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Avrel realized Eades was talking about the rescued spacers, and moved to object, but Kaycie was nodding.
“Yes,” she said, “there will be charges, won’t there … as many as can be thought of.”
“Ah,” Eades said with a sad smile. “Miss Overfield is not, perhaps, so naive as I thought the both of you were.”
“But —”
“The courts work for Marchant, Jon,” Kaycie said softly. “We’ve both seen that, haven’t we? Whether directly bought or only because the laws favor the powerful by nature … they work toward Marchant’s interests and those interests are for all those who took Minorca to be painted black as pitch.” She nodded to Eades. “The station master?”
“A lovely vacation home in Penduli’s Lakes District. Far beyond his means, I’m given to understand.”
Kaycie nodded. “And the port admiral?”
“Admiral Fitzsimon Ashwill. Strong Naval ties in that family … those not in merchant service, that is.”
“I see. Merchant service with …”
“Exactly.”
“They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” Kaycie asked.
Eades sat back in his chair and sighed. “Indeed.”
“But the Marchants are in the slave trade,” Avrel protested. “When that comes out —”
“How will it come out?” Eades asked.
Avrel saw that Kaycie was nodding along with Eades, but didn’t see it himself. What did they understand that he didn’t? “We’ve a shipload of spacers who’ll bloody shout it to all who’ll listen!”
“What is it you see that our young friend does not, Miss Overfield?”
Kaycie closed her eyes as though pained. “Morell.”
Eades nodded.
“Yes,” Avrel agreed. “He commanded Minorca, took on the cargo of slaves, transported them, and he works for the Marchants. It’s their ship! He was their man!”
“Morell is dead.” Eades said flatly. “And the Marchants, as they have in the past, will claim he was simply a rogue captain.” Eades’ voice took on a tone of righteous indignation. “‘We cannot police every action of every captain of every ship,’ they will say … again. ‘Were Captain Morell alive, he would be dismissed from our service forthwith and his pension forfeit, as an example to all our captains that actions outside the kingdom’s laws will in no way be tolerated.’” Eades shrugged. “That is the arrangement, I’m sure, between these captains and the Company. Follow orders and you will grow wealthy, disavowal if you are caught. And some promise of wealth or threat to their loved ones to maintain their silence, certainly.”
Avrel thought he caught a note of recitation in Eades’ tone as well, as though the words had been heard by him far more than once.
“The Marchant Company has an extraordinary number of rogue captains, you see. Had Morell been taken alive, he might have some evidence, some instruction, which could implicate those higher up in the Company.”
“But —”
Kaycie drained her glass. “The best we could hope for is that Morell alone would be condemned as a slaver, the worst would be that we ourselves are convicted of mutiny. And Morell is beyond justice now.”
Eades nodded. Avrel almost thought his face held some sympathy.
“There is, I’m afraid, no benefit at all to your returning to a New London system. No benefit at all, and far too great a risk, I’m afraid.”
Avrel struggled to understand. He’d been prepared for a triumphant return — rescued spacers and evidence against the Marchant’s foul deeds. Now it was all crashing down.
“This can’t be,” he whispered.
Both Eades and Kaycie were silent, as though giving him time to accept what they already understood.
“What do we do, then?” he asked finally.
“You must return to the Barbary,” Eades said.
“What? Why there?”
“Because it is the only place where you won’t be taken up as mutineers and pirates. The word’s already spread from those crewmen you released on Kuriyya, and Minorca’s identity is now well known throughout the border systems. To the Republic, as well, even Hanover — the Marchant reach is long, at least when there’s no war on, and I’d expect you’ll be wanted in Hso-hsi as well, before too much time has passed. They’ll have put a rather large price on your head, you see?”
“They can’t do that,” Avrel whispered.
Kaycie laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard.
“We’re done, Jon,” she whispered. “You can see that.”
Eades nodded. “Attacking the Marchants is not lightly done, nor quickly. I’ve been building a case for years, dozens of informants and hundreds of documented instances of their wrong-doing.” He glared at Avrel. “Now there’ll be loose talk of these events in the Barbary and they’ll tighten their ship.” He sighed. “I wasn’t bloody ready, boy.”
Avrel flushed. It was his fault, then, that the Marchants wouldn’t be brought down by this? No, he couldn’t accept that. The alternative would have been to let all those folk, New London spacers, the women from Vólkerhausen, and those from the Barbary alike, be sent off into slavery — Kaycie herself, perhaps, as who knew what would have happened to her if she were put in-atmosphere on Kuriyya with no ship.
No. He’d not accept that. One did the right thing and bugger the cost to something larger. There was no justification to have let those men and women be set upon Kuriyya, and he’d not take the blame for the Marchant’s power over New London.
“So, it’s back to the Barbary, then,” he muttered.
“And what you’ll do there, I’ve no idea,” Eades said. He took a deep breath. “I’ll try to help you, from time to time, as I may, but you’ll be well-advised to keep clear of the Marchants.”
Avrel flushed again, this time with anger. The law would never bring them down, would it? The Marchants would never see justice for what they’d done. His jaw was tight and he raised his gaze to meet Kaycie’s. She seemed to read something in that as their eyes met, for she smiled, thin-lipped though it be, and nodded.
“I’ve a ship, Mister Eades,” Avrel said. “Two, if I can find Dary and Fancy, as well as guns and a crew with blood in their eye and on their minds.” He met Eades’ eye and, for the first time, it seemed it was the Foreign Office man who saw something in that gaze to chill him, instead of the other way around.
“We’ll see who has the need to keep clear, shall we?”
ALSO BY J.A. SUTHERLAND
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Alexis Carew
Into the Dark
Mutineer
The Little Ships
HMS Nightingale
Privateer
Dark Artifice
Of Dubious Intent
Spacer, Smuggler, Pirate, Spy
Spacer
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.A. Sutherland spends his time sailing the Bahamas on a 43' 1925 John G. Alden sailboat called Little Bit ...
Yeah ... no. In his dreams.
Reality is a townhouse in Orlando with a 90 pound huskie-wolf mix who won't let him take naps.
When not reading or writing, he spends his time on roadtrips around the Southeast US searching for good barbeque.
Mailing List: http://www.alexiscarew.com/list
To contact the author:
www.alexiscarew.com
sutherland@alexiscarew.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Part II
Chapter 2
Part III
Chapter 3
Epilogue
Also by J.A. Sutherland
About the Author
herland, Spacer