Untitled (8 page)

   Opposite the door was the bar, which stretched fully half the length of the room. Women with painted faces and dirty corsets served frothing tankards of cheap beer, rum and gin to the customers, who drank them without much evidence of enjoyment. As they threaded their way through the crowd, Susanna caught glimpses of beards, three-cornered hats, open shirts, gold earrings, gold teeth, scars and a mismatch of clothes and styles going back at least a century, if not more.

   They reached an empty table and settled down. A serving woman, aged about fifty and with at least two of her own teeth, approached them with a leer. "What can I get for you, dearies?" she rasped, her voice floating in pure gin.

   "A bottle of rum and some glasses," replied Hartwell, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the other drinkers.

   "Right you are, dearie," said the woman, staggering off through the crowd to their right. After a brief pause, she reappeared from the left, startling them all, with a tray full of glasses and a single bottle of cheap rum which she managed to get onto the table at the second attempt.

   "Anything else you want, dearie?" she asked, more in hope than expectation.

   "We need to hire a room," replied Hartwell, his lips twitching slightly. He appreciated the woman's eternal optimism, even though the alcohol she had imbibed probably fuelled it.

   "Coo, you're a quick worker aren't you?" breathed the woman, raising the alcohol level considerably.

   "I'm afraid it is for business purposes," said Hartwell.

   "You sure?" asked the woman, hitching her bosom up a little higher, though she was fighting a losing battle with gravity.

   "Enchanted as I am by your kind offer, I must put business before pleasure," said Hartwell.
And
I'll run like bloody hell after the business has been
concluded.

   "Aw, bless you, cuptain," slurred the woman. "You is a toff, you is a real gent and I'll see to it, cuptain, that you has a best room here, you leave it to old Ruby, cuptain, I'll see you right. You just follows me this way."

   "Thank you, Ruby, you are too kind."

   The group made their way behind the staggering woman, threading through the crowd toward the wooden stairs that led up to a balcony that ran around the building, offering access to the various rooms.

   "Here," muttered a sailor who somehow managed to look even rougher than the rest of the clientele. "There are two new strumpets going to the stairs. What say we go and introduce ourselves?" His companions leered in delight. They waited until the group was on the stairs before moving over and surrounding Lady Mechatronic, who had strayed to the back as she looked about her.

   "Good evening, my dear," smiled the sailor. "Now don't you make a noise or cry out, little lady, or else it will be the worse for you. You're going to slip away with us and before your friends even notice you're gone, we'll be out the back and enjoying ourselves and they won't even know where to look for you in this crowd of vipers. One scream and it's all over for you.

   "I like a woman well wrapped up," he added, looking at the long gloves and heavy hood that hid all of Mechatronic's silver skin. "It makes the unwrapping so much more enjoyable."

   Mechatronic turned slightly and drew back her hood just enough so that the man could see her face. "You scum," she hissed. Although her cold blue eyes burned into the sailor's terrified face, she was focused on the past as the man's tone and intentions stirred up yet more memories…

   The sailor's mouth flopped open and his colour drained to a pasty grey as he gazed in horror at the silver demon in front of him, until with a squeak of terror, he turned and fled. His friends followed close behind.

   Mechatronic adjusted her hood and followed the rest of the group up the stairs and into a side room containing a table and a few chairs, where she was just in time to see the barmaid make yet another play for the captain's attentions.

   "Sure you don't want a taste of old Ruby on account? I don't mind if your friends stay or go, old Ruby has done all shorts, I mean sorties, I mean sorts in her life, has old Ruby."

   "I'm sure and he does not want your attentions," snapped Mechatronic, emotions flooding through her at the sight of the woman pawing pathetically at Hartwell's blue coat. She was disturbed to identify jealousy as the primary feeling.

   "Ooh, listen to the cat's mother," slurred Ruby, staring in dislike at the hooded figure. "No need to get in a twist, dearie."

   "Perhaps we should sit down and wait for Madrigal?" said Susanna loudly, holding her hand out to Mechatronic. The silver woman crossed the room and sat down at the table, her eyes never leaving Ruby, who returned the stare in kind, reminding Susanna of two cats getting ready to fight. She was glad when a knock at the door interrupted the scene and Madrigal peered into the room. "I have the men, Captain," he said.

"
ery well," replied Hartwell, crossing to the table and taking a seat facing the door. "Ruby, if you wish to serve, please keep this room private while we are here." He pulled a coin from his pocket. "Privacy is important to us." He passed the coin over to Ruby, who managed to take it at the third attempt.

   "Right you are, sir, you leave it to old Ruby," she simpered as she backed out through the door. "Don't you worry, sir, old Ruby won't let you down, old Ruby knows what's what, old Ruby…" The rest of the monologue was cut off as Madrigal shut the door.

   "Where are the men?" asked Hartwell.

   "Just outside the door and as fine a body as you can hope to find," said Madrigal, his face wooden.

   Hartwell immediately felt his suspicions rise. Madrigal was wearing the same expression that Fitch used when trying to hide something from his captain. "Bring them in," he said, wondering what he was going to be faced with.

   Madrigal stepped back to the door and pulled it open. "Old Ruby knows the game, old Ruby will keep watch," floated in. Madrigal shut the door and counted to ten before re-opening it. "Old Ruby is on her toes, old Ruby will watch your backs, so she will." He closed the door, counted again, pulled the door open and silence met him. He opened his mouth to call the men through but was interrupted once more by the interminable monologue launching itself afresh. "Old Ruby is on the lookout, old Ruby knows who a villain is, old Ruby…"

   "The men, Captain," said Madrigal, giving up. He gestured to the crowd outside who rushed in through the tiny door, many of them getting wedged in the process. With a heave and a pop, the retinue fell through the frame and staggered into the room, colliding with people, furniture and each other as they did so, until eventually the scrum piled up at the table.

   Hartwell closed his eyes as though in pain and looked disappointed to find the scene still in front of him when he opened them again. "Perhaps, Madrigal, you should organise them into an orderly line outside the door until called for? Thank you. Now, first man, please."

   "Tom Blake, reporting for duty, sir," said the first, stepping forward smartly and saluting.

   "And what experience have you on a vessel, Mister Blake?" asked Hartwell.

   "Twenty years, man and boy," replied Blake.

   "Sorry, I meant what position did you fill?"

   "Very well, thank you for asking."

   "Pardon?"

   "Bardon? No, sir, he's next in the line. We've served together before, good man, a very good man."

   "What position did you fill?" asked Hartwell again, looking perplexed.

   "What proposition do I feel, sir?" asked Blake, looking in slight alarm at Hartwell.

   "What position did you fill?" bellowed Hartwell.

   "Did I ever mill, sir?"

   "I presume you are hard of hearing, Mister Blake?"

   "A shard of herring, sir?"

   "Just go and wait in the corner, would you?" said Hartwell with a sigh.

   "Thank you, sir, it will be a pleasure to serve," said Blake as he moved to the corner indicated by Hartwell. Being deaf, he was unaware of the tittering of Susanna, which she changed to a hasty cough as her brother looked at her.

   "Francois Bardon, reporting for duty," said the next applicant in a French accent. His eyes were clear, his chin clean shaven and his posture beyond reproach. Unfortunately, to verify this, Hartwell had to stand and peer over the table, as did Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic. In front of them was the smallest man they had ever seen. He was perfectly proportioned and neatly tailored, but all on a scale that seemed to be about one-third the usual.

   "And what experience do you have, Mister Bardon?"

   "Gunnery crew," replied the man promptly.

   "Do you find the work easy?"

   "Apart from the loading of the cannons, the raising of the cannons, the aiming of the cannons and the firing of the cannons."

   "And why do you suppose that was?" asked Hartwell as he leaned back in despair.

   "Poor cannon design," said Bardon, promptly. "I have filed several patents on a new design, but so far no one has had the foresight to see the inherent superiority. I have the plans here." He pulled from his coat pocket a square of paper, which he unfolded several times until he was almost hidden behind a set of dog-eared blueprints which threatened to engulf him.

   Hartwell reached over and took the page easily in one hand. He glanced at the design. "I see you understand the subject, Mister Bardon. Firing mechanism, casting, even a new form of cleaning mechanism, too. However, if I am reading these scales correctly, this particular cannon would measure about twenty inches long."

   "That is the future, sir," replied Bardon. "Miniaturization!"

   "If you wouldn't mind taking a seat over there," said Hartwell, passing the plans back.

   Bardon bowed, grabbed the designs and began folding them down to a manageable size as he walked across the room.

   Hartwell gazed at Madrigal, who shifted slightly in embarrassment. "I think you'll be pleased with the next man," he said as he opened the door to let the next applicant through.

   Hartwell, Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic looked up at the huge figure towering over them. The man was almost six feet and six inches in height and almost twice as broad as a normal man. His hands were the size of dinner plates, while his arms and legs appeared to be made from several barrels strapped together. His skin was the colour of midnight and a formidable scar ran down the side of his face.

   "Name?" asked Hartwell, feeling his hope rise. With a monster like this in the crew…

   The man-mountain rumbled, coughed, shifted position and then squeaked in the highest voice Hartwell had ever heard from anyone, man, woman or eunuch, "Anatole du Lac de Poppydore, chef, at your service."

   "Chef?" said Susanna in disbelief. Judging by appearances, the man should have been wanted in five countries for crimes against man and God.