Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5) (10 page)

The pilot shoved the door wide, holding it open for Thorias to carry Angela through the entrance. Once inside, Tonks quickly pushed the door shut, then slid a metal bolt into place.

“Should be secure enough here,” Tonks said putting an ear close to the door. “With luck, they’ll overlook us.”

Only a minute later, the pounding of footsteps
sounded along the alley outside the door.

“They can’t have gone far!” Peter’s voice said from beyond the door. “Only place this alley leads is to the tanning shops. We’ll have ’em trapped!”

Tonks strained to listen as the footsteps echoed, then grew faint as their pursuers raced away. He exhaled when he realized he had been holding his breath. Suddenly, a flock of Icelandic seagulls squawked angrily and took flight in the warehouse rafters overhead. The unsettling sound was followed by a faint, soft creak of metal and wood.

“Mr. Tonks?” Angela whispered hoarsely.

Tonks glanced through the long shadows of the abandoned warehouse. Dr. Llwellyn had set Angela down ten feet away in a shadow-draped corner. The pilot quickly, and quietly, joined them.

“Hush, girl,” he replied, looking around, “somethin’ sent those gulls flying. Something tells me it wasn’t us. So we’re still not out of the woods, yet.”

“But Mr. Tonks …” Angela hissed urgently.

He glanced over at the young girl and nearly jumped in shock when he saw one of her hands covered in blood!

“Angela, were you shot? Where’s the wound?” Tonks asked, his words falling out of him in a tumble.

“It’s not me,” Angela said in a shaky voice. “My leg’s cut, but that’s it.”

“I say, old man,” Dr. Llwellyn interjected, after a shaky breath, “the lady’s right. The blood’s from me, not her.”

Tonks glanced over at the doctor who leaned shakily against the warehouse wall. The pilot had assumed the doctor was winded again, given the thin, bitterly cold air. However, he now realized his error.

The doctor clutched his right side, where something dark and wet glistened on his coat. Thorias gave Tonks a thin smile. “I hope, for all our sakes, we are alone in here … because I suspect you’ll be assisting me in a spot of surgery, Mr. Tonks. Only, I do think I’ll be taking the part of the patient.”

Thorias’ knees buckled, but Tonks reached out, catching the doctor before he fell to the  floor. The doctor chuckled with a brittle voice. “Smashing start to our plan don’t you think? I wonder how the Captain is faring?”
 

G
outs of warm steam issued forth from brass and steel valves attached to large pipes – many larger than a foot across – running alongside the outside of the buildings of Port Signal. The steam rushed across the walkway, then bunched into thick knots of white fog that lingered along the avenue.

Each knot was unique, some being no more than a whisper of mist, while others were a veritable cloud bank come to loiter in the winding thoroughfares. All around, the faint churn of the station’s gargantuan steam engines that made up the heart of Port Signal pulsed rhythmically. The vibration hummed just faintly in the air to the most ardent observer.

Inhabitants and guests hurried along these clouded streets, moving briskly through the white fog in the cold mid-day air. The broad form of Captain Klaus Wilhelm emerged through one of the miniature cloud banks and spread his arms wide, cutting through the clustered steam.

“Ah, here we are, Kapitän!” The tall German ship captain announced, smiling broadly. “The World’s End,” he gestured towards a cracked wooden shingle, adorned with faded yellow letters. The words curved slightly above the image of a ship balanced precariously on the edge of a waterfall. Below the sign a stout wooden door, braced with iron bands to secure it, sat firmly closed. “We need to talk, and I know of no better place.”

Captain Hunter, along with the wiry elf that still had possession of Captain Wilhelm’s shotgun, walked out of the white fog. Hunter stopped next to Klaus, gazing up at the sign. “A public house? Are you certain?”

Klaus grinned and slapped Hunter on the back, “Ja! It’s quite fine. Come! Before the cold reaches our bones. Herr Pryce, keep a sharp eye, Ja?”

“Of course, Cap’n,” the thin sailor replied with a welsh accent and a grin.

A few paces behind Hunter, Krumer Whitehorse glanced up at the sign dubiously. Next to him, Moira elbowed the first mate lightly in the ribs. “Ya worry too much.”

The first mate’s face wrinkled into a sour expression. “Someone should. Are you not the least concerned over how exposed we’ll be in there?”

Ahead of them, Anthony, Mr. Pryce and Captain Wilhelm had walked toward the thick wooden door. Moira glanced towards the others, then shrugged at Krumer, “Oh sure, but we got it to do. Besides, that’s me Uncle. I trust him. An see it this way, O’Fallon said he’d be meetin’ us here, that’s one more hand if trouble spills.”

Krumer raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s not that I don’t trust your uncle – which I don’t quite yet – it’s everyone else here on Port Signal I don’t trust farther than a yard arm,” he replied. Then, with a resolved sigh, the broad-shouldered orc brushed stray dreadlocks from his face and followed the others into the pub.

“Worrywart,” Moira snorted, trailing behind him. “I never have any trouble in a pub.”

Inside, away from the cold chill, the warmth was like an invisible blanket, wrapping about the entire room. Warm wooden walls, adorned with an eclectic assortment of old pistols, wood carvings, ship’s bells and other memorabilia greeted the group as they entered.

Dark, stained tables were arranged around the main open area of the pub in a vague attempt at organization. Worn, with mottled spots, they were host to dozens of patrons scattered throughout the pub. Most of these customers, if not all, were sailors judging by their style of dress and personal weaponry.

“The more ‘genteel’ frauen und männern, they do not find their way here,” Captain Wilhelm explained. “This would be … how you say it … a ‘local’ place.” The big German scrutinized the area and pointed at an empty table across the crowded room. “In the back, Ja? A perfect place. Schnell! Before it is taken.”

Leading the way, Captain Wilhelm, followed by Pryce, Captain Hunter and the rest settled around the table. Overhead a lantern glowed a warm yellow through its dust-lined glass. At their feet, a soft
 
hiss trickled out of narrow vents, through which warm, steam-rich air pumped slowly into the room.

Klaus gestured to the thin Welshman across the table. “Ah, where are mein manners? This with me is Herr Albert Pryce, mein first mate.” Hunter glanced at the thin Pryce with a faint, polite smile and nod. “Good to meet you, sirrah.”

“And you,” Albert replied.

“Now Kapitän,” Klaus said, putting his arms on the table and leaning forward. “We talk direct, Ja? You might say ‘supplies’, of which I would not blame you, but you and I know better. What brings all of you here?”

Anthony glanced over at Krumer, then Moira. The big orc was only half-paying attention to the conversation while his eyes slowly swept the room. Moira, however, nodded encouragingly to Captain Hunter. The captain looked back at Klaus.

“We’re not sneaking about when I tell you ‘supplies’, Captain. We’re in need of them.” Hunter admitted.

“The Market Square will have all you need, Kapitän, but that aside, I would like to speak as to why you are really here.” Wilhelm said cagily.

Hunter looked uncomfortable, “you mentioned that you’ve heard the
Intrepid’s
message. What more do you need to know?”

“The truth,” Klaus said with a mischievous grin. “I trust meine niece, Moira, and whom she chooses to sail with. Most especially the noble captain who helped catch a murderous butcher in Edinburgh. There is talk here now that you scuttled the
Fair Winds
, and made off with her goods … even her passengers.” The German captain shook his head, “Kapitän,  others consider it, but I do not. Bitte … please … just why do you bring meine little niece here?”

Anthony stared at Captain Wilhelm for a long moment. “Many lives are resting on faith … particularly mine right now. We had something to do with the
Fair Winds
, Captain, but not her destruction. We tried to save her, but when we arrived, she was a floating hulk. No passengers, no cargo. Only the ghosts of her dead crew manned her.”

“So, there were passengers as some are whispering, ja?” Wilhelm asked with a concerned look.

“Ya bet yer boots, Uncle,” Moira said eagerly, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Whole shipload. We found some of their belongings, and where they were berthed, but no passengers.”

“How many are we speakin’ of?” Albert Pryce asked curiously.

Anthony looked over to the Welshman, “One hundred and fifty, all told. Men, women and children.”

“Foolish,” Wilhelm spat angrily. “Nothing to gain from that.” Klaus sat back in his chair, his face a dark thunderstorm of anger. “Bitte, go on. Did you scuttle her?”

“No,” Hunter replied. “We did not. Two of my crew found where the pirates rigged the
Fair Winds
to detonate the moment anyone was curious enough to look about. We barely made it off in time.”

“Leaving not a sign as to who did the deed,” Pryce added. “Devilish, just devilish.”

“Dead men’s tales,” Krumer said absently, still casually watching the pub around them, full of patrons, “often never get told.”

“Only this time they will,” Hunter added sternly. “We did recover some recordings from the ship’s opti and part of a servitor. Between the two, we’ve voices and conversation. From that, we’ve a name.”

“Who?” Klaus Wilhelm said, an ugly sound undercutting his voice.

“John Charles ‘Black Jack’ Clark,” the captain replied.

Captain Wilhelm and Albert exchanged a shocked look. Klaus sat back in his chair, stunned. “Kapitän, you are mistaken. Johann Clark is not your man. I can speak for him, as he sails for me. He captains one of my ships, in fact. He and his ship have been here for many days. If they had left, he would have told me.”

“Ships?” Krumer asked curiously.

“Ja, ships,” Captain Wilhelm replied, slightly agitated. “I am not so much the pirate these days. That is the work for a young man. Now I am a merchant, with three ships under mein flag. Johann is the captain of one. The
Revenge
. But he is not your man.”

Moira shook her head. “Uncle, I heard the pirate’s voice, too. I rebuilt the recording. I don’t know him, but the Cap’n does. If the cap’n says it’s him, then it’s him.”

“The man’s more’n a bit troubled, but pirate?” Albert shook his head, “no, not possible. Something else has to be happening here.”

“Uncle, maybe we could talk to him?” Moira asked.

Abruptly, the door to the pub opened, Conrad O’Fallon, wrapped in a thick woolen coat, rushed inside. Looking around, he walked quickly across the room.

Krumer sat upright the moment Conrad entered the room, “O’Fallon, what is it? You look like  the spirits themselves are chasing you.”

“Och, more’n like ah tryin’ to outrun ’em,” the quartermaster replied out of breath, placing his hands flat on the table. He looked over at Hunter, “Cap’n, ya gotta a problem. Clark’s comin’ here. He’s not far behind me.”

As if on cue, the pub door swung wide, letting in a blast of cold air. The quartermaster spun around, grabbing the grip of his revolver even as others yelled to close the door.

From out of the cold five men spilled into the room. Once through the doorway, they spread out, three on one side, two on the other. Weathered, hard men, none looked any less forgiving than a rabid dog hungry for a piece of meat. Between them, a sixth man walked through, striding into the pub wearing an obvious, arrogant air like a badge of honor.

He would have been a strikingly handsome man, what some might call dashing with his strong jaw, thin build and long sandy-brown hair. His looks, however, were marred by a jagged scar that ran the length of his jaw from his left ear to his chin. Piercing gray eyes swept the room like a reptile watching for prey.

Abruptly, the scarred man’s hand dropped to his gun belt. In a blur, he jerked a Navy Colt from its holster. Snarling, he aimed at Anthony Hunter.

“You!” He shouted angrily. Patrons scrambled aside, chair slamming to the stained floor.

Hunter’s hand raced to his pistol. Across the room, the scarred man’s gun spat flame. The shot tore past Hunter, cutting a furrow into the wooden table next to him. Splinters erupted in a cloud, showering everyone at the table. Instinctively, Captain Hunter jerked to his left, ripping his gun free of its holster.

“Bollocks!” The newcomer snarled, then jumped as a bullet ripped past him with an angry whine.

He swung his pistol around, only to face O’Fallon’s drawn gun. Without hesitation or even a word, O’Fallon fired again, aiming for the thin man’s chest.

“Cap’n!” Shouted a gangly young man with tangled brown hair, standing near the door. He threw himself forward, shoving the thin man aside. The young man jerked as the bullet struck him, knocking him back into a nearby chair. He fell to the floor in a puddle of blood and broken wood, moaning in pain.

Immediately the room plunged briefly into chaos. Weapons ripped from their sheaths and holsters. Animosity painted with fear and surprise coated the pub as crews from various ships poised on the brink of a small, but very personal war. Then, as quickly as it started, the chaos died away, like a bright hot fire returning to a smoldering ember of raw tension.

No one spoke. No one dared move, save for the occasional furtive glance around the room. Only the faint hiss of warm steam was heard as it rhythmically hurried out the vents in the  floor.

After four long heartbeats, the scarred man with the long, sandy blonde hair smiled. It was a dark, ugly little smile, more malicious than friendly. He cut his eyes sideways to look at Captain Hunter, tilting his head slightly like a snake watching its prey. He walked forward, pausing to kick the wounded sailor laying on the floor in the ribs.

“Oh, get up, ye arse,” the scarred captain snarled to the bleeding man, “an do somethin’ useful … like shoot someone.”