Authors: George Bryan Polivka
“This is outrageous,” they could hear her say. “Not allowing me time to dress.” Even now, she didn't raise her voice. Her face was a perfect mask of calm. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she told them.
“Aye, ma'am, we're sore ashamed,” one of them told her. “Ain't we, Dack?” Dack just laughed.
Shayla said nothing to Jenta and Wentworth, once inside the carriage, until she had straightened her hair, adjusted her robe. Then she looked from one to the other. “Isn't this a pleasant surprise?”
“Quite,” Wentworth said.
“I knew this would come to no good.”
“Did you, Mother?” Jenta replied coldly. “Did you know exactly how things would turn out for us here in Skaelington? Did you really?”
“I suggest we wait to see what Conch actually wants,” Wentworth interjected. But his confidence was more damaged than his shins.
“What he wants?” Motley crowed. “Why, he wants yer heads!” The carriage lurched forward. “Next stop, the Ryland mansion. One more passenger.” The man's glee was evident.
Mazeley arrived with Conch's men in force at the south pier, pistols and muskets loaded and in hand. They streamed out onto the docks, and then stood quietly in the chill morning air.
“What did ye expect to find, Mr. Mazeley?” one of them asked.
“Ships. Three Ryland ships.”
“Looks like they sailed,” the man observed.
Mazeley looked at him blankly. “You're a clever one.”
“W
HO CAN SAIL
?” Conch asked Mazeley. The two men stood on the deck of the
Shalamon
, looking out to the east. The moonlight was blunted and diffused through rain clouds that hung back on the horizon. Just under them, the dark shapes of three square-masted ships could be seen against the brighter gray. The trio of vessels was headed southward, around Noose Neck and toward the open sea.
“Other than the
Shalamon
?” Mazeley asked. But he did not wait for an answer. “Dancer Clang is in port, just arrived last night.”
“Who else we got?”
“Lafe Larue has been here for weeks.”
Conch scowled. “Lafe's a drunk. What about Scatter Wilkins? He's a bloody one.”
“
Lantern Liege
sailed yesterday.”
Conch thought a moment. Then he sighed. “Just spread the word. A gold piece for every sailor on any ship takes down one of them tubs. Twice that if it's done today.”
“That's a rich bounty.”
“I'm a rich pirate.”
“
Shalamon
could be ready in less thanâ”
“
Shalamon
can't sail,” Conch groused. “We got a rat's nest here in port. And I got four rats need my attention.”
Mazeley paused.
“What?” Conch growled.
“The Gatemen. I'm thinking of their mode of attack. We should warn those who sail against them.”
“What do ye suggest we tell 'em? Watch out, or they'll fling the fires of hell at ye from a thousand yards?”
“Your captains should know what we learned from the priest.”
“The priest told us nothing. He knew nothing.”
“We know that they fight with fire. Your captains should expect hot loads.”
“So tell 'em to carry plenty a' water and plenty a' buckets, and shoot straight.”
Mazeley nodded.
“You have somefin' else to say?” Conch prodded irritably.
“No. I think it's wise to send the other ships. Save the
Shalamon
for another day.”
“Ye think I don't want to face 'em myself.”
“No, sir. I think just what I said. Until we know exactly how he's using that heated ammunition to take out better armed and faster ships, I think it's a reasonable course.”
Conch put a big hand on Mazeley's shoulder. “We got the Ryland rats to deal wif first.”
Mazeley nodded. “I'll get word out to Dancer Clang and the rest.”
“Do that. And then get back. After the rats've stewed a bit by theirselves, we'll bring 'em to a boil in the same pot.” The captain winked. “And we'll need yer best deck a' cards.”
It was almost dawn before Conch Imbry walked through the doorway of his Poker Deck. He looked around. Everyone was in place. Highly satisfactory. Mart Mazeley sat in his usual seat, shuffling a deck of cards with more dexterity than any man has a right to possess. To Mazeley's right was Conch's open seat. To his left sat Runsford Ryland, still in the smoking jacket he'd been wearing when taken from his home last night. He looked grim and tired and irritated. Across from him was Wentworth Ryland, his son, looking haggard but haughty. Unrepentant. Beside Runsford sat Shayla, wearing a dressing robe over a nightgown, expressionless, though drawn and pale from lack of sleep. Jenta Stillmithers sat beside Wentworth. Her hair was unkempt, but she appeared to be the only one to have slept at all. Her look was somewhere between defiance and impatience.
“Well, ain't this a glum bunch gathered fer a little sport. Last time I
saw ye together aboard ship, ever'one was a bit merrier, seems to me. But then, ye've been a busy little bunch since then, ain't ye?”
“Captain Imbry,” Ryland said, rising. “I demand to know the meaning of this. Why have you dragged us here in the middle of the night?”
“Sit down, Ryland,” Conch said dismissively. “I don't wanna hear a bit of it.” Now he grinned. “We're here to play cards.” Still standing, he clapped, rubbed his hands, looked around the room. “So where's the drinks?”
As Runsford Ryland sat down slowly, Mart rang a small bell at his side. A barmaid entered with a tray of tumblers and cigars.
“Ah, that's more like it. Everyone takes a glass. Grab a cigar if ye want one.”
One by one, each of those present, Mazeley excepted, took a tumbler of rum. No one took a cigar.
“No smokers, eh? Well, I'll pass then, too, on account of the women. Not usual to have two fine such ladies here in these quarters.” He looked at Jenta, and held up his glass. “A toast! Here's to the gentlemen of means who grace this table⦔ he paused. “Hmm, my usual don't seem quite fittin'. How about thisâ¦Here's to those what will win this little game at cards. May ye live long and happy lives, and may ye remember the losers fondly!” He drank his rum down, and looked around at the silent stares. “Still a glum bunch. Well, drink up, it might cheer ye some anyways.”
All present drank, at least a little, except for Wentworth.
Conch sat. “The game is two-card stud. Don't matter what's up or what's down. All right, Mr. Mazeley, deal the first hand.”
Mart Mazeley put two cards face down in front of Runsford Ryland, who looked around the table, then at Conch. “What is this about, Captain? Am I the only one playing?”
“Shut up,” Conch said evenly. “Ye got two cards, ye can only keep one. Turn 'em up.”
Ryland did.
“Looky there. The ace a' diamonds, and the jack a' clubs.” Conch nodded, seeming quite pleased. “Not bad. It's a simple game, Ryland. Now ye discard.”
Runsford did not hide his irritation. “What are the stakes? What's the bet? Why am I playing alone? Come now, Captain, this is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He scratched behind an ear. “Well, I suppose I should say a bit more, then. You ain't in it alone. Wentworth here is in the game as well.” But rather than instruct Mazeley to deal the young man in, Conch
pulled a pistol, laid it on the table in front of him, with the barrel pointed directly at Wentworth. “As fer the stakes. I'm gettin' to that. But afore I do, Runsford, I got a question. How much did ye know about yer boy tryin' to ruin me behind my back?”
“What?” He glanced at Wentworth, then back to Conch. “What are you talking about?”
“Ye make a good show of it,” Conch said. “I'll give ye that. But yer boy has banded together with the Gatemen. Recruited 'em under my very nose, loaded 'em aboard yer ships, and set 'em to sail.”
“No! That's absurd. Tell him, Wentworth. Tell him you've done no such thing.”
Wentworth raised his chin, spoke to the Conch. “My father knew nothing about it.”
Ryland's mouth fell open. “Dear God.”
“In yer next breath,” Conch said to Ryland, “I suppose ye'll say that since he's yer son and all, ye beg me to show 'im mercy.”
“I most certainly do.” But the consequences of Wentworth's actions clicked through his mind like a key turning in a padlock.
“I s'pose I'm gettin' soft in my old age. I ought to just kill ye both and be done wif it, rather than sort out who knew what, and who did it why. But Runsford, ye've done me many a service over the years. So I'm doin' ye a favor back. Ye get to choose.”
Ryland's mouth was still open, but no further words emerged.
“Here's the stakes. That ace ye got, that's yer business. That's Ryland Shippin' & freebootin' Freight. The jack, now, that card stands in for yer son. That's Wentworth. So ye got two cards. But ye got to discard one. So that means ye get to keep one, and ye lose the other.”
Runsford swallowed hard. “Captain, I⦔
“Maybe I ain't been plain enough.” His voice and eyes went hard. “Ye can either keep yer business, and then yer son dies. Or, ye can keep yer son. And if ye do that, I take all ye have, Ryland. Ever'thin'. And the two of ye live out yer days in the old castle, sharin' space with the Hant. And I put a price on the head of any man who so much as thinks about helpin' ye make a brick out of a pile a' mud. There. That clear enough?”
Runsford's eyes were wide as dishpans. He looked at Wentworth. “Did you do this thing?” he asked.
Wentworth hung his head, but only for a moment. Then he looked back up. “I did. I was going to tell you about it.”
“Why, son?”
Conch put a hand on the pistol. “Enough talk. Time to play. Pick up the cards, Mr. Ryland.”
He did.
“Now. Discard one.”
Ryland looked down at the two cards in his hand, both of which trembled. Slowly, he chose a card and laid it face down in front of him.
Conch reached over and swept it up. He looked at it, nodded. “Runsford, yer free to go. Thanks fer playin'.”
With one last look at his son, a look that held both bitter accusation and overwhelming disappointment, the shipping magnate stood and walked, head high, shoulders back, out the door.
Conch tossed the card face up into the center of the table. Jenta gasped. Shayla closed her eyes. It was the jack of clubs.
“Looks like ye lose, Wentworth.”
Wentworth seemed to shrivel before them.
“Ah, don't take it too hard, son,” Conch said with a shrug. “Yer daddy never was much at cards.”
Now Wentworth's eyes went to the pistol. His body began to shake uncontrollably. But Conch did not touch the weapon again. “Calm down, boy. Game ain't over yet. That was jus' the first hand. Deal the cards, Mr. Mazeley.”
Mart Mazeley dealt one card face down in front of Wentworth, who stared at it like it was a viper.
“Pick it up.”
Wentworth obeyed, though he had to claw at it several times before he could get his fingers under it.
“Hmm. Ye'll need two cards to play. So I guess ye better pick up the one yer daddy discarded.”
Wentworth did, with slightly less effort.
“All right. What d'ye got?”
Wentworth laid down his two cards.
“Looky there. The queen a' hearts to go wif yer jack a' clubs. But in this game, ye can only keep one. Ye'll have to throw one away.”
Wentworth's eyes searched Conch, looking for the meaning.
“That jack, that's still you. And that queen, why, that's yer fair bride here.”
Wentworth looked at Jenta. His fear was so deep, his sorrow so tangible, that she reached out for him.
“Don't!” Conch roared. “Don't you touch him.” Conch turned back to Wentworth. He calmed himself. “We still got a bet goin' from the last time you was here. Do ye recall it?”
“Yes.”
“Ragged little weasel that ye are, I'm sure ye do. This here little game is part a' that one. I'm just raisin' the stakes a bit. It works like this. Keep the queen, that means yer keepin' the girl. It means ye still want her. And so ye'll have her, like I promised. Keep the queen, and she'll die right along wif ye.”
Now Shayla lowered her head.
“Couldn't be otherwise, could it? I'm a man a' my word. And you, son, are surely bound to die. But ye got another choice. Ye can keep the jack and discard the queen. And that means ye don't want her no more. So then, she don't got to die wif ye.” He paused. “But ye remember our bet. When ye don't want her no more, she's mine.” He eyed Jenta, who met his gaze now with a steely look of her own. To Wentworth he said, “So, either she dies wif you, or she lives wif me. You decide. Do ye want her, or do ye not?”