payin’ and I can’t abide that. Venn at least pays ’is round, but he buys lads up and gets ’em killed. We don’ need either of ’em here to get by. An’ iffin we can keep the lads together, we’ve got guns enough to see ’em off. Let ’em fight in the forests and hills, jus’ so long as they don’ come here again.’
Mat nodded at that. But he had a question burning on his tongue. ‘Sir, who was the man in the carriage?’
Read shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see him, lad, and the voice was unfamiliar. One of her coterie of warlocks, I don’ doubt.’ He spat on the floor and worked the spittle into the grain with his boot thoughtfully. ‘Her newest alliance—I expect we’ll find out the hard way.’
‘Sir, how come she called you “Your Majesty”?’ Riki asked.
Read grunted. ‘Jus’ a nickname. “King o’ Gisborne”, they calls me. Jus’ a nickname. We’ve all got ’em.’
‘They call me “Devil”,’ Damien volunteered.
Read looked him over. ‘Really? Can’t think why,’ he commented drily. Damien sniffed a little and bowed his head. Read looked back at Mat. ‘I suggest if ye don’ wanna stick out like sore thumbs, ye might want to get some decent local garb. Tell the proprietor I sent ye, an’ ye’ll get a fair price. But better yet…don’ come back.’ He left in a thick cloud of reeking tobacco smoke.
Mat turned to the others. ‘He’s right; we’re babes in the wood here. We should go back. And Donna Kyle is here. I need to talk to Wiri.’
Riki spread his hands. ‘Aw, come on, man. She’s gone, and the night is still young. Let’s at least buy some clothes for next time, and try the local beer.’
‘You seriously want to go into a tavern full of drunken colonials, dude? Armed drunken colonials?’
Riki pulled a face. ‘When you put it like that…and no chicks in the bars.’
‘Oh, there’ll be chicks. The sort whose affections you pay cash for!’
Riki looked like a dog had bitten him. He shook his head, grimacing.
Damien screwed up his face too. ‘That kills my enthusiasm. At least on the new-Gisborne side we can cadge something halfway palatable to drink if we play our cards right. But let’s get some clothes; I reckon that could be a laugh and we’ll probably need them.’
They found a menswear shop just about to shut for the night four doors down, and each bought some linen trousers, a white shirt and plaid waistcoat for thirty dollars each. None of them followed the complicated way the owner converted the eighteenth-century shilling-and-pence price tags to modern dollars, and were left with a profound feeling of having been conned, a feeling that wasn’t helped when the owner threw in cloth caps and canvas bags for their modern clothes, for free.
Their new colonial-era clothes fitted passably well though, and they attracted fewer curious looks as they wandered past the tavern, wistfully listening to the music, and laughing at the drunken men staggering outside topuke or pee against the fence at the back. Most were no older than them, with straggling baby-beards and unlined faces. They bought a pitcher of beer from a shifty-looking part-Maori man with moko on his face and forearms, who spoke reasonable English. ‘Got the Queen’s tongue from me father,’ he told them with a leer. ‘Can I get ye another mug? Better price than inside, ’tis, an’ assumin’ they’d even serve ye.’
The boys declined, took their half-empty mugs and drifted down towards the beach, away from the remains of activity. There was no moon, but the sky was full of stars, especially when they left behind the smell of wood-fires from the houses. There was scarcely a house between them and the beach, just a tangle of thinly spread pines threaded with paths down to the sea. A three-masted sailing ship was standing off the coast, still and motionless on the flat seas. The sea air was biting, even in midsummer, but the tang of salt and pine was cleansing after the bitter
Mat nodded at that. But he had a question burning on his tongue. ‘Sir, who was the man in the carriage?’
Read shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see him, lad, and the voice was unfamiliar. One of her coterie of warlocks, I don’ doubt.’ He spat on the floor and worked the spittle into the grain with his boot thoughtfully. ‘Her newest alliance—I expect we’ll find out the hard way.’
‘Sir, how come she called you “Your Majesty”?’ Riki asked.
Read grunted. ‘Jus’ a nickname. “King o’ Gisborne”, they calls me. Jus’ a nickname. We’ve all got ’em.’
‘They call me “Devil”,’ Damien volunteered.
Read looked him over. ‘Really? Can’t think why,’ he commented drily. Damien sniffed a little and bowed his head. Read looked back at Mat. ‘I suggest if ye don’ wanna stick out like sore thumbs, ye might want to get some decent local garb. Tell the proprietor I sent ye, an’ ye’ll get a fair price. But better yet…don’ come back.’ He left in a thick cloud of reeking tobacco smoke.
Mat turned to the others. ‘He’s right; we’re babes in the wood here. We should go back. And Donna Kyle is here. I need to talk to Wiri.’
Riki spread his hands. ‘Aw, come on, man. She’s gone, and the night is still young. Let’s at least buy some clothes for next time, and try the local beer.’
‘You seriously want to go into a tavern full of drunken colonials, dude? Armed drunken colonials?’
Riki pulled a face. ‘When you put it like that…and no chicks in the bars.’
‘Oh, there’ll be chicks. The sort whose affections you pay cash for!’
Riki looked like a dog had bitten him. He shook his head, grimacing.
Damien screwed up his face too. ‘That kills my enthusiasm. At least on the new-Gisborne side we can cadge something halfway palatable to drink if we play our cards right. But let’s get some clothes; I reckon that could be a laugh and we’ll probably need them.’
They found a menswear shop just about to shut for the night four doors down, and each bought some linen trousers, a white shirt and plaid waistcoat for thirty dollars each. None of them followed the complicated way the owner converted the eighteenth-century shilling-and-pence price tags to modern dollars, and were left with a profound feeling of having been conned, a feeling that wasn’t helped when the owner threw in cloth caps and canvas bags for their modern clothes, for free.
Their new colonial-era clothes fitted passably well though, and they attracted fewer curious looks as they wandered past the tavern, wistfully listening to the music, and laughing at the drunken men staggering outside topuke or pee against the fence at the back. Most were no older than them, with straggling baby-beards and unlined faces. They bought a pitcher of beer from a shifty-looking part-Maori man with moko on his face and forearms, who spoke reasonable English. ‘Got the Queen’s tongue from me father,’ he told them with a leer. ‘Can I get ye another mug? Better price than inside, ’tis, an’ assumin’ they’d even serve ye.’
The boys declined, took their half-empty mugs and drifted down towards the beach, away from the remains of activity. There was no moon, but the sky was full of stars, especially when they left behind the smell of wood-fires from the houses. There was scarcely a house between them and the beach, just a tangle of thinly spread pines threaded with paths down to the sea. A three-masted sailing ship was standing off the coast, still and motionless on the flat seas. The sea air was biting, even in midsummer, but the tang of salt and pine was cleansing after the bitter
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