by Conrad Mason
Grubb tried not to think too hard about what Harry was saying. Stories of the League’s cruelty had been popular in the Legless Mermaid for months, and on the days that Mr. Lightly hit him more than usual he had always reminded himself that at least he wasn’t living in the Old World.
“Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes, that fine woman sitting next to him is Lady Harlequin. She might look pretty, but don’t be fooled, dearie. She’d slice your nose off soon as look at you.”
Grubb glanced down at his feet, hoping that the woman hadn’t seen him staring at her. The fairy on Harry’s shoulder saw what he was doing and cackled.
“Then we have Lord Wren.”
Harry pointed to a large man with an eye patch, dressed in black and smoking a pipe. “Associate of the Boy King. Ain’t really a lord of course, my duck, but try telling him that.” He shrieked with laughter, making Grubb wince. “Honored guests, one and all, merchant or mongrel—if you’ll pardon the expression. But you’re a busy fellow; you don’t want to hear old Harry nattering on like this. Expect you came for the shark fighting, yes? I can tell you a thing or two about shark fighting.”
He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming.
“Now the shark fighters, they’re cheap as brine, see? Any time we like, we can take a boat out and go fishing for more of ’em, you see. But the sharkies, they cost a pretty penny. Ain’t easy to replace the sharkies, not the ones we use at Harry’s. So we have to weight it a little. That’s why the fighters only get tridents, my dear. Expect you’ve been wondering about that.”
Grubb hadn’t. He was feeling claustrophobic, desperate to get away from this place, and from Harry’s horrible voice. There was something peculiar about the shark-pit owner’s eyes. Something not quite sane.
“Gives it a touch of authenticity. A touch of old-fashioned charm, if you like. It’s quaint, isn’t it, my lovely? Crowd loves it. But the point is, they’re easy on my sharkies, them tridents. The sharkies, on the other hand, that’s different. Doesn’t matter what they do to the fighters. Take Florence. She’s in there now with two of my best mermen, but she can handle them, oh yes. Little darling’s a bull shark. Ideal for my purposes. Not too big, but nippy. Got some teeth on her too, my lovely …”
There was a sudden, fast movement from below and a muffled scream, and blood foamed through the water. The shark pit erupted with howls and hoots and the stamping of feet.
Harry squealed in delight. “There we are, my dear,” he said, clapping his hands together. “See what I’m saying? Florence is our star performer.”
Grubb looked down at his feet again, feeling like he might be sick. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see shark-pit flunkeys fishing bits of dead merman from the water with long-handled nets.
“She’s got the taste for it now,” piped Harry. “One’s never enough, eh?” He gave another piercing laugh. “Always room for dessert, ain’t there?”
Something about the way he said it caused Grubb to glance up. Harry was looking at someone beside him. Jeb. Out of the corner of his eye, Grubb saw the goblin draw a finger across his throat.
He knew what was about to happen. And there was only one thing he could do about it. He lunged forward, seized the package from Jeb’s belt, and held it out at arm’s length over the edge of the balcony.
“Don’t touch me!” His voice came tumbling out. “Don’t touch me, or I’ll—”
Too late. Harry’s bullyboys moved in from behind, grabbed him, and lifted him up and over the balcony.
“No, no, wait!” howled Jeb. “I meant cut his throat, don’t throw him into the …”
And then Grubb was falling toward the pool, still grasping the package tightly in his hand, with Harry’s mad, shrieking laughter in his ears.
His brain froze as the world spun around him. He saw the men with nets scurrying away, a few surprised faces turned upward, gawping as he hurtled down, and then he smacked into the surface, and everything was dark, and all sound was muffled.
He was plunged deep into the pool, his body rigid with fear, but his mind jerking into action. He could taste blood. His eyes flicked open, and he saw scarlet tendrils snaking through the water like seaweed.
He had to get out. He had to get out.
And then he saw it.
Her.
Florence.
A shape in the water ahead. Dark and indistinct, but unmistakable. And with a lazy flick of her tail, she was coming toward him.
Don’t move, he told himself. Maybe she’ll think I’m dead. Maybe she hasn’t seen me after all. Can sharks see? Or do they just smell? What was he thinking? He should be thinking about his parents; his home; his short, short life; whatever it was you were supposed to think of before …
The water quaked as a smaller shape darted in on the left, and then there was more blood, and Grubb felt strong hands gripping him, and he surfaced.
The roar of the shark pit came back to his ears. He coughed and spat out water, as a big man hauled him up and out of the pit. A young mermaid bobbed in the water where Florence had been, raising a bloodstained trident in triumph. She had white hair and green eyes, and when she saw Grubb looking at her she nodded. The cheering from the spectators was deafening.
“There you go, lad,” said the big man. “Ain’t right putting a land dweller in the pit.”
Saliva flooded Grubb’s mouth, and he threw up violently on his rescuer’s shoes.
“Whoa, watch it, mongrel,” said the man.
“Sorry,” said Grubb faintly. “Thank you.” He flopped into the man’s arms, taking heavy, gasping breaths. He was alive. Weak, soaked, and still vaguely nauseous, but alive. He found, to his surprise, that his fingers were still clamped around the sodden velvet package.
Three more men jumped over the barriers and came staggering toward them. They were holding tankards, spilling the contents all over the place.
“Ha-ha,” said one. “A mongrel in a fancy coat.”
“I want one,” slurred another sadly.
“Nah, it’s not a mongrel,” said the third. “It fell from the sky, didn’t it? It’s a shooting star.”
They giggled, and one hiccupped, which set them all off again.
“Hey, mongrel,” said the first one, bending over to talk to Grubb. “You come with us, eh? A drink for the little runt who went into the pit with Florence and survived.”
“We should keep him for luck. Make wishes on him and that. ’Cos he’s a star, see?”
“What do you say, mongrel?”
Grubb tried to think it through. Whoever these men were, they were obviously too drunk to care why he fell from the top gallery. And one of them had been decent enough to rescue him. He would probably be safer with them than he would be with Jeb and Harry. Probably. He looked up to the balcony where his captors had been. They were gone. Most likely, they were on their way to get him right now …
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. But can we please leave right now?”
The men cheered and slammed their tankards together.
As they drank, Grubb slipped the black velvet package into his jacket pocket. The next chance he got, he was going to open it and find out what was inside. Maybe Captain Clagg wouldn’t want him to, but after the encounter with Florence, that didn’t seem to matter so much.
If he was going to be killed, he deserved to know why.
Slik was probably the smartest fairy in Port Fayt. Far too smart to be hanging around with a couple of stinking trolls, anyway.
He sat high up on a bowsprit, shivering in the wind and waiting for the Bootles to finish changing on the deck below. The Ghost’s old sloop was a right heap of junk, just like its ex-owner. It could barely hold the three of them safely. Thalin knew what would happen when Captain Gore’s pirates came tramping on board.
His eyes streamed in the fresh sea breeze, and he rubbed at them with his fists. From their position, anchored out in the bay, he could see all of the ships in the harbor—even more than usua
l, thanks to the festival. Beyond, Port Fayt was laid out like a toy town, bathed in midday sunshine.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” he shrieked down. But either the twins didn’t hear him or they chose to ignore him.
They looked ridiculous, Slik reckoned—overgrown green-skinned monsters wearing fancy merchant clothes, wigs and all. Most trolls were too stupid to make a living as a trader, so Captain Gore was going to have to be a complete bilge brain to fall for this. Thankfully, by all accounts he was.
Gore’s galleon was anchored in the distance, sails furled, on the other side of the bay. The Weeping Wound. Slik could just make out its bloodred hull. Somewhere on that ship was their target—Phineus Clagg. Captain Gore himself had gone ashore, but when he returned, his prisoner would be getting it in the neck. And probably a fair few other bits of him, if a tenth of the stories about Gore were true.
That was, if the plan failed.
“Ready, Slik?” called one of the trolls, his big, ugly face looking upward. Slik could hardly tell the pair apart, and frankly couldn’t be bothered to try.
“I’ve been ready for half an hour.”
The other troll pointed out over the water to a longboat that was making its way from Port Fayt toward the pirate ship.
“There you go then. Hop to it.”
Slik rolled his eyes and dived off the bowsprit headfirst, letting the momentum build before setting his wings buzzing and swooping out over the water. “Hop to it …” he muttered. “Stinking trolls …” They could take a hop into the ocean for all he cared.
The waves blurred below him, and within seconds he was touching down on the longboat’s prow, swaying slightly as he steadied himself.
“What do you want?” growled a voice from overhead.
Slik looked up, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
It was the man himself.
The notorious Captain Gore.
The most brutal man in all the Ebony Ocean.
Or the most smelly, at least.
The pirate captain towered above, one foot on the gunwale, while ten gigantic men worked the oars beyond. He was short, bald, and ugly, and looked as evil as a demon that had gotten out of bed on the wrong side. His left arm was made of wood and half-rusted prosthetic steel. He wore black breeches, black boots, a black waistcoat, and a large black leather belt, its black iron buckle shaped into a black crab. From the belt there dangled a butcher’s cleaver, a selection of knives, and several more unusual metal implements, all clearly modified to screw into the wrist of the captain’s replacement arm. Each one looked as if it was designed to cause a slightly different form of extremely intense pain.
Slik cleared his throat.
Here goes.
“My masters want to ask a favor,” he said, pointing back at the sloop. “There are ducats in it, if you’re interested.”
“That so?” said Gore. “Ducats, eh?”
He turned back to his oarsmen.
“Hard aport!”
“Aye-aye, Captain!”
Hmm. Apparently Captain Gore was even more stupid than they’d expected.
Back on the sloop, Frank and Paddy introduced themselves as merchants. They had to pay a brief visit to Port Fayt but, naturally, they didn’t want to leave their cargo unattended. Perhaps the good captain could look after it for them?
Next, the twins led the way down to the hold, with Slik hovering beside them. One held up a lantern, and the light fell on row upon row of chests, stretching away into the darkness. The other threw open the nearest lid to reveal a mound of antique velvet gowns studded with jewels.
Captain Gore looked like a child who’d just been given his birthday cake. After all, he wasn’t to know that the gowns had been bought at a cheap costume shop that very morning and that all the other chests were empty.
“Don’t you fret yourselves,” he chortled, completely failing to hide his glee. He pointed out one of his men—a huge ogre covered in swirling black tattoos. “My colleague Bosun Tuck here will fetch the whole crew, to help carry the … er, I mean, to help guard your precious wares. You gents have got nothing to worry about.”
It was all Slik could do not to laugh out loud. A blind imp could see that Gore was planning to take the cargo back to his own ship and sail away with it. He was simply too greedy to figure out that it was him being tricked, and not the other way around.
“My dear captain,” said one of the twins, putting on a ridiculous falsetto accent. “If you don’t mind my asking … your arm—what happened to it?”
“Oh, that,” stammered Gore, tapping the steel prosthetic with his remaining hand. “Er, a shark ate it. Big bleeder had got hold of a young cabin boy, see, and I was trying to rescue him from it.”
Or feed him to it, more likely.
“We can’t thank you enough,” squeaked the other twin.
“You can’t imagine what this means to us.”
“Here’s twenty ducats for your trouble.”
“In fact, take forty ducats.”
“Yes, forty ducats. Honest men are so hard to find nowadays.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” beamed Gore.
Slik rolled his eyes and darted up out of the hold, flitting across the deck and away from the sloop, toward the cliffs where the Weeping Wound was anchored.
He almost felt sorry for the old bilge bag.
Almost.
It was creepy in the cave. Too creepy by half, if you asked Tabitha. The darkness, the drip-drip-dripping of water from the rocks up above … even the gentle lapping of the waves against their dinghy was making her nervous. The only light came from a small entrance tunnel at one end, just big enough for a boat to pass through, if its passengers ducked down. Tabitha knew that the Weeping Wound was anchored beyond, a short distance away. And if the pirates found them in here somehow, there’d be no escape.
She took another deep breath, wiped her sweaty palms on her coat, and gripped the oars. She had barely slept last night, knowing what was going to happen today. It was scary, of course, but she couldn’t think about that. Newton was giving her the chance to do something real for once. Now all she had to do was make sure that everything went perfectly, and maybe, finally, he’d see that she was a proper watchman.
A twin gleam shone from Hal’s spectacles, as he pushed them up his nose.
“We’re agreed then? No fighting, if we can possibly help it.”
Tabitha nodded, then remembered that Hal probably couldn’t see her.
“Sure,” she said, and silently stuck her tongue out at him. Hal was so cautious it was a wonder he ever got anything done.
A tiny dark blot appeared in the light from the tunnel. It zipped into the cave, wings whining faintly.
“Slik,” said Tabitha, and her body flooded with relief and adrenaline. “All going to plan?”
“Surprisingly, yes. That pirate’s thicker than Mrs. Bootle’s custard. The trolls are on their way back to the port now, and Gore’s bringing all his men over to the sloop. Just don’t mess your bit up.”
“Very well,” said Hal. “Tell Newton that we’re on our way. We’ll meet them back at the rendezvous.”
Slik grumbled something, luckily too quiet to hear, as he disappeared out through the entranceway.
Tabitha rowed them carefully toward the tunnel, blades dipping silently in and out of the water. When they got there they shipped the oars, lay flat on the bottom of the boat, and reached over the gunwales to push against the rocks, guiding themselves through with their hands until they were out, blinking, in the open air.
Gore’s red ship loomed before them, lying at anchor less than two hundred feet from the cliff they had just left behind. Farther away, Tabitha could see the last of the pirate longboats heading west, toward the Ghost’s sloop. Toward the decoy. She grinned. It was working, just like Newton had planned.
The pair of them took up the oars again and began rowing fast. Every second they were out on the open water was a risk. What if Gore had left guards on the ship?
He’d have been mad not to. And if they were spotted …
Finally, they came up alongside the galleon. Tabitha fished around in a canvas bag and brought out her boarding hatchets. It was going to be a steep climb, but she’d practiced long and hard, and she knew she could do it.
“No need,” said Hal softly, and pointed farther along the hull. The pirates had left a rope ladder dangling over the side.
Tabitha sighed and stowed the hatchets again. She wanted to get out of this alive, obviously. She just didn’t want it to be too easy.
They tied the dinghy to the bottom of the ladder and then clambered up, Tabitha first, trying not to bang or scrape against the hull. When she got to the top, she drew a knife, holding the blade pinched between thumb and knuckle, and peered over the gunwale. The deck was empty except for one man tied to the mast with enough rope to hang a giant. The man was overweight and filthy, and his long, greasy hair fell in a tangle around his face. It could only be Phineus Clagg.
He looked up, just as she was scrambling over the side, and his face broke into a hopeful grin.
“Afternoon,” he said. “I’m Clagg. Captain Clagg.”
Tabitha ignored him and crept across the deck, Hal following. She held her knife in a throwing position, keeping a lookout for Gore’s pirates. But there weren’t any. Apparently, the captain had decided to bring his whole crew to help carry the chests of nonexistent dresses back to his galleon.
Disappointing.
“I don’t like this,” said Hal, peering down a hatchway. “There must be someone on board. Gore wouldn’t leave his prisoner free to escape.”
