by J. P. Ashman
‘How?’
Silence, bar a dog that had started to bark a way off. There’s always a bloody dog barking somewhere, she thought, kneading Badham’s shoulders.
‘Sweets?’ she said, when he didn’t reply.
‘The bastard sailors I took. The ones that drew blades on me and tried to take my money in the tavern.’
‘Oh yes,’ Emms said, feigning vague recognition. The ones you were scamming.
‘Well…’ He grunted and rubbed at his face, before letting Emms push his arms back down into a relaxed position again.
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
A few moments passed whilst she continued to massage his shoulders. Eventually, Badham went on.
‘Someone’s talked, Emms.’ She froze inside, hesitated but for a moment, before continuing to work his muscles.
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s my job to know that. My troops do my bidding because I know what’s what. I start to slip up there and I’m as likely to be roasted in the pit as the next little bastard who puts a foot wrong on Hillside. Life’s a war, Emms. If you don’t keep your soldiers on their toes and keep your ear to the ground, you’ll lose. I’m not one to lose.’
Swallowing hard, Emms did her best to maintain the motion her hands and fingers were making, despite her mind flashing images of the sailor, Lefey, and Quin and his pleading attempts for her to leave Badham after she told him all about it; the fact that she’d told her ex-lover everything now scared her half to death, both for her sake and his.
‘Oh, that wouldn’t happen now, would it, sweets? You’re practically king here.’ She kissed the side of his neck. ‘And I’m your queen,’ she said, wanting now to change the subject.
‘Have you seen Quinnell lately, Emms?’
Her kissing stopped.
‘He might have been in the tavern,’ she said. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘I see.’ He slowly nodded his shaved head.
‘Why’d you ask, sweets?’
‘No reason,’ Badham said, before changing tack. ‘You know I couldn’t let them three sailors be, that night, in the tavern. You now that, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Emms said, back to kissing his neck and shoulders.
‘Good. I wouldn’t want you to think bad of me—’
‘Course I don’t!’ She turned his head to face hers. ‘How could I?’
With a smile and another wink, Badham held her gaze a moment, a moment that dragged out into an uncomfortable one.
‘That’s good to know,’ he said, pecking her on the lips before pushing her away and climbing to his feet. ‘I needed to know you’re with me,’ he said, without looking at her. Emms stared at his broad back as he went on. ‘I know it wouldn’t have come from you, but I think someone told Quin about those sailors and I think he told their crew.’
Fear gripped Emms. A fear that tore at her insides. Memories of her and Quin spun through her mind and it was all she could do not to physically shake at the thought of what Badham would do should he truly believe what he was saying.
‘Quin and I are in the past, sweets. You know that. We have history, yes, but that don’t mean he knows your secrets, certainly not through me, if that’s what you’re implying?’ She didn’t know where the courage came from, but it showed through in those words. She stood and spun Badham to face her.
‘Look at me. Look at me and tell me you think otherwise.’ She held his gaze. After another tense moment, Badham smiled.
‘Course not, lass. How could I, eh?’
She smiled back, reached up onto her toes and kissed him long and hard.
‘You always know how to make me feel better,’ Badham said, reaching round, squeezing her backside and kissing her once more.
‘Now,’ he said, stepping back, ‘I’ve places to go and people to see.’ With a look that drained all her confidence that had appeared mere moments before, Badham turned and left the room.
Oh Quin… It was all Emms could do not to cry.
Chapter 15 – Pax
‘Will it work?’ Parry asked, holding Lefey’s stare.
‘We’ll see, won’t we.’
‘How do we know he’ll come, himself?’ Parry seemed unconvinced.
‘Oh, he’ll come,’ Quin said, wringing his hands together without realising it. His nerves were shredded, especially when the ebony skinned killer turned on him.
‘What is your profession again, boy?’
‘Shipwright’s apprentice,’ Quin said, straightening his back.
Rolling his bottom lip, Parry nodded at that. ‘Not bad,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps you could have a place on Sessio should the captain agree to it. It’d be wise for us to have a shipwright on board, even an apprentice like yourself.’
‘On board?’ Quin frowned.
Lefey released a short, sharp laugh and turned back to the dark street in front of them.
‘Well,’ Parry went on, ‘if you’re right and he does come, this Badham, it’ll be because he thinks you ratted on him, to us, remember? How did you think you’d continue with your little life, eh? You’d be no better off than those on the scales, methinks.’
Eyes wide, Quin’s chest felt tight as he thought it through.
Parry smiled and nodded. ‘Think on that some more, whilst we wait on this Badham fellow.’ He turned back to the street.
Quin glanced behind and received a nod and a wink from one of the two sailors there, both of whom held large windlass crossbows in their arms. Quin looked back front, in time to hear, rather than see, a commotion coming up the street.
‘How’d you know where he lives?’ a deep voice said. ‘Your tart tell you?’
Quin grimaced, recognising the voice and knowing of whom the man spoke.
‘That’s Croxon,’ Quin whispered between Lefey and Parry. ‘He’s one of Badham’s officers, so to speak.’
‘…not,’ someone else said.
‘And that’s Stone, another officer,’ Quin added, as Stone continued.
‘The lass is still sweet on Quin, ain’t that right Badham?’
A grunt and a laugh followed as the gangers’ footsteps grew louder.
There was a loud curse.
‘What were that for, ye prick? It were a joke.’
‘Well I didn’t find it funny. Anymore and you’ll be for the roasting pit, same as that little kid with the big mouth we turned over last week.’
Lefey turned on Quin. ‘Badham?’ she mouthed.
A cold grip reached in and took Quin’s heart, but he nodded all the same, and watched as Lefey motioned to the two sailors behind. He heard feint footsteps move away from him.
‘What we gonna do?’ Croxon again.
‘Drag the shite out,’ Badham said, ‘after showing him around his own gaff, if you get me?’
Several men laughed and Parry and Lefey shared a worried look. They turned to Quin again, but he shrugged to the unasked question of how many.
‘This it?’ Croxon asked.
‘Yep,’ Badham replied.
‘Who’s knocking?’
‘Since you asked, Pester, ye skinny shit,’ Badham said, ‘you can.’
‘There ain’t no way I’m busting through that door on my own.’
‘Pester has a point,’ Croxon said, followed by a grunted laugh. ‘He’s likely to break bones trying.’
‘I’ll fucking do it,’ Badham said. ‘This shit’s personal anyway.’
Quin heard a growl and the splintering of wood.
‘Wakey wakey, Quinnell!’ Stone shouted, to the vocal amusement of Croxon and Pester. There was no other sound from Badham as the man stormed inside, his officers following.
‘We wait for them to come out,’ Parry said. Quin merely nodded, shuffling from foot to foot. These sailors were an unknown to him, but the reputation of their captain wasn’t. He both feared what would happen to Badham, a lad he’d known his whole life, and feared what would happen to himself if such things didn’t happen to Badham. He’
d thought he would feel pleased when such a moment came, but now, looking at the wicked scimitar Sessio’s blade master gripped, and the blood on the man’s face and clothes, he wasn’t so sure.
More voices came up the street. Lefey looked to Quin, who shrugged.
‘Passers-by?’
‘At this hour?’ Lefey said. ‘And rowdy as they are?’
Again, Quin shrugged as the voices neared.
‘They’re already in,’ they heard one say. ‘Hurry up lads, it’s time for some fun.’
Parry’s shoulders bobbed in amusement. ‘Soldiers my black arse,’ he said, running a finger across the front curve of his blade. ‘They’re armed and mob handed bullies with nowt better to do that terrorise honest folk.’
‘Hit ’em now?’ Lefey whispered to Parry, ignoring his mutterings. Quin only just heard her. ‘Before the others come back out?’
Parry sucked his teeth and nodded. ‘Now!’ he said, kicking a small crate out into the street.
‘Wha—’ a voice was cut short, followed by a grunt and shouts of anger and panic both. The crossbowmen would already be winding back their weapon’s cords on the roof, spanning-mechanisms clicking as they ratcheted the powerful draw weights back, ready for another long bolt.
Lefey and Parry rushed from the darkness into the lamplight beyond, as a man reached the crate, eyes caught by it but for a heartbeat; the short distraction, combined with the loss of two of his companions to crossbow bolts, was enough to transform the ganger into easy prey for Parry, whose scimitar bit into the man’s side so deep the blade master had to forcefully work it side to side to pull it back out the dropping, screaming man, torso all but cleaved in two, guts and more spilling to the floor.
Quin turned in the alleyway and threw up. He failed to see what happened next, but it sounded quick as more men cried out, cursed and grunted, before all fell silent in the street.
Wiping at his mouth, Quin stood straight and heard shouting coming from the house.
‘Here they come,’ Lefey said, from around the corner. ‘Be ready.’
‘Always am,’ Parry said casually, before whistling long and loud.
Quin jumped and nearly wet himself as several boots pounded the ground behind him. He spun in time to be knocked to the side, colliding painfully with the white wall as half a dozen sailors ran past, weapons drawn and faces grim.
Heart thumping and breaths coming quick, Quin found the courage to move to the alley mouth and peer around the corner, in time to see Badham’s officers pile out of his home and into the waiting sailors. He knew Captain Mannino wanted Badham alive, but failed to see how that would be possible as the two sides clashed. His ears took in the clanging of metal on metal, the thud of hits and the wet slaps of blades biting into unprotected flesh.
Another crossbow bolt flew in, although to see it required luck, the speed it travelled. Alas, it missed its target, breaking on the white wall with an echoing crack that followed.
Two sailors fell quickly, injured but not dead, as far as Quin could make out. He saw Stone knock one of them down, a small mace in one hand and a buckler in the other, which he used to parry several blows from Lefey, who came at him fast and hard after seeing her shipmates fall.
Quin was reluctantly impressed as he saw Pester, a lad he’d quite liked a few years ago, before he was recruited by Badham, fending off a rapid assault of arcing slashes by Parry. The defence didn’t hold for long and the bile returned to Quin’s throat as he saw Parry’s wide blade split the lad’s skull from crown to neck. The pieces fell towards each shoulder as the skinny body dropped. Parry moved on, careless for the horror he caused.
Croxon and Stone fought well together, Stone’s buckler clanging again and again as he used it to thwart incoming blows from cutlasses and falchions, although the defensive aid was starting to look battered, dents appearing with each blow. As Quin looked on, the large man cursed and threw the plate sized shield to the side. Stone’s hand looked like someone had taken a hammer to it, all blood and pulp. Despite the painful wound, the man fought on, taking down another sailor, this time for good.
Parry stepped in, around a feint from Lefey. He dropped low as he did so and took Croxon’s leading leg off, a clean cut through the man’s shin. A shrill scream that didn’t match Croxon’s size followed and he crumpled to the floor, dropping his daggers to paw at his bleeding stub of a lower leg.
‘Pax!’ Badham shouted, appearing in the doorway. ‘I’m here. Pax!’
Quin looked on, incredulous as the sailors stopped their attack, the lot of them backing off a pace or two, their fallen comrades pulled back to safety in the middle of the street, whilst Badham and Stone dragged a roaring Croxon into Quin’s house.
‘What’re you doing?’ Quin ran out into the lamplight of the street, all eyes, bar those badly injured, now on him.
‘Bastard!’ Badham shouted from the doorway, coming for Quin before sense checked his move.
‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Lefey said, lowering her cutlass, ‘but the man called pax. He’s the captain’s to deal with now.’
Quin’s eyes widened. ‘You’re taking him to Captain Mannino?’
Lefey shook her head. ‘No, the captain’s coming here.’
Quin felt sick once more and ran into the alley, succumbing to the feeling.
He’s in there, Captain,’ Lefey said a short while later, eyes on Quin’s damaged door. She’d been assured by Quin that there was no other way out for Badham, or his remaining officers.
Lips pursed, the impeccably dressed Mannino nodded.
‘What ye thinking, Cap’n?’ Hitchmogh said, cutlass in one hand, an ornate, dwarven flintlock pistol in the other. Mannino said nothing. There was a long, awkward pause before Parry walked up and spoke.
‘The lads are carrying the injured back to Sessio, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Master Parry,’ Mannino said, without turning. ‘That’ll be all for now.’
Eyes wide, Lefey looked to Hitchmogh as Parry disappeared down the alleyway, following the other sailors. Hitchmogh shrugged, before looking back to the white building.
‘Sun’ll be up soon,’ Hitchmogh said, craning his neck to look past the roof to the lightening sky above. Stars flickered here and there, but most were fading into the hazy blue that was taking over the sky.
‘And?’ Mannino rubbed his chin with his free hand – cutlass held as it were in the other.
‘Just sayin’, Cap’n. There may be more gangers on the street now folk be waking. Won’t be soon until they swarm down here, like rats from that fat cat of ours.’
‘You have a point there, man,’ Mannino said, ‘so let’s get on with business, shall we?’ Eyes locked on the building, Mannino strode towards the splintered door, which managed to cling on to the top hinge. Those remaining few in the street moved with him. Free hand held high, all but Hitchmogh halted as he and Mannino pushed through the door and into the darkness beyond.
Eyes and mouth dry from a night without sleep or a drink, Quin made to say something, but Lefey raised her blooded hand to stop him.
‘He knows what he’s doing.’ She didn’t turn from the building.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ Quin said.
‘As do I,’ one of the crossbowmen said from across the way, ‘for the majority of us already headed back to the bloody ship.’
‘Like I said,’ Lefey said, voice stern, ‘the captain knows what he’s doing. They both do.’
‘And as I’m saying now,’ the crossbowman replied, hefting his crossbow, ‘for the sake of Joncausks, Boxall and Tahir, I hope he does too.’
Chapter 16 – Maps, plans and dogs
Sir Allon Bratby’s tent was finer than most houses in Wesson, Fal mused, as he and Gleave followed Correia into the grand space. He looked to the thick fur-covered oak bed. Bed. Not cot. He looked to the lavishly decorated camp chairs and the large table, covered as it were in bowls of food, goblets of wine and a small map to one side.
Always pictured giant map
s in such a tent, with wooden pieces to be strategically positioned, Fal thought, disappointed.
‘Lady Burr.’ A young man dressed in a velvet tunic and matching green stalked cap inclined his head. He came forward and offered his hand. Correia took it and he raised hers to his lips. Fal noted the bastard-sword at the man’s side, the scabbard inlaid with silver, or so it seemed; despite several clay oil lamps and candles in glass lanterns, such detail was hard to make out. The weapon reminded Fal of Will Morton, the Duke of Yewdale, and Fal’s audience with King Barrison regarding Wesson’s plague, all of which seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘Lord…?’ Correia retrieved her hand politely and awaited an answer.
‘This is the marquess’ son, Sir Allon Bratby,’ a baritone voice said from the shadows; the man stepped forth, grey beard leading as he jutted his chin towards the young Bratby.
Fal saw a flash of anger pass across Sir Allon’s face, before taking in the brute of a man who’d spoken last. A bastard-sword dressed this man’s side too, although it looked small against the thick legs of the noble. He wasn’t so much tall as wide. Fal mused that the man could probably wrestle a horse to the ground without breaking a sweat. He was as well dressed as Sir Allon, although he seemed incapable of eating without spilling half of it down his beard and tunic.
‘And you are?’ Correia asked, turning to the man.
He barked a laugh. ‘You don’t remember, lass? King’s Spymaster and you don’t remember the likes of me?’
Gleave grunted something under his breath and Fal struggled not to smile, despite missing the remark.
‘It seems I don’t.’ Correia offered her hand to the man, who wiped his on his tunic before taking Correia’s and pressing his thick lips to it, eyes never leaving hers. She grinned and they both laughed. Fal looked to Gleave, but his eyes were locked on the man.
‘I should have recognised your voice when…’ Correia trailed off. An awkward pause followed.
‘When you were listening in, from back there,’ Sir Allon said, jerking his thumb to the tent wall. The sound of the wild goose chase outside continued.
