Black Powder by Ally Sherrick

‘With quick wits like that, Master Spy, you may yet live to fight anotherday. But’– he dug the torch into the ground between them and squatted down on his haunches – ‘if your story does not please me, be warned.’ He sliced a finger across his throat. ‘For I will show you no mercy.’

Chapter Sixteen
    T om’s heart pounded against his ribs. He looked over his shoulder. There was no way out. He still had the knife, but if he pulled it on the smuggler now, he’d easily overpower him. And what if his friend was on his way back to join him? He had to think of something and quickly. He glanced at the smuggler’s frayed brown cloak and worn leather jerkin. Money. That was what men like him wanted. He would try and strike a bargain with him. Being a so-called Montague had to be worth something. He wiped a hand across his forehead and took a deep breath.
    â€˜My name’s Tom. Tom Garnett.’
    The smuggler raised his right shoulder in a shrug. ‘Should that mean something to me?’
    He stuck out his chin and tried to look brave. ‘No. But I am the nephew of Lord Montague, the owner of this house. My uncle . . . he’s very rich. He’d pay you well ifyou let me go.’
    â€˜Your uncle, eh?’ The smuggler’s eyes glinted gold in the torchlight.
    Tom held his breath. Did he believe him, or was he working out the best way to kill him?
    The smuggler’s voice cut like a blade through his thoughts. ‘We have met once before, I think.’
    â€˜Have we?’ Tom frowned.
    â€˜A few nights ago, in the town. You were looking for the right road to Cowdray.’
    Of course! It was him. The man outside the tavern.
    The smuggler scratched his forehead. ‘So if your uncle is Lord Montague, what are you doing skulking down here when you should be upstairs at his table feasting on roast beef, stuffed swan and the like?’ He jabbed a finger at the rocky roof above them.
    Tom reached for his bundle. ‘I – I lost something. I thought maybe I might have left it here.’
    The smuggler’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been here before? And when, pray, was that?’
    He licked his lips. ‘A few moments back. I was with my . . . my cousin.’
    â€˜Your cousin?’ The smuggler thrust a hand beneath his cloak. ‘And where is he now?’
    Tom pressed his back against the cave wall. If he knew the truth, that Cressida was fetching the sergeant, he would slit his throat then and there. ‘She . . . she’s gone, sir. She was afraid of the dark.’ He blinked and looked away.
    The smuggler laughed. ‘And the spiders, no doubt. Well,’tis no place for folk of noble blood, least of all their children.’ He relaxed his arm.
    For a moment Tom forgot his fear. ‘I’m not a child. I’ll be thirteen this Sunday.’
    The man gave a low whistle. ‘Thirteen, eh? Well, Master Spy, where I come from, you must earn the right to be called a man. And creeping about in tunnels, poking your nose into what doesn’t concern you, is not the way to go about it.’
    His cheeks flushed. ‘I told you, I’m not a spy! I was looking for something.’ He caught a sudden whiff of peppery smoke as the smuggler pushed his face up close.
    â€˜So tell me. Was it a wasted journey?’
    Tom gripped the knife even tighter and dropped his gaze.
    In one swift move, the smuggler reached behind and seized it from him. ‘I see it was not.’ He ran a sooty finger along the blade and whistled again. ‘’Tis a serious weapon for a boy. What do the initials stand for?’
    Tom hesitated.
    â€˜Come now. It is a fair question.’
    â€˜Richard Garnett. My . . . my father.’
    â€˜And where is he now? Upstairs carousing with your grand relations?’
    â€˜No. He . . . he’s in London.’
    â€˜On business?’
    Tom