwind swooped down on them
– Old Jon, swinging his cudgel with a speed and accuracy most younger elves could only dream of.

Newton spotted Cyrus Derringer beyond, fencing two, sometimes three whitecoats at a time, dodging behind masts and barrels when there were too many for him.

A crossbow bolt whirred past, buried itself in the mainmast. Someone shoved into Newton's back. A pistol went off beside his right ear and a blade hissed past his shoulder. He jerked back into action, smashing the Banshee into the nearest whitecoat with all his strength. Someone had got hold of the other end of his staff and he had to wrestle it free.

Before he could turn, a sabre flashed at him from nowhere and he was recoiling, his staff clattering to the deck as hot pain bit into his arm. He was bleeding, he realized as he sank to his knees.
How serious is it?
He had no idea, but he couldn't worry about it now. He caught a glimpse of Old Jon doing his best to fight through to him, but the press of men was too great. He tried to get to his feet. There was the sound of a pistol being cocked above him, and then the cold metal of the barrel was shoved into his face, forcing him back down again. There was a blade at his chest and another at his stomach. Two muskets appeared, hovering above his head.

‘Stay down!' someone was shouting. ‘Move and we'll shoot.'

Sweat stung Newton's eyes. He clutched the wound on his arm, and blood oozed between his fingers. He couldn't see past the gun barrels pointing at him and, beyond, the mess of legs and feet as the fight continued.

Something was changing. There were fewer shouts now; fewer gunshots. There was more space around them. The butchers standing over him were relaxing.

So much for his plan. They had lost. Before the battle had even begun. It seemed so sudden – but then, the Fayters had never really stood a chance.

He was hustled to his feet and herded towards the stern. He rubbed his eyes, saw the other captains, Derringer and Old Jon being pushed alongside him, until they were all gathered around the wheel, muskets trained on them.

‘Everyone down,' barked a League sergeant. ‘On your knees.'

Newton obeyed. No point in arguing at this stage. There were bodies strewn on the deck, beyond the circle of marines guarding them.

A cluster of League magicians stood by the gunwale, talking and smoking, each one dressed in white, with the red fireball of the League Magical
Infantry embroidered on their shoulders. Trained in Azurmouth, no doubt, and far more skilled than the magicians of Port Fayt, who had to practise their art in secret. Hadn't he said they'd need magicians? Of course it made sense to ban magic in times of peace, but in war it was a different matter. Newton had never seen a whole ship made invisible. An invisible apple maybe. But a whole ship … If they could do that, what else were they capable of?

He was distracted by a commotion to his left. One of his captains, an elderly troll, was struggling to lower himself fast enough. The League sergeant stepped closer, raising his pistol.

Newton leaped forward before he could think what he was doing. Butchers fell on him – four, five of them – slowing him, shoving him back, and then there was the crack of a pistol shot and a low moan from the Fayters as the old troll fell dead on the deck. A musket butt slammed into Newton's face and he stumbled, fell to his knees again, and then there were more blades and bayonets pointed at him than before.