NEWTON DUCKED HIS head as he followed the bosun, climbing the narrow steps to the upper gun deck. In the cramped darkness, Fayters swarmed over each and every cannon, polishing them to a sheen. Colonel Derringer’s doing, no doubt. Nothing ever seemed to be clean enough for him.
‘Thirty guns on this deck, sir. Eighteen-pounders. Enough to blow any ship out of the water.’
Newton watched a young troll swabbing at the nearest cannon. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, but he looked so eager, as if he was actually looking forward to battle. At once his mind turned back to Joseph and Tabitha, vanished in the night. So young and so alone. If he knew Tabs, they’d have gone after that mermaid, trying to rescue her on their own. It made his blood run cold all over again and he forced the thought away.
‘How many magicians?’ he asked.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘Magicians. How many?’
Even in the dim light below decks, Newton could see the bosun turn pale. He was a big, jovial man with curly white hair, enormous mutton chops and a beaming smile. But he wasn’t smiling now.
‘We don’t— Well, Mr Newton, as you know, magic is outlawed in Port Fayt, so—’
‘Aye. But it’s not in the Old World, is it? The League’ll have magicians to spare. All trained up too, most likely. All those cannons won’t mean a thing if we can’t defend ourselves against their magic.’
‘I could ask around,’ said the bosun stiffly.
Newton shook his head and turned, climbing the steps to the top deck without waiting for the bosun to follow. He’d seen enough. Even if there were magicians on board, they’d hardly be a match for the enemy’s Magical Infantry. There’d been a League magician in the zephyrum mines in Garran, twenty years ago. Newt remembered how once, when the miners had tried to fight back, that single scrawny man had dispatched ten or twelve trolls and ogres before he got clonked on the head with a spade.
A blast of fresh air greeted him as he came up onto the deck. Old Jon was leaning against the gunwale, smoking and staring out to sea, long white hair streaking in the wind.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Newton told him. ‘We’re going back. We’ve got to find Joseph and Tabitha. Before they get themselves into trouble.’
Old Jon puffed out a smoke ring.
‘I don’t know, Newt,’ he said.
‘We can’t go into battle, Jon. The League’ll tear us apart. If we sail back to Fayt, at least I can try talking to the governor again, make him see sense. Even if there’s a chance the merfolk might fight—’
‘Ah,’ said Old Jon. ‘You don’t know why the governor doesn’t trust merfolk.’
Newton turned to look at him. As usual the elf didn’t meet his eye.
‘Tell me.’
Old Jon knocked out his pipe and started to stuff it with fresh tobacco.
‘Henry Skelmerdale had a younger brother once. Thomas, his name was. Never had a head for business like Henry did, but he loved fishing. And one day, when Thomas was fourteen years old, he took his dinghy out into the bay not far from port. Cast out his line. A pair of merfolk were watching him, bobbing in the water …’
He paused to light the pipe, and Newton waited patiently. There was no sense in rushing Old Jon when he had something to say. The elf puffed at his pipe, and spoke again.
‘Now, he’d hardly begun to fish when a storm blew up. Thomas was a fine fisherman but a lousy sailor. He struggled, but he couldn’t bring the dinghy in. All it took was one big gust and the hull rolled over with poor Thomas tangled in the rigging. Couldn’t get free …
‘Know what those merfolk did, Newt?’
Newton shook his head.
‘Nothing. Nothing but watch him drown. Story goes that Henry was on the docks at the time with a spyglass. Sixteen years old, he would’ve been.’
There was a long silence.
‘Henry Skelmerdale won’t go chasing after that princess,’ said Old Jon at last. ‘Not even if Thomas came back from his watery grave and begged him to.’
Newt nodded, letting the story sink in.
‘So what about Joseph and Tabitha?’
‘Fayters need you here, Newt. You turn their flagship around, they might lose hope altogether.’
‘You’re saying I don’t have a choice.’
‘Aye. That’s what I’m saying.’
Newton bit his lip. Joseph had lost his parents when he was little more than a toddler. Tabitha had lost hers when she was just a baby. Someone needed to take care of them. It wasn’t right, leaving them on their own.
‘She’s a tough one, Newt,’ said Old Jon gently. ‘And I know she don’t show it, but she loves you. You’re her father. Might as well be.’
‘Shouldn’t her father go back for her?’
Old Jon gestured around the ship. ‘You tell me.’
Newton surveyed the deck. A pair of blackcoats were sharing their lunch, chatting and joking, but every so often one of them would cast a nervous glance east, to the horizon. To where the League fleet would appear. A group of young sailors, each with the sea-green armband of Port Fayt, had gathered around an elderly blackcoat sitting on the steps to the poop deck. It looked almost like an old man with his grandchildren – except that instead of telling tales the old soldier was showing them how to load a pistol.
He sighed. As usual, Old Jon was right. He couldn’t let them down. Even if it meant leaving Joseph and Tabitha behind in Port Fayt.
‘Don’t fret,’ said the elf. Sometimes it seemed as though he could tell exactly what Newton was thinking. ‘Them youngsters can look after themselves. We wouldn’t have stopped that Arabella Wyrmwood if it hadn’t been for them. Wouldn’t have caught that shapeshifter neither, nor got back the wand he stole. The wooden spoon.’
It was true enough. The thought of them on their own made Newton’s stomach squirm, but he had to ignore that. He had to do what was best for Fayt. He had to do the right thing.
‘You think they’ll get by?’
Old Jon puffed out smoke.
‘Tabs can fight. And that tavern boy’s got sense. Reckon together they’ll get along fine.’
‘Sir?’
Newt turned at the voice. It was the bosun, hovering a few feet away as though he didn’t want to interrupt their conversation. ‘Did you want to inspect the bowchasers, sir?’
Old Jon turned, leaning over the gunwale again and staring out to sea.
Newt sighed. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Let’s see them then.’
The bosun beamed and strode off towards the foredeck.
Newton lingered just a moment longer.
‘Jon,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t do anything stupid, would they?’