them, he could always take leave of the Ketty Jay and make his own way.
‘Thanks. You’re a good friend, Plome.’
‘Not at all. Our kind have to stick together in these benighted times.’
Crake folded the paper over, and saw that Plome had written it on the back of a handbill. He opened it out, and went grey.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘They’re posted all over. Whoever that is, they want him badly. Him and his crew.’
‘You don’t say,’ Crake murmured weakly.
‘You know, the Century Knights just turned up in town looking for him, if you can believe that!’ Plome enthused. ‘The Archduke’s personal elite!’ He whistled and pointed at the flyer. ‘He must have really messed up. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when the Knights catch up with him!’
Crake stared at the handbill, as if he could simply will it out of existence.
WANTED FOR PIRACY AND MURDER, it said. LARGE REWARD.
Staring back at him was a picture of Frey.
Nine
Crake hurried through Tarlock Cove as fast as he dared. The streets were dark now, deepening towards true night, and stars clustered thickly overhead. The beam of the lighthouse swept across the town and out to sea. Crake walked with his collar up and his head down, his blond hair blowing restlessly in the salt wind, trying not to draw attention to himself.
Run, he told himself. Just run. You weren’t a part of it. They don’t even know you’re on the crew.
But run where? His assets had been seized, so he had only the money he’d taken when he fled, and there was little enough of that left. His only contact here was Plome, and the last thing Plome needed was to shelter a fugitive. He had his own secrets to keep. No, Crake wouldn’t implicate him in this matter. He’d deal with it on his own.
Run!
But he couldn’t. Because the only way he was going to stay ahead of the Shacklemore Agency was to keep on the move, and the only way he could do that was aboard the Ketty Jay.
And there was more, besides. It was a matter of honour. He didn’t care for Frey at all, and Pinn was beneath consideration, but the others didn’t deserve to be hung out to dry like that. Especially not Malvery, of whom Crake was becoming quite fond.
But if he was honest with himself, even if he’d hated them all, he’d have gone back. If only to warn them. Because it was the right thing to do, and because it made him better than Frey.
He traced his steps back to Old One-Eye’s, and paused at the threshold, listening for signs of a disturbance. He’d been seen drinking with the crew. If they’d already been caught, there was no sense getting himself picked up as well.
There was a good chance Frey hadn’t been recognised, though. The ferrotype on the handbills must have been taken a long while ago, ten years or more. It didn’t look much like Frey. He had a little less weight and a lot less care on his face. He was clean-shaven and looked happy, smiling into the camera, squinting in the sun. There were mountains and fields in the background. Crake wondered when it was taken, and by whom.
The drinkers were merry and the noise inside the tavern was customarily deafening. All seemed well. Peering through the windows, which were
