The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(48)
“The Englishmen and I will go ashore,” Danziger told his crew. “I need two others to accompany us.”
One of the sailors stepped forward. A tall, black-bearded fellow with crooked teeth and gold rings in his ears, he looked more like a corsair than a smuggler.
“Raoul. Good.” Danziger waved him over.
“Won’t he be a bit… conspicuous?” Ned murmured to Gabriel.
Gabriel shrugged. “If the Spanish are looking at him, they won’t be looking at us.”
Danziger selected another man, a scrawny fellow named Pierre whom Ned recalled was an expert climber, as much at home in the rigging as a bird in a tree.
“Right,” Danziger said. “The rest of you keelscrapings will man the ship and be ready to have us out of here at a moment’s notice. Understand?”
The carpenter-turned-captain led his four companions ashore, and they stalked along the quay in a loose cluster, avoiding eye contact with the fishermen sitting mending their nets. Ned kept his false hand tucked in the pocket of his loose breeches; he had covered up the metal with a linen glove, but that in itself was conspicuous in this hot climate. But it was either that or wear a hook, an ugly thing that reminded him too much of the monsters that had taken his hand. At least with the metal arm he could pretend it was his own flesh, albeit dead and unfeeling.
The town of Mers-el-Kébir occupied the centre of a shallow crescent-shaped bay, embraced by two dark, tree-clad spurs of the distant mountains. Rows of Moorish-looking stone houses, thick-walled and flat-roofed, nestled in the narrow space between the steep mountain slopes and the sea. Near the centre a taller building thrust a spire towards the heavens, topped by a gilded cross that caught the harsh sunlight and flung it back into the eyes of the unwary. A mosque converted to a Christian church, by the look of it.
The church was not the only building repurposed by its new owners. Judging by the barrels outside and the scent of wine wafting across the quay on the hot breeze, several of the houses along the seafront had been converted to taverns. Ned’s mouth watered at the prospect of a cup of good canary, or indeed any kind of wine at all. Before they could enter, however, their path was blocked by a squad of half-a-dozen Spanish soldiers. The Spaniards questioned Danziger at length and looked his companions over, suspicious that they had lost their cargo but not been taken prisoner by the corsairs. At last, however, the soldiers let them go, recommending a shipwright who could assist with repairs but warning them not to stay in Mazalquivir overlong. Danziger assured them very sincerely that he would not.
“So what now?” Ned whispered as they followed Danziger into the tavern. “How are we to find Hennaq?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel replied. “How did Mal find the one he rescued in Corsica?”
“How do you think?” Ned rolled his eyes.
“I thought it was the Venetian courtesan who taught him magic.”
“She taught him a few extra tricks, all right, and not just magic.” Ned winked. “But I reckon he had a few of his own to begin with. If he and Sandy really do share a soul…”
“That doesn’t help us, though, does it? We neither of us have a drop of skrayling blood between us.”
“We’ll just have to use our God-given wits.”
Ned thought he heard Gabriel mutter “Then God help us” under his breath. He elbowed his lover in the ribs.
“Hush!” Gabriel whispered. “We’re supposed to not be attracting attention, remember?”
The tavern was blissfully cool and shady after the sunlit quay. Ned sank down on a bench and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy neckerchief. A few moments later Gabriel pushed a cup of wine across the tabletop. Ned took a gulp and sighed with contentment as the sweet burn of alcohol spread through his limbs.
“It’s hardly worth savouring,” Gabriel said, pulling a face as he sipped his own drink.
“Don’t care. Christ’s balls, I’d rather be back in the Marshalsea than in this Godforsaken place.”
“Taisez-vous!” Danziger glared at them. Of course. They were supposed to be masquerading as Frenchmen.
Ned spent the rest of the afternoon in grim silence, curled around the cup of sour wine like a miser around his box of gold angels. The rest of the crew chattered away in French, even Gabriel occasionally making a comment in that same language. For all his complaining the actor seemed almost at home here, and Ned couldn’t help wondering about his lover’s adventures in the Mediterranean before they were reunited in Venice. At first he had been too happy to ask questions, and afterwards… With his good hand he rubbed the junction between the stump of his right arm and the base of the brass replacement.
“Messieurs?”
Ned looked up to see Danziger leaning over their end of the table.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Gabriel replied.
Danziger muttered something, too quietly for Ned to make out even those few words he knew. Gabriel nodded and said something that sounded like agreement. When the captain returned to his seat, Gabriel leaned across the table.
“Hennaq is in the fortress, as we feared.”
Ned cursed under his breath. “What do we do?”
“Danziger wants to stay the night here, try to find out more. If he can’t come up with a plan, we abandon the attempt and sail back to al-Jaza’ir.” Gabriel sighed and slumped down in his seat.