Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [41]
Frey stared dejectedly at his picture. This time it was no handbill. He’d made the national broadsheets now.
“It’s only on page ten!” Malvery bellowed, giving him a thump on the shoulder. “It doesn’t even look like you! Besides, that issue’s a week old. Mark me, they’ll have forgotten about it by now.”
Frey took little comfort in that. It was true that he looked less and less like his picture, but that was mostly because the Frey in the picture was so happy and carefree. The real Frey was becoming less so by the day. His stubble had grown out to an untidy beard, and his hair was getting beyond the control of a comb. His eyes were sunken and there were dark bags beneath them. In the two weeks since they’d fled Tarlock Cove, he’d become ever more sullen and withdrawn.
And now this: a broadsheet from Vardia, given to Silo by a trader who’d bought their cargo of smoked fish at a rock-bottom price. Frey had hidden angrily in his quarters during the transaction, in case he was recognized.
DRACKEN JOINS THE HUNT
On this day the Vardic Herald has learned of an Announcement by Trinica Dracken, Feared Captain of the Delirium Trigger, to the effect that she will devote all her Will and Effort to the task of bringing to Justice, be it Dead or Alive, the Fugitive Darian Frey and his crew, wanted for Piracy and Murder, and for whom a large Reward is offered for information that might lead to their Capture. The Herald could not reach Captain Dracken for comment, but it is this reporter’s humble Opinion that with such a Famous and Deadly Lady upon their trail, it cannot be long before these Scoundrels are brought to face Justice for their crimes.
“The bloody Delirium Trigger,” Pinn groaned. He’d been almost constantly drunk for a fortnight now, having nothing else with which to occupy himself. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol. “Queen bitch of the skies.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I’d do her.”
The bar was a small, round room, with a domed roof crisscrossed by stout rafters and a south-facing skylight. A fire pit burned red in the center, beneath a large stone chimney. The wooden floor was strewn with pelts, the walls hung with the skulls of horned animals. Tables and seats were made from tree stumps. There was a counter against one wall. Behind it, a surly Yort guarded a barrel of beer and a few shelves stocked with unlabeled jars of liquor.
The bartender was in his mid-fifties, with thick arms and a face weathered like bark. His head was shaved, and his long red beard was gathered into a queue by iron rings. He spoke only in grunts, yet somehow he made it clear that Frey and his men were not welcome here. He’d rather have an empty bar. They ignored him and came anyway.
“Why don’t you go home, Pinn?” Crake asked. He was looking up at the rafters, where several arctic pigeons cooed softly to one another. He’d noted the lumpy white streaks among the dried-in bloodstains on the floor and was covering his flagon of dark beer with his hand.
“What?” Pinn asked blearily.
“I mean, what’s stopping you? You’ve got your own craft. You haven’t been named or identified. Why not go back to your sweetheart?”
Frey didn’t even raise his head at the mutinous tone of the suggestion. Crake was just baiting Pinn. Those who believed Pinn had a sweetheart—Malvery was of the opinion that he might have made her up—knew full well he’d never go back to her. In his mind, she waited to welcome him with open arms on the day he returned home swathed in glory, but he seemed to be the only one who didn’t realize that day would never come. Pinn was waiting for glory to happen to him rather than seeking it out.
Lisinda was the heroic conclusion to his quest, the promise of home comforts after his great adventure. But what if she wasn’t there when he returned? What if she was holding another man’s child? Even in the dim clouds of Pinn’s mind, the possibility must have made itself