Blaggard's Moon (52 page)

“Yes.” He dropped his eyes. “He'll come.”

“Why?”

Damrick stood, crossed to the bed, sat. “Because Conch will want to take his vengeance on Wentworth. So I have to go there to save him. He knows you will tell me where Wentworth is, and so he knows I will go there. I have to go try to save him, and Conch has to go try to kill him. Neither of us has a choice.”

“We all have choices.”

“I suppose so. And this is mine.”

Delaney watched the reeds and grasses. Still quiet. He looked up into the sky. It was near dark now. Where last time he looked around it had been darkness coming to shade out the light, now it seemed the other way around, with just a little bit of light left to glow up what was pretty much darkness otherwise.

“Light's dyin' now, for sure,” he said aloud. But he knew it wasn't dying. It was just going away overnight. It would be back, shining bright tomorrow, and every day, day after day, on the same trees, the same leaves. No, the light wasn't dying. Delaney was. The world turned on, not caring a whit who lived or died, just doing the same things it ever did. But there were some times, it seemed like, when the uncaring world caught people up in it as it turned, like when a man gets a foot caught in a loop of line when the windlass is whirring and he gets yanked overboard, busting up a bunch of bones. Which Delaney had seen once. The fellow lived, but broke his foot and leg up bad, and hobbled around ever after. But even when it wasn't a line or a rope or any other thing you could see or name, it seemed there were some things in the world that could catch people up and take them places they wouldn't go otherwise, but they had to go anyway. Seemed like there were some things that were going to happen to people, no matter what, no matter how much a person did or didn't want it, even when they saw it coming.

Like in Mumtown. Damrick had had to go there, and so had Conch, and both had to go because they figured the other one would, and neither wanted to get there second. So neither one could not go. They'd gotten caught in that loop of the world's line.

Like Damrick and Jenta aboard the
Success
. They couldn't just sail straight to Cabeeb Island, because they had to go intercept the three Ryland ships with all the Gatemen, because they needed the Gateman to fight the Conch. But because they had to go get those ships, they lost the time and the chance to get there first. Not that they knew that at the time. They didn't. They thought they'd got there first. But if they'd really got there first, they wouldn't have had to fight the Conch because he wouldn't have been there yet, so they wouldn't have needed the Gatemen. It was a little like that old story about Firefish, where you needed to eat its flesh to be strong enough to kill one so that you could eat its flesh. Except with Conch and Damrick and Mumtown, it all just sort of wound together, closer and closer, not in circles like a game of
Round-the-Monkey, but more like a whirlpool. Like a maelstrom that wound you in closer and closer until you just went down the hole and no one ever saw you again alive. Once you're in, there's no getting out again, either.

And like Delaney, who was just sitting on a post now, but who had nowhere to put his mind, nowhere for it to go but back to the story. He felt like a loop of line in the world was pulling him right down again, back to Mumtown. Ham would tell the story again, starting with that dream of the fast ship and the girl singing, and Delaney would wake up in that jail cell. And pretty soon there would be Conch Imbry again, standing next to Mart Mazeley, the unimpressive man, bleeding from Conch's whip. And there would be Dallis Trum, pleading for Delaney to save him, and Delaney would save him and Kreg both by swearing to follow the Conch, to kill when Conch said kill, and die when Conch said die. And then there'd be Avery, doing a good thing. Doing a right thing. A hard thing. Sent straight to heaven, all prepared and ready, by that single shot from Conch Imbry's pistol.

But that wouldn't be all.

No, there would be more. And Ham would tell it.

The next thing that he would tell, that's the part that always kept Delaney's mind running away, or his feet moving, so he wouldn't ever have to remember it, so he wouldn't ever have to face it. But Ham would tell it. Everyone didn't have to listen, but no one could stop the tale. That was the vortex, the dark maelstrom he could ignore for a time, but would always pull him back. It was the loop in the line of the world that caught his foot. It happened, true and certain, and it would be told. Ham only told what was.

“Called hisself a ‘true hand,' ” Conch Imbry intoned. Smoke rose from his pistol. “My own feelin' is somewhat different.” He addressed an attentive, silent, dumbstruck audience. “True hands, ye see, are true only if they're true to
me
.” Now he looked from eye to eye until he'd seen into every living captive soul whose body was tied to a cell bar in Castle Mum. Avery Wittle no longer fit that category. His wrists were still tied, and his body was captive, slumped back away, arms outstretched, head lolled back, mouth open. But it housed a living soul no more.

The gunshot still rang in Delaney's ears when he heard himself say, “Look away, now, youngster.” He said this to the Trum boy, Dallis, who was standing there with his mouth dropped open, too.

Dallis tore his eyes away, blinking against the sting of a tear.

“You.” Conch pointed at Delaney with the smoking pistol. “Ye got a soft spot fer the boy. It'll hurt ye.”

“He's a bit young for such, is all,” Delaney answered with a sniff.

“Aw, I shot my first man when I wasn't yet his age.”

“Still…” Delaney started, but couldn't think of a way to finish.

“Seems to me,” Conch said, walking to Delaney, “that all you men jus' swore to kill when I say kill and die when I say die. Ain't that right?”

There were nods all around, but no one spoke up. Other than Sleeve, who swore allegiance again on the spot without even being asked.

“Anyone wanna go back on that promise?” Conch asked, looking at Delaney.

Every man shook his head. Except Sleeve, who said, “No, sir!”

“Mr. Meeb, bring me my other prisoner.”

Horkan
Meeb nodded and left.

“Mr. Mazeley, would ye be so kind as to reload my pistol?”

“Gladly.”

The jailor returned in less than a minute with a thin, sick-looking man in tow. The prisoner was tall, but hunched over. He dragged his feet and his ankle chains clattered. His wrists were manacled together and his arms hung straight down, like the chains were too heavy for him. His eyes were black and sunken. His clothes, which were clearly of a fancy make and design, were stained and matted, torn here and there. His eyes were dull. The skin of his face and hands was caked and cracked and blistered, so it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was canker. He smelled strongly of urine.

“Set him on the stump,” Conch ordered.

Meeb helped the man sit on the wide, natural platform in the center of the courtyard. The prisoner slumped forward, shoulders sagging, head hung down weakly. Delaney thought he might fall over, but he stayed seated as the jailor stepped away.

“Ye crossed me,” Conch said to the hunched man. “I shoulda stepped on ye then, like the mouse ye are. But yer woman, turns out she ain't a mouse. She's a rat.”

Now the man's face came up. “She's escaped,” he croaked. Then, as Conch's face went sour, the man's face went calm. A peacefulness stole over him. And he lowered his head again. That's when Delaney got the idea that maybe Wentworth wasn't just tired and sick, and hanging his head because of it, but maybe he was praying.

“This man crossed me,” Conch announced, walking up and down in front of the prisoners. “I want him dead. Now, who will help me out?”

Sleeve said, “I will, Cap'n.”

“Cut that man loose,” Conch replied.
Horkan
Meeb obliged. “Stand over there,” Conch said to Sleeve, pointing to a spot beside the tree-trunk platform. “Let's see who else is willin' and able.”

No one else volunteered.

Then Conch walked up to Delaney again, and looked him in the eye. “You, sailor.”

“So how was I supposed to know?” Delaney said aloud to the dank air of the pond, and to the invisible
Jom Perhoo
below the surface, and the invisible God above. “He was just a ragged prisoner, half-dead already. I figured he was a cutthroat who crossed the Conch.”

But he didn't seem to be a cutthroat, did he?

“I guess not. But Conch, he woulda killed me if I hadn't done it, and then Sleeve or some other body woulda killed Wentworth anyways. And then I'd a' died for no reason.”

Except for Avery's reason.

Delaney held his breath. That was the sticking point. That was the barb that hooked him every time. That was the pile of rocks at the bottom of the whirlpool. It was Avery's choice that made Delaney's look so poor. A good man dies before he'll do bad. It doesn't have anything to do with anything else. And there's no way around it, once you've seen it up close like that. Good men do good. And they pay whatever price is to be paid for doing it. Avery did. That priest did. And then Wentworth did.

And that's the way it works.

But Delaney did not do good. He did bad. He did it, and it was done, and it could never be undone.

The Trum boys, they never looked up to Delaney the same way again. It was like they were scared of him, and it seemed like they gave him a wide berth even when they were right nearby. And always, they gave him that look. Like he was dangerous. Like he was some sort of monster. Or at least, some sort of animal. And so Delaney knew he was truly a pirate. He'd turned.

And the worst of it was, killing Wentworth Ryland was not the end of Delaney's crimes that day.

Success
sailed into Cabeeb Bay just ahead of the rain. It had been threatening all day, with that wall of dark clouds building up behind them like
some fell prophecy not yet fulfilled. Lightning could be seen jumping around within it, and an occasional low rumble reached out from it, reminding them of what was coming. Another five minutes and it would be on top of them.

Damrick scanned the bay carefully, ship to ship to ship, but did not see the
Shalamon
. He lowered his spyglass. “Conch isn't here. Head into port,” he ordered.
Success
was already flying straight toward the inlet, where the docks were built deep into the city.

“Yer sure?” Lye asked. “What if he's moored up in there?”

“Not like Conch to corner himself. And if he is there, we have the faster ship. We'll have time to turn and run, wait for our Gatemen.”

“But if not, we still got a castle to scale.” He was gazing up at the blackened rock fortress above and behind the city.

“But that's where we're headed. No one knows this ship. Surprise is on our side.”

Lye took a deep breath, let it out in an unduly drawn-out sigh.

“What?”

“Nothin'.”

“What is it?”

“I'll get the boys ready fer a fight.” But he didn't move.

“Lye, we've been through a lot. You've always trusted me before. What's bothering you this time?”

“Ye want me to say it?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Lye took a deep breath. “All right then. I'll say it. What are we doin' here, Damrick?”

“You ask that every time.”

“Well,” he grumped. “Don't mean I don't want an answer. What are we doin' here?”

“Other than getting Wentworth out of that prison?”

“I'm sayin', why not let's moor up in some cove like we did in Skaelington. Go in quiet, find out what's what.”

“Cabeeb Island has no coves like that.”

“An inlet then.”

“Once Conch gets here, he'll turn the town loose on us. Now's our chance to get in and get out. We don't have time.”

“We cain't just walk in and pull our guns and say, ‘Give us the skinny man with the crooked teeth.' This ain't a pub we're takin' over. It ain't even the
Savage Grace
. It's a castle. A fortress.”

“You've always gone in with me before. And we've always come out.”

“Aye, but it's always been about killin' pirates before.” He said it darkly, almost under his breath.

“What is it about now, Lye?” Damrick's voice had an edge.

“I don't know, but it ain't about what it was about back when. Yer takin' crazy chances, and I don't know why.”

“You said the same before we went after Sharkbit Sutter.”

“But ye shot the pirate and shut me up. We were in Skaelington,
Skaelington
, fer two days. But we didn't shoot no pirates, Damrick. Not a one. Hit a couple of 'em in the head. Stole another one's woman. Then we ran. Din't even kill Ryland, who's as big a pirate as they come. Nor Motley. No one.”