by Conrad Mason
In the distance, he could see the witch hovering, a white spot against the Maw’s dark, shifting skin, still holding Tabitha. There was a scattering of musket shots from the frigate, trying to drive off the demon. But they might as well have been trying to stab a dragon with a feather.
The Maw reached out with a limb, which curled around the mainmast of the Incorruptible, plucking it away, sails and all, and tossing it from the ship like a broken toothpick. There were screams.
The witch’s plan was working. Of course it was working. She would kill them all, and then Port Fayt would be next. Grubb rowed harder, faster. Might as well get this over with.
The Maw snapped off the bowsprit, ripped away ratlines.
And then it turned.
Something was …
Something was wrong.
The witch’s voice carried to Grubb, over the water; shrill, angry, and, most of all, desperate.
The witch let go. Tabitha dropped, slid down a sail, bounced off a spar, and crashed onto the deck. She lay there groaning, looking upward, her body throbbing with pain.
Arabella hung in the space where the mainmast had been, grasping the wooden spoon two-handed as if it were a broadsword—but tightly, too tightly. Her eyes were bulging, and she was chanting faster and faster.
The demon had stopped its attack and turned toward Arabella. It was … Could it be … watching her?
And there, amid the screaming, the splintered wood, and the people rushing in every direction, realization dawned on Tabitha. She couldn’t control it. After all this, the witch had no power over the Maw. No power at all.
Arabella was gripped with rage. Tabitha could see it in her face. She took one hand from the wooden spoon and thrust it forward, sending a black wave of magic surging toward the demon. Its flesh shook at the impact, and it let out a searing squall of noise.
She was trying to beat the Maw, as if it were just a stubborn horse, or a dog.
Somehow, Tabitha found the strength to let out a croak of laughter.
With liquid speed, the Maw swiped at its tormentor. The witch hurled herself backward, white robes streaming in the wind. She darted behind the foremast, and the Maw’s limb went crashing through a spar. It swung a second blow at her, and she climbed higher and struck the demon with another blast of black magic. Once again, the mouthless demon howled.
It reached for her, and she soared upward, higher and higher, as if she could escape the world itself.
But the Maw was faster.
Its limbs grew impossibly long, reaching up, overcoming her, grappling her, pulling her back downward.
The witch managed to free one arm, and Tabitha saw her throw the wooden spoon at the demon. A final, desperate gesture. It bounced off and disappeared into the surf below. The Maw gripped her arm and squeezed it to her side so that she was trapped, helpless.
The witch’s eyes were wide open, and her face was a picture of horror. She was nothing anymore, nothing but a frightened old woman. And in spite of everything, pity stirred in Tabitha’s heart.
Arabella began to scream, over and over, wordless sounds tearing their way from her throat, chilling Tabitha’s blood, until she had to clap her hands over her ears. Eventually, the screams gave way to sobs. But if the Maw had ears, it had no mercy. With a surging roar, it plunged back into the sea, taking Arabella Wyrmwood with it.
Giant, rolling waves spread out from where the demon had dived. Grubb tensed and fought to keep the boat upright as it rocked wildly. At last he collapsed over the oars, panting, letting the churning and foaming of the sea carry him through the wind and the rain.
Minutes passed.
In the distance, something floated up from the swell. A figure, more red than white. Bloody and broken, like a seagull savaged by a dog. It bobbed, facedown in the water, the golden sun on its back torn and drenched in gore.
Grubb leaned over the side and threw up.
Tabitha was asleep in Captain Clagg’s cabin. Newton had gone down below to sit with her and make sure that she got her rest. Neither of them had said a word since the battle.
On deck, the atmosphere was subdued. The fighting had been over quickly, but not all of the smugglers had made it out alive. Some had met their deaths on militia sabers, or on Colonel Derringer’s sword. Captain Clagg’s young cabin boy, Sam, was among the dead. He had been down below when the Incorruptible’s guns opened fire and the cannonballs had torn through the ship. The remaining smugglers were handling the Sharkbane as flawlessly as ever, but it was clear they were preoccupied. Even Frank and Paddy were keeping quiet out of respect.
Grubb leaned over the stern, watching the ship’s wake spread out behind them. Some distance behind came the Incorruptible, heavily damaged but still proudly flying the Cockatrice Company colors. It was under Cyrus Derringer’s command now. Grubb had noticed the elf steering well clear of the watchmen in the aftermath of the fighting.
“Cheer up, matey,” said Clagg, from the ship’s wheel. “Give us a grin.”
Grubb smiled absently.
“You should be happy, matey. All over now.”
“I s’pose so.”
“I know so. Yer still alive, and that’s what counts. You get a look at that sea demon?”
Grubb nodded.
“Scary, was it?”
“You could say that.”
“Didn’t clap eyes on it meself, see, matey. Too busy with, er … taking care of me ship.”
Grubb realized that he hadn’t seen Clagg at any point in the battle. The smuggler glanced round suspiciously and leaned over the stern, next to Grubb.
“While we’re on our own, lad, I got a little proposition for yer. I could use a little rascal like you in me crew, see. Just so happens I’ve got a vacancy for a cabin boy, as I’m sure yer aware.”
How strange, thought Grubb. It was only three days ago that he’d dreamed of joining the smuggler’s crew and heading off over the Ebony Ocean. But now the idea of leaving Port Fayt behind seemed wrong. Almost … ungrateful.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I’m no smuggler.”
Clagg hawked and spat noisily into the sea.
“Well, offer’s there if yer change yer mind.”
There was a silence, while both of them thought.
“What went wrong?” said Grubb.
“What’s that?”
“With the wooden spoon. Something must have gone wrong.”
Clagg shrugged.
“Beats me, matey. Maybe she weren’t as good a magician as she thought. Or that wooden spoon don’t work on demons. Or, crazy old bat like that, maybe she just wanted to get herself drowned.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Ain’t no use worrying about it. She’s gone the way of yer precious Thalin now, and good riddance is what I say.”
“Land ahoy,” came a shout from aloft.
Clagg rubbed his hands together.
“And not a moment too soon.” He grinned. “I’ve been looking forward to this pageant o’ yours. Grog all around, for the heroes of Port Fayt!”
The young fairy grasped the bars of its cage with tiny hands and grinned up at Newton. It was a New Worlder, with small, translucent wings, olive skin, shining eyes, and pearly teeth.
“How much?”
“Twenty,” said the fairy seller, optimistically.
“Try five.”
“Eighteen?”
“Five.”
“How about fifteen?”
Newton sighed.
“C’mon, Ned. You know it, I know it. He’d need to sprout gold wings before he’d be worth fifteen.”
The fairy seller grinned, revealing his rotten teeth.
“All right, fair’s fair. Ten.”
“C’mon, mister,” said the fairy. “That’s cheap as brine, and I can fly faster than a rocket.”
Newton’s hand hovered over his purse.
“Know a fairy, name of Slik?” he said softly.
“Oh, yes,” said the fairy, eyes wide.
“He’s a dunghead, mister, if you’ll ’scuse my saying. Tried to nick a whole flaming thimble o’ sugar from my cousin once.”
“Oi,” barked the fairy seller, shaking the cage and making his captive yelp. “Watch your mouth; that’s Mr. Newton’s own personal fairy you’re talking about.”
Newton clamped his hand on the man’s arm.
“Was my fairy. Not anymore.” He pulled open the purse. “I like him. Ten ducats, is it?”
The fairy seller looked reluctant but nodded all the same, and tucked the money away inside his coat.
“What’s your name then, mate?” asked Newton, as the fairy fluttered out of the cage and settled on his shoulder.
“Ty, mister. Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too, Ty.” He pulled a small bag of sugar from his pocket.
“My name’s Captain Newton. Welcome to the Demon’s Watch.”
Mer Way was overflowing with Fayters in fancy dress. The Grand Party had been impressive, but it was a mere tea party compared to the Pageant of the Sea. Newton and Ty passed an imp with his face painted green and wooden wings tied to his back—a dragon, though not much like the real thing. There was a magician with a big false beard, silver stars sewn onto her sackcloth robe. A mighty hero rattled as he passed, his sword made out of a broom handle, his armor out of plates strapped on with string.
They all ignored Newton, of course. But the truth was, he liked it that way. It was best to stay in the shadows, unseen and unknown. Always waiting, always watching.
The pageant seemed to bring out the best in Fayters. You could almost forget about the crooks and their shark pits, the double-dealing and the backstabbing. Above the heads of the crowd he could make out the statue of the Navigator in Thalin Square, and the Maw, garlanded with flowers for the occasion. A troll child ran past, giggling and waving an outsize lollipop. Yes. Maybe this town was worth saving, after all.
“You heard the rumors, mister?” Ty was saying. “Word is, old Governor Wyrmwood shot himself last night.”
“That so?” The rumors had it half right, at least. And it was probably better that way.
“Yes, sir, shot himself. With a gun,” he added helpfully. “Skelmerdale’s taken over, I heard.”
Newton winced. Skelmerdale was a nasty piece of work. A Cockatrice merchant who was rich as an emperor and always on the lookout for ways to get richer. Still, it was probably the best that could be hoped for. At least the new governor didn’t have a crazy mother who belonged to the League of the Light.
“And he’ll have his hands full,” Ty was saying. “Because there’s going to be a war. Yes, sir. With the League of the Light. Fayters might be celebrating tonight, but come tomorrow, the press-gangs’ll be out. You’ll see, mister.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Maw’s teeth, everybody’s saying it! You need to keep your ears to the ground, mister.”
“The Maw has no teeth.”
“Huh?”
“The Maw has … Never mind. Press-gangs.”
That was good news, at least. So Skelmerdale was worried. Maybe the old bilge bag would do Port Fayt proud after all. He was certainly moving fast. And just as well—the League had its eye on Fayt, Newton was sure of that. This business with Arabella Wyrmwood was only the beginning. From the way things were looking, it was only a matter of time before their warships crossed the Ebony Ocean.
“Captain Newton,” someone said, tapping his shoulder.
He turned and was startled to see Colonel Derringer. The elf was still dressed in his black militia uniform, looking decidedly awkward and out of place among the fancy dress and party clothes of the crowds. Even Newton had put on a smart red jacket for the pageant, instead of his usual battered blue number.
“Evening, Colonel.”
Derringer was fiercely examining the ground, rocking on the heels of his boots and fingering the hilt of his sword.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said.
“Hmm,” said Newton. The elf obviously had something he wanted to say and was finding it very difficult. But Newton wasn’t in the mood to make it easy for him. His leg was still smarting from the wound that Derringer’s sword had inflicted. It was bandaged now, and the cut hadn’t been serious, but still …
“This business with the Wyrmwoods,” Derringer blurted out. “I, er, I believe I made a mistake.”
Newton was so surprised, he almost forgot to reply. Then he couldn’t think what to say. Truth was, he’d made a mistake too, assuming it was Derringer who’d betrayed them to the witch. He’d been unfair.
“Umm … Don’t worry about it.”
Derringer nodded and stared at the ground again. At last he looked up, and Newton saw that the usual arrogance had returned to his face.
“This changes nothing though, understand? I’ll be speaking to Governor Skelmerdale at the earliest opportunity about your watchmen. You can be sure of that.”
Newton nodded. This was more like what he was used to.
“You do what you think’s best,” he said. “In the meantime, enjoy the pageant.”
But Derringer had already turned on his heel and left, shoving past the partygoers.
“Who was that, mister?” asked Ty.
“That was Colonel Cyrus Derringer, commander of the Dockside Militia.”
“He a friend of yours?”
Newton thought about that for a long time.
“Well,” he said at last. “It’s hard to say.”
A pair of gigantic fish bounded out of the crowd.
“Come on, grumpy guts, time to join the party!”
“Frank? Paddy?”
As one, the trolls pulled off their outsize fish heads and threw them on the ground, wiping sweat from their brows. Behind them came Old Jon and Hal, weaving through the crowded street. Old Jon had put a delicate blue wildflower in his buttonhole, but Hal didn’t appear to have dressed up at all. Going by his expression, it looked as if he could think of a good ten or so places he’d rather be.
“Phew!” gasped Paddy. “I feel like fish stew in that thing.”
“Now, come on, Newt,” said Frank, punching Newton’s arm with a silver, scaly fist. “This is the biggest party of the year, remember? It’s time you started having some fun. And that goes for you too, Hal.”
“Look at ol’ Cap’n Cuttlefish,” hooted Paddy. “Now there’s a man who knows how to enjoy himself.”
Captain Clagg had climbed onto a passing float and was swaying unsteadily, belting out a song at the top of his voice. He paused every now and again to swig from a bottle and fight off the driver.
Hal shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“If that’s how to enjoy yourself, I think I’ll pass, thank you very much.”
“Thalin’s breeches, Hal. You might know a lot about magic, but I reckon me and Frank could teach you a thing or two about parties.”
“Tell you what,” said Frank, winking at Ty. “How about a race to Ma’s pie shop? Last one there buys dinner.”
“In a minute,” said Newton. “There’s a dwarf over there who’s juggling with cutlasses.”
The twins turned to look, and Newton limped past them as fast as his wounded leg would allow, with Ty clinging onto his collar.
“I’ll have the eel pie,” he shouted back. “With plenty of gravy!”
“What are you doing up there?”
Tabitha shrugged.
“Are you coming down, or shall I come up?”
She shrugged again.
Gripping the bag of fried octopus in his teeth, Grubb climbed clumsily onto a cart, and from there up onto the rooftop.
“Octopus?”
She shook her head and then said, “Well, all right.”
They munched quietly for a while, sitting hunched up, staring into the middle distance.
“You could close your mouth when you chew,” said Grubb.
In return he got a grunt. Cheering her up wasn
’t going to be that easy, apparently.
“My father used to bring octopus back from the docks,” he tried. “Once a week, as a treat. He’d always pretend he’d forgotten, then bring it out just when Mother and I started to believe him.”
No reply.
It was quiet here, above the backstreets. Mer Way could be seen in the distance, lit by a thousand lanterns—a hazy, slow-moving ribbon of light and sound. There were just a few revelers in the street below, dressed to the nines and loaded to the gunwales with cheap grog. Grubb watched as a juggler dropped a lit torch and hopped around with his foot on fire, until a pair of spectators grabbed a butt of rainwater and tipped it over his head.
“What’s that tune?” said Tabitha.
“Hmm?”
“That tune. The one you’re humming.”
Grubb hadn’t realized what he’d been doing.
“It’s something my mother used to sing, back at home. When she was doing the dishes.”
“Doesn’t it have any words?”
Grubb hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat:
Scrub the dishes, scrub them clean,
Cleaner than you’ve ever seen.
The little song sounded strange without his mother’s voice. Thin and empty. But he sang it all the same. And even though it didn’t sound right, it felt good.
“I like it,” said Tabitha, after he’d finished. “It’s nice.”
She popped the last morsel of octopus into her mouth and licked the grease from her fingers.
There was another long pause.
“She’s gone,” said Tabitha quietly. “Arabella Wyrmwood. She’s gone and it was nothing to do with me.”
Grubb glanced at her. She was clasping her knees tightly, still looking straight ahead.
“You wanted revenge?”
“Of course. What else?”
