by Conrad Mason
“On that night, no sooner am I sat down, than this woman’s sitting at my side, as if she’s been there all along. And I swear, for all that I’ve some company, the place seems emptier and deader and colder than ever before. Scared the life out o’ me, truth be told. Something wrong about ’er. That hood she wears, and them eyes, wide as the ocean and black as night.
“And she never tells me ’er name, but she tells me she’s setting sail to the Middle Islands soon, to Port Fayt. She has to be there in time for the … what do yer call it? The Festival of the Sea. Only there’s something she needs. Something she wants me to bring for ’er, fast as I can. She hasn’t the time to fetch it herself, and she’s heard about me and ol’ Sharkbane—swiftest ship in the Ebony Ocean. It’s a simple job, but a long journey. The cargo’s to be picked up from Port Hel, in the north, then brought to Fayt. And the price …”
Phineus Clagg’s eyes had glazed over, in a daydream.
Tabitha poked him in the ribs.
“Yes? Come on, maggot breath, what price?”
“All right, all right, I’m just getting to that. The price … Ten thousand ducats.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Tabitha noticed Newton and Old Jon exchange a glance.
“And there, on the spot, she pulls a bag out of ’er cloak and empties it on the table. Gold and silver coins just spilling out and onto the floor, like it means nothing to ’er. ‘Take the money,’ she says. ‘There’s half for you now. I’ll be in Port Fayt in exactly three months’ time, at the Grand Party. Belowdecks on the Wraith’s Revenge. Bring me the cargo. Then you’ll get the rest of your payment.’ And I pick the coins up from the floor, and when I get up, she’s gone.”
The smuggler sighed, leaning back in his chair.
“And that’s all I know, lads. Honest. So are we done now?”
Newton shook his head.
“What did you bring for her?”
“The cargo, o’ course. Weren’t you listening?”
“We got that, genius,” said Tabitha, through gritted teeth. “But you haven’t told us what it is.”
“Oh,” said Clagg sheepishly. “Funny you should ask … That’s the thing, see—I don’t actually know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Sometimes makes things easier in my line o’ work. She told me to pick up the cargo from an address in Port Hel. So I did as I was told. Dingy place it were, down an alleyway near the docks. This old elf answers the door—funny-looking cove, all bent over, with eyeglasses—and he gives me a package, wrapped up in black velvet and tied with a silver cord. Small thing it was, long and thin. This elf had the look o’ magic about him, see, so I weren’t going to take chances tampering with it. Not with ten thousand ducats at stake. I’ll tell yer one thing though. From what I heard on the docks, I was right about the magic. That old elf was an enchanter.”
Paddy grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Can you be any more specific?” asked Hal briskly. “What form of enchantments did he perform?”
“Search me, matey.”
“You know how you said we weren’t going to like these answers?” said Tabitha, fingering her favorite knife. “You weren’t wrong.”
“Can you tell us where it is, at least?” tried Frank.
Clagg was looking uncomfortable again.
“Umm, not really.”
“ ‘Not really’?”
“Well, the thing is, I, er, I lost it.”
There was a pause.
“You … lost it?”
“I was distracted! Cap’n Gore’s men were after me, see? Bosun Tuck found me in a tavern, and then he were chasing after me with a giant cutlass, and somewhere along the way it must’ve slipped out and fallen.”
“Where?”
“Well, I’d had a few grogs, see, and o’ course I didn’t notice it falling out at the time, what with trying not to get my head chopped off and all, so … who knows?”
“Nobody kill him yet,” said Newton icily.
Tabitha sprang out of her chair and prodded Clagg in the chest.
“Fat lot of use you’ve been. You’re saying you smuggled a mystery cargo for a nameless woman and you don’t know what it is, where it is, where she is, or why she wants it?”
Clagg thought about it and nodded.
“Well, when yer put it like that it don’t sound so good, but … Yup. I reckon that’s what I’m saying. Now that I think about it, that cargo could be anywhere. Any ol’ lubber could’ve picked it up and wandered off with it.”
There was a long, stunned silence.
Outside the window, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. The sky grew darker as the storm swelled.
It was the second tormenta in a week.
The old woman hurls the pirate from the cliff top and watches as his broken body spirals down to the rocks below, bouncing and jerking its way into the churning sea.
The wind bites at her and flings her cloak out behind her, but she pays it no heed.
Things are almost ready. Almost … And yet, still, the final element of the plan eludes her.
She found the pirate in a revolting tavern on the harbor front. A sniveling, scrawny elf, his eyes glazed, his hair clotted with sick. One glance had been enough to see that he was scum, and he proved no better when she took him from the tavern and began to ask questions. It hadn’t taken long to get everything out of him, but she had enjoyed it, all the same.
The pirates took Phineus Clagg, that much she has learned. But somehow, he escaped. So she is back at the beginning. No Phineus Clagg, and no cargo.
She should have known better than to trust a drunken smuggler with such a vital task. But the captains in Azurmouth had told her there was no faster vessel than his. And there had been so much to prepare in so little time. A foolish, childish mistake. No matter. There is time enough yet. And whoever took it will pay. Dearly.
She will find it herself.
Or perhaps …
The old woman’s eyes narrow.
There is one person in this wretched town who might help her. And after all, why should she do everything by herself?
The old woman twitches her cloak and flaps across to the next strip of headland, rainwater streaking away behind her. She raises her hands to the sky and inhales deeply. She can taste the magic in the air. She licks her dry, cracked lips and lets out a roar.
The sky roars back, as if in approval.
The rain was relentless, but Tabitha trudged on at a steady pace, refusing to go any faster to escape it. She held her coat above to shield her, although it was already sodden and starting to drip onto her hair.
“Hey!” said Slik from her shoulder, as a droplet spattered him. “Watch it, little girl.”
“Stinking fairy,” muttered Tabitha.
“I heard that.”
“You’d better stow it then, or you’ll be hearing a whole lot more.”
The streets were almost empty, save for the odd figure dashing for shelter under a stone archway or a wooden balcony overhanging the cobbles. You’d never guess it was supposed to be the Festival of the Sea. This was so unfair. Why was it always her? She was just as good a watchman as the rest of them, so how come she always, always got the worst jobs? Still. Even after she rescued that rotten smuggler, practically single-handedly. And now, sent off into the rain to fetch grog for him, with no one but Newton’s irritating fairy for company. It’ll help me think straight, Clagg had said. Tabitha reckoned that a good, solid punch on the nose might do the job just as well—and save time, into the bargain.
She’d decided to have a mug of velvetbean before heading back. She was so wet and cold and miserable, she felt like she deserved a treat. And if she was late bringing Phineus stupid Clagg his stupid grog, well … he was only a stupid smuggler after all. Running errands for criminals … What next, offering directions to the nearest shark pit? Looking after their loot while they popped to the privy?
THE PICKLED DRAGON, read
the sign outside the tavern. It swung, creaking in the wind, painted with a poor likeness of a tiny dragon stuck inside a bottle of firewater, its eyes crossed and its pink tongue hanging out. The lantern by the door glowed with a soft yellow light, glimmering off black puddles below. For all Tabitha cared, it could have been called the Certain Death and stunk like an open sewer, so long as it was dry. She wrung out her coat in the doorway, squeezed the rain from her hair, and strode inside, drawing out her money pouch, with Slik hovering in tow.
As it turned out, the Pickled Dragon was peaceful and cozy, and smelled perfectly fine—by Port Fayt’s standards, at least. There was a fire in the hearth, and an elderly troll with milky, sightless eyes bent over on a stool beside it, picking gently on a cittern. The matronly dwarf landlady beamed at Tabitha from behind the bar as she polished the pewter tankards. Tabitha smiled back and ordered her velvetbean and the flagon of grog for Phineus Clagg. Then she chose a small table in the corner and sat down to wait, while Slik sat on the table edge, swinging his legs.
She looked around. There were a few bedraggled sailors hunched over their drinks, and a pair of old soaks at the bar, knocking back firewater, dead to the world. Nothing out of the ordinary.
No, wait. Over by the window there were four men drinking, muttering to one another. From the glazed look in their eyes, Tabitha reckoned they’d been there for a while. She scanned their hard faces, broken noses, and tatty clothes and decided that they were lowlifes. At worst, cutpurses, or bullyboys in a mob, maybe. Nothing to write home about.
But it was their companion that interested her. He was a small wiry boy, about her own age, with the pale gray-pink skin and slightly pointed ears that marked him as a mongrel—half human, half goblin. He was wrapped up in a big blanket, his ears drooping, his mug untouched.
“I’m bored,” announced Slik. But she didn’t care.
What was the story with that mongrel? Obviously, he didn’t fit with the others. It seemed like they’d taken him under their wing, but they were mostly ignoring him, chattering away to one another.
Her velvetbean arrived. She took a sip, savoring its smooth, silky sweetness. The guessing game could wait, for now.
The men stood. Three of them stumbled to the bar, and the other one to the door, leaving the mongrel to his own devices.
Then Tabitha saw something that made her sit bolt upright and spit her smooth, silky velvetbean right across the table.
“Rudge put fifty ducats on that red-haired merman,” the fat man jeered. “Fifty! What’s wrong with you, for the sky’s sake?”
“He took out a runt in training, I heard. Just wasn’t his day today.”
“Wasn’t his day? You can say that again. He’s in five pieces!”
The men cackled and crashed their tankards together yet again.
Grubb felt like he’d been in the tavern for hours. He was exhausted and fed up with hearing about shark fighting, and crooked bookmakers, and terrifying women he hoped he’d never meet. Now that he had decided to open the package, he couldn’t wait to find out what was inside. But there was no way he could do it here, in front of his new friends. Twice he’d tried to go to the privy, to be on his own, but both times they had pushed him firmly back onto his stool.
“You hear about Jake’s cousin?” said the big man who’d rescued him. “The one who went to make his fortune in the Old World? He was shacked up in Azurmouth until last month. Got press-ganged onto a League warship.” He lowered his voice. “Word is, the League of the Light control Azurmouth these days. And if the Duke of Garran and the rest of them have got the press-gangs out, what does that tell you?”
“Who cares?” said the fat man. “What’s it to us? That’s just Old World politics. The League can take a trip to the bottom of the ocean, for all I care.”
“ ‘What’s it to us?’ you say. The League of the Light? Don’t you know nothing?”
“I know we’re humans. It’s them poor ogres and goblins and that what need to worry. I heard they chuck ’em in big pits and bury ’em alive. Stick ’em on spikes by the highways and that. But we ain’t demonspawn, so those dregs wouldn’t touch us.”
The big man shook his head.
“Don’t be so sure, mate. We might be humans but we’re Fayters. The League’d wipe this place off the map if they got a chance, humans and all. You think they’d let us go free? You’ve got another think coming. And that’s just it, see …” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Over in Azurmouth, they’re building up a fleet. An invasion fleet.”
There was a pause, then the fat man snorted.
“You get that from Jake?”
“ ’S’right.”
“Well, then. Man’s a drunkard. And an idiot.”
The big man shrugged, disappointed at his friends’ reaction.
“All I’m saying is, if the League of the Light is looking over the Ebony Ocean, us Fayters’ll be the first against the wall. I just hope the governor’s ready for it, that’s all.”
“Bilge,” said the fat man. “All that walrus dung has given me a terrible thirst. I need a drink.”
“I’ll come too.”
“Good idea.”
“Fine,” said the big man, put out. “If you don’t believe me, it’s your own lookout. I’m going to the privy.”
The four of them rose unsteadily and left Grubb on his own.
Finally, the chance he’d been waiting for. Glancing up to check that his new friends’ backs were turned, he took the package from under his jacket, pulled off the silver cord, and peeled away the dark, wet velvet.
He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.
“Hey. You.”
Grubb glanced up, startled. It was a human girl, about his age, with long blue hair and a grumpy-faced fairy perched on her shoulder. She looked damp but determined.
“Er, hello,” he said.
“Where did you get that?” said the girl.
He felt himself blush.
“Oh, this?” He couldn’t think what to say. “This is … this is just a spoon.”
It was just a spoon. An ordinary, wooden spoon. The kind that Mr. Lightly’s cook used to stir pots of stew.
“I can see it’s a spoon,” said the girl. “I just saw you unwrap it. Where did you get it?”
Grubb had never been good at telling lies.
“Someone, er … Someone gave it to me, as a present,” he said. But it came out half mumbled and half garbled, and his ears twitched with embarrassment. It was a lame answer.
The fairy snorted, and the girl’s eyes narrowed.
“I think you should come with me,” she said.
“Whoa, hold on,” said the fat man. “Let’s have a look at that.”
He and his friends were back from the bar, their hands full with slopping tankards.
“Yeah, hand it over.”
Grubb’s cheeks were burning now. He had no idea what he should do.
“Don’t want any trouble with you gentlemen,” said the girl in a cool voice. “Seems like you’ve had one or two grogs too many tonight. Time you trotted home, and I’ll take care of your friend.” She turned to Grubb. “If you come with me now, I can promise you’ll be safe.”
The fat man and his friends just laughed.
“You threatening us? A little girl?”
The big man who’d gone to the privy was back now, and the four of them stood in a semicircle round the table. The fat man put the tankards down. Reaching into his jerkin, he pulled out a stubby, wicked-looking blade.
The background murmur of conversation died out almost at once. The blind troll’s cittern tune came to an abrupt end. Everyone in the tavern was watching the man with the knife.
Grubb’s stomach turned over. He could make out stains on the blade. Probably just fish blood, he told himself.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the girl. Her voice was tense now.
“Hands off, princess. The mongrel’s ours.”
>
The fairy tugged at the girl’s collar.
“Can we go now?” he said hopefully.
Ignoring him, the girl pulled up one sleeve to reveal a fresh blue tattoo of a shark on her forearm.
“I’m Demon’s Watch, all right? So you’d better put that little toy away.”
Grubb thought he must have heard wrong. A watchman? He’d listened to plenty of tales about them in the Legless Mermaid. It was the smugglers and thieves of Fayt who had given the Watch its name. They feared it even more than the blackcoats, as if they thought watchmen were the spawn of the Maw itself. But this girl was clearly no older than he was. There was no way they were going to be afraid of her.
Sure enough, the fat man just grinned wider, and his friends began to snigger.
“Demon’s Watch, is it? Well I never. And what’s your name, sweetheart?”
“None of your business.”
“Ooh, now, now, manners … Well then, if you won’t oblige, allow me to introduce my mates. These here are Privates Rudge, Sprunt, and Waters. And I’m Sergeant Culpepper, of the Dockside Militia.”
“Ah,” said the fairy. “Oh dear.”
“Colonel Derringer’s going to hear about this, princess, never you fear. And most likely, the governor’s going to hear about it too. So why don’t you run off home, before things get any worse?”
The girl considered for a moment.
“Hey,” said Private Sprunt, screwing up his eyes and staring at the girl. “Wait a minute. Don’t I know you? Ain’t you that Mandeville kid what—”
With incredible speed, the girl grabbed the nearest stool and slammed it into Private Sprunt’s face. The fairy took off, yelping with indignation. Sprunt reeled backward, bawling meaningless noises. The girl vaulted onto the table, leaped off the edge, and planted her boots in the middle of Sergeant Culpepper’s chest, knocking him off-balance and sending him toppling onto the flagstones.
Grubb became aware that, somewhere in the middle of her acrobatics, she had drawn a long, slender knife and dropped it point first into the table in front of him. It stuck there, its black leather grip vibrating back and forth. Did she expect him to fight with her? But he didn’t even know who she was …
