My Lord and Spymaster sl-2

by Joanna Bourne

  Down below, in the cargo deck, they twisted her arms behind her and pushed her into a locker built tight to the hull. They kicked it closed and locked the door behind her and left her alone in the dark.

  “HE wants her for ransom. And to give to the French.” Sebastian paced the carpet. “She’s only valuable to him alive. He has to keep her alive.” He was trying not to think about all the ways Jess could be hurt, and stay alive.

  Beggars, thieves, cutthroats, and pimps detoured around him, making their way to Lazarus for orders. Word was spreading out. Every minute, more and more of the scum of the earth were looking for Jess.

  Somewhere out there, she was afraid. Maybe hurt. He wouldn’t believe she was dead.

  He stepped over the ferret. Adrian had let it loose in here for some goddamned reason. It kept getting underfoot. “Quentin won’t risk moving her twice. They’ll take her directly to the ship.” What else? There had to be more he could figure out. “It’ll be a small ship. Fifty tons or less. Small enough to have a crew that can be trusted to keep quiet. They’re smugglers or worse. He wouldn’t try this with an honest crew. We’re looking for a small ship with a bad reputation.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Lazarus signal his boy, Twist, to his side, and whisper orders, “. . . tell the Measle . . . Bernardo . . .”

  Quentin had been listening to Jess at dinner every night. He had to know the net was closing. Quent had laid plans for his escape. “Look for a ship’s been sitting idle a week, with the crew aboard. They’ll have some excuse.”

  Lazarus said, “Take those words with you. Pass them along. Don’t stand there. Go.”

  Twist sprinted down the room. Adrian wandered over to stand next to Lazarus. “He’s slow. You can’t get good help.”

  “Some of you turn out better than others.” Lazarus eyed him. “Some even go honest, like Jess.”

  “Using the broadest possible definition of honest, yes. Is Twist the best you could do?”

  “He’s new to it. It’ll be another couple months before he stops thinking he’s smart.” Lazarus contemplated the doorway. “You been careless with my Jess, Hawker. I expected better of you.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Too bad for Jess.”

  “Sebastian will get her back. If she’s alive under the sun, he’ll get her back.”

  “I hope you’re right. But part of her never healed up from being scared so bad, that last time, when she got hurt. She’s fragile inside, in the heart of her. Like eggshells. If we’re too long about it, I don’t know what we’ll get back.”

  Doyle was talking to a pale-haired woman with a baby in her lap. She sat cross-legged on a small rug, wrapped in the long sable coat. Her hair was a snow-colored curtain, loose around her, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.

  “That’s the girl you sent to Eunice, isn’t it?” Adrian said.

  “Fluffy. She showed up at the door last night, saying she was my responsibility, if you please, and I wouldn’t get rid of her that easy. I don’t know what to do with her,” he scowled at her a minute, “. . . or that damned smelly bundle she’s so fond of. She’s named it after me.” He pushed to his feet. “I’d better stir her up to get us some tea. It’s going to be a long day. And you can tell me why you brought that bloody ferret with you.”

  DARK was solid as the wood around her. She could reach out and touch every edge of the locker they’d put her in. It smelled of old contraband . . . tobacco, brandy, tea. Water slapped just on the other side of the planks, cold and angry-sounding. When she put her hand down to hold Mama’s locket, she remembered it was gone. She’d thrown it away. The last thing gone.

  She curled up in the Dark. She could see Sebastian in her mind as clear as if he was next to her. See him the way he looked this morning, in bed, with the sun on him in long streaks.

  Sebastian would think she’d left with Pitney. He’d think she went to Pitney right from his bed without saying good-bye, not intending to come back. He might even think she’d been part of Cinq all along.

  He wouldn’t come looking for her. No one would come.

  Dark wins, in the end. The last candle goes out and Dark wins.

  A rat scuttled in the passage next to her. Rats. She made herself into a tight ball and put her hands over her face. Somebody nearby began moaning a single note.

  No. Not nearby. She was the one doing it.

  “WILL you stop that! Bloody blazes.” Sebastian plucked the bedamned ferret off the table. “Get your nose out of that.”

  The old woman who kept Lazarus’s records hissed like a stray cat and scraped her bangles and gold chains back into a pile. The ferret had collected himself a ribbon and was too busy holding onto its booty to bite him. He tugged the ribbon away from the pointy white teeth.

  The thin blue ribbon had a gold coin hanging on it.

  Not a coin. He was holding a plain gold locket, buffed smooth against flesh, worn to a soft glow. He opened it with his thumbnail. A design was etched inside, delicate and perfect. A flower.

  “This belongs to Jess,” he said.

  Lazarus took it from him. “You’re right. Jess wears this. Who brought it in?”

  JESS lay on her side in the cell. If she was quiet, maybe the rats wouldn’t come. But they smelled you. Even if you held your breath, they smelled you and found you.

  I can’t get out.

  Bad dreams. She was caught in bad dreams. She was back to being a kid, that last time on the roofs, when she fell. Rotten timbers gave way. The air shaft in the old warehouse collapsed around her, and nobody came. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody could hear.

  I can’t get out. Bricks and wood and plaster came tumbling down on top of her, pinning her down. Burying her alive.

  She got so thirsty. When she couldn’t scream anymore, she made a sound like air squeezing out of a bag. Then the rats came.

  “You can’t have me.” She told the rats that. She kept telling the Dark that, hour after hour. Telling the Dark, “Leave me alone.” The rats didn’t listen. Her hands got slick with blood, fighting them off.

  The Thames River was at her back, on the other side of the boards. Dark as blood, that river. Old dreams crawled out of it and sucked at her. The worst dreams. She knew how they ended and she couldn’t get out of them.

  The smell of shattered wood and plaster and mold filled her lungs. She was so thirsty, and she couldn’t get out.

  The Dark won. She gave up and didn’t remember doing it.

  She wasn’t fighting anymore when Lazarus crawled in and woke her up and dragged her out. He hurt her. Pain washed, red and black, again and again, when he uncovered her. The Dark tried to get him, too. Timbers caved in. Lazarus kept the falling bricks off her with his own body. He jostled and pulled and carried her through the Dark, pain after pain.

  “Hold on, Jessie. One more stretch and we’re out.”

  Then they were in the padding crib. In the dream she heard herself say, “I’m cold.”

  “You’ll be warm in a little while.” Lazarus held her wrapped in a blanket against his chest. He was bothering her with a cup. “Drink this.”

  It was an order. She tried to make her mouth obey. “Don’ want it. Wanna go to sleep.”

  “You can’t go to sleep till you drink it, Jess.” So she tried. She couldn’t make her lips work.

  “Here’s the man who’s going to fix your arm. You finish drinking this, and you’ll go to sleep.” Dark laid layer after layer around her. Buried her. “When you wake up, it’ll be over.”

  Cold fingers closed on her arm. Exploring fingers, like evil icicles.

  “It ’urts. It ’urts bad.”

  Men whispered. More hands came to hold her still. Agony hit like black lightning. She screamed and fell into the Dark.

  In the hollow aftermath, Lazarus said, “Go ahead and cry, Jess. That’s right. Nobody here to see you but me and Black John. Just your friends. Nobody else.”

  Lots of nightmares hid inside her,
waiting to come out. They were with her in the whispering Dark.

  There’s always something to do.

  Shaking, she pushed herself up to her feet, hunched over. Not much room in here. The wood was damp and chill, slimy to touch.

  It wasn’t just nightmares in her. There were good days to remember. Think about . . . the Greek islands. Flowers. Air clear as glass. And she’d seen the northern lights over the snow fields in Russia. Think about that. She’d named a Whitby ship Northern Light. Pretty little sloop.

  The hull was at her back, only the cold water of the Thames beyond it. What about this overhead? She braced herself on damp wood and pounded with the heel of her hand, trying to jar something loose. Solid as the earth, this wood. They just had to build this damn locker like it was going to hold wild bears.

  Remember good days. Think about Sebastian leaning over her in the garden, dark as the devil, laughing at her. “It’s square. Look,” and he showed her the stem of the horehound. She could smell the clean, green smell of it like it was in here with her.

  She kicked at the doorframe, where it swung closed. Weakest point.

  She could see the purple of those flowers Sebastian held. Delicate as butterflies, they lay safe inside his hand, in a circle of muscles like steel.

  Sebastian was going to find her. Any minute now, he’d come. Or next week or in six months. That was one of those things you could count on. The sun would rise. Sebastian would come for her.

  Dark chuckled down the back of her neck like a drip of cold water. Always wins, Dark does.

  SEBASTIAN stalked down the wharf, assessing ship by ship. Some of them were already casting off, drifting into the current of the Thames. These were coast huggers here below Asker Street. Scows and dirty fishing boats and coal barges. There were too many to search, and Jess could be in any of them. There was no time.

  “About ’ere.” The young thief swept an expansive hand. “Somewheres along of ’ere, more er less. Found it onna ground.”

  Dozens of ships on the wharf ahead. More farther down. There were too many. They’d never find her. “Let it loose. Do it.”

  Adrian set the cage down and pulled back the bolt and opened the door. The ferret spilled out like it’d been poured from a cup. It circled and looped, back and forth as if it wanted to test a smell from all directions. Then it put its nose to the ground and dug excitedly.

  “Now, ain’t ’e the smart little ratter.” The boy walked over and squatted down on the muddy boards. “It were roight ’ere. Picked that bauble up roight ’ere. Good as a dog, ain’t ’e?”

  Kedger took off, flowing over the rough, uneven planks. Sebastian paced after it, pulling a pack of silent men behind him.

  He was a fool to follow a bloody furpiece. But it was the only chance he had.

  GOOD Lord, but it stank. Quentin pressed a scented handkerchief over his nose and tried not to breathe.

  “She’s in ’ere.” The sailor held the lantern up to a section of wood. Behind the panel, the Whitby girl didn’t make a sound. She was in there planning something.

  “If it’s alla same wif yer . . .” The sailor hawked and spat on the deck. “I’d jest as soon ’ave a man at my back if I open this up.”

  She’d shot a bandit in Turkey, once. He’d heard the story, but he’d never believed it. Not till now. Not till he’d seen with his own eyes what she could do. She’d punched a sailor in the face and broken his nose, shrieking like a fishwife. Clawing and kicking like an animal. What was Whitby thinking, raising his daughter to be a savage?

  A day or two in this foul hole without food or water would go a long way toward making her sensible. Naturally, he didn’t want to hurt her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. Not willingly. But sometimes a man didn’t have a choice.

  “Jess.” The wood felt clammy on his cheek when he pressed himself close. “Answer me, Jess.”

  Silence.

  “If you’re good, I’ll let you out. But you have to behave yourself. I’m not going to hurt you if you behave yourself.”

  He’d let her out when she was weaker. She had to be in a state to listen to reason. He’d open the door then. Not yet.

  But it was . . . disturbing to hear nothing at all.

  “You’re in no danger, Miss Whitby. You won’t be hurt if you cooperate.” He couldn’t hear her breathing. Had she died in there? They’d hit her hard. Maybe he should check . . . “You’ll be perfectly safe. You have my word of honor. I’m asking for nothing but rational cooperation.” She was his prize. His gift to Napoleon. The Whitby heiress. A man who moved in the first circles of government, the way he did, understood these matters. This insolent, bumptious girl was the vessel of power. Power in the East. He’d give that power to France. “You’ll be perfectly comfortable. I’m a decent man. This doesn’t have to be frightening for you.”

  He’d take her to the house on the coast and keep her there till she was a fit gift to the Republic. Weeks. Or months. It might take months till she was humbled and cooperative. He might even find a way to collect ransom from her father. That would be clever. That would be best. Yes.

  No sound came from the storage locker. She was playing with him, trying to trick him into opening the door. He wasn’t that stupid. Let her lie in her own filth for a while. She wouldn’t be so damned superior then.

  “Don’t force me to be . . . stern. It’ll be your choice if I have to hurt you. Remember that.”

  Why didn’t she answer?

  The sailor pulled at his sleeve. “We’re casting off, sir. I gotta be on deck.”

  “You’ll leave when I say—” The sailor just walked away, taking the lantern with him. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t give you permission to leave. Do you think I can be flouted by a . . .” He had no choice but to follow the lantern. There was no other light in this filthy hole.

  Did this dolt think he could get away with this insolence? Blodgett would deal with him. He’d tie this blockhead over the yardarm and beat him till his skin peeled off. That was justice at sea. Manly justice. The ship was a microcosm of the rational social order. Everyone working for the good of the whole. Like the Republic. When he explained it to Jess, eventually she’d understand. The social order was too valuable to allow one person’s selfishness to threaten it. Jess would learn not to fight him. If she got hurt, it was really her own fault.

  He climbed out of the companionway into the sunlight . . . and tripped over Blodgett. The captain of the Lark sprawled limp across the ladder, his eyes staring, the handle of a knife sticking out of his throat.

  A dozen men moved across the deck, perfectly silently killing people. One of them was Sebastian.

  It was happening so fast. Why hadn’t anyone come to warn him?

  This was horrible. Horrible. Ten feet away, a man thrashed on the deck, his throat slit. That could have been him. He had to get to his cabin and barricade himself in there till the fight was over. If he stayed on deck, somebody might kill him by mistake.

  Sebastian didn’t slow down, didn’t speed up, just came inexorably toward him.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything was falling apart.

  “Don’t come any closer.” He pulled the pistol out and backed to the railing. He’d have to run for it. A great man knows when to cut his losses. He’d leave it all behind. He still had the bank account in France and the guineas in his money belt. They’d welcome him in France. He’d be a hero there.

  Sebastian said, “Where’s Jess?”

  “Somewhere safe. Get out of my way, Sebastian. I don’t mind shooting you.” I’ll enjoy it. He’d reloaded, after disposing of Pitney. The gun filled his hand. Heavy. Solid. A Bourdiec pistol, the best gun ever made. Accurate to a hair. He’d force Sebastian with him, past the other men, to the gangway, and kill him there, and escape in the confusion. “Nobody’s going to get hurt if you let me pass.”

  “What have you done with Jess?”

  Jess was Sebastian’s weakness. And the man with the gun was always i
n control. “Nothing’s happened to her. Yet. I’ll tell you where she is when you let me go.” Wait. Wait for it. You only have the one shot.

  Sailors were being herded into a ragged, terrified line at the stern, surrendering. But he’d escape. He’d use Sebastian to get him off the ship. He was in command. “When I’m on the dock, I’ll tell you—”

  One of Sebastian’s mongrel friends ran up. Hawkhurst. “She’s below.”

  They were gone, running across the deck. They acted as if he wasn’t there. “Stop. I’ll shoot—” There are two of them. If I kill one . . . They ducked down the ladder to the hold before he could do anything. He had a pistol, damn it. He had his finger on the trigger. They couldn’t ignore him.

  On both sides of him, sailors were leaping from the ship, swimming in the toxic waters of the Thames, trying to climb the pilings to the dock. He backed to the rail and threw one leg over. He’d get the guinea belt off and abandon it. All that gold. It’d weigh him down. He pulled his shirt out to get to the tie. Was there some way to take the money with him—

  A long, gray streak of rage ran right at him. That ferret. He pointed his pistol. He had only one bullet. If he shot the animal, then he couldn’t—

  Claws raked his eyes. He screamed and felt himself falling. The water closed over him.

  Thirty-three

  The Northern Lark

  WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR, JESS CAME OUT kicking and clawing. She knocked them sprawling on the deck, with her on top.

  His Jess. He fended her off, getting clawed up. His wonderful Jess.

  She lifted her head. “Sebastian?”

  Her hair straggled over her face. Somebody had given her a bloody nose at some point. She was filthy. She was infinitely beautiful. He said, “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  She let her breath out, miles and miles of it, slowly deflating till she was limp on top of him. She lay her head down on his chest and began to cry.

  “It’s all right.” He held her. He could have held her for a hundred years. “Shhh. It’s over. It’s all right now.”