13

Three more men emerged from the woods, each from a different direction and each with a flintlock at the ready. One was black, with a face heavily tattooed with dots that resembled nail holes. His bright eyes darted back and forth, and gave the impression they never missed a thing.

Of the other two, Spider decided one was Spanish and one was French after listening to them exchange brief greetings with Fawkes. The Spaniard focused more on Fawkes than on the captives and carried a sabre sheathed on a weapon belt. The Frenchman, blond, aimed his gun back and forth between Spider and Odin, and smiled at the prospect of shooting one of them. He had no sword, but the fingers of his free hand hovered close to an oversized dagger tucked into his belt.

Their gaits spoke of the sea, and old scars marked their weathered faces. They wielded weapons like experts, and stayed alert for possible trouble from other directions.

The makeup of this small band confirmed for Spider that Fawkes had gathered his fellows from the ranks of pirates. That was the way of life on the account; men came to the sweet trade from many places and for many reasons and found unity while trying to elude the law and stay alive.

All the drawn weapons made Spider nervous. He silently prayed Odin would not do anything rash, and apparently his prayer was answered. The old man spat, rather casually, but did nothing to provoke violence.

Fawkes had kept his own gun trained on Spider until his cohort arrived, but now it was tucked away. He switched the crutch quickly to his good arm and growled. “Let us all go see the master,” he said.

“These fellows are not Mister Wilson, Jim, and they don’t look like village rabble,” said the Spaniard.

“I know that, Raldo,” Jim snapped. “But we need to take them to the master just the same. Once we get these gents to the house, the rest of you can return to searching the grounds. And I advise you to do exactly that, Raldo. Exactly that.”

Raldo spat. “Of course, mi capitán.”

They all began trudging up the road, Half-Jim leading the way and setting a quicker pace than might be expected, given his crutch. The man’s agility did not surprise Spider, though; he’d seen Fawkes hobble across a heaving deck in a strong gale and wield the crutch as a weapon in battle. Half-Jim Fawkes was not the sort to worry about obstacles.

Half-Jim’s team brought up the rear, guns at the ready. They followed closely enough to improve their odds of putting a ball in their prey, but not so close as to give Spider or Odin a chance to pounce and turn the tables—yet another sign that these were experienced fighting men.

“So, your master,” Spider said, “hires seafaring men? What’s the job?”

Fawkes paused and turned, grinning. “If the master wants to tell you that, he will, but I’ll say this much. It’s not your skills with a hammer, nor your friend’s with a knot, that the master prizes.” He turned to continue, humming to himself. That, Spider decided, was to let them know he had no fear of showing his back to them.

Their path was leveling off, and a large house of three stories loomed in the distance. Bars of iron on the upper-floor windows gave the entire place the aspect of a prison, and a turret on the northeast corner lifted a dark spire like a raised sword. Shingles were cracked in many places and missing in others. Spider could not tell from this distance whether an ink-black streak on the spire was a hole or merely rotted wood exposed by a heavy wind.

“Ghosts here,” Odin whispered.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Spider said quietly, but not sounding as confident as he’d hoped. The place did have a haunted look.

More goes on here, perhaps, than might be usual for an English country manor, Spider thought. He decided to press Fawkes a bit for information. “Who is your Wilson?”

The wounded buccaneer laughed. “Wilson? A fool villager. He thinks we are killers and thieves. Well, we are, but he has it wrong, nonetheless. We’re not killing and thieving against the likes of him. Are we, lads?”

“Aye,” they answered in chorus.

“But the master will tell you more of that when the time comes, if he chooses.” Fawkes moved onward.

“Looks like you buried something,” Odin said, pointing toward some mounds in a clearing. “A few somethings.”

Three graves, Spider noted, shuddering. An image of Hob flashed in his mind.

Fawkes stopped, whirled on his wooden leg as though it were a maypole, and planted the crutch into the road with such force that it almost snapped. He put his hand on the flintlock holstered on his crutch. “Sometimes, men die,” he said. “When they do, we bury them. You two should ponder that hard truth before you ask any more questions.”

Spider and Odin exchanged a glance. Odin’s expression said he was tired of these bastards and wanted to start some gunplay. Spider’s raised eyebrows reminded Odin they were outnumbered and were not facing off against a bunch of virgins. Spider hoped Odin understood that. The old man probably did understand, he figured, but possibly did not care.

But Odin made no unwise move.

“Aye, sorry,” Spider said, turning to look back at Half-Jim Fawkes. “You’ve got your duties, sir, and those don’t include answering to strangers. We’ll save our talk for your master, and see if he wants to answer. Is he a reasonable man, this Oakes?”

Half-Jim nodded. “Wise, Spider John. Wise. And the master is a reasonable man, with limits, and perhaps so learned that he thinks he reasons more than a man can.” Fawkes grinned and exchanged glances with the Frenchman, who tapped a cross of gold hanging from his neck.

“But your friend, he seems less than patient. I’ve allowed you to keep your fighting tools to this point, just to see what you’d do. But maybe you two had best drop your weapons here on the road after all.”

Fuck and bugger, Spider thought. He complied, slowly, dropping his coat first, but he did not release his grip on a single weapon until he’d confirmed Odin was relinquishing his. And he let Hob’s knife drop last.

Fawkes smiled darkly. “Raldo, gather these toys, would you? Now let’s all see what the master wants done with you two.”

Raldo did as ordered. Spider watched the man examine Hob’s knife before tucking it into a leather sack he wore on a shoulder strap.

They marched onward, following Fawkes, and Spider was glad the leader’s necessarily slow pace gave Odin some respite for his leg. Fawkes began humming a chantey, but not one Spider recognized. Odin knew it, though, and took up the song himself, humming along and muttering a line of the lyric now and then.

“... And they sailed beyond the horizon,

Beyond the lowering sun,

They sailed beyond the lives they knew

And then their days were done.”

The other men ignored the music and whispered among themselves, but the occasional backward glance told Spider their discussion was not distracting them from their guard duties. They were fully prepared to fill bodies with pistol balls, and they had sharp blades to finish the job if necessary.

The home, all good old stone and much neglected wood, topped the hill like a battered crown, its gleam dulled by time. Spider could make out more details now. They approached from an angle, and Spider could spy the west and north walls; there was a cellar entrance along the north face.

The place was large, and they had no idea how many men Fawkes had under his command. A quick, violent raid to free Hob—if he still lived—would be impossible, Spider realized. He and Odin would need time for scouting and laying a real plan.

The land around the house was clear for a good distance, rendering a stealthy approach difficult by day or on a moonlit night. Spider imagined himself dashing across that clearing, musket balls flying around him. It was a hell of a distance to cross, and men with muskets would have plenty of time to bring him down. Salvoes from the high ground of the upper floors, or from the turret, would be devastating.

Spider tried to peer between the bars and into the windows, hoping to see a familiar face. Was Hob working here, pressed into service under Half-Jim’s command? Or was Hob a prisoner, kept inside by steel bars and brigands’ guns?

Or, Spider wondered again with a look over his shoulder, was Hob under one of those new-dug mounds?

He shivered. Don’t think that way. Believe he’s alive. Believe you can get him away from here. Then do it.

A voice, totally incongruent with Spider’s dark musings, arrested his attention. It was a female voice, child-like and tinkly as a harpsichord.

“Mister Fawkes, have you brought me new friends?”