Tin Swift (26 page)

“I’ll need yarrow and clean cotton for bandages. And I’ll need something for the pain that won’t put her to sleep.”

“I’ve got the first two.” Jack tottered along the line of shelves and reached down for a packet of clean cotton cloth. “Bandages.” He set them on the top of a hutch filled with small perfume bottles.

“Yarrow, yarrow…that’s right over here. Haven’t had a bundle for a while.” He pulled a thin metal stick out of his pocket, no bigger around than a cigar. Then he tugged it straight. The brass stick stretched out three feet long. He pointed the clamp on the end toward a jar on one of
the higher shelves. He hooked the jar down and set it next to the bandages.

“As for keeping someone awake and out of pain, I’m not sure there’s much for that. You can have your pick of whiskey, laudanum, or Bateman’s Drops.” He opened a small door on his apothecary hutch.

“No coca leaves?” Captain Hink asked.

Old Jack shook his head. “Bartered them off for a case of champagne. Have a bottle of Peruvian coca tonic left.” He withdrew a slim green bottle.

“Knew a glim runner who used it once,” Hink said to Mae. “He didn’t have complaints.”

Mae held out her hand and Old Jack passed her the bottle. She studied the label. “There’s three dosages worth here.” She considered the long road ahead and that they had lost nearly all their supplies in Vicinity. “Better this and two bottles of laudanum, if you have them.”

“Said I did, didn’t I?” Jack pulled down two bottles. “They ain’t cheap. We’re coming into winter and I won’t have new supplies until the winds calm in spring.”

“You just had an entire ship of supplies dock tonight,” Hink said. “You can’t tell me Beaumont didn’t have a stash of patent medicines on board.”

“I can and I will,” Old Jack said. “You can pay me for what I’m selling, or you can find some other trading post to do your business.”

Hink exhaled in the sort of way that made it seem like he was counting down from ten to one. “You know I landed on nothing but fumes. If you’re expecting me to pony up a fortune, you’re hitting the wrong rock.”

Old Jack licked his lips, his sharp eyes narrowing for the haggle. “You said you’d pay in glim or pay in gold. I want both.”

“I think you may be misinterpreting the word ‘or,’ Jack.”

“And you’re misinterpreting my ability to give a damn, Hink.”

“No. I never thought you cared about anything but your own skin.
That and robbing folks like me blind. I can give you glim in the morning if the
Swift
flies, or gold today. But I ain’t about to give you both.”

Jack sucked on his bottom teeth, then slid a glance at Mae.

Mae gave him an even stare, as if the act of negotiation bored her, instead of showing how frustrated she was. They needed this medicine. Rose needed it. But they had to rely on Captain Hink’s ability to haggle right now.

He was going out of his way to see that Rose had what she needed. Mae didn’t know how she would repay him. Didn’t know if Mr. Hunt had already negotiated some kind of payment.

And she was not about to mess it up by looking desperate.

The men were shaking hands. Mae realized, with a start, that she had been too lost in thought to notice that the negotiation was drawing to a close.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Captain Hink said, the bundles and bottles in his hands, “we’ll take our leave.”

Old Jack gave Mae one last hard stare, as if expecting her to say something or do something.

“Good evening,” she said.

“See them out,” he yelled to the servant waiting a respectable distance behind them.

The servant headed toward the door, and Hink reshuffled the packages in his hands and started walking. Old Jack headed straightwise to his office.

“I’ll expect the money on my doorstep in the morning,” Old Jack said as he lifted the latch on the carved door. “Or that ship of yours becomes my goods.”

“Didn’t put her up as collateral,” Captain Hink said. “Don’t make me straighten your facts with my fists, Jack.”

“Gold or the ship, either fills your debt.”

“You touch the
Swift
and it will be the last thing you fondle,” Hink
said. “I’m not blowing steam. You send anyone for my ship and I’ll kill him dead.”

Captain Hink wasn’t looking at Jack as he strode across the room, but Mae glanced back at the old man.

His office door was half open, his hand still on the latch. Through the windows on the other side of his office the odd green-yellow light flooded the room, and poured out in a wedge around his feet.

“Do not threaten the bear in its den, Captain Hink Cage,” Old Jack said. “The bear always wins.” Then he stepped into his office and slammed the door behind him.

Hink’s jaw was set so hard, the muscle at his temple bulged. He stopped in front of the metal door. For a moment, Mae thought he might just turn on his heel and take up a fight with Old Jack. But instead he blew out a breath and waved at the door.

“Go ahead,” Hink said to the servant. “Open it up. Seems there’s a bear loose in these parts.”

The servant worked the locks and chains and bolts, then pulled the door inward smooth and easy as if it didn’t weigh a thing.

Mae and the captain walked out into the hall.

“I hope you didn’t promise him too much, Captain.”

“That penny-squeezing thief would pick my pocket by way of my tailpipe, if you’ll pardon my language. I didn’t give him a nickel more than those medicines were worth.”

“But your ship…”

“My ship isn’t a part of my debt.” They walked a short way. “He was just blustering because I didn’t have any glim to throw at his feet, the greedy pig.”

“Your kindness hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“Oh?”

“I am grateful for your assistance,” she said, “though I must admit I don’t know why you’ve gone out of your way for us.”

“Haven’t gone that far,” he said quietly. “Was headed over Vicinity when you fell into trouble. Picking you up wasn’t any bother. I’d have put you down somewhere of your choosing before now, but your man—”

“He’s not my man.”

Hink waggled his eyebrows. “—convinced me that our interests align.” He walked a little farther until his bootheels were no longer thudding on wood, but once again fell soft and muted against the dirt and stone hall.

“What interests, Captain Hink?” Mae asked softly so as not to have her own words echo back at her.

“Your man says he can find the Holder. That’s something I’m very much interested in. So do you know if he might be telling me true?”

Mae thought it over. She had a foggy recollection of Cedar telling her he had spoken to the captain about the Holder. And that they’d made a deal.

“I have only known Mr. Hunt to be an honest man. If he gave you his word, his word is good.”

“Then I see this, us traveling together for a bit, as a sort of…partnership, Mrs. Lindson. Where we both benefit from the other’s well-being.”

“That’s good to know, Captain,” Mae said. “And I’m sure Rose will be much more comfortable for your willingness to see things in such a light.”

Captain Hink smiled, and it didn’t take much to see that it was the mention of Rose that had put that smile on his face.

“Do you know her well?” he asked.

“She and I have been friends for many years.” Mae didn’t offer any more information. If the captain was interested in Rose in more than a passing manner, then he’d need to be specific about his inquiries of her.

There was still a bit of a scallywag manner to him. She wasn’t sure that she liked the idea of encouraging his attentions in Rose.

“She heading to family same as you, Mrs. Lindson?”

“She left her family behind.”

“So she’s looking for brighter skies? Man with a ship could show her every corner of these bright heavens.”

They were nearly back to the large common room again. Mae could smell the meat, potatoes, and flapjacks. Her stomach clenched. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in some time. Still, she stopped and turned toward the captain.

“Rose is ill, Captain Hink. She’s going to have all she can handle just holding on to the earth. If she has the fortitude to recover from this…to live…then maybe you can ask her if she’s looking for the sky.”

The captain’s face became blank, his eyes dark. He was a man who had seen death; that was very clear. Mae expected it of a person in his occupation. But what she did not expect was the startled sorrow reflected in the depth of his steady gaze.

“Well, then,” he said softly. “Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”

Mae nodded. “I will, Captain. I will.”

And then they stepped into the room, the captain pulling the flask from inside his coat and taking a long draw as he paced toward the hearth where Seldom leaned.

Mae crossed instead to the sleeping chambers, to do what she could to keep Rose alive.

A
labaster Saint refused to lie back on the table. “If it can’t be done sitting, then it won’t be done.”

Mr. Shunt’s mouth crooked up and his black-tipped tongue flicked over his bottom lip. He held an artful tin cup, carved with hypnotizing intricacy, between his finger and thumb, his other fingers stretched wide. Blood covered his fingers, gathering in a slick rivulet down his wrist to soak into the wetted lace of shirt and coat cuff.

There was blood everywhere in the tent, enough that his sleeves dripped a steady
tick, tick, tick
of it to the damp ground.

Shunt seemed unconcerned about the blood, though he was a difficult man to read. He still wore coat and hat, and in the poorly lit tent, shadows shrouded his eyes.

But when he smiled, those serrated teeth were easy enough to see.

“Yes,” Mr. Shunt said. “Sitting would be most”—he pursed his lips and took a sip of the water from the cup—“satisfactory.”

Lieutenant Foster stood in the corner of the tent behind the general, his gun an easy draw at his side. He shifted a bit at Shunt’s leer, but didn’t pull the weapon on him.

The general had been pleased to see Lieutenant Foster walking under his own power, without any hint of a limp. And now Foster stood, calm and clear-eyed, not showing a hint of recent pain.

Just a handful of hours ago, Lieutenant Foster had been helped off the table in this tent and taken to his cot. A few hours after that, he had washed the sweat and blood off his skin, combed his hair, and put on a fresh uniform.

So he could shoot Mr. Shunt straight through his greasy heart if need be.

“How long will this take?” the Saint asked, removing his uniform jacket and shirt. He left his undershirt in place.

Mr. Shunt had used up nearly all the day to get through the rest of the injured men. He had worked meticulously and methodically, never hurrying.

It was almost as if he savored his work, like a fine craftsman at the bench.

If he didn’t have a part in the right size or shape, he’d pieced together bits of bone, tendons, metal, and leather until he had created a functioning replacement. Every piece was stitched with thread that seemed to spool directly from his razor-sharp fingertips. And every incision he sealed with a smear of glim and tin.

A quarter of the men hadn’t made it through Mr. Shunt’s ministrations. But that was a small price to pay for the rewards reaped by the others.

Of course, Mr. Shunt had seen to it that the freshly dead had not gone to waste. He was as unflinching and clever of a field surgeon as the general had ever seen, and harvested fresh bone, muscle, and flesh at the last rattle of a man’s breath. These he wrapped in clean cotton to add to his supply, or straightaway put them to use.

The Saint did not trust him, did not like him, and did not want to be in debt to him. But he wanted an eye. Wanted the sight that Marshal Cage had taken from him. Wanted two good eyes to see when Marshal Cage suffered in kind.

Six of his most loyal men stood in the cramped tent. Well armed, well rested, three of them having had parts and pieces replaced.

If Mr. Shunt did anything beyond their agreement, he would be dead. Instantly.

The general pressed his shoulders against the chair. Mr. Shunt seemed unconcerned of the men in the room. Unconcerned of the Saint. He sipped water and watched Alabaster over the brim of the cup.

On the table between them was a line of bloody instruments: bone saws, fillet knives, awls, and crimping tools. Just off to one side, nearest Alabaster, was a square piece of white cloth. And in the very center of that cloth was an eye. The yellowing orb had been soaking in glim and tin. Moist and sticky green-gray, the globule looked like it was eaten by rot, even though it was whole, and perfectly round.

Slender bloodred tendrils attached at one end of the eye and curled like mealworms against the white cloth.

The Saint lifted the patch from over the hole in his face and tossed it on the table next to the eye. “Let’s get on with it, Mr. Shunt. There’s people we’d both like to see dead.”

Mr. Shunt placed the spectacular tin cup on the table as if he were handling fine china and then glided over to the general. He bent and leaned in so close to study the hole where Alabaster’s eye had been that the Saint could smell the oiled leather and bitter stink of him.

“Yes,” Shunt whispered, his fingers probing gently around the eye hole. “Such hatred you have for him. And he for you. Joined in nightmare, drenched in blood. Beautiful.”

And then he reached over and plucked the eyeball off the cloth, delicately dangling it by its red strands. He turned back to Alabaster.

There was not even the faintest hint of humanity in his shadowed features.

“If you cannot hold your head still, General Alabaster Saint,” he said. “I will steady it for you.”

He withdrew the small vial of glim and tin and flicked the hinged cork off with his thumb. Then he tipped the vial, his thumb over the mouth to catch a small pool of the odd green and silver mixture.

He recorked the vial, keeping glim balanced on his thumb. Then pressed his fingers across the top of the general’s head and poised his thumb in front of the general’s empty eye socket.

“Now you will know pain.”

The general set his teeth and inhaled through his nose. He had been tortured, maimed, and worse. He was no stranger to pain.