Chapter 37

 

From the placing of the first section, the table had gathered onlookers, much to the annoyance of the oath-wrights, who were obliged to keep the track to the rock ridge clear. From time to time, Elizabeth had returned to see more pieces joined. The initial crowd had thinned. But with the placing of the final piece, the rounded end section, they returned in numbers. Some of the watchers sprinted off, carrying the news to their clans. Presently, men and women of the Blood arrived, as if they just happened to be passing.

The crowd became a press. But there was always a small space left around the table. It attracted them. But it repelled them also. As well it might, Elizabeth thought.

Everyone must have been talking about it from the start. The placing of the pieces had been a kind of clock, counting down the hours. Now the thing was complete, they knew something would happen. She could see it in their faces.

She began picking her way back to the tents, to Charity. The turf had been churned up around the path, so she took a wide line, following the cliff edge. Approaching Jago’s camp from the seaward side. The hem of her dress was now muddied all the way around, making it heavy. Before, it had seemed a thing of childish colours. But without the means of cleaning, it had become a mockery of grace. Everywhere she went, people turned to look, their lips curling into expressions of disgust. That was the way Jago seemed to like it. The more they looked down on him and the company he kept, the less of a threat he would seem.

All she needed was a pair of trousers and a shirt small enough to fit, and a coat to go with it. She could disguise herself well enough. Then she could escape. If she could take Charity with her, all the better. As for Elias, he was lost somewhere inside himself. The only thing she’d asked him for was a set of clothes. He’d failed to deliver. And the closer he came to his game of chance, the more distant he seemed. It was a sickness of the mind.

Approaching his tent, she coughed loud enough to alert him if he were inside. Drawing level, she whispered his name. But there was no response so she let her feet carry her on beyond and back towards the three big tents next to the feast fire.

Charity sat up as she entered, eyes red from crying. “Where’s Elias?”

“Doing something good, I’m sure,” Elizabeth said.

“Tell him to go. To save himself.”

“You think that’ll work with you chained here?”

Charity blinked as if about to cry again. “Bring me a knife,” she said.

“You know there are none on the Island.”

“Then bring a rope. If I kill myself, he’ll be able to go.”

“We can do better than that,” Elizabeth said.

She felt for the nail hidden in the hem of her cuff and worked it towards the loose stitch and out. Kneeling, she lifted the lock that held Charity’s neck iron in place.

It seemed a crude thing, with rough edges at the meeting of its metal plates. “Stay still, now,” she whispered, then began probing inside the keyhole with the tip of the nail. The crudeness of finish suggested something easy to pick. A simple ward lock, perhaps. But locks could be as deceptive as people.

Charity turned her head, as if trying to see what was happening. But this only pulled the lock from Elizabeth’s hand.

“Stay still!”

Using the edge of the keyhole, Elizabeth bent the nail to make an angle at the end. That gave her a deeper reach into the lock. With this she found the levers that stopped it from opening. They were too stiff to move.

Charity was trembling. “Will it work?”

Elizabeth bent an angle on the other end of the nail. With this as a handle she tried again. The first lever shifted but sprang immediately back.

“Pull the lock away from the collar,” she whispered. “Keep up a gentle pressure.”

Charity obeyed. Having something to do seemed to calm her, which was a bonus. It also kept her still. Elizabeth found the lever again. This time it worked. As did the second lever. But the final one had jammed.

She sat back and shook her head.

Charity tugged at the lock, rattling the chain. Her tears had started again. Elizabeth could see the iron collar digging into her skin with every pull.

“I’ll do it,” she said, not knowing how. A real locksmith would manage. And so might she, if she had better tools.

The sound of a footstep outside the tent made her jump back. As the flaps opened she palmed the bent nail. Firehand ducked his head inside. He looked from one of them to the other. There was no emotion in his face. Then Jago’s voice called from the distance and he was gone.

 

Elias watched as the Patron assembled his most trusted men. All were dressed in their finery, as if for a grand feast. But the armour they wore was real enough, for all the jewels and ribbons. It made his own frayed and travel-stained clothes more ridiculous.

“Your day of glory,” Jago said.

“Thank you, Patron.” He felt no thanks.

“Take off your cloak.”

Elias frowned.

“Take it off! Do you not think me a man of my word?”

One of the gatherers stepped up, a bundle of grey and green cloth over his arms.

Then Elias understood. It was another cloak. He took it by the collar, unfurled it to hang full length. In colour it was like his old cloak had been when new. But silver thread ran through the hems. The clasps glinted red. They were as big as blackberries. But not garnets, he thought. Coloured glass. How like Jago. Somehow he didn’t want to lose his old cloak, but they took it from him. The new one felt heavy over his shoulders, but warm.

Jago pushed him forwards. “Lead us, Elias No-Thumbs.”

So he did, stumbling at first, heading the procession down the hill like a jester on the day of fools.

Men, women and children from other clans ran to watch. By the time he reached the final slope, bodies lined the sides of the track. When his feet slipped on the mud, he heard their intake of breath. The laughter when he didn’t fall was a nervous sound. They’d come to see a show, but didn’t know if it was to be a comedy or a tragedy of horrors.

Elias glanced back. Whilst Jago was with him, it would be a comedy. The Upstart Patron caught his eye then made a mock bow. Laughter rippled through the press. They’d reached the table, and the main mass of the crowd. Faces looked in from all around. Jago pushed him towards the rounded end, the place of honour, where the largest chair had been set. The whole crowd seemed to be holding its breath. Jago pulled out the chair himself, as if he were merely a servant.

Elias’s guts churned as he sat. He could see the faces of Patrons in the crowd but it was their sons who pushed forwards to the front. The spectacle and the insults had worked. Everyone had been magnetised to that spot.

Suddenly fearful, Elias stood and turned. But Jago was still standing directly behind his chair.

“It’s time,” the Patron said, showing his teeth in a false smile. Then calling out to the crowd he said, “This man of no affinity, this No-Thumbs Shit Smear, will now issue a challenge.”

There was hatred in every face. “I will… I… will…” Elias’s stuttering words came out hoarse, but a deep quiet had fallen. “…I will play a game of Hazard with Aaron of the Weaverbright clan.”

The wall of bodies shifted and through it shouldered Patron Weaverbright himself, followed by Aaron, the man who had called for his thumbs to be cut away with hot pincers.

“My son doesn’t need to play against this joke.”

“True,” said Jago. “You can go back on your word if you want. Is it him who’s the coward or you?”

“It’s you breaking your word! You said he’d have gold. I see none.”

Firehand passed a bundle to Jago, who dropped it on the table. It fell with a heavy chinking crash, the noise of soft metal, the sound that every ear was tuned to, the song of wealth.

“Open it,” he said.

Elias did, pulling back the corners of the cloth. Foreign coins and hacked plate rolled out. Silver there was. But most was gold. The front row of the crowd leaned towards it. Further back there were whispers as news spread. Another crowd had gathered on the rise overlooking the table, hundreds straining for a glimpse of the drama. The whole Island must be there. He saw the oath-wrights among them, men usually aloof.

“He’s crooked,” Aaron said, loud enough to quiet the whispers.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Jago asked.

“I’m afraid of nothing! But he’s a known cheat.”

Elias held up his hands. “Remember these?” He’d found his voice. “You did this to me!” He spat out the words, hatred giving them power. He showed his mutilated hands to the crowd, turning until he faced Aaron again. “Do you think I could fool you with these?”

“You’d try!”

“Well, I’d rather have no thumbs than have no wits!”

The crowd erupted: shouts of outrage, barks of laughter.

Jago purred in his ear, “Very good.” Then pushed him down into the seat of honour.

Gems glinted among the gold and silver in the cloth. If he won, Jago would surely take the treasure for himself. If he lost, it’d take more than a lifetime to pay it back.

Patron Weaverbright was shouting. A hush fell, moving from the table outwards. The crowd gathered on the rise were the last to know that something was happening.

“This is foolery! You can’t put an idiot to play with such a treasure.”

“Don’t you have the wealth to match it?” Elias asked, saying what Jago would surely have said. Oh, but the task was gripping him now. He would do it. He would bring them low. And if the bomb had been rigged to go while he was sitting there, at least they would die, Charity would be free and his own torment would be over.

Jago’s hand still gripped his shoulder.

Weaverbright and his chief councillor had their heads together in a whispered consultation, hands cupped around mouths so no one would be able to read the words on their lips.

“We will play,” Weaverbright said at last, pushing his son Aaron towards the seat next to Elias.

“Show the colour of your metal,” Elias said, loud enough for all to hear.

Weaverbright’s councillor upended a purse on the table in front of Aaron, spilling a pile of Spanish gold coins and silver American dollars. More than the life’s earnings of a peasant. But nothing compared to the cloth bundle in front of Elias.

“He’ll start with that,” Patron Weaverbright said. “More will come.”

“We don’t gamble on promises,” Jago jeered.

“More will come!”

The chair on the other side from Elias pulled back and another purse dropped onto the table. Another Patron’s son. “I’m in,” he said. The men and women behind him clapped.

Then more were sitting, young men of the Blood from different clans. One against one, his chances had been even. If the dice were fair. But each new player shaved another slice from his odds. Many had been part of his outlawing. But he’d fixed his thoughts of revenge on Aaron Weaverbright. Now they all faced him, ganged together. The table filled.

Men were pushing through to the front of the crowd, tallest among them, his great uncle, Patron Calvary. On reaching the front, he asked, “Who is to assay the bets?”

It was a good question. With no king or government, Newfoundland could have no currency of its own. Thus each bet would need to be appraised, whether it were a love poem or an egg or a gem the size of an egg. In the usual way of things, the balance of wagers could be agreed by the players themselves. But with the highest stakes, an assayer was needed. Chunks of hack silver could be weighed against each other in a hand balance. But it took skill to judge a gem against a pile of gold and silver coins.

“You do it,” Jago said to Calvary.

“He’s the man’s uncle!” Weaverbright growled.

“Then you and he do it together.”

There were nods from the councillors.

Elias reached inside his new cloak to his belt pocket. His hand closed around the dice he’d carved at the Salt Ray Inn. That seemed like years ago. He’d taught himself to tell them apart by touch. The weighted one bore a scratch, invisible, though he could feel it. He let that one lie, for the time being.

“I am no cheat,” he said, his voice level. “I played fair in that card game.”

“Liar,” Aaron rumbled.

“It’s passed,” said Patron Calvary. “Let it go.”

Elias selected a handful of silver dollars from the bundle in front of him and pushed them forwards. Then he slapped down his two fair dice.

The other players had coins to match. There would be no need for the assayers on the first bet. Metal sang the song of wealth as coins fell and rolled. Elias took up the dice again and stood.

He would beat them. He would bleed the money from them. And then he’d do as his great uncle had said. He would finally let it go. It would never be revenge enough. But later they would die from Jago’s bomb. Then he would rest.

He kissed his clenched knuckles and drew back his hand to cast. But Aaron shouted, “No! I won’t play with his dice.”

Patron Calvary and Patron Weaverbright nodded to each other. It was Calvary who delivered the verdict: “Elias chose the game. Aaron may demand his own dice be used.”

Aaron smiled then, slow and gloating. Elias’s heart began to jump. He felt the pain across his chest. His hand dropped, seeking out the glass pot from his pocket. The urge to feel that chemical buzz was almost unbearable.

His enemy stood and held up a small bag of dark velvet. Turning for all to see, he eased back the drawstring and emptied the contents onto his upturned palm. Two dice. But not cubes. These were long dice, cut in the shape of six-sided prisms. He cast them onto the table so they rolled and tumbled towards Elias. Elias found himself reading the numbers carved into the upturned faces. A six and a three. It seemed important for some reason.

Hand shaking, he gathered them up. They were bone dice, like his own. But carved from thin, delicate pieces rather than the leg joint of an ox.

He couldn’t speak. Somehow he knew what was coming.

“Do you know them?” Aaron asked. “You should do. They’re your own two thumbs.”

 

The lock holding the iron collar in place would not yield. Each time Elizabeth tried to pick it, she got two of the three levers inside to move. The third always jammed. An angry red line on Charity’s neck marked the place where rough metal had dragged against her skin.

“One more time,” Elizabeth breathed.

But Charity held up a hand to stop her. “Where have the people gone?”

Elizabeth listened. She could hear the whispered boom of waves and the distant cry of a gull. But no voices. She peered outside. There were no people in sight.

“Wait,” she said, then set off towards the top of the next rise, which gave a view of four clan encampments. Nothing was moving but a few tethered horses, the turn of an ear, the swish of a tail.

Elias’s game of chance was the only answer. But needing to be sure she ran as fast as the stupid dress would allow, down the slope then up another, slowing as she approached the top. Peering towards the rock ridge she saw the massed crowd around the table, like a swarm of ants around a bowl of sugar.

Catching her breath, she took one last turn, scanning the Island. Everyone was there. If the bomb went off, hundreds would be slaughtered. The most powerful men and women, the oath-holders: all stood near the centre. And the oath-wrights, who’d left their usual places and come to watch. Their robes gave them away.

It was surely the moment that Jago had planned.

She ran. Not back to the tent, but towards the cove that Elias had pointed out to her. At the lip of the cliff she looked down on a scree slope of little stones. But there were bigger rocks on the beach below. She launched herself over the edge, digging in her heels as she slid with the scree tumbling around her. The first rock she tried on the beach was too heavy to lift. The second seemed too small to do the job. It needed to be hard as well. She found what she was looking for in a rounded lump of white quartz. Lifting it two-handed, she struggled back up the scree. For every step she put in she slid back half a step. With a mighty effort she scrambled up the final few feet and cast her burden onto the turf, crawling up after it, exhausted.

There was no time to catch her breath. The watch she’d found hidden in the underside of the table would be ticking, the hands moving towards the alarm. She lifted the stone again and set off towards the tent. If she was right, Jago would soon leave the table with his men. He might come back to the camp. In which case, they’d be found. More likely he’d cross the rock ridge to be near the stored weapons when the explosion hit. Then he’d head back onto the Island, armed, to slaughter the survivors or demand their surrender and their allegiance.

He may have promised to free Charity, but he never would. The fact that Elias had loved her would make her an amusing plaything. And she, Elizabeth, would be condemned to a life of servitude.

She half-collapsed in through the tent flaps, the lump of quartz rolling to a stop next to the iron spike in the ground. For a moment she couldn’t speak to answer the flood of questions. But when her breath calmed, she said, “Stretch the chain…”

Charity understood. She positioned one link over the head of the spike and pulled back her hands, far enough for safety. All they needed was to break that one link. Elizabeth lifted the lump of quartz, took aim and brought it down hard. The sharp noise of it left her ears ringing. The chain had jumped free with the impact. The spike had sunk further into the ground.

Charity held up the link for her to see. It had been dented. She placed it back on top of the spike. Elizabeth lifted the rock again and sent it down on target, letting go at the last moment. A harder impact than the first. A louder noise. Any man standing within a hundred yards would have heard it. But the chain remained whole.

Charity was crying. The link seemed no closer to breaking than before. Less of the iron spike remained above the ground.

“It’s sinking in each time,” Elizabeth said. “That’s cushioning the blow.”

“Then what can we do?”

“Pray the end hits something solid down there before we drive it all the way in.”

She stood to her full height and raised the rock above her head so that it pressed into the canvas of the tent ridge. Summoning all her strength she brought it down. The rock shattered. Charity fell back. The top of the spike had buckled over. And there, among the white fragments of rock, lay a single iron link, broken and twisted.

Charity stood, a length of chain hanging loose from her neck. A trickle of blood ran down one of her cheeks. A flying shard perhaps. But not a deep cut.

They looked at each other, blinking. Elizabeth was the first to speak.

“Elias – I’ve got to let him know.”

But Charity shook her head. “I should just slip away. He’ll find out soon enough. When he’s done with his dice game.”

Elizabeth took her hand. “You’re wrong. We have to tell him somehow. I’ve no time to explain. But there’s going to be an explosion. If he doesn’t leave that table, he’s going to die. I’m sure of it.”

Charity’s face fell to horror.

“I’ll warn him,” Elizabeth said. “You search the other tents. Find clothes. Men’s clothes. Anything small enough to fit us. Hats – to hide our hair. As drab as you can find. And a cloth to wind around your neck to hide the irons.”

Not waiting for an answer, she ducked out of the tent, gathered up her skirts as best she could and ran back in the direction of the rock ridge.