Page 123 of The Sea Witch
There might have been a time when Lambert’s manor house served as a model of dignity and colonial grandeur. That time was long past.
In this last-ditch attempt at carousing, people were everywhere, hanging off the landing, brawling in the foyer, dancing in the salon. Paintings on the walls had been defaced with every known substance and several unknown substances. Some wag had drawn horns on distinguished patriarchs and eyepatches on blushing ladies. Tables listed and chairs lacked backs and seats. Tapestries hung in tatters like the ghosts of horrified ancestors.
Music and voices mixed into a discordant combination that, after the relative quiet of life at sea, rattled inside Ben’s head in shards of broken pottery.
Pirates surrounded him. They were literally everywhere, men who obeyed no laws but the ones they made—and bent—for themselves. In this place, with their world on the verge of ending, too, they indulged in every lawless, self-indulgent impulse. They drank, fought, danced, ate, and, in a few corners, fucked. It was unimpeded profligacy.
A dark and edged heat burned in his throat and behind his eyes.
God, it would be so much simpler if he could merely hate them, as he used to.
And yet... a filament of envy knotted in his chest. They were so free. Yet their freedom had a cost that others had to bear.
But to taste that liberty for himself...
He’d denied himself for so long. And for who? For what? A navy that was complicit in countless crimes? Or the need for vengeance?
His head spun.
Alys pressed a tankard into his hand. “Drink this.”
He eyed the contents, then took a sniff. It held the malty tang of ale. He drank.
Fortunately, itwasale, its flavor and mildly alcoholic sharpness grounding him in the midst of complete anarchy.
“It’s a hell of a talent you have,” he said. “To know what I need. Even when I don’t.”
“You looked on the verge of setting this house on fire.”
They’d moved through chambers and corridors, emerging in a massive hall that was two stories tall. A huge staircase stood in the middle of the chamber, reaching up to the second floor. A catwalk ran the perimeter of the second floor, and people hung off the railing, shouting down to the revelers below. One gargantuan long table ran the length of the room, laden with plates and goblets and countless platters of food. Roast meats, pies in hot water crust pastry, fruit from every corner of the Caribbean.Anything a gluttonous pirate could desire was provided by a steady stream of weary-looking servants who marched out from a doorway that likely led to the kitchens.
“This is... a considerable amount to absorb,” Ben admitted to Alys.
Revelers danced at one end of the chamber, but nearly two dozen people were splayed in tall-backed wooden chairs set up along both sides of the table. Women perched on pirates’ laps, and half of the buccaneers had their boots propped up on the table as they ate with their hands.
Mixed amongst the crowd were mages, distinguished from the pirates by the embroidered black sashes wrapped around their waists, just as naval mages wore the same sashes. Some drank and ate with the same abandon as the buccaneers. Others practiced fashioning illusions of light and shadow for the crowd’s amusement, creating scenes of seafaring battle or fairies cavorting lewdly as the throng cheered and clapped.
“I’moverwhelmed,” Alys confessed. “Not a woman amongst this crowd who isn’t part of the hospitality. I belong here as much as a pearl earring belongs on a boar.”
As she and Ben walked, stares followed them. Some were curious, but a goodly amount blazed with hostility. Yet Alys wasn’t the only one of their pair that attracted attention. Suspicious glares were aimed at Ben.
“I seen you before.” A pirate with a long braided beard staggered forward, blocking Ben’s path. He narrowed his eyes. “The Wig ’n’ Merkin.”
“What piratedoesn’tgo to the Wig and Merkin, Smythe?” Alys rolled her eyes.
A quick chill of panic danced down Ben’s back. He’d been with the navy at the tavern on St. Gertrude, raiding the gathering as they’d assembled to pay tribute to Little George Partridge. If any of these buccaneers recognized Ben as a member of the navy, he’d be flayed and roasted and served as the next course.
“A favorite haunt of mine,” he answered with bravado. “Good rum, better wenches.”
Smythe didn’t smile. He continued to study Ben through red-rimmed eyes. “Wasn’t that long ago.”
“At Little George’s wake,” Ben replied.
“His letters,” Smythe said, shifting his attention to Alys. “Everyone’s talking about ’em. He was an underhanded bastard. Workin’ with the navy. And there was that thing, that fail-safe. God, the screams from Fontaine’s crew... That could happen to any of us now.” He took a steadying drink.
“Nobody’s safe,” Alys said.
“Not without that fail-safe,” Smythe shot back. “Van der Meer was sure you knew where to find it.”
