He pulled the wig back to reveal grey, dour eyes and a hooked nose. “Merde! My head.”
Piss-Pike recognised him. Everyone in Freeport called him Frenchie.
Frenchie looked at Imelda. He grimaced. “I do no think I should haz to pay if I did no sheath my sword, non?” He folded his arms.
“ Sword? Stiletto more like Frenchie and you needs a bit of steel in your blade before it can be sheathed. Besides, you paid last night.”
“ My name is not Frenchie,” Frenchie said. “My name is Diddier De La Man—”
“ No time for that Frenchie. The boy has news, or he better have.” She waved her knife at Piss-Pike.
Nervous, Piss-Pike blurted out his tale. He watched surprise then excitement flit across their faces. Imelda drew her purse from its hiding place in the crevasse between her more than ample bosom. She took a silver coin and tossed it to Piss-Pike. From her bedside cabinet, she produced an ornate box. It contained a set of exquisite matched duelling pistols. She began to load them.
“ Boy.” It was Frenchie. He climbed out of the bed. “Your news, it please me.” He reached into his own purse. In disbelief, Piss-Pike watched a coin spin towards him. It was gold. He snatched it out of the air. A Spanish Doubloon. More money than he’d ever held. The French fop stood. One hand rested on the ornate hilt of his rapier, the other clasped a pair of silk gentleman’s gloves. He winked at Piss-Pike.
“ God bless you, Frenchie. God bless you.”
“ My name is no—”
But Piss-Pike was long gone. He raced down the stairs, picked his way through the mess of sleepers, burst out the door, tore along the street and dodged down an alley and into The Black Hearted Salt.
It was a dingy tavern that stank of sour wine and worse. Three rough-looking sorts, the sorts you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or it seemed in a dim tavern, were going through the pockets of a dead man. The tavern’s proprietor, Mr Grimm, sneered at Piss-Pike and licked blood from the edge of his dagger.
In Piss-Pike’s mind he was Mr ‘Terrifyingly’ Grimm. One good eye, one dead milky white eye, face covered in native tattoos and scars. Grimm turned his one good eye on Piss-Pike. For the first time in a long while Piss-Pike felt something other than hunger assault his guts.
“ Piss-Pike you little rat’s shit. Didn’t I tell yer I’d cut yer, gut yer and put yer in one me pies.”
The crewmen leered at Piss-Pike.
“ News,” Piss-Pike said, his voice a squeak. “I gots news, begging yer pardon sir, news.”
“ Here Lads, I reckon the boy’s got news.”
Grimm’s men sniggered. He silenced them with a look, then stabbed his bloody dagger into the table. It thrummed and quivered. When it came to a stop, he stared at Piss-Pike.
“ Well boy, it best be news worth hearing.” He narrowed his one good eye at the boy over the dagger.
Piss-Pike took a deep breath and told him what he’d seen. When he mentioned Jethro, Grimm’s men whispered the name amongst themselves.
“ He must be here for his treasure,” one of them said — a feral fellow in a grease-stained sailors smock.
Grimm looked at him with disdain. “Oh you’re a sharp one, Shagnasty. No doubting that.” He scratched his chin. “What do you reckon, Jacky Boy?”
Jacky Boy was slim, neatly turned out, handsome. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that made goosebumps dance across Piss-Pike’s flesh.
“ Didn’t he have a whore here?” Jacky Boy said.
Grimm’s third man, square-jawed, muscle-bound, crook-nosed, shook his head. “Not his whore, his wife.
“ Whore, wife they all bleed when you stick ‘em,” Jacky Boy said, his gaze distant and unfocussed.
“ Zachariah,” Grimm said to the muscle-bound pirate. “Is the wife still in Freeport?”
“ No, died in childbirth year afore we mutinied.”
Jacky Boy looked disappointed. Piss-Pike shivered.
“ Never mind, never mind,” Grimm said and fixed his singular gaze on Piss-Pike. He
Piss-Pike recognised him. Everyone in Freeport called him Frenchie.
Frenchie looked at Imelda. He grimaced. “I do no think I should haz to pay if I did no sheath my sword, non?” He folded his arms.
“ Sword? Stiletto more like Frenchie and you needs a bit of steel in your blade before it can be sheathed. Besides, you paid last night.”
“ My name is not Frenchie,” Frenchie said. “My name is Diddier De La Man—”
“ No time for that Frenchie. The boy has news, or he better have.” She waved her knife at Piss-Pike.
Nervous, Piss-Pike blurted out his tale. He watched surprise then excitement flit across their faces. Imelda drew her purse from its hiding place in the crevasse between her more than ample bosom. She took a silver coin and tossed it to Piss-Pike. From her bedside cabinet, she produced an ornate box. It contained a set of exquisite matched duelling pistols. She began to load them.
“ Boy.” It was Frenchie. He climbed out of the bed. “Your news, it please me.” He reached into his own purse. In disbelief, Piss-Pike watched a coin spin towards him. It was gold. He snatched it out of the air. A Spanish Doubloon. More money than he’d ever held. The French fop stood. One hand rested on the ornate hilt of his rapier, the other clasped a pair of silk gentleman’s gloves. He winked at Piss-Pike.
“ God bless you, Frenchie. God bless you.”
“ My name is no—”
But Piss-Pike was long gone. He raced down the stairs, picked his way through the mess of sleepers, burst out the door, tore along the street and dodged down an alley and into The Black Hearted Salt.
It was a dingy tavern that stank of sour wine and worse. Three rough-looking sorts, the sorts you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or it seemed in a dim tavern, were going through the pockets of a dead man. The tavern’s proprietor, Mr Grimm, sneered at Piss-Pike and licked blood from the edge of his dagger.
In Piss-Pike’s mind he was Mr ‘Terrifyingly’ Grimm. One good eye, one dead milky white eye, face covered in native tattoos and scars. Grimm turned his one good eye on Piss-Pike. For the first time in a long while Piss-Pike felt something other than hunger assault his guts.
“ Piss-Pike you little rat’s shit. Didn’t I tell yer I’d cut yer, gut yer and put yer in one me pies.”
The crewmen leered at Piss-Pike.
“ News,” Piss-Pike said, his voice a squeak. “I gots news, begging yer pardon sir, news.”
“ Here Lads, I reckon the boy’s got news.”
Grimm’s men sniggered. He silenced them with a look, then stabbed his bloody dagger into the table. It thrummed and quivered. When it came to a stop, he stared at Piss-Pike.
“ Well boy, it best be news worth hearing.” He narrowed his one good eye at the boy over the dagger.
Piss-Pike took a deep breath and told him what he’d seen. When he mentioned Jethro, Grimm’s men whispered the name amongst themselves.
“ He must be here for his treasure,” one of them said — a feral fellow in a grease-stained sailors smock.
Grimm looked at him with disdain. “Oh you’re a sharp one, Shagnasty. No doubting that.” He scratched his chin. “What do you reckon, Jacky Boy?”
Jacky Boy was slim, neatly turned out, handsome. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that made goosebumps dance across Piss-Pike’s flesh.
“ Didn’t he have a whore here?” Jacky Boy said.
Grimm’s third man, square-jawed, muscle-bound, crook-nosed, shook his head. “Not his whore, his wife.
“ Whore, wife they all bleed when you stick ‘em,” Jacky Boy said, his gaze distant and unfocussed.
“ Zachariah,” Grimm said to the muscle-bound pirate. “Is the wife still in Freeport?”
“ No, died in childbirth year afore we mutinied.”
Jacky Boy looked disappointed. Piss-Pike shivered.
“ Never mind, never mind,” Grimm said and fixed his singular gaze on Piss-Pike. He
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