Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Page 9

  She reminded herself that her mission tonight wasn’t to talk to people, but to watch and listen. She planned to make this first foray merely an investigative site hunt. Check out which pubs she would go to and which ships at which docks she would watch. Then tomorrow and the next night and the night after that, as many times as she had to until she heard something about Rowan, she’d go to the taverns with a single lone ale in front of her, her cap pulled down on her eyes and her ears wide open.

  That was the plan anyway.

  The first pub she came upon that was fairly close to the docks, she felt emboldened to enter instead of just note where it was. There were enough men milling about the entrance, she felt she could easily hide among them. They were rough-looking. Not just sailors or merchant mariners, but something else that swam from the underbelly of dark men.

  Pirates.

  Ella knew that Casablanca was a common stopping off point for pirates. She knew they gathered here at the port and that they gossiped and swapped tales as much as any other sailor. In fact, she counted on it.

  After her long unproductive day in her hotel room—and with the prospect of another one looming ahead of her tomorrow—Ella found she couldn’t go back to the hotel without making the night count for something more. Keeping to the shadows, she slipped through the scrum of men blocking the entrance to the bar and found her way to a back table. She knew she couldn’t position herself too much on the perimeter or she wouldn’t hear anything. It was a fine balance: close enough to the action to pick up conversations, but not so close that anyone glanced her way.

  She was confident that her disguise was good. First, it was unimaginable that a woman would deliberately want to be among this lot. Second, it was equally unimaginable that a woman would deliberately cut off her hair—her crowning glory in this age—for any reason.

  As she sat down at the far table, instantly catching a nasty splinter in the back of her thigh in the process, she saw what looked like another cabin boy not far from where she sat. He held up a finger to the barmaid and she nodded. When the woman—fifty, if she was a day—looked at Ella, she too held up a finger.

  When the tankard of ale came, Ella realized from its odor that she wasn’t going to be able to drink it and keep it down. But to not drink it would cause only slightly less reaction than spewing it back up. The lip of the tankard had food encrusted on it, which Ella broke off. She lifted it to her face and pretended to drink, trying to pick out English words from the babel of men’s voices.

  It was clear that a ship had come in recently. Probably this very day from the looks of the men in the pub. Ella wondered if she’d have time to visit many more taverns tonight. She wondered of the likelihood of any of this toward getting her killed. She thought of Tater and quickly pushed the image from her mind. Being all weepy-Mommy right now was the last thing she needed if she was going to pull this off.

  “Oy! Some’un piss in yer beer?”

  She looked up to see the other cabin “boy” lumbering over toward her. The good news was that he appeared to be English, not Spanish or French. The bad news was that he was coming over to her. At the moment before he sat down, she sorely wished she’d had the nerve or the forethought to pull one of her front teeth. Nothing said low-life cabin boy as authentically as a missing front tooth. In any case, now was not the time to show her perfectly straight and brilliantly white teeth.

  At least thirty years old but not much bigger than Ella, the man sat down next to her and the two of them faced the crowd. It occurred to her that sitting with this lug was actually good for her cover—if she didn’t blow it. He reached for her beer and drank from it, his eyes, yellow and bloodshot, watching her from over the rim. Ella panicked for a moment until it occurred to her that she could make this work for her. She shrugged. He was at least getting rid of the detestable ale for her.

  She forced herself to gum her teeth with her lips and grinned at him. He blinked once at her reaction and paused and then finished the rest of her ale and slammed the tankard down on the wooden table in front of them. Ella jumped and moved to a half-standing position, ready to bolt out the front door—or as close to it as she could get with half of the male population of Casablanca standing between her and it—when her companion clapped a heavy hand down on her shoulder and belched loudly.

  “Oy fink some’un did piss in it!” he said loudly, then laughed raucously at his own joke. Ella mugged her way through another version of her gummy, no-teeth grin and hoped for the best.

  It worked.

  “They calls me Roger,” he said, drinking from his own tankard. “Got a bob for another?”

  Ella patted her pockets and came up with half a shilling, which Roger snatched out of her hand.

  “This is a lucky day me meeting you, matey!” Roger turned and hailed the barmaid, this time holding out two fingers.

  Looks like he intends to buy me a drink with my own money, Ella thought.

  “Ye from the Clarence?”

  Ella frowned.

  “The Clarence. Whut just came in today? From Marseilles?”

  Ella shook her head.

  “Dumb, huh? That’s all right, matey. Me cousin’s dumb.” The beers came and Roger set them both in front of himself. “Me, I’m from the Constantine. Ye savvy what this lot is about, eh?”

  Ella could see that poor Roger was respected and admired by none. It seems she had just been nominated his one-woman cheering squad and appreciative audience.

  Which suited her perfectly.

  She shook her head.

  “Cap’n Sully,” Roger said in his first hushed tones of the evening. He took a swig of his tankard and looked out at the men in front of him as if concerned they might have overheard him.

  Ella followed his gaze. She had to admit it was a rough crowd and perhaps a little rougher than your average merchant mariner. One man in front of her was missing an ear. Another appeared to be wearing an ear on a chain around his neck. She didn’t know when the clientele had changed, but a decidedly rougher crowd seemed to have taken over.

  “Ye be knowing who that is, aye?”

  Ella looked back at Roger, who appeared to be examining her a little too closely. She shrugged. Clearly, she was supposed to know who it was.

  “Member of the running trade, savvy? Those who fly no flag?”

  She didn’t answer but held his gaze. He blinked first, pushing one of the tankards to her. “Talk is he took the Eendracht, a Dutch merchant ship, off the coast of Spain. Killed all but one who promised him a prize for his life here in Casablanca.”

  Ella turned back to him and lifted her the tankard her lips. He’d already drunk most of it. With any luck she’d get the rest down without gagging.

  “Brung ‘im to Casablanca—the Dutchman, that is—and got his treasure right enough. So they say.”

  Ella glanced at him as she fought to keep the brew down.

  “Ye’ll be wondering if he honored his word and let the Dutchman go, aye?”

  Ella nodded, suddenly feeling extremely sleepy. There was no doubt she was seeing two Rogers at the moment.

  “I wouldn’t put cold-blooded murder past Cap’n Sully, true as true. And honor ain’t a word connected to him either, savvy? Say now, what ails you, matey? Ye ain’t lookin’ too good.”

  Several Rogers appeared to be grinning at her. It was the last thing Ella saw before the table full of splinters slammed into her face and the whirling world around her ground to a sudden halt.

  8

  When she awoke, Ella saw immediately that she wasn’t tied up or bound in any way. She could also tell that the closet she was in was small and dark. And it was moving. A vicious thread of panic wormed up from her gut as she realized from the sway and creak of her cell that she was on a moving boat. She scrambled to her feet and instantly fell. There were boxes and heavy coils of fat rope laying about that, in the dark, she couldn’t see or maneuver around.

  That bastard! He’s kidnapped me!

  She inched
her way along the rough wooden wall of her enclosure until she saw cracks on the floor that indicated a door. She grasped the long wooden bolt, surprised that it was on the inside instead of the outside, and threw the latch up.

  What kind of a jail is it that latches on the inside?

  Which made her wonder—who latched it?

  “Oy! How be me matey? Ye need to lay off the grog, lad. Little fella like yourself—”

  “Stow it, dickhead,” Ella said, blinking into the sunlight where Roger loomed over her, backlit. She could see he had a tray of food in his hands. “You can’t do this. I’m an American citizen.”

  When her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she saw that the closet opened up onto a narrow outdoor corridor. Over Roger’s shoulder was nothing but blue sky. No buildings in the background. No wharf sights. They were on the ocean. God knows where.

  “Yer voice sounds prissy-like,” Roger said, frowning.

  “Why did you drug me?” Ella asked, forcing her voice as low as she could make it. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Leave off, boy. Captain sent me for more recruits.” He shrugged. “So I recruited ye.”

  “How did I get locked in? The latch is on the inside.”

  “Sure ye was a jolly dog last night. Ye don’t remember, do ye? Sometimes the dope does that to a man. Never seen it turn ‘em quare before though.”

  Ella rubbed a hand across her face. She had to get off this boat. She had to find information on Rowan. What a mess. Why the hell didn’t she pack a derringer when she and Halima were trying to plan for every event?

  “Might as well have a mug o’ tea, matey. Y’ain’t going nowheres.”

  Ella weighed her options. She had little doubt she could outmaneuver this moron—as soon as she figured out a way to actually get off the ship—but what then?

  “What ship is this?”

  Roger grinned and handed her a steaming tin of tea. “Like I said before, this is the Constantine.”

  “Have you heard anything about anyone being picked up by any ship any where near here?”

  Roger looked at her in stark amazement.

  “Hello? I’m asking you a question.”

  “From where did you say you came? The Americas?”

  Ella spoke more slowly. “Have you heard any news about a man being picked up from a nearby island?”

  “The Dutchman.”

  “No. He isn’t Dutch. He’s big, though.” Ella stood on her tiptoes to indicate Rowan’s six-foot-four height. “And broad shouldered.”

  “Blimey,” Roger said, a look of incredulity creeping over his face. “The giant? Sully has ‘im, doesn’t he?”

  Ella jumped up with excitement, knocking over her tea. “Sully? The pirate, Sully?”

  Roger nodded, only now his eyes strayed to her chest and Ella had a very bad feeling, which she confirmed when she looked down and saw that the straps she’d used to flatten her breasts had snapped. She was not only fully pushing against the blouse of her cabin boy’s shirt, she was showing remarkable cleavage in the process.

  Crap!

  “Scuttle me and rot my bones!”

  “Okay, Lurch. Let’s not get distracted here.” She didn’t bother with the deep voice. It was pretty clear from all viewpoints that she was female.

  Ella closed the gap between them with one step and jerked the knife free from the man’s waist sheath. He grunted as if he’d been hit but didn’t drop his mug of tea.

  “Stand over there, please,” Ella said, motioning to the far end of the corridor. “And if you’d be so kind as to tell me where, exactly, we are?”

  Roger stared at her with his mouth open. “Ye’re a wench!”

  “What time did we lift anchor? What direction from Casablanca are we heading?”

  She watched a stupid grin spread across his face and she felt her panic ratchet up. What moron smiles when he’s got a knife on him? A moron who knows there’s a pal nearby with a gun.

  “Oy, Roger. Ye brought us a toy for the long voyage, so ye did.”

  Ella took a step back toward the cell and, still holding Roger’s knife in front of her, glanced off to the side to see a very large, very hairy man holding a pistol aimed at her.

  Did she have time to dart back into the cell and lock it before he pulled the trigger? It occurred to her that was a big risk to take when the best-case scenario then had her trapped like the proverbial rat in the cell.

  Should she go down fighting?

  “Drop the knife, lass,” the ape with the gun said. He took a step forward as he spoke.

  “I don’t think so.” Ella’s hand felt sweaty around the knife grip. She shifted her focus to the man with the gun although Roger was nearly as threatening.

  “Cap’n won’t want her killed,” Roger said. “And Cook won’t want another ‘un to patch up.”

  “Stow it,” the gunman snarled.

  Deciding delay was better than whatever these two had in mind for her, Ella jumped back into the cell and slammed the door shut. She dropped the knife and grabbed for the locking lever with both hands, trying to wedge it into place before they could wrench the door open. Her fingers felt for the locking cradle in the dark, one hand holding the lever and sweat popping off her as she heard the men’s shouts on the other side of the door. Her right hand located the cradle and she slammed the lever down, but before it could catch and lock into place, the door jerked open.

  Ella stood in the shaft of daylight staring into the face of the ape with the gun. With his free hand, he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her out of the cell.

  9

  “Look alive, ye. What’s doing here?”

  As Ella clawed desperately at the man holding her by the throat, a short fat man thundered his way down the narrow passageway. Praying it was the captain or somebody in authority, Ella tried to speak and was promptly slapped by the ape holding her.

  “Hold yer clack, wench! Stowaway, Cap’n!”

  Ella felt close to passing out, her breath allowed only in short gasps. She made her body go limp to force the man holding her to either let her go or finish the job.

  “You’ve killed her, ye brigand!”

  From very far away, Ella heard the voices of her tormentors talking and shouting. She still felt hands on her, but no longer on her throat. The movement of the ship began to accelerate until she thought she would vomit with the motion, until she realized it wasn’t the ship. She was being carried.

  The bliss of letting go quickly dissipated as she felt the hardness of the table they placed her on—none too gently. She groaned and opened her eyes. She had no idea how long she’d been out.

  Still on the boat. In a larger room, flooded with natural light, so a window somewhere. And clanking and banging sounds that reverberated in her head like a street band on crack.

  She was cold. “Where…?”

  “Just hold fast. Ye ain’t going anywhere lessen ye want the crew back in here.”

  Ella turned her head to see what looked like a textbook example of a homeless person watching her as he polished the bottom of a large brass kettle. Disheveled, his clothes mostly rags, the man was elderly, with rheumy eyes and wattles of wrinkles cascading down his face like a bloodhound’s.

  “Yer bleeding, lass,” the man said, storing the large kettle on a shelf over his head.

  Ella sat up slowly and put her hand to her throat. It still felt raw and sore but the skin wasn’t broken. She looked down and then she saw.

  Her period had started.

  She glanced at the old guy and then around the room, which was pretty obviously the ship’s kitchen—that would make this guy “Cook.” Ella started to move off the table when she noticed her shirt was unbuttoned and her breasts exposed. No wonder she was cold.

  “Had a bit of a tweak while ye was out,” Cook said, nodding at Ella’s shirt.

  Disgusting perv.

  “But the crew’ll not have at ye ‘til yer courses are done, ye may be sure.”

&n
bsp; Ella buttoned up and looked around the room until she spotted a row of butcher knives.

  “And meanwhile ye can’t be any help to me while yer unclean, tho ye can get off that table if yer finished swooning.”

  Ella got to her feet, keeping one hand on the table to steady herself, her eyes on the knives not two steps a way.

  “Where are we?” she asked, her voice an uncertain croak.

  “That’s a quare accent ye have there. Where ye from, lass?”

  “Alpha Centauri, dickweed. Where. Are. We?”

  “Verra quare. We’re one day out of Morocco, as it happens, heading to Nova Scotia. Whether or not ye steal me knives ye’ll not get off this boat short of swimming with the sharks. And it’s a long way to where we’re going. Might as well get friendly.”

  What a disaster. Ella felt a wave of helplessness crash over her. This can’t be happening. I can’t have buggered it up this bad so soon.

  “Once yer courses stop, Cap’n says ye can help me with the cookin’… when yer not relieving the crew of their needs,” Cook said with a shrug. “Meanwhile, ye sleep in the kitchen. And eat with the crew.” He threw a dirty rag at her. “Bind yourself up. Yer leaking everywhere.”

  That evening, Ella was amazed that she sat among the sailors—two of whom had physically threatened her and all of whom intended to repeatedly rape her—as if they were all friends on a long adventure together. The men, although careful not to touch her hand or any utensil that she did while she was “unclean,” nonetheless spoke respectfully to her, even warmly, during the course of the meal.

  “Who be this giant yer so interested in?” Roger asked as he cut into the dry biscuit on his plate. Ella saw a plate of what looked like salt pork and several fillets of fresh fish.

  “He’s…he’s my brother,” Ella said. “He was lost off a ship in the Mediterranean Sea about a month ago.”