“None of that has anything to do with why I came over here,” Rowen snapped.
Jack froze, staring at him, and Evie adjusted her position, resting her elbow on Jack’s shoulder and cupping her face in her hand as she peered at Rowen.
She appraised him with half-closed eyes, the picture of quiet contentment. And very much like the captain Rowen was used to seeing. “And why precisely did you come over here then?”
“I am here to take care of something that is—from my estimation—long overdue.” He shot a glare at Jack and the smaller man looked down, knowing his fate was firmly in Rowen’s hands.
“And that would be…?” She raised one eyebrow at him. But here and now, anchored by Jack, the woman appeared unshakable.
Jack was in direct opposition to her, his body taut beneath her touch, every bit of his expression tight and frozen.
Inwardly Rowen sighed. “These crates.” He reached past Evie. “They are nowhere near where they should be,” he grumbled, noting how Jack seemed to deflate in realization. “You told me to move them when I was first … encouraged aboard and I have not. But it seems a tree trunk is exactly what is needed for such a job.”
She blinked. “Aye. A tree trunk, either greased or ungreased,” she added, the edges of her eyes crinkling, “would be the perfect thing to accomplish the task.”
Rowen set about the task, noting out of the corner of his eye how the captain straightened up and away from Jack—slowly—saying softly, “Some tasks are better suited to more deftly designed men with great dexterity and intelligence.”
She spun on a heel and stalked off, Jack staring after her.
He cleared his throat and stepped over to where Rowen grunted and groaned, unstacking the crates only to move them ten feet and restack them.
“I would like to say thank you for not taking the opportunity to say things that might drive a wedge between myself and the captain and make our working relationship even more difficult than it already is. Things,” he paused to stress the word, “which are absolutely untrue.”
Rowen adjusted a broad wooden box, scraping it across the back of another until the two were flush. He grunted.
“She loves you, too, you know.”
Jack snapped up to his full height, staring in shock. “She most certainly does not.”
“Yes, she does,” Rowen said, hands on either side of the top crate on a stack, his focus seemingly on shimmying it into place.
“You are so dense!”
He snorted. “There are some who are truly dense—stupid. And then there are some of us—a minority, granted—who appear dense—unerringly stupid—and yet, we are quite perceptive in some ways. I once heard someone say, it takes a very smart person to appear stupid.”
“She wants you, Rowen—I’ve seen the way she looks at you—like a starving wolf eyeing a lamb dinner.”
“Wants and loves are two distinctly different verbs, commonly, and sometimes tragically, mistaken for each other,” Rowen muttered, reaching for another crate. “Wanting me is an act of curiosity. Nothing more. Even I understand that. It is a mistake that I will not encourage her to further investigate.”
“Why not? She’s beautiful.”
Rowen paused briefly as he wriggled another crate free like a loose tooth. This was the dangerous moment. To deny the captain was beautiful was to call into question Jack’s judgment and Elizabeth’s value. But to agree was to reinforce the misperception Jack held in his mind—that Rowen was attracted to her as much as she was attracted to him.
He licked his lips, preparing to navigate dangerous waters. “She is beautiful. But she is not the one I want or love.” He froze then, his knuckles whitening on the crate in his grip as he realized what his words meant.
Ginger Jack caught the meaning, too. “So you love this Jordan Astraea.”
Rowen shifted the next crate, groaning loudly.
“You love her.”
He set the crate down more heavily than he intended, his head suddenly not in his work at all. Leaning across the crate, his arms straddling its top, knuckles still white, he was nose to nose with Jack. “I shall exchange a secret for a secret,” he offered.
Jack grinned. “Oh, I think I would give up two secrets for you to admit this one of yours, Rowen,” Jack admitted.
“Fine. You first. Two secrets to my one.”
“No, no,” Jack laughed. “One of mine, and then yours. If I deem yours worthy, I’ll tell you a second secret. If not…” He shrugged.
“Deal. You first. What is this secret to the captain’s ancestry?”
“An excellent choice!” Jack said with a laugh. “However—she will go insane if you ever mention this to anyone else … She says ‘those boots are far too big to fill.’ So, no using the information except for your own personal and silent amusement.”
Rowen nodded solemnly, but one eyebrow quirked.
“Our good captain, Elizabeth Victoria—” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “I wasn’t at liberty to reveal her middle name—she’s touchy about that, too…”
“I won’t breathe a word, but that will not count as one of your two secrets.”
“Ah. Well clarified.”
“Elizabeth Victoria: E.V. Now I understand.” Rowen grinned. “Do go on with your secrets.”
“Our dear captain is directly descended from Calico Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny herself.”
Rowen cocked his head and looked at Jack. “Rackham was hung. And Bonny…”
“… disappeared from the records around the time her stay of execution was up. Certain segments of society have speculated quite a bit over what happened to Anne.”
“I’d imagine by certain segments you mean, specifically, yours?”
Jack smiled. “Aye. They were quite the couple.”
“I seem to remember from my reading there was more to them than a couple…”
Jack cleared his throat. “Well. That is one of the more lurid stories related to them, true … But Jack and Anne had a separate history, you know. Before Mary Read joined the crew. She delivered a child for him and left it on an island with some of Jack’s other family to be raised and she rejoined him.”
“She abandoned her child?”
“It sounds harsh if you look at it that way. I prefer to think of it as she left her child in the safekeeping of others and went back to rejoin her two true loves.”
Rowen nodded slowly. “Two,” he said, stressing the single syllable. He winked.
“Yes, two. Jack and the sea.”
Rowen’s grin mellowed. “Fine. Jack and the sea. And our captain is descended from that child?”
“Aye. Imagine being a captain of a ship such as ours—”
“—by which you mean pirate—”
“—trader,” Jack corrected with a wink of his own. “Imagine being related to not just one famous—”
“—trader?” Rowen tried with a laugh.
“—captain,” Jack returned. “Imagine being the descendent of two.”
“Big boots indeed,” Rowen agreed.
Aboard the Artemesia
The Wandering Wallace seemed tired when Marion found him back aboard the Artemesia and he was none too eager to have the conversation required of him. But as the ship drifted free of its moorings, the men sat at a table together.
Miyakitsu was leaning against the Wandering Wallace in one of the ship’s smaller tearooms, lounging on broad velvet pillows behind a low table. He had exchanged his donkey’s mask for that of a yawning housecat, looking in many ways like a much different man.
Marion lowered himself slowly, tucking his long legs under him to make himself comfortable. “I made sure Meggie tried the maple candy, as you suggested. And I found her a pair of leather gloves just right for such a small lady,” he reported.
“Good, good,” the Wandering Wallace said. “And you, you are—?”
“Right as rain,” Marion whispered.
“And yet keeping company with the Maker and his family
?”
“More appropriately they are keeping company with me. They did not plan this particular journey. It was more of an impulsive agreement we reached.”
“Ah. How intriguing.” The Wandering Wallace laced his fingers together and stretched. “So the little one … she is your most important pawn. The key to your power.”
Marion accepted a cup and saucer from the server. “Gunpowder,” he requested and she stepped away to return with the appropriate teapot.
“A bold tea choice for a bold young man.”
“Not much younger than you, I’d wager.” The tea streamed from the fresh pot into his cup, steaming. “Twenty-two.”
The Wandering Wallace nodded. “You wager correctly. Not much at all, if any. Might even fall the other direction, depending on month.”
“October,” Marion specified, taking a long, slow sip.
“Ah. Likely a Libra male. Fascinating!”
Marion stared across the teacup’s edge at him as the Wandering Wallace rose and reached behind him to draw the heavy velvet curtains closed. The Wandering Wallace sat back down and adjusted the stormlight so the glow more fully illuminated their faces and cast them in an eerie light. The Wandering Wallace and Miyakitsu leaned in.
Marion did the same.
“If you might indulge me…” The Wandering Wallace reached around the table’s edge and dug into his carpetbag. He withdrew something carefully wrapped in fine fabric. Undoing a knot, he revealed a small contraption with tiny levers and gears and two miniature bell jars. He set it on the table between them. “I would like to affix this mechanism to your wrist and palm. The nature of our discussion is quite delicate and I cannot afford to risk speaking at length to people of the wrong sort.”
“I daresay I understand that,” Marion said. “Where and what…?”
“I know the most amazing watchmaker. His talents are frequently overlooked as a result of splitting with a family of relatively notable rank. But he learned his trade from a very talented man with a gift for crafting the tiniest of mechanisms…” He motioned to Marion’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”
Marion obliged.
The Wandering Wallace next produced a small box. Sliding one part out of the other, he showed it held a scant number of lucifer matches. “Ships are quite particular about the scent of brimstone,” he muttered, “as are Christians … ready, my love?”
Miyakitsu nodded, cupping a hand as he struck the lucifer, held it between Marion’s arm and the first of the two tiny bell jars, and let the flame suck out the oxygen and create suction. Miyakitsu waved frantically at the wisp of smoke left by the burning lucifer, dissipating it. The actions were repeated and Marion soon found himself with the miniature bell jars affixed to his flesh and the device attached to both them and the pulse point of his wrist.
“Now. Are you quite comfortable?”
He looked at the Wandering Wallace, his lips quirking. “Considering the circumstances, yes.”
“Circumstances must always be taken into account. This device helps determine the veracity of your statements. If your pulse jumps or speeds, this device reports the variation with noise.” He glanced round their shrouded space, clarifying, “A rather discreet noise. Shall we give it a go?”
Marion nodded cautiously.
The Wandering Wallace walked him through a variety of simple questions and answers to test that the machine was appropriately calibrated. Then the real test began.
“You hold with rather abolitionist views. True?”
“True,” Marion agreed.
“You believe in the abolition of slavery. True?”
“True.”
“You believe that all slaves, whether black, red, or Witch, should be freed.”
“True.”
“And you are very concerned with the direction this young country has taken. True?”
“Also true.”
The Wandering Wallace watched the mechanism attached to Marion’s wrist and Miyakitsu watched the place where the curtains had been drawn together but could easily be pulled apart.
“Do you hope for change in this country?”
“Yes.”
“Revolution?”
“If that is what it requires.”
“Are you in league with any of the established revolutionaries?”
“There are established revolutionaries?”
The Wandering Wallace’s eyes never left the mechanism, but he scolded, “We ask, you answer. Are you in league with any of the established revolutionaries?”
“No.”
“Are you seeking to start your own league of revolutionaries?”
“I—I don’t know … I never considered…”
“Are you a spy for the Council?”
“No!”
“Are you seeking to uncover information about the revolutionaries so that you may stop their work?”
“No.”
The Wandering Wallace flopped back on the cushion. “Darling, please…” He waved at the contraption and Miyakitsu used her slender fingers to detach it from Marion’s arm, carefully sliding it back across the table to the Wandering Wallace. He leaned over, rewrapped the contraption in the cloth, and popped it back into the bag as Marion rolled his sleeve back down.
“Well, I daresay that is quite a relief,” the Wandering Wallace said, letting his arms flop wide open and pull Miyakitsu toward him. “You may close the window, darling. We won’t need to escort him out as we did the last one.”
Marion swallowed hard.
Miyakitsu rose, cranked the window shut, and locked it.
“We must always think about saving our own skins, you understand? Without us, revolution stands no chance.”
“Are you it then, the head of the revolutionary leagues you mentioned?”
The Wandering Wallace shook his head. “I doubt anyone can truly claim that title when a revolution is in the works. I am merely an enabler who is willing to do whatever is required to set this country on the right path.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Well, that depends. Are you joining our ranks or simply speculating about joining?”
Marion leaned back. “Have you considered bringing about change from the inside out?”
“Who hasn’t?” The Wandering Wallace shook his head and Miyakitsu reached up to stroke the yawning cat’s whiskers. “Some things cannot be accomplished from the inside. Where does an apple begin to rot? From the inside out. We must instead make a run at the outside to better find our way in.”
“And how do you intend to do so?”
“I must be assured of your allegiance.”
Marion rubbed a hand across his forehead and slipped his fingers into his dark hair, combing through it. “What do you need me to say?”
“That you acknowledge there is no path to peace except by complete revolution. You already have the Maker and his family. Imagine what you could do by removing just him from the face of this planet.”
“I have imagined. Every night for four years I imagined that,” Marion admitted. “But I don’t know now…”
“Ah. He’s gotten to you, has he? He’s made you see him as something other than the monster he is.”
“He’s no monster. There are no monsters. Only men.”
“And you think this man should be allowed to continue what he is doing—Making Witches to power the transportation and luxuries of the wealthy?”
“Of course not.”
“Then be rid of him once and for all. Wipe clean the slate and force them to find a new Maker. Make them suffer and slow their ability to produce. Make them Make a Maker!” he said with a laugh.
But Marion’s volume dropped and Miyakitsu stiffened, hearing the growl edging up in his voice. “Never. I will never let anyone Make another,” he swore, his hand clenched around his teacup.
Frost wiggled out from his fingertips, crawling across the china and edging its way to encircle and cool the still steaming liquid. “You would not
understand,” he hissed, his breath coming out in a frosty puff.
The Wandering Wallace poked a finger through the foggy air and gave it a swirl, twirling it. Pulling his hand back, he moved his index finger back and forth and Marion watched, awestruck, as he made the tiny tendrils of fog into shapes and then animals and then, one by one, crystallized them in midair, and let them tumble into Marion’s tea where they floated and dissolved.
“Hmm. Iced tea. It might catch on eventually, yes, darling?”
Miyakitsu wrinkled her nose.
“Ah well, perhaps. You see, my friend,” he said, once again addressing Marion, “I do understand. We are not so very far apart in our experiences at all when it comes to magick. I make my living as an illusionist and do what needs doing on the side: the occasional Reanimation and forgery,” he said as simply as if naming his favorite colors. “I am no Weather Witch nor Warden nor Wraith, but I do bear magick. And I recognize that our world would be a sadder place without magick in it.”
“Magick is not wanted here,” Marion protested.
“Ah. So easily you fall back into repeating the lies they’ve taught you. Magick is unwanted. That it’s some low class anomaly. That it must be quelled and controlled for the betterment of man. And the biggest lie of them all—that magick is what tore all of Europe apart. It most certainly did not. That was the work of greedy politicians and weapon-wielding soldiers.”
Marion watched an icy giraffe bobbing in his tea and growing shorter and shorter with each descent. Finally it went under the surface altogether and was nothing but one slightly shinier spot of liquid and then … nothing. “Is war truly the only choice? Must it be full revolution?”
“You are quite naive, are you not?”
Marion’s head snapped up at that. “No, sir. I am not.”
“You seem well bred, but you’re a Witch. You’ve been traveling with the Maker since Holgate and have not yet killed him. You believe the system can be fixed—that the system need not be replaced…” He ticked off Marion’s supposed offenses on his fingertips one by one. “It all adds up to a certain naiveté.”
Marion put both hands flat on the table and pressed down, raising himself up. He peered down at the masked man and his odd foreign bride feeling contempt twist his face. “As my nanny used to say: There is more than one way to skin a cat. Violence might not yet be the only answer.”
Stormbringer Page 19
