Deadhouse Landing полностью

They reached the base of the pier and here Geffen halted and set his fists on his hips. He stood blocking the way of an old bearded fellow in worn trousers and jacket, carrying a fishing rod. After a moment Lee recognized the oldster as the mage who had refused to work for them.

‘What’re you doing here?’ Geffen demanded.

The old guy hefted the rod, but his gaze was fixed upon the newcomer. ‘Fishing,’ he said.

‘Kinda late in the day.’

‘You never know.’

Geffen waved him away. He passed them, yet still couldn’t keep his eyes from the lad. For his part, the lad simply smiled back – the smile seeming to hint at some darkly amusing secret known only to the two of them.

They started up the cobbled way to Geffen’s gambling house and tavern. Her steps, she noticed, had sounded from the pier’s planks and now against the stone cobbles – but this lad’s soft dark leather shoes appeared to make no sound at all.

‘Your communication contained the name “Dancer”,’ the fellow said suddenly. ‘I want to know – is that right?’

‘Yeah, that’s the name,’ Geffen told him. ‘Why?’

‘Good.’

Lee showed an arched brow to the crime boss. Fine, be that way.

Geffen cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. ‘You can room at my place. Is that, ah, acceptable?’

‘Certainly,’ the fellow answered, all magnanimous, as if doing them a favour.

Lee clenched her teeth till they ached. ‘So, what d’we call you?’ she asked, rather brusquely.

‘Cowl,’ he said, smiling again. ‘You can call me Cowl.’

Lee let out a snort and looked to the roiling overcast sky. Oh, please! Is that supposed to be scary or something? What a fucking joke.

Chapter 10

The Twisted slid down its greased track of logs with a shriek of wood on wood that made Cartheron want to cringe. It crashed into the harbour raising a spray that misted high enough for him to have to brush droplets from his face. Even so, he couldn’t keep a satisfied smile from his lips – until he gasped as a hard elbow dug into his side.

He sent a glare to his brother, who was grinning and pointing. ‘See that? Ain’t she the prettiest thing?’

‘Pretty? You said she was the ugliest wreck you’d ever seen.’

‘What? I ain’t never said no such thing!’ Urko motioned again to the rocking, black-tarred hulk. ‘Put the fear o’ Hood into everyone, she will.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Cartheron muttered darkly.

It wasn’t that she looked particularly fearsome, he reflected. Neglected, perhaps. It was more her reputation, spread in waterfront taverns and sailors’ bars all across the islands south of Quon Tali. A tale of men lost at sea, ill-timed storms, and bad luck all round. That last bit was the important part; men and women at sea were superstitious, and bad luck, like an illness, was something to be shunned. Not that he was some hick, or that he carried a charm to Nerrus round his neck.

Amiss ambled over, hands tucked up under her armpits, and nodded to him. ‘Recruits, Crust.’

Cartheron pointed his brother to the vessel – ‘Get to work’ – then followed Amiss to where a line of five men and three women waited – none of whom were Napan, of course. One of the men he recognized immediately: the burly marine from the Avarice, Dujek. He beckoned the fellow to him, laughing. ‘What’re you doing here, man?’

Looking a touch embarrassed, Dujek shook his hand. ‘Hess is a jumped-up popinjay who couldn’t handle a boat in a tub. When I heard you was captaining the Twisted here, I quit my letters.’

‘Well, you’re more than welcome.’ He turned to the first of the women. ‘And you are?’

‘Autumn.’

Cartheron looked the slim young woman – still a girl, in truth – up and down. ‘You a sailor?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Seen action?’

‘Yessir.’

Cartheron didn’t think that likely, but held his peace. ‘Where do you hail from?’

‘Purge.’

‘Mock’s short on crew – why aren’t you signed?’

Dujek leaned in, saying, ‘Took down one o’ Mock’s officers, she did. Crashed a chair over him for his straying hands.’

‘Ah. Fine.’ Cartheron moved on to the third recruit, a battlescarred woman older and far bigger than Autumn. ‘Name?’

‘Glory.’

‘Glory … really.’ He knew it wasn’t her real name, but that was to be expected. Most in this trade took on new names; a new name for a new life. ‘You a sailor?’

The woman curled her lips in the way one who considered oneself superior to her company would. ‘No, sir. More a fighter.’

He nodded. ‘Very good.’

The next was very obviously an experienced sailor in tarred canvas trousers, sun-blackened and barefoot. ‘Name?’

‘Torbal, sir.’

‘Why aren’t you signed?’

The man’s mouth turned down in distaste and he spat aside. ‘Don’t like Mock’s way o’ dispensing rank … sir.’

Cartheron nodded. ‘I understand.’ The next recruit was a female version of Torbal. ‘Name?’

‘Clena, sir.’

‘What’s your story?’

‘I’m with Torbal, sir.’

Cartheron nodded again. The next recruit was a skinny kid, a boy. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Orthan.’

‘You look too young, lad.’