“WHO CAN SAIL?” Conch asked Mazeley. The two men stood on the deck of the Shalamon, looking out to the east. The moonlight was blunted and diffused through rain clouds that hung back on the horizon. Just under them, the dark shapes of three square-masted ships could be seen against the brighter gray. The trio of vessels was headed southward, around Noose Neck and toward the open sea.
“Other than the Shalamon?” Mazeley asked. But he did not wait for an answer. “Dancer Clang is in port, just arrived last night.”
“Who else we got?”
“Lafe Larue has been here for weeks.”
Conch scowled. “Lafe’s a drunk. What about Scatter Wilkins? He’s a bloody one.”
“Lantern Liege sailed yesterday.”
Conch thought a moment. Then he sighed. “Just spread the word. A gold piece for every sailor on any ship takes down one of them tubs. Twice that if it’s done today.”
“That’s a rich bounty.”
“I’m a rich pirate.”
“Shalamon could be ready in less than—”
“Shalamon can’t sail,” Conch groused. “We got a rat’s nest here in port. And I got four rats need my attention.”
Mazeley paused.
“The Gatemen. I’m thinking of their mode of attack. We should warn those who sail against them.”
“What do ye suggest we tell ’em? Watch out, or they’ll fling the fires of hell at ye from a thousand yards?”
“Your captains should know what we learned from the priest.”
“The priest told us nothing. He knew nothing.”
“We know that they fight with fire. Your captains should expect hot loads.”
“So tell ’em to carry plenty a’ water and plenty a’ buckets, and shoot straight.”
Mazeley nodded.
“You have somefin’ else to say?” Conch prodded irritably.
“No. I think it’s wise to send the other ships. Save the Shalamon for another day.”
“Ye think I don’t want to face ’em myself.”
“No, sir. I think just what I said. Until we know exactly how he’s using that heated ammunition to take out better armed and faster ships, I think it’s a reasonable course.”
Conch put a big hand on Mazeley’s shoulder. “We got the Ryland rats to deal wif first.”
Mazeley nodded. “I’ll get word out to Dancer Clang and the rest.”
“Do that. And then get back. After the rats’ve stewed a bit by theirselves, we’ll bring ’em to a boil in the same pot.” The captain winked. “And we’ll need yer best deck a’ cards.”
It was almost dawn before Conch Imbry walked through the doorway of his Poker Deck. He looked around. Everyone was in place. Highly satisfactory. Mart Mazeley sat in his usual seat, shuffling a deck of cards with more dexterity than any man has a right to possess. To Mazeley’s right was Conch’s open seat. To his left sat Runsford Ryland, still in the smoking jacket he’d been wearing when taken from his home last night. He looked grim and tired and irritated. Across from him was Wentworth Ryland, his son, looking haggard but haughty. Unrepentant. Beside Runsford sat Shayla, wearing a dressing robe over a nightgown, expressionless, though drawn and pale from lack of sleep. Jenta Stillmithers sat beside Wentworth. Her hair was unkempt, but she appeared to be the only one to have slept at all. Her look was somewhere between defiance and impatience.
“Well, ain’t this a glum bunch gathered fer a little sport. Last time I saw ye together aboard ship, ever’one was a bit merrier, seems to me. But then, ye’ve been a busy little bunch since then, ain’t ye?”
“Captain Imbry,” Ryland said, rising. “I demand to know the meaning of this. Why have you dragged us here in the middle of the night?”
“Sit down, Ryland,” Conch said dismissively. “I don’t wanna hear a bit of it.” Now he grinned. “We’re here to play cards.” Still standing, he clapped, rubbed his hands, looked around the room. “So where’s the drinks?”
As Runsford Ryland sat down slowly, Mart rang a small bell at his side. A barmaid entered with a tray of tumblers and cigars.
“Ah, that’s more like it. Everyone takes a glass. Grab a cigar if ye want one.”
One by one, each of those present, Mazeley excepted, took a tumbler of rum. No one took a cigar.
“No smokers, eh? Well, I’ll pass then, too, on account of the women. Not usual to have two fine such ladies here in these quarters.” He looked at Jenta, and held up his glass. “A toast! Here’s to the gentlemen of means who grace this table…” he paused. “Hmm, my usual don’t seem quite fittin’. How about this…Here’s to those what will win this little game at cards. May ye live long and happy lives, and may ye remember the losers fondly!” He drank his rum down, and looked around at the silent stares. “Still a glum bunch. Well, drink up, it might cheer ye some anyways.”
All present drank, at least a little, except for Wentworth.
Conch sat. “The game is two-card stud. Don’t matter what’s up or what’s down. All right, Mr. Mazeley, deal the first hand.”
Mart Mazeley put two cards face down in front of Runsford Ryland, who looked around the table, then at Conch. “What is this about, Captain? Am I the only one playing?”
“Shut up,” Conch said evenly. “Ye got two cards, ye can only keep one. Turn ’em up.”
Ryland did.
“Looky there. The ace a’ diamonds, and the jack a’ clubs.” Conch nodded, seeming quite pleased. “Not bad. It’s a simple game, Ryland. Now ye discard.”
Runsford did not hide his irritation. “What are the stakes? What’s the bet? Why am I playing alone? Come now, Captain, this is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He scratched behind an ear. “Well, I suppose I should say a bit more, then. You ain’t in it alone. Wentworth here is in the game as well.” But rather than instruct Mazeley to deal the young man in, Conch pulled a pistol, laid it on the table in front of him, with the barrel pointed directly at Wentworth. “As fer the stakes. I’m gettin’ to that. But afore I do, Runsford, I got a question. How much did ye know about yer boy tryin’ to ruin me behind my back?”
“What?” He glanced at Wentworth, then back to Conch. “What are you talking about?”
“Ye make a good show of it,” Conch said. “I’ll give ye that. But yer boy has banded together with the Gatemen. Recruited ’em under my very nose, loaded ’em aboard yer ships, and set ’em to sail.”
“No! That’s absurd. Tell him, Wentworth. Tell him you’ve done no such thing.”
Wentworth raised his chin, spoke to the Conch. “My father knew nothing about it.”
Ryland’s mouth fell open. “Dear God.”
“In yer next breath,” Conch said to Ryland, “I suppose ye’ll say that since he’s yer son and all, ye beg me to show ’im mercy.”
“I most certainly do.” But the consequences of Wentworth’s actions clicked through his mind like a key turning in a padlock.
“I s’pose I’m gettin’ soft in my old age. I ought to just kill ye both and be done wif it, rather than sort out who knew what, and who did it why. But Runsford, ye’ve done me many a service over the years. So I’m doin’ ye a favor back. Ye get to choose.”
Ryland’s mouth was still open, but no further words emerged.
“Here’s the stakes. That ace ye got, that’s yer business. That’s Ryland Shippin’ & freebootin’ Freight. The jack, now, that card stands in for yer son. That’s Wentworth. So ye got two cards. But ye got to discard one. So that means ye get to keep one, and ye lose the other.”
Runsford swallowed hard. “Captain, I…”
“Maybe I ain’t been plain enough.” His voice and eyes went hard. “Ye can either keep yer business, and then yer son dies. Or, ye can keep yer son. And if ye do that, I take all ye have, Ryland. Ever’thin’. And the two of ye live out yer days in the old castle, sharin’ space with the Hant. And I put a price on the head of any man who so much as thinks about helpin’ ye make a brick out of a pile a’ mud. There. That clear enough?”
Runsford’s eyes were wide as dishpans. He looked at Wentworth. “Did you do this thing?” he asked.
Wentworth hung his head, but only for a moment. Then he looked back up. “I did. I was going to tell you about it.”
Conch put a hand on the pistol. “Enough talk. Time to play. Pick up the cards, Mr. Ryland.”
He did.
“Now. Discard one.”
Ryland looked down at the two cards in his hand, both of which trembled. Slowly, he chose a card and laid it face down in front of him.
Conch reached over and swept it up. He looked at it, nodded. “Runsford, yer free to go. Thanks fer playin’.”
With one last look at his son, a look that held both bitter accusation and overwhelming disappointment, the shipping magnate stood and walked, head high, shoulders back, out the door.
Conch tossed the card face up into the center of the table. Jenta gasped. Shayla closed her eyes. It was the jack of clubs.
“Looks like ye lose, Wentworth.”
Wentworth seemed to shrivel before them.
“Ah, don’t take it too hard, son,” Conch said with a shrug. “Yer daddy never was much at cards.”
Now Wentworth’s eyes went to the pistol. His body began to shake uncontrollably. But Conch did not touch the weapon again. “Calm down, boy. Game ain’t over yet. That was jus’ the first hand. Deal the cards, Mr. Mazeley.”
Mart Mazeley dealt one card face down in front of Wentworth, who stared at it like it was a viper.
“Pick it up.”
Wentworth obeyed, though he had to claw at it several times before he could get his fingers under it.
“Hmm. Ye’ll need two cards to play. So I guess ye better pick up the one yer daddy discarded.”
Wentworth did, with slightly less effort.
“All right. What d’ye got?”
Wentworth laid down his two cards.
“Looky there. The queen a’ hearts to go wif yer jack a’ clubs. But in this game, ye can only keep one. Ye’ll have to throw one away.”
Wentworth’s eyes searched Conch, looking for the meaning.
“That jack, that’s still you. And that queen, why, that’s yer fair bride here.”
Wentworth looked at Jenta. His fear was so deep, his sorrow so tangible, that she reached out for him.
“Don’t!” Conch roared. “Don’t you touch him.” Conch turned back to Wentworth. He calmed himself. “We still got a bet goin’ from the last time you was here. Do ye recall it?”
“Yes.”
“Ragged little weasel that ye are, I’m sure ye do. This here little game is part a’ that one. I’m just raisin’ the stakes a bit. It works like this. Keep the queen, that means yer keepin’ the girl. It means ye still want her. And so ye’ll have her, like I promised. Keep the queen, and she’ll die right along wif ye.”
Now Shayla lowered her head.
“Couldn’t be otherwise, could it? I’m a man a’ my word. And you, son, are surely bound to die. But ye got another choice. Ye can keep the jack and discard the queen. And that means ye don’t want her no more. So then, she don’t got to die wif ye.” He paused. “But ye remember our bet. When ye don’t want her no more, she’s mine.” He eyed Jenta, who met his gaze now with a steely look of her own. To Wentworth he said, “So, either she dies wif you, or she lives wif me. You decide. Do ye want her, or do ye not?”
Jenta shook her head. “Wentworth, don’t—”
Conch snatched up the pistol and aimed it at Wentworth. He cocked back the trigger. “I’ll kill ’im right here, little missy, you don’t shut up. And wouldn’t that be a pretty sight for pretty eyes to see?”
She sat still as a stone.
Conch sniffed. He set the pistol down. “What I mean is, this is his game to play, Miss Jenta. Yers is next.” Then to Wentworth, “I believe it’s yer turn, son. Pick up the cards.”
He did.
“Now, discard one.”
Wentworth laid down a card without hesitation. Mazeley stood, reached across the table, and swept it to the Conch.
Conch looked at it. “I’ll be.” He looked at Jenta. “Looks like he don’t want ye no more.” He flipped the card face up on the table. It was the queen.
“Next hand!” he announced. “Wentworth, ye can stay fer this if ye like, though yer a dead man watchin’. Might as well see the end, you bein’ the cause of everythin’.” He turned to Mazeley. “Deal.”
Mazeley dealt one card down to Jenta. She looked at Conch sadly, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
Then Conch slid the queen of hearts across the table toward her with a flick of his fingers. “Pick up yer husband’s discard. Got to play the game right.”
She did.
“Go ahead, take a look.”
She looked.
“Now show ’em both.”
She laid them faceup on the table.
“I’ll be. The queen a’ spades to go with yer heart. Pair a’ ladies. Good hand. But yer gonna have to discard one of ’em. Would ye like to know the meanin’ of ’em first?”
She raised her chin in defiance.
He laughed. “Sure ye would. So I’ll tell ye. The queen a’ hearts, that’s still you. And the queen a’ spades, that’s yer mama here. Yer gonna need to discard one or the other.”
She stared at him. “Captain. Please,” she said gently, as though there might be a different man inside him somewhere, or a heart with which she could reason.
He ignored her. “First thing ye might do is discard the queen a’ hearts. That means yer givin’ yerself to me. I know yer husband already threw ye over. But you got a say in it still. Though ye may hear otherwise, I never have made a woman do what she don’t want to do. Jus’ not sportin’. And by way of makin’ my case, I can tell ye right now that bein’ the Conch’s woman is good work, and many a lassie has wanted the position, though few has ever got it. So, ye got a choice. And that choice is the other card ye can lay down. Ye can give me yer mama.”
Shayla cringed, a visceral flinch that she could not control.
Conch watched her. Then he said, “Discard mama, and yer free to go, just like Runsford did. Go do whatever ye please. Go back to Mann, marry some society tra-la-la, whatever comes into yer pretty head. But just like him savin’ his own skin at the price of his son, why, you’ll be savin’ yerself on the back of yer mother.”
There was a pause.
“Yer probably wonderin’ what I’ll do to her. Fact is, I ain’t rightly decided. But I’ll tell ye what, though. Jus’ to make yer choice easier, I won’t even kill her. There’s a promise. But I will say that there’s markets in this world where she’ll fetch a gold coin or two.” He looked at Shayla. “Maybe three.” He looked back into the distant, depleted eyes of Jenta.
Jenta didn’t look at her mother. She knew the dark emptiness that Shayla had become. “You know I’d never let that happen.” Now she heard a catch in Shayla’s breathing. But Jenta looked only at Conch. “So where’s the choice here?”
He shrugged. “Jenta, ye threw in with the weasel,” he nodded toward Wentworth, “bringin’ my enemies right to my hometown. Don’t ye see that there’s a price to pay fer that? Sure ye do. Anyone else, and yer dead. But I’m not killin’ ye—that ain’t even on the table. I’m givin’ ye a chance to walk, jus’ up and walk away like nothin’ ever happened. So don’t be sayin’ there’s no choice in it.” He paused, waiting to be sure she wouldn’t argue with him.
She did not.
“Good,” Conch said, almost gently. “Now, Miss Jenta, pick up yer cards.”
She did.
“I know it’s a hard choice, and I don’t want any confusion. Give me the spade, that’s yer mama, or give me the heart, which is yerself.”
There was a request in it. Almost a plea. She shook her head. Here he was, promising to murder her husband and sell her mother, and yet in his mind, he was showing mercy.
“Discard me, Jenta,” Shayla said suddenly. “I’ll kill myself, and you’ll be free.”
“Mother!”
Furious, Conch snatched up the pistol. “Shut it!” he yelled. But he couldn’t figure out at whom he should aim the weapon. “I’ll kill the room of ye, and forget the game!” He calmed himself again, seeing that Shayla would speak no more. “What I’m tryin’ to tell ye is, ma’am, that it’s yer daughter’s choice and not yers.” Conch’s voice was still ragged but now under better control.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Jenta said, feeling a rush of cold strength from within. “I’ll play your game.”
She laid down a card.
A look of respect grew in Conch. “Well, good fer you. A card player.”
When Mazeley swept the discard to Conch, the pirate left it on the table, facedown, and stared at the back of it for a long time. Then turned it over. He smiled. “The queen a’ my heart.” He stood, rubbing his hands together vigorously. “Well, our game’s done! Mrs. Stillmithers, I had a game all set fer you, but we won’t be needin’ to play it now. Yer carriage awaits. I apologize fer gettin’ ye outta bed fer nothin’. Jenta, on the outside chance ye’d make just the choice ye did make, I got a stateroom all decked out, right next to mine. I took the liberty to order ye up some widow’s weeds. I think ye’ll look fine in black. After ye cry yer eyes out a while, fer which I won’t hold a thing against ye, then I think ye’ll find yer quarters quite comfy. I’ll take ye there now, if yer ready.”
Conch stood. “Wentworth,” he said with a sideways glance, “ye always were a wretched little puke. But I do feel a might sorry fer ye, losin’ a woman like this to the likes a’ me.” He slid his pistol over one place. “Clean my pistol when yer done wif the boy, will ye, Mr. Mazeley?”
“Don’t I always?”
“That ye do, Mr. Mazeley. That ye do.”
Wentworth hung his head.
“Well, let’s jus’ skip over the sad goodbyes, shall we…?” He held out a hand to Jenta.
Jenta did not stand. She watched Wentworth for a moment, then looked at Conch. Her eyes were calm defiance. “One more hand,” she said evenly.
“What?” Conch asked.
“I want to play one more hand.”
“No, missy, my game’s done.”
“But mine’s not.” There was no anger, no animosity in her voice. In fact, she said it with perfect poise.
He stood in silence, looking around the room.
“Not a risk-taker then?” she asked. Her tone was light and there was a glint in her eye, as though he had done no more than to refuse to dance.
Shayla looked at her daughter in confusion.
“Well, what’s the game?” Conch asked, amused.
“A cut of the cards.”
“What’s the stakes?”
“If I win, Wentworth lives.” Wentworth’s head came up.
“Yer a soft heart. But I cain’t do it. He survives, and people will think I’m the soft one, and then they’ll try to take me down. Makes fer all sorts a’ trouble. Asides, if he lives, yer still married.”
“My dear Captain,” she said, pleased and surprised, “that matters to you?” Her look now was almost coy.
And now Shayla’s confusion melted into recognition. Jenta had made a choice, but not the choice Conch gave her. She had decided to play a different game, one she’d been learning to play all her life. While Jenta didn’t bat her eyes at him, a lady with less sophistication might have.
He shrugged a shoulder. “Well, no, to be frank. But it matters to you, I reckon. And asides, I’m a society man in this town. What would people say?”
Mazeley smirked.
“My marriage can be annulled,” Jenta told him, her eyes not leaving his.
He blanched. “Not if ye’ve ever—”
“The marriage can be annulled,” she repeated easily.
“Even once—”
“Captain. My marriage—can be—annulled.”
Conch looked at Wentworth and laughed, a low rumble. “I called ye a weasel. That was overgenerous. Yer naught but a mouse.”
Wentworth closed his eyes. His chin sank to his chest again.
“And what if I win?” Conch asked. “Ye save the mouse if you win. What do I get if ye lose?”
“Then you take his life.”
“I already got that. Give me somethin’ I don’t have.” He watched her for a moment in silence, then said low, “And don’t be sayin’ it’s you, ’cause I already won that game, girl.”
Shayla closed her eyes, lowered her head.
Jenta paused a moment, but she didn’t falter. She raised her chin. Her nostrils flared. And in a voice smooth as silk she said, “I’ll bring you Damrick Fellows.”
“Whoa! She’ll trade Damrick for Wentworth?” Sleeve asked.
“Naw, bad choice, Jenta!” shouted another.
“See, Conch’s already won her, and that’s how he beat the Gatemen!”
Ham waited. “She’s a woman of secrets, as I been telling you. You want to hear how it goes, or not?”
“Tell it!” and “Aye, we’re shuttin’ up!”
Conch leaned in toward her. “Yer sayin’ you can give me Damrick Fellows. And how do ye propose to do that?”
She folded her hands on the table, and stared at him. “I will tell you, if you win.”
The silence in the room was heavy. Mazeley began shuffling the cards. Wentworth looked at Jenta, his head shaking back and forth. Shayla watched in something close to awe, her mask in tatters. Jenta refused to look away from Conch.
Conch pondered. “You don’t even know ’im,” he said to her at last, watching her eyes.
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you playing, or not?”
“I’m thinkin’.” He remained standing, studying her.
She watched his eyes as he watched hers.
Then he said, “Yer bluffin’.”
Alarm went through her, but she just smiled. “Am I?” She knew he needed something more. So she gave it to him. “Damrick is in love with me.”
Now Conch’s head cocked to one side. “Ye knew him from before. In Mann.”
She stared at Conch, raised one corner of her mouth just slightly. She felt the pained eyes of Wentworth, the emptiness of her mother. Neither of them, she realized, could know for certain if she was lying or telling the truth, any more than Conch could. Somehow, that fact gave her more confidence. “Are you in or are you out, Captain?”
Now his mind started turning. The possibilities clicked through his eyes where she could fairly see them. A beautiful woman…not highborn, she would have had many admirers. Damrick could easily have been among them. He might have been in love with her for years. He could have come to Skaelington just to find her. Jenta watched as the bitter sting of jealousy took root. She did not know what he would do with it, however, until he said, “Mr. Mazeley, cut the cards.”
“No,” Jenta said easily. “This is my game. My deal.” She held out her hand to Mazeley. “Unless you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” Mazeley offered easily, continuing to shuffle.
“Give her the cards,” Conch ordered. He watched Jenta, but now she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He looked at her differently; she could feel it. She was no longer the sweet young prize, but a crafty doe in a dense, craggy forest. Worthy prey. Maybe even dangerous prey. Maybe a lioness, and not a doe at all.
Mazeley gave the cards one last sorting, and handed the deck to Jenta. She fanned them in her hand, turned them over, examined them. Then she began to shuffle. She had some skill.
“Where’d you learn that?” Conch asked.
“From my mother.”
“You learned a lot from her.”
“I learned everything from her. Are you in?” she asked.
“I’m in. Mr. Mazeley, pick a good card for me.”
She put her hand on top of the deck to prevent Mazeley from touching it. She looked at Conch. “Am I your woman, or am I his?” Her question mingled the pleasure of ownership with the sting of jealousy, and she knew it.
He put both hands on the red felt and leaned across the table toward her. “You cut for me,” he said to her.
She picked up the top third of the deck. The card was the jack of hearts.
“Nice cut.”
She shuffled the cards, laid the deck down again. When she cut the deck this time, she showed him the king of clubs. The corner of her lip rose.
“I win!” Conch barked, standing up straight.
“But Captain!” Jenta rose quickly now. “I believe your card was the jack. The king is mine.”
“No, he ain’t!” His blood rose to a boil. “Nothin’ on board this ship is yers, missy! Nothin’ unless I give it.”
“But you did give it.”
“Did I? Well I’m takin’ it back. I don’t like yer game. Mazeley, shoot the mouse. Hell, shoot the mother, too, I’m tired of ’em both.” He held out a hand. “Now. Ye can come with me, or ye can die with them.”
She paused for a moment, on the edge of a precipice. She had gambled big and thought she’d won, but suddenly she had lost everything. She had angered the Conch, and now he would do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was to kill. Mazeley already had the pistol in his hand. His finger was on the trigger. His thumb was on the hammer. In a moment it would be over; her mother and her husband would be dead.
She could not let this happen. She walked straight to the Conch.
She wasn’t sure what she would do when she reached him, but she knew she must stop him. And in those few steps, it came to her. By the time she reached him, by the end of the four quick steps it took her to round the table, it was over and done, her future settled. Another woman might have gone at him with fists flying or nails scratching, but Jenta was not that woman. All her schooling, all her graces, all her charm came to her now in a single moment, as a single whole. She felt in control. And so in those few steps, with Wentworth reaching out to stop her, with Shayla pulling back, withdrawing yet further into herself, with Conch watching, waiting, eyes cold, right arm outstretched and waiting for her to take his hand…she stood tall, squared her shoulders, met his gaze, and walked past his open hand, inside his arm, and stopped before him. “I didn’t mean to anger you. You always win, of course. That game was just my foolish way of telling you that I dearly love my mother, and I’ve grown so fond of Wentworth. He’s like a brother to me.”
He dropped his hand. She put hers into it.
“Brother, is it?” Conch pondered the idea, eyeing Wentworth over her shoulder. “Black sheep a’ the family, ye ask me.”
She nodded her agreement.
His eyes narrowed. Hers were disarming, but he was not disarmed. “What’s all this about Damrick Fellows? That all a bluff, was it?”
“Oh, no. That was no bluff at all. I can give you Damrick Fellows.” She swallowed, but her poise remained.
“Ye can. But will ye?”
She raised her eyebrows.
Conch sniffed, assessing his options. Then he raised her hand and kissed the back of it. He winked at her. “Look, ye want a real man to take care a’ ye, I get that. It’s what a real woman needs. And ye want yer mama and the mouse alive, I get that, too.” He looked around the room again, as though considering the possible consequences of a moment of mercy. “All right then. As a gift to ye, I won’t be killin’ ’em. But ye gotta make me some promises now. Ye got a bad and rocky past, sidin’ with the likes a’ the Gatemen. Ye got to leave that all behind.”
“I will.”
“Swear it?”
“I do—I swear it.”
“And no secrets from me. Not about Damrick Fellows, or the Gatemen, nor nothin’. Understand?”
“No secrets.”
“Ever. I need yer word on that, too. Do ye swear it on yer life, and the life of yer mama and yer…?” He hooked a thumb toward Wentworth, but couldn’t find the word that would finish the question.
“I do.”
Conch watched her eyes for a long while, and then he sighed, content. He looked down at Mazeley, still seated with the pistol in his hand. “Ye won’t be needin’ that after all.” Mazeley eased the hammer back down, handed over the gun. Conch tucked it into his belt. “Get Mrs. Stillmithers back to her carriage, Mr. Mazeley. Send her on home. Then find a suitable spot fer Mr. Wentworth Ryland, somewhere no one’ll ever know that he lives on. Especially not his daddy. And then, fetch me a priest, or a judge, or whoever can undo the joke that this pair been callin’ a marriage.” He looked at Jenta, saw her gratitude. “On second thought,” Conch added, “do that last little job first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jenta would not look at her mother, nor at Wentworth. She had shamed herself, she knew, but she had already fled from that shame. She simply left it behind. She looked only at the Conch, willing him to believe that he was all she thought about, all she would ever think about again; he was the sun in her day and the moon in her night. She willed herself to believe it, too. Everything depended on that now.
And underneath that mask, in the deepest pocket of her heart, she tucked herself away. She secluded herself, shrouded herself, buried herself in a place where she wouldn’t feel the sting of conscience or the burn of humiliation, a place where she could await some moment far in the future when she might perhaps come out again, and determine just how much damage she had done.
“I knew the Conch’d get ’er!” Sleeve crowed. “Now she’s seen reason.”
“I don’t know, Sleeve,” another sailor countered slowly. “Ham said she hid herself away. That don’t sound like seein’ reason.”
“Oh, come on. That’s just her talkin’ herself outta her old ways. Ain’t it, Ham?”
Ham puffed his pipe.
“See, boys,” Sleeve explained, “all that nonsense about religion and doin’ good, and listenin’ to conscience and all, like there’s some kinda God lookin’ down on everyone and shakin’ His finger, all that does is, it just keeps ye from doin’ what ye got to do to get by in this world. It gets deep under the skin, and it’s hard to shed it all, even once ye have a mind to do it. But Jenta did it. See, now she can do what’s necessary to make her way in the world. She jus’ grew up, there at the table, that’s all.”
“But she hid herself away fer a time,” the other sailor countered.
“Aw, that’s just the way ye get shed of it. After a few months, years maybe, why, she’ll forget she’s hidin’ anything. She’ll realize one day, hey, I’m free of it, I don’t feel no guilt about anythin’ at all. I don’t need never to go back. Conscience is gone, and I can do what I want without it draggin’ on me. Trust me, boys, I know. That’s how I done it.”
There was silence in the room.
“Me, too,” a voice said.
“Yeah, and me. Sorta,” said another.
Delaney had to admit that was his path, too. He’d made a lot of little choices to run from conscience and all such things. But then when he swore to follow the Conch, both to kill and die, he told himself it was just because he had to, not forever, and later he could go back on it if he wanted. But he never did. And the longer he went, the less he ever wanted to.
“There’s other ways,” Sleeve continued, encouraged by the agreement in the room. “Some people, they just get real mad at God, or at the Church, and so whenever they feel that old stab a’ guilt, they just get mad all over again. And pretty soon, after they been cussin’ God long enough, the mad jus’ sorta goes away, and so does the conscience, and then, why, one day they find they’re shed of it and don’t care a whit no more.”
“That’s me,” another voice announced.
“I done it that way,” yet another confessed.
“There ye go,” Sleeve continued. “And there’s other people who find other ways, like I heard an ol’ boy said he was readin’ and studyin’ all sorts of arguments, like how it makes no sense for there to be a God, how it’s all made up in people’s minds and not real at all. He got to thinkin’ that only the stupidest folk on the face a’ the earth could ever think it was so. He jus’ laughed at all the poor idiots runnin’ around tryin’ to make some invisible nothin’ happy, and that took away its power, see, and pretty soon there was no way he could ever think a’ bein’ religious again, on account of it bein’ so far beneath ’im.”
Silence.
“No one here never did that?”
More silence.
“Well, I suppose that’s fer a crowd with more schoolin’ than us lot. But anyways, it don’t matter which way ye choose so long as ye get it done somehow, and then live a fine old life doin’ just as ye please, and not ever worryin’ about it, whatever ye do. And so that’s how I know Jenta’s on the right path, havin’ let all that go. Now she’s picked out a real man, like Conch says, one with power and money, lots a’ gold…so she’ll get his power and his money, or at least all she needs of it. And after a while she’ll forget all about her little hideaway self, and there’s yer happy endin’.”
After a silence, Dallis Trum said, “Don’t seem like she got power. Seemed…like a bad thing, somehow.”
“Ah, what do you know, ye little scrub? Ballast is all ye are, and all ye’ll be if that’s the way ye look at things. Take it from me, son. You give one a’ those ways a try; ye’ll see how it works.”
“So which is it, Ham?” Dallis asked. “Did she do right? Or not?”
Ham sighed. “That’s all for tonight, lads…”
There was another rustle in the reeds, this time to Delaney’s left. The light was dimming on the pond now, and the shadows deepening, but that same something lurked again. Or perhaps, a different something.
“Surroundin’ me, are ye?” Delaney asked. There was no answer, and he expected none. “Probably just gettin’ a good seat for the show,” he muttered.
The air seemed cooler now, though it was far from cool. He looked up at the sky again, and tried to guess how much time he had before dark. How much time he had left. A couple of hours, anyway. Then he’d be going on to the next life, and he’d find out if there was something over there on the other side, like Avery and the priests said, or if there was nothing but a big nothing out there, like Sleeve said. Delaney sure didn’t know, and he didn’t know how anyone could find out, other than going on ahead and dying.
It didn’t really seem fair. It was hard enough for a man to guess what the future would bring to him on the earth—and that’s where he could make all the plans he wanted, and try to bring a particular thing about. How was he supposed to guess what happened after, where no one could see and no word ever came back from?
And if a man’s supposed to do good on the earth, why is the doing of it so hard? Like pushing a sledge up a hill, and not an empty one, either, but one full of all kinds of the heavy goods of life, and it keeps sliding back on top of him. The plain fact is, it’s hard to do good. And then when you do good, it hurts more often than it helps. Look at Wentworth. He turned good, and what happened? Wham! Took it square in the kisser. Jenta tried to do good, too, helping Wentworth, and then helping the Gatemen. What did she get for her trouble? Wham! Shayla tried all her life for a better place for her daughter. Wham! Avery Wittle? Wham! Father Dent? Wham! And Delaney. One good deed, saving a little girl, and—Wham! Onka Din Botlay.
Mermonkeys.
The more Delaney puzzled, the darker his thoughts grew. What kind of world is it where the Conchs get rich and the Dents get whammed? It was enough to make a man angry. Enough to turn a man mean. Enough to make anyone want to throw the whole thing overboard, turn pirate, and have done with it. Like Sleeve said.
And not only that, why was it easy to turn bad and hard to turn back good again? How did that make any sense? Like gravity isn’t enough, everyone else has got to go and lean on the sledge from the other side, pushing it back toward the pit, back on top of the poor man trying to move it up the hill. Whatever it was that Jenta did to make Wentworth turn good, there with the Scriptures and the prayers and all, it must have been like pulling teeth. Delaney never did learn what it was. But he got some clues when he’d heard Ham talking about it to one of the men on deck, while the three of them were cleaning their pistols after a little target practice on some sea turtles.
“How did he do it?” the young sailor asked. “How did Wentworth turn all good like he done?”
“Now son,” Ham started. “You know this is dangerous territory. You sure you want to hear about it?”
“Aye. I’m not scared.”
“You hear it, though, you might just start heading in that direction. The Whale catches wind, and you might want to reconsider getting scared.”
The sailor shrugged. “Just want to know, that’s all. Not sayin’ I’ll do a thing with it.”
“I don’t know if I ought.” Ham looked down the barrel of his pistol, then rammed a rag down it with a cleaning rod. “Tell you what, I’ll tell you a part of the story I didn’t tell the others, if you want to hear it. You do what you will with it.”
“Sure!”
“Okay. Well, this was back when Wentworth first started visiting Father Dent.”
“The scarred-up priest?”
“Aye, the very one. You remember how Wentworth complained to Jenta about how hard it was that, when he tried to turn and do what’s right, suddenly he’s face-to-face with so much more that’s wrong, which he never did see before?”
“He was talkin’ about his daddy’s agreement with the Conch, which he never knew about whilst drinkin’ his life away. Sure, I remember.”
“So he tells Carter Dent the same thing, and the priest just nods. Then he explains. ‘The holy Scriptures,’ he says, ‘tell us that good men and women will have three enemies, and each one is worse than the next. They are your own flesh, then the world around you, and lastly the devil below. Wentworth, you overcame the first one. With the help of Jenta and by the grace of God, you beat back the flesh, which is your desire for drinking and gambling and womanizing. But with that one managed, you then came face-to-face with the world. It came dressed as your father, but it was really all the business that’s done in this world that needs a heavy dose of evil to keep it going. To keep all the money rolling in. And I can warn you, too, that once you stand against the world, the world will turn you straight over to the devil.’ ”
“You mean the Conch?” the young sailor asked.
Ham shrugged. “Are you sure you want to know more about this?”
The sailor swallowed hard. “Jenta saved him, though, right? There at the poker table? So it didn’t go all bad for him. And then there’s Damrick. What about him? He licked all his enemies, didn’t he?”
“Ah, but you haven’t heard the end of their stories yet.”
“No, I guess not.” He thought a moment longer, scratched a patchy beard. “Still, I’d like to know how it works. How a man turns good. But just to know,” he repeated.
“Okay, then.” Ham took a deep breath. Then he spoke low, in a whisper so quiet that Delaney had to lean in close to overhear. “There’s passages of Scripture that are straight about it. Tell you plainly what you must do to be saved.”
“What do they say?” the sailor asked, also in a whisper, eyes wide.
“They say it’s all about believing. It happens inside.” Ham tapped his chest.
“Oh.” The sailor seemed disappointed. “ ’Cause I thought it had to do with priests. You know, wavin’ their hands and chantin’ certain things over you.”
“I’m not saying that can’t help. But here’s the thing. There are certain particulars that if you agree with them, even once, just one time in the secrecy of your own heart, why, you’ll cross over from darkness to light. And there’s no turning back neither, because once you do that, you’ve handed your very soul over to God. And He don’t ever forget. And He don’t ever let go. Now. Do you want to know what those things are, those things you got to agree with and believe?” Ham asked.
“Aye,” the sailor nodded, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
Then Ham looked over toward Delaney, who had stopped cleaning his pistol and was hanging on every word, his heart in his throat. “How about you?” Ham asked him. “You want to know what those things are?”
“No sir!” Delaney said, shooting to his feet, heart hammering his chest like a drum. “No, I was just needin’ to go get some more oil!”
Ham pointed to the can of gun oil at his feet.
Delaney looked at that can like it would grab his ankle. “No, not that oil. Some other oil,” he explained, and he collected up his pistol parts and got out of there as quick as he could.
But now he kind of wished he’d stayed. Just to know. Whatever it was, it must be a very hard thing to agree with, Delaney figured, because so few turned good. Those Scriptures must say that you have to believe something that’s almost impossible to believe. Otherwise more would believe it, some maybe even accidentally, and then they’d end up turning good in spite of themselves.
Delaney watched that sailor close, from then on. He wanted to see if he ever went good, and then if he got whammed. But there was never anything to notice. Maybe he’d hang back a bit from a plunder, where jumping in would have got him some nice silverware or a brooch or something. But that could have been caused by indigestion, or any other little thing. It was hard to say there was a change. Until one day in port, he didn’t come back to the ship. Maybe he’d got killed or jailed. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like pirating anymore. If that was the case, then the next time the Whale saw him, he’d get whammed for sure. Pirate captains put up with a lot of strange behaviors, but one thing that they could not tolerate was disloyalty.
Another was cowardice. Delaney sighed. He could feel a great, dark fear creeping up on him; a dark tide of gloom rolling in with the gloaming.