Authors: George Bryan Polivka
“What's the deal?”
“If he can be trusted, he'll give us Conch Imbry.”
“And if he can't be trusted?”
“He'll give us hell.”
At the bottom of the gangway, Motley stopped Ryland, stood in front of him. “You made a deal with them squid?” Motley's loyalty to Conch clearly ran deeper than his loyalty to Ryland.
“I did indeed,” Ryland confirmed.
“What kind a' deal?”
“The kind that buys us three days.” He glanced around. “Keep walking.” Motley fell in next to Ryland. “I've got a job for you men. Go round up every gun hand you can find. Every pirate, bounty hunter, outlaw, and misfit that can pull a trigger. Get them down here from Mann if you can. Sober up the drunks. Empty the jails. Bribe the jailors if you have to. But try not to kill anyone. Keep it quiet; the citizens think these men are heroes, and will sound an alarm. But get me an army here. I'll round up all the weapons and ammunition you need.”
Motley looked energized. “What's the plan, boss?”
“I just told you the plan! We're going to kill off the Gatemen. Right here in port, before they ever set sail.”
The next day, the activity was intense in the small section of the docks where Ryland's three ships were moored. In these close quarters goods for the three ships were hauled in and unloaded from wagons and carts. Crates and sacks and boxes filled with linens and hardware, nails and
gunpowder had to be checked and weighed, then netted and loaded on pallets, then hoisted up and over the rails into the holds. There was so much happening that some of the Gatemen were assigned to do nothing but block access from the street. With a tight cordon in place, they turned back all well-wishers and onlookers, assuring that only those with legitimate business could pass.
The shoremen and the crewmen were efficient. What usually took three hours took two. What generally took a day took little more than half. By nightfall on the second day, the activity had thinned and the docks returned to their usual level of bustle. There was little left to be done now but to load the crew's rations and wait for one last wagonload of ammunition. Despite the return of a more leisurely pace, the checkpoints scattered around the docks remained. No one got near a Ryland ship without showing proof of official business.
Runsford Ryland was not seen. His men reported to him from the docks, but he conducted most of his business for those three days from an elegant hotel room in the heart of the city. All sorts of characters came and went, bearing messages in and out. During the day, he saw businessmen and merchants. At night his guests grew rougher; late at night, they grew seedy.
But one nighttime visitor stood out. He wore robes, and not the simple gray of a common priest, but the white and yellow of high office. He entered Ryland's suite with a letter in his hand, a parchment bearing the seal of the High Holy Reverend and Supreme Elder of the Church of Nearing Vast.
A few minutes later, he left Ryland's quarters without it.
Sheriff George “Grub” Haggarty tapped his badge as he passed the checkpoint, then wandered onto the docks below the
Ayes of Destiny
. He stood for a moment, looking her up and down. Two Gatemen, braided leather armbands in place, stood at the foot of the gangway. Haggarty sauntered up to them, touched his badge again.
“Need to talk to your man Damrick Fellows.”
They looked at one another. “We'll call him out.”
“Mind if I go up?” he asked.
The two guards looked at one another again. Then one said, “I'll go with you.”
Haggarty gestured with an open hand, inviting the Gateman to go first.
The guard shook his head. “You go.”
The Sheriff climbed the gangway.
“Excuse me,” he said to a sailor who brushed past him, carrying a duffel up. Haggarty flattened himself against the gangway rail, looking behind him to be sure he wasn't in anyone else's way. Then he hiked the rest of the way up onto the deck.
“The Sheriff here,” the Gateman said to the three men stationed at the top of the rail, “wants to see Damrick.”
“I'll go get him,” one of them answered. But instead he went up the stairs to Lye Mogene, who stood on the quarterdeck. They spoke. Both men turned and looked at the Sheriff. Then Lye came down the stairs. The Sheriff put his hand out as Lye approached.
“I'm not Damrick,” Lye told him. “I just work for him.”
“I know who you are.” He smiled and shook Lye's hand. “You were with Damrick on the
Savage Grace
.”
Lye straightened a bit. “That's right.”
“I saw your speech. I'm Grub Haggarty, the Sheriff here. Nice ship.”
Lye looked around as though he'd never really noticed it. “She'll float.”
“Pulling out in the morning, are you?”
“Early as the weather allows. Damrick's a might busy right now. Can I get 'im a message?”
“Oh, just tell him I'm here. We can talk whenever he finishes what he's doing. I'll wait.”
Lye studied him. “Is there some kinda trouble?”
“I'd just like to speak with Damrick about a few items might be of interest to him.”
“Oh.”
Grub Haggarty's expression said he would look Lye square in the eye for as long as Lye cared to look back.
“I'll go see if he can talk.”
“That would be kind of you.” Grub smiled.
In a few moments Lye returned. “He wants to talk in his cabin, if ye don't mind.”
“I don't mind.” And he followed Lye below decks.
“I'm in favor of what you're doing,” Grub told him. “I want you to know that.”
“Thank you.”
Grub sat in the one small chair by the one small table. Damrick sat on the bed. Both men leaned forward slightly, attentive to one another, as though each expected important news from the other.
“It's not that way in every town.”
“I know.”
The Sheriff watched Damrick's eyes for a while. “Mr. Ryland, now, he's a powerful man.”
“So they say.”
“He didn't seem happy when he came to me yesterday. Said you might be in possession of his ships illegally.”
“We got that worked out. You can speak to him, if you want.”
He waved a hand, dismissing the thought. There was a pause while Grub Haggarty looked around the small room. “You spend a lot of time in here.” There were books, a meal tray, various papers, the pen and ink. The candleholders now held large melted globs of wax at the base.
“I attract attention when I'm out there. Not good for our cause.”
“Rylandâ¦word is he's not too happy with your deal.”
“What deal is that?”
“Whatever deal got you and him on the same side.”
“What are you hearing?”
“Just bits and catches. Like maybe there's something brewing against you. And there are drifters in town. A good number of them I don't know and never heard of. Some bounty hunters I do know. Lots of armed men. A number of them coming and going at the hotel where Ryland stays. People seem to think it's the same bunch bushwhacked you at Slow Slim's in Mann.”
“You're worried there might be a war in your town.”
“The thought occurred to me.”
“I wouldn't fret about it. We'll be gone in the morning.”
A pause. “Ryland stands with Conch Imbry. Doesn't he.” It wasn't a question.
“Ryland stands with Ryland.”
“Harbormaster reports a ship anchored just inside the breakwater.
Lantern Liege
. You heard of it?”
“Scatter Wilkins's ship.”
“I'm told that a pair of his pirates, one of them a woman, came ashore for a while. They were seen at Ryland's hotel.”
“Runsford Ryland has many friends.”
“You don't seem surprised.”
“I'm not. And I won't be, Sheriff. Not tonight and not tomorrow, if that's what's bothering you.”
The Sheriff watched him closely. “I've got some men. We can help.”
“How?”
“Round up some of these gun hands now, get them off the streets.”
“On what charge?”
Haggarty smiled sadly. “There was a time when I would haveâ¦when I wouldn't have made any such offer. Not for any reason. Not for any man. âThe law is the law,' I would say. âIt's not my job to separate the good from the bad, but the law-abiding from the law-breaking.' Butâ¦too many good people end up in jail, or dead; and too many bad people end up walking around breathing free air, and it makes a man think. So I've come to a conclusion.” He paused. “You want to hear it?”
“Yes,” Damrick said. “Yes, I do.”
“It's just this. Sometimes it isn't about good people breaking the law. Sometimes it's about the law breaking good people. And when it gets to that, a man has to make his own choices, no matter who he is or what's his job.”
“I agree with you there.”
“I don't know if you're good people or not, Mr. Fellows. What I hear, you probably are. But I know you're trying to do a good thing. If you want me to make the sweep, I'll make it.”
“And if I don't want you to make that sweepâ¦what would you think then?”
“Then I suppose I'd think you and your boys are prepared to relieve me from the need of it. Maybe for a long time to come.”
“You're the Sheriff. You round up who you want. But my opinion is, it's not necessary. You and your boys can sweep up after. If there's anything left to sweep.”
“That's all I needed to hear.” He stood.
“Sheriff.”
“Yeah?”
“You know the shopkeepers around here?”
“Around where? The docks?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, I know 'em.”
“Can they be trusted?”
“They're good men and women. Family businesses mostly.” He eyed Damrick. “Trusted with what?”
“I'd like to talk to them. You think you could arrange that?”
“Depends. You bringing them into danger, or sending them away from it?”
“That would be their choice, wouldn't it?”
At six in the morning, the light of the gray sky softened the docks, the piers, the posts, the moorings, outlining all in a gauzy haze. The sun had not risen, but the darkness had faded. Echoing footsteps preceded more than a hundred gunmen as they emerged from shadows, flowing down gray streets toward the masts that poked up skeleton-like above the buildings. As they moved, their long rifles, pistols, muskets, blunderbusses came out from beneath riding coats and jackets.
The
Ayes of Destiny
, the
Blue Horizon
, and the
Lion's Pride
sat still and silent, moored in a row, tethered to shore. Out in the harbor, the fading darkness revealed the outline of the shadowy ship that had arrived in the night. On board that ship, dozens of pirates stood ready and waiting, leaning over rails and loading small arms, or tending to cannon. The
Lantern Liege
floated silently at anchor several hundred yards from the docks, blocking the path of Ryland's rogues to the sea.
Runsford Ryland stood on the front stoop of the Harbormaster's office. The docks were filled with gray shapes, and now the air filled with the clicking of hammers. Ryland's goons, his lieutenants, watched him, awaiting a sign. But he stood silently, looking up at the
Ayes of Destiny
, and his men saw a doubt in him. “Where are they?” he asked.
No one answered.
“Damrick Fellows!” he shouted. His voice echoed. There was no movement aboard. No Gatemen stood on guard. None lined the gunwales.
Ryland's mouth worked and his eyes flitted around his ships. “Get up the gangway,” he ordered Motley, again well-dressed, now anxious for orders. “Go find them. Take half the men with you, I don't care. Just get up there.” Then more loudly, more generally, Ryland said, “Fire on any Gateman shows his face!”
A dozen men followed Motley up the unguarded gangway. The ship was silent for a minute or two, and then the goon came to the rail. He shrugged. “Nobody here!”
“Check the other ships,” Ryland said angrily. He didn't move from the stoop.
But soon enough, others confirmed it. There wasn't a soul on board
any of the three ships. Every cabin was cleaned out. The anchor plates remained, but the cannon were gone.
“What now, Boss?”
Ryland sighed. “Comb the harbor. Find the Gatemen.”
“You think they ran?” Motley asked.
“I doubt it. They're somewhere.”
The Gatemen were indeed somewhere. On top of the buildings, on the roofs of the nearby pubs and warehouses and small businesses, on any structure that overlooked the three ships, new gray shapes now emerged. Men in leather armbands, guns in hand. And then on street level, from within those buildings, from within the houses, the offices, the stores, the pubs, yet more silhouettes began to emerge, flowing now out onto the cobblestones. They wore red feathers in their hats, or tucked behind their ears.