by Emerson, Ru
He debated going below at once, decided against it. With the scarf, the hat, all the rest, no one would recognize him ashore at midday; here, with the moon playing crazy tricks on a man’s eyes, and the deck playing worse, he’d stay where he was, check out the newcomer. Someone who could afford such a boat wasn’t likely to be anyone he would know, but Dupret—well, he’d make sure, then tap reassurance on Chris’s door before going to let Dija know all was well. At least the sea is no stronger than an hour ago; I doubt there is any danger we will swamp. He swallowed hard. Best not to think about such a possibility.
The small pleasure craft was suddenly on them; a voice shouted something in what sounded to Edrith like Portuguese. One of the crew shouted back in the same language, then bellowed at his companions in rough French. A rush of men to the far rail, and someone tossed rope down; moments later, a tall, lean man climbed up, eased his leg over, and stepped onto the planks. The captain came onto the deck and hurried across.
“Albione, ici. You left too soon,” the newcomer said stiffly. “I have business in New Lisbon tomorrow, and expected to board at the usual hour. You have obliged me to pursue the ship.”
“Sir, M. Albione, my apologies.” The captain doffed his cap and bowed. “The weather—”
“Yes, yes, well, never mind, such things occur. My luggage—”
His French, Edrith suddenly realized, had gone from as bad as any crewman’s to excellent, frigidly accentless. He felt for the rail behind him with one hand, began to edge back toward the hatch. Two steps, three: He froze as half a dozen men swarmed onto the deck. Albione suddenly held a long-barreled pistol. “Captain M’baddah, unless you wish the Maborre to continue this Voyage without you—or to begin a new one to the bottom of the sea—you will cooperate.”
“Sir—but, sir! I don’t know what you wish!”
“Two passengers came aboard early today, man and woman, richly dressed, she in a very large hat and dark silk gown, four large bags for their luggage—don’t deny it!” he added sharply. “They were seen and identified. I want them.”
“Sir, I cannot—”
“You can! Your ship and your life, against two who mean nothing to you except the cost of their passage!”
“Sir, my repute, that of my people, of my ship!”
“Gone to the bottom before the moon reaches its height,” Albione said flatly. “The price of passage will be guaranteed to you either way. They are no one, to you or to anyone save the man I serve. And Henri Dupret is son of the Due d’Orlean. Choose, and quickly!”
“First cabin, left side at the base of the stairs—”
Edrith took a wary step toward the hatch but froze as one of the men who’d just gained the deck sprinted across the planks and drew a thick-muzzled pistol from his belt. Splatter-shot; one of those nasty things that was good only at close range—like this—but fired a wide band of metal shards and could, they said, maim or kill half a dozen men at once. “No one here moves!” the newcomer shouted; his French was at least as atrocious as that of anyone on deck. Like I would, faced with that thing. Edrith slowly and carefully spread his arms wide to indicate he held no weapon. The crewmen on both sides of him backed toward the rail, and he backed with them. Two of the other newcomers ran light-footed for the hatch.
“What’s that?” Chris sat up, rubbed the pockmarked glass, and swore. Ariadne shushed him vigorously, listened, then stood on the bed, head cocked toward the upper deck.
“I cannot be certain, I think a boat—”
“I see a light out there—I think.”
“Ah. A passenger, angry the ship left early.”
“Oh.” Rich one, Chris thought. Who else would get a boat out here in this kinda weather? Who else would be in such a hurry? He turned away from the window and let the curtains drop into place; Ariadne stepped down from the bed and started toward the door. Footsteps hurrying overhead, down the passage. “Hey, I don’t like the sound of—” Sudden silence; something crashed into their door, shattering bar and door both. Two men jammed into the already-overcrowded cabin. Chris jumped forward, putting himself between the door and Ariadne. “Hey! Do you mind? This is a private cabin, get out!”
One of the two held a broad-barreled pistol, the other a long knife. He shoved hard; Chris lost his balance and fell across the bed. He rolled, threw himself back to his feet, only to find the pistol pressed hard against his chest. “M. Cray. There is a man who would speak with you. And the lady.” He glanced over Chris’s shoulder. “Miss Ariadne, you left the island before your father could bid you proper farewell.”
“My father! Frenault, you will pay for this with your blood, you and this canaille both.” Ariadne spat; the man with the knife scrubbed his cheek and swore.
“Ari,” Chris said quietly. “Don’t. Bad idea, all right?” He moved cautiously toward the side of the cabin when the first man pressed the pistol harder against his breastbone and indicated direction with his head. The knife wielder backed up, Ariadne’s arm in a hard grip.
“Do you care for him?” Frenault asked flatly. “Or at least for the state of your dress and your luggage?”
Chris winced as the barrel dug into his skin. “I think he means it, Ari. This thing—makes a mess, okay? Blood and stuff everywhere.”
The knife wielder looked around the small cabin. “There were two others—his man and a servant?”
Chris shrugged cautiously. “She’s Rhadazi, couldn’t handle all the foreign stuff, we sent her back north on the train.” Frenault gave him a look; Chris shrugged again. “Hey, you got contacts, you can check it. Eddie had to go with her, ‘cause she only speaks Rhadazi.”
“Armann, you ask Tomaso, when we get up top. He had the message that was wired from Marie Donne, he was watching the port when these two came to buy passage. He can wire to the train.” Ariadne glanced at Chris; her lips twisted. “Thought yourselves unnoticed, did you? There has been one man or another keeping an eye on that private car most of your journey south. M, Dupret knows how to manage these things, and he has many allies.”
“Yeah,” Chris said flatly. “I notice.”
“Tell her about the pistol, and what it does when fools challenge the holder of such a weapon,” Frenault said. He stepped back, held it so it covered both of them.
Ariadne brought her chin up. “I know of such coward’s weapons.”
“Stay still, and this coward will not need to use it upon you. Armann, bind them.”
It wouldn’t work, he knew it wouldn’t; he had to try. “Hey,” Chris said softly. “Leave the lady, all right? I’m the one causing Dupret trouble, and she’s only—” He fell prudently silent as the pistol barrel tapped lightly against his throat. Ariadne closed her eyes.
“M. Dupret would not hear of such a thing, to let his daughter travel in such a ship alone. But he wishes to see her once more.”
“He will be sorry that he ever wished it,” Ariadne said.
Back on deck, Edrith kept his hands carefully in sight and held his breath. Noise down there—plenty of it, but unfortunately nothing that made sense above the racket up top and the whine of wind through the rigging. Dija, I swear if you break your word I will throttle you myself and let Vey… If Dija left the cabin, Vey wouldn’t matter because none of them would see him again. Albione was arguing with one of his own men; the captain shouting at both impartially; he couldn’t make out much until the aristocratic Frenchman bellowed, “Silence!” Silence he got. “Erionis says there were other passengers, two of them?”
“An Englishman, a trader and his lady—”
“Ah, to hell with the English,” Albione snapped. Edrith bit the corners of his mouth. Yes, you don’t dare fence with the English, even so far from their own waters, do you? Apparently his ear for accent-was as good as he thought it—that, or the captain’s was tin. Good choice, in any event. I hope. They were far from safe yet—Albione might decide to sink the ship and hope the weather would get the blame.
Someone shouting down the hatch
way; he bit his lip again. Dija, you swore to me… But a scant moment later, Albione’s men came back into sight, dragging Chris and Ariadne with them. Both were heavily bound. Albione gestured; the two were brought over to him. “Captain. You have the money they paid for passage, and I leave you their baggage and other goods, that should go far to settling the cost of your ship’s ‘honor.’ And your own. If you are wise, you will forget the entire incident.”
“Incident,” M’baddah snarled, but he spoke to the Frenchman’s back; Albione gestured imperiously. Chris met Edrith’s eyes without any sign of recognition, was bustled after Ariadne, and moments later both were gone, lowered to the small sailing ship. The man guarding crew and Edrith held his pistol at the ready, backed slowly away. Moments later, he too was gone, the nobleman’s fancy yacht turned and on its way south. Edrith ran to the rail, peered anxiously after it. If they went back inland, he’d have to find a way, bribe the captain to set him and Dija ashore once more…
But the small vessel continued south, avoiding San Philippe and its harbor entirely. Another ship, then? The way Albione talked—that surely meant there was a ship out there, ready to weigh anchor and head for French Jamaica. But he couldn’t see anything. Behind him, pandemonium. Edrith weighed several options, finally shook his head and pushed his way through to the captain. Poor Chris. Thought we’d all be safe until we reached New Lisbon. Poor Dija; she must be half-frantic, wondering what was going on. Little brown sand gods, I wish I were a wealthy English trader. Such a man could calmly take charge in such a situation. For a young Rhadazi who had not so many years earlier been a very low-class market thief… He drew a deep breath, folded his arms across his chest. “Captain M’baddah.” His English accent probably wasn’t as good as it had been earlier; the captain didn’t seem in any condition to notice, though. “The man Dupret—the local authority isn’t any match for him. I think it best if you leave for New Lisbon as quickly as possible and report this matter.”
“Report. Of what use to report? They are gone!”
“The French consul, of course. Dupret is an important man, but not the only in French Jamaica; he must answer to others who may not wish scandal over such an incident.” His voice gained strength, the accent felt right, all at once. “Also, my own government will lodge protest with the French; my lady and I might have been murdered in our tracks, it is intolerable.”
The captain touched his forehead. “My good sir—”
“Scarcely your fault, my good captain. Ordinarily one doesn’t encounter such villains aboard a good ship like your own.” Edrith glanced around; the small ship was nowhere in sight. “I had better go below, reassure my lady there’s no cause for alarm. I’ll vouch for you once we reach New Lisbon, of course. Nothing you could have done but get yourself murdered. Filthy cutthroats,” he added in a low, arrogant voice as he turned and stalked down the deck.
His knees wanted to tremble; aware of the captain and crew watching him, he managed to maintain the persona he’d put on as they left the train—gods, was it only this morning? I don’t know if I can hold on to this. Well, he didn’t have any choice, did he? Captain M’baddah and his crew had enough problems at the moment. Worse still: Dija would be dreadfully worried; it wouldn’t get any better when he actually told her what had happened.
5
Chris’s head ached. Midday sun slammed down on the open deck and the air was even worse than that of the day before: thick, sullen, unbearably hot. The sail above him hung limp, as it had for most of the morning, but the deck pulsed rhythmically; his lips twisted. Sure, Dupret, you don’t know from steam ships. Me, too. The, Amiable churned steadily through flat seas, angling south and a little east, sending a trail of steam/smoke behind her.
He glanced at Ariadne; she must be at least as miserable as he was, trussed both to him and to the mast. And she had all those skirts, all that extra material. The skirts were wrapped around her legs; she probably couldn’t have moved them even if their guards would have let her. She raised her head briefly, froze as one of the two men on guard snarled gutter French at her, let it fall to his shoulder once more. Chris shifted warily, stretched his stiff, unmanacled legs out, very slowly indeed, and crossed them. Didn’t help his backside, which had gone to sleep hours earlier—like the arm Ariadne was using for a pillow. No testing the shackles on the hands and arms and no talking.
He didn’t really need to remind himself; Albione had put four hulking guards on them from the moment they were hauled onto Maborre’s deck, and they’d made the rules clear immediately—and painfully. Nearly an hour of tacking and wallowing in disgustingly rough waters on that little yacht had brought them here, where they’d been chained to each other and to the main mast, ropes and all. Two of the guards had stayed with them; there were always two, sometimes three, all visibly armed and watching them very closely indeed. So I’m about thirty pounds heavier for all the chain, I can’t move an inch, and all I do is ask one of them, “Now what?” and he almost kicks my teeth in. Like, what, we’re supposed to be able to cook up a getaway out here, like this? It would be funny or flattering—maybe both—if it weren’t so damned uncomfortable.
He was very thirsty; Albione had ordered them given water every other hour, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Well, hey, everything’s got a bright side, at least I’m not gonna have to ask for the toilet. Bet they’d love that. But the water’s probably right out of that swamp they call a lake in San Philippe. Watch me die of dysentery before Dupret ever gets his hands on me, swear I’ll haunt him forever. His stomach hurt, but that, logic applied, was nerves mixed with lack of food—nothing since bread and nut butter from the hamper aboard the Maborre, nearly a day earlier. And that orange. He ordered himself to forget about the orange—the wonderfully juicy, sweet orange….
Wonder where Eddie and Dija are now. He sighed, very faintly. If Eddie’d done the right thing, if the Maborre hadn’t gone back to San Philippe, they’d be docked in New Lisbon by now—and Eddie and Dija would be on their way to Mondego. Keep that wire office in mind, guy, get your butt up there, fast. That captain could spend the rest of his life in San Philippe trying to get someone to even listen to him bitch. Mondego’s our best chance—if we got a chance at all. At least Eddie would know where they went, when they weren’t seen alive again. Where the bodies are. Sorry, Mom, Jen. Sorry, Ariadne. But, hey, I got no idea how we’re gonna get out of this one.
Someone in the bow shouted excitedly; he couldn’t make out what for the steam engine noises under him and the two guards arguing. What now? He couldn’t understand most of what they said, best of times. Si-lahns! came across just fine, of course; probably as well he didn’t know the rest of what followed French for shaddup! Kinds of words Mom doesn’t like me to use in any language, betcha. Nasty imputations about my parentage and all. If only they knew. Ariadne shifted a little and murmured, “Land—” against his ear. One of the guards closed the distance between them and slapped her, hard; she yelped in surprise and pain, then spat and swore viciously at the guard. He raised his hand again; she closed her mouth and glared at him instead. Chris gritted his teeth and prudently kept his fury behind them; last time he’d tried to defend her, he’d nearly eaten one of those long, ugly daggers. Not that he was any good to her just now, but he’d be of even less use dead.
Remember that, he ordered himself. You might just be able to pull something off, down the line; you won’t if you’re Purina Shark Chow.
Of course, if this whole charade was leading where he knew it must eventually lead, Dupret would meet them at the wharf in Philippe-sur-Mer and shoot them or run them both through on the spot. Messy but effective. It’s only in comic books and movies that the bad guy gives the good guy a chance to get loose and run. Besides, who’s gonna tell him he can’t spill blood all over the docks, or arrest him if he does?
Albione stuck his head up through the hatch and gestured; one of the men ran over from the bow, squatted down, and spoke to him in a low, rapid voice. Albione gestured
sharply, the man shook his head, then ran back to the bow. Albione came up onto deck, ran a hand over already smooth hair, and stretched. Yah, lookit him, Chris thought in disgust. He’s been sleeping, probably had a nice, cool drink and a snack—one chance at this jerk, just one. The crewman came back; Albione listened to him for some moments, his eyes absently studying whatever he could see beyond the ship’s rail that cut off Chris’s view. He nodded, gestured dismissal, and came over to the main mast. For some moments, he stood, hands on his hips, looking down at his prisoners. Ariadne tilted her head back so she could gaze down her nose at him; her eyes were chill. Chris knew his color was high. So I’m pissed, I’m supposed to care if he knows it? Silence. Albione laughed shortly.
“I see you both are capable of learning how to follow rules. Quelle surprise, I did not think either of you had so much intelligence. Miss Ariadne, your father sends word he looks forward to seeing you once again.” Silence. The least of smiles moved the corners of his mouth, was gone. “You have both caused M. Dupret quite enough trouble.” He glanced at the guards. “Get them water,” he ordered in French, then added in English, “We remain out here until dark; there will be another signal when the carriage is on its way to the docks. I tell you this now so you will understand clearly: You will not speak to anyone, either of you—not to my men or to each other—or these men will beat you senseless. You will make no attempt to escape, either of you, or both are dead. Do you understand?” Chris eyed him narrowly, finally nodded once. “Miss Ariadne?” She inclined her head, then turned away from him. Albione spun on one heel and walked back to the hatch.
