by Rod Duncan
“I was going to bury it,” she said. “And hope to find it again when we came back this way.”
“You can yield it to the oath-wrights when we get to the Island,” he said.
“How could a slave girl own such a thing? And it’s not from here. They’d know. They’d ask questions. They’d demand to see my marks. Any oath-wright would know in a second that I’m not what I seem. But you – you could hand it in. Everyone knows you’ve been over the water. You might have found a gun like this on your travels and brought it back.”
“Smuggled it back,” he said. “Why did you risk bringing it?”
“It’s all I have left of my father. I know it’s stupid, but I couldn’t let go. Each step on this journey, I’ve thought I might find a way to escape. So I’ve carried it with me.”
“You managed to hide it from Jago all this time?”
“Yes.”
“But how? If he’s…”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He hasn’t. I’m sorry, Elias. Sorry I didn’t tell you. But he hasn’t touched me all this time. Not in that way. He’s taken a vow to have no pleasure from women until he’s the king of Newfoundland.”
“But you made me think…”
“I’m sorry.”
“All this time!”
“It would cost my life if he knew I’d told it. But if I don’t trust someone… I just don’t know how long I could carry on.”
He weighed the pistol in his hand. “I deserved it,” he said. “I sent you into his hands.”
There was silence for a moment. Then she said, “My father told me that you can’t throw a feather to land in a hat, but you can move a hat to catch a falling feather.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some things can be controlled. Some things can’t. I guess it means you have to know the limit of your power and work with what you’ve got.”
“It’s good,” he said. “Your father was a wise man.”
“Will you give my gun to the oath-wrights?”
“I will,” he said.
“And bring it back when we leave?”
“I will,” he said again. And then, because she’d been honest with him and it seemed he owed her at least the same in return, he added, “You know we won’t make it away from the Island. Most likely.”
For a moment he thought he’d shocked her into silence. But then she said, “Neither of us knew Jago would be waiting in that church.”
Most of the camp followers had bedded down by the time he arrived back at the flat rock on which he’d set the dice game. The fire had burned itself down to a mound of glowing coals. He sat nearby, easing himself in the last of its warmth. The baker would be asleep. No chance to trade the pewter mug till morning. At least that gave a promise of breakfast, when the bread would be fresh.
Checking that no one was watching, he dipped into his cloak and slipped Elizabeth’s pistol onto his lap. He could make out the design in the stock, now: a leaping hare. The inlay was cold to the touch. It would be some semi-precious stone, he thought. It seemed dark in the orange light of the fire embers, almost black. But from somewhere deep in his mind came the thought of turquoise, pale and beautiful under the sun.
It took him a moment to realise that it was a remembered thing. He’d seen just such a gun before. All in a rush, the design came back to him, sharp and clear. He’d been in the far Yukon. The gun had been in the hand of a traveller, a man who’d come through to observe the glycer-fortis factory. The man with the same strange accent that he’d caught in Elizabeth’s voice.
Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the man’s face. But the only image he could conjure was Elizabeth herself. Confused, he slipped the gun into his tote and then laid that on the floor as a pillow. He would study it in the morning light and think on the puzzle again.
Chapter 33
All the way from Jago’s fortress, they’d spoken about the Island of the Reckoning. The sun was warmer there, they said. It couldn’t be true, but they seemed to believe it. The soft green turf lay under a sapphire sky. She would see all manner of wildflowers there. And wrestling contests and more food and drink than moderation would allow, yet all would be consumed by the end.
But when the road rounded the final bluff and the trees thinned so that Elizabeth could see it with her own eyes, she understood for the first time that they’d missed one crucial detail from their descriptions. The Island was not an island. The promontory before her pinched to a ridge of rock, not much wider than the road itself. But then it opened out again to a treeless landscape, low and rolling, surrounded by the ocean. One winter of hard storms might break that rock ridge, she thought. Then it would be an island. Or it might stand for another hundred years.
Three round stone buildings with conical roofs stood just before the narrowest point. Without chimneys or windows, they seemed like the towers of a castle. Jago led the column of horses and wagons down the slope towards them. Oath-wrights emerged from between the stone walls and gathered in the road in front of the ridge, barring their way. They wore the same long robes as Jago’s own oath-wright and the front of their scalps had been shaved. Each forehead bore a different design.
Jago reined in his stallion to stop before them. “I wish to cross to the Island,” he announced.
“Will you first yield up your arms?” the oath-wrights intoned.
“I will.”
“And all those who follow you?”
“It will be done.”
Jago turned his horse to face the column. Elizabeth found herself the closest to him.
“All weapons will be yielded here. Any found carrying an instrument of death beyond this point will be done to death by my hand.”
As they began to dismount, he advanced his horse towards her. “That means the stinger you carry in your boot.”
When it was all laid out on the ground, Elizabeth marvelled at the quantity of weaponry they’d been carrying: swords and pistols for the most part, but long guns also and maces, throwing knives, crossbows and spiked and bladed things the names of which she didn’t know. The oath-wrights entered each into a ledger. Then all the weapons were carried into the nearest of the stone towers. One by one, Jago’s followers were cleared, to pass onto the Island. On the other side of the rock ridge they were searched by a second contingent of oath-wrights. Powder dogs sniffed around, yowling in excitement, tails wagging. One man was forced to strip naked when the dogs paid him too much interest. He had nothing.
“Stop!” one of the oath-wrights commanded, pointing to the first of Jago’s wagons as it rolled towards the rock ridge. It had moments before been uncovered and its curious cargo revealed. “What’s that?” There was no deference, though he was addressing a Patron.
“Part of a table,” Jago said.
“Why?”
“Is it allowed?”
“Why bring a table?”
“Is it allowed?” Jago asked again in the same flat tone.
“It is.”
Jago gestured to the carter, who flicked his whip. Onwards it rolled. Elizabeth arranged herself so as to watch its progress without seeming interested. On the far side it stopped and the dogs sniffed around it. Two of them jumped into the back and put their noses to the woodwork and the straw it rested in. To her untrained eye, they seemed agitated. But none of them sat and barked or lifted a paw or any of the other indications that dogs were trained to make on smelling contraband. Out they jumped and it was done.
Focused on the scene beyond the rock ridge, she only became aware that Elias was himself crossing when he stepped past her. And then it was too late to catch his eye. The oath-wrights on the other side paid him no attention. The dogs must have become inured to the scent of glycer-fortis because they gave him only a passing sniff. He followed on behind the carts, hardly noticed, it seemed. Though news of his arrival would surely fly like beach sand in a gale.
“You next,” said Logan.
He gave her pony a smack on the rump and it started forw
ards. Walking beside it, she found herself led by the beast instead of the other way around. Halfway across she looked down and saw the waves surging some forty feet below. An experienced climber might scale such a cliff, but not easily. By controlling that pinch point, the oath-wrights could give or deny access to all the land beyond. A perfect setting, then, for the Reckoning. With all their weapons outside, the Patrons could play their games of politics with no thought that it might turn to deadly violence.
The land widened out again. The dogs were all around her. After giving her pistol to Elias, she’d scrubbed her hands until the skin was red. She held them out now to the dogs. Their noses touched her and then just as swiftly they moved on to Logan and Jago himself, the last of the column to cross.
Other than Elias, the train of camp followers had been left on the other side. Looking back she saw them traversing the slope of the final headland, moving towards a shantytown of tents that had already sprung up there.
Another clan had begun to descend the hill towards the oath-wrights. What would have happened, she wondered, had two different Patrons arrived at the same time? On the journey, she’d seen outriders from other clans. Each Patron would know the position and speed of other trains nearby. They would keep their distance.
Elizabeth watched as the men of Jago’s upstart clan erected the tents and made stacks of firewood. Some practised their wrestling moves. Jago and his closest advisors huddled in consultation, too quiet and distant for her to hear. Passivity was eating her up from the inside. With the voluminous skirts he’d made her wear, the only thing she could do was stroll slowly from tent to tent. He’d made her into an ornament and she hated it.
Elias had for the first time been granted shelter: a mean-looking sailcloth tent. He’d been made to pitch it away from the main body of the camp, between the latrine pit and the cliff edge. Whenever she tried to wander over and speak to him, one of Jago’s men would shepherd her back.
More clans arrived through the afternoon and the Island became like a map of Newfoundland itself. Jago’s lands were on the south coast, so his clan made camp near the south coast of the Island. The Williams clan were immediately to the west, the Fotheringills to the east. There were perhaps fifty yards of open ground between each cluster of tents. Such proximity might have caused trouble. But without their weapons the men seemed more relaxed.
On the first morning after their arrival, Jago sent a wagon back over the rock ridge to the shantytown of traders on the headland. It returned stacked with more firewood as well as food and wine. A crowd of camp followers had gathered beyond the rock ridge, waiting to be offered work. There were menial tasks to be done: washing and cooking, digging latrines and any other service that the sons of the Patrons might require. Elizabeth watched through the morning as small groups of them were called across.
Spatchcocked chickens had been set on spikes to roast around the fire. The smell of them grew maddening as her hunger built. If it hadn’t been for the great volume of skirts they’d made her wear, she’d have twisted a leg from one of them. But she couldn’t approach the fire without risk of sending her entire dress up in flames. When at last the cook announced that it was ready, she had to wait for a portion to be brought: a strip of white meat, entirely too small.
As she took her first bite, the clan milling around the fire began to part and Jago strode through. His eyes were on her. She looked away and stuffed the remains of the chicken into her mouth.
“Hungry?” he said, when close enough.
She struggled to swallow. But with it down, he wouldn’t be able to take it from her.
He pulled a cloth from his sleeve and wiped the grease from her chin, as if she were a child.
“Time for a stroll,” he said, taking her arm.
A stroll should meander. Instead they cut a straight line across the turf towards the tents of the Williams clan. Logan had tried to follow but the Patron dismissed him with a shake of the head. A wall of young men faced them as they arrived: arms folded, not a smile between them. Jago didn’t break step. At the last moment the man in the centre of the line shifted to the side, making space for them to pass.
“Patron Williams,” Jago said, addressing a corpulent man with a pockmarked face.
The man scowled. “What do you want, Upstart?”
Elizabeth glanced at Jago. But his smile had, if anything, widened. “A fine day, don’t you think?”
“Good enough. Who’s the whore?”
“You want the use of her? My gift.”
“You’ve no taste. No class.”
“Yet here I am.” Jago flourished his arms.
“Why? Why are you here at all?”
“For your company. Your wit. It always makes me laugh.”
And then, as if to prove it, Jago did begin a kind of laugh: a cold sound, forced from his throat. Talk fell silent around the camp. All that remained was Jago’s mirthless aping of merriment. It went on and on. Elizabeth felt sick.
“Filthy upstart,” Patron Williams hissed.
On that moment, Jago’s laughter stopped dead. He bowed low, squeezing Elizabeth’s arm until she curtsied. Then they were walking away, the wall of young men parting for them.
When they were far enough, he leaned closer to her and said, “Next time bow. Like you’re play-acting a man.”
“But why?”
“So they’ll despise me more.”
Next they came to the camp of Patron Tarrik. At first the reception wasn’t so cold. But Jago goaded them and by the time Elizabeth made her deep bow, the young men were spitting on the turf.
“Better,” Jago said to her. “Much better.”
She glanced back and saw a figure following. But not from within the Tarrik camp. He had skirted it and was trying to seem casual. She looked quickly away, not wanting to direct Jago’s attention. But he’d seen already and was beckoning.
“Enjoying your walk, No-Thumbs?”
“Yes, Patron.”
“I’m paying my respects to your Great Uncle Calvary. Perhaps you’d like to come along?”
“No, Patron.”
“No matter,” said Jago. “His spies are watching. They’ll be following you for sure. Go set the first section of the table. Firehand will help. Take it over there.”
He pointed to a patch of flat land near the rock ridge. If the Island was indeed a map, it would represent the unaligned tract around New Whitby.
“No one can set camp there,” Elias said, alarmed it seemed.
Jago smiled. “It’s not a camp. It’s a table. For all of them to use. And for you.” Then, turning towards her, he added, “You can go with the fool. That’ll draw a crowd. The whole Reckoning is itching to know who you are.”
Elizabeth had been yearning to talk with Elias again. But now they were together, she could find no words. Each time she made to speak, there was someone in earshot. And when it was safe, a new idea would spark and she’d feel suddenly uncertain.
She’d been brought up among showmen, and knew their ways. But it hadn’t come to her before that Jago possessed some of those same instincts. The table itself, with not enough places for all the Patrons. The insulting visits, each calculated for its effect, stirring up the kind of loathing that would stop them thinking straight. And now this – the placing of a segment of the table where all must pass to enter or leave the Island. He could have had it all assembled at once. But no. He would tease his audience one segment at a time, hooking their curiosity. Every Patron would be asking about it. And every councillor would be failing to answer. Oh, Jago was a ringmaster to his core.
“Run away,” Elias whispered, at last.
“How?”
“There’s a cove – I can take you. It’s out of view. If you wait till low tide, you can scramble to the mainland and no one will see. I did it after they outlawed me.”
She should have run the first time he’d told her to, way back on the New Whitby turning. “Can I really get away?”
“There are three
headlands. You’ll need to do some climbing to get around them. But you’re strong enough. If you’ve got the nerve.”
“And then?”
“Head away under the mainland cliff till you’re almost out of view. There’s an easy place to climb up. It’s like a ladder. Then hide with the camp followers. Leave with them when it’s all over.”
“Come with me,” she said.
“I need glycer-fortis. I can’t live without it.”
“We can wean you off it.”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried.”
“But never with my help.”
“Even if it worked, I’d not be alive. Not like you.” He opened his thumbless hands for her to see.
“You still want revenge?”
“They did this to me, Elizabeth. And now they laugh. Jago was right. Every day I open the wounds so they’re fresh. I cut myself raw. I need to see them hurting. I need to see them wish they’d not plotted against me. If I can’t do that, I don’t want to be alive. I know you think I’m a fool. And you’re right. I hate myself for it. But I can’t escape from who I am.”
“I don’t think you see yourself so clearly,” she said. “There’s more in you than revenge.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I hated a man once,” she said.
“What did he do?”
“He ruined my family. My father died in debtors’ prison because of him.”
“So you killed him?”
“I tried. I even had my knife to his throat. But… I don’t know… Somehow I didn’t do it. I think it’s because I’d learned to love myself. A little bit. And to love my friends.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Elias said. Then the pain left his face like a candle flame being snuffed. The confession was over.
“We know that Jago wants to kill them all,” Elias said, his tone suddenly practical. “The other Patrons, I mean. But we don’t know how he’s going to trigger the bomb. I’ve been thinking that with the table set near the rock ridge, he could shoot at it from the mainland. If a bullet went through the timber, it would blow for sure. But then, if a man raised a gun there, the camp followers would set on him.”
