Entry tags:

issue11, roumonte emi

The Ballad Of Barefoot Robin, or The Ridiculous Seduction Of Lieutenant Worthington, Part 1
by Roumonte Emi (竜主天 蝦)



1.
In all the years to come, whatever else Thomas Worthington did or did not blame for his predicament, in the end it was always the chains he came back to, always the chains he laid the blame on, often with a resigned little smile on his face.

They were the first thing to catch his attention, after all, because they were so out of place on such a harmless-looking prisoner. The cell itself was well-built, a double layer of stone and deep-set iron bars--he'd tested all three cells for himself on the very first day he arrived, shaking all the bars and prodding at the mortar, squinting at the heavy black locks with a critical eye. Finally he had pronounced himself satisfied and gently chastised the jailer for not replacing the thin, filthy layer of straw on the cell's stone floor.

In short, there was absolutely no reason for the prisoner to be chained in this manner. The chains were only to be used on two occasions: occasion the first, when a prisoner was enraged or otherwise violent to the point where he might do himself some harm, and occasion the second, on those rare occasions when the cells were full to capacity and still more prisoners remained to be restrained. And yet the prisoner in the middle cell wore not only the ankle bracelets and the heavy staple about his waist but the 'begging dog' collar: a pair of shackles connected to an iron collar by a pair of short and ugly chains that drew the prisoner's hands up to dangle uselessly like dog's paws against his chest. Beastly device, really. A step or two short of torture, in Thomas' opinion.

He turned to the jailer. "Oh, now, Mister Janks, are those really necessary? The chains...!"

Janks shrugged, unimpressed, and spat on the floor. "Captain's orders," he said. "Devious little river-folk bastard--he'll wear them chains t' the gibbet and they'll come off once he's dead and not before."

"Barbaric," Thomas said under his breath, turning to study the prisoner again and discovering that he was being studied in his turn. The man was small, slender, and barefoot, tanned to a leathery nut-brown the exact color of his hair (thick, coarse tufts of which exploded outwards in all directions from under his colorful bandanna, making him look like nothing so much as a dead thistle). The eyes on Thomas were brown, bright, and curious. How like a little monkey he is, Thomas thought, wrapping one hand about the bars. "That will be all," he told the jailer, waving his free hand towards the stairs. "I'll call if I need you."

The jailer waited an insolent moment or two, then grunted and stumped up the stairs, leaving the two of them more or less alone on this brilliant summer afternoon. The prisoner shifted with a great clanking of iron, trying and failing to pull his bare feet up underneath himself, still studying Thomas with fascination. Then, improbably, his face split into an enormous and positively infectious grin, the white of his teeth startling against the brown of his face and the gray of the stones. "Aft'noon, Cap'n," he said with great cheer, wiggling his trapped fingers under his chin in an arrested parody of a wave. "'Fraid I can't stand up and greet yeh all proper-like."

Thomas paused, mentally translating this into the King's English, and then arranged his face into stern lines. "Lieutenant," he said firmly. "And this levity ill becomes your situation. You're to be hanged at dawn tomorrow, after all."

"Oh, aye?" the prisoner said thoughtfully, rubbing one foot along the top of the other, like it itched. It probably did; he looked none too clean in the first place and the straw he was sitting on was doubtless full of vermin. "Thet's bad news, then."

He still didn't seem properly upset. Perhaps he was simple... Thomas put his other hand on the bars and frowned. "You do understand that you're to be executed, don't you?"

"Aye, put t' death," the prisoner said, still incongruously cheerful. "Hanged by th' neck until dead, killed in th' name of some king or other--"

"Show some respect, man!" Thomas snapped, taken aback. "It's by the King's grace that they'll not have you tortured for a confession first! A quick, clean end to pay for your crimes, that's for you, and plenty of time for you to make your peace with God beforehand, to ensure that your soul goes clean to Heaven." His hands tightened on the bars. "The King is merciful, and I'll thank you to show some gratitude."

But the prisoner was laughing--"Peace, peace, Lieut'nant," he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off Thomas' outburst. "Meant no harm by it."

"Yes. Well. See that you don't," Thomas said, not quite mollified but willing to let it drop. He fell silent, studying the little man with the incongruous grin, in all his stained finery. He'd surely be more somber in the morning...! "Mister Janks tells me you sent the priest away," he finally said.

"Oh, aye," said the prisoner. "I don't much truck with such as them."

"Shameful." Thomas frowned. "You ought to give more thought to your immortal soul... er... what is your name?"

The prisoner blinked, then burst out laughing again. "Oh, aye, and where are my manners, then? Hereabouts they as know me call me Robin, Lieut'nant, and they as have heard of me call me Barefoot Robin--" he lifted one dirty-soled foot an inch or so from the straw and waggled his toes at Thomas, making him wrinkle his nose "--and either suits me well enough, thank yeh kindly. And yeh? Who are yeh when yeh're at home?"

Thomas tugged at his uniform coat, resettling it more firmly onto his shoulders. "I fail to see how it's any business of yours, but you may call me Lieutenant Worthington, if you must."

Robin's cheerful face split into that huge beaming grin again. "Well, now, Lieut'nant, it's good t' meet yeh proper-like. Seen yeh about town a time or two, but I en't found it quite proper t' come an' introduce meself, seein' as how I was gen'rally busy stealin' things at th' time." Thomas sputtered. Robin, unrepentant, went right on. "I hear tell yeh're new 'bout these parts, Lieut'nant! Here t'protect the port from them narsty pirates, are yeh?"

"Yes," Thomas said coolly. The man's levity was beyond disrespectful, both to his position and to the Navy itself. "And from common thieves like yourself, as well."

"Here!" Robin thumped his narrow chest with one shackled hand, playing at offense. "Nothin' common about me, Lieut'nant! Barefoot Robin's th' best thief what ever slipped in a window, and thet en't no lie!"

Briefly, Thomas closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "Yes. Well. That's of no moment now, er, Robin. Here you are, and here you'll stay until tomorrow, when you'll be hanged. Will you not change your mind and let the priest hear your confession?"

"Well, now, it's kind of yeh t' take an interest, but I fear my mind's made up." Robin ducked his head, scratching ineffectually at the back of his neck.

Thomas sighed. "Very well, then. It pains me, but I suppose that in the end, it's your choice. If you change your mind, let the jailer know."

"Aye, well, I'll be keepin' thet in mind." Robin looked back up and offered Thomas that sunny grin again, just as if nothing at all was wrong.

And in truth, that should have been all. Thomas had duties enough to keep him busy, and he'd already done the Christian thing... but still he found himself lingering at the bars. "Is there anything you require?" he finally asked. It was those damned chains; they held him there as firmly as they held Robin himself. That brave little fellow immured in those horrible chains, doomed to die in the morning--surely any good man would find it in his heart to be charitable to such a pitiable figure.

Robin peeped at him slyly from under the shaggy explosion of his hair. "Don't suppose yeh could see yer way clear t' unlocking these and lettin' me be on my way?" He rattled a wrist cuff, for emphasis.

"What? No!" Thomas clutched at the bars so hard that his knuckles whitened. "That isn't what I meant, and you know that very well!"

"Eh, figured it couldn't hurt t'ask," Robin said, completely unrepentant. "In thet case, Lieut'nant, could yeh mebbe get me a bit o' water? It's tolerable dry in here!"

"Water--" Thomas broke off there, startled and ashamed. A bucket (doubtless filthy) stood in the corner, three-quarters full of water, but of course the collar and the staple would prevent Robin from reaching so far. He'd certainly have to speak to Mister Janks later. Letting the poor man go dry and parched while a few tantalizing inches away from water...! "Of course," he said. "Locking you up away from water--beastly." And before Robin could respond with any more of his cheeky talk Thomas strode off down the hallway, fetching the heavy iron key from the cabinet where it hung, and as an afterthought, the dipper from the jailer's own water bucket.

"I'll have no nonsense from you," he said sharply, once he returned. "I haven't the keys to your chains in any case, and if you have any foolish ideas, well, I think you'll find me a most recalcitrant hostage."

"Aye, I'll behave," Robin said eagerly, his eyes fastened on the dipper in Thomas' hand. "Good as gold, thet's me." Thomas was stabbed by another pang of guilt. The poor man. Surely the King's men could afford to be more civilized than this, even in this backwater!

Still, guilty he might be but foolish he was not, so he kept a careful eye on Robin as he unlocked the heavy cell door and wrestled it open. It swung with a screech of rusting hinges--no amount of oiling could save the iron from the salt air for long--and as an afterthought Thomas closed it behind himself again, relocking it and hanging the key from his swordbelt. Robin watched him with unreserved impish fascination, those monkey-bright brown eyes jumping from the keys to Thomas' sword to the dipper in his hand to his face. Thomas ignored it as best he could, plunging the dipper into the bucket and pulling it out dripping with reasonably clean water. "No nonsense," he reminded Robin.

"Aye, Lieut'nant," Robin rasped, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Thomas nodded once, sharply, and went gingerly to his knees on the dirty straw, for the moment unconcerned about the state this would leave his uniform trousers in. The tip of his saber's scabbard skittered across the stones behind him. Wrapping an arm around Robin's shoulders he helped the little man sit up against the staple--God above, he weighed so little--and held the dipper to his mouth as best he could.

The chains clinked as Robin's hands came up, splaying out on the bottom of the dipper and nudging it towards his mouth. He drank deeply, thirstily, gulping like an animal, gasping for breath before sucking up another greedy mouthful; Thomas' shame grew stifling. The poor man. "Another, please, Lieut'nant," Robin begged when the dipper was empty. Thomas nodded and reached across the cell, dipping up another cupful of water.

Robin gulped the second as he had gulped the first. In the end he grew too greedy, shoving at the bottom of the dipper like he feared Thomas would yank it away; he choked on the last mouthful, water pouring from his mouth to wet his chin as he fell into a coughing fit. Thomas dropped the dipper to the straw and thumped Robin's back until the wracking coughs subsided, the little man huddling against him with his head resting weakly on Thomas' shoulder. "Are you all right?" he inquired once Robin was quiet.

"Aye, fine," Robin said rustily, spitting once. "Thank yeh for yer kindness, Lieut'nant. Not many o' yeh bluebottles would show such t'a creature such as me."

"Nonsense," Thomas said, letting Robin slump back against the wall. His hand dropped to the ring of keys at his waist, confirming that they were still there, unstolen. "It's our Christian duty to show charity to those less fortunate than we, and I'll thank you not to insult the Navy so. Will you have more water?"

Robin waved his fingers weakly. "Nah, nah, suspect that'll do."

Thomas nodded, plucked the dipper from the straw, and stood up. Robin's eyes fell to the dipper again, his gaze sharpening to something fox-like in its cunning. "Here, don't suppose yeh could leave thet with me, Lieut'nant? Case I get thirsty again?"

"No," Thomas said, almost gently, amused despite himself by Robin's wholly transparent attempt to gain himself a tool. Such a little monkey. "If you need more water, ask the jailer. I shall instruct him to bring you more if you ask."

Robin sagged back against the wall, clearly disappointed. "Eh, well, s'kind of yeh, Lieut'nant. 'Preciate it."

"You're welcome." Thomas let himself out of the cell again, locking it behind himself before slapping the straw off his knees. When he was done, before he left, he turned around again to put a hand on the bars and catch Robin's eye once more. "Make peace with your heathen gods if you can," he said sternly. "But I hope you'll find it in your heart to call for the priest and cleanse your soul properly, Robin."

For a moment Robin was silent, studying him; then he burst out into that lunatic grin again. "Aye, well, I'll think on it, Lieut'nant, since it means so much t' yeh an' all."

Thomas very firmly refused to be either nettled or baited. "Good," he said, nodding. And Thomas strode back up the hallway to put away the keys and have a stern word with Mister Janks.

~*~

The memory of that grin, bright and incautious, stayed with him for the rest of the day, Robin silently accompanying him on his rounds and distracting him from his duties. And Thomas could ill afford to be distracted: as one of only two lieutenants serving under Captain Tyre (a doughty man, to be certain, but also the highest-ranking man the Navy could spare for these parts) fully half the town fell under his watch, and there was always the thought of home and ambition to spur him onwards. A backwater, certainly, and of no great moment, but if he acquitted himself well here...!

And still the ghost of Robin padded silently at his heels, so at the end of the day when Thomas' time was his own, he took himself down to the tavern where the Navy men drank and presumed to buy a mug for Mister Beckwith, the captain's own secretary. In Thomas' private opinion, an odious little man, a collection of foul habits and fouler opinions, sparkling clean on the outside and filthy within... but no one knew the town or its inhabitants (and parasites) better than he.

It took little enough prompting to move the conversation to Robin, at which point Thomas discovered, to his dismay, that Mister Beckwith had quite a lot to say on the subject of river-folk in general and Robin in particular, and none of it good nor fair. "Every one of them's a thief," he proclaimed, pursing his lips in distaste. "Him most of all. The others, they'll just steal whatever falls in their laps--their filthy kind is far too lazy to exert themselves--but that one! He joys in it, I'm certain. A pox on him, may he rot in Hell."

"I fear that that may be the case," Thomas said as evenly as he could, taking a small sip of his own ale. Foul stuff. "He sent away the priest, I'm told."

"Good riddance," Beckwith said. "I've come to doubt that river-folk have souls at all, and that one and the devil deserve each other in any case." As if to punctuate this ghastly proclamation, he turned aside and spat on the floor.

Thomas concentrated on his drink for a moment (and an unpleasant task it was) before daring to allow himself to continue. "I don't know much about the river-folk, I'm afraid," he ventured.

"Yes, well, you wouldn't, would you, a daisy fresh from the Academy, barely two months in the man's world," said Beckwith, and for a moment it was all Thomas could do not to dash his mug of swill in the man's insulting face and thereby mortally insult Captain Tyre (who was, after all, the foul man's brother-in-law). Beckwith's sneer said that he knew it all too well, used as he was to sheltering behind the skirts of the captain's coat. "Sluts and roundheels, the lot of them, men as well as women, and not a one of them prone to discriminate," he went on, finally sipping at the ale which Thomas had so kindly provided. "And not for coin, neither, and none of those furtive little gropings that plague such as the Naval Academy--" Thomas very firmly refused to rise to this bait, although he feared that his ears reddened from anger "--but for the sheer deviltry of it! Harlots and Sodomites, devil futter them all--they'll enjoy it."

"Mister Beckwith!" Thomas said, well and truly shocked.

"Oh, what?" Beckwith gestured at Thomas with his mug, a knowing little smirk on his face. "You stay in these parts for long and I guarantee that you'll come to agree with me--oh, but you won't be staying, will you? An Academy graduate like you, you're just here long enough to muddle along until a better posting comes through, aren't you?"

"That, sir, is for the Navy to decide," Thomas said. He was choking on his anger, little good that it would do him.

Beckwith stared at him, narrow-eyed, before nodding. "That it is, Lieutenant. That it is. I don't doubt that coming here just in time to see Barefoot Robin hanged will count as a feather in your cap, despite you not having suffered through his constant depredations along with the rest of us. That is, if he's hanged."

Thomas frowned, but in the end, he couldn't resist. "Why should he not be hanged? The governor has already said there'll be no clemency for him."

"Because he's been in those cells four times before now," Beckwith said, with the air of a man delivering a telling blow. Thomas sat back, stunned and unable to prevent showing it. "Four times in the cells, four times condemned to death, and four times he's contrived to escape, in four unlikely ways. That's why the chains, you see. I don't doubt they'll gag him before he's led from the jail as well, or just cut out his tongue, although he'll need it where he's going. Lick the devil's arse and beg for mercy, see how far it gets him."

Thomas, unsettled, hid his wince behind his mug. "Four times," he said, disbelieving. "That's..."

"Oh, he's a clever one, right enough," said Beckwith. "Scattered a purse of the governor's own gold coins to the mob and escaped in the confusion, that was one, and knocked a jailer over the head with a water dipper, that was the second--" Thomas smiled despite himself "--took the bars out of the left-hand cell window for the third, and no one--no one--knows how he escaped on the fourth, although if you ask me he took some perverted sergeant's knob in his arse right through the bars in exchange for the keys to his cell, right enough. If we checked the men for some foul venereal disease, I don't doubt we'd find our culprit, Lieutenant."

"Half the men here have some sort of pox or another," Thomas said, struggling for calm. "Are we to assume that every man who's ever paid a whore is the same man who let Barefoot Robin out of his cell? We'd not have enough chains to restrain them all."

"Ha! True enough." Beckwith looked almost entertained; Thomas felt grimy just for having impressed the little toad. "Still," Beckwith said, "perhaps the fifth time will be the charm, what? Was there anything else you cared to know, Lieutenant Worthington?"

"No. No, thank you, I believe that will be all," Thomas said, standing up. A stab of unseemly pride made him drop a silver coin onto the table at Beckwith's hand. "For your next," he said. "I'd hate to underpay you for such valuable information."

Beckwith didn't look insulted, more's the pity. "Kind of you, Lieutenant. And as one kindness deserves another: did you know you've lost your rank-brooch again?"

Thomas' hand flew guiltily to his cravat and, sure enough, found nothing there but fabric. "Oh, drat the thing," he said, letting his hand drop. "I must see to having that catch repaired. If only there were a decent jeweler in this town, I'd have had it seen to long ago."

"I'm sure someone will find it," Beckwith said, waving his hand negligently. "Still, I'm a kind man, I shan't tell the Captain you were out of uniform."

Thomas bowed stiffly. "You have my gratitude," he informed Beckwith. "And now, if you'll pardon me..." Without waiting for the man's permission he strode out into the night, disconcerted and disgusted, the barefoot spectre of Robin drifting silently behind him.

~*~

It was not Thomas' turn to oversee the executions on the day that Robin was to be hanged, so he could lay abed a while, if he liked; still, he found himself awake as the sky outside began to lighten, his mind springing about too much to permit him to sleep. Perhaps he'd go down to the square anyway. As infamous a rogue as this Barefoot Robin seemed to be, Thomas thought that he'd hardly believe the man properly deceased unless he saw his death for himself.

And so he was already out of bed and stepping into his trousers when the alarm went up, out on the streets below. Thomas' head jerked up; he stared at the window in disbelief. Surely not... Thomas grabbed for his boots and his swordbelt, hurrying into both, and by the time his landlady pounded on his door he was sliding into his coat. "Yes, thank you, I've already heard," he assured her as he slipped past, tying his hair back on his way down the stairs. He dashed out onto the streets, catching the first man in uniform to race by. "What? What's the alarm?"

"Barefoot Robin's escaped, Lieutenant!" the man gasped, pausing to hurriedly salute. "They went to his cell to get him ready and he was gone, flown right out of his locked chains like smoke!" Startled, Thomas let him go, and the man dashed off. Thomas raced after him, hatless, one hand hovering by the grip of his saber.

Small as this town was, it was less than a minute's run to the Navy's headquarters, even when Thomas had to dodge running soldiers left and right. "He'll be fifty miles from here, mark my words!" Captain Tyre was roaring even as Thomas pushed the door open. Beckwith was huddled over his desk in the corner, scribbling frantically, looking much the worse for wear for drink, which Thomas noted with an unseemly little pang of amusement. "Him and that damned sloop of his--Worthington! Take five--no, ten--men and search the boats at the dock! Tear them apart! No one ships out until you're satisfied that he's not there!"

"Aye, Captain!" Thomas saluted, then spun on his heel and began shouting out names.

~*~

In the end, it was fruitless, as indeed everyone seemed to know it would be. A day wasted searching every ship in the harbor while their captains grumbled and the seamen glowered, and while Thomas did turn up a few interesting items that had been conveniently left off cargo manifests on account of being wholly illegal, he turned up not a single little nut-brown man with a cheeky grin.

By early afternoon the last ship had been vetted and turned out to sea and Thomas wearily dismissed his men. Succumbing to his curiosity he turned his feet towards the jail, plodding along the planking, deaf to the calls of the market-women and the noise of the town.

The cell was indeed empty when he arrived, the chains still piled in the center. Thomas swung the complaining door open and knelt to inspect them for himself: still locked in every case, cuffs and anklets and collar alike, staple still padlocked to the wall. The thin straw held a dent in it, in the shape of Robin's narrow backside, but that was the only trace of the man. Truly, it was like he'd drifted out of his bonds like smoke.

Begging-dog collar in hand, Thomas straightened up, his mouth set in a grim line. He was a rational and God-fearing man and he did not believe in gypsy magic or other such superstitious nonsense, and so he was convinced that there must be another explanation. The man must have had help. That's all there was to it. All that remained was to find the rogue who'd helped him, now that Robin himself had flown.

Half the puzzle was solved the instant that Thomas yanked open the drawers of the jailer's desk. Rum, the bottle half-empty but what little remained still potent enough to singe his eyebrows; thrusting the bottle into Mister Janks' face and commenting pointedly on his telltale stench made the man sag and admit that he'd been drunk to unconsciousness the night before. "But he was locked away and chained to the wall!" the man sniveled, worrying at a bit of tattered handkerchief that was just as filthy as the rest of him. "I thought for sure it'd hold him fast enough!"

"What you thought is none of my concern," Thomas said coldly. "If you had been sober and awake neither he nor this confederate of his would have gotten past you." The jailer shrank into a miserable huddle; Thomas glared at him for a moment longer, then turned and thrust the begging-dog collar into the hands of the soldier by the door. "Put Mister Janks in Robin's abandoned chains," he instructed, "and lock him in the middle cell. A night in Robin's place will teach him more respect for his position on the other side of the bars, I'll wager."

"Aye, Lieutenant!" the soldier said, saluting. "Any further orders, sir?"

"None," said Thomas, his anger fading. "I'm going home. Send someone to fetch me if there's news."

The soldier saluted again. Thomas pushed past him and out into the evening, where even the gaudy sunset failed to cheer him overmuch.

~*~

It was fully dark by the time he finished his report and let himself into his rooms, exhausted. He stumbled twice in the space between the door and the lamp, and nearly fumbled and broke the glass chimney while trying to set it back over the flame. Still, just the act of lighting the lamp served to wake him slightly, and he was able to struggle out of both his boots and his coat without too much trouble.

A small glass of port, that was the ticket. Thomas paused in the middle of fetching the bottle and glanced over at the window, his nerves prickling with some vague premonition. It was closed, however, and there was nothing untoward to be seen out of it. Thomas snorted at himself, turned about, and froze.

Something small and dark lay in the center of his pillow, just where his head dented the ticking. Thomas dropped the bottle to the desk with a crash and seized the lamp, striding over to the bed and raising the flame high. The dark thing resolved itself as his rank-brooch, or what was left of it, the sturdy pin-back broken in two, the ends of both broken halves dented and scratched--

--his treacherous mind threw up the image of Robin coughing up his water with his face smashed against Thomas' shoulder. Had he perhaps felt a slight tug as the man's teeth pulled his broken rank-brooch from his cravat? Had he?

His hands shaking, Thomas put the lamp down on the table by the side of the bed and scooped up his rank-brooch. He touched the broken end of the pin, helpless now to avoid seeing his brooch and the broken-off piece of pin as two halves of as perfect a set of improvised lockpicks as a man chained to the wall of a cell was ever likely to find.

Thomas closed his hand convulsively tight around the pin, piercing the flesh of his palm and, in a way, grateful for the sharp pain of it. It seemed like a small enough price to pay for his arrogance, his idiocy, his cow-like credulity. Damn that man and his seeming harmlessness! If he'd only known--

--he'd have done the same thing, damn him. Escape artist or not, no man deserved to parch in the harsh salt air.

His eye fell back onto his pillow, drawn by the faintest flicker of a shadow that should not have been there. Dropping the broken brooch onto the bedside table by the lamp, Thomas reached down and plucked the flower from his pillow, holding it up in trembling fingers. It was nothing but a common dandelion, only slightly wilted, its ragged petals an explosion of yellow in the lamplight... a fine signature for a scruffy-haired man of the river-folk, common as muck and nothing much to look at, but prone to steal his way into most anywhere and almost impossible to stamp out.

2.
For all that it smarted on Thomas' pride, the whole Robin business quickly faded from the public eye, recalled only by a handful of tavern stories and one particularly bad ballad that acquired two new verses and an ill-fitting bridge overnight. Small and of no real account the town might be, but it was a busy little microcosm, and its inhabitants had newer things to gossip about within the week. Three days after Robin's miraculous escape Thomas wasn't so much as being jeered at any more, and even Captain Tyre seemed to have resigned himself to the inevitability of the little man's escape. Life, in short, went on as it had. Robins may come and Robins may go, but toil was eternal.

So when Thomas came home at the stroke of midnight two weeks later to find a certain barefooted fellow sitting crosslegged on his bed waiting for him, it came entirely as a shock. Indeed, he nearly dropped the dinner that his landlady had so kindly left covered for him on the kitchen counter.

The window was open, letting in the night breezes and ruffling the curtains. How Robin had opened it, Thomas couldn't be certain. The lock had been sound, he knew that much. "Evenin'," Robin said, beaming.

"You," Thomas said evenly, his fingers tightening on the rim of the plate. He was quite angry at himself at the moment. He'd been caught completely flat-footed, his sword hand occupied--by a rather nice china plate he dared not drop, lest his landlady have Words with him--and the hilt of some sort of sword jutting up from behind Robin's left shoulder told Thomas quite clearly that if he planned to draw, he'd best do it quickly. "Scoundrel. What do you want?"

"Eh," Robin said, leaning back against the headboard and stretching his legs out in front of him. "Well, t' be honest, I'd come by t' say thank yeh, but yeh don' seem t' be in any mood t' be thanked, Lieut'nant."

"Indeed not!" Thomas glanced left at his desk. Too far away. "It was a filthy thing you did, taking advantage of my good nature in that fashion. Have you no honor?"

Robin sucked on his lower lip, considering this. "Aye," he finally said. "Still an' all, I expect it en't th' sort of honor thet yeh mean."

"Then you have no honor at all," Thomas declared. "And I ought to call for the guards right now. Half a dozen guardsmen live on the floors below--we'd have you in irons before you could say Jack Robinson." That was, assuming they weren't dead drunk or out on patrol.

"Eh? Jack Robinson? Dunno the fella," Robin said, now beaming again. He sat back up. "An' call for th' guards if yeh like, Lieut'nant, but I think it'd make yeh look a right fool, yeh fixin' t' hold me at chicken-point."

Thomas ground his teeth. "Well, then, I suppose we'll just have to--" Without warning he slung the plate sidearm at Robin's head. "--do something about that situation!"

Robin squawked and threw up a hand, catching the dinner plate neatly by its rim an instant before it could crash into his face, but by that time Thomas had put himself between the bed and the window, snatching his saber from its scabbard. "Now, rogue, we'll see about you once and for all--"

Plate still in hand Robin flung himself off the far side of the bed. Tossing the plate neatly into his left hand he reached up and hauled his own sword free: three feet of wide-bladed pirate cutlass with a battered basket hilt that had seen better days. "Oh, aye, Lieut'nant? Then let's have at yeh!" And before Thomas could call for the guards, or respond, or anything, Robin leaped onto the bed and sprang off it, flying straight at Thomas.

Thomas flung up his saber and took the cutlass' strike hard on the flat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he fought not to be overborne by the airborne thief. Robin rebounded and skittered three rapid steps straight back, his left hand swooping crazily through the air as he somehow managed not to spill a single bit of food from the plate. Lamplight glittered from the blade of his cutlass as it lifted to hover in front of his chest. Lamplight glittered from his grin, too. "So yeh fancy yerself a dab hand with a blade, aye?"

"First in my class at the Academy," Thomas gritted out, rolling one shoulder as he brought the saber's wickedly sharp point up to bear on the gleaming point of Robin's eye. If he could just break through the man's guard--"And that's my landlady's best china you're trifling with," he added, his left foot sliding into place.

"Eh?" Robin glanced away from Thomas, at the plate in his hand. "Mine now--" and broke off there as Thomas lunged for him.

The tip of the saber skittered crazily off the flat of the cutlass blade before slicing in underneath it, stabbing through the air not three inches from Robin's side. Thomas twisted his wrist and slewed his body sideways, the blade slashing in towards Robin's hip; Robin yelped and flung himself away from the saber, landing in a cat-like crouch on the seat of Thomas' desk chair and leaping off again. Thomas whirled about to face him again... but Robin balanced on his toes in front of the open window now. Surely he'd flee. Surely.

Robin glanced over his shoulder, not quite taking his eyes off Thomas, then whipped his left hand up and over his shoulder. Thomas' dinner, sans plate, went flying out into the night to patter, eventually, off the cobblestones three stories below. Thomas jerked back, startled despite himself. "That was my dinner!"

"Still is, yeh wanna go an' get it!" Robin waggled the empty plate at him, grinning. "This here's mine, though. Yeh gave it t' me right an' proper."

"Like hell--" and Thomas lunged for him again.

The cutlass whipped up at the very last second and knocked his saber aside, the point slicing nothing but air a hair's breadth from Robin's cheek. Robin laughed in crazy delight and hooked the flying cutlass blade down and in, forcing Thomas to retreat hastily lest he be disemboweled, and then jump back again as Robin reversed the blade and slashed it across where his knees had just been. He nearly backed straight into the footboard of the bed, only barely recalling it in time and twisting his body aside. Robin's cutlass, thundering in in a deadly overhead arc, buried itself halfway into the wood with a meaty chunking sound and stuck there. Reflexively Thomas thrust forward over the trapped blade, the point of his saber lancing unerringly towards Robin's eye--

--only to pull up abruptly not a quivering finger's width from his landlady's best china plate. Robin's grin shone from behind his impromptu shield. "Tsk, tsk," he said, and with a ferocious yank he hauled his cutlass clear.

Thinking fast, Thomas fell back another step, towards the sitting room. "Dog," he spat, warding off a whistling blow and then another. Sloppy, Robin's swordwork was sloppy, but the little scoundrel was fast and inventive, he'd give him that--still, with a slashing blade like a cutlass, he needed room to use it, and there was one place in Thomas' lodgings where there wasn't room to do much. Thomas took another step back, jerking up his chin. Robin grinned and darted forward, following, his cutlass flying about him at ludicrous speeds. It was all Thomas could do to defend against it. The clamor seemed deafening, although Thomas doubted it would draw much attention, not in this town.

The edge of Robin's cutlass screeched along the edge of Thomas' saber and then Thomas' bootheel hit the slight rise of the sitting-room rug. His lips thinned. Between one heartbeat and the next he shifted from his defensive stance into a full-out ringing offense, driving Robin backwards in a flurry of clashing blows; lunging to his left Thomas cut off Robin's retreat into the bedroom, driving the little man backwards into the narrow hallway leading to the water closet. His lips peeled back in a humorless grin. This was what it was all about, this moment--

The cutlass bounced off one of the walls, sending up a great spray of plaster and rebounding hard, dragging the thief halfway around with it. The look of surprise on Robin's face was almost comical. "Oh, clever!" he cried, jerking the cutlass diagonally up in front of himself--there was barely even room for that, in this hallway that was so narrow that even Thomas' not-particularly-broad shoulders almost filled it--and just barely warding off Thomas' next blow.

Now the man with the saber held the upper hand, and there was nowhere for Robin to retreat to. Thomas, still baring his teeth, stabbed for anything that Robin left unguarded, and the cutlass was hard-pressed to ward it off. A rent appeared in the leg of Robin's baggy breeches and another in the full sleeve of his shirt, and Robin yelped in dismay. "Here, thet's my best shirt!"

"Shouldn't have worn it, then," Thomas told him, quite nearly removing the man's gaudy earring for him, along with half his ear.

"Aye, well, an' it's also my only shirt--" and Robin flung the china plate straight at his face.

Thomas jerked back and reflexively caught it with his left hand (and just barely, at that) before he had time to think, and before he could do anything else Robin yanked a flintlock pistol from the motley collection of sashes at his waist and caught Thomas dead to rights with it. Thomas froze, narrowing his eyes in disgust, still breathing hard. "No honor at all," he spat.

"Aye, well, no sense in not usin' all th' tools at yer disposal," Robin wheezed.

"Oh? Then indeed, let us!" Thomas whipped the plate back at him, dodging to the side at the same moment.

Robin yelped and tried to jerk the cutlass up to ward it off, but the basket hilt hit the wall and the plate hit Robin full in the face, with Thomas raging right behind. The plate bounced up into the air, following its own lunatic arc. Robin stumbled back a step, arms flailing, and abruptly fell onto his backside, already scrambling to get up, but Thomas' sword sang in to sink an inch deep into the meat of Robin's shoulder and encourage him not to continue to rise--Thomas stomped on the wrist of Robin's pistol hand before he could bring it up, and the world fell still. Somewhere behind them the plate hit the floor and shattered. "Yield," Thomas suggested, flicking the point of his saber free and touching it to the underside of Robin's chin. It left a little red smear.

Robin swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Aye," he said rustily, his fingers relaxing, the pistol falling to the floor. "I yield. An' in case yeh were wonderin': ouch."

Thomas eyed him narrowly for a moment. A red poppy was blooming on Robin's shoulder, the blood slowly spreading outwards. "Push the pistol away," he finally said. "Use your fingertips. No nonsense."

"Never any time for nonsense wi' such as yeh," Robin complained, but he flicked his fingers outwards and the pistol skittered a few inches away. Thomas lifted his foot gingerly (not failing to keep the saber's tip pressed to Robin's windpipe) and kicked it away, the pistol clattering over the boards until it came to rest somewhere in the sitting room.

Thomas eyed him. "Stand up," he said. "Slowly. You've enough holes in you as it is and I'd hate to be forced to make another."

Robin's hand drifted up, clamping over the wound on his shoulder. "Aye, thet we can agree on," he said, bracing his other hand against the floor. Slowly, like two men in a dream, they rolled back the way they came, Robin rising to his feet and Thomas sliding back to give him room, the saber stretched between them like a line.

Once Robin was standing, clutching at his shoulder and looking woebegone, Thomas nodded. "You're under arrest in the name of the King," he said. "And you've yielded. If you swear to submit to me and try no nonsense, I'll bandage your shoulder before I take you to the cells."

"My best shirt," Robin mourned, but he nodded a moment later and closed his eyes. "Aye. Aye, I submit, Lieut'nant, and I'll thank yeh f'r the bandagin'. I'm leakin' fit to capsize."

Thomas flicked his saber back, giving it a cursory cleaning on the cuff of his own shirt before slamming it back into its scabbard. "Believe me when I say that I can draw that sword faster than you can run away from it," he said. "Come on." He took Robin's elbow. Robin, unresisting, followed him back into the bedroom, where Thomas sat him firmly on the bed. "Take off your shirt."

Robin fumbled at his waist for a moment, untying the strings that held his shirt closed. Thomas took two steps backwards and swung the window shut, cutting off that avenue of escape, then went to the desk and fumbled about in the drawer, looking for the box of bandages and other assorted useful items that he kept there. He let his fingers do most of the looking; he didn't plan to take his eyes off Robin for a second.

Robin gingerly tugged off his bloody and torn shirt, hissing, some kind of pendant falling free of the shirt's deep front opening to thump against his bare chest. His arm was smeared with blood from collarbone to elbow, the little lipless smile of the wound gaping and closing as he moved. Robin held up the tattered remains of his shirt in front of him, scowling, and then without any warning at all that grin of his bloomed again. "Be damned if yeh en't a fair hand with thet pigsticker!"

"Yes, well, I've had practice," Thomas said evenly, fumbling the little box free. Grudgingly he added, "I suppose you're not bad yourself."

"Oh, aye," Robin said, nodding emphatically. Wadding up his ruined shirt he started scrubbing the blood from his arm. "I'da had yeh if yeh hadn't got me all boxed in! Clever, clever."

"Nonsense," Thomas said, although now that he'd had a moment to think, he was uncertain if it actually was. He carried the box across to the bed, sitting beside Robin and flicking open the lid. "Your swordplay is sloppy at best, you take too many risks, and you fight with a ridiculous weapon that requires far too much room to use. You're lucky that you've managed to make such tactics work for you at all. Put your arm down."

Obligingly Robin let Thomas have his arm, craning his neck to watch Thomas work. His skin was hot and slick with sweat under Thomas' fingers. "Eh, well, as yeh will, then," Robin said cheerily. "Still an' all, I'm tolerably fond o' the cutlass."

Thomas pressed a thick pad of cotton wadding down over the wound. "Well, since it's your stubborn adherence to the weapon that allowed me to defeat you, then by all means, remain fond of the cutlass. Here, put your fingers here, hold this."

Robin's hand came down over his, his fingers leaving little stripes of blood on the back of Thomas' hand. Thomas twitched, startled. "Aye, thet's got it, Lieut'nant," he said, his voice all innocence even as he pressed his hand to Thomas'.

Thomas scowled and tugged his hand free. For the next few moments he worked in silence, winding a roll of bandage snakelike up Robin's wiry bicep and across the curve of his shoulder under Robin's fascinated gaze. In hindsight, it was a mistake. Without the talk to distract him Thomas' treacherous mind jumped first to Beckwith's foul and titillating slanders and then to the sheer proximity of Robin; for all that he seemed harmless enough he was certainly present, smelling as he did of sweat and blood and not-quite-clean skin, leaning in towards Thomas like he planned to fall on him at any second, staring, beaming, existing. If even half of what Beckwith had insinuated was true...!

"There," Thomas said, a little too loudly, tying off the bandage with a neat knot. "That ought to hold you until the morrow."

"Aye," Robin agreed, oddly subdued now. He was so close by this point that the coarse tufts of his hair brushed against Thomas' forehead. "Thank yeh, Lieut'nant. Yeh're a good man. Been good t' me twice now, when yeh en't had to, either time."

"I try," Thomas said, standing up. "It's only the Christian thing to do, after all--" and he broke off there as Robin rose up beside him and pressed in. Thomas twitched back, or tried to, automatically grabbing for his sword; Robin's hand closed hard over his, forcing the saber back into the scabbard. And then Robin rose onto his toes and pressed his mouth to Thomas', and Thomas froze, his thoughts scattering in shock.

For a moment it was all he could do to keep his feet. Robin's mouth was clever and smirking and wet on his, oh God, and the man's bare chest was pressed up against his, oh God, and deft little fingers were plucking at his belt, and why was he not putting a stop to this? "What in God's name are you doing?" he croaked against Robin's lips, trying to sound outraged and, as far as he could tell in his current state, completely failing.

"Submittin'," Robin said cheerfully, darting in to steal another kiss. "Like yeh said."

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. "In the first... first place that's not what I meant and you know that very well," he said. Robin kissed him again and Thomas jerked his head aside, breaking the kiss with a little wet pop. "And in the second place, stop that." He meant it to be an order; it came out an uncertain plea.

Robin paused, thumping back down onto his bare heels. "Yeh want me t' stop?"

"Yes!" Thomas said, blinking furiously. "It's not... you shouldn't... yes! Stop! That's an order!"

"Awright, if yeh insist, but yeh're a powerful indecisive fella, Lieut'nant," Robin said. Before Thomas could ask him just what he meant by that Robin snapped his left hand shut and lunged backwards. Thomas' sword sang under his hand, cutting a thin line on his palm, and then Robin was five feet away and Thomas' own saber was pointed unerringly at his nose.

The shock was so great that it barely registered, at first. "I thought you preferred the cutlass," Thomas said in a small and idiotic voice.

"Oh, aye," Robin said, flexing his fingers on the hilt, "but there's some as say: any point in a storm!"

"That's 'port'--" The spell of stasis on Thomas abruptly snapped, along with his temper. "You...!" Thomas squeezed both hands into fists, his vision filling with a red and killing rage. "You honorless cur! You yielded! You submitted!"

"An' yeh tol' me t' stop," Robin said cheerfully.

"That is not what I meant!" Thomas shouted, flinging his hands up in frustrated defeat.

"Oh, aye?" And the hell of it was, Robin actually looked sheepish, not that it made the saber waver. Threatened with his own blade! It was humiliating. "Ah, well, y'ought t' be more specific, Lieut'nant! Man like yeh who speaks s' pretty, yeh'd think yeh could say what yeh meant--"

"--I'll see you hanged," Thomas snarled. "Before this month is out. You'll pay for your crimes and go to your judgment, and next time I shall let your soul look to itself."

"Aye, it's always a possibility," Robin said, backing towards the window, the saber level and steady in his left hand. "But for now I'll be takin' my leave--"

Thomas sucked in a deep and outraged breath. "GUARDS!" he bellowed, no longer giving a damn about any potential embarrassment. "TO ME!"

Robin yelped and took the last two backwards steps at a fast and ridiculous trot, flinging the window open blindly behind him. "Thank yeh for yer hospitality, Lieut'nant!" he cried, grabbing the windowsill in one hand and vaulting out of it backwards. Even as he somersaulted out into the night, bare feet flying, he threw the saber into the room, the naked blade clattering to the boards nearly at Thomas' feet.

Thomas dashed for the window, but Robin was gone, neither splattered on the cobblestones below nor dangling from the window on a rope. Gripping the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Thomas fruitlessly searched the street below, then spat out a most un-Christian word and turned away. Finally, far too late, guardsmen pounded up the stairs; he slammed the window shut and went to let them in, as an afterthought kicking Robin's bloodied shirt and the bandage box under the bed.

3.
The aftermath was nothing short of embarrassing, although not half so embarrassing as it would have been had Thomas told the whole story. In the end, despite his misgivings, he kept the latter half of the story to himself, telling Captain Tyre only that Barefoot Robin had broken into his rooms to taunt him and managed to escape in the ensuing confusion, despite Thomas having wounded him in the shoulder. Beckwith had smirked at him evilly enough as it was; having the man find out the rest would have been insupportable.

Besides, Thomas had his career to think of, and so he begged God's forgiveness for his weaknesses, all of them, and kept his mouth shut. Robin's bloodied shirt he threw out; his cutlass and pistol (fine specimens both, Thomas had to admit, doubtless stolen) went into the sea-chest by Thomas' bed, where Thomas endeavored to ignore them until such time as their rightful owners could be found.

And that should have been that. Thomas would have dearly loved for that to have been that. But for all that he attempted to wash his hands of the cheeky little imp, his hands refused to stay washed; his memory turned traitor, causing him to think of Robin's devilish advances and blush at the most inopportune of times, and his dreams! They were embarrassingly suggestive at best and downright filthy at worst. More than once he jerked awake in a nest of fouled and sweat-soaked sheets. Thomas' prayers doubled in their importunity and yet it did him no good whatsoever.

The summer dragged on, hot and sodden like a barber's towel. Thomas' heavy uniform coat dragged him down, and more than once he found himself slumped in the shade upon a convenient barrel, fanning himself with his hat and yearning after the faintest hint of a breeze. At night he checked the new, sturdy lock on his bedroom window just before retiring, silently cursing the fate that had led Robin to take such an interest in him just when an open window to let in the breeze would be most welcome. He spent his nights in a miasma of wet heat, passing out in damp sheets only to claw his way back to fetid consciousness a few hours later.

And his dreams continued to plague him. Tossing in his bed he groaned and suffered as the devil filled his mind with dark and confusing images of Robin, Robin doing... things to him that were wholly unclear in the details (Thomas had never indulged in the various sins of Sodom, not even at the Academy, thank you, Mister Beckwith) but that nevertheless stiffened and tormented his body in wholly unsalubrious ways. He took to sleeping in trousers instead of his nightshirt. It was... cleaner.

The worst dream of all came deep in the heart of the summer, on a night when the very air seemed to have weight. Worst of all, for in it Robin did not lay unwelcome hands on him in the dark but lazed by the window of this very room, barechested and grinning and insolent, and Thomas found his dream-self wishing to go over there and put his hands (and mouth, oh God) on Robin while the cool air of evening blew in through the open window, caressing them both--

--he jerked out of sleep into a gray dawn, muzzily aware only that the cool breeze had followed him from his dream. "Heh, looked like a right nice dream yeh were havin'," Robin said from the bed beside him, and Thomas shrieked like a woman and flung himself out of the bed to land in an ungainly heap on the floor.

"You!" he said, horribly aware of his naked chest and the buttons of his trousers pressing into a ready erection. "How dare--give me one good reason why I shouldn't call for the guards right this instant!"

"'Cause then I'd leave?" Robin said, rolling over onto his back and wriggling his shoulders into the damp eiderdown. "'S a nice bed yeh've got here, Lieut'nant! It's a wonder yeh can bring yerself t' get out of it at all."

Thomas rose warily to his feet. "Yes, well, it's easy enough when I find myself sharing it with--" he dove for the hook upon which he was accustomed to hanging his saber "--a filthy Sodomite where is my sword?"

"Tossed it out o' the window afore yeh woke." Robin didn't move, although he tilted his head back and grinned at Thomas upside-down. "If yeh're sweet t' me I'll fetch it back for yeh afore I go."

Thomas hissed in exasperation and hunched over, trying to hide his nakedness as best he could. Tackling and restraining the little madman would require touching him--"What do you want?"

Robin sucked on his lower lip in thought, an expression which did nothing for Thomas' equilibrium. "Well, yeh said thet yeh'd see me hanged within the month, an' the month's almost up, so I came back t' give yeh another chance an' also t' fetch back what's mine."

"What's y--it's not here," Thomas said, going very still and firmly not allowing himself to look towards the sea-chest. "Your sword and pistol are in the armory down at headquarters, where they'll remain until such time as their rightful owners come forward."

Robin beamed at him. "Yeh're lyin'."

Thomas blinked. "I am not!"

"Yeh are so, an' I can tell. Yeh went all stiff an' yer ears went pink." Robin rolled out of Thomas' bed and looked around, still sucking on his lower lip. Thomas willed himself to continue to hold still so as not to give the scoundrel a single hint, but it was all for nothing: once Robin's eyes lit on the sea-chest he broke into that beaming grin of his. Two seconds later it was open, Thomas' shirts spilling onto the floor, and Thomas barely had a moment to protest before Robin rose with cutlass and pistol in his hands. "Aye, thet's th' stuff," Robin said, shoving his pistol into his sash and shrugging into his sword hanger.

"If you have what you came looking for," Thomas said, keeping his voice even with an effort, "then go. You have until the count of five and then I shall call for the guards."

"Yeh know," Robin said, ambling towards the open window, "yeh'd think yeh din't want me 'bout, Lieut'nant."

"Then your powers of observation are keen indeed," Thomas snapped. "Bring me back my saber and get out."

Robin laughed, perching on the windowsill like an oversized and heavily armed pigeon. "Aye, aye, awright. But here, afore I go--"

"--for God's sake, what?"

"What's a S.. a So... a Sodomthingie, anyhow?"

Thomas spluttered. His ears burned. "It's a... a man who keeps company with other men," he finally said, stuttering. "A grievous sin." He could tell by Robin's expression that he didn't understand; finally, in a faltering voice, Thomas clarified, "A man who... enjoys the pleasure of another man's body."

"Oh!" Robin's eyes cleared. "Well, thet's awright, then. Here I thought it was somethin' bad." And then, like a nightmare (a horribly familiar nightmare) Robin's eyes flicked to the distended front of Thomas' pants and his grin grew wider. "Aye, well," he said, his eyes rising to flick impudently across Thomas' bare chest, "I'll fetch yer big pointy thing now--" and he flung himself backwards out the window without a second thought.

Thomas dashed to the window and leaned out, momentarily unmindful of his nakedness. Of Robin there was no sign at all, just as before, and Thomas was just about to curse and turn away when something tapped the top of his head. He jerked in startlement and twisted around, looking up... his saber dangled over him, tied to a bit of rope, and Robin's round face beamed down at him from the roof of the boardinghouse. "Mornin', Lieut'nant," Robin said, waggling his fingers, and then his face vanished. Thomas just barely heard him scurry away, like a rat.

Swearing under his breath Thomas snatched at his sword, dragging it free of the rope.

~*~

And really, truly, that should have been all, except Thomas was becoming dreadfully certain that as far as Robin was concerned there might never be an 'all' at, well, all.

The summer waned, and so, inevitably, did Robin's foul hold on his thoughts. Robin remained his own occasional personal incubus at night, but he slowly lost his ability to stop Thomas in his tracks during the day. In a bravura effort of defiance Thomas took to sleeping with the window open again (the new lock had been proven equally useless, after all) but if Robin ever came through it, Thomas remained unaware. For which he was grateful, of course.

And if Thomas awoke shouting the imp's name on the night that the town was ripped apart by cannonshot and screams, well, no one need ever know.

He leaped out of bed, suddenly and violently awake. Pirates! Throwing on the nearest shirt to hand and seizing his saber from the wall Thomas bolted down the stairs, bothering neither with coat nor boots nor hat, for there was no time--

--he burst from the boardinghouse, and entered Hell.

Out in the harbor three fierce ships of foreign mark and unknown colors floated, their cannon barking constantly, the cannonshot digging monstrous craters in the small town. And devils darted here and there amongst the flames, chattering and howling, waving strange swords and plundering whatever they could lay their hands on.

With an oath Thomas ripped his saber from its scabbard and lunged for the nearest, yelling an old and primal cry of defiance instead of a civilized declaration of his intent. The devil spun, his face marked by flame and tattoos--

--something crashed down upon the back of Thomas' head, and that was the last he knew for a while.

4.
The first hint Thomas had that he was not dead was, in fact, the headache. His head ached abominably, throbbing hard enough to make the world rock about him, and for a while it was all he could do to lie there and avoid vomiting. Dimly he was aware of the softness underneath him, and the blankets upon him, and for a blessed moment he thought that some good Samaritan had carried him up to his bed or to the Navy's tiny infirmary. But there was still the scent to be explained away, heavy and strange like smoke and spices, and the fact that even though his head had stopped spinning the world was still rocking about him--consciousness crashed in upon him like an avenging angel and Thomas Worthington shot bolt upright in a stranger's lavish bed, nearly falling out of it a moment later in a fit of dizziness.

The ship's cabin (for so it was) was large, filled with the haze of incense and dripping with the gaudy trappings of the Orient. Thomas clutched at the bedrail and squinted into the smoke, reaching up to touch the back of his head and finding it tacky with drying blood. What new horror--"So, it's kidnapping, is it," he said, willing his voice to be firm. "And of an officer of the Royal Navy, which, I assure you, will take a dim view of such things."

No one spoke to answer his charge, but a moment later the haze of smoke writhed and a horrific apparition of a man burst forth. Despite himself Thomas shrank back in apprehension; he'd known a Chinaman or two during his days at the Academy, but he'd never seen one so... so close. Nor so devilish in appearance: from the waist up the man wore nothing but a writhing coat of tattoos, dragons and tigers and snakes swarming up over his chest and back to limn the powerful lines of his arms and encircle his broad neck. His head was shaved save for the long braid that swung from the crown of his head; his face was hard and square. His eyes were mere slits.

Belatedly a number of memories and rumors came together in Thomas' mind, and much to his horror he was able to put a name (and a thousand hair-raising deeds) to the face. "Captain Shanghai, I presume," he said, desperate to keep his voice from quavering. The last Navy man who had been taken by him had been--God! Better Thomas had never woken at all!

The devil himself smiled thinly. "Aha. I'm afraid that it's technically pronounced 'Shiang Hai'," the pirate said, in the perfect and vaguely condescending English of an Oxford don. Thomas blinked, befuddled. "However, it was quite a good try, for an Englishman. Would you care for some tea?"

"Er." Mind racing, Thomas plucked at the blankets around his waist, trying to buy time. They were silk, he noticed now, more silk than he'd ever seen in one place in his life, stiff with brocade. Well, that at least answered the question of whose bed it was, which did absolutely nothing for Thomas' peace of mind. "Your... your English is quite good," he finally said, because he had to say something.

"Yes, quite. Aha." The little coughing sound was a laugh, Thomas realized. "I found it beneficial to acquire myself an elimination, when I was younger." Thomas' face went blank with confusion; Shiang Hai tilted his head to the side. "Elimination... ah, no. Education. My apologies, Lieutenant Worthington. I'm afraid that my English is implausible. ...no? Imperfect?"

"...I have heard worse, in my time," Thomas said faintly. "How do you know who I am?"

Shiang Hai waved a negligent hand, still smiling. "I inquired of one of the other prisoners."

"You have other prisoners?" Thomas stiffened.

For a moment, Shiang Hai was still, his eyes heavy on Thomas' face. Then he coughed out that strange laugh again and reached down, smoothing the brocade over one of Thomas' outstretched legs. Thomas jerked his leg away from the touch. "Aha. Not any more," Shiang Hai said. "You have been unconcerned for quite some time."

"Not--" Thomas' stomach dropped. "You monster!"

"I find prisoners to be an unnecessary burden," Shiang Hai said; even admitting to these horrors seemed only to amuse him. "You, however, present me with something of a diarrhea." Upon seeing Thomas' expression, he frowned. "Er. Aha. A... a problem?"

"Oh," said Thomas weakly. "A dilemma."

"Yes! A dilemma! Exactly!" Shiang Hai clapped his hands, pleased. "Had I known you were a Navy man before you were brought on board, well! Let us say no more of that. However, by the time I discovered who you were, we were five miles at sea and I, therefore, had this dilemma."

"I should say so," Thomas said, trying to sound confident. "I am a lieutenant with the Royal Navy and a man of good family! When my absence is discovered they shall ship out after you with all hands--you'll pay for this!"

Shiang Hai coughed out that laugh again, dropping to sit by Thomas' side. Thomas edged back until he was almost pressed against the cabin wall; Shiang Hai, affecting not to notice this, picked up one of Thomas' unresisting hands and flipped it over, studying it. "Aha. That is, assuming they do not think you periwinkled in the fire. Or are simply elsewhere in the chaos. I assure you that by the time they eliminate the last of the fires, my fleet and I will be miles away, in waters known only to us." Shiang Hai's long thumbnail flicked lightly at one of Thomas' sword calluses, and he sighed, like it disappointed him. "Still, I do wish to apologize, Lieutenant. The fools respectable for your kidnapping have been sacked."

"Er, sacked?" Thomas gritted his teeth and tried not to let his fingers twitch at the touch. "You fired them?"

Shiang Hai blinked. "Oh, now, Lieutenant, you mustn't think we're that barbaric. I only set men on fire for crimes related to theft. I had them sewn up into sacks and dropped overboard."

"Dropped--beastly!" Thomas said, jerking his hand free. "And what horrible fate do you have in store for me?"

"That remains to be seen," Shiang Hai said pleasantly. His hand flicked out and caught Thomas' chin, nudging it up; Shiang Hai studied him as if he were a horse available for purchase. "Still, you may give thanks to your god that you are not dead, if you like, and as long as you remain reasonably accommodating, you shall have my protection. There are some on board this ship who are not nearly so discalculating as I."

Thomas' ears roared. "I'd rather die," he spat, jerking his chin out of Shiang Hai's grip. God above, how did he get himself into these situations?

PART TWO