Blaggard's Moon (46 page)

When the splashing turned to crashing through the woods, Ryland raised his head. Murk winked his good eye. Stock came up from below. “Lotta ruckus,” he said with a grin.

Damrick's calm eyes peered out from under a broad-brimmed hat as he walked in the shadows of the side streets of Skaelington. He wore a full-length riding coat and kept his hands in its pockets, fingers wrapped
tightly around two loaded pistols. Beside him was Lye Mogene, wearing a shorter coat and no hat. The two finally stopped in a pool of darkness at the foot of a small church. Damrick glanced once at its towering spire, then looked back down the street.

Satisfied they were not followed, and had drawn no one's attention, he motioned to Lye with a nod. Damrick climbed the seven steps to its red front door, Lye Mogene right behind him. He didn't knock, but turned the large brass handle and both men entered.

“Wait here,” Damrick told his lieutenant.

Lye nodded, and positioned himself in front of one of the two small windows of the dark foyer. Damrick went through the door into the sanctuary.

It was black dark within, as though the shadows here cast shadows, and it smelled of must and dust. But it was not unpleasant. In fact, Damrick breathed it in deeply, finding its silence and the feeling of remoteness comforting. He sat in the back pew until his eyes grew accustomed to what starlight came from the few high windows above. He could just make out the shimmering outline of a cross on the wall above the altar.

A door creaked. A shaft of light fell on the cross, and the altar. Then a thin, frail priest in a hooded gray robe shuffled down the center aisle. He was little more than a shadow himself, with only the dim light from the doorway behind him to outline his robes. Damrick slid over, making room, and the priest sat. He was breathing heavily, like a rasp on wood, as though the trek had taken all his strength. He kept his head bowed. The hood shrouded his face.

Damrick waited for him to regain his breath. Then he said, “I have a question to ask you, Father.”

“And I have a message for you.”

Damrick took a folded, sealed parchment from his pocket. “Is this legitimate?”

“What is it?” The priest reached out for it. Damrick could see that his left hand was badly scarred, front and back. Not burns or ragged cuts, but concentric and interlocking patterns, as though his skin had been carved very carefully but very deeply with tiny knives. His hand trembled as though with great age. Damrick placed the parchment in the priest's palm. He felt it, turned it over, examined the broken seal and the ribbon with the fingers of his right hand, the skin of which was similarly patterned.

“This is an official letter from the Church,” the priest said.

“Are you sure?”

“The size, the weight, the paper, the seal. Or it's a very good imitation.”

“We found it hidden on Runsford Ryland's boat.”

“Unopened.”

“It's addressed to Conch Imbry.”

There was a pause. “You want me to open it.”

“I didn't feel it right…” He trailed off.

With one trembling hand the priest lowered his hood, revealing a face covered with the same patterned scars that tattooed his hands and arms. His skin was sallow and jaundiced everywhere except where the reddened scar of an old burn marred and puckered his cheek. “I can do little with the short time left me.” He raised his head, turned it toward Damrick. Father Carter Dent's eye sockets were empty. “But I will do anything I can do to bring down Conch Imbry.”

Damrick swallowed his revulsion until it turned to bitterness in his belly. “Did he do this to you?”

“His Hant chieftain, yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do it. He did.” The priest's carved fingers fumbled, and the seal broke. He unfolded the parchment, and handed it back.

Damrick read it silently. He stared at it a long time. Then he said, “It grants an annulment of marriage to Jenta and Wentworth Ryland.”

“I didn't know they were married.”

“Nor did I. Why would it be addressed to Conch Imbry?”

“Only if he was the one who made the formal request. And I can think of only one reason he would do so.”

Damrick set his jaw. “Yes. It is signed by Jenta also.”

“Coerced?”

Damrick didn't answer. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. “But why all this effort? Ryland says Conch killed Wentworth. That's a much quicker annulment, and much more Conch's style.”

“Maybe she believes Wentworth is still alive. Maybe Imbry lied to her.”

“Or maybe Wentworth actually is alive, and Ryland lied to me.”

“But why?”

“So I would believe he has motive to kill the Conch. So I would believe I should trust him.”

“I hope you don't. Now I have a message for you from the Gatemen.”

He cocked his head. “What is it?”

“It comes from those who call themselves ‘The Black S.' ”

Damrick nodded, waited. The priest referred to the scrap of parchment that designated some Gatemen as those who Serve.

“They want you to know that Conch has put Jenta to work at the Cleaver and Fork.”

“I've heard she works there.”

“He's given her the pub, to run. Their message is this: Conch expects you will try to rescue her. He is sure you will at least attempt to contact her. But do not go there. It's a trap.”

Damrick bowed his head, rubbed his eyebrows.

After a pause, the priest asked, “What will you do?”

He sighed. “What I must do. If that's what Conch expects, so be it.”

“What you must do to get the Conch? Or to get the girl?”

Damrick squinted at the priest. “She and Wentworth stood up to Conch Imbry. They did it by throwing in with me. They're both paying for that decision. Don't you think I owe them?”

“Whatever they have done, they have chosen to do.”

“Thanks for the message, Father.”

“I have another message. This one from a higher power.”

A tingle went down Damrick's spine. “What is it?”

“I don't hear voices as a rule. I believe people know what is right, and are expected to do it. But this…this was different. I don't have much time left here. And I have been given a word of knowledge to pass on to you.”

Damrick waited.

“You will bring down Conch Imbry.”

The message seemed to deflate Damrick, and he put a hand to his forehead. And then, just as quickly, he sat up straight, his shoulders back, and seemed to grow stronger. “Thank you,” he said. And in his voice was a world of gratitude that reached out far beyond a marred and mangled priest in a dark, quiet church.

“It's the pirate's pub!” Lye said urgently. “We don't know who's in there.”

Damrick eyed the Cleaver and Fork from across the street. Like most Skaelington pubs, it was quiet and dark from the outside. But this one was distinctive, painted black with crimson and gold trim, with rich velvet curtains visible through big, wide windows. People inside were visible from the street.

“It's just you and me here,” Lye tried again. “Two men, four pistols. If this is yer plan, Damrick, I got to say it ain't much a' one.”

Damrick still said nothing.

“That priest,” Lye tried, “said it's a trap. Right?”

“He said that's what people believe. He said a lot of other things besides.” He did not take his eyes from the big windows of the pub.

“It's a pretty fancy place,” Lye offered, changing his tack. “We ain't dressed. Prob'ly throw us right out, soon as we set foot in. Don't ye reckon?”

“They might.”

“Asides, Conch's prob'ly got people watchin'. Could be watchin' us right now for all we know,” Lye suggested, looking up and down the street, up to the rooftops. “Makes sense to just keep on walkin'. Come back with three ships full a' Gatemen, when they arrive. Right?”

Suddenly, Damrick pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his eyes and stepped out into the street.

“Hey, ye ain't goin' in there, really. Are ye?”

But Damrick didn't turn back.

After a few muttered curses, Lye said, “Whoa, wait up!”

Damrick chose a table in a dark corner to the right, at the front, and put his back to the wall. Lye sat opposite, but turned his chair so he could not be blindsided. Jenta served tables across the room, near the bar. Damrick watched her as though in a trance. She moved like a vision, smiling in that sad, deep way he had first seen in Mann. And then suddenly, she laughed.

Another barmaid broke his line of sight, asked what he wanted. Lye spoke up for an ale, but Damrick said nothing, so Lye put up two fingers and gave her a wink.

“What're we doin' here, Damrick?” Lye leaned in when she had gone. “Here I thought you been cookin' up all sorts a' fancy plans. What with kidnappin' Ryland and capturin' and then lettin' Motley go, I been worried we're gettin' to where there's more plannin' than straight fightin'. I regret that now, sincerely. I'm tellin' ye, I'd rather we worked out a plan afore we get ourselves into a straight fight in this place. And I mean it.”

“Who says I don't have a plan?”

“Well, me, fer one.” Then after a pause, “Okay, ye seen Jenta. She's fine. She's laughin' and happy. Conch Imbry ain't here. Let's get, and figure out how we can catch 'im.”

Damrick watched Jenta, and Lye watched Damrick.

The barmaid returned with two mugs. “Who is that?” Damrick asked her, nodding toward Jenta. Lye lowered his eyes.

“Who's that?” she repeated in disbelief, hands on hips. “Where you two from, anyways? That's Conch Imbry's woman. Best leave her alone, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking.”

“I'm sure I know her from somewhere.”

“Yeah, that's one I hear a lot.”

“Could you ask her to stop by?”

The girl shook her head. But when she left, she spoke to Jenta. After a few minutes, Jenta glided over to the table. She wore a long crimson gown that somehow matched the draperies, though it was smoother, softer. It was cinched at the waist and cut in a V at the neck, where she was draped in pearls. Her only accommodation to her profession seemed to be a white bar towel that she carried in her hand. As she approached, her expression did not change. She might have been coming to check on any two customers.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” She threw the bar towel over her shoulder and crossed her arms. She looked at Damrick as though from far away.

Damrick said nothing.

Jenta spoke again. “Sal says you recognize me from somewhere. Must have been a very long time ago.”

“Not so long,” Damrick said.

“Long enough,” she answered. “Did you need anything from the kitchen?”

“Jenta.” Damrick's voice was low and urgent. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I run this place. Haven't you heard? I'm Conch Imbry's woman. Everyone in town knows that.”

“Do they?”

“Everyone.” Now he saw a deep stab of pain within her.

And he felt the same within himself. “What happened? What happened to Wentworth?”

She brightened. It was forced. “Now you're prying.” She quickly brushed something from the corner of her eye, a movement hidden inside the sweeping back of a wisp of hair. “You two gentlemen are welcome to drink and eat, but I won't gossip with you about private matters.” She put a hand on her hip. “Now, can I get you something to eat? We have a fresh meat-and-potato pie, still hot. Guaranteed to fortify.”

“What kind a' meat?” Lye asked.

Damrick stared at him.

“Mutton and lamb,” Jenta replied.

“Either one, or mixed together?”

“Mixed. It's a pie.”

“Well, them's two a' my favorites.” He cut a glance at Damrick. “But no thanks, ma'am.” There was a trace of sorrow in his voice.

“Enjoy your ale, then,” she said. And she left them.

“I was curious, is all,” Lye explained. Then when Damrick said nothing, he took a deep breath. “So she's Conch's woman. If she sold out Wentworth, she'll sell us out just as quick. We better get goin'.” He took a big sip of ale, sighed conclusively. “Ready?”

Damrick shook his head. “She's trapped here. Conch has put her up to this.”

“No, we're the ones trapped here. Let's go.”

“Go if you want. But I don't think she's going to reveal us.”

“Why?”

“Because she hasn't done it already. And Conch's men are watching.”

“What? Where?”

“The big man at the bar facing us, and the one slouching at the table by the window in the far corner, his back to the wall.”