Chapter Twelve

VINCE STUMBLED OUT through the town hall gates and stood on the empty road. He took his tricorne cap in his hand, tilted his head back, and let the rain cool his skin. He breathed heavily. He had always preferred Port Knot in the rain. The gloomy weather fit the town better than bright, hazy sunshine.

He knew better than to go into Rabbit’s office, shouting the odds but he couldn’t stop himself. Something of a worry in itself, actually. He’d worked hard to control his temper over the years, to keep a level head. Without it, he’d have been dead a dozen times over. When one is the focus of ire for a gaggle of the most dangerous people on the island, one cannot afford to go off half-cocked.

He plodded through puddles on his way back to the Watch House, where he stood and peered in through the window. Since the cells were filled with Pennymen, the Watch had to take shifts during the day to keep an eye on them. Frank lay on the floor with a blanket over himself, fast asleep. Better than nothing, Vince thought.

Under the little bridge with its carved bearded face, he let himself into his quarters. Crabmeat greeted him at the door, wagging his tail furiously. Vince scratched his ear before heading upstairs.

On his bed, he found a folded piece of paper. He flipped it open. One Pitfolk Lane. Midnight. The threadbare curtain by the porthole window fluttered in the breeze. He stomped out of his room. “Nice work protecting the place!”

Crabmeat ran upstairs and jumped up on his leg, licking his lips. Vince huffed and petted him, over and over. “Just glad they didn’t hurt you, boy.”

VINCE TOLD NO one about the note. Mr Norton laid out the assignments for the evening.

Vince had only one addition. “Want Sorcha to go out with Frank and Clive.”

“But those lanterns still need fixing.”

Vince stared at Mr Norton, who rolled his eyes and scratched Sorcha’s name on his record book. “Whatever our commander wants, our commander gets.”

Sorcha took Vince to one side. “Did you not hear back from the Cream? Do you not want me to come with you to—” She stopped when he glowered at her.

He lowered his voice. “Need you to keep them busy. Fewer people who know about the meeting, the better.”

Her voice turned to a whisper. “Oh, right. I understand.” She winked at him and tapped the side of her nose. She grabbed a staff and a working lantern. “Come on, boys. Crime won’t stop itself. Ah, but wouldn’t it be great if it did though? Think of the time we’d save.”

Before midnight, Vince took his cap and overcoat from the hooks on the wall. He didn’t say a word to Mr Norton, and Mr Norton didn’t ask any questions. Mostly, Vince assumed, because he didn’t care what Vince got up to. He took a circuitous route from the Watch House to ensure he wasn’t followed by Sorcha. It seemed to Vince like the sort of thing she might do.

One could always spot the oldest places of the town as they all had names from the days when Port Knot had been a mining village named Stonewarren. Number One, Pitfolk Lane turned out to be a former foundry. Generally, the townsfolk preferred to sweep away old buildings, tearing them down to make way for new ones. However, working in the oldest parts of town became more and more difficult over time and so many were simply left to rot. These forsaken places often found new life as gang hives.

Vince found the door already open. He steeled himself. He probably should have taken a weapon but he always did his best fighting barehanded, and even his new eyepatch hadn’t truly shaken his faith in his fists.

Given he’d been invited, he saw little point in subtlety. He barged through the open door and into the foundry. Moonlight fell in shards through the broken skylight above. The foundry lay empty, save for a ruined cart and a handful of broken tea crates. A mouse ran along a nearby, cobweb-infested beam strung with garlands of rusted chains.

Ahead of him, three figures stood, shrouded in shadow.

“Thought we should talk,” Vince said. “Face to face. Greencoats are going to start patrolling the streets. In daytime. Going to be a lot of unrest. Can be made worse by you lot. Or better. Hoping you’ll see sense. Help keep things calm.”

One of the figures stepped forward into the moonlight. A woman with a cloud of black hair and dressed in amber.

Vince furrowed his brow. “Celeste?”

She nodded. “And I believe you know Mr Fortitude Littletar, of the Pennymen.”

The moustachioed Fortitude Littletar stepped forward, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his striped waistcoat.

“And—”

“Hugo Lambshead,” Vince said.

Athletic in build and cocksure in demeanour, the last of the three wore his black hair peaked in the centre, like the crest of a parrot. Though the nights had turned colder, he wore no shirt but had on a long, plum-coloured coat with shiny silver buttons over his black breeches and black leather boots. On his belt, a holster. The handle of his multi-barrelled pepper-box musket stood proud from it. On his bare chest, a tattoo—two muskets crossed.

“Heard about your strange ritual,” Vince said. “Knew it had to be you running the Gunbrides.”

Hugo Lambshead lifted his pepper-box musket from its holster. Its stock had been carved like a mermaid, with long hair curled up around the barrels. He kissed it, running his tongue along to the small hatchet bayonet at the end. “Strange,” he said. “I’ll tell you what’s strange—how anyone could lay eyes on Summersong here and not fall in love with her.” He pointed the weapon at Vince. “Hah! He didn’t even flinch. Same old Vince. Only, no, you’re not really the same anymore, are you, old man? Time was you’d be standing here with us. But now you’re a filthy turncoat. I should shoot you right here.”

“That’s not what we agreed.” Littletar placed his hand on the end of Summersong and pushed down.

Lambshead snapped at him, his eyes wide and manic. “Don’t you touch her. Don’t you ever touch her.”

“Didn’t bring me here to kill me,” Vince said. “No such thing as a fourth gang, then?”

Celeste held her hands up. “You got us,” she said with a little laugh. “We knew first-hand the power of a figurehead. We saw how you kept the ordinary rank and file in line. But having one person in charge led to the chaos of last Midwinter. So we got our heads together and decided to form our own little shadow council, as it were. Things are more stable now.”

“Or they were until you came back,” Hugo Lambshead said. “Taking the established gang members off the street will make space for new criminals, ones who don’t know the ropes, ones who don’t know where to draw the line. There will always be crime in Port Knot. It can either be chaotic and unpredictable, or organised. Civilised.”

“How?”

Fortitude Littletar pushed his spectacles up. “It seems to us that where people keep getting hurt is when they run counter to our intentions. For example, your recent interference with the Pennymen operation at the docks. If you’d simply turned a blind eye—pardon the expression—we would have been and gone in a matter of minutes without anyone knowing we were there.”

“You could have let my Clockbreakers open the safe in Hearthstone Manor. The family is wealthy enough to replace whatever they lost,” Celeste said.

Vince lay a thumb over his forefinger and cracked a knuckle. “Should just let the Gunbrides shoot anyone they want?”

“Of course not,” Littletar said. “But if you were to spread the word that cooperation was a wiser course of action than resistance, wouldn’t it make things easier on everyone?”

“Watch is just to be a mouthpiece for the gangs? Tell us what you want the public to know, we pass it on, like good little boys and girls?”

Celeste put her hands on her hips. “There are always the petty vandals, the drunkards, the thieves who don’t measure up to our standards. Plenty to keep you occupied, well into retirement. We’re also going to have to ask you to keep the greencoats out of our hair.”

“Can’t do it. Got no say over what they do.”

“But you do speak with them, no? You do have a rough idea of their plans? It would be no trouble at all for you to send word to us? Let us know the places we should avoid?”

“Want me as a spy.”

Fortitude Littletar tutted. “A vulgar word for what is essentially a favour to some old friends.”

“Say I don’t?”

“We’ll burn down the Watch House,” Hugo Lambshead said. “And the house of every Watch member. And their families. And their families’ businesses. We’ll burn everything, Vince. We’ll burn it all.”

“Not making this sound good.”

Celeste approached him, slowly, her hands open. “There is no good option here, Vince. There’s only compromise. We’re not going away. Neither are you. Out of respect, we’ve left you alive this long. Out of respect, we’re giving you a chance to save face, and to keep your new role.”

“Respect? Fear, more like.”

Hugo Lambshead turned red in the face. “Fear? You seriously think we’re still afraid of you? With your one good eye and your little team of layabouts? It didn’t take you long to replace us, did it?”

“Jealous that daddy has a new family?”

“Don’t you dare, you condescending swine.” Lambshead shook Summersong at Vince again. “Don’t you bloody dare. We were children when you got your hooks into us. We looked up to you, and you walked away, left us to scrabble in the mess you and Mudge left behind. We could have your whole Watch in the ground by sunrise.”

“Like you did your real parents?” Vince asked. “Remember the day I found you, covered with blood and soot. Shot them both. Mother by accident. Father on purpose. Just to see what happened.”

Hugo Lambshead closed his eyes and ran his musket along his own face. “I could have ended up in gaol that day. Or the orphanage. But you took me under your wing, put me with a new family, nurtured my talent.”

“We all owe you a debt to one extent or another,” Fortitude Littletar said. “You bought out my family’s debts. Saved them from ignominy and imprisonment, saved me from a short life of poverty. You gave all of us the opportunity to be more than we were. The chance of a better life, just as you’d done a hundred times before. And in turn, we took in new blood, passed on what you taught us. Generation after generation of criminal in Port Knot, all carrying on your teachings.”

Vince’s brow furrowed, and the blood pumped in his ears. He balled his fists.

Celeste laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it wasn’t just you lifting us, was it? We gave you a reason to live. You passed on your knowledge, your skills. Hugo is right; we did look up to you. But now, you’ve turned your back on us. Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

“Didn’t…didn’t abandon you,” Vince said. “Wanted a better life.”

“For yourself,” Celeste said. “Not for us. You never gave us a second thought. If you continue to cross us, we’ll have no choice but to retaliate. You might survive; you have a knack for it, but the people around you? Will they survive? And what will you be left with then, old man? What will you be without the Watch? What will you be without any of us?”