No, it isn’t. He looked into John’s eyes and saw a cold calculation there. In that moment George realized he would be dead the moment they left land behind. They’d find what was left of him later, bobbing on the waves with his throat slit and his body torn by fish. My own father.
“Thank you, but I already have a career.”
“What sort of a career is that?” John pointedly looked over his rags. “If you got one, it doesn’t pay too well by the looks of it. No offense to you, boy, but you can do better. Or are you talking about those bandits over there? That’s no good. We picked you up near Kelena, that means it’s either the Rook, the families, or Jason Parris, and it has to be Parris, because the families know better, and Rook likes running his show personally, and I haven’t seen him. Am I right? I am right. Parris is a ravenous shark, that’s what he is. Cutthroat. Can you take a man’s life, Georgie? You think about that because you’ve got to be a cold, calculating killer to be in his company.”
“I’m not with Jason Parris.” George leaned back.
“Who are you with, then?”
George reached inside his sleeve, peeled off the coin he kept taped on his forearm, and tossed it to him. “I’m with the people who fish for ravenous sharks.”
John caught the coin. The magic charge bit his fingers with tiny sparks. He flinched. The surface of the coin flowed, turning into a miniature mirror. Every agent of the Mirror carried one. Some wore rings, some had earrings, and some embedded it into a knife’s hilt. He’d chosen a coin. It seemed appropriate.
John stared at his own reflection. Blood drained from his face. John dropped the coin like it was hot.
“I’m an underagent of the third degree, Father. I started when I was fourteen. My mission count is at twelve, ten successes and two aborts. My kill count is at seven, and I’m very good with a rapier. In two years, when I complete my training, I’ll be the youngest full-fledged agent in the Mirror’s recent history. Coincidentally, in two more years I’ll also graduate from Brasil’s Academy, since I’ve taken their entrance exams and passed them with a perfect score. There is a place for me waiting in the Diplomatic Corps.”
John Drayton stared at him, his face slack with shock.
“So you see, Father, if I ever feel the need to play at being a sailor, a vessel will either be provided for me, or I’ll purchase one. Given that my name is now George Camarine and the Duke of the Southern Provinces thinks of me as his grandson, I can afford an entire fleet. A small one, but it will be sufficient.” George smiled, a controlled baring of teeth. “I’ve already accomplished more in my life than you could ever hope to achieve. Your promises of a grandiose smuggler life hold no attraction to me, so do be quiet, Father. I’m fighting a strong urge to kill you, and I’d hate to slip up and do you in before Jack comes back.”
Knuckles rapped on the door.
“Enter,” George said.
The door swung open. Richard shouldered his way in, favoring his left side. His left arm rested in a sling. He had washed off his disguise and looked like himself. Jack followed, supporting Charlotte. She, on other hand, looked like a shadow of her former self: pale, exhausted, and sickly.
“Did you run into trouble?” George asked.
“Some,” Richard said. “Any problems?”
“None. Just talking to the dead man.”
John licked his lips. “What have I ever done to you that you hate me so much?”
“The crew you were supposed to be meeting by Kelena was chasing me,” Richard said. “I’m the Hunter.”
John drew back.
“I ended up at your mother’s house,” Richard said. “We’re distantly related by marriage, and she recognized me and tried to help me.”
“Grandmother is dead,” Jack said. “The slavers burned our house. You killed grandma, Dad.”
John’s hands shook. He swallowed. “I wasn’t there.”
Oh no, you don’t get to weasel your way out of this one. “Not directly, but you made it possible,” George said. “You contributed.”
John dragged his hand over his face and through his hair.
Richard took a piece of paper off the desk, wrote something on it, and pushed it across the desk to John. “Five names. What do you know?”
John looked at the list. His voice lost all emotion. “They’re called the Council. That’s where the real money goes. Maedoc is the muscle; he supplies the slavers. Casside is the main investor. I don’t know what the other two do. Brennan runs the whole show. That’s all I’ve got. I’m low on the ladder. If you expect me to testify, I won’t. I’ll never make it. Brennan will have my throat slit before I ever get a word out, and even if I did, it’s all rumors. I never met any of them. We never talked. I follow the schedule, pick up slaves, bring them here, and get paid. That’s the end of it.”
“I’m done with him.” Richard turned to him. “He’s yours.”
Finally. He rose.
“George,” Charlotte said softly.
He turned to her.
“Think about what you’re about to do. He is your father. Think about the cost.” She glanced past him. “Think about the guilt.”
It dawned on him: Jack. Jack always wanted their father to return. When they were small, he used to sit in a tree, watching the road, waiting for him to come back. In elementary school, in the Broken, Jack would fight anyone who dared to say anything bad about their dad, and he would beat them bloody. George had no problem with his hands being bloody, and neither did Jack in the heat of the moment, but he might regret it later. Jack tended to brood, and sometimes his brooding took him to dark places. He was only fourteen.
John Drayton had to die. He had to pay the price for the inhumanities he helped commit, but George couldn’t let John’s death ruin his brother. The scumbag wasn’t worth a single minute of Jack’s self-loathing.
“You’re right,” George said. “It’s not worth it. We’ll get a boat, take him to the mainland, and have him put away. You’ll be in prison for so long, you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”
“Do what the boy says,” Richard said.
John rose. “Right.” He reached out to ruffle Jack’s hair. Jack pulled back, avoiding the touch.
John dropped his hand. “Right.”
They went out, Richard first, then John, and George, with Lynda in tow. Jack was the last.
Outside, the stench of smoke assaulted George’s nostrils. The island town burned, the orange glow of its fire reflecting in the waters of the harbor. A cleansing fire, George decided. And a warning. Richard had unleashed Jason Parris on the island like a tornado. The news of the Market’s burning would carry, and soon every slaver along the Eastern seaboard would know he wasn’t invincible and his paycheck wasn’t safe. It was a brilliant move. Richard was a born tactician. George would have to remember that.
The cabin door swung open behind him. Jack emerged.
Richard stepped closer to him. “I need you to watch Charlotte for me. She overspent herself.”
“Why me?” Jack asked.
“Because Jason’s crew is full of bad men, and she’s alone and vulnerable.”
Jack glanced first at Richard, then at George. He wasn’t quite buying it.
“Can you just do one thing without arguing?” George tossed his hair back. “Just do it.”
“You do it.”
“You owe me for the canal.”
Jack growled something under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Richard said. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Forgotten what?
Jack shrugged and went into the cabin.
“Into the boat.” Richard pointed to a small barge waiting by the side of the vessel. They must’ve used it to come aboard.
They got into the barge, Richard at the nose, then John Drayton. George sent Lynda in next, added insurance. Everyone sat. George took a seat at the stern, passed his hand over the motor, starting the magic chain reaction, and the boat sped across the harbor to the shore. Midway through it, George let go of Lynda. She pitched into the waves, softly, and sank into the cool, soothing depths to finally rest. He didn’t need her anymore. Half a minute later the boat plowed into the soft sand of the beach. The two men stepped out. He followed.
“Still protecting your brother,” John said.
The frustration he had been holding in finally broke free. “Shut up. You don’t know him. Don’t talk about him. Because of you, Mémère is dead. It’s good that she’s dead—because if she knew what you’ve become, it would kill her.”
John inhaled. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Richard pulled out his sword.
“He’s my responsibility,” George said. “My family and my shame.”
John winced.
Richard held out his blade. George took it. The lean, razor-sharp sword felt so heavy. The hilt was cold. He concentrated, channeling his magic like a current of molten metal from his arm into his fingers, into the sword, and finally letting it stretch across the edge. The blade sparked with white. He’d trained for months to learn how to do it, but now the magic coated the steel as if on its own.
He couldn’t bring himself to raise the sword.
George was trapped between guilt and duty. The indecision hurt, deciding hurt more, and he was so monumentally angry at his father for making him choose. Was he really that weak?
“C’est la différence entre lui et toi.” Richard switched to the language of Louisiana.
This is the difference between you and him.
“If you raise that sword, you’re letting his actions determine yours,” Richard continued in Gaulish. “You’re simply reacting to what he has already done. We are forever linked with those we kill. If you end his life, you will drag his corpse with you for the rest of yours. When your brother and sister look at you, they will see the killer of their father; when you look in the mirror, you will see a murderer. Had he lived with you and abused you or those close to you, ending his life might be cathartic, a sign of rebirth. But this man is a stranger to you. You barely know him. There is no empowerment in his death by your hand. He has no right to govern your life. Let your own actions define who you are.”
