by Conrad Mason
“Know any other Captain Gores?” inquired Jeb. He hopped up onto a stool, grabbed a fresh pie from the mountain in the middle of the table, and poured himself a helping of grog, all the while ignoring Tabitha’s baleful glare.
“Gore and Clagg’ve got themselves a little score to settle. Few years back, out in the tropics, Clagg sold Gore thirty barrels of finest Azurmouth firewater. Got a pretty price for them too. Except after the deal was done, it turned out it weren’t actually firewater in the barrels—it were seawater. Gore and his pirates’ve been after Clagg ever since, looking to get their own back. Seems yesterday, they finally caught up with him. Captain Gore’s bosun, that ol’ ogre Tuck, with all them swirly black tattoos, he found the smuggler in some dockside tavern and dragged him kicking and screaming back to their galleon. The Weeping Wound, it’s called. It’s anchored out in the bay, so you best hurry. Gore won’t be stopping in Port Fayt for long. Man’s got ships to plunder.”
Tabitha shrugged her way out of Frank’s grip.
“How come you know so much about Captain Gore?”
Jeb smirked at her.
“Know all kinds of things, don’t I?”
There was a long pause.
“Right,” said Paddy at last. “So you’re saying, if we want to talk to Phineus Clagg, we’ll have to ask Captain Gore for him?”
“Seems that way. And if I was you, I’d ask nicely. ’Specially if you want him in one piece.”
“So we’ll ask,” said Tabitha fiercely. “We’re the Demon’s Watch, aren’t we? What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” said Frank, “is that Captain Gore is a maniac. The sort of maniac who gives other maniacs a bad name. I heard he fed his cabin boy to a shark once. Then ate the shark.”
Jeb cackled and stuffed more pie into his face.
“True enough,” said Newton thoughtfully. “There’s no way Gore will just let his victim go. But if a smuggler tricked him, then so can we. We’ll just have to use a bit of cunning, that’s all.”
Joseph Grubb, look at the state of you!”
A moist cloth dabbed at his face, and he squirmed.
“Sit still, it’s only a handkerchief. There, that’s better.”
He giggled and blew a bubble.
Elijah Grubb put on the sternest face he could manage. “Now, time to eat up all them greens, young’un. Can’t have you wasting away.”
“No chance of that, Eli. If he carries on like this, we’ll be needing a wheelbarrow to cart him around.”
Joseph giggled again. His mother wagged her finger at him, pretending to be cross.
“And all that giggling. He’s a right little terror.”
“Terror,” gurgled Joseph.
They both laughed. Mr. Grubb took Mrs. Grubb in his arms and kissed her, his tough gray goblin skin pressed against hers—delicate, white, human.
They were at home, sitting around the little dining table in their house with the green front door. Mother and Father, both there, both safe. He had thought they were dead, but here they were, alive. Everything was so wonderful, Joseph felt like he might burst.
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Grubb went to answer it. Standing there, in the rain, was a blackcoat.
He couldn’t hear what the man was saying, and he could see only his mother’s back. But somehow, suddenly, with a searing pain, he knew.
Father was dead.
They had come for him. Humans. Men he’d worked with on the docks. Men who had seen him with his pretty human wife. Men who were supposed to have been his friends.
Joseph looked across the dining table at the man he’d thought was his father and saw that there was something wrong with his eyes. They weren’t supposed to be yellow, were they? And his face wasn’t supposed to be furry and ginger, was it?
“Eat up those greens, mongrel,” said Mr. Lightly, “or I’ll …”
He flinched.
“Hold still,” said his father.
“It hurts.”
“That’s because you fell off a roof.”
Where was he?
“Hold still, I said.”
“Mother?”
The room was darker. Much darker. Somewhere, he could hear her crying, and he reached out for her.
“Do you want me to tie you up? Or are you going to stay still?”
“Mother!”
Everything was going back to how it was before. Father gone, Mother crying. And soon she would be gone too. He sobbed.
“Father?”
“I’m not your father, boy.”
The room was darker than ever, and he was alone. Darker, and darker, and darker …
A figure, crouching over him in the gloom, yellow eyes glinting, holding something small and black.
Where was he? Was he dead?
He tried to get up but was pushed down again. Half-asleep, he settled for rolling over instead. Everything was going to be fine. He was sure of it.
“Tough as a shark,” the figure murmured. “If you only knew what it was you took …”
And Grubb slept, again.
“Joseph, did I ever tell you the story of how the world began?”
“Tell me again.”
They were sitting on a pier, just Joseph and his father, swinging their bare feet to and fro above the waves—Joseph’s gray-pink, his father’s just gray—watching for the flashes of merfolk tails out in the bay. In the distance, the sun was setting, staining the Ebony Ocean crimson.
“Long, long ago, before humans or goblins or elves, the land was crafted by demons and seraphs. They made everything—the Old World, the New World, and the Middle Islands; the mountains and the seas and the creatures that walked the earth. The world is soaked in their magic, Joseph, and it’s that same magic that magicians use in their spells, even today.”
Joseph nodded, his eyes wide.
“Now, many years later, war broke out between the creatures of the Old World. That was the Dark Age. And in those days, the humans used to say that the seraphs had made them in their own image, and that it was only the other creatures—the imps, trolls, ogres, and so on—that were shaped by the demons.”
“What do you think, Father?”
Elijah Grubb smiled and put an arm around his son’s shoulders.
“I think they worked together. There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone, Joseph. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
He pointed over the water.
“Look, there’s one—a merman. See it?”
Joseph looked, but the merman had gone. And when he turned back to his father he found that he was alone on the pier and the ocean was swirling and churning and slipping, slipping away from him …
Where was he?
Where was he?
The Marlinspike Quarter was its usual grubby self. Youths loitered on corners, and crooked salesmen flogged stolen goods at makeshift stalls. Above them, washing billowed on lines strung between houses, most of it looking so grimy it was hard to believe it had actually been washed. A wrinkled old troll sat cross-legged against a wall, cranking out a tune on a hurdy-gurdy, while a half-starved monkey slept peacefully beside him. There was a soft clink as Newton tossed a coin to join the few that lay on a scrap of cloth in front of him. The troll nodded, almost imperceptibly, and carried on playing.
“Where are we going?” asked Tabitha.
“You’ll see.”
Tabitha sighed loudly. She hated it when Newton was mysterious. Which, unfortunately, was most of the time.
“Fairies,” called a salesman. “Best messenger fairies, cheap as brine! Fairies from the Old World and the New!”
They clamored in their cages as Newton and Tabitha passed, reaching out tiny arms, begging to be bought. Tabitha tried not to look. Newton didn’t want her to have a fairy—said she was too young to need one—which was completely ridiculous, of course, and totally unfair.
“When are we going after the smuggler?” she asked, to take her mind off the f
airies.
“Soon enough. We need a few things first.”
“Well then, I’m going to Thalin Square to see the decorations.”
Newton looked at her for the first time since they’d left Bootles’.
“No, young lady. You’re coming with me.”
“Why should I? You won’t even tell me where we’re going.”
A pained, anxious look passed over Newton’s face as he realized that she had a point. Tabitha hated that look, almost as much as his not telling her what was going on. It meant he thought he wasn’t looking after her properly, and for some reason it never failed to make her feel bad.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have explained. We’re going to …” He trailed off, looking over her shoulder.
“Where? We’re going to where?”
But Newton was already striding past, his attention fixed somewhere else entirely. Exasperated, Tabitha followed.
They were heading for a dwarf standing on a street corner. The stranger had long black hair, a black mustache, and a black beard, all matted, greasy, and wildly out of control. He was holding his coat open, displaying a hodgepodge of pans, spoons, and knives that dangled from the lining. Tabitha reckoned the coat must have been made for a troll, because it was far too big for its current owner.
The dwarf caught sight of Newton, grinned, then turned tail and fled. Unfortunately, his legs were too short and his merchandise was too heavy for him to get very far. He clanked a short distance down the road and then stopped, bent over, puffing and wheezing to catch his breath.
“Well, if it isn’t the Ghost,” said Newton, strolling up and patting him on the back. “Good to see you.”
“It’s plain Jack Cobley now,” said the dwarf, peering up at Newton with bulging, bloodshot eyes. “And I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Tabitha tried not to breathe in through her nose. The dwarf stank of something, and it definitely wasn’t shokel buns.
“I doubt that, Jack,” said Newton. “But relax. I’m not going to throw you in the Brig. Not this time.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” gibbered the dwarf, pathetically grateful. “Me smuggling days are over, you know that. I learned me lesson, sure as the sea. Never want to see the inside of the Brig again, long as I live.” He shuddered.
“Good. I need to ask a favor.”
Instantly, the dwarf became suspicious again.
“Favor? What favor?”
“That old sloop you had. You used to run dragons’ teeth in false barrel bottoms, back in the day. Remember?”
“Aye,” said the dwarf, his brow creased as he desperately tried to work out where this was going.
“What happened to her?”
“She’s anchored out in the bay. But I ain’t used her for a long time, Newt, I swear. She’s a wreck. It’d cost me more to repair her than buy a new boat, and I can’t afford that. Not on the money I make selling this junk.”
He waved a saucepan, forlorn.
“Perfect,” said Newton. “We’ll take her off your hands.” He opened his money pouch and counted out ten ducats. “This do?”
The dwarf’s eyes lit up, and he snatched the money.
“Yes, sir, that’ll do nicely.”
His eyes fell on Tabitha, and he stared. She looked down at her feet and clamped her teeth together. Here it came.
“Hey,” he said, grinning. “Hey, I know you.”
“All right,” said Newton. “It’s time to go now.”
“No, wait, you’re that girl, ain’t you? The Mandeville kid. I’m right, ain’t I? That fancy blue hair dye don’t fool me.”
“What if I am?” growled Tabitha, taking a step forward and glaring at him. “It’s no business of yours, you washed-up bilge bag.”
“Enough,” said Newton, putting himself between them. He took Tabitha by the arm and effortlessly moved her away.
“Ain’t you gonna ask me where I berthed it?” the dwarf called after them.
“I already checked,” replied Newton. “North side of the bay. Berth three hundred and forty three.”
It was only when they’d turned the corner that he let go of her.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” she snapped, rubbing her arm. It had been a gentle grip by Newton’s standards, but it still hurt. “Why do you always have to treat me like a baby?”
“You need to watch that temper,” said Newton, ignoring her question entirely. “It’ll get you into trouble.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like, being recognized all the time like that. How could you? It’s not as if your parents were …” She choked back a sob and was immediately angry with herself for getting so upset. All those stupid feelings about her mother and father were bubbling up inside her again. The hurt and the loss. How could she be so pathetic, still? She’d been a baby when they died, for Thalin’s sake …
Newton stopped and turned to face her, placing his heavy hands on her shoulders.
“You don’t know much about my parents, Tabs,” he said softly. “And listen, ignore people like Jack Cobley. He’s an idiot, and idiots are a ducat a dozen in this town. Being a good watchman means being in control. That means staying calm. If you lose your temper, you could put all of us in danger. Do you understand?”
When Newton spoke like that, it was hard not to listen. She nodded, dabbed at her eyes, and took a deep, quavering breath.
He reached out to ruffle her hair, then pulled his hand back fast, clearly remembering how much she hated hair ruffling.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go and find the Ghost’s boat.”
They set off again.
As they walked, Tabitha glanced sideways at Newton. He didn’t look much like her real father. Or, at least, how she imagined her real father had looked. Her eyes wandered to his wrists and the red, blistered marks that ran around them. She had tried to ask him about those marks once, but he’d just muttered something and changed the subject. You don’t know much about my parents, Tabs. Well, it was true. There was a lot she didn’t know about him. Her real father would have told her everything about himself. Her real father wouldn’t have kept secrets from her …
Suddenly, Tabitha felt very alone.
“Why was he called the Ghost?” she asked, trying to sound like she was feeling fine now. “Was it because he was hard to catch?”
“Hardly. He’s an idiot, remember? We called him the Ghost because every time we caught him he went white as a sail.”
That made her chuckle.
Newton stopped and looked at her. He was wearing his anxious expression again.
“Look,” he said slowly. “I, er … I know you hate being the lookout. So this time, with this smuggler, I thought, maybe … Maybe you should have a chance to do some real watchman work. What do you think?”
Tabitha felt her jaw drop.
“Really?” was all she could say.
He nodded and gave her a slightly clumsy pat on the shoulder.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful. If everything goes to plan, you’ll be totally safe.”
Safe? Tabitha pretended she hadn’t heard that.
Governor Eugene Wyrmwood stood at the head of the table, eyeing it uneasily. The tablecloth was starched and spotless. The knives and forks were polished and shining like mirrors. There were crystal bowls laden with exotic fruit, and lit candles in golden candelabras, bathing the dining room in a soft, warm glow. It was perfect. And yet, he wasn’t hungry. He wondered if he might be sick. But no. He was simply trying to find an excuse to leave.
A glance around the room didn’t make him feel any better. A footman stood in every shadowy corner, still and silent, each one wearing the gold-and-purple velvet livery of the Cockatrice Company. Along both sides of the table stood the wealthiest Cockatrice merchants in Port Fayt, each one behind his allotted place, all waiting to sit. Only the place at the far end of the table, opposite the governor himself, was empty.
The diners were all
dressed in their finest clothing, and all of them were getting fidgety, casting more and more glances at the empty place as time wore on.
The governor smoothed out his combed, pomaded hair and checked his coat for what felt like the hundredth time, making sure it was still as pristine as it had been thirty seconds ago. It was. He reached into his pocket, drew out a large, golden pocket watch and checked the time. That didn’t make him feel any better either.
To his right, Mr. Skelmerdale cleared his throat and leaned over.
“I don’t like it, Your Honor,” he murmured.
Skelmerdale had a particular way of saying “Your Honor” that made it sound more like “Your Uselessness.” He was tall and bony, with close-cropped white hair and dark eyes that seemed constantly glaring, like a strict headmaster’s. Governor Wyrmwood found himself wishing, yet again, that his mother were here. She wouldn’t have put up with Mr. Skelmerdale for one minute.
“He should be here by now, for Thalin’s sake,” muttered Skelmerdale. “He should have been here an hour ago.”
“Yes,” said Governor Wyrmwood. “Indeed. Oh dear.” There didn’t seem much else to say, so he fiddled with his cuffs instead. He’d always known that being governor of Port Fayt wasn’t going to be easy, but tonight was shaping up to be even more fraught than he’d expected. The Cockatrice merchants had elected him director only because he was the last of the Wyrmwoods—the wealthiest family in Port Fayt. That didn’t mean they liked him though. Far from it.
He could feel his headache coming back.
Skelmerdale turned his glare on the empty chair and muttered something about manners, appropriate behavior, and lack of respect.
“Mr. Skelmerdale,” hissed an elderly imp, Mr. Rotheringham, at Eugene’s left. “You simply must guard your tongue when the ambassador arrives. We can’t allow relations with the League of the Light to become any worse than they already are.”
“Worse?” snorted Skelmerdale, glowering down at the imp. “How could they possibly get any worse?”
“Need I remind you,” huffed the imp, “that the League controls nearly every major port in the Old World? That trade is a meager trickle as it is, and that unless they are prepared to lift these dratted sanctions—”
