Fair Rebel by Swainston Steph

Author:Swainston, Steph [Swainston, Steph]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Fantasy Fiction
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2016-11-24T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Connell speaks – in the landing craft

The fat policeman was all in disarray. Lagan poked a knife through his shirt and tilted the blade till it pinched his skin. ‘Not a peep!’ Lagan was stressed and the porky policeman was squirming in the bilges, so I slapped Lagan’s knee and he desisted, sat back on the bench.

‘And put the knife away,’ I hissed. Any fool could see it shine. Our boat bucked, rode the crest of a wave and slid down, wallowing, into the trough. Tressel and his boy stepped over the benches, settled down, and figured the oars into the rowlocks.

One oar each, we set to rowing. The boy was in the stern with the dark lantern and the policeman, trussed hand and foot and gagged, lay in the bilges between our feet. I’m sure all he could see was the sky, and that only out of one eye, because Lagan had closed the other for him. I huffed and strained, my arrow wound burning. Tressel rowed silently. Our oars touched the water, lifted, leaving dots either side of our wake. The mass of the land loomed closer and soon we were in its shadow, which seemed to mute our sound.

There was no movement, no figures. Cullion was as shuttered and silent as it had been these last three nights. I clicked the telescope closed and dropped it back in my pocket. ‘Eleven o’clock and all’s clear.’

Lagan grinned. He’d set his foot on the policeman’s cheek. I shrugged, then with a hand on Tressel’s shoulder and the other on the mast base, push-jumped my way between them and into the stern where I took the tiller from the boy and steered into the quay.

Tressel and Lagan’s oars dipped, breaking the black water almost without sound. Lifted, dipped again, moved us on – I turned the tiller and the pier approached. After such a gradual journey it seemed to grow quickly and came alongside all at once. I tapped Lagan’s broad back and Tressel’s skinny one, they drew in their oars and we were among the bladderwrack. I grabbed one of the pier’s legs and pushed past it scraping the sharp barnacles. The rusty mooring post loomed above. I stood and threw a loop of rope over it, grasped the rickety pier planks, jumped up and looked around. The quay was deserted.

Tressel joined me, soundlessly. Lagan and the boy rocked the first barrel free and heaved it up to us. With Tressel I grabbed its rim and hauled it onto the pier. Another barrel, and another. Four in all. By the moonlight I caught a glimpse of MICAWATER BRANDY stencilled on the side. Each had a canvas cover and its timbers were smooth. We lined them up and took a breather while Lagan tightened nooses around the policeman’s wrists and ankles. He made a cradle of his hands and his boy stepped up to beside us. Then he planted his foot on the gunwale, scrambled up, and gave us the other ends of the rope.

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