The Watchmen of Port Fayt

by Conrad Mason

  Tabitha began to have a nasty, creeping feeling that it might have been a mistake coming down here. Where was the gray figure? Where were Newton and Hal? And why in Thalin’s name hadn’t she thought to bring a lantern? She could barely see two feet in front of her. She was alone and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it.

  A light flared up ahead, and something hard and cold jabbed into her neck. She reeled back, choking, her knife falling and skittering away into the darkness. She was going to die, she was going to—

  “Tabs? Is that you?”

  Tabitha blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light.

  There were two figures in front of her. Newton and Hal, risen up from hiding places behind piles of timber. Hal’s hand was lit up like a glowworm, bathing the hold in a ghostly light. Newton was just a few paces away, his black wooden combat staff pointed straight at her neck. Both of them wore expressions of horror.

  “I’m sorry,” snapped Tabitha. “All right? That hurt. I didn’t mean to—”

  A pair of hands gripped her throat, and she was dragged backward, coughing and gagging.

  Grubb stared at the cat, struggling for words.

  “What … what are you—”

  “None of your business,” said the cat. “Why don’t you hop it?”

  There were only two explanations for a talking cat. Either Grubb was in need of sleep, or …

  Oh, Thalin. Yellow eyes. Ginger hair. And that voice, proud like a gentleman’s, with a hint of an Old World accent.

  Things were starting to make a horrible sort of sense.

  “It was you,” he said dumbly. “At the Legless Mermaid. You’re that man who came and asked about the package and—”

  “Congratulations, you’re a genius.”

  “So … you’re a—”

  “Shape-shifter. Yes. Full marks.”

  “And you’ve been—”

  “Following you. Right again.”

  Grubb could hardly believe it. A shape-shifter. A shape-shifter. They were about as common as flying whales. Grubb had never seen one before. At least, he didn’t think he had. Of course, the whole point of shape-shifters was that they could transform into an animal whenever they chose, and the rest of the time they looked just like ordinary—

  “Oh, do stop gawping,” said the cat. “I’ve enjoyed our little game, but I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

  It picked up the package in its mouth again, and sauntered off down the alley.

  “Hey,” said Grubb. “You can’t take that. It’s not yours. I know it’s not yours. It belongs to … Well, it belongs to someone else.”

  “Watch me,” said the cat over its shoulder, its voice muffled by the velvet.

  Grubb felt the first stirrings of panic. He had to do something. Without the black velvet package he had nothing. There was no way Phineus Clagg would let him join the crew if Grubb had lost his precious package. He would have to go back to the Legless Mermaid, and he couldn’t do that. Not now.

  “Bring that back here,” he said in the sternest voice he could manage. His voice cracked slightly, making him sound ridiculous. He swallowed.

  The cat paused for a moment, a shadow at the end of the alley, and put the package down again.

  “Brave,” it purred, “but a little stupid.”

  Grubb felt his face burn.

  “I told you, it’s not yours. I won’t let you take it.”

  The cat sniggered. It was the first time Grubb had ever heard a cat laugh, and it wasn’t a pretty sound.

  Without warning, the cat sprang back down the alley, straight past Grubb, the package in its mouth. He lunged after it, tripped over the snoozing imp, and fell heavily. Barely stopping to think, he clambered to his feet and followed.

  The cat darted left into a small side street, then right, and within seconds it had raced out onto the quayside, flying over coils of rope and dodging past empty barrels. Grubb sprinted after it, pumping his scrawny legs as fast as they could go. A gang of sailors on their way to the Grand Party turned to laugh and yell at him to slow down. They ignored the shape-shifter, of course. All they saw was a cat with something in its mouth—probably a dead rat. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

  Grubb was breathing hard now. The cat was increasing its lead, and he knew he had to catch it before it slipped back into the side streets. But it stuck to the quayside, racing between patches of moonlight and lantern light. It must have known how easy it would be to lose him, to disappear into the shadows.

  It was mocking him.

  At last, it veered left down an alleyway. Grubb followed. His feet hurt, his legs ached, and his breathing was coming harder and harder.

  By the time he’d turned the corner himself, the cat was gone. He stopped and bent over, gasping for air and cursing silently. Well, that was that. It was crazy to think he could have caught it, anyway.

  “Well, well,” said the shape-shifter’s voice. There it was, perched above him on a low rooftop, one paw resting on the package. “Still here, are we? What a strange little creature you are. Want to try something more challenging?” It picked up the package in its mouth and trotted a short way across the rooftop, daring Grubb to follow.

  He knew he should give up. But the cat was getting to him with its swagger, its confidence, and its taunting voice. He couldn’t let it escape.

  The rooftop wasn’t too high, and there was a pile of wooden crates below. Grubb pushed them against the wall and climbed up, clumsily grabbing the gutter and hauling himself onto the roof, straining the stitching of his new jacket almost to a ripping point. He stood and felt the breeze on his face, cool and fresh.

  For a second he looked into the cat’s twinkling eyes, and then it was away. Grubb scrambled up the slope of the roof and slid down the other side. He leaped to the next house, forcing himself not to think about what he was doing. You’re just serving drinks, back at the Mermaid. He skidded on roof tiles, knocking several loose and sending them smashing into the alley below.

  As he reached the top of the next roof he caught a glimpse of the town laid out around him. Here and there a turret, a flagpole, a wooden crane rising over the houses. Fireworks exploding high above, lighting up the skyline. Far to the right, a forest of masts bobbing in the harbor. In an instant, he had seen more of Port Fayt than he’d seen in six years at the Legless Mermaid. And then he was leaping to the next roof and scrambling up another set of tiles. Something was nagging at the back of his mind—fear, maybe—but whatever it was, it didn’t seem important anymore.

  The cat was always just ahead, running and jumping so smoothly it seemed almost to be flowing over the rooftops. But somehow, Grubb kept up with it. They were onto their fourth house, and their fifth. His breathing was ragged, his muscles burned, and his knees were bruised from banging against gutters. None of that mattered though. He could catch it. He knew he could. He found himself grinning.

  The gap between the fifth and sixth houses was wider than the others, but if a cat could do it, so could a mongrel boy. Grubb launched himself over, taking a quick glance at the alley below.

  And his heart jolted.

  What had gotten into him? What in Thalin’s name was he smiling for? There was no way he could jump that. No way …

  He landed on the rooftop with a horrible crunching sound.

  “Aaaaaaaaaugh!”

  Something was wrong. Hot pain rushed through his ankle.

  He reached down and overbalanced. With a sick feeling, he realized he was tipping backward. He waved his arms in wild circles. He just had time to cry out in panic, and then he was falling.

  For a moment, Grubb had a vision of himself as he might look to a passer-by. A strange, mottled runt of a mongrel, dressed in finery far too good for him, plunging down, down, down …

  He closed his eyes as the cobblestones came to greet him.

  Tabitha twisted and rammed her elbow back as hard as she could. But the hands closed tighter, and her body flooded with a strange exhaustion, weighing down her limbs
until she was numb and paralyzed.

  Magic.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed her captor—the hooded figure. To her surprise she saw that it was an old human woman. But her face was gray like a goblin’s and disfigured with deep lines, more than could possibly be natural. She was snarling, her eyes wide, burning, black as death.

  Tabitha’s stomach pitched with fear.

  “The Demon’s Watch,” said the woman, and her voice was a low, growling whisper. She sniffed the air, and her crooked mouth twitched. “Yes, of course. Such brave creatures. Ready and waiting—for me, perhaps?”

  Hal suddenly went white, his eyes bulging out behind his glasses, gulping for air like a fish stranded on a beach. The light from his hand began to fade, and he staggered sideways, his face a mask of fear. The old woman smiled.

  Newt sprang forward, swinging his staff so hard and fast that Tabitha was sure it would crack the woman’s skull. But instead she caught it in midair and, impossibly, pulled him toward her. She gave a strange, exultant shriek, and her arms began to expand, squeezing Tabitha and Newton in closer, absorbing and trapping them.

  The light from Hal’s hand went out, and they were in darkness.

  The old woman shot upward like a rocket. There was a juddering crash as they hit the deck above and went straight through it. Then another crash, and another, and a table of drinks went flying as they shot up into the night sky. There were screams and angry shouts. Tabitha caught a glimpse of Old Jon and Paddy trying to calm people down, and blackcoats on the Behemoth rushing for the gangplank to the Wraith’s Revenge, hastily loading crossbows.

  Their captor threw back her head and howled again. She dropped out of the sky and balanced on the mainmast’s highest yard, still grasping the two of them with inhuman strength, like a hawk with its prey. Tabitha squirmed, gasping for air and trying to escape her grip. But the old woman just laughed and thrust out her arms, dangling her captives in front of her, one in each hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Tabitha could see the deck, far, far below.

  Yes. Going down to the hold had definitely been a mistake.

  Musket shots rang out, and crossbow bolts whirred past. One tore into the furled sail below them. Another slammed into the mast.

  “Where is it?” screamed the woman. “What have you done with it?”

  The words came rushing out, buffeting them like an angry gale.

  “Where is Captain Phineus Clagg? Tell me.”

  Tabitha slipped down sharply and was caught again by the wrist. She gasped, panting with fear, trying not to think about what was happening.

  “Tell me, or I drop the girl.”

  “Do that,” grunted Newton, “and you’ll be sorry.”

  Tabitha would probably have wanted to punch him, if she hadn’t been so utterly terrified.

  The old woman’s eyes grew wider and wider, two swirling black pits, deeper than the ocean. She leaned in, her cloak flapping about her like a demon’s wings.

  “It’s you who’ll be sorry, Captain Newton,” she hissed.

  There was frantic movement down below on the poop deck. A blur of green—Frank, moving through the crowds around One-hand Wallis. Then Wallis was shouting and gesticulating, and Frank held him off with one arm as he tipped the gigantic firework to an angle, reached for a tinderbox …

  “No!” yelped Tabitha. “Wait, Frank, no!”

  The Flaming Nancy launched in a cloud of sparks, with a screeching, shrieking roar, and partygoers threw themselves to the deck in panic.

  On the yard, the old woman’s eyes narrowed. She flung herself sideways at impossible speed, taking Tabitha and Newton with her, split seconds before the Flaming Nancy hit the mainmast.

  There was a shatteringly loud BANG, and Tabitha was blinded by a rainbow of light. And then she was flung away like a rag doll, and at first she was almost floating in the air, and then she was falling, down and down, faster and faster, and Newton was turning in slow motion in the air beside her, and she opened her eyes half a second before she hit the water and immediately wished she hadn’t, and then there was nothing but a muffled roaring, and she flailed with her arms and legs, fighting her way upward, reaching for air …

  Tabitha surfaced, spluttering and choking. Newton appeared at her side, spitting out seawater and rubbing salt from his eyes. They bobbed in the freezing water, too cold to say anything for a minute or so. The top yard of the Wraith’s Revenge was on fire, and the mainmast was studded with crossbow bolts and scorched black by the Flaming Nancy. But the old woman was gone.

  A short swim later, and the pair of them were hauling themselves out of the water and scrambling up a rope ladder, back onto the ship. They stood, dripping and shivering, while Fayters crowded around them, all clamoring at once.

  “You’ve ruined the party!” screeched One-hand Wallis.

  “How in the name of the Ebony Ocean did you get up on that yard?”

  “Watchmen indeed,” huffed a troll woman. “Wastes of space, more like.”

  Tabitha was about to step forward and give them a piece of her mind when Newton laid a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. She looked up at him, and her heart sank. She knew that expression. Disappointment. Newt obviously thought this was her fault, somehow. They’d be having a chat later, she could just tell.

  There was a commotion among the crowd as blackcoats shoved people aside, and a tall, pale elf shouldered his way through. His uniform was pristine, and silver glinted on his shoulder and lapels. Tabitha knew him but would have been much happier if she didn’t.

  The militiaman snapped open a heavy pocket watch and made a show of inspecting it.

  “Evening, Mr. Newton. It’s a little late for a swim, don’t you think?”

  A voice called out from the crowd.

  “What a party, eh, Cyrus? Night to remember or what?”

  Tabitha spotted Paddy’s head above the crowd, a big grin plastered on his face. The troll could never resist a chance to wind up militiamen.

  Colonel Cyrus Derringer just smiled.

  “A night to remember? Well, it certainly is now. And it’s Colonel Derringer, if you please.” He turned his cold blue eyes to Newton. “Care to explain yourself before my men blow you to pieces?”

  Newton met his gaze and said nothing. Cyrus’s smile grew wider.

  “Very well then, let’s see. Aside from disturbing the peace, vandalizing three tables of food, and ruining the firework display, you have somehow managed to smash a gaping hole right through one of the town’s most valuable warships. And in case you hadn’t noticed, the mast is on fire.”

  “Really?” said Newton.

  Derringer’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re in big trouble. You and your whole bilge-brained crew.” In one smooth motion, his saber flashed from its scabbard and came to rest, the blade pressed against Newton’s cheek.

  It was a neat trick, but Newton didn’t flinch. In spite of herself, Tabitha felt a flush of pride at his bravery.

  “It’s the blackcoats who are supposed to keep the peace in Port Fayt,” Derringer hissed. “The Dockside Militia. Just remember that.” He stepped back and smiled again. “Tomorrow morning, the governor will be expecting you at Wyrmwood Manor, and I can’t imagine he’ll be very happy. The Cockatrice Company has spent a fortune on this party. If it were up to me, I’d throw the lot of you into a shark pit.

  “Now get off this ship. Before I lose my temper.”

  It was a little after midnight by the time the watchmen left the Wraith’s Revenge.

  Tabitha looked back from the longboat, toward the ship and its scarred mast. She’d had a taste of action at last, but she didn’t seem to feel good about it. As a matter of fact, she felt scared and sick, and she was glad to be going home.

  Newton shifted seats to sit next to her.

  “Tabs,” he said.

  “I know, I know, but listen, I saw her go down below, and I wanted to warn you. It almost worked as well, if I’d been a few seconds later I
—”

  “Enough.” There was real anger in his voice, and it shut her up at once. “Tabs, you have to do what I say, understand? I know it’s hard. You’ve lived with me for a long time. And maybe I’ve let you get away with too much in the past. But things are different now that you’re a watchman.”

  Well, at least he was admitting that.

  “People could die, Tabs. Actually die. You saw that old woman. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Tabitha opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Instead, she just bit her lip and nodded, silent. The old woman’s face loomed at the back of her mind, like a spider in a cupboard that she didn’t dare look at. She had never seen magic like that before. Hal had learned some impressive tricks from the Azurmouth Magical Academy. On a good day he could even lift up a chair, using just his mind. But the old woman was something else. Something far more terrifying. Those strange black eyes … Tabitha shuddered.

  “Who is she, Newt?”

  Newton shook his head.

  “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.”

  He was staring back at the ship, and Tabitha noticed that his knuckles were white, gripping on to his staff where it lay across his lap, safely retrieved from the Wraith’s Revenge. Paddy had told her once that the staff was a gift from an old hobgoblin, a traveler from the lands beyond the New World. It was plain—three gleaming, black lengths of wood, slotted together—but for close combat, Newton never used any other weapon. “The Banshee,” he called it.

  “I’m sorry, Newt,” she said quietly. “About going down below.”

  “Aye.”

  He wasn’t listening though. There was something in his eyes—some emotion that Tabitha had never seen before.

  With a jolt, she realized what it was.

  Fear.

  Wyrmwood Manor loomed ahead, all gray walls, battlements, and turrets, perched on the edge of the cliff top like a shadow of a dragon preparing to swoop down on Port Fayt.

  Newton wasn’t looking forward to this. Not one bit.

  A footman led the way down a gravel pathway, past palm trees, clipped lawns, and hedges. It was strangely quiet, except for the crunch of their footsteps and the occasional cry of a gull. Here and there, Newton saw a tinkling fountain, or a fishpond. There were statues of ancient Old World heroes, posing with broadswords, bows, and axes.