way for us.”
“Haven’t gone that far,” he said quietly. “Was headed over Vicinity when you fell into trouble. Picking you up wasn’t any bother. I’d have put you down somewhere of your choosing before now, but your man—”
“He’s not my man.”
Hink waggled his eyebrows. “—convinced me that our interests align.” He walked a little farther until his bootheels were no longer thudding on wood, but once again fell soft and muted against the dirt and stone hall.
“What interests, Captain Hink?” Mae asked softly so as not to have her own words echo back at her.
“Your man says he can find the Holder. That’s something I’m very much interested in. So do you know if he might be telling me true?”
Mae thought it over. She had a foggy recollection of Cedar telling her he had spoken to the captain about the Holder. And that they’d made a deal.
“I have only known Mr. Hunt to be an honest man. If he gave you his word, his word is good.”
“Then I see this, us traveling together for a bit, as a sort of…partnership, Mrs. Lindson. Where we both benefit from the other’s well-being.”
“That’s good to know, Captain,” Mae said. “And I’m sure Rose will be much more comfortable for your willingness to see things in such a light.”
Captain Hink smiled, and it didn’t take much to see that it was the mention of Rose that had put that smile on his face.
“Do you know her well?” he asked.
“She and I have been friends for many years.” Mae didn’t offer any more information. If the captain was interested in Rose in more than a passing manner, then he’d need to be specific about his inquiries of her.
There was still a bit of a scallywag manner to him. She wasn’t sure that she liked the idea of encouraging his attentions in Rose.
“She heading to family same as you, Mrs. Lindson?”
“She left her family behind.”
“So she’s looking for brighter skies? Man with a ship could show her every corner of these bright heavens.”
They were nearly back to the large common room again. Mae could smell the meat, potatoes, and flapjacks. Her stomach clenched. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in some time. Still, she stopped and turned toward the captain.
“Rose is ill, Captain Hink. She’s going to have all she can handle just holding on to the earth. If she has the fortitude to recover from this…to live…then maybe you can ask her if she’s looking for the sky.”
The captain’s face became blank, his eyes dark. He was a man who had seen death; that was very clear. Mae expected it of a person in his occupation. But what she did not expect was the startled sorrow reflected in the depth of his steady gaze.
“Well, then,” he said softly. “Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”
Mae nodded. “I will, Captain. I will.”
And then they stepped into the room, the captain pulling the flask from inside his coat and taking a long draw as he paced toward the hearth where Seldom leaned.
Mae crossed instead to the sleeping chambers, to do what she could to keep Rose alive.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alabaster Saint refused to lie back on the table. “If it can’t be done sitting, then it won’t be done.”
Mr. Shunt’s mouth crooked up and his black-tipped tongue flicked over his bottom lip. He held an artful tin cup, carved with hypnotizing intricacy, between his finger and thumb, his other fingers stretched wide. Blood covered his fingers, gathering in a slick rivulet down his wrist to soak into the wetted lace of shirt and coat cuff.
There was blood everywhere in the tent, enough that his sleeves dripped a steady
Shunt seemed unconcerned about the blood, though he was a difficult man to read. He still wore coat and hat, and in the poorly lit tent, shadows shrouded his eyes.
But when he smiled, those serrated teeth were easy enough to see.
“Yes,” Mr. Shunt said. “Sitting would be most”—he pursed his lips and took a sip of the water from the cup —“satisfactory.”
Lieutenant Foster stood in the corner of the tent behind the general, his gun an easy draw at his side. He shifted a bit at Shunt’s leer, but didn’t pull the weapon on him.
The general had been pleased to see Lieutenant Foster walking under his own power, without any hint of a limp. And now Foster stood, calm and clear-eyed, not showing a hint of recent pain.
Just a handful of hours ago, Lieutenant Foster had been helped off the table in this tent and taken to his cot. A few hours after that, he had washed the sweat and blood off his skin, combed his hair, and put on a fresh uniform.
So he could shoot Mr. Shunt straight through his greasy heart if need be.
“How long will this take?” the Saint asked, removing his uniform jacket and shirt. He left his undershirt in place.
Mr. Shunt had used up nearly all the day to get through the rest of the injured men. He had worked meticulously and methodically, never hurrying.
It was almost as if he savored his work, like a fine craftsman at the bench.
If he didn’t have a part in the right size or shape, he’d pieced together bits of bone, tendons, metal, and leather until he had created a functioning replacement. Every piece was stitched with thread that seemed to spool directly from his razor-sharp fingertips. And every incision he sealed with a smear of glim and tin.
A quarter of the men hadn’t made it through Mr. Shunt’s ministrations. But that was a small price to pay for the rewards reaped by the others.
Of course, Mr. Shunt had seen to it that the freshly dead had not gone to waste. He was as unflinching and clever of a field surgeon as the general had ever seen, and harvested fresh bone, muscle, and flesh at the last rattle of a man’s breath. These he wrapped in clean cotton to add to his supply, or straightaway put them to use.
The Saint did not trust him, did not like him, and did not want to be in debt to him. But he wanted an eye. Wanted the sight that Marshal Cage had taken from him. Wanted two good eyes to see when Marshal Cage suffered in kind.
Six of his most loyal men stood in the cramped tent. Well armed, well rested, three of them having had parts and pieces replaced.
If Mr. Shunt did anything beyond their agreement, he would be dead. Instantly.
The general pressed his shoulders against the chair. Mr. Shunt seemed unconcerned of the men in the room. Unconcerned of the Saint. He sipped water and watched Alabaster over the brim of the cup.
On the table between them was a line of bloody instruments: bone saws, fillet knives, awls, and crimping tools. Just off to one side, nearest Alabaster, was a square piece of white cloth. And in the very center of that cloth was an eye. The yellowing orb had been soaking in glim and tin. Moist and sticky green-gray, the globule looked like it was eaten by rot, even though it was whole, and perfectly round.
Slender bloodred tendrils attached at one end of the eye and curled like mealworms against the white cloth.
The Saint lifted the patch from over the hole in his face and tossed it on the table next to the eye. “Let’s get on with it, Mr. Shunt. There’s people we’d both like to see dead.”
Mr. Shunt placed the spectacular tin cup on the table as if he were handling fine china and then glided over to the general. He bent and leaned in so close to study the hole where Alabaster’s eye had been that the Saint could smell the oiled leather and bitter stink of him.
“Yes,” Shunt whispered, his fingers probing gently around the eye hole. “Such hatred you have for him. And he for you. Joined in nightmare, drenched in blood. Beautiful.”
