Blaggard's Moon (54 page)

He clawed upward toward daylight, surrounded now by clouds of his own blood in the water. He found a space where the hull was gone and a ship's rib was missing; he tried to squeeze through. The wound in his right shoulder caught on a jagged splinter, which pushed into his flesh like a spike, hooking him like a fish, pulling him down with the sinking ship. He forced himself backward, downward, removing the splinter, then wriggled up between the ribs and out.

The surface above him was littered with flotsam as he kicked toward it. He saw musket balls tracing through the water. A cannonball entered near him, a flume of air following as it dove deep out of sight in an instant, creating a concussion he felt all the way through him. Using both legs, feeling only one, he kicked his way upward toward a large section of broken hull. He grasped it with his left hand and surfaced under it, pushing it up, using it for protection. He gasped and coughed for air. Musket balls plunked into the water around him. The rain was heavy and the wind kicked up the water; he hoped it would make it difficult to be seen. His right thigh burned. He felt as though his leg was missing below the knee. He looked around, trying to see anything like a trunk or a box, but saw nothing remotely similar. He took a hard, painful breath of air, and submerged. He meant to turn and swim back down to Jenta, but he couldn't. He had strength only on his left side. He couldn't even turn himself upside down.

Jenta was trapped under the water and he was now trapped above. He cursed himself as he peered down into darkness. He hadn't thought it through…he should have planned for her safety. He should not have put her in that box. He should have put her off the boat. He should never have sailed into the inlet. He shouldn't have brought her here at all.

He pushed up on the piece of wreckage again, breathed twice, and kicked for the docks. His right arm was completely useless. His right leg whipped crazily. Suddenly he felt a crack in his right thigh, and knew his leg bone had broken. He felt the ends of the fractured bones hammering one another, two clubs beating against each other within his flesh. But the docks were just a few yards away. Gunfire was rare now. He made it under the dock, and let go of the flotsam. He was hidden from view by the boardwalk above.

He grasped a support post, quieted himself and listened. The sound of cannon had ceased entirely.

“There's one!” a voice above him shouted. “He's alive!”

“Shoot him!” another voice instructed.

Damrick pulled his chin in, waiting. The musket exploded above his head. But the shot was aimed out toward the wreckage of
Success
.

“Got him!” the voice cried, triumphant.

“Ah, he was already dead,” another voice intoned.

Damrick knew he had to get out of the water, had to get the bleeding stopped. He let go of the pier post and propelled himself further inward, further under the docks. But there was nowhere to get out. The docks
were built out over water with nothing but a flat, straight seawall on its inner edge. The seawall was faced in rock, or stone, and where it wasn't, it was gravel behind iron bars and iron mesh. He pulled himself along the wall with his left hand, up the inlet in the direction of the castle, looking for some break. Almost forty yards later, he found one. A small crawl space between the top of the wall and the decking above; it was a shelf of rock that could support him, and hide him, if only he could get up onto it.

Rain was still pouring down between the slats as he tried to pull himself up. But with only one arm and one leg, he failed twice. Then he found a small support, a truss nailed at an angle, within the narrow space. By grasping it with his left hand and positioning his left foot on a pier post, and by making a huge and painful effort, almost a leap, he got his chest and shoulders up onto the shelf. He inched his way in until he was on his belly, then kicked his left foot up onto the shelf. He rolled himself in, turning over onto his back.

There he lay wincing, breathing the pain in, then exhaling it again. He tasted blood. He was facing up, his head toward the castle, his good leg nearer the water. His bad right leg was twisted around, and pounded with pain. He tried to realign it with his hands, but couldn't do it. He could barely reach it, and had no strength to move it.

The bleeding was his biggest concern. He knew he had already lost a lot of blood, but he hoped that the cloth of his pant leg, twisted tight against his wound, would help slow the bleeding there. His right shoulder pounded, but he could now use his left hand to compress that wound. The rib wound could not be addressed, but except for the pain it hadn't seemed to do much harm. With a little luck, the ball had not lodged within him. With just a little more luck, he thought, the bleeding would stop on its own before he passed out.

He struggled against the darkness as long as he could, but then he saw Jenta's face again, sad and beautiful, hovering above him. And then he saw that compartment like a coffin, her closed into it, sinking beneath the sea. The sorrow of loss stole over him.

He drifted into oblivion.

Jenta came awake in the small, dark box. She did not remember losing consciousness. She couldn't straighten up, or sit up. She felt for the handle, the ring on the door, but as soon as she moved pain raced through her from the neck up. She felt the back of her head. A great, painful lump had risen. She must have been slammed into the end of the compartment.
But now another great shock rocked her; it was earsplitting, and the box moved. The sound of something metal rasping against metal was deafening, even excruciating. She felt like every bone within her was being scraped by the sound. And then the box turned, and shifted suddenly, throwing her to one side. Her hip hit something hard, and she winced. She felt it with her hands. It was the ring. She had somehow turned around in this small space. And then she had the sensation she was rising.

A gentle rocking now replaced the sudden shifts. She heard a constant, gentle patter. She recognized it as rain. She heard gunfire, but muffled, as though from far away. That was good. If someone was firing, then someone was likely still firing back.

Damrick. He wouldn't die here. He said he'd come for her. But her heart felt stabbed within. If the ship had come apart, and she had floated up, then where was he? From where was he shooting back?

And where was she? Floating in a hostile harbor inside a watertight box. And someone, probably Conch Imbry, wanted them both dead.

But she felt peace, somehow. She had done the right thing, marrying Damrick, leaving Conch, no matter where it led. “Any end's a good end now,” she said aloud. And she believed she meant it.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

MUMTOWN

T
HE RAIN HAD
slacked off to a steady dripping. Conch Imbry walked past the bodies of his enemies, lined up now side-by-side on the dock. He held his hands behind him, examining each, as though paying respects. But he had no respect to pay. He toed a chin, turning a head. “Nothin' better than a deck full a' dead enemies, eh Mr. Mazeley? Warms a pirate's heart.”

Mazeley said nothing.

“And what I'd like to see is jus' that. A deck full of 'em.”

“These three are all we've recovered. Likely more sunk. If so, they'll be up in a couple of days.”

“Unless they're trapped inside the hull.” Conch squatted beside Lye Mogene. The Gateman's eyes were open; his expression seemed conscious and determined. “We think we got 'em, and then we ain't.” Pulling a knife, he cut the leather lash from Lye's arm, rubbed it between his finger and thumb. “Damrick Fellows shoulda been aboard.”

“And Jenta as well.”

“Don't!” Conch snarled at Mazeley, pointing the knife up at him. “Don't ever say that name! Call her the wench, call her the wanton, call her any hard and evil thing ye please…but not that name.”

“The wench then.”

Conch stood. “So they ain't here, where are they?”

“They might have stayed in Skaelington. But I doubt it. It's pretty hot for them now.”

“He outfoxed you there. He got away from me here. So what's he doin' now?”

At that moment, Damrick was lying just below the dock, listening. He had awakened as bodies were being dragged across the boards above him. He wasn't dead, but it seemed to him only a matter of time. He was in great pain. His shoulder throbbed. His leg was a useless lump. All his joints ached. But the worst was that every breath was a sharp pain, like a lance into his lungs. The shot to his ribs did that. Now he feared the wound that had seemed the least would end being the worst. And on top of it, he was cold. He could barely keep his teeth from chattering. A bad sign. The air could not be as cold as he felt.

“What're them three ships up to?” Conch asked, squinting against the rain into the harbor.

“Nothing. They've cast anchor in the bay. They seem to be waiting.”

“On what?”

“Instructions, I'd guess.”

“Them are Ryland's ships?”

“Yes. Wentworth's rogues.”

“So. Who do ye think was wrong? Talon? Or Motley?”

“I don't know.”

“The answer is kinda important. If they fooled Talon, then them ships are full a' Gatemen.”

“I don't know how to guess on this one.”

Conch looked at him askance. “Well, I'm glad to hear ye say that, Mr. Mazeley. Rankles me when ye always know. 'Specially when ye don't.”

The patter of rain stopped, and a gentle scraping began. Either the rain had let up, or Jenta had floated under some sort of cover. The scraping and knocking were rhythmic now. Small waves, bumping her up against a wooden structure. A boat or a dock. The air inside had grown thick and close. She had to take her chances. She reached around for the handle, and tried to turn it. It didn't move. She pulled on it, but nothing happened. Nearing panic, she twisted it the other way. It turned. A crack of light appeared. Relieved, she pushed the door open. But water flowed in, pouring over her like a cold bath. It surprised her how cold it was. She pulled the door closed without thinking, and it latched. But now the water that sloshed around inside pooled at her feet, and the box began to tilt
upright. She twisted the handle again, just as she had before, and it turned. But now the door wouldn't open. The water pressure from outside held it closed. Heart racing again, she pushed harder, with her shoulder. The door still didn't budge. Panicked, she pushed with everything she had, and it opened, first a little, with seawater rushing in, then filling the box in an instant, slamming her head back, filling up her nostrils. Then with a large slurping sound and a great glug, the container sank—faster than she would have imagined possible. She tried to pull herself out.

She was sinking with it. Twisting and churning, she found the rim of the door with her hands and propelled herself out. She felt her gown catch on something; the corner of the door, where it was hinged. It was pulling her down. With a huge effort she yanked on it with her hands, pressing against the box with her feet. She felt it rip; she was free. She swam upward, desperate for air. But she saw the tracer of a musket ball, which shot down into the water beside her, coming from a boat. She saw the shallow keels of small boats moored in a line, and angled for the darkness on the far side of them, hoping it was the shadow of the docks, and she broke the surface sputtering and gulping.

The air was clean and fresh and cool.

She had in fact come up under the dock, and was well out of sight. She grasped an upright support, heard approaching footsteps that passed over and moved on. She suddenly wished she had never gotten into that compartment; she wished she had stayed with Damrick. Then she'd know. If he was dead, then she would be, too. She didn't want to think about what had happened to him, but she knew the likelihood of her loss.

It had all gone to pieces so quickly.

But then, it had all come together so suddenly. And she had not one regret, not even now. She thought of her mother, and how terribly angry she'd be to see her daughter, the lady she'd raised so carefully, clinging to a post under a pier, with nowhere to go that didn't lead to pirates who wanted her dead, or worse. The thought was almost humorous, the contrast between the garden parties and balls that Shayla dreamed about for her, and a pirate's cruel revenge, to which that very dream had led. The society lady, that was Shayla's dream. Damrick was Jenta's. She hadn't even known what her dream was, until it saved her.

She began swimming under the docks as best she could. A large hunk of her dress had been torn away, mostly in the front and down one side, so her legs were free enough. Her shoes were gone; she had no recollection of when or where. The sodden material around her torso and her
waist was heavy, and tended to catch small nails and slivers of wood, and the sleeves and shoulders of the wet garment constricted her movements. But she could swim.

She moved under the dock, past small boats moored one after the other on her right, a solid seawall on her left. She didn't know what she was looking for, except some way to get out of the water without being seen. She swam from post to post, listening, careful not to splash, careful not to cause a stir or make a sound greater than the drip of rain from the dock above, or the gentle slap of small waves against the hulls and walls and posts.