The Merman and the Barbarian Pirate (15 page)

Raef pulled a face.
Rather you than me
.

"Make yourself useful," hissed Kemp. "Can you read?"

Raef nodded. The merfolk elders had been sticklers for that kind of education, even if he’d had to learn about the world of humans from stories and hearsay.

"Have a look through the papers from the desk. Remember, we're looking for something dedicated,
For Cecilia
. When you're done, try through there." He pointed to a narrow door. "It's most likely the beast's dressing room."

A beast. That description fitted Haverford. Kemp ransacked a bookcase, and Raef dropped to his knees on the rug, swallowing bile. "I wonder how Lord Haverford became so evil."

"Probably learned it from his mother and uncles," muttered Kemp. "Though he's shown his mother little gratitude, so the gossips say. He hardly spoke to her for years 'til this summer. Then as soon as he'd persuaded her to hand over the priceless wedding ring that had been meant for Cara, he cast her off again."

The ruby band. Raef was relieved he'd not delivered it back to Haverford. It belonged to Cecilia for sure. Then another revelation struck. He'd
seen
the treacherous Edith.

"I watched Haverford take his mother for rides by the sea." Raef licked his fingertips and continued shuffling the papers. They chiefly concerned London houses and trade deals with Bombay. "I believed he must be very kind, lavishing such attention on a poor elderly relative. It was one of the reasons I … I thought I was in love with him."

"Oh Raef, I'm sorry." Kemp tossed the cushions off a daybed, then chuckled. "But you do make me laugh."

Raef winced, ripping apart his third bundle of letters. "Haven't you ever been in love? Or at least, believed you were?" Raef couldn't help asking, particularly given his suspicions concerning Kemp and Cecilia. Although their union would have financial benefits, maybe passion smoldered there, too.

"It's not something I think much about." A whirlwind of perpetual and almost noiseless motion, Kemp was looking behind some of the smaller paintings on the wall, including a likeness of Haverford, which he set askew. "I've had a lot of lovers, and I've been fond of each and every one of them. I'm happy, and they're happy. It's best not to labor these things." He paused and shot Raef a conspiratorial wink. "You should try it."

Try what? Try being Kemp's lover? Raef would like that, but…

A board squeaked in the corridor beyond the bedroom. Kemp grabbed a female bust with snakes for hair and hurried to the door, holding it aloft. But the footfall stopped short, and the potential interloper entered an adjoining room.

"Hurry," breathed Kemp. "Search the dressing room."

No more time to muse about love, lovers, or Cecilia. Raef hastened to the door and opened it. The dressing room was darkish, the windows covered with crimson curtains, which afforded everything a blood-red glow. All the furniture—each table, chair, and cabinet—had been wrought from moldering deer's antlers.
Ugh.
If this was Haverford's notion of attractive décor, they would never have got along. Even if Haverford hadn't been a monster.

He explored the chamber as dispassionately as he could. A draft wafted a set of drapes hung opposite the windows, suggesting a further compartment was concealed behind. Raef swished them aside and froze.

He was face-to-face with Lord Haverford, who stood tall in a pillared niche. Raef's veins froze to ice. If his throat hadn't been so constricted, he'd have screamed. Apart from … no, this wasn't Lord Haverford. The figure resembled his corpse, the skin made of wax, the eyes glassy and lifeless. It was a fake man; some kind of doll.

Only the vainest freak alive would keep a full-size replica of themselves in their dressing room. Raef stared, entranced. The mannequin
was
beautiful, from its styled locks to its Hessian boots. His initial terror having passed, Raef momentarily forgot the morbidity of the chamber and even the press of danger. If only Haverford were still like this doll to him, a blank canvas for his dreams. Dreams that'd been obliterated. And now Raef had… well, he had a companion for the time being, though Kemp's lighthearted dismissal of love set him heaving a downhearted sigh. Even if Kemp wanted Raef as one of his many bed partners, Raef could already have a rival in Cecilia. He didn't think he could endure sharing in such a way. His fantasies about devotion between he and Haverford that could be shared with no other had proved a sham. Yet, he'd gleaned much comfort from them.

He brushed the satin of the fake Haverford's cuffs and noted an oddly-shaped bulge at the doll's crotch. It looked like a tube had been tucked in there. Or maybe a scroll or map. Hope flared. Kneeling down, he reached for the buttons at the front of the doll's buckskin breeches and slipped the first two free. It was enough. He reached inside the fabric and grasped a roll of paper.

Just as the doll lifted its waxy hand and wiggled its fingers.

"Aaagh!" Raef cut his scream off fast. Kemp was already through the dressing room door and behind him. He didn't rip his gaze from the doll. The thing.

"What the blazing eels?" hissed Kemp.

"It moved." Raef gasped, then barely contained another cry when the doll shifted its eyes, left to right.

"It's an automaton." Kemp grabbed Raef by the scruff of his smock, jerking him up. "A clockwork doll. You joggled its workings and set it off." Raef had heard about the clocks that humans used to record time, not being so in accord with the seasons and sun as the merfolk, and relief flurried. The fake Haverford was still deadly creepy. "This sort of thing is all the rage in London, but we've no damned time for toys." Kemp snatched the paper from Raef's hand. "What's this?"

"I-it was hidden," stammered Raef. "In the doll's, uh, breeches."

Kemp shot Raef a quizzical glance and uncurled the paper. They grunted as one with frustration. It wasn't a map; it was a sketch of a man's face, a gruesome set of features devoid of jawline or hair. Still, it afforded Raef a double take. Those narrow eyes and that hooked nose looked strangely familiar, as did that mouth and those flinty brows.

"I know this face," he murmured, though he couldn't place it.

"You do?" Kemp pointed to the corner of the picture. Inscribed in a neat copperplate hand, were the words,
For Cecilia
. "Look."

Kemp slapped Raef's back so hard that Raef staggered. "I take it all back. You're a natural at this burglary business."

Raef beamed. Now Kemp was with him, this was fun again. "But how can we find anything from a drawing of a—"

There came a gasp, then a cry, from the adjoining room. Somebody had entered. "My lord's bedchamber has been defiled," shouted a woman. "Fetch the yeomanry, quick!"

"So the revels begin." Kemp bolted the dressing room door, jammed one of the antler chairs under the handle, then threw curtains aside and flung the window up. Somebody banged on the closed door, which rattled precariously.

"Thieves! Come quickly, they're in here."

Raef felt sick. They were too high up to jump. "Out of the window," Kemp instructed, grabbing Raef and manhandling him onto the sill, where he crouched, the wind whipping his hair. "See the drainpipe?" Raef did; a lead column less than a yard afar, just beyond his reach. The bedroom balcony was beyond, but too far away. "Use that and the ivy, if needs be. You were good in the rigging, lad, so you'll be fine."

It was a fifteen-foot drop onto a stone terrace. Already the shouts of "Robbers!" and "Get 'em!" resounded from the far side of the house. Any moment now, the lock would give, and the antlers would fracture. The strip of beach seemed distant, the stormy waves foreboding. Even if he could escape that far, it had to be about half an hour 'til sunset. It was hard to tell from such a menacing sky. Nothing seemed real apart from Kemp's closeness, his hot breaths and gentle clasp on Raef's arm, which infused him with thrills.

"We'll make it," said Kemp, urging him forward, "together."

After inhaling sharply, Raef stretched, and leaped for the drainpipe. Air smashed his face, and he grabbed and hugged the pipe, then shimmied down it. One hand gripped beneath the other so quickly he didn't see them move. Kemp jumped too, and was descending above him the same instant Raef heard a splintering crack. The dressing room door had been vanquished, their pursuers entering.

Raef jumped the last four feet, landing with a slap on the terrace and stumbling forward. Kemp dropped at least six feet, alighting a with graceful knee bend. Not ten paces to their left, some French windows burst open. Kemp grabbed Raef's hand—no resistance from Raef this time—and they ran, down the steps, sweeping across the lawn amid swirling orange leaves. Drizzle stung their faces, and the wind fought against them. Behind them, yeomen tore out of the house, and servants joined them.

"It's that blasted pirate and his boy. Shoot the blackguards." The bellow belonged to Haverford, though Raef daren't glance back any more. He'd made this dash before and succeeded in escaping. He'd had the murk of the early morning to aid him then, and this time he had Kemp. They clasped their sweaty palms together, their pulses galloping as one. When he stumbled, Kemp gripped him tighter, jerking him forward as soon as he'd righted himself.

"No time for detours, lad." Kemp's bronzed skin glowed with the exhilaration of the chase. They'd nearly reached the edge of the lawn when a bang blasted and shot peppered the air to the left of them. Somebody had fired a blunderbuss. The shock of the close escape tightened Raef's lungs as they jumped down onto the shale, heading for the sea. Not that they had any other choice. One of the fishermen emerged from a cottage and charged toward Raef and Kemp, a harpoon raised.

They outpaced the range of the fellow with the blunderbuss, leaping over rocks and pools. Finding cover behind a high rock, they leaned back against it. The high waves curled and crashed down before them. Kemp stuffed the sketch in a small glass vial, which he corked.

"I was going to make for our harbor via land," he panted, kicking off his shoes. Raef did the same and tore off the smock. "But we'd have led them straight to the ship. I'm in your hands now."

"What?" Retreating waters raked the pebbles back with a grinding roar.

 Kemp clasped Raef's shoulders. "No man could make the swim you did yesterday. Only a merman could do that."
He knows. It's not even a suspicion, he knows!
"Strong I may be, but I can't swim around the northern headland without help on a day as choppy as this, so—"

"There they are." The man with the blunderbuss stood parallel with them, the muzzle raised, not fifteen yards across the beach. He pulled back the trigger and fired just as Raef plunged into the agitated waters, Kemp at his side. The shots scattered above their heads and pitted surf that swirled and simmered like a cauldron. Raef and Kemp half-crawled, half-swam through the shallows, battling through tangles of weed. A great wave swamped over them, and they let the undertow drag them out.

"Just swim," said Raef, fighting to keep his head up and hardly knowing what to think or feel. Kemp knew what he was, and it didn't appear to be a problem. "I-I won't get my tail 'til the sun sets," he admitted. Another wave thumped them, and he gulped a mouthful of brine.

"We'll have to look after each other, then," called Kemp when he emerged. They both fell quiet and concentrated on negotiating the waters, which humped and elongated, one moment pulling them out towards the headland, the next battering them back. They were already out of their depths, unable to touch the bottom. Meanwhile, on the shingle beach, Haverford's men were pushing out one of the fishing boats.

Raef did his best to stay near Kemp, whose long locks were plastered flat. Right now, Kemp was the one making better progress, carving the frothy crests with muscular strokes. Raef paddled wildly, swallowing water, but struggling on. However robust Kemp was, if they kept plowing out to sea, they'd both drown. But if Raef could just fight the ocean long enough to get his tail, he'd have the strength to speed against the tides and save them both. The prospect made his heart sing.

Somebody needed him.
Kemp
needed him. Though his battle sapped his human frame, he gritted his teeth and vowed to endure. The sun dropped low, a sulfurous glint among fast-moving brown vapors, but not yet low enough.

The prow of the headland rose above them, the ruins of the chapel nestled near the edge. With luck and the current on their side, they managed to skirt around the point. They were far enough from the rocks to avoid being pulverized, yet too close for Haverford's vessel to tack near. Between the waves' crests, Raef caught glimpses of the bobbing ship, the occupants shouting and jostling each other to the verge of tipping it. The man with the gun shielded his eyes against the drizzle. The elements aided Kemp and Raef in that respect, if few others. The waves heaved ever greater, rising over and between them without rest. Kemp was tiring too, spitting, swallowing, and choking. High above, the gulls screeched and wheeled upon the storm.

"Here!" Raef launched toward Kemp, offering a hand. Kemp grabbed it, his skin turned pale beneath his tan. The flow took them north, then swirling west and out to sea. The same tides bore the fishing boat, in which somebody had managed to raise the sail, though surely the men in the ship would give up soon. After all, the likelihood was Raef and Kemp would drown. Raef's enthusiasm to help Kemp couldn't keep him going much longer … and gods, a towering whitecap headed their way.

"Ra—"

Kemp's cry was cut off as the wall of water pummeled into them, tossing Raef sideways like a piece of flotsam and tearing him and Kemp apart. Swept beneath, Raef’s terror spiraled. He thrashed to find the surface, then was pounded under and sucked deep. He flailed, suffocating, half-dead already. He'd been so busy surviving that he'd lost all awareness of the setting sun, but it was going to be too late unless …
Yes!
The magic began to tingle and build. He stopped kicking, the bubbles draining from him, willing the transformation, believing and yearning. He even cherished the pain as his gills split open and his legs fused and reformed, which kept his consciousness from waning.