The Devil's Looking-Glass - By Mark Chadbourn Page 0,101

bent double, clutching his stomach. After a moment he appeared to recover. He exchanged a few words with Launceston and then the two spies trudged back along the sand to the others. Will frowned at the sight of Carpenter’s ashen face and sweat-lined brow. ‘What ails you?’ he asked.

‘My conscience,’ Carpenter croaked. ‘I cannot allow you to sail to your doom alone. Another sword . . . or two . . . might mean you return with your life. We will join you.’

Will grinned, shaking the other man’s hand firmly. ‘Brothers in adventure, then,’ he said cheerily, adding in a more serious tone, ‘I would thank you, John. With a man like you at my side, who knows what we will achieve.’ Yet the compliment seemed to fall on deaf ears. Carpenter’s expression darkened and his eyes skittered. Will thought he saw a hint of despair there, although he could not guess what it meant. He banished it from his mind.

‘Then it is agreed,’ he continued, looking around the assembled group. ‘Put steel in your hearts, for this day we take the fight to the Enemy.’

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

SUNLIGHT GLINTED OFF the waves in the bay. Out on the rising swell, the Corneille Noire strained at anchor. The full-throated shanties of the seamen preparing for sail drifted over the water. Carpenter squatted in the thin shade of a barrel among the last few provisions on the beach, watching Strangewayes glowering at the galleon where his woman waited with that guile-filled Irish spy.

He shook his head, struggling to dampen his rising despair. A puppet, that’s all he was, with strings tugged by the Enemy so that he danced when they played their tunes. Deep inside him, the Caraprix squirmed, flooding his head with its whispers. Why had he been so foolish? A new life free of worry had seemed close enough to grasp when Lansing had woven his deceitful promises, but in his weakness he had set in motion the events that would deny him his heart’s desire. He’d been so close, too. One foot placed upon the longboat that would take him to the Tempest and the first leg of his journey back home, and then the hated thing inside him had snatched him back and propelled him in the opposite direction; away from freedom, away from hope, towards only doom.

He jerked his head up at the crunch of sand and saw Will and Dee deep in conversation, their heads nodding seemingly in time as they walked towards the cove where the Tempest lay at anchor. Carpenter noticed what seemed to be an unfamiliar bond between them, a new understanding, perhaps.

He overheard Dee saying, ‘When you leave this island, you must pass through the Pillars of Medea.’ Carpenter watched as the old man pointed out to sea, past the galleon to where two columns of black rock protruded from the waves in the hazy distance.

‘Why there?’ Will asked. ‘Surely it is safer to sail around them.’

‘They are a gateway. Once you have passed the pillars, you are in the territory of the Unseelie Court, may the gods have mercy upon your soul.’

As the two men made their way along the sand, Carpenter hauled himself to his feet and trudged towards the treeline where he had seen Launceston prowling earlier. He had begged the Earl not to accompany him on Swyfte’s mad voyage of the damned, but the aristocrat would have none of it. Carpenter felt only more guilt at that loyalty. Not only was he dooming himself, he was dragging Launceston down with him.

When he stepped into the shade of the trees, he breathed deeply, tasting the sweet scent of the pink blooms. Unfamiliar birdsong rang out through the gnarled branches, whoops and cries that reminded him of the chatter of the women who hung the dyed cloth out to dry on the tenter grounds beside Moor Fields. A red butterfly as big as his hand fluttered by, the green eyes upon its wings mocking him.

Through the fronds, he glimpsed a grey shape: Launceston wandering among the flora, he guessed. But then a low whine rolled through the undergrowth and Carpenter stiffened. Fearing the worst, he dashed across the twisted roots and burst into a small clearing lit by a shaft of brilliant sunshine. Blinking, he discerned Launceston on the far side, hunched over something. He felt his heart sink.

As he edged round the clearing, the object of the Earl’s attention fell into view: a wild pig, not yet fully grown. It

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