Isle of Fire (40 page)

Astounded by the captain's generosity, Jay began to walk back to the hatch. Thorne wheeled around so fast, Jay didn't see it coming. An iron grip clutched Mr. Jay's throat, and he felt his body lifted clear off the deck. Thorne slammed Jay hard against the port rail and pushed his head over and down as if he might let him fall over the side. “You take that drink, Mister Jay, and it'll be the last thing to wet your tongue in this life . . . except for blood, that is. You and the rest of the crew will stay at your stations—and stay alert—until we make port back in Sigvard Bay. Do you understand me, Mister Jay?”

Jay couldn't speak. Hollow gagging noises escaped from his half-strangled throat. Thorne released him at last, and Mr. Jay slumped to the deck. Guthrum and Brandir cast disdainful looks and laughed. Thorne watched as the impudent deck hand crawled slowly away and slunk into a hatch.

“Captain Thorne!” a voice called from high on the mast.

“What is it, Mister Wren?”

“Something there, sir,” Wren, the lookout, called back. “A shadow on the water . . . aft. I . . . I think it's a ship.”

“Ready the port cannons!” Thorne rasped. “Brandir, ready the dragon necks.” He gave the wheel to Mr. Teach. “Bring the ship about.”

“But, sir, there's no wind,” Teach replied.

Thorne ignored his quartermaster and clambered up onto the poop deck to stare out over the still waters. “Mister Tarber, are you sure? I don't see anything.”

“Yes, sir!” he called back. “It was there in the mist. Then it—wait! There she is. But I don't think we need worry 'bout the cannons. It's just a skiff.”

The mist parted and a dark, single-sailed craft emerged. It was twenty-feet long with a small block cabin and a narrow sail rigged like the blade of a knife on a thin mast. Though Thorne saw that the vessel approaching posed no immediate threat, he felt a strange gravity in the pit of his stomach. He did not belay the order to ready the cannons.

Thorne squinted. Was there someone aboard? Shadows moved out of the cabin onto its small deck. The thinning mist confirmed two hooded figures standing by the mast as the craft came closer. No one seemed to be rowing the small ship. Thorne looked up into the sails of the
Raven's Revenge
. They remained lifeless and still.
How then, does he sail?

“Hold!” yelled a black-bearded deck hand named Davies. He and several of the Raukar leaned over the starboard rail and aimed muskets toward the water. “State your business or be dead where you stand.”

A voice came up from the water. “It is for business that I have come,” it said. Muskets wavered, and men stepped backward from the rail a pace as if they'd suddenly lost their balance. Thorne heard the voice even from where he stood, and it seemed to him that the chill in the air sharpened.

But Davies stood fast. He pulled back the hammer on his musket. “Advance no further!”

“Won't you cast aside your weapon and seek a rope ladder?” came the voice again. “The chill is no good for an old man. My associate and I have important matters to discuss with Captain Thorne.”

“Sir?” Davies said. He stepped aside as Thorne came to the rail.

Bartholomew Thorne looked down. A hood hid the man's face in the small craft below. “I am Bartholomew Thorne. What business have you with me?”

“Much.” The man said lowering his hood to reveal a sallow scalp with shrouds of wispy white hair. But in spite of the obvious signs of age, the man bore a powerful, penetrating visage. His brow was low and prominent. It overshadowed dark, depthless eyes that reminded Thorne of staring down well shafts. His nose was misshapen and pointed on the end. He grinned up at Thorne and revealed a mouth more full of cankers than teeth.

“What's the matter with you?” Thorne asked. “If you have the plague, you'd best—”

“Unwholesome eating habits . . . nothing more,” he replied, and he began to chew on a brown root.

Thorne began to recognize the voice, and it must have shown on his face.

“Do you know me at last? . . . Then, Captain Thorne, have your man lower the ladder.”

Thorne nodded to Davies, who hurled a rope ladder over the rail. And with surprising agility, the old man climbed aboard. The second man climbed up as well but did not remove his hood.

The Merchant stood before Thorne and inclined his head slightly. “I told you we'd meet again soon,” he said.

“How did you find me?” Thorne asked.

“Eyes in many places,” he replied.

“But . . . your ship?”

“Oh no . . . that skiff?” He laughed quietly. “We sailed to meet you in my fastest barque, the
Perdition's Gate
. But in this dense fog, I did not want to risk sending us both to the depths. My ship and crew wait for me to the west.”

Thorne regarded him strangely. He looked over the Merchant's shoulder out into the murky white. No sign nor shadow of another ship. And how did it sail? The wind couldn't be any stronger a few hundred yards away—no sooner had the thought entered his mind than a stiff wind kicked up.

“What marvelous fortune,” said the Merchant. “Now, Captain Thorne, we shall go below and discuss our . . . business.”

The ship was unlike any Hopper had ever experienced. Still it had its storage space, its stacks of crates, and its nooks. Earlier that morning he'd gotten the gumption to traverse the mooring lines . . . and just in time as the
Raven's Revenge
left port not fifteen minutes later. He'd stayed hidden in the darkness behind a stack of crates containing . . . cabbage, by the smell of them. Ignoring the stench, Hopper chewed on a piece of jerk beef he'd brought with him and thought about his plan. He knew Commodore Blake and Lady Dolphin had been brought aboard as prisoners, not guests. It was likely they'd be kept in the cellblock.
Right
, Hopper told himself.
And just where is that?

Probably the lowest deck
, Hopper figured.
Down with the rats and
bilge water.

Hopper decided that was where he would look. But, of course, he'd have to navigate three decks down from where he was—all without being seen. Fortunately, there was a hatch only a few feet away. Hopper found it clear, but rather than climbing down the ladder, he swung from the nearest rafter into a corner behind a barrel. What was that sound of squeaks and groans? Then, when he peeked around the barrel, he understood. He'd descended to a gun deck, but one of the ones where crewmen slept when they were off. Hopper figured there had to be more than a hundred hammocks slung from the ceiling. They swayed back and forth—a few of them occupied—and made the terrible ruckus he'd heard.

Looking for the hatch, Hopper darted in and out of portside cannon bays. Finally, with about four more bays to go, he spotted a hatch . . . but it was on the starboard side of the deck. He couldn't walk between the dozens of crewmen sleeping the way the hammocks were swinging. To get across, he'd have to crawl beneath them and hope there was enough room.

Hopper went on all fours, crawling like a bug beneath the ever-swaying hammocks. A couple of the hammocks were slung so low that Hopper had to lie flat on his stomach to get across. He made it under that one and was almost to the hatch when he heard a burst of short snorts above, followed by mumbles, followed by snorting laughter. Hopper looked up and saw an upside-down bearded face hanging over the edge of a hammock. The eyes blinked open suddenly and fixed on Hopper. The man yelled. Hopper shrieked, scurried to the hatch, and disappeared.

The sun cast long shadows from the masts of twenty-one ships leaving Edinburgh, Scotland. Declan Ross's man-of-war, Cutlass Jack's xebec, and Musketoon MacCready's old galleon led the way, followed by a hodgepodge of sloops, schooners, and even a ketch or two. More than a dozen of Scotland's clans were represented in this new fleet. Declan looked back on his kinsmen with pride. “They've no special love for England,” he said to Stede. “But still they left their fishing nets, their plowshares, their families, and their land.”

“There comes a time to fight, mon,” Stede replied, patting his thunder gun in the holster at his side.

“You've come to specify your terms,” said Thorne sitting at his desk and staring across the vast tabletop to the Merchant and the still-hooded man behind him. The ship's hull muted the mournful cries of the sea birds that had appeared when the haze burned off. The
Raven's Revenge
rolled ponderously on increasing swells.

“You have your fleet,” said the Merchant at last. “You are just days away from the victory you've longed for. Now is the time.” The Merchant reached beneath his black cloak and removed a long scroll. The parchment was watermarked, frayed at the edges, and sealed with a blob of blood-red wax. He handed the scroll to Thorne and said, “Read it, but not aloud.”

Thorne raised an eyebrow, received the scroll, and glanced curiously at the man who stood behind the Merchant. Then he broke the seal and unraveled the parchment. As Thorne began to read, the room grew increasingly quiet. Nearly halfway through the text, Thorne's breathing became audible, raspy, and thick. “A substantial sum,” Thorne muttered. He continued reading. “Hmmm . . . I didn't know they were there . . . hmmm . . . I'd do that free of charge.” He laughed quietly at that.

Then Thorne's eyes fixed on some part of the text and narrowed. He stopped breathing and clutched the edges of the parchment. He looked up at the Merchant and asked, “Is this a joke?”

The Merchant waved his hand dismissively. “I assure you I am serious.”

“Why me?”

“Because I know you can do what few men can.” The Merchant's dark expression grew eager. “These are the terms, Bartholomew Thorne. All that is left is to sign.” The Merchant reached into his wide sleeve and pulled out his long dagger. He dragged it slowly across his palm and let the blood dribble onto Thorne's desk. Then he handed the dagger to Thorne.

Thorne cut across his palm, next to five previous scars. He opened his desk drawer and removed two quill pens. He gave one to the Merchant. Each man dipped his pen into the pool of his own blood. Then each man signed the parchment.

“Done and done,” said the Merchant as he whisked the contract from the table. He examined the signatures for a moment. “Now that we've completed our agreement, I will show you what I've brought to sweeten the deal.”

The Merchant stood, stepped near to the hooded man, and slowly revealed his identity. Thorne stood, nearly knocking over his chair. The young man standing next to the Merchant was Griffin Thorne, Bartholomew Thorne's son. The Merchant removed Cat's gag and said, “Go on, boy . . . say hello to your father.”

Cat said nothing. A hundred images flooded his mind: whips, pistols, blood, Dominica, the Isle of Swords. Cat wanted to run from the room, but he stood his ground.

“He was working with the Brethren,” said the Merchant, “trying to find me. I thought you might like a chance to reform him.”

Thorne spat. “I should have just drowned him the day he was born. He's of no use to me.”