bad we have to give this back, it could be useful.”
“The edge would be gone long before we could cut our way out,” Archer said pragmatically. The timbers of the hull were at least a foot thick; even the walls of their compartment would be an inch or better.
“I know.” He handed it back, and Archer dumped the razor in the basin, slid it back out, and pounded on the door.
Boots thumped in the companionway. “Stand away from the door.” A guard looked in to see that they had obeyed; a bolt was drawn back outside, and the door swung open to show three pistols aimed inside. “Aw’right, you come out, you stay back.”
As soon as Archer was outside, the door was shut again, the bolt thrown home. His hope of seeing anything helpful was dashed immediately; one of the guards tied his hands in front of him while another shook out the folds of a huge, hooded grey cloak. He had one glimpse of Marshall looking out the barred window, frowning in chagrin, before the heavy wool fell over his face. The free end of the rope that bound his hands was wrapped around the outside of the cloak, and he was pushed forward.
Someone warned him of steps going up, but neglected to say how many, and he staggered onto a deck, was turned and taken 14 paces, then back down a shorter set of steps. Fourteen somewhat hampered paces from the hatchway to the quarterdeck. Not much, but a start.
A door creaked. “Please be seated, Mr. Archer,” a cultured voice invited. “I believe you will appreciate the change of scenery.”
The guards who’d brought him here pulled the enveloping cloak away and loosed Archer’s wrists as they pushed him into the captain’s cabin. It was furnished as grandly as any fine home he had ever visited: a small but elegant dining table, china dishes, crystal goblets. The meal looked sumptuous. Besides the wine and bread, there were roast fowl, green beans, a pie, and two covered dishes. The only concession to shipboard life was a plate of the ubiquitous biscuit.
And at the head of the table sat Captain Adrian, in a suit of unrelieved black, cut in a parody of a Royal Navy uniform. A strange costume, made stranger by the black silk mask concealing his upper face. David understood what Will had meant about Adrian’s not shaving—between the mask and a short reddish beard and moustache, very little of him was visible.
If he were to remove the mask and shave, he would be unidentifiable... if not for his eyes. They were an icy, nearly colorless blue, with such peculiar intensity that they made the mask useless. Archer would know those eyes again even if he saw them staring out of a block of wood. He wondered if Adrian knew how ineffective his disguise really was, or if he simply enjoyed the drama of it all. Archer had seen enough theatre to recognize the trappings.
He nodded politely. “Captain,” he said, and sat at the indicated chair. But the eating utensils beside his plate were at odds with the refinement of the table. They appeared to be carved from some sort of soft, spongy wood, and the knife had no point.
“You are not my first dinner guest, Mr. Archer,” Adrian said, observing his expression, “and I have had one or two who were quite inventive. I have found it simpler to remove the temptation to pilfer tableware. If any meat needs cutting, my cook attends to it in the galley.”
“I see.” This prison might have the trappings of elegance, but it was a prison nonetheless.
Adrian seemed to feel a need to elaborate. “Not that it would do you any good, but one of my men was once stabbed with a fork, and I was forced to have his assailant beaten. One of the rules aboard this ship is that any attempt to escape, however unsuccessful, is punished swiftly and severely. It would save us both a great deal of trouble if you would simply give me your parole.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Archer was mildly surprised that Adrian would make the suggestion. Not only would it be counter to Captain
“The edge would be gone long before we could cut our way out,” Archer said pragmatically. The timbers of the hull were at least a foot thick; even the walls of their compartment would be an inch or better.
“I know.” He handed it back, and Archer dumped the razor in the basin, slid it back out, and pounded on the door.
Boots thumped in the companionway. “Stand away from the door.” A guard looked in to see that they had obeyed; a bolt was drawn back outside, and the door swung open to show three pistols aimed inside. “Aw’right, you come out, you stay back.”
As soon as Archer was outside, the door was shut again, the bolt thrown home. His hope of seeing anything helpful was dashed immediately; one of the guards tied his hands in front of him while another shook out the folds of a huge, hooded grey cloak. He had one glimpse of Marshall looking out the barred window, frowning in chagrin, before the heavy wool fell over his face. The free end of the rope that bound his hands was wrapped around the outside of the cloak, and he was pushed forward.
Someone warned him of steps going up, but neglected to say how many, and he staggered onto a deck, was turned and taken 14 paces, then back down a shorter set of steps. Fourteen somewhat hampered paces from the hatchway to the quarterdeck. Not much, but a start.
A door creaked. “Please be seated, Mr. Archer,” a cultured voice invited. “I believe you will appreciate the change of scenery.”
The guards who’d brought him here pulled the enveloping cloak away and loosed Archer’s wrists as they pushed him into the captain’s cabin. It was furnished as grandly as any fine home he had ever visited: a small but elegant dining table, china dishes, crystal goblets. The meal looked sumptuous. Besides the wine and bread, there were roast fowl, green beans, a pie, and two covered dishes. The only concession to shipboard life was a plate of the ubiquitous biscuit.
And at the head of the table sat Captain Adrian, in a suit of unrelieved black, cut in a parody of a Royal Navy uniform. A strange costume, made stranger by the black silk mask concealing his upper face. David understood what Will had meant about Adrian’s not shaving—between the mask and a short reddish beard and moustache, very little of him was visible.
If he were to remove the mask and shave, he would be unidentifiable... if not for his eyes. They were an icy, nearly colorless blue, with such peculiar intensity that they made the mask useless. Archer would know those eyes again even if he saw them staring out of a block of wood. He wondered if Adrian knew how ineffective his disguise really was, or if he simply enjoyed the drama of it all. Archer had seen enough theatre to recognize the trappings.
He nodded politely. “Captain,” he said, and sat at the indicated chair. But the eating utensils beside his plate were at odds with the refinement of the table. They appeared to be carved from some sort of soft, spongy wood, and the knife had no point.
“You are not my first dinner guest, Mr. Archer,” Adrian said, observing his expression, “and I have had one or two who were quite inventive. I have found it simpler to remove the temptation to pilfer tableware. If any meat needs cutting, my cook attends to it in the galley.”
“I see.” This prison might have the trappings of elegance, but it was a prison nonetheless.
Adrian seemed to feel a need to elaborate. “Not that it would do you any good, but one of my men was once stabbed with a fork, and I was forced to have his assailant beaten. One of the rules aboard this ship is that any attempt to escape, however unsuccessful, is punished swiftly and severely. It would save us both a great deal of trouble if you would simply give me your parole.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Archer was mildly surprised that Adrian would make the suggestion. Not only would it be counter to Captain
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