by J. K. Holt
“Chin up,” she said, handing it to the wide-eyed girl. “You’ll be big enough soon to run them all over, just wait and see. And then, remember what it felt like to be little, and make sure to be kind to the small ones, yeah?”
The girl nodded, mesmerized by the pastry she clutched in her hand. Tess took her leave and hurried home, anxious to be inside before dark.
Gowan was finishing with a customer as she entered, and he waited until the fellow left before giving Tess a level gaze. “You alright?”
“I am,” she said as she removed her scarf. “Much business today?”
“A bit,” he said. “I’ll close up soon, and then I was going to walk over to the Spilling Inn, pay my respects to Shad and Bev. Would you like to accompany me?”
Tess shuddered, imagining how welcome she might be. “Best not. I don’t know if I’d actually help or make the situation worse. Especially for Rosie.”
“Right, then,” Gowan said. “In your own time.”
This time, Tess felt she might actually sleep. She crawled under the covers, barely hearing as Gowan tiptoed out, and fell into a blissful state of unconscious.
So deep was she in her slumber that she had no idea whether minutes or hours had passed when she was jerked out of the bed, gagged, and blindfolded in a matter of seconds. She screamed against the gag, kicked out hard, her feet meeting nothing but air, and rolled, pulling at her gag in her mouth. For a moment, she was free of their grasp, and she rolled into a shelf. Items rained down on her, and she pulled quickly into a fetal position, protecting her head with her hands as a few heavier books and items made contact with various part of her torso and limbs. She inhaled swiftly at a sharp pain that exploded below her ribs, and rolled again as hands grappled with her arms, attempting to contain her.
Too soon, one of her attackers swore, hissing an order, and something thick and hard connected with the back of her head, and she fought no more.
Chapter Eleven
A heavy, throbbing pain pulled Tess from the oblivion of unconsciousness. She came to slowly, in incremental stages of awareness, each more uncomfortable than the last. Her head was in the process of breaking apart, and her first remotely conscious thought was to wonder if her skull was actually split open. Are my brains still in my head? Or are they on the floor? That would be pretty gross.
She was, indeed, on the floor, though her brains remained, for the moment, firmly encased within her slightly concussed skull. The gag had been replaced by a cleaner, if tighter, piece of cloth, and she bit down hard on the material to no avail. Her tongue was crammed in the back of her mouth, and she fought the urge to retch. She was bound, her hands neatly behind her, and they had nearly lost circulation from the fastidious attention paid to the tautness of the knots. A slow rotation of her feet found the same, her ankles chafed and raw from the ropes.
She was lying prone on her side, her body spanning the length of a discolored and matted rug the color of rusted blood. From what she could tell, she was the sole occupant of the room, and she currently faced the door. Lanterns, hung carefully at various points across the interior, provided ample lighting. Solid beams ran along the entirety of the ceiling, and a few maps hung from the otherwise sparse walls. The floor, ceiling, and walls were all constructed of wood. Tess rolled, moaning as her weight acted as a rolling iron across her hands bound beneath her, until she was facing in the opposite direction. She flexed her hands, trying to return some circulation to her throbbing digits.
She was beside a large desk, large bolts at her eye level mounting it to the floor. Behind the desk, tall segmented windows decorated with ornate curtains were visible. Several were propped open, revealing a glimpse of a sky peppered with stars, but of no other buildings.
It was the sound that tipped her off. Water, all around and below her- waves slapping at a hard surface. She closed her eyes, and felt it- the slight roll underfoot, as the room swayed slowly to the rhythm of the sea.
She was on a ship. Well, crap. She could guess which one. Was it really just two nights ago that Dray had stared out into the darkness and swore to burn it down? What was its name? The Blackbirder. She laughed mirthlessly, a dry sound against the gag. What the group wouldn’t give to have inside information on this place. And here she was- completely unable to help in her current predicament. The blindfold being off felt rather ominous as well- they didn’t care if she saw what she did. She knew what that meant.
A yawning maw of terror seized her, her breathing becoming rapid, and she felt ever closer to passing out as the reality of her circumstances pressed in on her. They had her. They’d taken her. The nausea swelled again, and she was forced to rest her head back onto the rug and breath through her nose, slowly, until the wave had passed. Freaking out won’t save you. You need to get a grip.
Just think, Tess, think. Maggie used to say that everything you needed to solve a problem was right in front of you, as long as you had the wisdom to see it. Maggie was never tied up on a boat, though, now was she? Still, she had to try. She pulled her feet up towards her- maybe she could get them underneath her and be able to stand. The desk might have a knife, letter opener, something that she could grab and use to cut herself free.
A short-lived attempt at rising proved that theory false- without her hands free, she had no way to lever her body up. She rolled onto her stomach, trying again, pulling her knees as far under her stomach as she could. But the strain on her head was tremendous, pain swelling behind her eyes whenever she tried to use her skull to push herself up, and she eventually had to abort the effort. She fell on her side, kicking out in utter frustration. Her shin met the front leg of the desk, the dull smack reverberating throughout the room as she screamed against the rag.
It was too much to hope that the sound had gone unnoticed. A door behind her opened, and closed as quickly. “Oi!” a deep voice called, just behind the door. “Tell ‘im she’s awake. I’ll watch her.”
The door opened again, and Tess was jerked to her feet as a toddler might heft a rag doll, carelessly and with little effort. She craned her neck to take in the full height of the mountain looming in front of her. He was built like a house and had to be over a foot taller than her. He had black hair and a matching black beard, an old scar tracing its way lazily down and across his lip from the top of his cheek. His eyes were dark and absent of concern. He looked up and down her body with a sneer, then raised an eyebrow in a lewd gesture.
Tess was both terrified and wholly pissed off. Feeling that the anger might be a better use of her time, she stood on her tiptoes as he held her upright, leaning towards his face, and gave him her best doe eyes. He grinned, surprised, and she used whatever small momentum she could build to head-butt him.
He roared, blood dripping from his lip, and the throbbing in Tess’s head became its own entity for a moment, completely overwhelming her ability to have any rational thought. She felt a hand release her, though the other held fast, and she realized numbly that she was about to get hit. Hard.
“Enough, Bram!” A stern voice asserted from the direction of the door. It sounded familiar. “She’s meant to be conscious. Mr. Winslow won’t thank you for killing his captive before he speaks to her.”
Bram muttered something unintelligible before closing both vice-like hands around her once more and pushing her into a chair. She thunked into it, hard, her bottom smarting from the impact. This time, she knew she was going to throw up. She gagged for a moment, leaning forward, and began to heave. Quick hands fumbled with the gag, pulling it free a moment before she retched all over the floor. There wasn’t much more in her stomach than bile, and she spit several times to rid herself of the bitter taste.
The same rag that had gagged her was thrown over the mess to cover it. “No time to clean it up. Bram, take care of it once we’re done with her. In the meantime, watch the door until Mr. Winslow arrives.”
Tess’s eyesight swam as she focused on the rag at her feet. She spit again. She was dangerously light-headed.
Bram lumbered out as the other man crossed the room, then returned to stand before her, holding a glass of water to her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered. “You’re dehydrated, or will be soon enough.”
Her mouth felt like cotton, and she knew he was right. She lifted her head and allowed him to hold the glass to her mouth while she drank it all down. The water tasted stale and dead, like it had been boiled first.
The empty glass was removed and placed on a nearby table. The man grabbed a stool, pulling it close to the desk and sitting down to face her. Tess pulled her eyes up, squinting against the pain in her head, and focused on him.
She knew now how she recognized his voice- he was one of the same men who had attacked her and Russ- it was he who held the device to Russ’s head that had blurred him, he who had urged his fellow goons to flee when the villagers were approaching. In this light, he appeared younger than she’d first thought him to be, perhaps only a few years older than herself. His hair was a light brown, cut shorter than was the style, and he had the type of ordinary face that wouldn’t jump out at you from the crowd. He was looking at her as one might study a monkey in the zoo- with curious interest, but confident in his own superiority.
Tess hated every ounce of his being.
“How’s your friend?” she asked. Her voice was scratchy and weak, and she cleared her throat.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Your friend from the other night. I took a chunk of his finger from him. Surely you remember.”
A wry grin settled across his face. “Ah. So you do recognize me. I wondered. My ‘friend’ is fine. A few stitches and a bandage. Though he certainly holds some ill regard towards you. I may have to let he and Bram flip a coin after this to see who will get the first pleasure of dealing with you.”
He was goading her for a reaction, and she tried to hide her fear. If she gave him a weakness, he would exploit it.
He looked past her as the door opened and another person entered the room. From the weight of the footsteps, it was a man, though rather than crane her neck to see, Tess stared forward until he crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. “So, you’re finally conscious,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you to come to for hours now.”
He was dressed in a crisp doublet, his boots gleaming as he strode around the desk to sit. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his entire demeanor dripped with condescending authority. He looked to be about Gowan’s age, maybe a bit older.
“Deepest apologies,” she said, stonefaced. “I was a bit out of sorts, recovering from a concussion one of your goons delivered to me.”
He dismissed her insults with a cool glance. “No matter. We can begin now.”
He began to shuffle through some papers in front of him until he found one that suited his purpose. He pulled a quill from the nearby inkpot. “My name is Mr. Winslow. And your name is?”
“Are you the captain?” Tess asked.
Mr. Winslow appeared miffed. “Certainly not. Captain Walters works for me.”
“So, you’re in charge?”
He put down the pen, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward. “I am in charge of your fate, girl, which is all you need to know at this juncture. Now, let me make this easy for you to comprehend- I will ask questions, and you will answer them. If you deviate from this pattern, either by asking questions yourself or refusing to answer my own, there will be immediate pain.”
Tess flashed to an image of an angry Bram, waiting outside the door. She shuddered.
Seeing that his point had been made, Mr. Winslow continued. “However, if you answer my questions in a satisfactory matter, I will be more likely to be lenient. Do you follow?”
“Yes,” Tess said, temporarily cowed.
“Good. Now, I’ll again ask your name.”
Tess provided it, along with her made up backstory and her place of work when prompted. She knew they must already have all of this information, so lying was pointless. Mr. Winslow scribbled notes as she spoke before interrupting her, and looking to the other man. “Were you aware of Mr. Rudge having a niece?”
The young man considered, then shrugged his narrow shoulders. “No, but he kept things close to his chest. He might’ve.”
How did he know Gowan? Tess was at a loss.
Before she could consider the likely scenarios, Mr. Winslow spoke again. “Now, how did you find yourself in the town hall, searching through the ledger of deaths from four years back?”
Tess gave the same initial excuse she’d given to Ms. Boyner, but stopped when Mr. Winslow shook his head. “I’ll remind you of our deal? We know you’re lying. It’s what turned us on to your snooping to begin with. Now, answer honestly, or my associate here will be glad to-”
“Quick question,” Tess interrupted, desperate to push back against him and, as usual, unable to stop herself. “Why do shady people always refer to the people working with them as their ‘associates’? Are you people all following some sort of rule book? Like, ‘How to be Evil 101’ or something? Where is the book? Can I see it?”
Mr. Winslow shook his head, disgust transforming his features into an ugly mask. He nodded to the other man, who stood obligingly. “Fingers or ribs?” he asked her, voice amiable.
Tess recoiled. “Neither.”
“I’ll choose then,” he said, advancing.
“Ribs!” she squealed. She curled her fingers into fists behind her back, straining against the ropes.
The man delivered a quick uppercut to Tess’s chest, forcing all air from her lungs. She gasped like a fish out of water for several seconds, until her diaphragm finally stopped its seizing and she could draw in air. The act shot sharp tendrils of pain across her lower left chest.
Bastard.
Tess parted with the information slowly, admitting to seeking out information about the Blue Plague between shallow breaths, and finding the proof there in those pages.
“Proof that you then shared with your accomplices.” Mr. Winslow stated. “List their names for me, if you will.”
Tess clamped her mouth shut. Mr. Winslow gave her a weary look, but was cut off by the other man before he could speak.
“We know this information already. There’s no point in hurting her more over it. It’s the Turner twins, Emmie Fiske, Edric Drowden, and the Reed brothers. I can’t imagine the group has changed much in the last six months. Well, other than Russ no longer being involved.”
Past six months. And he knew Gowan. Tess turned to the man, ice running up her spine at the recognition. “You’re Loren.”
He rolled his eyes at the name. “Sure, you can call me that. It’s what I went by for that time.”
She couldn’t believe it. All this time, and he’d never really left. He’d just gone back to the mothership, watching them from afar like the rat that he was. Dray and Ashe were right- he was working for the Lampreys. Any doubt she might have still maintained was erased.
“They trusted you,” she whispered, words tinged with bitterness.
“Aye, that was more or less the point,” he said. He met her eyes, not an ounce of regret in his features. What had Dray said? They come here and stomp us like cockroaches. They don’t care in the least.
Mr. Winslow coughed. “If I may- what more, if anything, do they know?”
Tess turned confused eyes to him. “Huh?”
“What more do they know? What guesses do they have, about the sea dimple, about any of it?” He was leaning over the desk now, his full attention on her face, his eagerness evident.
In a split second, Tess understood- this was the only chance the others had at remaining safe from the reach of the Lampreys. If these men suspected that they knew anything at all, they’d pick them off, one by one. It was likely that Loren had seen them as idiots, fumbling in the dark, not worth swatting, the only reason he’d not spent any more energy on them since. Until she’d kicked the hornets nest once again.
She had to be convincing. She looke
d at Mr. Winslow, slumping her shoulders, the picture of a meek and broken person. “They don’t. I was new here, and they befriended me,” she said, injecting just a pinch of bitterness into the words. “They thought maybe my uncle was sitting on something he didn’t know he had, something that might point them in the right direction. I looked, but I didn’t find anything. Really, it was just me following a hunch that even led me to the town hall. I didn’t even know what I’d found.”
She shook her head, pretending to be lost in the memory. “I told them what I’d read, and they wanted to steal it. Dray did try that night, but it was already gone.” She assumed they knew this already, but sharing it might confirm that she was indeed telling the truth. “That was their only lead. And now, with Russ gone… the group is splitting. I don’t think Emmie or Fish even want to be involved anymore. Definitely not Rosie. And Dray won’t continue on his own.”
She remembered that Loren had not listed Tulla Reed as an accomplice. So they must not have trusted him entirely, she thought with no small sense of satisfaction. “Now, with me gone, they’ll think I was just another pawn, like Loren, send in to disorient them. They’ll likely think I made up the story about the journal as well.”
When the words had left her mouth, she realized their truth. That’s exactly what they would think had happened. She’d disappeared, confirming their fears. She’d only been a spy. Their trust had been misplaced, once again. The pain of having hurt them felt, in a way, worse than knowing there was no help coming.
She was truly on her own.
Loren spoke. “She’s right. They wouldn’t be able to discover more even if they tried. I don’t think they’re worth the effort, to be honest. Disappearing that many of them, in as short a span of time as we’d need to… it would only bring unwanted attention to our efforts.”
