Chapter Twenty-One
TEN MINUTES AFTER walking into the Jack Thistle tavern, Vince was slurping the broth in his fish stew and wiping the excess from his moustache. He hadn’t eaten as well as he’d liked the previous night at Silver Hope, and his rumbling stomach had woken him early. The food in the tavern could hardly be described as first-rate but it did the job.
He didn’t know his way around a kitchen. When he’d been working at the asylum, his meals had been provided. Before that, local businesses had been falling over themselves to provide food for him in a bid to earn his favour. For a time, he’d had someone taste the food before he ate it. Better safe than sorry.
The tavern didn’t object to his presence. Located so close to the docklands, the clientele consisted mostly of visiting sailors looking to make the most of their brief shore leave. They were wont to overdo it, and fights were common. The tavern keeper said it helped to avoid trouble to have the Watch Commander eat there.
When he finished his food, he asked for a quill pen and some paper. He was still sketching on it when young Brendan arrived. “Find this. Quick as you can. Two crowns in it for you.” He folded the paper and handed it to him, sending the lad on his way.
Vince’s sleeping had been erratic. Between working in the Watch House at night and keeping an eye on the Gunbrides by day, he hardly had time to get his head down. So when word whipped round the tavern about how the C.T.C. headquarters was under attack, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.
He slapped a coin on the table, grabbed his tricorne, and rushed outside. Sure enough, from farther down the docklands, screams and shouts could be heard. Then the occasional crack of a musket shot. By the time he ran there, the fighting had ended. He found James’s lieutenant, Hancock, in the confusion of soldiers and smoke.
“The Gunbrides,” she said. “Raided C.T.C. headquarters in broad daylight.”
“Why?” Vince asked.
“Weapons and ammunition,” she said. “Presumably to make up for the cache you intercepted at the docks last week. We’re regrouping and then we’re going after them. It’s not as if we don’t know where to find them.”
“Not yet,” Vince said. “Need to talk to Lambshead first.”
“Sun’s up,” Lieutenant Hancock said. “That means its Sentinel business.”
“Tell James I asked him to wait,” Vince said, hurrying off towards town.
“He won’t listen!”
“Tell him!”
He bounded up Quarrier’s Run and outside the theatre with the opera-playing automata, he jumped into an empty carriage, much to the annoyance of the driver.
“Oi, you can’t just—”
“Gull’s Reach! Go! Now!”
The driver did as he was told, taking Vince west along the twisting roads to Bezzle Bridge. From the moment the Gunbrides had installed sentries on the bridge, a crowd had gathered across the road to watch them. Bodies came and went, but its numbers rarely dwindled below thirty or so.
Without breaking his stride, Vince marched past the sentries, over the bridge. Ahead, the people of the Reach were cheering for their returning heroes. He forced his way through them and into the first tenement. “Lost your damn minds!”
In the staid gloom of the stairwell, Lambshead turned, barely looking at him. “Well, since you intercepted our delivery from the Dancer of Belgrade, you didn’t leave us much choice.”
Mrs Damerell put her arm out, blocking his way. “Go home, Vince,” she said. “This isn’t your concern.”
“Raiding the greencoats? Think they’ll ignore that?”
“You’d better hope they do,” Lambshead said.
The blood pumped in Vince’s ears. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He clamped his teeth so tightly he thought they would shatter in his skull.
He flinched at the first gunshot. Another volley followed, all close by and coming from the direction of the bridge. Lambshead squinted at him and quickly drew Summersong. Mrs Damerell fled with the other residents deeper into the tenement. Vince grabbed the muzzle of Lambshead’s weapon and twisted. The pepper-box pistol fired. Smoke filled the room. Vince’s ears rang from the shot. Someone screamed. Vince punched Lambshead in the stomach, sending him to the floor. Vince still held the pistol. He rushed to the doorway of the tenement just as James Godgrave and his Sentinels charged across Bezzle Bridge, past the prone bodies of the sentries.
From the floor, Lambshead shouted at him. “This was your plan! To distract us while your greencoat friends approached!”
“No friends of mine,” Vince said, helping him to his feet.
Lambshead shoved Vince and ran farther inside the building. From his blind side, the red-haired girl with the freckled face snatched Summersong from his hand and darted upstairs. Vince hesitated before bolting after Lambshead, swiftly followed by the Sentinels in their emerald-green uniforms. They shouted at Vince to stop, but he ignored them.
He ran through squalid room after squalid room, batting at hanging clothes and stumbling over discarded shoes. He emerged into one of the many arcades which tunnelled the length of the tenement blocks. This one had been built to house shops but all stood empty, most boarded up. Leaks poured from the ceiling, forming puddles for Lambshead’s boots to splash in as he ran full tilt along the passageway, pursued by Vince.
Lambshead skidded to a halt when a band of Sentinels blocked the exit ahead of him. Vince stopped too. Another band of greencoats, headed by Lieutenant Hancock, entered the arcade behind him.
“Leave him to me!” Vince said.
James stood with his troops at the exit. “I don’t think so, Vince. Not this time.” He held up a musket.
“Dammit, James. Supposed to wait until we had them all in one place!”
“Which was all well and good until they stole from us. We couldn’t very well stand by and do nothing, now could we?”
The crack of the musket shot echoed through the arcade. The shot struck Lambshead’s leg, and he crumpled to the ground crying out in agony.
Vince ran to him. “Enough!”
Another volley of musket fire came from outside and rang through the arcade, the sound bouncing from wall to ceiling.
“My officers are making short work of your little riflemen,” James said to Lambshead.
“Don’t kill him.” Vince balled his fists, ready to emphasise his point.
James was smiling. James was always smiling. “I have no intention of it.” He grabbed Lambshead by the collar and dragged him along the ground. Lambshead shouted and screamed out for help. Vince moved to aid him but two bayonets prompted him to keep his distance.
James dragged Lambshead to the bridge, ducking the missiles being thrown from the windows of the Reach by children. When he crossed the bridge, the mood changed significantly. The people there cheered when they saw him. Vince kept his distance the whole time. Sorcha and Exeter ran to him.
“What happened?” Sorcha asked.
“Sentinels swarmed over the bridge, shot the sentries down like they were nothing. Listen.” The cheering grew louder when James heaved Lambshead into a cart and paraded him in front of the crowd. “We’ve lost them,” Vince said.
THE CHARCOAL NIB crumbled onto the page as Vince worked. He brushed away the pieces, making pleasing streaks across his drawing of Crabmeat. He shaded in some more of the dog’s ear, trying to capture where the firelight fell upon it. A knock at the door roused Crabmeat from his slumber by the fireplace, and he barked, half-heartedly.
“Told you to keep still.” Vince slid the drawing under a stack of blank sheets and wiped his hands on an old rag. He opened the door to find James Godgrave standing there, holding a bottle of Scottish whisky.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling unannounced,” James said. That bleddy smile was still on his stupid, handsome face.
Vince invited him inside. Crabmeat wagged his tail a couple of times and then immediately fell back asleep.
James set the bottle onto a table, hung up his overcoat, and bent to gaze out of the grimy window to the bridge beyond. “This is where you’re living now?”
“Came with the position.” Vince was glad he’d taken some time to tidy up and polish every surface. The little dwelling probably hadn’t been this clean in years. “Not out celebrating? Half the town wants to buy you a drink.”
“And the other half wants to slit my throat. I wanted to come round and explain myself.”
“No need.”
“Nonetheless, here I am. I couldn’t let you take Hugo Lambshead away. I needed the public to see my Sentinels taking him to the magistrates. It’s quite a victory for us.” He sat by the fireplace.
“Good bribe and he’ll be out by morning.”
“That doesn’t matter tonight. Tonight, the Gunbrides are rudderless. Thanks to my Blackrabbit Sentinels.”
“Thanks to you, you mean. All for you, isn’t it?”
James toyed with the ring on his little finger. “I’d be lying if I said no. How about this—why don’t we simply merge the Watch with my Sentinels?”
“Under your command.”
“I believe I’m best suited. The Watch can then continue their duties.”
“But we’ll report to you.”
“It won’t be so bad. You’ve been under me before. I don’t remember hearing you complain.” His sage-green eyes twinkled in the firelight.
“Should have waited,” Vince said. “Wasn’t the plan.”
“Oh, come off it, man. My hands were tied!” His voice turned sharper, his eyes colder. “They stole from us. We knew where they were. I couldn’t very well just ignore it. And the longer I waited, the more chance they’d take the weapons and ammunition somewhere else, hidden it somewhere, or parcelled it out amongst themselves. I couldn’t take the risk. Not even for you.”
Vince opened the bottle and poured it into two of the cleanest glasses he had to hand. “Can’t fault your honesty.” He handed a tumbler to James. “Took a while for you to find it, mind.”
“I wasn’t certain I could trust you before. I have no reason to lie to you now.”
“Sad state of affairs when I’m not even worth lying to.” He clinked his glass against James’s.
“Thought you should taste some proper whisky, for once,” James said.
Vince took a mouthful and swallowed. It burned his throat in a good way. “Escaped Gunbrides will need to be rounded up.”
“Oh, we’ll find them soon enough, I’m certain of it. I’m sure from where you’re sitting it looks as though I betrayed you. I wanted you to know that was never my intention. I’m as bound by my duty as I am by my word.” James’s striking features glowed in the firelight. The flames brought out the red in his smart beard.
Vince finished his drink and poured himself another glass. He couldn’t remember tasting a finer quality. While they talked, Vince lifted a stick of charcoal from a little burnt tin and idly dragged it across a page.
“Why don’t you just leave me to it, hmm?” James asked. “You don’t appear to be a natural fit for this work.”
“Took enough from this town over the years,” Vince said. “Trying to give something back.” He swirled the charcoal, lifting and striking as he went.
“Why? What does it matter?”
“Right thing to do.”
“There’s got to be more to it.” He held his glass up while Vince refilled it.
“A guilty conscience is a powerful engine. It can drive a man to all manner of extremes. It can keep a man up at night only so long before he’s compelled to assuage it.” James didn’t so much talk as purr his words out, like a contented tiger in a waistcoat. He smiled when he talked, when he wanted to get a person on his side, when he wanted to endear himself. As he spoke, his eyes disappeared, becoming little slits, like upturned crescent moons. But when serious, his eyes widened and his smile sank as if never to return, buried under a stony glare. “I think you’re afraid.”
Vince spluttered into his drink “Of?”
“I think you’re afraid of me. Of my Sentinels. Of your Watch being absorbed into my organisation. And shall I tell you what else I think?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Certainly not—how rude. I’m a guest,” James said with a laugh. “I think your years spent at the top of the chain of command gave you a taste for it. I think you’d be utterly incapable of taking orders from me or from anyone else. I’ve seen the way you bristle when Rabbit talks to you. You’re used to being in charge, and you don’t want to give it up.”
“Wrong,” Vince said.
“Well?”
“Mudge gave the orders. Not me. His plan, his vision. After a while, started to see him for what he was. But I was trapped. No way out without ending up in his sights. Had to stay to protect myself. Now he’s gone, it’s time for me to fix what I broke. No one else can do it. Time to clean up my own mess.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Might as well stay here. Drink myself to the grave.”
James set his glass down. “I didn’t bring quite enough whisky for that.”
Vince admired James’s face. The way his eyebrows lifted when he spoke. The way the neat curls of his moustache accented the curves of his slightly chubby cheeks. And then there was the confident boom and crystal clarity of his voice. The self-assured tone of it. He’d have made a fine actor, treading the boards of London. Vince turned his attention to the page, using his wide thumb to smooth and blend the charcoal. “Used to know who my enemies were,” he said. “Used to be obvious.”
James smiled more widely. “I told you already, I am not your enemy, Vince. I know you’re used to seeing the world in those terms, but we want the same thing. To bring justice and peace to the town.”
“Can’t work together though. People think the Watch needs help from the Sentinels, it makes us look weak. Rabbit doesn’t want it either.”
“Very well. Maybe we can’t work together out there,” James said, rising from his chair. He placed his hand on Vince’s shoulder. “But behind closed doors, there’s no limit to what we can do.” He leaned down and kissed him. He put his hand on Vince’s face, stroking it. With his other, he lifted the portrait Vince had been drawing. “I don’t think you’ve captured my nose quite right.”
Vince stood and pulled him in close. He quickly flicked his blackened thumb onto James’s nose, leaving a smoky smudge.
James chuckled and wiped it off before Vince kissed him again.
Vince led him to his bedroom and began to strip. They caressed each another, slowly, deliberately. James nibbled at Vince’s bull neck, causing him to moan loudly.
James stroked Vince’s broad, bare chest. “Let me get a proper look at you.”
Their encounters in the cherry house had been in wan candlelight. There in Vince’s bedroom, they had plenty of lantern light and plenty of time.
James slipped Vince’s braces off his heavy shoulders and helped him to pull off his shirt. He rubbed his hands over Vince’s tattoos. “A painted man is a work of art in itself.” His fingers stopped on one of the many scars. Lightly, he tracked it, a raised welt on Vince’s side. “A musket wound,” James said. “Who did this to you?” He lightly touched the eyepatch and motioned to lift it.
Vince stopped him. “Not tonight.”
They kicked off their boots and trousers and fell onto the bed. Vince groped at James’s sturdy frame, his hairy chest, his powerful thighs. He ran his thumb across the mole at the base of James’s throat. James grabbed between Vince’s legs, squeezing and groping enough to make Vince moan. As Vince kissed James’s ear, there came a loud, wet slobbering. Vince stopped and frowned.
James stared at the doorway. “Does he have to be in the room with us? It’s somewhat…disconcerting.”
Crabmeat sat with his head tilted and tail wagging before licking his soggy lips again and drooling all over himself.
“Crabmeat, out. Go.” Vince clicked his fingers.
The dog turned and happily padded back downstairs.
“What sort of a name is that for a dog?” James asked.
“Had it when I got him,” Vince said. “Too old to change now.”