Chapter Twenty-Three

JAMES FED A ragged chunk of fish to his peregrine falcon, Maclaren. “I suppose you’ve seen the newspaper today?”

Perty lifted the paper from his desk. “My, my. They certainly are on board with us, aren’t they?”

“Article after article of praise for our actions in Gull’s Reach yesterday. Well done, Perty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

James beamed from ear to ear. The articles were exactly the sort of thing he needed to see. His talk with Ms Hawkmoor had clearly done the trick. “The Courant makes particular mention of how the Sentinels stopped any violence from spilling over the bridge and into the rest of the town.”

Perty turned the page, quickly perusing the contents. “I don’t see any mention of the two Sentinels who lost their lives in the process.”

James waved his hand. “The public doesn’t need to know about that sort of thing. It would only frighten them. We’ll have a plaque made for the front office. In honour of those who gave their lives during the inaugural operation of the Blackrabbit Sentinels.”

“Have you seen this? About the fire at the Watch House?”

James didn’t flinch. “Ah, yes, I did. I wonder if you might, discretely, ascertain the current whereabouts of Watch Commander Knight? I know he was living at the Watch House at the time.”

Perty squinted at the page. “The story doesn’t mention any casualties.”

“I’m sure he escaped, but I think it’s wise for the Sentinels to know where all the Watch members reside. In case they should attempt any reprisals for their usurpation. It is far easier to round up dissenters when one already knows where to find them.” He wiped fish scales from his hands on a rag.

“Yes, sir.” Perty could always be relied on for her discretion.

“Besides, the burden of locating the murderer of dear Sergeant Spradbery now falls to us, and we may need to ask the Watch for any pertinent information. Oh, and can you ask someone to set up a standing order at the market for fresh fish every morning? Maclaren deserves the very best catch of the day. Don’t you, my dear?” James rubbed the backs of his fingers along his falcon’s chest.

“Of course, sir,” Perty said.

By noon, James’s Sentinels were combing the streets for gang members. Without any input from the Watch, they had no idea who was and who was not a member, but that proved no deterrent. Their patrols began rounding up anyone they felt to be a possible candidate. They trotted them off to the magistrates for trial, and from there they would be shipped off to Blackrabbit Gaol with hardly a word spoken against them.

By nightfall, word of the arrests had spread and a noticeable shift in the attitudes of the townsfolk became the talk of what James had named Sentinel Garrison. His people spoke of hostile encounters ranging from thrown insults to thrown fruit and vegetables. The presence of an armed force watching the townsfolk’s every move was bad enough but the supposed reckless disregard for the innocence of the prisoners was positively galling. Several officers reported a growing sense of unease in their duties.

James soon put them right. He assured his people any change would naturally be met with resistance and scepticism. If the Sentinels carried on doing their duties and providing a firm hand to steer the town towards justice and order, the people would soon accept them as though they had always been there. “I would go so far as to say they will, in fact, find it difficult to imagine life without us.”

He unpacked the last of his belongings—his brass compass—and set it on his desk, turning it this way and that until it sat in the perfect spot. A voice from the doorway startled him.

“You had this all ready to go, didn’t you?” Rabbit asked.

James offered her a seat. “The Chase Trading Company is very organised.”

“This building was completed weeks ago. You and Swan conspired from the beginning. You were always meant to take over from the Watch. It’s the real reason you’re here.”

James sat back and smiled. “Swan knew the C.T.C. was best suited to keep order on Blackrabbit. We’ve always been the obvious choice.”

“The people don’t want greencoats controlling every aspect of their lives. They are already the biggest employer in Port Knot, the person who runs the company is on the ruling council, they own everything from the docks to Pudding Quarter, and a good deal more besides.”

“Success is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Rabbit squinted, deepening the wrinkles about her eyes. Some people found the masks of the council unsettling but James found Rabbit to be a good deal more fearsome without hers. Her attention flicked briefly to the framed charcoal portrait of James hanging on the wall. “What do you intend to do about the Watch?”

“Oh, I didn’t think we needed a Watch any longer,” James said. “They were fine at the time, but the world is changing fast. A more aggressive approach is what’s needed now.”

“That’s as may be. However, you’d be a fool to deny the wealth of knowledge the Watch represents. The experience. And you strike me as many things, Captain Godgrave, among which a fool does not number.”

James smiled and toyed with the silver ring on his finger. “I already spoke to Commander Knight and told him serving Watch members would be most welcome to join my Sentinels.”

“Something tells me Mr Knight would not be entirely keen on taking orders. Could the Watch not continue to serve as an independent unit? Supplementing the force of the Sentinels?”

James leaned back in his chair. “The council put me in charge of law and order in Port Knot. I can’t very well have a band of untrained ruffians running about, knocking heads, and claiming to be in positions of authority. It would be much too confusing for the common man. No, given how coolly my offer was received, I’m sorry to say the time of the Watch has passed. A bright new future beckons for Port Knot. And I stand at the forefront of it.”

ORLA STOOD AT the head of the table and dished out a bowlful of lamb stew. “Have you given any more thought to Apricate Maunder?”

Sorcha blinked at her and shrugged her shoulders.

“Mrs Maunder’s son. The one she’s been trying to get you to court for weeks.”

“Ach, I haven’t time for any of that,” Sorcha said. “Not with everything going on with the Watch and Vince.”

“Speaking of which, how long is he staying for?”

Sorcha shrugged again and dug her spoon in. Steam rose in ghostly curls. “I don’t know, however long it takes for him to find somewhere else, I suppose.”

Orla slumped onto her chair. “There’s no room for him here, Sorcha. Look at the size of this place.” She lowered her voice. “He can hardly fit through our doors. He certainly wouldn’t fit round this table with us.”

“For one thing, he can hardly fit through any doors,” Sorcha said, “not just ours. And I don’t think he’s going to be joining us for meals. He’s not an elderly aunt come to visit.” She blew on a lump of stringy meat to cool it.

“No, he’s a criminal mastermind being targeted by arsonists!” Orla kept checking over her shoulder as she spoke.

“Mastermind feels like a stretch, to be honest. It sounds like Councillor Mudge was the brains behind it all. Vince was just the muscle.”

“Except he wasn’t, was he?” Orla still hadn’t eaten any of her stew. “He wasn’t just the muscle. He controlled the gangs. He was the one the scary people were scared of! And now he’s asleep upstairs! What happens when the Gunbrides come to finish him off? You think they’ll politely ask for him to step outside before they do him in? No, they’ll take us and the shop with him!”

“Oh, for… What would you have me do, Orla? He doesn’t have anywhere else to go!”

“He must have friends or family he can stay with?”

Sorcha took a chunk of potato from her bowl and swallowed it. “He said he could go back to the asylum. He used to work there, but sure, it’s a ways out in the countryside. Look, I’ll talk to him.”

“Tonight.”

“Let the man sleep. Tomorrow is plenty of time.”

“And what about him?” Orla pointed to the other end of the table where Walter sat quietly eating his stew.

“I keep forgetting he’s here,” Sorcha said.

Walter smiled and sat up straight. “One of my best qualities, that,” he said. “Celeste told me one of the greatest tools a thief can have is the ability to go unnoticed.”

“I suppose he could help you in the shop? What about it, Walter? Any good with a needle?”

“Oh, no,” Walter said, licking his spoon. “Although I am a dab hand with a bodice.”

Orla and Sorcha just stared at him.

“No, no, not like that! I can thread whale bone into a corset like nobody’s business. Little hands, you see.” He held them up to give Orla and Sorcha a better look.

“Huh,” Orla said. “I might be able to use you, after all.”

ON THE SENTINEL’S first official day, Perty Hancock attended a meeting in Captain Godgrave’s office to learn what her new role would entail. He quickly made it clear to her that while he would oversee the Sentinels as a whole, the performing of day-to-day duties would be left to her discretion.

“I trust you know what’s best for your home town,” he said.

Perty took to her new role with rampant enthusiasm. Her first order took the battle to the heart of the problems, as she saw it. She insisted on posting a Sentinel outside every tavern, inn, and alehouse in the town. From the Jack Thistle in the north to the Lion Lies Waiting in the south, from the Star We Sail By in the east to the Salt Pocket in the west, these and every other drinking establishment would be watched from opening to closing.

The innkeepers and tavern owners were opposed to this measure, to say nothing of the patrons, but what could they do about it? She knew where some of the less than legal drinking dens were to be found and even managed to ferret out the location of a few more. She closed several down before the moon had risen that evening.

On the second day of the Sentinels’ reign, Perty had guards posted across the harbour market. She then had her people inspect every stall for illegal or untaxed goods. They moved methodically, starting at the outside and moving in. By the end of trading, more than fifteen stalls had been permanently closed. Forty stall owners were issued with heavy fines. Three stall owners had been arrested after they tried to flee from the inspections, and a handful of market customers had ended up with injuries after attempting to help the market traders escape. Multiple arrests were made for refusing to cooperate or for attempting to hide contraband.

Talk amongst the townsfolk had the Sentinels painted as nothing better than thugs muscling in on new territory. Perty paid no heed to it. For every voice raised in anger, two more praised the Sentinel’s no-nonsense approach to crime. Perty explained to her troops how she had a plan to starve the gangs of the supplies they needed to function.

The next stage of said plan caused even more uproar. Stretching her resources to their limit, Perty insisted every crate and barrel that rolled off a ship docked in Port Knot harbour had to be inspected. “In the interests of public safety,” she said. “After what happened with the Pennymen trying to smuggle weapons and ammunition into the town, I am not prepared to risk any illegal contraband sneaking ashore. It is in everyone’s interests that checks are made.”

When asked how long these checks would be in place, Perty had just stared blankly. “Until Port Knot is safe,” she said.

This caused an even greater split among the townsfolk. People had shouting matches in the streets over the checks. Some said they were too much, a gross invasion of civil liberty, a show of mistrust, while others said they were only a temporary measure, necessary to starve the gangs out. The Blackrabbit Courant posted articles praising the activities of the Sentinels and their thorough, conscientious approach to law-keeping, lending even more fuel to the fires of debate.

Perty had gathered around herself a pack of her favourite officers to form her own personal guard. With them, she targeted a set of very specific businesses in town, mostly in the Tangles. They went from place to place, vigorously overturning stock, checking tax records, and searching for any minor infraction to use as a reason to issue a fine or make an arrest.

“Perty Hancock, as I live and breathe.”

Perty tipped her cap to the shop owner, one Mr Spin Gastrell, not out of deference, but out of spite. “Spin. You’ve done well for yourself.”

He wiped his hands on a rag. “Better than you. What brings the daughter of Hangman Hancock back here? Last I heard, you’d run off to sea. Pity it washed you back to our shores.”

“I feel very much the same way,” she said. “Tell me—these gin bottles—they’re taxed, are they? You have records?”

“I… Of course I do.” He rummaged in a desk under his counter and produced a tattered black book.

Perty opened it and flicked through the pages. “Oh, dear. I don’t see any mention of customs duties being paid.”

His face flushed red, and his eyes narrowed. The rag moved from his hands to the back of his pink neck. “It’s never been an issue before, Perty.”

“Well, it is now.” She clapped the book closed in her hand. “And my name is Lieutenant Hancock.”