“I hope you handle that redhead of yours better than that,” Jane said.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should consider gelding your husband, it might calm him down,” I snapped back. She laughed. Mile after mile of sand and scrub stretched away in either direction. Here and there, trees grew in tight- packed spots where the sand gave way to actual soil. Behind us stretched a vast woods crisscrossed with trails and roads.
In the middle of the vista before us lay Watchorn Harbor.
The town’s buildings clustered along the water’s edge and spread inland from a central point like a lady’s fan. A forest of masts and canvas filled the harbor, backlit by the afternoon sun that glinted blindingly off the water. The first gusts of eve ning wind brought the distinctive odors of salt and dead fish.
“How many ships do you think are out there?” I asked.
“About a hundred,” Jane said. “See those two far out at anchor? Those are naval ships stationed to protect the harbor. And those little ones all in a row there? A fishing fleet.”
“Any pirate ships?”
“Not in this harbor.” She snorted. “Unless they’re on the bottom. Those naval ships aren’t just for show.”
It was sundown by the time we reached the town, and people packed the thoroughfares, mostly men with the distinctive leathery look and rolling gait of sailors. On the dreary streets, the odors were much more vivid and considerably less pleasant, but like anything, we eventually got used to them. Languages both known and unknown blurred in my ears. Neceda was like this, but on a far smaller, slower scale.
Jane, though, was in her element. She tossed her cape behind her shoulders, pulled her hair up in a loose bun, and rode along, confident her way would be clear. It was.
First we sought the town magistrate’s office. I always cover my bases by trying official channels first. Usually it gave me no direct information about my case, but it let me get a sense of the local constabulary. It also means people would know I was looking, and sometimes stirring the pot was the best thing. We found the town’s magistrate, a Mr. Tallarico, in his office going over a voluminous stack of shipping forms. The office was in a small building next to a warehouse and corral.
A large one-eyed cat curled up on a corner of his desk. Vellum sheets were stacked everywhere, pinned down by rocks or anything else heavy enough to hold them in place. A lone neglected plant drooped in its pot on the windowsill. He had no secretary or formal guard; he just sat at his desk doing his job. “Magistrate Tallarico?” I said.
He used a monocle to see the forms, and when he looked up at us, it made his right eye look huge. “Yes?”
“Sorry for interrupting, sir, but I think you might be able to help me.” I gave him my most winning smile.
He looked at me, then at Jane, then back to me. “Indeed. You don’t appear to be sailors, ship owners, businessmen, or officials. Those are the people I help. If you’re looking for work, you’ll have to talk to the captains of the ships. If you’re here to report a crime, you’re both in the wrong place and frankly wasting your time.” He returned to his reports. “Good day.” We didn’t move. The cattle in the nearby corral mooed through the window, glad to be out of some ship’s cramped hold. At last he removed the monocle and impatiently looked at us. “All right, what?”
I smiled. “My associate and I are looking for a local family, and we thought you might be able to help us find them.”
“Who?”
“The Dirnays. They had a daughter named Brandywine. Might’ve gone by Brandy.” Jane stifled a laugh. I still had a hard time imagining Angelina as a “Brandywine,” let alone a “Brandy,” but as she said, she didn’t choose it.
“Dirnay?” he repeated. “I don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name in Watchorn.”
“How long have you been here?” Jane asked.
“Four years.” The way he said it implied it felt much longer.
Jane leaned on the desk and looked down at him, using her size, in every sense, to intimidate him. She said through a humorless grin, “Then who might be able to help us?”
Tallarico sat back in his chair and held up the monocle. “You know, they say a wizard in the court of King Haviland once mounted a series of polished glass disks like this in a tube so that the king could observe things so small, they were invisible to the naked eye. And even if you had two of those devices and attached them together, you would still be unable to locate my interest in your problem.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Now, good day to you, ma’am. And sir.”
Now I stepped forward. “Where’s the records office?”
“What records do you need?”
“Shipwrecks. Specifically any record of the Bloody Angel.”
If anything, his expression grew more contemptuous. “Ye gods, you’re treasure hunters, aren’t you? You think you’ll be the ones to find some missed clue and discover Black Edward’s treasure.” He laughed with the contempt of middle management. “Fine. The records office is three doors down. Tell the old harpy that I sent you. I wonder if she’s still growing her mustache?”
Three doors down I knocked, and a loud female voice said, “Enter!”
The smell of vellum and ink filled the little room. Shelves lined the walls, holding rolled-up sheets and bound volumes.
There was a table with two chairs by the single window, and a desk where a round-bodied little woman with gray hair piled high on her head sat squinting at a map on her desk. She looked up and said, “What do you want?”
“Don’t get mad,” I said.
“Why would I get mad?”
“We mentioned the Bloody Angel to the magistrate, and he got mad.”
“That man is a blot on the good name of Watchorn. I used to have his office, did you know that? All that space. Now he’s got me in a damn closet.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do you want to know about the Bloody Angel?”
I liked her casual air and the fact that she agreed with me about the magistrate. “If I say I’m not interested in the treasure, will you believe me?”
“Sure, because there is no treasure. Lots of people have looked, but it’s been twenty years and not so much as a bead has showed up.”
“Has anyone looked lately?” Jane asked.
“Not in at least five years. We get the occasional inquiry, but mostly it’s just sailors thinking they’re unique in their interest. When they find out they’re not, they wander off. Also, not too many of them can read.”
“So you do have records,” Jane said.
“Of course we’ve got records. And maps. And detailed reports.” She stood and took a large bound volume from a nearby shelf. On the cover it was titled: THE WRECK OF THE BLOODY ANGEL AND WHAT REALLY HAPPENED.
She handed it to me and gestured at the table. “It’s all in there, all gathered up neat and nice for convenience. Have a seat. Read to your heart’s content. Make notes, copy maps. Just don’t damage the book; if you do, I’m within my job description to kill you.”
Jane put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll let you handle this. I’m going to go find a drink. I’ll check back in an hour.”
I nodded, sat down, and began to read.
The texts were legal, which meant they were also boring. There was a description of the storm, and a map showing where the Bloody Angel supposedly sank. Then there was testimony from people who were on the beach when pieces of the wreck began to wash ashore. They were referred to only by their initials.
The official report was written by a man named Cyrus Northack, special envoy from the Cotovatrian court, and his contempt for the locals was palpable. He excoriated them for snatching up everything that washed ashore without reporting any of it. He asserted that no hint of treasure had been seen or mentioned, but he suspected that if any had, he’d be the last to know. The final straw was when the local gravedigger presented him with a bill for the burial of the dead pirates scattered along the surf.
