Well, save when Villar is about and she goes all addle-pated and pudding-boned.
The growls and mutters made her scan the assembled crew of Mongoose, now crowding the bars of the cell and looking not at her but glaring across the way to the other crew. She’d let it go if it were only her, but she could tell the crew’d not accept it.
The first lieutenant on her first ship had once told her that she, as a newly minted midshipman, held in her person the honor of her ship, her captain, and New London’s Queen. She’d since come to realize that as captain her crews held their own honor tied to hers as well — and to their ship. And, in this case, for some reason only the Dark and Creasy’s delusions knew, to the vile creature likely making free with her cabin and bedding this very moment.
What she might laugh off for herself, they’d hold as a dire wound, and there’d be no peace between these crews ever again. The Bachelor’s Delights — and wasn’t that a crew’s name begging for punches to be thrown — would see that as well, and take every opportunity to tweak her lads on it from that moment on.
She placed her boot over the two coins, metal grinding against the cement floor of the jail block, and with a twist of her ankle sent them sliding back to the other cell.
“Ah, look, lads! She’s of a mind t’give it away — knows a good ride when she sees one, she does!”
Alexis turned and stared down most of the laughter. Only a half dozen or so continued, crowded around the speaker — a large, red-haired young man leaning close to the bars, one arm casually through them and resting against their outside.
Nabb was near shaking in place, held back only by the light pressure of her hand against his arm, and Dockett and the others had taken her turn to mean they were free to yell back at the other crew. Epithets and threats filled the small space between the two cells.
Alexis considered. Words wouldn’t do, not with this lot, and their captain might be of the same ilk — she couldn’t be certain speaking to him would do a bit of good. No, this would likely need to be handled here, and between her and the speaker.
If these were Navy crews, it would be a different matter, and she once again cursed the end of the war and her half-pay status. She’d never realized just how much of her authority rested in that uniform and the clear backing of Admiralty. Without that discipline, things were ever so much more complicated.
“Is that how you speak to a ship’s captain?” she asked, beginning the dance.
“Don’t see no captain, just a tiny tart up from the farm for some fun!”
“You tell her, Little Mal,” one of the others called out.
She stepped closer to the other cell, Nabb following. He wasn’t exactly pushing against her restraining hand, but clearly wishing to rush the bars of the other cell.
“Comin’ to show us the goods, tiny tart? See if we’ll up the offer?” Little Mal asked.
Alexis put pressure against Nabb to stop him coming farther with her and he obeyed, but was clearly displeased to do so.
“Stay, doggy!” one of the Bachelor’s Delights called out.
As she neared, Little Mal’s smile widened. He was young, but large as she noted before, nearly two meters, if she was a judge, and with broad shoulders.
“Come on, tiny tart, the bogeys had us a’fore there was a bit of fun and we’re ready for you.”
Alexis raised her hands and laid them lightly on his arm where it rested on the bars, one at his elbow and one at his wrist.
“Are you?” she asked.
“Oh, aye, we’ll —”
Alexis grasped his hand and twisted, keeping pressure on his elbow as well.
“Really?” she asked.
“What’s — ow! Bloody —”
Slowly, almost casually, she put more pressure on his arm. Some of his mates started to reach for her through the bars, but she shot them a warning look and twisted more so that they backed away as Little Mal cried out.
“In future, Little Mal,” she said, returning her gaze to him, “I’ll expect you’ll have a bit more of a respectful tongue in your head when you speak to a ship’s captain, yes?”
Little Mal nodded, head jerking up and down quickly, his eyes wide.
“And your captain and I will settle whatever this ‘poaching’ business is, so I suspect it’ll be no more of your conc — urk!”
Twenty-Eight
Alexis broke off speaking with a startled sound as something grasped the back of her linen shirt and lifted her up. Up, past standing and off her feet all entire.
She lost her grip on Little Mal’s arm as she grasped at the cell’s bars in search of something solid while her feet dangled, but not before he’d quickly scrambled up as well, dragged painfully by her grip on him.
“Haur noo, 'en, who's puttin' hans oan mah wee bairn?” a deep voice asked.
Alexis’ view of the cell block spun as she was twisted in midair to come face to face with the speaker. Eye to eye with him, she realized, and that with her feet nearly a meter off the ground.
Sweet Dark, he’s a bloody giant!
Broad as he was tall, and as strong as both, for he held her easily suspended at arm’s length, he had long, bushy red-hair much like Little Mal’s and …
A naked bloody giant! Alexis thought in astonishment, for though the man’s torso was covered in heavy, reddish hair, he was, indeed, unclothed save for a pelt of some kind thrown over his shoulders. Naked from the waist up, at least, for a large paunch spared her the view of anything below that.
The man shook her once, to the sound of her shirt’s stitches ripping, then glowered at her.
“Noo who're ye tae pit hans oan uir wee bairn?”
Alexis blinked and her tablet’s earpiece pinged followed by a message in her ear: Untranslatable - possibly indecipherable gibberish.
“What?”
“Bloody hell, but she hurt me, Da!” Little Mal cried, standing. “Kill the tart!” He pressed himself close to the bars and glared at Alexis.
The giant looked from him to her and shook her again.
“Weel?”
That she understood well enough, though it was garbled and indistinct.
Nabb looked ready to throw himself on the giant, which she thought wouldn’t end well for either of them. Between remaining silent and angering the brute by admitting she hadn’t understood a single word, she wasn’t entirely sure which might have the better outcome.
“I didn’t —” Another shake cut her off.
“Ire saw!”
“I can’t bloody well understand you, you great oaf!” Alexis yelled, angry now. If her end was to be pulled limb from limb by a giant ginger in the bowels of a Barbary constabulary, she at least wanted to know why exactly. “Speak the Queen’s English or some other human tongue my tablet can translate, will you?”
She managed to raise her arms and get a grip on the giant’s own as he held her, which at least relieved some of the pressure on her shirt.
The man’s eyes narrowed further until they were mere slits and he took a deep breath.
“Who’re you,” he said, slowly and distinctly, but still with a heavy accent, “t’be pootin’ ‘ands … on our wee bairn? Didja get that, lass, an’ they’re the last ‘Queen’s bluddy English’ yer ever ‘earin.”
That, at least, she could understand, and the accent came clearer once she could identify it.
New Edinburgh — much like that family who plays the pipes grandfather once called a “cat-juicer.”
She took her own deep breath. Perhaps there was hope she wouldn’t be dismembered just yet.
“Captain Alexis Carew of the private ship Mongoose,” she said as calmly as she could while suspended in midair.
The man’s forearm beneath her hands was bigger around than she could encompass and like a length of cordwood wrapped in sponge — large as he was, there was naught but muscle beneath a thick outer layer of flesh, and all bound with wiry red hair. She might be only a bit over forty kilograms, but he kept her suspende
d as though it were nothing.
“Would you mind putting me down?” she asked.
“Y’poot ‘ands on me bairn,” he said slowly.
“Kill the tart, Da!” Little Mal repeated, fairly hopping up and down at the bars.
They’re related? Alexis nearly groaned. She’d grown up on tales of her grandmother, a native to New Edinburgh herself, and the familial feuds running through centuries. I may just have doomed Dalthus all entire …
She cleared her throat, drawing the giant’s attention back to her.
“He did — your son, is it? Your son did make some rather lewd suggestions and offers.”
The man’s eyes narrowed further, but darted toward Little Mal and Alexis took that to mean his ire might be redirected.
“Threw two pence at my feet and called me — what was it, sir?”
“Tiny tart, you tuppence slag,” Mal said, grinning, “and not worth that once my Da’s done with —.”
His voice cut off as the giant’s fist, the one not holding Alexis lashed out, barely clearing the space between the cell’s bars before striking Little Mal square in the nose.
“I told y’lad,” the giant said without turning to watch as Little Mal was flung back from the bars, knocking over those crowded behind him. “Y’pay more’n tuppence, y’speak respectable, an’ y’thank ‘er an’ add a bit when yer done.” He sighed. “I’ll not ‘ave the ladies blacklist the Delight o’er yer lackwit self.” He nodded to Alexis. “I’ll say sorry for mah bairn, lass.”
“It is captain, actually,” Alexis said again, a bit put out that he’d struck Little Mal for a perceived insult to the negotiating ladies, rather than to the captain of another ship.
The giant cocked his head.
“You weren’t foolin’?” He frowned. “Dressed like that?”
It took a few more moments to settle things out to the giant’s satisfaction.
He did lower Alexis back to the floor, rather than drop her as she half expected, and she was quite relieved to discover that the lower half of him, hidden by his paunch while she was suspended, was not as bare as the upper — though the skintight breeches of some animal hide with a grain unlike leather weren’t much better.
“Ha!” he said when she pointed out that her choice of dress at least provided more coverage than this own. “I was occupied when the call came, an’ couldn’t find the rest.”
Occupied with what, she didn’t ask. Now that she’d identified the accent as a rather thick New Edinburghan, she was following his words much easier.
“William Malcomson,” he said, holding out the hand he’d struck Little Mal with. That worthy was still on his backside within the cell, head tilted back and holding his nose while blood dripped off his chin. “Captain of the Bachelor’s Delight, an’ yer off Mongoose, eh?”
Alexis nodded.
“I am — and I do regret this incident between our crews. It seems to have been —”
Malcomson waved her apology away.
“The lads’ll be lads,” he said. “I don’t hold with these ‘territory’ mouthings of our commodore, eh? We hunt where we hunt and whoever’s there first gets the game, eh?”
Alexis frowned. “Commodore? Is there a Navy presence, then?” Even with the cease-fire, perhaps especially with the cease-fire, she couldn’t imagine Hanover allowing the Royal Navy so deep into what was, after all, Hanoverese space. No matter that they took such a lackadaisical view toward policing it themselves. Given the tensions between the two realms, she would have thought such would be a step too far.
Malcomson laughed. “Haven’t met our fair commodore, then, lass?” He spat. “Get y’to our little rendezvous and I’ll not be the one to spoil the surprise for you.”
He turned to the cell holding his men.
“An’ you lot!” he bellowed. “What’re y’aboot, losing such a fight?”
Little Mal was on his feet again and grasped the cell’s bars, though keeping a bit of distance between them and his face.
“We weren’t losin’, Da, we was —”
Malcomson spat again. “If yer in the tolbooth, you’ve lost, laddie. Finish it an’ get away, or don’t start it, I’ve told you.”
There was a sound from the lockup’s entryway, and Malcomson turned as Alexis looked that way. One of the guards had entered.
“Will you be speaking to the magistrate?” he asked. “Or leaving them to us?”
Twenty-Nine
The magistrate’s office was little more than a cubby off the corridor leading to the cells and the “magistrate” himself was, Alexis suspected, whichever of the guards happened to have the luck of the draw that day. The whole business fairly screamed that it was unofficial, though she suspected Wheeley would have a cut of whatever the “magistrate” got off them as his fingers were everywhere.
The magistrate, who’d not even bothered to remove his guard’s uniform, looked up as they entered, eyes widening as Malcomson followed Alexis and loomed over her, and nearly everything else. Given the room’s small size and clutter — the “magistrate’s” desk, being an empty container and his chair being a smaller one — Malcomson might have filled half the available space on his own.
The magistrate swallowed, visibly gathered himself, and glanced at his tablet.
“Public drunkenness, disorderly conduct, brawling in public, damage to property — both public and private.” He shook his head sadly. “Captains, it appears you might have to sail without half your crews —”
“Bawbags,” Malcomson growled. “What’s the price and nae more said aboot it?”
The magistrate looked offended, but went on with what Alexis suspected was a prepared speech — in fact, she thought she could see his eyes moving as he actually read the words from his tablet.
“Ah, you appear to be in luck today, as staffing issues have pre …” He frowned. “Precloo …” He shrugged. “Kept us from beginning the processing of your spacers. There being no formal charges at this time —” The man actually felt the need to tip them the wink at that, in case they were so dense as to not see the game. “— and in the interests of ex …”
He frowned again.
“Exped … bloody Charlie and his words,” he muttered, then shrugged. “Look, there ain’t no records in the system yet and we’re short-staffed, see? Could be days before we get to it — weeks before you see the magistrate … the other magistrate, I mean, see?” He winked again. “And he ain’t so understanding as I am, so —”
“How much?” Malcomson asked.
“Two marks the head.”
Alexis sighed as she did the conversion to shillings. It was high, she thought, but not so much as it could be, though it was a fair chunk of what each crew member had received from their prize — if they had any left. If not, Mongoose would pay it against their accounts aboard ship. Two marks per head was nearly a crown each. “Any discount for the emptier ones?”
“They’ve nearly all emptied. We’ll have a time cleaning those cells.”
“I meant — No, never mind.” Alexis transferred the total from her tablet, from the ship’s accounts, not her own, and made a note to see that Dursley saw the ship repaid from these men’s next prize money.
Honor of the ship or no, Barbary or no, there’s no world that looks kindly on a hundred drunken spacers tearing it up.
Alexis sent her crew off to reboard Mongoose under the supervision of Dockett, little though the bosun’s oversight had done before. Malcomson had made it clear to his crew that there was to be no more talk of poaching, so the two groups might be thought to make it to their respective boats without further incident.
Alexis and Nabb went along with Malcomson and, to Alexis’ concern, Little Mal, to the nearest pub.
“Sit, Captain Carew,” Malcomson said, then called out loudly, “Pints!”
“Tea, please,” Alexis called, gesturing to herself and Nabb, it still being quite early in Mongoose’s day, whatever it was for Malcomson.
Alexis sat,
Nabb beside her, as Malcomson and Little Mal did across from them.
“So,” Malcomson said as a harried server placed mugs in front of each of them, “let’s talk a bit, shall we? An’ build a base o’beer afore we’re on to business.”
She added milk and sugar to her mug, then took a sip, Nabb following suit, while the other two quaffed half of theirs in one go.
“Where’re y’from, lass?” Malcomson asked.
“Dalthus. It’s a new world off toward —”
“Oh, I ken Dalthus. There’re Malcomsons on Dalthus, are there not?”
Alexis nodded. “I believe so. We’ve not had much trade with them, but —”
“Dalthus, eh?” Malcomson’s frown deepened. “Why does that ring a bell?”
“Well, you just said there were Malcomsons there, so —”
“Carew. Your people from New London?”
Alexis nodded. “My grandparents, before settling Dalthus.”
Malcomson narrowed his eyes. “Heard there was more than Malcomsons on Dalthus. That a New Londoner’d married a New Edinburgher and was maybe a Carew sounds right.”
Alexis nodded again. “My grandmother, Lynelle.”
“What was her clan?”
“Ah … Sheehy, I think? I’m not certain —”
“Y’dinnae ken!”
“My grandmother died before I was born. Should we not, perhaps, discuss our crews and their —”
“Sorry for that.” Malcomson frowned further, his brow furrowing. “So yer a Sheehy? Let me ponder a bit.”
“What difference does that make?” Alexis asked. She’d thought at first that the relation might build a bridge to Malcomson, but she was beginning not to care, the more the man interrupted her.
Malcomson looked at her as though she’d asked why one wears a helmet in vacuum. “Why, all of it, y’ dinnae ken? How can y’not?”
“Ken — know what?”
“Whether I’m bound to kill you or feast you, o’course.” He put his fingers to his temples. “Hush, noo, while I figure on it.” He took a deep breath. “Kill y’fer the Bruce —” He shrugged. “— feast y’fer changin’ on the Bruce … important I get the first bits right, y’see, or it’ll throw the whole lot off … kill ya, feast ya, kill, feast … feast, feast, kill … Lichenburry Tor were a mess an’ I never can tell … kill, feast, feast, kill … Second Bannockburn were a wash, I think …”
Privateer (Alexis Carew Book 5) Page 18
