by Conrad Mason
Tabitha shrugged and began to inspect the ropes binding Clagg to the mast.
“While yer here,” said Clagg, his smile strained, “I don’t suppose you could possibly see your way to giving me a hand, could yer?”
“All right,” said Tabitha. “Don’t get your breeches in a twist. We’re here to rescue you.”
“Er … really?”
“That’s right. So just shut up and do what we say.” She spun her knife round and got to work prizing open the knots. In less than ten seconds, Clagg was free. He grinned, rubbing at his arms where the ropes had pressed into his skin.
“Thank yer kindly, miss. Much obliged.”
“Wonderful,” said Hal. “Now let’s get off this ship. I, for one, would prefer not to be here when our kind host returns.”
“Right,” said Clagg. “I’ll be off then.”
“No,” said Tabitha. “You’re coming with us.”
“Ah, now there’s a kind offer, but you’re busy folk. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“I said, you’re coming with us.”
She took hold of one arm, and Hal took the other. They turned back toward the dinghy and stopped dead.
Standing between them and the rope ladder was a squat, muscle-bound troll, dressed in a filthy vest, breeches, and a tiny tricorne hat, perched at a ludicrous angle on his head. One green-skinned arm was covered in a spectacular selection of tattoos—a severed head, a skeleton with horns, and an ax dripping blood. The other was holding an actual real ax with a blade the size of Tabitha’s head. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to have any blood on it. Yet.
“Who are you?” asked the pirate stupidly.
There was only one thing for it.
Tabitha spun her knife and sent it flashing through the air. It was just like target practice. Except this time, the blade landed in the troll’s hand instead of the bull’s-eye.
“UUUUNNNGGAAARGGH!”
Hal was whispering fast, one hand pointing at the pirate, who had dropped his ax and was bent over clutching his hand and squawking like a seagull trapped in a barrel. Then the air seemed to wobble, and the troll stopped still, silent and limp, as if all the energy had drained out of him at once. His huge body swayed once, twice, and collapsed on deck with an almighty thud.
Tabitha tried to slow her breathing down to a normal rate. She felt pretty close to collapsing herself.
“The knife was a little unnecessary,” said Hal, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
“Well, if you’d only cast the spell sooner, I wouldn’t have had to use it, would I?”
The magician sniffed.
“It’s a complicated spell, which requires a lot of concentration. You can’t rush these things. Besides, you know I hate violence.”
“Um, ’scuse me?” said Clagg. “Can we go now?”
“Shut it,” snapped Tabitha. “But yes. Let’s go.”
They climbed down into the dinghy, Tabitha still trembling a little from the encounter with the pirate. It was the first time she’d ever thrown a knife at someone, and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d enjoyed it. She glanced out over the sea toward the distant sloop, hoping for something else to think about. It was hard to tell from so far away, but it looked like it was lying very low in the water. It had probably never had a whole pirate crew on board before.
They started to row.
As the shock wore off, Tabitha began to feel light-headed. She’d done it. She’d boarded Captain Gore’s ship, she’d rescued Phineus Clagg, and she’d even dealt with a pirate. With a bit of help from Hal, obviously.
Maybe things would be different from now on.
Maybe Newt would realize she was better than just a lookout.
Maybe she’d be given all the important jobs.
Maybe she’d …
Her grin froze. There was a figure sitting on a rock beside the cave mouth, one leg dangling above the water, watching their dinghy come in and smiling at her. The figure of a large, shaven-headed human in a blue coat, with a tattoo on his cheek.
Newton.
He’d been there all along. She just knew it. Checking up on her. Making sure everything went to plan. Making sure it was safe.
Tabitha’s excitement evaporated in an instant.
He still thought she was just a silly child.
Still.
The festival is always the busiest time of year in Harrison’s Toy Emporium. Within the last hour alone, Mr. Harrison has sold a fairy doll to a Redoubtable Company merchant, a rattle to a fisherman, a skipping rope to a trio of stout dwarf children … Now they are playing with it on the cobblestones outside his shop—too excited to take it home first.
Mr. Harrison watches them through the window, humming to himself. He loves to see children enjoying his toys.
Out of nowhere, he remembers the peculiar man who visited earlier, with the ginger hair and the yellow eyes, and the black velvet package. He shudders. For years Mr. Harrison has been providing certain other services at his shop, as well as toys. Services he wouldn’t want the blackcoats to find out about. But recently, he has felt more and more exhausted by it all. It’s about time he got on the straight and narrow. An elderly imp like him shouldn’t have to spend his days worrying about getting arrested by the Demon’s Watch.
The children finish their game and run home for dinner. It’s getting late. Nearly time to close up for the evening. Mr. Harrison ambles back to the counter—specially built, half-scaled so that he can reach over it without a footstool. He passes wooden dragons hanging from the ceiling, shelves loaded with puzzle boxes, cloth hand puppets of the Maw (“Warning: guaranteed to scare the little ones!”), models of legendary Old World warriors with moving sword arms, and a hundred other brightly painted objects.
He begins tallying up the ducats he’s made today. It’s not a bad haul. Certainly not so bad that he needs to be risking his neck with his other business. Yes. Tomorrow, he’ll throw out his wares and be done with it. It isn’t worth the trouble. From now on, he’ll be a toy seller, pure and simple.
He feels wonderfully calm, now that he’s made his decision. After tomorrow, he’ll never have to worry, ever again.
The door opens behind him.
“Ah, good afternoon,” says Mr. Harrison, hastily tipping the ducats back into his money box. He reaches across the counter and picks up a small, painted wooden disc, with a length of string wrapped around it.
“Might I be able to interest you in this astonishing new device, just last month imported from the …”
He turns and sees who has come in.
An old woman, wrapped in a gray cloak and hooded, so her face can’t be seen. His heart sinks. He can tell at once that she is the other kind of customer. The kind who isn’t interested in toys.
He carries on with his pitch, knowing it is pointless.
“Now, this is just the thing for a grandson. Allow me to demonstrate, hmm?”
He loops the string over a finger and lets the disc fall, then return, spinning up the string, into his hand. But instead of reaching his hand, as he expects, the disc jerks sideways and up, looping once, twice, three times around his neck. The string draws taut against his skin.
“I haven’t come here for toys,” says the old woman.
Mr. Harrison swallows. It’s not easy, with the string around his neck.
“No, of course,” he gasps. “Follow me, please.”
The string is still tight as he lights a lantern, draws back the red velvet curtain behind the counter, and leads the way down the narrow flight of steps beyond. At the bottom is a heavy oak door. Mr. Harrison draws a key from his coat pocket and opens it.
This room is even smaller and darker than the toy shop, with rough stone walls and a low ceiling. The walls are lined with shelves, loaded with dusty jars, boxes, and bottles in every size, shape, and color imaginable.
“What can I get you?” asks Mr. Harrison.
The old woman hands him a scrap of paper.
He places the
lantern on a shelf, fetches an imp-size stepladder on wheels, and gets to work, hunting down the items on the list, all the time painfully aware of the string that circles his neck. He picks out a tub of yellow sundust, a felt bag full of ground-up dragon bones, a tiny bottle of shark’s blood, a jar of spiders’ eggs …
Mr. Harrison isn’t a magician himself, but he knows a great deal about magic—and as he collects the ingredients, he mixes them together in his mind. A numb horror creeps through him. He understands. He understands just what the old woman is intending to do.
“Are you … Are you quite certain you need all of this?”
The old woman says nothing, but the string around his neck twitches sharply, making him gasp.
“Gaagh! Very well. Of course. Forgive me.”
Mr. Harrison piles the last of the containers into a leather bag and passes it to her. And as her hand closes over the bag, the light of the lantern falls on her face. Mr. Harrison can hardly believe his eyes.
“Maw’s teeth,” he splutters. “But I know you!”
He is too surprised to think clearly.
“I thought you were … How long has it been since you were last here, in my shop? Why, it must be at least eight, ten years?”
Then Mr. Harrison makes a strangled sound. The string around his neck is drawing tighter …
And tighter …
And tighter …
The sky clouded over, and it began to rain. In the bay, there was a splish-splash as the first drops hit the sea, and a pitter-patter on furled sails. Within minutes it was bucketing down, sending Fayters scurrying for cover. Washing was hauled inside, and awnings were rolled up. Cockatrice Company banners and bunting hung soggy in the empty streets, dripping garish dye onto cobbles slick with water.
There was a fire going in the cozy serving room at Bootles’ Pie Shop. But all the same, Tabitha shivered as she watched the rain falling down the wet windowpane. In the excitement with the pirate ship earlier, she’d almost managed to forget about the old woman. That crooked gray face, hooked nose, and cold, dark eyes. Now, as she looked out into the gloom, she remembered. The old woman was still out there somewhere. The spider in the cupboard. Maybe somewhere very close. Maybe hunting for them …
She gripped the smooth leather hilt of her favorite knife. Whatever that witch was after, Tabitha wasn’t going to be frightened. This was supposed to be exciting. It was a chance to prove herself. A chance to turn Mandeville into a name that was respected, not pitied. If only Newton would stop mollycoddling her.
“Another pie, dear?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Bootle, I’m full.”
Mrs. Bootle tutted and shook her head. It was well-known that the twins’ mother didn’t believe in people being full—especially not when there were pies to be eaten.
“Anyone else?”
Frank, Paddy, and Hal sat at a table, cheeks bulging with food. Even Old Jon was nibbling on a slice, although, as usual, he was sitting on his own in the corner, gazing into the distance.
“Yes, please, Ma” said the troll twins as one.
“Excellent pies,” added Hal. “My compliments to the cook.”
Mrs. Bootle’s face lit up again, and she bustled about with her tray.
Tabitha had no idea how the others could eat at a time like this. They were going to interrogate Phineus Clagg! They were going to find out what his mysterious cargo was and what the witch was planning to do with it. And the watchmen were just lounging around stuffing their faces.
The smuggler himself was in a chair by the fireplace, hands bound behind his back, while Slik darted to and fro tying knots in his long, greasy hair. The fairy had disappeared for a while after the rescue—probably trying to steal sugar from someone—but, of course, he was back now. There was no way Slik would miss a chance to torment someone.
“Will someone call off this flaming fairy?” pleaded Clagg.
“Pipe down, will you?” said Frank, through a mouthful of pie.
“Yeah, shut it,” said Slik with glee. He swooped in and jabbed Clagg hard in the forehead.
“Ow!”
“ ’Fraid Slik only listens to Captain Newton,” said Paddy, putting on a serious face. “But don’t worry, he’ll be here sooner or later.”
“You big, fat, drunken, useless lump,” Slik gloated, poking Clagg’s nose to emphasize each word. “Just you wait till Newton gets here. You’ll be in for it then.”
He tugged on a fistful of hair.
“Ouch!”
“That’s enough,” came a voice from the doorway.
Slik groaned, dropped down onto the table, and stuck his tongue out at the smuggler.
Newton stepped into the room, his blue coat streaked with water, raindrops glistening on his shaven head. He looked down at Clagg, bathed in the light of the fire, and sized him up. Tabitha looked too. Stubbled cheeks, unkempt hair, unwashed clothes, a lazy eye, a single tarnished earring, and a battered old coat. Captain Phineus Clagg. A master criminal, who braved a tormenta. Frankly, he didn’t look up to much.
“Pie, Mr. Newton?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Bootle.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” said Clagg.
“Tough,” said Slik.
Mrs. Bootle bustled off to the kitchen, a single pie left on her tray. Clagg watched it go, sadly.
“Right,” said Newton. “Clagg. Know why you’re here?”
Clagg shook his head.
Newton sighed.
“All right, if that’s how it’s going to be …”
He pulled up a chair, sat down face-to-face with the hapless smuggler, took his pipe from a pocket, and began stuffing it with tobacco.
“First I’m going to tell you what we know. Three nights ago, you docked in Port Fayt, carrying a cargo in the middle of the worst tormenta in a decade. Now, that’s suspicious. Anyone trying to bring a wavecutter into Fayt during a magical storm is either insane, clueless, or wanting to avoid the attentions of the revenue men. You don’t look insane, Clagg, and from what I hear, you’re not clueless either.
“So it turns out you’re a smuggler. And more than that, you’ve got a cargo you’ll risk your own life for—not to mention the lives of your crew. That’s enough to get us interested. Then we run into your customer, who happens to be an extremely dangerous magician. A witch, in fact. So now we’re very interested. Smuggling, that’s one thing, see? But getting mixed up with illegal magic—that’s a dangerous game indeed.”
Everyone was watching the smuggler now. He opened his mouth and shut it again. A droplet of sweat crept down his forehead.
“I don’t know where you come from, but here in Port Fayt the use of magic is banned without a warrant. Especially magic like we’ve seen that witch perform. So you’re in big trouble, Clagg. But the good news is, I’m going to be generous. I’m going to let you go. As long as you help us.”
“And, er … What kind of help were you thinking of?”
“Fair’s fair. I’ve told you what we know, so now you can tell us what you know. Three questions. One: who is the witch? Two: what is the cargo she’s after? And three: where is it?”
Clagg squirmed. “The thing is, matey …”
“Don’t try to talk your way out of this. Answers. Now.”
The smuggler licked his lips, calculating fast.
“Well, what’s in it for me then?”
Tabitha scowled. Hal frowned a little and pushed his glasses up his nose. Paddy chuckled quietly, and Frank gave a low whistle.
Newton put down his unlit pipe. He sat still for a moment, then lunged forward, grabbed the front two legs of Phineus Clagg’s chair, and tipped it over the fire. The flames licked at the smuggler’s back.
“AAARGH!” said Clagg. “Mercy! Mercy!”
Slik spluttered with laughter.
“You’re not getting this, are you?” said Newton, taking his time. “We’re not the Dockside Militia. This isn’t an official investigation. Governor Wyrmwood shut us down, see? So right now, we’
re acting outside the law. And I’m sure a man of your experience will understand when I tell you … we don’t have any rules.”
Paddy cracked his knuckles.
“They call us the Demon’s Watch, you know. So don’t think of us as the good folk. More like the dangerous folk. The folk who don’t have time to play games with numbskull smugglers.”
“Are we clear?”
The chair tipped back farther, and farther …
“Yes, yes, matey, clear as a cloudless sky.”
Newton let go, and the smuggler jolted forward, the chair legs landing on the floor with a bang.
“So, are we feeling a bit more helpful now?”
Clagg gulped and nodded.
“All right, all right, you win. I’ll answer yer questions. Untie me first though, will yer?”
“Aye. But no stupid escape attempts, please.”
Frank tugged the knots open, and the ropes fell to the floor. The smuggler wiped the sweat from his brow with a filthy coat sleeve.
“Yer not goin’ to like the answers, by the way.”
“We’ll hear them first, then decide if we like them.”
“Right y’are matey. You’re the boss.”
The watchmen laid down their pies and listened. For a few moments there was no sound except the distant rain and the sputtering of the fire, while they waited for the smuggler to recover. Tabitha found that she was holding her breath, and let it out silently.
At last, Phineus Clagg began to talk.
I met her three months ago, on a cold night in Scrimport. You’ve never heard of it, I’ll wager, just a dead-end fishing town in the Duchy of Garran, back in the Old World. Miserable place it is. Rains all day, every day. But we had to put in there for a few repairs on the Sharkbane. She’s the fastest ship I ever owned, see, and I happened to know a shipwright in Scrimport who’d do the job, and no questions asked.
“Well, he takes it on, but it’s three days’ work. Three days in that sun-forsaken hole. So I goes to the tavern each night, and each night it’s as empty and dead as ever. Only other living thing in there is the landlord’s three-legged, one-eyed dog. Until the third night.
