Player's Ruse (24 page)

“Wait!” I said urgently. I had no idea what to say next, and they ignored me anyway. The hand gripping my hair hauled me to my feet. It hurt a lot.

“Not that one,” said Jack calmly. “We have an agreement, remember.”

My guards shoved me to my knees again, but the guards—three of them—hauling Michael toward the edge didn’t stop. Michael’s boots skidded on the stony ground.

“Don’t do this,” I shouted. “Don’t!”

“You really think he’d go with you?” Dawkins asked Jack. “And not turn on us later?”

Jack went on speaking, but I paid no attention. Michael was fighting now, throwing his weight from side to side. A gust of wind sent all of them staggering, and he almost broke free.

I must have tried to stand; the grip on my hair forced me down so hard that tears blurred my vision. I strained against the ropes.

The three men struggling with Michael called for another to help them. They picked him up, one grasping each kicking leg, one at each shoulder. They moved more rapidly, carrying him.

“Wait!” Two guards were holding me now. Fighting wasn’t going to work. “Jack, stop this! I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want!”

Michael got in a good kick as they drew near the edge and sent one of them sprawling. The man almost went over, and rolled away from the drop swearing with fright. The other three stepped up to the cliff and pitched Michael over. I don’t know if he screamed, because I did, raw and wordless. Useless.

My heart was trying to pound its way out of my rib cage. My throat had locked tight. My blank, no-it-can’tbe shock was edged with knives. It could be. It was.

I doubled over, despite the drag on my scalp, a strangled whimper escaping my choked throat.

“All done, sir,” the guard reported to Dawkins, who was arguing, low voiced, with Jack.

“Did you watch to be sure he got to the bottom?” Dawkins asked. “You ass! You know the cliff’s not sheer. He could have hung up on the path, or a bush or something. Look over and make sure.”

It’s hard to get good help these days.

I knew I should pay attention to the discussion between Jack and Dawkins—it was my execution, after all—but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Maybe Michael had hung up on a bush, or the path, or some such thing. Maybe . . . I watched the guard grumble his way to the cliff edge, glance over, and come back.

“He went all the way down,” he reported.

“Well, make sure of him when you get down,” said Dawkins. “No point—”

The storm interrupted him. Thunder boomed and heavy drops pelted down, just a handful at first, leaving wet circles on the rocks, wetting my shoulders. Then they thickened to a downpour. Cold water trickled down my scalp, down my face, down my back beneath my vest. It would hide any tears I might have shed, and that was good, because I had to lie in order to survive. To survive, come back, and see these bastards hang to the last man.

I owed Michael that. I took a deep breath, struggling for calm. The cold helped, but my throat still felt like an iron shackle was clamped around it—my voice would give me away. Well, let it. At this point, it was useless to pretend I hadn’t cared. But Michael was dead now—I had to look out for myself. Jack would believe that. It was what he’d do.

I would use that blindness. Use it to destroy him.

The first fury of the storm dwindled from a torrent to a hard, steady fall, but one that men could speak through. And more to the point, see through.

The man with the spyglass called, “Ship!” and Dawkins turned abruptly.

“Can you make out her name?”

“Not at this distance. She’s coming from the west, though.”

“Then she’s probably the
Night Heron
. We’ll try for her.” Dawkins stepped forward and took the glass. “You, up the ladder, but wait till you see a man on the other high point before you light it. Markham . . .” He turned to Jack, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “Why don’t you light the other signal. I don’t trust a man whose hands are too clean.”

Jack glanced at me. “No problem, as long as you promise not to . . . make our debate academic, shall we say, in my absence. My employer can make use of this man, and he hates it when people waste things he can use.”

Dawkins’s lips compressed. “Very well, I won’t kill him till you get back. But hurry.”

“Jack, don’t,” I murmured as he passed me.

He stopped, looking down. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t light the other signal. If they see only one, they won’t know where the harbor is. They won’t come in.”

Jack shook his head. “You’ve changed, Fisk. Must be that loser you’ve been traveling with. Maybe . . .” He shrugged and went to the horses, riding out at a gallop a few seconds later. He was going to do it. My shoulders sagged. But I had to try. Michael would have haunted me forever if I hadn’t.

On the other hand, if Jack wrote me off as a loser, I’d be in no position to do anyone any good. And I really wanted to see these bastards hang.

No, what I really wanted was Michael, alive. But I’d settle for what I could get.

It didn’t take Jack long to reach the other signal. I couldn’t see him, but the guard who’d scuttled up the ladder with a torch called down that he was there and bent to kindle the logs. Even in the rain, the pitch-soaked logs weren’t hard to light. Soon the fire crackled and leapt—high enough for me to see the flames.

The minutes crawled past. Through the leaden numbness that filled my heart, a precarious hope began to sprout. Maybe the sailors wouldn’t spot the fires till they were too far past to turn in. Maybe the captain would be too alert, too wary.

Then Dawkins turned away from the sea, folding the glass with a snap. “They’re coming.” He ignored the others’ hungry cheer and went on crisply. “We’d better get into position. Rogers, take everyone down. I want the boats ready to launch the moment she hits the rocks—take no chances on this one breaking up.”

The men were already moving down the cliff path, which started at one side of the clearing. No wonder Dawkins had feared Michael might hit it. If only he had. Grief flooded in, but I’d learned the futility of wishing the dead back to life before I met Jack.

One of my guards followed his comrades, and the man who was gripping my hair called, “What about me?”

Dawkins, who’d just put on his spectacles, regarded me thoughtfully. “You come over here and keep an eye on the ship.” He passed his man the spyglass and drew his sword. “I’ll watch this one. If he tries to run”—he shrugged—“that ends the debate.”

Suddenly my head was free. I started to rise, instinctively, but desisted at a gesture of Dawkins’s sword. We both knew that if I ran for it, he could catch me and cut me down, probably before I made it out of the clearing. Unless he was really distracted—by a ship, say, striking the rocks. I settled back, letting my shoulders sag, faking defeat.

I had to wait, bide my time. But my heart ached, and it was for more than Michael’s loss. I didn’t want that ship to strike the rocks. My all-too-excellent imagination painted the picture clearly. The biting crunch as the hull struck, the lurch of the ship, sending the crew tumbling, injured, disoriented. Easy prey for the wreckers slipping alongside in their slim, dark boats.

My stomach knotted. I was bound, under guard, and Michael was dead. If there was anything I could do to save them, I didn’t see it. The only thing I could do for the people on that ship was survive to avenge them. And revenge was already foremost in my plans.

The ship continued to sail in, slowed by the rough seas. My clammy clothes stuck to my skin and I shivered. I lowered my eyes, hoping to lull Dawkins into ignoring me, but two muddy boots appeared in my field of vision and I looked up to meet Dawkins’s gaze. His spectacles were speckled with raindrops, despite the wide brim of his hat.

“So, Master Fisk, Markham says you’ll come over to us. Not turn us in. Not try to avenge your friend. Is that true? Are you such a spineless bastard you’d trade your friend’s life for your own and a bit of gold?”

He was bored, curse him. I hate being “entertainment” for a multiple murderer.

“Why not?” I asked. “You’ve killed dozens of people, some of them your own townsfolk, for a bit of gold.”

“And here I thought you liked him.” He reached out with the tip of his sword, tracing a line from one eye down my cheek, where a tear would fall. If he cut the skin, I was too numb with cold to feel it, but it was hard not to flinch.

“He’s dead,” I said. “All the revenge in the world won’t change that. And it puts no food on my plate. Let’s just say I’d listen to an offer.”

“An—”

“Coming in, steady as she goes,” the guard called. But he’d lowered the spyglass to watch the little drama Dawkins was playing out, with only occasional glances seaward.

“An offer?” Dawkins’s sword whispered up the side of my throat, claiming my undivided attention. The sharp edge came to rest under one ear, then bit, just a little.

I wasn’t as cold as I’d thought. The trickle of blood down my neck felt like fire.

“If I have ears, of course.” It was hard to keep my voice steady. “It’s difficult to listen to an offer without ears.”

“You’re interested in my money?”

“Why not?” I asked again. “You must have a lot of it, by this time.”

“Ah, but it takes a lot of money,” said Dawkins, “to start your own bank.”

I choked. “You want to be a
banker
? That’s what this is about? There are easier . . . Oh. Planning on competing with Burke, are you?”

“Planning on killing Burke.”

The sword scraped across my throat, not cutting this time.

“Then planning on surpassing him, and all the stupid bastards who’ve been pitying me. They pitied my father, too. By the time I’m finished, this town will be bankrupt, and I . . .”

The sword waltzed slowly downward, a direction I really hated to see it go, past my madly thumping heart, past my quivering belly. My genitals were retracting when it withdrew.

“. . . I will be a rich banker in Tallowsport. What do you think of that, Master Fisk?”

“Sounds fine to me.” My voice shook now, despite my best efforts. “But it also sounds like you’ll be needing the services of a good fence for some time. Do you want to anger your friend Markham’s employer over a trivial matter like—”

Michael’s head appeared over the edge of the cliff. He had a bruise on one cheekbone, and his lips were pressed tight with determination.

Michael.

Reality seemed to shiver around me, then shift back into its proper place. The guard was looking at me, his back to the cliff. Dawkins began to laugh. “Oh, well done. The sudden stop, the wide, fixed stare. The oldest trick in the book. Do you really expect me to turn around and give you a chance to run for it?”

“I rather hope you won’t,” I said truthfully, watching Michael stride softly toward the guard, lifting the rock clenched in his fist. My heart was singing.

The thud of stone striking flesh, the clatter of the guard’s fall, sent Dawkins spinning. I seized the moment to wobble to my feet and stagger away, lest it occur to Dawkins to take me out of the equation before he went for Michael.

Michael reached down, steel shrieking as he drew the fallen guard’s sword. “Get that fire out, Fisk. The ship’s coming in.”

“How? There’s a guard up there.”

But looking up, I saw the guard stepping onto the ladder, coming to add his sword to the fray. However Michael had survived, two-on-one odds are too much for anyone. I tried to ignore the clash of swords behind me as I ran for the ladder and wiggled into the small space behind it.

I hooked one foot outside the first rung, so as not to bring the thing crashing down on my head, and leaned all my weight against the rung that was level with my shoulders. The wood bit into my flesh and didn’t budge an inch.

My leverage was rotten with a man’s full weight on the top steps—though he was getting lower far too rapidly. I twisted around, braced my other foot against the hillside, and tried again, and this time the ladder quivered and began to shift. If the descending guard had had any sense, he’d have climbed up again, and the ladder would have fallen back, squashing me in the process. But he tried to come down faster, and the ladder swung slowly out, away from the hill, and then crashed.

Hopping wildly, I managed not to fall when the lowest rung caught my foot. The guard lay on his back, half under the ladder, one hand wavering toward his head.

I ran and kicked his temple with my boot heel, hard enough to keep him from rising for a good long time—maybe forever, but I didn’t care.

Dawkins and Michael were still fighting, the clash and rasp of their swords echoing through the pattering rain. I prayed it couldn’t be heard on the beach below. Dawkins was surprisingly good for a banker’s clerk—I supposed he’d learned from his men over the years. But Michael was holding his own, despite cold, bruises, and an unfamiliar sword.

The ship was coming in to the rocks, with thirty wreckers waiting for it. If Michael could survive a three-hundred-foot fall, he could look after himself for a few more minutes. I had to put that fire out now.

The fallen guard’s sword was beneath his body, but the hilt was clear. I knelt, then sat with my back to him, my numb fingers groping for the hilt. I could barely feel it, but finally I succeeded in wrapping my hands around something hard. I pulled, and my grip slipped off.

A flurry of swords rang out behind me, and Dawkins swore breathlessly. I grinned and tried again. Same result.

I turned on my knees and bent to look more closely—the leather strap that held the sword in its scabbard was twisted firmly over the hilt. I couldn’t see the end of it, and with numb hands I could be fumbling for hours.

And that ship would hit the rocks.

I looked at the rough slope where the ladder had lain, more rock than grass and almost vertical. With my hands bound there was no way to put the ladder back. I started around the tall mound looking for another way up. The clatter of swords quickened my pace, but I didn’t dare look back. If I looked, I might not leave, the ship would sink, and Michael would never forgive me whether he lived or not.

The mound’s west side was the most gradual, which wasn’t to say it was an easy climb for a man with both hands tied behind his back. A third of the way up my boot skidded on a clump of wet grass and almost pitched me over backward. I leaned in and slithered up the rest of the slope on my belly. It wasn’t as if I could get any wetter.