Wake of the Bloody Angel (8 page)

“Warden Jim Delvie,” he said as we shook hands through the bars. It was firm enough, but the skin was smooth. The warden had been pushing a quill so long that any sword calluses had faded.

“Warden, either let us in or send us on our way,” Jane said impatiently. “Which in my case will be straight to the court of Queen Remy to get permission to visit the Hawk. You know she’ll give it to me. And you know what she’ll say when I explain why I have to bother her with it.”

The warden thought this over, then turned to Louie. “Open up.”

“Yes, sir,” Louie said.

Through the gate there was nothing but more open space around the main jail building and celebrity tower. The ground was hard and cracked, with no grass anywhere. The building rose only one floor above the ground, well below the top edge of the outer walls. Most of its cells were deep under the hard- packed earth.

Jane turned to me. “So who talks to him, me or you?”

“We can’t both do it?”

“No. Only one of us. Less risk that way.”

“Risk of what?”

“He has this knack of turning people against each other.”

I looked up at the tower, or at least the part of it not hidden in the mist. “I suppose I should do it. It’s my case, after all.”

“Are you sure? I know him.”

“I’m sure.”

She grinned. “You want to be able to tell Liz that you met Rody Hawk, is that it?”

I ignored the dig and looked at Delvie. The warden asked, “So who’s it going to be?”

“Me,” I said.

Delvie and Jane exchanged a look I couldn’t interpret. He asked her, “Are you all right with this?”

She shrugged. “He’s paying me, so he’s the boss.” The warden turned to me. “Have you had any prior dealings with Captain Hawk?”

“No.”

That seemed to satisfy him, if barely. “Follow me, please.”

He led us to the base of the tower. As we crossed the courtyard, a door opened in the main building and six pale, grimy men chained together at the neck were marched out by an equal number of guards. The prisoners were naked, but their bodies were so filthy, I first thought they wore black pajamas. Their smell stayed behind long after they’d disappeared around the corner.

“Monthly cell block washdown,” the warden explained. “They get rinsed off, then they clean their own cells.”

One of the prisoners turned and looked at us. His face was long and thin, and one eye socket was puckered shut. There seemed very little humanity left in his gaze, just the numb survival instinct of a clever animal.

When we reached the base of the tower, Delvie gestured at something on the ground. “Well, here we are. Your chariot to the clouds.”

A wooden basket about three feet across rested there, attached by a rope to a pulley mounted, I assumed, at the edge of the tower’s roof. I looked at it, then at the warden, then at Jane. She bit her lip and looked down to keep from laughing.

“This is how we get his food up to him,” the warden said. “If you want to talk to him, it’s the only way up.” He turned to Louie. “Go get some men to help lift this. A dozen would be good. Check the break room.”

“Yes, sir,” Louie said, and went into the main building.

I continued to look at Jane. “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s a picnic basket.”

With mock camaraderie, Jane punched me in the arm and said, “Come on, Eddie, you’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“No, but I’m a lot bigger than a loaf of bread.”

“It’ll hold you.”

“Says you.”

“No, she’s right,” Delvie assured me. “The balance is a little tricky, but it should bear your weight just fine.”

“Do I sit in it?”

“You’re better off standing.”

“Fine,” I said, making no effort to hide my annoyance. Jane could’ve mentioned this earlier.

“You sure you don’t want me to do it?” she said.

“No, damn it,” I muttered.

“I’ll need your sword,” the warden said. “And all your other weapons. And anything that might remotely be used as a weapon.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” I said.

Delvie stepped close. I could smell his morning tea on his breath. He said, “We used to send a guard up with the food, in case he cracked and started blabbering. This was back when we seriously thought he might tell us where his treasure was hidden. For a year, nothing happened. Then one day Hawk yanked him out of the basket and held him against the window bars. He threw the guard’s sword down, impaling another guard, then killed another with the first guard’s crossbow. One-handed, mind you, while still supporting the guard’s weight with the other arm. Then he dropped the man to his death.” He pointed at a spot on the hard-packed ground that was darker than the surrounding dirt. “He landed right there. You can see that the stain still hasn’t worn off.”

“The point is, he could’ve done it at any time,” Jane added. “He just picked that day, and that guard. He never said why. So now no one ever sees him. They just send up his food.”

“Then how do you know he’s even still up there?”

“The basket always comes down empty.” He paused, stepped even closer to me, and said in a grim whisper, “Hawk’s been called many things over the years, but you know what captures him best, in my opinion? That he’s simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up. If you still wish to see him, then I won’t stop you.”

I looked into the mist. I wondered if Hawk could hear us discussing his exploits. More important, how would I convince him to help me if he didn’t want to? What could I possibly offer him? I hadn’t put any thought into that.

“You could keep a bigger basket around, you know,” I pointed out as I unbuckled my sword belt. “For special occasions.”

“I’ll mention that at the next budget meeting,” the warden said. Louie returned with the requested men, all of whom looked at me with a mix of respect and suspicion. They were big men, with the scars of former battles on their bare arms and faces. I suspected they were also one moral slip away from becoming inmates themselves. Luckily, all I needed them to do was have firm grips and strong backs.

“Yank the rope twice when you’re ready to come down,” the warden said.

As I started to step into the basket, Jane said, “The knife in your boot, too.”

I glared at her. That knife had saved my life more than any other weapon I owned. But as I withdrew it, I suddenly knew what I could offer Hawk that might make him cooperate.

“Ow!” Jane cried. “What was that for?”

“Something to keep my courage up,” I said. She took my knife and tucked it into her belt. I enjoyed her annoyed scowl.

I put one foot in the basket, then the other. The ropes from each corner joined at a waist-high iron ring, and above that a single rope led to the top of the tower. I grabbed that rope for dear life, the guards pulled, and I began to rise.

Immediately, I nearly fell back and the whole contraption spun as I fought to regain my balance. Jane laughed uproariously.

I rose into the mist. Jane and the guards disappeared below me, and for a few moments I was isolated in the haze, nothing visible above or below. There was absolutely no wind, and the faceless side of the tower made it hard to mark my progress. Only the squeak of the pulley above me, growing louder, assured me I was rising.

I passed a chink in the stonework where a huge black crow, the one I must’ve heard earlier, sat preening her feathers. She cawed once and regarded me with the same vague suspicion as the guard below. Even the wildlife knew I was doing something stupid.

Eventually the pulley stopped, and I hung in place outside a wide rectangular window. Vertical bars blocked it, and a heavy fishing net hung just inside them, making a double barrier. The room was painted bright white, even down to the window bars. Nothing moved, and of course in a round room, there were no corners to hide in. The combined net and mist made it difficult to see the dim interior, but I stared until I made out a cot, a chamber pot, and something on the floor.

I risked one hand on the bars to steady myself and called out, “Hey! Rody Hawk!”

There was no reply.

I pulled myself closer to the bars. The basket creaked and tilted as my weight shifted.

The sun chose that moment to flicker through the mist and flood the cell with light. The shape on the floor instantly resolved itself.

It was a body.

The man was sprawled on his back. He was tall and slender, with long dark hair, a long beard, and a black eyepatch. He wore white trousers and a loose tunic, with no shoes.

The sun glinted off his exposed eye. It was wide open, and stared at nothing. I’d seen enough lifeless eyes to recognize this one at once.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. Rody Hawk was dead.

Then a sepulchral voice commanded, “Don’t talk about my mother.”

chapter SIX

I
was so startled that I lost my balance and pivoted wildly in the basket. I saw hazy sky, the barred window, then hazy sky again. I grabbed another bar and steadied myself. I looked around the room carefully, but saw no one except the corpse on the floor. There was also no place for anyone to hide. Where the hell had that voice come from?

I risked a look up into the clearing sky. Was someone on the roof? Had it been a ghost? A
god
? At that moment, as the chill sweat ran down my back, anything seemed plausible.

Then the corpse of Rody Hawk sat up and looked right at me with its dead, milk-white eye.

Before I could do anything undignified like scream, the corpse shifted the eyepatch to the other side, uncovering a perfectly good eye and reseating the patch over the useless one. Then he yawned.

I looked down. Thankfully, the mist was still thick enough to hide me from view. If Jane had seen this, I’d never have lived it down.

Rody Hawk shifted into a cross-legged position and looked straight at me. Even with only one eye, it was like he saw right through to the back of my skull. The hairs on my neck tingled. He said, “I don’t know you.”

“No,” I agreed, trying to steady the basket with my trembling legs.

His voice had no identifiable accent. “You’re too scruffy to be a new guard. Warden Delvie is a stickler for appearance. And it’s not time for my lunch.” His eye narrowed and he cocked his head. Hawk was a small, neat man; even his untrimmed hair and beard looked tended. “Are you from the Society of Scribes, then? No, you’ve brought nothing with which to write. So who are you, my man?”

“Eddie LaCrosse.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“No reason it should.”

“So you must want something.”

“I want a lot of things.” I managed to find a balanced position with one hand on a bar and the other gripping the rope for dear life. As long as I kept my knees locked, I stayed reasonably still. It did not, however, convey nonchalance. “Not falling out of this basket is at the top of the list.”

Hawk smiled. He had small white teeth. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“Sure I am. You’re Rody Hawk. I’d be stupid not to be afraid of you.”

He arched his back and threaded his fingers together behind his head. “I apologize for the fright,” he said as he stretched. “Sleeping on that saggy cot has begun to trouble my back. I find alternating with the floor minimizes the discomfort. So what is it that brings you up this high?”

“I’m looking for a pirate.”

“You found one. The best, or worst, depending on your perspective. And if my current accommodations are any indication, perhaps I’m both.”

“I’m looking for a particular pirate.”

“I’ve been known to be very particular.”

“Not to burst your bubble, but I’m looking for one named Black Edward Tew. An old girlfriend wants to know what happened to him.”

“And why are you the one doing the looking?”

“I’ve been hired to.”

“A sword jockey?”

I nodded.

“He hasn’t been around for years. I’ve heard he was dead. Why does your client wish to find him now?”

“She’s waited as long as she can.”

“That’s a woman’s reason, all right.” Hawk closed his eye in apparent thought. At last he said, “I assume you know the story.”

“Not really. I’ve just heard contradictory hints.”

“And so you thought of me?”

I shrugged. I didn’t want to mention Jane, or my bribe for him, unless I had to. “You’re the first guy lots of people think of when they hear the word
pirate
.”

“How flattering. Well, I get so few visitors, I suppose it would be rude of me to send you packing. So you want the story of Black Edward Tew, eh? Here’s the tale as I know it. Edward Tew was a common sailor on merchant vessels, content with his lot, until one day he met a girl in a tavern. I don’t know the particulars, and I’ve heard it told both ways: either she turned him pirate to keep her in jewels, or he turned pirate on his own to impress her. I suppose ultimately only the two of them know what really passed between them. At any rate, shortly thereafter, he signed onto a new ship, and while it was at sea, he led a mutiny. The captain was killed, the loyalists set adrift, and the ship rechristened the
Bloody Angel.
Always liked that name. And young Edward Tew became Black Edward, novice scourge of the waterways.”