Wounds, page 23
“Because all your miserable life, no one has ever loved you. Because yes, you are ugly, and you’re mean, and you’re lonely. I knew you for who you were the moment I saw you. Are you a Satanist, Rufus?”
“I’ve never given religion much thought, miss.”
“You should be. Love is Hell’s breath. You crave it. Your whole soul shakes with it. You are suitable for the Prince, Rufus. Not this coward.” She looked at Thickett, shivering naked on the floor. “He runs from the honor. He’s perfectly suited to my father’s weak palate. There’s nothing left of him but fear.” She prodded him with her toe. “I’m almost sorry for you, Mr. Thickett. You won’t even get that, now. Your whole life was wasted.”
“Please.” It was Thickett, wrapping a hand around Mr. Gully’s ankle. Blood ran from his nose and dribbled down his chin.
Gully extracted his foot and knelt beside him. “What is it you want then, aye?”
Thickett’s hands continued to grasp for him, one on his knee, the other reaching for his hand. “Get me out.”
“I’ll just let you go then, shall I? And what of Miss Cobb?”
“Kill her. Kill her right now. Please.”
“That’s not very charitable.”
“You don’t know what she is.”
“No? What is she?”
Thickett swallowed. His eyes fixed on Gully in a mad, hopeful stare. Did he sense some distant possibility here? He clutched Gully’s sleeve. “She’s a monster. They’re all monsters.”
“All of them!”
“Yes!” Thickett waited for some action. When it didn’t come, he began to understand that Gully was toying with him. Watching his small hope crumble was a remarkable experience. “Don’t kill her then. Don’t kill anyone if you don’t want to. Just open the door and I’ll run. I’ll swim for shore. I’ll swim for it. I don’t care if I drown. I just don’t want this.”
Gully slapped his hand away. He grabbed Thickett’s lower jaw and squeezed, turning his head to the side. “Don’t want it? You thankless shit. You don’t deserve it.”
He slipped his knife from its sheath and pressed it against the artery in Thickett’s neck. Miss Cobb stopped him with a light hand on his shoulder.
“Not yet, Rufus.”
Gully withdrew the knife with some difficulty. The contempt he felt for this cowardly little man almost overwhelmed his better instincts. Thickett didn’t even put up a fight. He just slumped back to the floor, curling into himself again. He shivered with cold or with fear.
Miss Cobb leaned closer to Gully from behind, her lips close enough to his ear that when she spoke it tickled his hair and stopped his breath. “Love must be earned, Rufus. With restraint, and with silence. Wait until the Feast. Do it when they have no choice but to turn to you instead. And then it will be your turn, Rufus. Your turn in the light, at last.”
Gully wiped a tear from his cheek.
~ ~ ~
You’re out there somewhere, Toussaint thought. He scanned the horizon, obscured by darkness and a pitching sea. The sky and its pinwheeling stars provided no light.
Captain Toussaint, Mr. Hu, and Mr. Johns had been to the Dark Water once before. Six years ago, when he was simply Beverly Toussaint, first mate to Captain Tegel, who commanded Butcher’s Table with vicious and bloody efficiency. They had found a lotushead on an English merchant vessel they’d captured off the Carolina coast. A member of the Church of England had custody, and he was quick to surrender his secrets when Captain Tegel displayed for him all his various instruments of persuasion, glinting in the hot sun. Upon learning what he wanted, Tegel had the man flayed anyway, as a rebuke against the God he represented. “Let us see how much of your blood I have to spill before He decides to make Himself known to me.”
In fact he spilled all of it, and God remained absent.
Captain Tegel commanded Mr. Johns to hack into the lotushead’s flesh, provoking the strange cries that opened the way from the Atlantic Ocean to the Dark Water. From there they sailed to Hell’s coastline, and it was there that Beverly Toussaint first laid eyes on the galleons of the Black Law, enforcers of the infernal order. It was there that he learned of the secret commerce that transpired between Hell and his own world, right under the Black Law’s nose.
Captain Tegel had found a place where he could unleash his cruelest aspect and be celebrated for it. He decided to stay behind, breaking Mr. Toussaint’s heart. Toussaint feared he would never hear of him again, but over the years word began to trickle back to him: of the captain who commanded the brigantine Angel’s Teeth, carving a cruel path through the dark sea; of the captain who left ships burning in his wake, whether pirates or vessels of the Black Law; of the captain who garlanded the rigging of his own vessel with the bones of his enemies, so that others told stories of hearing their clatter carried on the night wind, signaling his passage. Toussaint knew that his old lover was flourishing.
And unlike these men muttering stories under lamps of whale oil, he knew Tegel’s true purpose, one they had agreed to share all those years ago: smuggling the Damned out of Hell and back into the world. Toussaint because he would spit in the eye of any god or devil that tolerated the enslavement of human beings; Tegel because he wished only to usurp the order of things. Any order at all.
And now Beverly Toussaint was a captain himself, and he stood at the prow of his ship to honor the contract he’d made with the man he loved.
He heard a familiar tread approaching from behind.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hu,” he said, without turning around. “I know you and Mr. Johns were close.”
Mr. Hu leaned onto the railing beside him. He did not speak for a long moment, watching the dark horizon instead, where lightning bellied the clouds. “Well,” he said. “It was the Virginian.”
Captain Toussaint looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The one called Major. He got in Johns’s way, tripped him up. Wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”
Captain Toussaint took a moment to absorb the information. “What did you do about it?”
“Nothing. You know me better than that. We have a job to do.”
He nodded. “I’m grateful for your restraint. You’ll have your chance later.”
“With respect, Captain, I don’t need your permission for that.”
“No. I understand.” Mr. Hu and Mr. Johns had a long and complicated history, and the captain did not presume his own authority could outweigh it. Mr. Hu would handle the Virginian as he saw fit, and that was the end of it. “What about the lotushead?”
“Secured again, for the trip home.” The return trip would likely kill the creature; they were notoriously fragile.
“And our friend Mr. Dunwood?”
“He’s below, in the new accommodations. He and the priest are sleeping on soft beds tonight. Soft beds for soft men. I look forward to seeing the end of them.”
“Soon, Mr. Hu. Very soon.”
Mr. Hu shifted, and there was a hitch in his breath. Captain Toussaint observed him from the corner of his eye. “Say it,” he said.
Mr. Hu deliberated for a moment. “Has it occurred to you that he will be different?”
He was talking about Tegel. Toussaint turned to face him. “Different,” he said.
“Yes. He’s been here six years. The whole atmosphere on this ship has turned sour just by the presence of that gang of Satanists we’re carrying. What happens to a man who’s chosen to live here?”
“You pick an interesting time to voice your concern, Mr. Hu.”
Hu Chaoxiang put his hands on the railing and looked at them when he spoke. “I wouldn’t have. But Johns was apprehensive too. He didn’t want to do this. Now he’s dead, so I have to say it.”
His first mate was practical and efficient; in that way he reminded Captain Toussaint of Tegel. And he was a killer, too, but unlike their old captain he was always cool in the act. He possessed an admirable self-control, an ability to separate himself from the red moment with a thoroughness that had preserved his life many times. And so his nervousness now was almost charming.
Almost.
“Yes, Mr. Hu. It has occurred to me that he will be different.”
Mr. Hu was still. After a moment, he nodded.
“Do you still have the stomach for this?”
“Yes, Captain. Yes, I do.”
“Good.” He slapped his old friend on the shoulder. “Put some fresh eyes in the crow’s nest. We have to be sharp, now.”
Mr. Hu turned and went about his task. Captain Toussaint returned his gaze to the strange sea, still looking for a glimpse of his heart’s object, ringing with bone chimes and flying a black flag.
~ ~ ~
At the coordinates provided by the Black Iron Monk, the rounded head of a giant protruded from the pitching sea, its skin as black as an inkpot, its pale white eyes irisless and blind. The lower half of its face remained beneath the waves. Martin stood beside Captain Toussaint at the prow of the ship, the questing tendrils of an oncoming storm whipping them with wind and rain. He stared at the vast creature through the captain’s spyglass. The surge of waves made fixing the beast with the glass a difficult prospect, but it was large enough that at no time did it leave his vision. Martin’s heart thrilled at the reality of the experience. Communicating with the monk through the hellward candle was one thing, but here was a creature of Hell in the flesh, in service to the Order of the Black Iron, which was in turn—for the moment—in service to him.
. . . I think this is how the Burning Prince Himself must have felt. . . .
Captain Toussaint said, “By God, is that him?”
Martin smiled. “No indeed. It is the vessel by which he arrives.”
That seemed to be good enough for the captain. His voice boomed: “Drop the launch! Smartly now!”
The launch boat struggled through the waves toward the giant, six men heaving at the oars to the very limits of their strength, Mr. Hu perched at its prow, a coil of rope wound about his right arm. If any of them were afraid of the great beast, Martin could not tell.
The launch boat pulled up a dozen yards short of the giant. Mr. Hu stared at the monster, rocking with each pitch of the boat with all the ease of a man standing on solid English earth. After a moment, the head lifted out of the sea, runnels of water streaming like a heavy rain. The water churned around it in a vast radius, encompassing both the launch boat and even Butcher’s Table itself, its decks thronged with spectators.
Jet-black tentacles rippled along the surface of the waters, propelling the head closer to the launch. It opened its mouth to reveal a red tongue, which it extruded toward the boat, and upon which stood the Black Iron Monk, standing as still as a pillar, his black robes fluttering about him. A black iron box encased his head: the physical manifestation of the order’s Vow of Darkness, and the device that protected them during their sojourns through Hell.
Mr. Hu had no need of his rope. The beast’s tongue touched the tip of the launch with delicacy, and the monk stepped into Mr. Hu’s grasp like a gentleman alighting from a carriage. The launch returned to the ship as the beast slipped beneath the waves again.
Once on deck, the Black Iron Monk was left to Martin’s care. He reeked of Hell: char and smoke and, underneath it, something delicately sweet. Martin guided the figure belowdecks to the first mate’s quarters, which he’d recently vacated. Since Mr. Johns had met his end, the room had been deemed unlucky, and no one had moved in to take his place.
It seemed a ridiculous setup. The monk was a figure of awe, even terror: someone who had actually passed across the border into Hell’s radiant fields and recorded what he witnessed there, in whatever way the monks could witness a place. He was practically a figure of mythology to Satanists the world over, and now Martin had brought him to a small, cramped room, where he must sit on a box or swing on a hammock like any normal fool.
“Forgive me,” Martin said, not even sure the monk could hear him from inside his iron box. “The accommodations are rough. We are ill prepared for someone of your standing.”
The monk gave no reaction. He simply stood in the center of the room, unconcerned with the furnishings. Martin had the unnerving thought that he was like a broom that had been tucked back into its closet, there to remain immobile until fetched to perform his function.
A step sounded behind him, and Martin turned to see Fat Gully standing there, his expression subdued for once, a hint of wonder in his eye.
“This is him, then, aye? The man from Hell.”
“Not from Hell. The Order of the Black Iron resides along its border. They are cartographers.”
“Does he talk?”
Martin felt a flush of shame at Gully’s performance of ignorance. “The monks communicate differently. Please stand outside, Mr. Gully. But do not go far. I must speak with you.”
“I’m never far, Mr. Dunwood.” He gave the monk another lingering glance, and retreated from the room.
Martin retrieved parchment, quill, and inkpot from a drawer. He placed them atop a box and said, “If you’ll be so kind as to produce the map. As specific as you can, please. Also, the routes of the Black Law’s patrol. We must not be discovered. I know you understand.”
When the monk neither moved nor spoke, Martin decided that he must leave him to it and simply trust that it would be done. He left the cramped room, securing the door behind him, and found Mr. Gully waiting for him there as promised.
Gully opened his mouth to speak, but Martin silenced him by grasping his bicep and ushering him farther down the tight corridor. “When we arrive at the cove, upon my order, you will sever the monk’s head from his neck. Regardless of whether the priest endorses our wedding, Miss Cobb and I will not be returning with you. The head will serve as our atlas, and we will take it together into Hell. And you will be released from your contract.”
“What, you and the lady are just going to wander off into Hell together? You’ve lost your senses.”
“Well, it is love, after all. And what would you know of that?”
~ ~ ~
When Martin revisited the monk’s quarters a short while later, the parchment he’d left behind was covered with instructions and a detailed map. Martin thanked him and carried the information to Captain Toussaint, who studied it carefully. Within the hour, he had plotted their course, wending carefully through the patrol lanes of the Black Law. He was convinced he could guide them through unnoticed.
Butcher’s Table filled its sails with wind, pushing through the rough waves and the whipping rain. Black clouds boiled overhead. Martin could no longer distinguish night from day. Alice stood by his side. She seemed happier than she was the previous night, even unconcerned that her father might notice their attachment to each other. He was curious, but he had learned long ago not to press her. She would tell him what she wanted to, when she wanted to. He was content with that.
Fat Gully hovered nearby, never out of eyesight. That his engagement with him was fast approaching its end gave Martin the will to bite back a curt dismissal. He was so tired of the little man’s grotesque appearance, his sneers and his effronteries. Leaving him behind to fend for himself would be one of the greatest joys he’d ever known.
Behind them all the crew labored in eerie silence. The white sails had been taken down and black ones raised in their place. Captain Toussaint had issued an order that no man should speak aloud, all communication to be done through hand signals. Although the constant storm made it unlikely that the sound of their passage would reach the Black Law, he took nothing for granted.
Martin peered into the white foam below, conscious of the vast creature that had delivered the monk to them only hours before. He imagined whole civilizations beneath them, cities of such monsters with heads bent in contemplation of alien philosophies, engaging in wars, creating strange art. The thought both thrilled and appalled him.
Alice touched his arm, breaking his reverie, and pointed ahead. He squinted into the spitting rain, seeing nothing but the rolling waves, the spray of water, the shifting clouds. After a moment’s patience, though, he saw it: land. A jagged coastline, like teeth from a jawbone, barely discernible in the turbulent air. Excited, he turned to alert the crew, only to discover that they all saw it. Men hung from the rigging, or paused on deck, and stared. Captain Toussaint, standing on the aft deck, held his spyglass to his eye. Mr. Hu stood at his side. Martin turned to look again, his heart leaping. Here was Hell’s coast.
He felt a kind of fear he could only describe as ecstatic.
Alice whispered into his ear: “Soon, my love.”
He took her by the waist and kissed her recklessly, heedless of the consequences for either of them. Inviting them, even. He felt that old surge of power, that kingly entitlement. This time, she did not resist him. Perhaps she was no longer afraid of her father. Perhaps she was unable to resist the magnetism he felt exuding from his bones like an elemental energy.
Let Abel Cobb come for him. Let Fat Gully, let Captain Toussaint, let them all descend upon them with knives drawn. He would christen Hell’s ocean with their blood.
~ ~ ~
They sailed several leagues down the coastline. At no time did Martin see a place they might make landing; the land was jagged stone and tall cliff, the waves breaking themselves against great, toothy rocks well before the shoreline. If he did not place so much faith in the infallibility of the Order of the Black Iron, he would have begun to despair already. He could already see the doubt kindling in the eyes of the crewmen who passed him as they performed their duties. He doubted them before he doubted the map; how long would Captain Toussaint’s influence keep them on task?
Mr. Gully seemed to share his apprehension. Always close, he now seemed fastened to his side like a barnacle, the hilt of his knife prominently displayed where it protruded from his belt. Alice, for her part, seemed completely untroubled. Whether in the company of himself or of her father, she expressed nothing but delight at their imminent success.
