by Alex Bledsoe
“Not the treasure, just the pirate,” I repeated. “And the client is-” I hesitated because I knew what her reaction would be. “-Angelina.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Angie?” Jane barked, laughing loud enough to startle birds from the nearby trees. My horse, Baxter, tossed his head, annoyed by the sharp, shrill noise. “The great ice queen Angelina hired you to find her old pirate boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy! I’ve been passing through Neceda and stopping at her tavern for years, and I’ve never seen her interested in a man. Or a woman. Or anyone.”
“Yeah, she’s been the reigning Miss Anthropy as long as I’ve known her. But I think this guy Edward Tew is the reason.”
Jane giggled like a princess with a secret. “Crazy. That’s the only word. Angelina in love. That’s like imagining me cooking dinner. So where did they meet?”
“Watchorn Harbor in Cotovatry.”
“I know it. Fairly big port. What do you think we’ll find there after all this time?”
“Nothing, probably. But maybe somebody remembers them, and knows what happened to Tew. It’s one end of the string that’s tied to our man.”
“And his treasure,” she added.
I glared at her. “Stop that. Seriously.”
She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, you win. But you know, pirates don’t generally last twenty years. It’s a tough trade. If he’s not dead, he’s probably changed his name and started a whole new life.”
“Are you going to be such a beacon of optimism on the whole trip?”
“Just so we’re clear, I get paid whether we find him or not, right?”
“That’s the deal.”
She sighed and shook her head. “That soft heart of yours is going to be the death of you one day, Eddie, you know that?”
I said nothing. My heart had once hardened beyond recognition, and I hated the man I became then. If being softhearted took a few years off my life, it seemed a fair trade for being human again.
Five days later, we stopped our horses on the ridge overlooking Cotovatry’s coastal plain. Mine stomped around, refusing to stop until he’d reminded me yet again why I disliked all horses except the late, lamented Lola.
“I hope you handle that redhead of yours better than that,” Jane said.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should consider gelding your husband, it might calm him down,” I snapped back. She laughed. Mile after mile of sand and scrub stretched away in either direction. Here and there, trees grew in tight-packed spots where the sand gave way to actual soil. Behind us stretched a vast woods crisscrossed with trails and roads.
In the middle of the vista before us lay Watchorn Harbor.
The town’s buildings clustered along the water’s edge and spread inland from a central point like a lady’s fan. A forest of masts and canvas filled the harbor, backlit by the afternoon sun that glinted blindingly off the water. The first gusts of eve ning wind brought the distinctive odors of salt and dead fish.
“How many ships do you think are out there?” I asked.
“About a hundred,” Jane said. “See those two far out at anchor? Those are naval ships stationed to protect the harbor. And those little ones all in a row there? A fishing fleet.”
“Any pirate ships?”
“Not in this harbor.” She snorted. “Unless they’re on the bottom. Those naval ships aren’t just for show.”
It was sundown by the time we reached the town, and people packed the thoroughfares, mostly men with the distinctive leathery look and rolling gait of sailors. On the dreary streets, the odors were much more vivid and considerably less pleasant, but like anything, we eventually got used to them. Languages both known and unknown blurred in my ears. Neceda was like this, but on a far smaller, slower scale.
Jane, though, was in her element. She tossed her cape behind her shoulders, pulled her hair up in a loose bun, and rode along, confident her way would be clear. It was.
First we sought the town magistrate’s office. I always cover my bases by trying official channels first. Usually it gave me no direct information about my case, but it let me get a sense of the local constabulary. It also means people would know I was looking, and sometimes stirring the pot was the best thing. We found the town’s magistrate, a Mr. Tallarico, in his office going over a voluminous stack of shipping forms. The office was in a small building next to a warehouse and corral.
A large one-eyed cat curled up on a corner of his desk. Vellum sheets were stacked everywhere, pinned down by rocks or anything else heavy enough to hold them in place. A lone neglected plant drooped in its pot on the windowsill. He had no secretary or formal guard; he just sat at his desk doing his job. “Magistrate Tallarico?” I said.
He used a monocle to see the forms, and when he looked up at us, it made his right eye look huge. “Yes?”
“Sorry for interrupting, sir, but I think you might be able to help me.” I gave him my most winning smile.
He looked at me, then at Jane, then back to me. “Indeed. You don’t appear to be sailors, ship owners, businessmen, or officials. Those are the people I help. If you’re looking for work, you’ll have to talk to the captains of the ships. If you’re here to report a crime, you’re both in the wrong place and frankly wasting your time.” He returned to his reports. “Good day.” We didn’t move. The cattle in the nearby corral mooed through the window, glad to be out of some ship’s cramped hold. At last he removed the monocle and impatiently looked at us. “All right, what?”
I smiled. “My associate and I are looking for a local family, and we thought you might be able to help us find them.”
“Who?”
“The Dirnays. They had a daughter named Brandywine. Might’ve gone by Brandy.” Jane stifled a laugh. I still had a hard time imagining Angelina as a “Brandywine,” let alone a “Brandy,” but as she said, she didn’t choose it.
“Dirnay?” he repeated. “I don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name in Watchorn.”
“How long have you been here?” Jane asked.
“Four years.” The way he said it implied it felt much longer.
Jane leaned on the desk and looked down at him, using her size, in every sense, to intimidate him. She said through a humorless grin, “Then who might be able to help us?”
Tallarico sat back in his chair and held up the monocle. “You know, they say a wizard in the court of King Haviland once mounted a series of polished glass disks like this in a tube so that the king could observe things so small, they were invisible to the naked eye. And even if you had two of those devices and attached them together, you would still be unable to locate my interest in your problem.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Now, good day to you, ma’am. And sir.”
Now I stepped forward. “Where’s the records office?”
“What records do you need?”
“Shipwrecks. Specifically any record of the Bloody Angel.”
If anything, his expression grew more contemptuous. “Ye gods, you’re treasure hunters, aren’t you? You think you’ll be the ones to find some missed clue and discover Black Edward’s treasure.” He laughed with the contempt of middle management. “Fine. The records office is three doors down. Tell the old harpy that I sent you. I wonder if she’s still growing her mustache?”
Three doors down I knocked, and a loud female voice said, “Enter!”
The smell of vellum and ink filled the little room. Shelves lined the walls, holding rolled-up sheets and bound volumes.
There was a table with two chairs by the single window, and a desk where a round-bodied little woman with gray hair piled high on her head sat squinting at a map on her desk. She looked up and said, “What do you want?”
“Don’t get mad,” I said.
“Why would I get mad?”
“We mentioned the Bloody Angel to the magistrate, and he got mad.”
“That man is a blot on the good name of Watchorn. I used to have his office, did
you know that? All that space. Now he’s got me in a damn closet.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do you want to know about the Bloody Angel?”
I liked her casual air and the fact that she agreed with me about the magistrate. “If I say I’m not interested in the treasure, will you believe me?”
“Sure, because there is no treasure. Lots of people have looked, but it’s been twenty years and not so much as a bead has showed up.”
“Has anyone looked lately?” Jane asked.
“Not in at least five years. We get the occasional inquiry, but mostly it’s just sailors thinking they’re unique in their interest. When they find out they’re not, they wander off. Also, not too many of them can read.”
“So you do have records,” Jane said.
“Of course we’ve got records. And maps. And detailed reports.” She stood and took a large bound volume from a nearby shelf. On the cover it was titled: THE WRECK OF THE BLOODY ANGEL AND WHAT REALLY HAPPENED.
She handed it to me and gestured at the table. “It’s all in there, all gathered up neat and nice for convenience. Have a seat. Read to your heart’s content. Make notes, copy maps. Just don’t damage the book; if you do, I’m within my job description to kill you.”
Jane put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll let you handle this. I’m going to go find a drink. I’ll check back in an hour.”
I nodded, sat down, and began to read.
The texts were legal, which meant they were also boring. There was a description of the storm, and a map showing where the Bloody Angel supposedly sank. Then there was testimony from people who were on the beach when pieces of the wreck began to wash ashore. They were referred to only by their initials.
The official report was written by a man named Cyrus Northack, special envoy from the Cotovatrian court, and his contempt for the locals was palpable. He excoriated them for snatching up everything that washed ashore without reporting any of it. He asserted that no hint of treasure had been seen or mentioned, but he suspected that if any had, he’d be the last to know. The final straw was when the local gravedigger presented him with a bill for the burial of the dead pirates scattered along the surf.
But there had been a lone survivor, initials WM, who explained what happened. Driven into the shallows by the storm, the ship hit a sand bar and the wind snapped its mainmast. She rolled over, and the weight of everything in her hold-including treasure, one would assume-broke through the deck and led the way to the bottom. Black Edward Tew was last seen clinging to the upside-down ship’s rudder, shaking his fist at the sky.
“Anything useful?” the clerk asked me when I closed the book.
I shook my head. “Just confirms the story I’ve been told.”
“It’s an old story well known,” she said sadly. “Are you giving up your treasure hunt, then?”
“I told you, I’m not hunting the treasure.”
“Of course. And I’ll turn down a shepherd’s pie. Want to see something?” She opened a drawer in her desk, reached beneath some papers, and brought out a piece of wood. It was light and faded from age, and either end of the plank was ragged where it had broken. There were a few darker spots on it that could once have been bloodstains. Or mildew.
“They tell me this is a piece of the Bloody Angel herself,” the woman said. “My predeces sor snatched it up right off the beach, the morning after the wreck.”
I turned it over. There was no hidden inscription, no markings or carvings. It could have been from anywhere. Yet I felt the truth of her assertion along the back of my neck, where the hairs rose in warning.
I handed it back. “Thanks.” Then I gathered up the book and returned it to the shelf.
“My God, you’ve got manners,” she said.
“And you should see me dance.”
She batted her eyes. “Is there anything else I can help you with, kind sir?”
“Do you know a local family named Dirnay?”
“Alas, on that topic I’m like the end of a worn-out sounding line.” When I looked blank, she added, “I’m a frayed knot.”
“Ah. Nautical humor.”
“It’s all we have here,” she said with a smile.
“Then I believe I’ve learned all I can. Thank you.”
“Thank you. A gentleman is always welcome.”
Outside Jane sat on the wooden sidewalk, watching the people pass. She got up when she saw me. “Anything?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“So now what, boss?”
I looked at the crowded street, the melange of races and nationalities, and felt the impending weight of my likely failure. What the hell had I been thinking? Finding anyone after twenty years was unlikely, let alone a sailor, let alone a pirate. “We ask around. Angelina was a barmaid when she met her man, so we start with the bars.”
“Hey, this job just got a whole lot better,” Jane said with a wink.
Angelina had told me she worked in a place called the Floating Coffin, but we found no one with any memory of it, and it certainly wasn’t around now. So we started closest to the water and methodically tried all the bars we did find: the Crossed Harpoons, the Sword-Fish Inn, the Trap. In each we bought a drink and asked as discreetly as possible about Brandywine Angelina Dirnay and the Floating Coffin. And in each we came up blank.
Finally, as we were leaving the Cuttlefish’s Embrace, an old salt called out to us, “I say, I couldn’t help overhearing your question to the bartender. Was that place you were asking about down by the waterfront?”
“Yeah,” I said. I had no idea, but it seemed reasonable, and this was the first positive sign we’d gotten.
He smiled wistfully. He had teeth only on the right side of his mouth. “Ah, the Floating Coffin. I used to go down there in my younger days, when I first went to sea. I got drunk for the first time there. Not even the harpoon that took out my teeth hurt as bad as my head did the next day. I couldn’t keep down solid food for a week.”
I exchanged a look with Jane; she rolled her eyes, but this was all we had. “Is that why you remember it?” I asked the old man.
“Partly. But what kept drawing me back was a girl. They had a lass slinging drinks who could make a dead man poke a hole in his burial shroud, if you take my meaning. ‘The swan was in her movements and the morning in her smile’; I forget who said that.” He almost shivered at the memory. “She could reduce the strongest man to a simpering pup with just a glance. To this day, I’ve never seen a woman who could compare.” He nodded at Jane. “No offense, ma’am.”
“She sounds like something,” I agreed. “What was her name?”
“Brandy,” he said with a sigh, his eyes closed. “I think it was a nickname, but it’s been a long time.” He shook his head at the memory. “Wonder what ever became of her?”
Well, I thought, the good-luck fairy just unloaded on us. I asked, “So is the Floating Coffin still around?”
“Goodness, no. Every time I return to this port, everything has changed owners and names. But there’s still a tavern there.”
I held out a coin. “Show us where it is, Mr.-?”
“Quintal, Derrick Quintal, harpooner’s mate,” he said with a little bow.
“Well, show us where it is, Mr. Quintal, and you can put this toward some new teeth.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and took the coin. Jane caught my eye, and I shrugged; it was the first lead we’d had, after all. It did seem a bit overly convenient, and I wasn’t entirely sure we weren’t being led into an ambush for robbery. If we were, though, they’d get a whole lot more than they bargained for.
We left our horses tied at the Cuttlefish’s Embrace and, alert for trouble, followed harpooner’s mate Quintal on foot. But the old sailor was on the level. After several twists and turns, we reached a corner a block from the ocean and stood before a tavern called Lurie’s Wharf. It didn’t look like much, but the noise from inside testified to its popularity.
Quintal sighed as he looked at it. �
�This is it. Was it. I don’t suppose she’s here anymore. Long gone, to either her family or her grave.”
“She’s probably old, fat, and gray by now,” Jane said dismissively. “That’s what always happens, isn’t it?”
Quintal smiled his half-toothed grin. “Now, I hope your man here won’t take this wrong, but you’ve got little to be jealous about. You may have a touch of snow on the mountaintop, but the peaks look in fine shape.”
She kissed him on the top of his head. “That deserves a tip.” She looked at me. “Right, my man?”
I gave him another coin, which made him laugh. He touched the brim of his cap in salute, then strode away whistling. The crowd swallowed him by the time he reached the next corner.
“Think we just got taken?” I asked.
“Only one way to tell,” Jane said, and unbuckled her sword. “I’ll handle this one. You go in there and start asking about a girl that used to work here, nobody’ll say anything. They’ll think you’re her husband or her pimp. Give me ten minutes to get settled, then come in and watch a master at work.”
She handed me her sword belt and scabbard, and I needed both hands for the weight. She undid her hair and shook it around her shoulders. She pulled the strands down close to her face, which made her look younger. Then she changed her whole demeanor, opening her eyes wider and somehow draining the maturity and tension from her face. She looked as innocent and vulnerable as a woman her age and height could possibly look. With a wink, she went into the tavern.
I put her sword belt over my shoulder and walked slowly around the block to give her time. The masts of the big sailing ships towered over the low buildings, darker shadows against the now-starry sky. A lone sailor with a lantern tightroped across one spar, checking the rigging. The rolled-up sails looked like the cocoons of enormous insects. Cargo was being unloaded even this late, and men sang work songs in languages I didn’t know.
