Paul Durham - Dishonour Among Thieves

She shook him awake, the hammock now bouncing like a ship in a squall. He blinked away the sleep.

“Someone’s trying to reach us,” Rye said. “There is – well, there was – a light. Out on the shoal.”

“Hmm,” Harmless said, “I’m certainly not expecting anyone. Don’t worry, the rocks make quick work of uninvited guests.”

He folded his hands back on his stomach.

“Harmless, someone’s in trouble,” Rye said.

“Indeed. The sea is a more ferocious watchdog than the most ill-tempered hound.”

Rye shook his arm.

“Harmless, isn’t there only one person in whole world who could know where we are?” she asked urgently.

Harmless furrowed a brow. He was beginning to understand.

That person was Rye’s mother. She wouldn’t venture out to Grabstone unless it was of dire importance. And she wouldn’t stand a chance out on the shoal in that storm.

ARMLESS TRIED TO make Rye promise not to follow him out on to the shoal. Even if a wave dashed him against the rocks he wanted her to stay put – at least until the storm blew over. Rye had just frowned. Surely Harmless had got to know her well enough to realise she couldn’t promise that .

He’d been gone nearly thirty minutes when she finally threw caution to the wind and gathered the supplies she imagined she might need for an ocean rescue – a lantern, a coil of rope, a flask of hot stew. Fair Warning, her mother’s knife that had once bitten the hand of Morningwig Longchance himself, was sheathed inside her boot, although the fiercest thing Rye had ever done with the blade was shuck an oyster. Icy rain slashed her face as she stepped on to the slick stone steps, but she stopped abruptly as a drenched figure emerged from the fog.

It was Harmless, a shivering body in a sleet-crusted cloak dangling from his arms. Rye was shocked to see that it wasn’t her mother. It was the body of a girl.

Rye and Harmless huddled by the fire in the entry hall, where Harmless had carefully laid the child. “Were you going on a picnic?” Harmless asked with a smirk, nodding at her flask.

Rye’s eyes flared.

“Sorry, a poor time for humour,” he said softly. “Your friend is most resourceful. She found a little cove to hole up in and wait out the storm. It was dry …” He glanced down at his sopping clothes. “Relatively speaking.”

Rye looked at the girl in anticipation.

“Give her a drink of stew,” Harmless said. “I’ll fetch some dry clothes.”

Rye watched for any movement in her friend’s face, her white-blonde hair frosted to the colour of snow, glassy eyes flecked as blue as ice chips.

“Folly,” Rye whispered.

Folly’s eyes focused at the sound of Rye’s voice. Her red cheeks creased into a grin.

“Here, drink,” Rye said, and pressed the flask to Folly’s purple lips.

She accepted a big mouthful and swallowed it down, her grin turning into a frown.

“Ugh, what is this?”

“Snails, whales and sea bug tails.”

“Really?” Folly said, her eyes now brightening with interest. “Can I take some for an experiment?”

“Of course,” Rye said, and smiled at her best friend, the ever-aspiring alchemist. She handed the flask to Folly, who cupped it in her cold hands.

“How did you find us?” Rye asked.

“Your mother was talking to my mum at the inn,” Folly said. “She received your message from the rook but was worried that you hadn’t replied to hers.”

Rye wasn’t surprised that Folly had overheard her mother. She suspected her friend must have the biggest ears in Drowning – there was scarcely a story or secret whispered around the Dead Fish Inn that she didn’t catch wind of sooner or later. But the fact that Rye and Harmless had missed a message from her mother was more troubling.

“What message?” Rye asked eagerly.

But Folly’s cheeks had lost their colour after their brief exchange and she fell silent, her teeth chattering so fiercely she could barely part them long enough to swallow sips of the steaming stew. Only after Folly was good and dry, bundled in blankets and dressed in Rye’s extra shirt and leggings, did Harmless and Rye bring her upstairs to the big table by the fire. Harmless busied himself in the pantry. Folly’s blue eyes were wide, marvelling at the most unusual surroundings.

She took notice of Harmless, who appeared to be wringing the neck of a very recently deceased fish over a tumbler.

“What’s he doing?” she whispered to Rye.

“Mackerel oil,” Harmless replied from the pantry. Rye had long since discovered that there was little Harmless didn’t hear or see.

“Helps keep the mind sharp,” he explained, tapping his temple as he examined the cloudy liquid that now filled the glass. “Care for some? I know better than to ask you, Riley.”

“Uh, all right,” Folly said.

Rye cringed at Folly’s mistake. Harmless looked most pleased to bring an extra mug as he joined them at the table.

“So, Folly,” Harmless said, “as delighted as we are to have you pay us a visit, I must ask what brings you out here in such foul weather. Riley mentioned a message.”

“It looked to be a pleasant day when I left the village this morning. It finally felt like spring,” Folly said. She took a sip from the mug Harmless had offered. She gave him a tight-lipped smile, strained to swallow, and politely slid it away. “The weather turned rather suddenly,” she rasped.

“Indeed,” Harmless said. “A fickle storm this late in the season is not a good omen. But, more importantly, the message?”

Folly seemed to hesitate. “Mrs O’Chanter sent a message by rook. Two days ago now. You never received it?”

“No,” Harmless said. “The fellow on the ledge turned up yesterday but bore no message. He seems to have had a rough go of it.”

Folly swallowed hard. “You heard what happened to the Mud Sleigh? On Silvermas?”

Harmless and Rye exchanged looks, and Harmless nodded to Folly.

“They say it was …” Folly began, and peeked over her shoulder out of habit, “… the Luck Uglies.” She whispered the name, even though she knew very well who and what Harmless was. “After the attack on Good Harper, the Earl’s new Constable made some immediate changes. ‘Valant’ he’s called, and from what I’ve heard, he’s not like the other lawmen.”

Rye saw Harmless lean forward, listening intently.

“My father says Valant has a long reputation – whatever that means. He doesn’t stay in one town for more than a few months. I heard he came from Throcking most recently. He makes the prior constables seem like lambs.”

Folly paused, shifting in her seat before continuing.

“Among other things, Valant has …” Folly hesitated.

“It’s all right, Folly,” Harmless said. “You can speak freely.”

“He …” She looked at Rye with eyes that made Rye’s stomach sink. Folly swallowed hard before forcing out her words. “… Burned the Willow’s Wares.”