There was only a little light left, and I thought it was time I made my way back to the waterfront. I could find something there to eat, or return to Meteor for a meal.
I approached the musicians, told them how much I enjoyed their performance, and I thought with pleasure of the young lady’s rosy face I walked across the square in the direction of the river. I made my way down a dark lane when I heard a voice that sent a fear shooting up my spine like a rocket.
“It was a fine afternoon, sweetling, and perhaps I will seek thee tomorrow. But for tonight, I have business down by the river.”
I know not what the woman said in reply, for I had frozen in my tracks, my right hand clawing under my overcoat for the dagger I had bought in Selford. Then I heard the sound of footsteps walking away from me, and with an effort of will I managed to free my own feet to follow.
Ahead, seen dimly in the light of the lanterns set above each door, I saw the tall figure dressed much as I had last seen him, in a long dark coat and tall hat. I knew I could not let him get away, not on a dark night where he could so easily disappear, and so I followed as silently as I could.
He reached the river and turned right, walking along the quay. He passed by a tavern where a piper and drummer played for young folk dancing, and I used the racket to cover the sounds of my approach. He heard me only at the last second, but by that time I had the dagger’s point pressed against his throat from behind.
“So, Sir Basil,” I said, “I find you a long way from the Toppings.”
His left hand darted under his coat for his black dirk, fast as I remembered it, but I knew he would make that attempt, and I clamped his wrist hard in my strong left hand before he could draw the knife from its scabbard.
“Nay, Sir Basil,” said I. “That old trick will not serve.”
He straightened, my knife-point still at his throat, and stood motionless.
“I know not this Sir Basil,” he said, in that rolling Northern voice I knew so well. “My name is Morland.”
“Help!” I called. “Hue and cry! Help me!”
This halted the dance swiftly enough, and soon there were men surrounding us in a half circle, sailors and chandlers and longshoremen, some swaying drunk and others relatively sober.
“Bring the watch!” I cried. “Or fetch a magistrate. This man is a thief and a murderer!”
The half circle closed, and I saw from the grim looks on the faces of the men that I was not among outlaws, but men who hated robbers. The most ferocious-looking of them were the sailors, for sailors hate a thief on a ship, and often such a rogue disappears over the side on a dark night.
“It is a mistake!” called Sir Basil. “I am not the man!”
“I saw him kill two men with my own eyes,” said I. “And one of them was a magistrate.”
Someone ran for the watch, or for one of the military patrols that secured the district at night.
“Nay, unhand the man!” cried a voice behind me. “The man is innocent!”
I seized Sir Basil’s wrist more firmly and spun him in the direction of the sound, and there I saw the old man who had been a part of Sir Basil’s company, and who had captured me when I tried to gallop away from the ambush in the Toppings. He still wore the huge boots, but he had traded his flat cap for a steel morion, and he wore half-armor that glittered in the lamplight with gold inlay, I suppose part of that grand military array captured with Lord Stayne and his band. He brandished his spear at me, and his gray beard bristled with fury.
“Let go, you canker-blossom, or I’ll slice your weasand!” he roared, and advanced with his weapon at the charge.
The crowd knew not what to make of this, for it now seemed as if one of the garrison was coming to Sir Basil’s rescue. I could see the doubt growing on their faces.
“Bring the watch!” I cried. “Let not these men get away!”
The spear flashed at my face, and I ducked behind Sir Basil. I felt the outlaw’s right hand clench the wrist of my knife-hand, and he twisted away from me. I realized that though my hand was still on his left wrist, his black dirk was free of the scabbard, and I hurled myself into him, to try to keep his knife-arm bent behind his back, and also to drive my own knife into his throat. In this last I failed.
Perhaps, after all, the black dirk had been crafted by dark Umbrus Equitus magicians who infused it with a lust for blood, or perhaps I was stronger than I imagined, but throwing my weight into Sir Basil drove his own knife not back into the scabbard but between his ribs, and put the point into his side. With a soft cry the outlaw fell to the cobbles, and I stood with my dagger in my hand, and tried to work out a way to defeat the armored spearman who had come lunging at me out of the darkness.
The old man stood there in his big boots, his eyes growing wide as he saw Sir Basil lying at his feet, and then he threw down his spear, fell to his knees, and began to weep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
* * *
he onlookers brought torches and lanterns, and Sir Basil lay pale in a half circle of light, his hand clutching at the knife that pierced his side. He gave me a dark, under-eyed look. “Goodman Quillifer,” he said, “you have unhoused me.”
“ ‘Unhoused’ is good,” said I.
He grinned thinly. “It’s a new word. I made it up.” He coughed, and blood stained his teeth.
“Oh, my darling!” cried the old man. “My darling little boy!”
Sir Basil continued to direct his black, intent stare at me. “Who helped you to escape?”
“A lady,” said I.
He laughed and spat blood. “Some whore helped you, and you abandoned her in the camp. For no woman was missing.”
“I saw her last in Selford,” I said. “She fares better than I.”
“You left her. Do not deny it.” He grinned again. “I know what it is to be a heartless young man.”
“My poor, poor boy,” wept the old man. “My beautiful boy.”
Clanking soldiery approached, five men in half-armor under the command of a young officer, who frowned down at the strange scene revealed by the flickering light of torches: the man with his mortal wound, the old weeping man in his armor, I with my sword-hilted dagger in my hand. The officer touched his little mustache with his hand.
“Who is this, then?” he asked, his eyes on Sir Basil.
“That is Sir Basil of the Heugh,” I told him. “An infamous outlaw. The other fellow is one of his band.”
Sir Basil seemed amused by this description.
“And this is Goodman Quillifer,” he said. “A young man and an orphan, heartless though no longer penniless.”
The officer knew not what to make of this, and seemingly did not care. He looked down at the dirk still in the renegade’s side, then bent to examine it. He gently removed Sir Basil’s hand from the hilt, took a firm grip on the weapon, pulled it from the wound, and then seemed surprised and a little annoyed when blood gushed out.
Sir Basil’s black eyes flashed. “Damn you, you block-headed malt-horse,” he said. He snarled. “And damn all lawyers, and damn all gods.” His head fell back and he died, his lips still twisted in a fierce, contemptuous smile.
The officer straightened, the dirk still in his hand. “Be wary of that knife,” said I. “It’s supposed to be ensorcelled, and bloodthirsty.”
The officer looked at the knife and pursed his mouth in distaste. He handed it to one of his men. “Take care of this,” he said. The soldier looked at the weapon uncertainly, then bent to wipe it clean on Sir Basil’s coat before putting it in his belt.
The officer looked at me. “Is it your knife?”
“Nay, I have another. Sir Basil died on his own blade.”
“I’ll have your knife as well.”
I handed him my dagger. The old man’s spear was confiscated, as was the whinyard that hung at his waist.
And then he and I were marched off to the citadel, and each locked in a cell.
* * *
The citadel was under military g
overnance, and the military being more scrupulous about cleanliness than bandits, there were no vermin in my cell. But the smells were still formidable, and I enjoyed confinement no more than I had in Sir Basil’s dungeon, the more so because I had to listen to the old man weeping all night. By morning, I was impatient to secure my release. But the officer did not come on duty till ten o’clock, and then he did little but take my name. I told him to contact the owner of the Meteor galleon, who would vouch for me, but he said something noncommittal and had me returned to the cell.
At least the old man had ceased to wail.
By midafternoon, I was brought into the presence of a provost, and I was relieved to see that both Kevin and Captain Oakeshott were present. The provost, a lanky man with a habit of twirling his long hair with ink-stained fingers, made me undergo a formal interrogation.
“The other prisoner has confessed,” he began, in a Bonillean drawl. “And he has identified the body as Sir Basil of the Heugh, which confirms your claim. This hearing is to determine whether or not you committed murder, or whether there were circumstances extenuant.”
I thought that extenuant irregular, as more properly the word was the third-person plural present active indicative of extenuo, and not meant as the provost intended. But I chose to view the usage as an idiosyncrasy, and decided to overlook it. Instead, I got straight to the point.
“I tried to capture him, and he tried to stab me. My own weapon is unbloodied, as you may observe yourself.”
The provost’s pen scratched on his crown paper. “I have no way of knowing which weapon was yours,” he observed.
“My friends should be able to testify to the matter,” said I.
“Let us start from the beginning,” said the provost.
The beginning proved to be my capture by the outlaw, my witnessing of one murder committed personally by Sir Basil, and another at his order. I told briefly of my escape, avoiding the subject of Orlanda, and then explained my business aboard Meteor, and the event that led to Sir Basil’s death.
The provost asked me to sign the statement, and then sighed. “I fear I must return you to your cell,” he said. “While I will not recommend prosecution, I have not the authority to release you. That is in the hands of Sir Andrew, the Lord Governor, who reserves all such decisions to himself.” He twirled a lock of his hair. “Indeed, justice in the Island is short these days, and Sir Andrew knows only two verdicts: death, and service in her majesty’s army.” He seemed amused. “You may hang, or you may trail the puissant pike. And lucky is the man who has the choice.”
“As a privateer,” said I, “I already serve her majesty.”
“You may plausibly make that argument,” said the provost, though his tone suggested that Sir Andrew was unlikely to view my reasoning with anything like favor.
Kevin joined me in my cell for a time, and had brought dinner and a bottle of wine in a basket. And so we made as merry as we could, Kevin on my bed and I on my upturned honey bucket, enjoying bread, butter, cheese, and little sweet sausages flavored with garlic, fennel, and honey, sausages I had last seen swinging from the overhead beams in Kevin’s sleeping cabin.
My distress relieved by the wine and Kevin’s kindness, I felt as easy as I could while locked and awaiting justice in a cold room of blackened brick. I was on my last cup of wine, and determined to savor it, and so I let it dwell on my tongue for a long moment, and then swallowed. When I looked up, I found Kevin looking at me with mingled curiosity and concern.
“I wonder,” said he, “if all this is not the doing of—of the lady we dare not mention.” For I had told him of my latest doings with Orlanda, and the threats she made at Kingsmere and Innismore.
“I have wondered that myself,” said I. “And I know not which answer I would find more comforting—either she cares enough to put me in a cell, or she had nothing to do with it and I am here through my own misfortune.”
“If misfortune,” said Kevin, “that fortune may be reversed with a little effort and, perhaps, money. Whereas if you are pursued by divine vengeance, I know not what may be done.”
“Find another god,” said I, “who would act as my champion.”
He raised a hand and made a gesture that encompassed the wide world beyond the red-brick walls. “Where should I find such a being?” he asked, half in jest.
“Don’t bother asking a Philosopher Transterrene,” I said. “I’ve already looked in that quarter.” I looked into my cup of wine and swirled it in thought. “Though I do not relish the thought of two gods playing tug-of-war with my person. According to all the old stories, this sort of thing does not end well for mortals. Consider Agathe, loved by one god, and torn to bits by the hunting-dogs of another. Or Herodion, the mighty son of heaven’s King, who was driven mad by the wife of that selfsame King, and drowned himself in a lake, thinking to fight his own reflection.”
Kevin looked at me soberly. “I think too much musing on these subjects will do you no good.”
“Nor will contemplating anything else,” said I. “For consider the ancient tales, those epics and fables that have come down to us, of gods who love mortals, and who war with one another. Think of the Siege of Patara, where the gods chose sides and scarcely a mortal survived, even on the winning side. Or the War of the Champions, where the gods played with warriors as if they were chess-men, and the only victor was Nikandros the Lame, who did not fight.”
“Nikandros had at least the best mind of them all,” said Kevin, “and deserved to be King if anyone did. But brother, we know nothing really of that time, nothing beyond poet’s fancy. If a poet chooses to say an idea, or an action, was inspired by a god, is that not merely to make human thought divine?”
“Or make human action worthless,” said I. “For if we are as men in the stories, with divinities and demons whispering into our ears and prompting every action, does that not call into question our every deed? Can our lives have any meaning, if our very thoughts are not our own, and our actions prompted by others?”
Kevin’s gaze was searching. “You have drunk too deep of this draught, my friend. Perhaps in your current situation it would be best to abandon philosophy for—say—the law.”
“I will.” And then I threw wide my hands. “And in the meantime, find me a god!”
Kevin rose and began gathering the remains of our meal. “One must hope that gods are susceptible to bribes, or at least that jailers are.”
I embraced him in farewell, and then he knocked on the cell door, and passed money to the jailer on his way out. I threw myself on the bed, and abandoned myself to my metaphysical labors.
I spent another uneasy night in my cell before the thick oaken door opened, and the provost appeared to tell me that Sir Andrew had ordered my release. Very civilly he offered to share his breakfast, which consisted of raveled bread, cherry jam, salt pork, and a sweet, rather syrupy wine from southeast Loretto. “A miscellany, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I wished to give you a more civil welcome to the Island than you have got till now. A deal of the food is being reserved for supporting the population during the siege, and this is the best my varlet could do.”
“Give him my compliments,” I said.
“I imagine your meals are a good deal less varied on shipboard.”
This question gave me the opportunity of adopting the character of a much more seasoned a sailor than in fact I was. “We’re not undergoing a long voyage,” I said. “We’re rarely out of fresh food.”
“You may find that this will change,” said the provost. “Now that we are blockaded.”
That last word attracted my complete attention. “Blockaded? Clayborne’s army has arrived?”
“Not yet,” said the provost. “But one of his galleons has appeared off the coast, has already captured one of our supply ships, and will probably capture more.”
“There are many ships in the harbor,” I said. “Can a sally not be made?”
“It is a very large warship, greater than any of ours. I d
on’t think our captains will want to risk a battle when we can wait safely till the navy arrives from Selford.”
Indeed, the warships at Selford, which at the beginning of the war had been laid up in ordinary, were now ready to sail, and not unwilling to fight an enemy. But who would tell them to come to Longfirth, if they did not know the enemy were here?
“They will know when none of the supply ships returns,” said the provost.
“But any ships coming to the city will be captured,” said I. “Clayborne’s forces will be enriched by supplies intended for the Queen’s army.”
The provost shrugged. “You are a privateer, sir. If you wish to engage the enemy, no man in Longfirth will prevent you.”
I had no desire to take the little Meteor out to engage a great warship, but neither did I wish to be blockaded until Clayborne’s army turned up and made it impossible to leave. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said, and rose. “I hope to repay your kindness on some other occasion.”
“I apologize for the short commons,” said the provost. “And—beg pardon—I know not if you have a tender stomach, but if you have, and you want to retain your breakfast, you might not want to look up over the gateway as you leave. For that old man of Sir Basil’s hangs there by the neck, and Sir Basil in a cage, as a warning to thieves and traitors.”
“Who was that hoary old fellow?” I asked. “Did you find out?”
As the provost escorted me to the door, he explained that the old man was named Hazelton, and had been a servant in Sir Basil’s family who had known him since he was a boy, and who out of love for him had followed him in all his adventures. Hazelton had been the only one of Sir Basil’s company trusted to accompany him on Star of the North, the galleon bound for the Triple Kingdom, where Sir Basil had hoped to start a new life as a rich and law-abiding gentleman. But the ship had been damaged in the storm and sought shelter in Longfirth, and there Sir Basil had his fatal encounter with his own dirk, and never had the chance to enlarge his knowledge of legal systems by taking his new neighbors to court.
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