Falco aimed the Nightflyer to the northwest. The sails filled and swept them along. The sun had broken through the gray morning clouds and painted the blue sea with gilded caps. There were over a dozen other smaller boats—native craft—in the water around Pendulum Island, embarked from the local harbor that was somewhere in the vicinity of Templeton. They were circling about, their masters and passengers waiting to see if they would have an island to return to. When Matthew stood at the railing and looked back at the island he could see the haze of dust rising in the area where Castle Fell had stood, and fires still burning in the wreckage of the fort and the ravaged woods. For the most part, though, the quake seemed to have ended.
He thought of what Sirki had said, in his last moments of life. He asked me to tell you that he will not be very much damaged by this little incident.
It seemed to Matthew that that was the professor’s pride talking. Great damage had been done to the professor’s schemes and enterprises. His refuge half-destroyed, the gunpowder works likely fully destroyed, the storehouse of Cymbeline gone up, his trusted Sirki gone down, the brothers Thacker finished off, the remains of Fell’s weapons man and finances expert consumed by an octopus, and…of Aria Chillany? Matthew hadn’t asked Minx about that yet, but it was obvious who had survived that bitter confrontation.
But what of Augustus Pons, Toy, Cesar Sabroso and Mother Deare? The problem-solver had no clue. Either they had survived, or they had not. He expected they had. Especially Mother Deare, who seemed to know a great deal about survival.
And Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone. Gone dreaming in her blue silence, which hurt Matthew’s heart but made him realize he could not be the champion for everyone, and he could not make life-or-death decisions for them either.
The sun lay heavy upon him. He was tired, near exhaustion. Finding a hammock below deck and falling into a peaceful sleep would be his idea of paradise right now, but until Captain Falco said he could leave the deck here he stayed.
The Nightflyer had been out of harbor for nearly an hour, and Matthew staggering around doing whatever task he was ordered to do by the first mate, when the very same short, thickly-set bulldog of a man hollered to him over the noise of wind and spray, “You there! Deadwood! Captain wants you! Now!” He hooked a dirty thumb toward the upper deck where the helmsman steered the ship. Falco stood at the stern viewing something behind them through a spyglass.
On climbing up the set of steps to reach that exalted poop deck, Matthew saw immediately what was the captain’s object of attention. A three-masted ship, sails spread, was at their back maybe a mile or so distant.
“That’s Grayson Hardwick’s command,” said Falco, with the pipe gripped between his teeth. “Mr. Hardwick is one of the professor’s best…shall we say…providers. His sloop carries twelve guns. Mr. Landsing!” He was addressing the helmsman, a fair-haired native lad. “Course change twelve degrees port.”
“Twelve degrees port! Aye, sir!”
“They’re after us?” Matthew asked.
“You,” said Falco, “win the prize.” He turned toward the first mate, who had followed Matthew up. He said quietly, with the tone of full and calm authority. “Full sails, Mr. Spedder. Everything we’ve got and more. And when you deliver the orders, do remember that our lives may depend on three extra knots.”
Spedder hollered at the crew in a voice hard enough to shred the bark off a tree, and at once the experienced crew went to work raising whatever sails were not already catching wind.
“Shall I help?” Matthew asked.
“Stay put. I don’t want green hands tangling ropes right now.” Falco put the spyglass to his eye again. “That little bitch is coming on,” he said. “Going to be close enough for an aimed shot in a couple of hours. But my Nightflyer’s fast too, when she needs to be. We’ll just wait and see.” He turned to watch the progress of his men aloft in the shrouds, and spotting some hesitation he did not like he leaned forward on his cane and shouted, “To the task, ladies! Get that royal up!”
The morning moved on. Water was provided to the crew, and bits of limes to chew on. Falco allowed Berry to join Matthew at the poop deck’s railing, watching Hardwick’s armed ship close the gap. Every so often Falco ordered the helmsman to change course a few degrees, and he monitored the wind by watching the smoke of his pipe. The sails held full and steady, and as the Nightflyer hissed through the dark blue waves flying fish leaped before the bow.
Berry voiced the question that had been poised like a swordpoint in Matthew’s mind. “Is he on that ship?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he’s not dead…he won’t let you go that easily.”
“He’s not dead,” Matthew said. “And yes, you’re perfectly correct.” His eyes narrowed against the glare, he watched the vessel coming on with a mixture of dread and fascination. Dread that he should be the cause of the Nightflyer being blown out of the water, and fascination that of all the people in this world he alone might now be the prime object of Professor Fell’s cold and calculating wrath.
“He knows you must be here, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.” Matthew was sure of it. When Sirki had not returned with some bleeding part of Matthew, the professor had to realize his giant had been vanquished. “He knows.”
Captain Falco watched the sails, his amber eyes taking in every detail. Then he turned to Matthew and Berry. “I assume you two are very tired.”
“Very,” Matthew answered.
Falco nodded. “You can sleep when you’re dead. Which I don’t intend to be, this day. Mr. Spedder!” The first mate came over. “Send a man aloft to tighten the lower right edge of the topgallant. I don’t want any luff in that sail. Then pick five men, and make sure the Ga is among them. Pass out every axe, saw and cutting tool we have. I want the cabins cleared of all heavy furniture. The beds, the dressers, the chairs and washstands…everything over the side. The doors too. Start with my cabin.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Oh…Miss Grigsby and Mr. Corbett will be joining that work detail. Go along with you, children!”
Thus began a hideous afternoon, but one with no uncertain purpose. Axes fell, saws worked and hammers knocked things to pieces small enough to be carted up to the deck and thrown over. Minx Cutter joined the workers, as did Saffron who had given her baby to the elderly woman to watch over. Saffron had tended to Minx’s wounds as best she could, washing them and wrapping a cloth bandage around the deeper of the two, the forehead cut. But Minx was sullen and silent, and Matthew made sure to stay out of her way. It appeared to him that killing a woman was not to her liking either, and possibly the spirit of Nathan Spade still did not rest easily in her memory.
Starting with the captain’s cabin, one cabin after another was cleared of its furniture. Whether they had much of an impact on the ship’s speed was hard to say, but Matthew noted in the late afternoon as he helped pitch another bedframe over that Hardwick’s craft had not gained anymore between them but was holding steady.
As the sun was sliding down and deep violet began to paint the eastern sky, the job had been finished. Everything possible had been broken apart and cast off, even the doors. The Nightflyer was now a creature of sails and hull with fewer innards. Would it be enough? Even Captain Falco seemed not to know.
But as the darkness descended, there came a flash of fire and a concussion from the direction of Hardwick’s cannons. A volley had been sent flying. Without waiting for an invitation, Matthew, Berry and Minx climbed up to the poop deck and there stood the captain at the stern railing peering again through his spyglass.
“The balls troubled fish, nothing else,” said Falco, who himself sounded weary onto collapse. It was possible only the cane was holding him up. “But they’re reloading.”
A second volley was fired. Thunder rolled across the sea. Six geysers of water shot up two hundred yards from the Nightflyer’s wake.
“Wasting their balls and powder,” was the captain’s comment. “Dark
falling. They wanted to get their shot off while they could still see. We’ll have no lights on this ship tonight.” He paused, watching the other vessel, and then he said, “But I speak too quickly.”
“What is it?” Berry asked.
“Hardwick is changing course. Going to…north by northeast, it appears. Crossing our stern.” He grunted. “Giving up the chase, or pretending to. But I think Hardwick knows he can’t catch us in the dark, or find us for that matter.”
“Thank God,” said Minx.
“Thank the axes, saws and hammers. Thank your strength. Thank those sails above your heads. I think we’ve seen the last of the revenge.”
“The what?” Matthew asked.
“Temple’s Revenge. The name of Hardwick’s ship.”
“May I?” Matthew held his hand out for the spyglass, and Falco gave it to him. Through the lens, Matthew could see the dim shape of the vessel moving away to their starboard side. As he watched, he saw first one oil lamp and then another flare to life aboard Temple’s Revenge. Several lamps were lit. Matthew wondered which one spread its glow upon Professor Fell and what guise he maintained on that ship.
Indeed, the professor had called halt to the chase, probably on the advice of the ship’s master. They were heading north by northeast? To England?
I think we’ve seen the last of the revenge, Falco had said.
The ship…yes, Matthew thought. But the revenge…no.
Never, if he knew Professor Fell.
“We should run without lamps for a few hours longer,” Falco decided. “In the meantime, we have candles below in the galley. To illuminate your mutton stew, biscuits, shelled peas and cups of lemon water.”
“That at least sounds good,” said Berry, who was so tired she could hardly stand but also so famished she couldn’t sleep without eating.
“Oh, the first five nights, it is good. You will not be as coddled on this trip back as you were on the trip here. You will eat with the crew, and what the crew eats…because you are part of the crew.”
“Fair enough.” Minx lifted her chin and gave Falco a haughty stare that might have withered any other man to cinders. “Just don’t let anyone get between my food and my knife.”
“I’m sure that won’t happen, miss,” the good captain said, with the nod and slight bow of a gentleman. “After you put your knife away, you might consider letting me look at those wounds. I’m not sure a needle and catgut are needed, but scars would not be to your liking.”
Minx didn’t reply. Matthew was thinking that she bore her scars within, and any on the outside paled in comparison.
After the meal in the galley, the ship settled down for the night. Watches were set, and much to his chagrin Matthew was given an order by Mr. Spedder to report to the poop deck at eight strikes of the ship’s bell. Four o’clock in the morning, by his knowledge of that damn bell ringing on the way over. He was assigned a hammock in the cramped and—it must be said—smelly quarters amid the other men who were not on duty, the women and children being quartered elsewhere, and within a very few minutes of taking his boots off and stretching out into the netting he was gone to the world.
However weary he was, he awakened before the eight bells. He lay in the hammock, assaulted by the snoring, rumblings and fartings of the men around him. He was greatly bothered by something he could not rid from his mind.
The Lesser Key Of Solomon, the book was titled. The compendium of demons and spells to raise them. What were the odds that he would have found a second copy of that tome in Professor Fell’s library? Like the stealing of sugar, it boded ill. And it boded evil, to be perfectly honest about it. Also…another thorn in his mind…the matter of Brazio Valeriani.
I shall pay five thousand pounds to the person who locates Brazio Valeriani, the professor had said. I shall pay ten thousand pounds to the person who brings him to me. Force may be necessary. You are my eyes and my hands. Seek and ye shall find.
Ten thousand pounds. A fortune. For one man?
Why?
The professor’s words: If you found him I would pay you enough to own that little town of yours.
Again: why?
Matthew knew himself. This was going to eat at him, day and night. Yes, Professor Fell’s castle and refuge and gunpowder plant and much of his criminal Parliament might be destroyed—for today—but there was always tomorrow, and the professor was nothing if not industrious. And ambitious.
But what exactly was his ambition?
He knew his own mind. He could not let this rest, and neither could he fully rest.
The ship’s bell sounded eight. Matthew got up at once, pulled on his boots and rid himself of the palace of snores.
His instructions had been to report to the poop deck and make the rounds of the deck, every thirty minutes turning an hour-glass mounted on a gimbel next to the ship’s wheel and tending to the bell until he was relieved in four hours. A lovely proposition, for one so weary as he. Yet when he went on deck and the fresh breeze hit his face and he saw the huge sky full of stars and a silver moon still just past full shining upon the sea he thought he was so lucky to be alive in this month of March in this year of 1703. He had survived so much. He was so much stronger than before. Before when? Before yesterday.
He greeted the man on watch who awaited him for relief and also greeted the helmsman. His responsibility, Mr. Spedder had told him, was to keep accurate time by the bell: one bell in thirty minutes, two in one hour, three in ninety minutes and so on. The hour-glass’s sand was already running for the first half-hour of the morning watch, and thus Matthew began his initial round of the deck.
The Nightflyer was flying smoothly this night. The waves were kind to the girl’s hull, and kind also to a landlubber’s stomach. The sea all around was dark, not a light showing. Temple’s Revenge had gone its own way, carrying Professor Fell to his next crime against humanity.
Matthew was on his second round when he was joined by a figure wearing a gray cloak. Her red hair was still tangled and matted, and her feet were still dirty. She was still a mess, but she was a welcome sight on this silent voyage.
“May I walk with you?” Berry asked.
“Of course.”
They walked without speaking. They were comfortable in their quiet. Then Berry said, “I’m sorry I caused you trouble.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, really. I stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong. I regret putting you in the position of looking after me.”
“I managed,” he said. “I just thank God you weren’t hurt.”
She nodded. They reached the bow and started again toward the stern, as the Nightflyer spoke softly around them and the sails stretched wide before the currents of night.
“You are changed,” she told him. “Forgive me for saying this. But Matthew…you never came back when you went after that man.”
“Yes,” he had to say. “I know.”
“You can tell me. What happened, I mean. I’ll bear it for you.”
Something in her voice broke him. It happened just like that. A voice, offering to listen. Just like that. He resisted, because it was so awful. Because the Gray Kingdom still had him, and it was so very strong. Because this world was not the world he’d imagined it to be, and because he was lost in its harshness.
“Oh,” Matthew said, and it was nearly a tormented moan. He stumbled in his progress, and just like that he knew the moment had arrived to unburden himself because Berry Grigsby had offered to listen.
“Tell me,” she said. She took his hand. “I can bear it for you.”
He clasped her hand. Tightly, and more tightly still. She was holding him, it seemed, to the earth. Without her grasp, he might be swept away. He stopped, and they stood together amidships on the Nightflyer, and he looked at her in the moonlight and starshine and saw her blue eyes gleaming. When he opened his mouth he didn’t know how he would begin; he just trusted that it would all make sense.
He told her. About everything.
About Tyranthus Slaughter and his crimes and horrors, about Lyra Sutch, about the sausages made from human flesh, about the hideous cellar where the bodies were hacked to pieces, about the moment when he knew he would have to kill the woman or be killed himself, about what it felt like to drive an axe into the flesh of another human being.
And, in so telling, Matthew opened up his box of pain and began to weep.
He wept not only because of that experience, but because he was changed. Because he could never go back to a place of innocence, and because this world had tainted him. Because he had not asked for this, but because this had been thrust upon him. And his weeping became crying and his crying became sobbing for the lost boy who had been Matthew Corbett, who now had to become a man whether he liked it or not. And not only any man, but a man who knew what dark things hid underneath the stones. Professor Fell was in him, and how could he get that disease out? There was only one way…to destroy the professor, and the evil that he did. Only one way…to continue the course he had been set upon.
As Matthew sobbed, Berry put her arms around him. She did not tell him to be calm or to be quiet, for she knew he needed to sob, to clear his eyes and his mind and his heart, for she knew also he had so much ahead of him.
She kissed his cheek, and held him, and when he had finished his recounting of this tale of terror and tribulation she whispered into his ear, “You did what you had to do.”
It was the truth, plainly spoken. Matthew said with an effort, “Yes. I did.”
And though it was the dark of night, a little sunlight broke through.
“Never,” she said, “doubt yourself. Yes, it was terrible. But never doubt, Matthew…that you are where you are, for a reason.”
He nodded, but he could not speak.
“As God said to Job,” Berry said. “I will demand of thee.”
“Yes,” Matthew answered, as he stared out at the unfathomable sea. “I understand.”
She kissed his cheeks and took the tears. She held his hand and walked with him a distance further, and he realized he was late in turning the hour-glass and ringing the bell. But he didn’t hurry for he felt as if he had all the time in the world, that the gray kingdom was a passing country of the soul, and that it might take a while longer…but day by day, if he concentrated on getting there, he would get closer by small steps once again to the realm of joy.