IT’S NOT THE pain that he enjoys.
It’s the fear.
He straightens his glasses with a thumb and forefinger and inspects the creature squirming on the desk before him. It is pinned to a wooden block, wings pierced with Azurmouth steel so that it cannot escape from the darkened cabin.
A female fairy. Daemonium volans. Demonspawn.
There is a grotesque fascination in the way it struggles, tries to lift its wings against the steel of the pins, begs, pleads with him to let it go. Almost unbearably disgusting.
‘I’ll tell you anything,’ it cries. ‘Please. I promise.’
‘Anything? Truly, you’d tell me anything?’
He is rewarded with a flicker of hope in the creature’s eyes.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve lived in Port Fayt all my life, sir. I’ve seen some things, I can tell you. Just give me a chance.’
He leans over the desk, one hand resting on a green marble paperweight, examining the way the creature’s wings protrude through holes cut into the fabric of its dirty dress. So foul. So unnatural.
‘But what could you possibly know that might help me?’
‘I’ve seen their fleet, sir. The Fayter fleet. I can tell you about their men and their guns. I can tell you all about Governor Skelmerdale. I can tell you … I can …’ Its voice peters out. The flicker of hope dies.
‘Suppose you could. What difference would it make? Do you really suppose the Fayters stand a chance against us? No, my dear. I fear you are no use at all.’
‘Kill me then. I’m not afraid.’
It has stopped struggling now and lies, tiny arms folded, glaring up at him. Its body glows faintly against the wooden block.
He raises his eyebrows. He had not expected this. Bravery, from such a despicable creature. He would not have thought it possible. And this bravery has driven away all trace of the fear. The fear that he so enjoys.
‘I am impressed,’ he admits. ‘Most impressed.’
‘Enter.’
Morning sunshine spills into the cabin as a white-jacketed marine ducks his head inside.
‘Your honour, a vessel has been sighted to the west of our fleet. A wavecutter, flying no colours.’
The Duke of Garran considers for a moment, then nods.
‘Very well. I will attend to it.’
He sweeps his hat from the desk, making the fairy flinch.
‘Don’t worry,’ he tells it. ‘You’ve shown me that you are brave. You’re not afraid any more. That’s good. Very good.’
Hope returns to the fairy’s eyes. Delicious. And in one swift movement, the Duke of Garran lifts the marble paperweight and brings it down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
There is not even a scream.
He turns back to the marine.