“Dead weight, both of them,” the Kelpie asserted.
“The only dead weight around here is going to be that fat tail of yours when I chop it off and serve it to you on a skewer!” Gabbi shook her finger at him.
“I would get more meat out of your squelching behind,” Quill retorted.
Gabbi's eyes bulged. “Squelching? Squelching!?”
“Stow it, the both of you,” Nel said sharply. She didn't issue any more warnings, turning her back on the crew to go stand by the railing. Looking out over Cauldron's bowl, into the heart of the steaming settlement. Somewhere out there were Violet and Horatio. And a whole bunch of other people.
Sharpe settled himself on the railing, his back to Cauldron and facing the crew. He watched Quill and Gabbi's rant with interest. Nel's orders hadn't kept the peace for more than a few moments. The crew was tense. “Those two fight like an old married couple.”
“If an old married couple could kill each other just by thinking about it, sure,” Nel muttered.
“Maybe she really did try and poison him?” Sharpe suggested.
“Probably did.” Right now Nel didn't care if Gabbi really had.
“This meet, you realise it's a trap,” Sharpe said. “And an obvious one at that.”
“Probably is.”
Sharpe chuckled. “Audacious. I like that. Want me to go with you?”
“You?” Nel paused. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I owe you a rescue.” He grinned. “And I'm not bad in a fight either.”
“Jack thinks otherwise.”
“What about what you think?”
“What's your angle, Sharpe?” Nel folded her arms. “You're not part of this crew, you could have cut and run the minute we made planetfall. Hells, I thought you had.”
Sharpe glanced over his shoulder, back at Cauldron. “Not my kind of place, Skipper. Places I'd rather be, people I'd rather be with. Prefer it if I wasn't stuck here. That means sticking with you a bit longer.”
“I've got problems, Sharpe. Don't need you being one of them.”
“I'm hoping the captain feels differently about me,” Sharpe said.
“Why should he?”
“Got to know him a bit during the trip here. Good man. Lousy card player though.”
Nel raised an eyebrow. “That's why you want to help?”
“Let's be honest, Skipper,” Sharpe said. “Even if you get your captain back, you still have to fix this tub and get your papers.”
“Unless we just leave without them,” Nel said.
Sharpe shook his head. “Without what? You already vetoed leaving without your captain and your cabin girl. If you leave with someone else holding papers on this ship you'll be declared rogue. That puts you outside the law, not what you want. You can't trade, can't run cargo, and you'll be fair game for anyone and everyone. This ship and this crew aren't built for a life of piracy.”
“Know something about that? Piracy?” Nel said pointedly.
“I know ruthless,” Sharpe corrected her. “You've got some issues on this crew, that Kelpie navigator and your . . . doctor.” Sharpe flexed his fingers, no doubt remembering Jack's no-frills treatment. “But you're not ruthless, not pirate ruthless. Don't think you're gonna cut and run over some bad gambling debt.”
Nel stared at him. “Who are you Sharpe? Seems to me we never got around to that part.”
He shrugged, rolling muscular shoulders like it just wasn't important. “Who are you, Skipper? We've all got a past, most of it don't make no difference to here and now. I'm here and it's now. You're in trouble, I'm offering to help. You want me or not?” He tried the grin again. A flash of white teeth, a little charm, a whole lot of man-pretty, Nel thought. Most people probably said yes to him.
“No.”
Nel wasn't most people. She had to admit, she enjoyed the way his face dropped at her answer.
“Gabbi,” she called loudly.
“Yeah, Skipper?” her cook answered.
“I'm heading back out,” Nel said.
“You just got here,” Gabbi objected. “What if those guys come back?”
“Throw stuff at them. Not forks, we need those. I'm going to find the captain.”
“And Violet?”
Nel hesitated. “Her too. We ain't leaving anyone. We . . .”
The truth was she had no idea what had happened to the girl and didn't like to think about what could have. But she wasn't losing any of her crew. Not this time.
“Piper,” she called, hitching the belt for her sidearm into a more comfortable position. “Here, now.”
The big mate emerged from the crew to make his way to her side. “Skipper?”
“Repairs. Details. Gimme,” Nel ordered.
“Trolls.”
Nel winced. “You hired Troll labour?”
Piper nodded. “Best there is, Skipper. Cheap too.”
“There's a reason for that, Piper,” Nel said. “They're smelly, disgruntled, they break stuff, what they don't break they eat—”
“You are a very hard woman to please, Skipper,” Piper said disapprovingly. “Not as bad as Quill, but very hard.”
“You should be used to that by now, Piper. Look, just get the ploughing ship fixed.”
Piper looked at her disapprovingly. “Swearing, Skipper.”
Nel ignored that. “I'm going to go get the captain.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“That is a bad idea.”
“The hells it isn't.”
Piper frowned. “I am confused. Do you agree it is a bad idea?”
Nel shrugged. “Most of the ideas that come out of this ship are bad, Piper. Mine are just a wee bit little less bad.”
“You shouldn't go alone, Skipper. Bandit thinks it is a trap. You should have someone with you for when it gets to the violent part.”
“I want everyone to stay here, make sure we don't get boarded or nothing while I'm gone. I don't want to come back and find my ship boarded, Piper, we clear? Don't let no boardings be happening whilst I'm gone.”
“Aye, Skipper,” Piper sighed.
Nel left her crew, stomping back onto the dock. It was now mostly empty. The crowd had dispersed when it became obvious there wasn't going to be any more fun. She did see the first of the Trolls to arrive, a five foot, greyish-blue skinned individual in a workman's harness and a loincloth. She stepped aside as it ambled up to the gangway.
She shook her head. “Captain's gonna love this.”
Chapter 4
The bars and taverns on Cauldron were all alike. Dark, shuttered common rooms that were smoky and badly lit. The light came from the fires in the corners of the room and the smoke gushed from the fires. Those four fires cast unusual shadows across the room and the smoke added to the obscurity.
It was that obscurity that Sharpe moved through, flitting from one table to another. He didn't like Cauldron, he hadn't been lying about that, but there was work that needed to be done and it could only be done out amongst the locals.
He moved from table to table, palming the odd drink when no one was looking. No one noticed; they rarely did.
Here and there in snatches of conversation Sharpe pieced together the local set of affairs. Cauldron was aptly named, a melting pot of people and species, trades and things best left under the table. Things that were whispered about in huddled corners. Things shouted across the room. And things not talked about at all unless you knew what to listen for.
He heard rumours of unrest, skirmishes between factions, races, planets, all the same. People with too little getting desperate, people with too much becoming paranoid, nothing new, nothing that hadn't happened a hundred times before.
The rumours about Grange were interesting. Insurrection, raiding, and pillaging the neighbour's yard. Poor Thatch. How fortunate there were Alliance forces nearby to quell the situation. What would a couple of border colonies do without someone to step in and save them?
The skipper had surpris
ed him. Her back was up against the wall and she'd still turned down his help. Tough woman. He liked that, made her worth knowing. Didn't mean he was going to just stay aboard the ship and sit by though. The ship wasn't going anywhere without its missing people. And he needed a ride off of Cauldron—he had places to be.
“If I was to go looking for work,” he said to Harlem, a man he'd offered a pilfered drink to, “who would be the best person to ask?”
Harlem, a Korrigan like Jack, grubby and unshaven like most others in the den, squinted near-sightedly at him.
“Depends,” he grunted. “What sort of work you in the market for?”
Sharpe shrugged evasively. “This and that.”
Harlem belched loudly, swathing Sharpe in a cloud of noxious fumes that reeked of stale beer and rotting teeth. Outwardly he didn't react, inwardly he cringed. Never thought I'd be missing Jack.
“Gotta be more specific,” Sharpe was told. “You want work? So do most who come here. What sort? You a sailor, a workman, a labourer? You don't look the type. You got a trade to sell? Say so ’cause I'm thinking you don't.”
Sharpe leaned back, covering his surprise. Two surprises in less than a day, first the skipper and now this guy. Maybe he was losing his touch? He'd picked Harlem because of the stream of people he'd seen coming and going from the man's corner table. Corner tables usually meant someone in authority, or at least well known—they were accessible without being private, meaning you wanted to be seen but needed a modicum of privacy. He'd figured his mark for some sort of middleman. He hadn't counted on the man actually being that smart.
“Everyone has a trade,” Sharpe said.
“What's yours then?” Harlem blinked beady eyes at him.
“Getting things done.”
“What sort of things?”
Sharpe frowned. “Things people don't want talked about.”
Then Harlem squinted at him. “You move stuff?”
“Can do.”
“How ’bout fetching?”
“Sometimes.”
“Disposal?”
“Been known to happen.”
“Look around the room, tell me who you'd be afraid of.”
Sharpe didn't look. “Nobody.”
“You're either brave or stupid then.”
“Neither,” Sharpe said. “There's a guy two tables over with a brace of throwing knives under his coat, got no chance of hitting anyone in a place this packed. There's two heavies sitting behind us who kept looking your way every time you talked to someone. Now they don't look smart enough to tie their own shoes without help so they're probably waiting on you to tell ’em what to do. The barman's got some sort of weapon under the bar, probably something with a charge to knock sense into anyone who gives him grief. He keeps reaching for it every time someone gets frisky, dead giveaway.”
Harlem blinked. “And?”
“And what?” Sharpe growled, playing up his role as a tough guy. “Every motherless wannabe in this room has got some sort of weapon hidden away, the ones I mentioned are just lousy at hiding ’em.”
“All right, so you're observant, I'll give you that. The two behind you, how would you go about dealing with them?” Harlem grinned, showing blackened teeth. “If you had to?”
Sharpe was halfway up and turned around before the man had finished speaking. He saw the two heavies he'd marked out earlier coming towards him. He didn't have to guess about their intent: one had a club out and the other was cracking his knuckles, a gleeful expression filling an otherwise dim face.
Sharpe hooked the stool he'd been sitting on with one ankle, flinging it forward towards the two. Knuckles became tangled up in it, tripped, went down flat on his face to the filthy floor, bellowing. Club paused to look at what had happened to his friend and Sharpe didn't miss the opportunity. He jumped the man, grabbing the club and dragging it down, hooking the man across the face then back again with the elbow. Club swayed on his feet, stunned, but was in no danger of going down. Sharpe hit him again before taking the club from his slackened grip, bringing it down hard on Knuckles’ head as the man tried to rise. He went down and stayed down.
Club was still swaying on his feet. Sharpe glared at him, starting to wonder if the man was doped up on something. He was taking more hurt than a Draugr. Sharpe rammed the end of the club into his stomach, doubling him over, before socking it to his chin. Slowly, like a tree toppling, Club collapsed, sprawling on top of Knuckles. Sharpe nodded in satisfaction, observing that what little attention the fight had garnered was now gone. He tossed the club away in the direction of the bartender, a goodwill gesture to the man who still had one hand under the bar, presumably on his own peacemaker. The bartender glowered but his attention wasn't fully focused on Sharpe, rather somewhere past him. Sharpe turned back to Harlem.
To find him floating in the air just above his table, arms flailing helplessly, still glued to his stool.
“Well, ain't that something?” Sharpe said aloud, looking at Harlem curiously.
“Put me down! Put me down this instant!” Harlem bellowed, his face flushing a deep red. The man's windmilling arms tipped him over and he would have fallen if his seat hadn't pitched to swing him the other way. Harlem shrieked.
“Ain't my doing,” Sharpe said, chuckling.
“It's mine,” a sibilant voice said, the shadow of someone new stepping up beside Sharpe. He was only mildly surprised to see the Kelpie navigator standing next to him.
“You didn't say there was more than one of you,” Harlem spluttered.
“Didn't know there was,” Sharpe admitted. “You following me, Kelpie?”
“Yes,” was Quill's short-tempered reply.
“Appreciate the honesty,” Sharpe said.
“This one attacked you. Why?” Quill demanded.
Sharpe shrugged. “Little bit of a test, unless I'm mistaken. I ain't mistaken, am I, Harlem?”
“Put me down!” Harlem shrieked.
“I think he wants you to put him down, Mister Navigator,” Sharpe chuckled.
Quill looked at him with contempt. “I dislike Korrigans.”A gesture, a snap of blue sparks dissipating, and Harlem sank down with his chair. Quill unceremoniously dropped him the last foot or so, landing Harlem sharply on his chair, off which he promptly fell.
“Didn't think you could float folks like that,” Sharpe whispered. “Living folk, I mean.”
Quill shrugged.
“Couldn't have done that to the other two a bit earlier, could you?” Sharpe commented.
“Yes,” Quill replied.
“Why didn't you?”
“You managed.” Quill snorted. “Well enough, anyway.”
Sharpe shrugged.
“Yes.” Harlem struggled back to his seat, an air of wounded dignity about him. “You can handle yourself, no doubt about that.”
“You could have just asked.” Sharpe took a seat at the table. Quill remained standing, scowling. Miserable bunch, that crew from the Tantamount.
“I recommend you, you need to be the real thing.” Harlem shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “Can't take your word for it.”
Sharpe glanced back over his shoulder at the motionless Club and Knuckles. “You must go through guys like these weekly.”
Harlem grunted. “You'd be surprised.” He gathered himself, shooting a resigned look at his two lackeys lying bruised and broken on the common room floor.
“You a two-for-one act then?” he asked brusquely, giving the new arrival a once over. Quill's tailed snapped irritably under the survey, knocking a nearby stool back until its travels were interrupted by a couple of unconscious bodies.
Sharpe could see the man's thinking clear enough. Quill had rattled him and he was trying to get his bearings, work out how much he could risk pushing them, how much of his own cut he could bleed off.
Money, always the bottom line.
Quill turned his scaled head to Sharpe.
“Two for one?” he repeated and Sharpe's stomach san
k. The Kelpie was going to screw everything up.
“I am no double act with this fleshy meat bag,” Quill ground out through his pointed teeth. “This human does not speak for me.”
“Hey, let's not be too hasty here,” Sharpe tried to interrupt, fearing whatever was coming next. Harlem was already leaning back, brow creasing in furrows of suspicion.
“In fact,” Quill hissed, “if you can have me, what would you want this pathetic monkey for?” The Kelpie glared at the table, shuffling around to face the stool he'd dispatched just moments ago. He gestured and the stool slid back across the floor in a trail of blue sparks. He sat, placing his scaly forearms across the table, clawed fingers interlinking, with a derisive flick of the tongue in Sharpe's direction.
So that's how he did it, clever.
“Missed you too, partner,” Sharpe muttered. On the inside he heaved a sigh of relief, a sigh which threatened to turn into hysterical laughter as Harlem took the insults for what it appeared to be: banter between two people jaded enough with each other's company that they no longer even bothered pretending. Those sorts of partnerships persisted for only one reason. They worked.
The Kelpie was quick on his feet after all.
“Well,” Harlem leaned forward conspiratorially, “I don't know about that. Seems to me I can think of just the job for two such . . . capable persons such as yourself.”
“Capable,” Quill repeated, turning to Sharpe. “Yes, yes, the human is quite . . . capable.”
“Don't overdo the praise, Kelpie,” Sharpe said with a strained smile, trusting Quill would catch his meaning. “Let the man talk.”
There were guards outside of the warehouse. There was no other way to describe the group of burly, over-eaters posted outside Ebon's warehouse. They were big, ugly, and bad-tempered, another misfit collection that made Nel think better of her own crew. They were clearly there to scare off trouble as they certainly didn't look capable of chasing it down should it come to that. Their chosen spokesman sauntered and wheezed his way up to Nel, flanked and trailed by his own sycophants. The man was bursting out of his boiled leather outfit, the jerkin ties and material stretched taut over his protruding stomach, a bulge threatening escape at any second.
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