Chapter Nineteen #3
“I most certainly can,” I told him. “The cargo is objects of a”—I paused dramatically—“a peculiar and illicit magical origin,
if you take my meaning.”
“I do indeed, m’lady,” Carrington said, his needles click-click-clacking.
“My husband had procured a great quantity of such relics before his untimely death,” I said, bowing my head. “God rest his
soul.”
Carrington made a half-hearted symbol of the wheel with his knitting needles. “I perceive yer dilemma.”
I nodded. “I fear that, should the ship be intercepted, such objects will be destroyed.”
“Mm,” Carrington agreed.
We were not going to be able to extend this conversation to an hour if the dratted man couldn’t be bothered to muster more
than a few words of reply.
“Do you have experience transporting such delicate materials, Captain?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, and it was the truth, by the smell of it.
“To be frank with you, Captain, the material in question is extremely rare—preserved flora and herbs that many would be desperate
to get their hands on, for their healing properties,” I said. “Some have been distilled into oils, but others remain in their
raw form.”
“I may be familiar with such cargo, yes,” Carrington said, too stubborn and too wise to be completely led. The sun hadn’t
melted his mind yet, it seemed.
“Am I to know how you mean to go about hiding it on your ship,” I began, “or am I to pay you and merely hope for the best?”
The captain lowered his knitting needles.
Reddy let out a pained laugh. “Of course he’s to be trusted. I wouldn’t have recommended him otherwise. A captain must be
allowed his secrets.”
Now it was my turn to glare at him. Unhelpful, to say the least.
“I’ve a method for slipping them into the kingdom,” Carrington said after a moment. “’Asn’t failed me yet. Made a dozen runs over the years with the likes of what ye speak. Ground plants, oils, all of a—how did ye put it?—peculiar and illicit nature.”
“For whom?” I pressed. “I would like the name of whoever is importing such materials.”
Carrington had walked right into it and, by the looks of it, resented me for it immensely.
“Come now, Captain,” I cajoled. “I’ve the mind to establish a partnership that will stretch for years and keep you and your
grandson in many knitted sweaters. I must have assurances from someone who has worked with you in the past.”
Carrington let out a noise that could only be described as a growl.
“Well!” Reddy said with forced brightness. “I told you she’s persistent, did I not?”
“Persistent would be one word for it,” Carrington groused. “I cannot give you a name, as I would not give yours. I swear on the heart
of the sea and God’s own teeth.”
A plan unfurled like a sail in my mind. And as surely as if it had caught a healthy gust of wind, I knew at once how to get
the answer we needed and buy Foxcourt time for his search.
“But you would have to give me a name, wouldn’t you,” I heard myself say before I could stop myself, “if I challenged you to the Drink of the
Deep and bested you?”
The captain stared at me in utter astonishment, which seemed to be a novel emotion for him. “You . . . would . . .”
There’d be trouble if word of this spread to the police or to any Stone Sloggers lurking about, but that was a problem for
the future Viola Lockwood, after she’d gotten what she’d come here for.
“I beg your finest pardon,” Reddy said, his eyes gleaming with something like panic. “The what of the what?”
“Do you forfeit then, Captain?” I asked. “I must say, I wouldn’t hire any man who retreats from a direct challenge.”
Carrington turned his astonished gaze on Reddy now.
“I haven’t the slightest notion what we are talking about,” Reddy informed him. “If someone could be bothered to explain it,
I would be indebted to them.”
“My father was a sailor in His Majesty’s navy,” I told Carrington primly.
“I know the ancient code of the sea. Here are my proposed terms: If I win, you will give me the name of the customer who has asked you to import fairy plants in the past. If you prevail, I will advance you the payment for the first shipment. Do you accept the challenge, or do you forfeit?”
Reddy made a high, pained noise at my side. He looked on the verge of heart palpitations.
Carrington’s laugh began in a low rumble, like distant thunder. By the time he’d thrust his knitting at a passing sailor,
it was a deep, belly-shaking laugh. The dock shuddered with it.
“Ye’ve nerve for a lass, I’ll grant ye that,” Carrington said, his black eyes pitying. “I accept, and may God help you.”
He turned to bark orders at several of the men lingering on the deck. Others gathered, intrigued by the commotion.
“Finish at pace!” a bald, sun-scorched man—the first mate?—bellowed to the crew and laborers. “We’re for the Bitter End!”
The cheers echoed down to us from the deck.
Marvelous. Smugglers with standards. The Bitter End was one of the few pubs in Riverside where one was only half as likely
to be robbed and murdered.
Reddy gave me a long-suffering look, steering me toward the coach. “Fox is going to kill me, isn’t he? If this lot doesn’t
do the job first.”