sailing ships waited for cargoes, crews, tides.
Snowbone was buzzing like one of the flying machines. The thrill of the hunt, the view of the sea. Oh! It was a heady brew. They were close now. So close.
She turned to Figgis. “You'll go in tonight?”
Figgis nodded. “I will. And wherever those scummy dogs are hiding, I'll find them.”
Chapter 34
t seemed the gods were protecting the slavers. Night after night, Figgis and Manu went into Spittel Point, but they couldn't find them. A black-haired man, a blue-eyed lad … Hour after hour, Figgis sat in smoky taverns, waiting for them to enter. Hour after hour, Manu watched the street outside, waiting for them to walk by. But they never did.
A week passed. The tiddlins were staying in a deserted barn outside the town. Every morning, Figgis and Manu reported back to Snowbone. She would hear them coming up the path and, just by listening to the drag of their boots, she could tell it had been another fruitless night. Snowbone was in a frenzy of frustration, but nothing more could be done. Figgis and Manu had to watch, she had to wait. It was as simple as that.
It was a cold night. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, silvering the rigging of the silent ships. Figgis sat on the quay, smoking his pipe.
“It's getting late,” said Manu, appearing from the shadows as if by magic.
Figgis nodded. He was tired. He longed for his bed in the barn. “One more,” he said. “One more, then we're off.” He tapped out the embers of his pipe, slipped it into his pocket and they started walking.
Along the seafront, the tavern signs were hanging limp as lettuce. The Whistling Dog? Figgis had been in there earlier. The Three Cockles? Too rough this time of night. The Galley Boy? Figgis peered in through the window. No one there. They walked on.
Suddenly they heard laughter. In one of the side alleys, a door had opened, splashing golden light onto the cobbles. A sailor stumbled out. He saluted to his friends still inside. Swayed. Turned. Walked unsteadily toward them, his forehead corrugated in concentration. When he reached them, he stopped, while his brain worked out how to get past.
“Evenin',” said the sailor.
He burped, and the stink that escaped was so strong, Figgis could taste it: a rich, wet stew of tobacco and spit and spice and ale. It went up Figgis's nose and slid down his throat like an oyster.
“Evenin',” said Figgis.
They stepped round the sailor and headed for the light. It came from a tavern Figgis hadn't noticed before, the Hangman's Hood. The sign showed a fearsome individual leering through a black hood. Behind the terrifying eyeholes, the orbs were blood-red, and a noose dangled from his fingers.
“Wait here,” Figgis told Manu. “Hide yourself.” He went in.
The bar was crowded, but not so busy that he couldn't see everyone. The slavers weren't there. Figgis ordered a glass of beer, found a table in a far corner and sat down.
Time passed. His glass was half emptied. A sailor at the barwas getting rowdy. His mates were trying to calm him, but he was violently drunk. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald, fleshy head.
Figgis fished in his pocket for his pipe. “Where is it?” he muttered, and then, as he bent to look, the room exploded around him.
Fists and feet and flying sailors! The drunken sailor was throwing people across the room.
Hweeeeee!
One of them flew through the air and landed square on Figgis's table:
doof!
He lay there, sprawled on a bed of splinters where the table used to be.
Hweeeeee!
Now the sailor was throwing someone else.
But the landlord was having none of it. He came out from behind the bar brandishing a bottle, swung it high in the air and brought it down—
boof!
—on the bald head. The drunken sailor fell to the floor like a bag of coconuts.
“Get him out of here,” growled the landlord.
The sailor's mates scrabbled to obey. The landlord was only a little man, but if he was short on body, he was big on
Snowbone was buzzing like one of the flying machines. The thrill of the hunt, the view of the sea. Oh! It was a heady brew. They were close now. So close.
She turned to Figgis. “You'll go in tonight?”
Figgis nodded. “I will. And wherever those scummy dogs are hiding, I'll find them.”
Chapter 34
t seemed the gods were protecting the slavers. Night after night, Figgis and Manu went into Spittel Point, but they couldn't find them. A black-haired man, a blue-eyed lad … Hour after hour, Figgis sat in smoky taverns, waiting for them to enter. Hour after hour, Manu watched the street outside, waiting for them to walk by. But they never did.
A week passed. The tiddlins were staying in a deserted barn outside the town. Every morning, Figgis and Manu reported back to Snowbone. She would hear them coming up the path and, just by listening to the drag of their boots, she could tell it had been another fruitless night. Snowbone was in a frenzy of frustration, but nothing more could be done. Figgis and Manu had to watch, she had to wait. It was as simple as that.
It was a cold night. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, silvering the rigging of the silent ships. Figgis sat on the quay, smoking his pipe.
“It's getting late,” said Manu, appearing from the shadows as if by magic.
Figgis nodded. He was tired. He longed for his bed in the barn. “One more,” he said. “One more, then we're off.” He tapped out the embers of his pipe, slipped it into his pocket and they started walking.
Along the seafront, the tavern signs were hanging limp as lettuce. The Whistling Dog? Figgis had been in there earlier. The Three Cockles? Too rough this time of night. The Galley Boy? Figgis peered in through the window. No one there. They walked on.
Suddenly they heard laughter. In one of the side alleys, a door had opened, splashing golden light onto the cobbles. A sailor stumbled out. He saluted to his friends still inside. Swayed. Turned. Walked unsteadily toward them, his forehead corrugated in concentration. When he reached them, he stopped, while his brain worked out how to get past.
“Evenin',” said the sailor.
He burped, and the stink that escaped was so strong, Figgis could taste it: a rich, wet stew of tobacco and spit and spice and ale. It went up Figgis's nose and slid down his throat like an oyster.
“Evenin',” said Figgis.
They stepped round the sailor and headed for the light. It came from a tavern Figgis hadn't noticed before, the Hangman's Hood. The sign showed a fearsome individual leering through a black hood. Behind the terrifying eyeholes, the orbs were blood-red, and a noose dangled from his fingers.
“Wait here,” Figgis told Manu. “Hide yourself.” He went in.
The bar was crowded, but not so busy that he couldn't see everyone. The slavers weren't there. Figgis ordered a glass of beer, found a table in a far corner and sat down.
Time passed. His glass was half emptied. A sailor at the barwas getting rowdy. His mates were trying to calm him, but he was violently drunk. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald, fleshy head.
Figgis fished in his pocket for his pipe. “Where is it?” he muttered, and then, as he bent to look, the room exploded around him.
Fists and feet and flying sailors! The drunken sailor was throwing people across the room.
Hweeeeee!
One of them flew through the air and landed square on Figgis's table:
doof!
He lay there, sprawled on a bed of splinters where the table used to be.
Hweeeeee!
Now the sailor was throwing someone else.
But the landlord was having none of it. He came out from behind the bar brandishing a bottle, swung it high in the air and brought it down—
boof!
—on the bald head. The drunken sailor fell to the floor like a bag of coconuts.
“Get him out of here,” growled the landlord.
The sailor's mates scrabbled to obey. The landlord was only a little man, but if he was short on body, he was big on
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