settled in to nurse another pint. The Water Horse might be the seediest, most disreputable pub on the river, but it was the only one that held a promise of a lead to Batiste.
Of all the sailors, dockyard labourers, whores and wharf rats Jack had questioned over the last few days, only the tapster here had flinched at Batiste’s name. A very large purse had bought him the information that one of Batiste’s former crew sometimes drank here.
It was a long shot at best, a fast route to a watery grave at worst. Yet what was the alternative? Pestering Lily Beecham until she heard from her cousin again? Torturing them both and allowing her to goad him into forgetting himself again? He’d rather spend a thousand nights in this sinkhole.
Jack took a drink of the warm ale and grimaced. He’d need an ocean of the stuff to drown his frustration with that girl. Her image hovered in his head, beautiful and lovely and all too tempting. He fought to ignore it, to forget the mad embrace they had shared in Bradington’s gardens. Even the thought of her stirred the emotional turmoil he fought so hard to control.
And perhaps at last he’d come to the real reason he sat at the Horse again tonight. Here he had no attention or emotional energy to spare. Here he had no choice but to focus on his surroundings, on getting the information he sought and on getting himself out alive.
As the hour grew later the likelihood of the latter began to come into doubt. All manner of transactions took place around him, both above board, and by the furtive look of some of the participants, below. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but through it all someone besides Jack remained constant.
A high-backed booth flanked the door, and two men occupied it most of the night. A massive bull of a man, whose short dingy blond hair peeked from beneath a seaman’s cap, sat silent and watchful with a smaller, swarthier man. They were not drinking either, Jack noted, but the tapster didn’t stir himself to chide them. Not once did Jack see a word spoken between them, but as the taproom grew emptier, the smaller man began to flick an occasional, tell-tale glance his way.
He rose. Better to take his chances in the open than to risk events coming to a head here, where those two might have allies and Jack certainly did not.
He left the pub and strode quickly out into Flow Alley. The fog hung thick and rife with the stench of the river. It swirled and clung to him, making him feel as if he had to swim through it instead of walk.
A lamp hanging outside a pub cast an eerie pool of wavering light as he passed. From the mist floated an occasional snatch of disembodied conversation. It was not drunken revelry or ribald negotiations he strained to hear, but it was not until he reached the wide, empty intersection with Great Hermitage Street that he caught a hint of it—the faint echo of a footstep on cobblestones.
Jack ducked instantly into the doorway of a chandler’s shop. If luck was with him, then whoever it was behind him would walk right on by. If it was not, then at least his back was covered.
Much as he’d expected—Lady Luck had abandoned him. First one figure emerged from out of the gloom, then another. The men from the Water Horse.
Jack drew his knife. Nobody spoke. The shorter man hung back, the larger pulled a stout cudgel from his bulky seaman’s sweater and advanced with a menacing stride.
‘Are you here at Batiste’s bidding?’ asked Jack.
The smaller man spat on to the rough stones of the street. ‘Questions like that is what got ye into this mess.’
‘I just meant to ask if you knew what sort of man you were taking orders from,’ Jack said, never taking his eyes off of the big lout.
‘The sort with gold in his pockets,’ snickered the first man. ‘And before ye ask, no, I don’t care how he come by it—as long as he’s forkin’ over my share.’ He thrust his chin towards Jack. ‘Do it, Post.’
The big sailor moved in. Jack braced himself and waited … waited … until the cudgel swung at him in a potentially devastating blow. Quickly he jumped forwards, thrusting his knife, point up and aiming for the vulnerable juncture under the man’s arm.
But the goliath possessed surprisingly swift reflexes. He shifted his aim and blocked the driving thrust of the knife with the cudgel. The point buried itself in the rough wood. With a grin and a sudden, practised jerk, he yanked the blade right from Jack’s grip.
His gut twisting, Jack knew he was finished. But he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. He ducked low and aimed a powerful blow right into that massive midsection.
He swore his wrist cracked. His fingers grew numb. But the giant just grinned. He reached for Jack. Those thick fingers closed around his neckcloth—and suddenly the great ham-hand spasmed open.
Jack looked up into the broad face so close to his. He met a pair of bulging eyes and flinched at the sight of a mouth wide open in a wordless grunt of pain. From this vantage point, the reason for his silence was clear. Some time, somewhere in this man’s violent past, his tongue had been cut out.
Jack strained, trying to slide out from against the door as the brute turned half-away, reaching behind him. His gaze following, Jack saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the man’s meaty thigh.
The giant grasped the knife. With a thick grunt, he pulled it free. Jack acted instantly, kicking the blade out of the oaf’s hand. Never too proud to take advantage of an opponent’s misfortune, Jack aimed another hard kick at his wounded limb. As the leg began to buckle, he reached up and, yanking hard, pulled his knife free from the cudgel. In a flash, he had it at the man’s throat. The point pricked, drawing blood, before his opponent realised his predicament.
The giant froze. Jack looked over at his companion. ‘Back away,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll cut his throat if I have to.’
A curious, regular tapping sounded out of the mist. Jack tensed, waiting to see what new threat would emerge. Someone had thrown that knife. But which combatant had it been meant for?
His mouth dropped and a wave of surprise and relief swept over him as the fog gave up another figure, wiry, grizzled and wearing an elaborately carved peg below one knee.
‘Eli!’ Jack grinned. ‘You’re like a bad penny, always turning up where you’re least expected.’
The diminutive groom brandished another wickedly long knife. ‘Fun’s over for tonight, mates,’ he said.
The swarthy man let out an ugly laugh. ‘Says you.’ He gestured to his partner. ‘Kill ’em bo—’ His sentence ended abruptly as his legs flew out from beneath him. He flailed briefly and hit the cobblestones hard. In a second’s time, the dark-skinned man in a turban kneeled over him and rested a pistol nonchalantly against his chest.
‘Good evening to you, Aswan.’ This time a dose of humiliation mixed with Jack’s relief. How many times would the Egyptian have to snatch him from the jaws of death?
‘The pair of ye got nowhere to go, ‘cept to hell,’ Eli told the villains with a nod. He gestured for Aswan to release his captive. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry to get there, get up and off wi’ ye both.’
‘Aye, and you keep your friend where he belongs,’ snarled the small man. ‘If we see him again we won’t be giving him his chance—it’ll be a knife in the back from out of the dark.’ He glared at Jack. ‘Understand? Keep to your own lot, bookworm.’
The
