Blaggard's Moon (32 page)

“We're trying. But the Gatemen are working through the church, and
most of these congregations are very tight. Everyone knows everyone. And they're suspicious.”

“They oughta be.” Conch snarled. He thought a moment, and then said, “I always hated church.”

The footsteps came running down the dock this time. There were a lot of them, maybe twenty or thirty by the sound. The small yacht rocked crazily as the men jumped aboard by twos and threes. There was no debate this time; the butt of a rifle slammed down on the handle. It slammed once more and the handle broke off. The door was flung open, and armed men poured down into the cabin.

A young couple sat up in the bed, covers to their chins, terrified.

Pistol hammers cocked back.

Mart Mazeley walked calmly down the stairs, ducking into the cabin. The men parted.

“Where's Windall Frost?” he asked the couple gently.

“Who?”

“Windall Frost. He owns this dinghy.”

“That's the man sold it to us,” the young woman said to her mate.

“Sold it to you?” Mazeley asked.

“We bought her cheap.” The man pointed to his coat. “There's the papers over there. In the pocket.”

Rough hands ripped the pocket open, passed the parchment to Mazeley.

“Was it stolen or something?” the man asked.

“I told you it was too cheap,” she hissed at her partner.

Mazeley scowled. “Dated last week.” He looked up. “Where'd he go?”

The young man shrugged. “Said he was shipping out to Nearing Vast.”

Mazeley looked at the couple with calm, deadly eyes.

“We didn't know nothing, Mister,” the young man pled. “We just bought a boat, that's all we did.”

“You still don't know anything, do you?”

“No, sir.”

Mazeley sighed. He turned to his men. “Take the boat and everything in it to Captain Imbry.”

“What about them?”

“When you get two hundred yards out, toss them overboard.”

“But I can't swim,” the young man said, panicked.

He studied the two of them. “You should have thought about that before you bought a boat.”

“I can get you out of Skaelington,” Windall Frost told them. He was seated in Shayla's parlor, on the edge of his chair, cane in hand. He looked as though he was prepared to leave at a moment's notice. Which, of course, he was. “I can take you back to Mann. But you have to decide now. It's going to get very dicey here very soon. Conch's men are sniffing everywhere. There's no way our efforts will stay secret for long.”

“That's kind of you, Mr. Frost,” Jenta told him, “But I can't leave Wentworth.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm married to him.”

His brow furrowed. He studied Jenta's face. Then he looked to Shayla, saw no denial. He looked back to Jenta. “Dear Lord.”

After a pause, Shayla spoke. “Runsford has a warrant for our arrest in Mann. It was marriage, or prison.”

“Prison? On what charge?”

“Something about swindling rich men.”

“He's lying, of course. There could be no such warrant.”

“I saw the document. He's a very powerful man.”

“Yes, but…this can be sorted out. A marriage under such duress, why, there are ways…”

“None of that matters here,” Shayla answered evenly.

“Then come back to Mann.”

She said nothing for a moment. Then she asked, “Did you know, when your Gatemen made their pact with Wentworth, that he was engaged to Jenta?”

“Engaged, yes. I asked after the two of you, of course, and he told me that much. But I had no idea—”

“You had no idea about what, Mr. Frost? You came to this city knowing full well it was awash in pirates, knowing your actions would enrage them. You came into the bear's den to poke the bear with a stick. You made your pact with Wentworth Ryland, knowing he was betrothed to Jenta. You handed him your stick and showed him precisely where to poke. So what was it that evaded you, Mr. Frost? What didn't you understand?”

He stiffened. “Madam, I have come to offer you help, in good faith. As I ever have.”

She returned a cold look. “You have put my daughter in lethal danger, a danger she could hardly imagine, for an errand with no chance of success. Now you come here to frighten us into fleeing with you from the very danger you've created. This is your idea of help, in good faith? Tell me, Mr. Frost, if we flee your nightmare with you, what would we find back in Mann? Prison?”

“No.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

“I will do everything in my power—”

“Against Ryland? Against Conch? Against the king?”

He was silent.

“So we escape prison, then what? What do you have for us then? Endless piles of your dirty laundry?”

“Mother!”

Shayla's eyes went cold. “I shall see if the tea is ready.” And she stood and left the room.

Windall looked at the rug, then to Jenta. He spoke softly. “Jenta, it has never been my intent to harm you. Neither you nor your mother.”

“I know that.”

“When Wentworth agreed to help Damrick Fellows, of course I had misgivings because of the two of you. But he was so earnest, and he could do so much good, so quickly. And you and your mother…”

“We had already made our choices. I know. And we had already refused your help. Really, sir, this is not your doing.”

“Had I but known you were married to him…”

“I'm glad you didn't know. You did what you came to do, and what you came to do is honorable. Yes, it's dangerous. But you need not concern yourself with our choices, nor the result of them.”

He sat back. “But of course I'm concerned.”

Jenta stood and walked to the window. Outside the night was dark. The path to the road through the manicured lawn was lit for a dozen yards, festooned with flowers, and then it dropped suddenly into darkness. “It was not my desire to marry Wentworth,” she told him. “But marry him I did.” She turned back toward him. “Even so, had you come with this offer any time within those first, bitter weeks…I would have been packed before you finished asking. But things have changed. What we have started here, aligning citizens with the Gatemen, and against the pirates,
we
have started. It is as much my doing as Wentworth's. Perhaps more.” She looked at him now with eyes that spoke of tragedies carefully considered.
“I do fear it will end badly. But I cannot run. Not now. Wentworth is not a strong man, but he is, or has become, a good man. And I cannot leave him to face alone the consequences of our actions together.”

“Conch's revenge will be cruel. I don't think you can imagine how cruel.”

“I don't fear what Captain Imbry will do to me.”

“You should. It may be more terrible than anything you have dreamed.”

“But I do not fear it. What I fear is what he may do to Wentworth without me to intervene. I know a bit about the Captain. I have met him. I have danced with him. I have…” she trailed off, a memory suddenly fresh, him at her side, looking down at her, pressing a ring into her hand. “He has taken an interest in me. I believe that I may be able to mitigate his wrath, should it come to that.”

Windall shook his head. “You're a brave young lady. Brave, but foolish. He will have no mercy.”

“But the battle is engaged. Whatever the result, I must stay and fight it.”

“And that's your decision?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wish you all the best.” He stood. He pulled two coins from his pocket. He held them in an open hand. “Take these. Hide them. You may yet need them.”

She accepted them. Then she kissed his cheek. “You have always been good to us. Thank you.”

He smiled sadly. “Let's pray that we will meet again soon, under happier circumstances.” He could not hide his lack of optimism.

A crowd of cutthroats leaned into the lamppost, pushed on it until it bent, then broke, spilling glass and flaming oil down the alleyway. A few heaves and a twist, and the rusted metal post jerked free of its base. They raised it, held it like a battering ram, and ran it into the small oaken door set in the brown brick wall. It left a puncture mark, but the door held. They rammed it again. Again the door held tight.

“Forget the door, ram the brick!” Mazeley called out.

They did. Five tries later, a hole in the wall was big enough for hands to pull the bricks out. Then big enough for a small man to squeeze through. A moment later, the door was open and they streamed into the priest's home.

Mazeley posted half a dozen men outside, and then went in himself.

“There's nothin' here, sir.”

“Nothing and no one, is that it?” Dust covered the furniture.

“Aye, sir.”

Mazeley walked through the home. In the priest's bedroom, the faint outline of a cross could be seen on the wall above the bed, where a crucifix had hung for many years. Mazeley's usual calm began to crack. “Where's the nearest church?” he growled.

Conch Imbry walked into the sanctuary and looked around. It was a small church, with a few high windows on either side, near the ceiling. Designed for defense, he thought. Or it would be if there was any way to climb up to those windows and shoot down on attackers. Just like churchmen to forget that small detail, and make useless an otherwise highly effective means of defense.

The altar at the front was adorned by a large wooden cross nailed into the wall. The dais, two steps high, was currently patrolled by pirates. One of them was sniffing a loaf of bread he'd found on the altar. He took a bite. Seated at the front of the steps, facing the Conch, was a priest. He was bowed down, hunched forward, and Conch couldn't see his face. Beside him, squatting with one knee on the first step, was Mart Mazeley. As Conch watched, Mazeley grasped the thin priest's hair and pulled his head back.

Blood trickled from the man's mouth and down his chin. A scar from a large burn nearly covered the left side of his face.

Taking another glance around the church, seeing nothing but empty pews, he walked forward. “This our man?” Conch asked.

Mazeley looked up. “Meet Carter Dent, priest of the Most High God. Seems to feel that this robe gives him the right to undermine the institutions God has put in place to rule the earth.”

“Don't be talkin' that way,” Conch hissed. “Let's get him outta here.” He looked up at the cross, clearly uneasy.

Mazeley watched his boss, amused. “I'm only using words he'll understand.”

“Ain't this place got a basement or somefin'?”

“Sure, Captain. Of course. We can take him into the basement.”

In the darkness of the cellar, with three lamps burning, Conch was more himself. When Mazeley had tied the priest to a chair, Conch took a good look at him. He examined the prisoner's face, putting a finger under his chin and raising his head. He waved his other hand in front of Father Dent's distant, clouded eyes. “He's blind as a bat.”

“Yes, he is,” Father Dent said thickly, but with obvious practice. “But he can hear quite well.”

Conch scowled. “And can talk, too. And that's what ye'll do now for us, won't ye?”

The priest sighed. “Your man has been beating me for an hour. I won't tell you anything I haven't already told him.”

“What's he told ye?” Conch asked of Mazeley.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Carter Dent asked, surprised. “You want to keep secrets from your boss, that's your business.”

Now Mazeley looked concerned. “He's said nothing. He's bluffing.”

“Tell me what ye told him,” Conch demanded, a knife suddenly at the priest's throat.

But Carter Dent had said all he was going to say.

Conch looked at Mazeley again. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing of any value. He used to know Sharkbit Sutter, back in seminary. He met up with him later, here in Skaelington, after he turned pirate. The good father here wanted to turn him back to the light. Sutter gave him those scars for his trouble, and took away his eyesight.”

Conch grinned. “What'd he burn ye wif?”

Father Dent said nothing.

“Lamp oil, I believe it was.”

“That an' a match'll do it. That all he said?”

“Well, he did add that he'll gladly die in the effort to bring you down. But no information at all as to how he planned to do that.”

Conch straightened up. “Torturin' priests. Nasty business.” Then a thought occurred to him. “We should take him to the Hant.”

Mazeley studied Conch's face. “You're serious?”