A pair of men appeared behind her, another pair in front of her, and she was surrounded. They leered at her as if this was a game, as if she was an animal they had hunted down and cornered, and now the real fun began. She could try to dart away, try to run and duck out of their reach, but they had placed themselves with just enough space for her to think she could escape. To encourage her to escape so they could have the pleasure of capturing her. It was a feint to try to draw her into a stupid move, like she’d done in fencing a hundred times. She didn’t fall for it, but kept her place, circling, trying to keep the half dozen of them in view at the same time. She was too tense to be frightened, too ready to fight her way out. Time enough to be scared later.
Then they looked away from her, and that made her even more nervous, because they’d turned their attention to a new figure who’d stopped outside their circle.
This man was tall. He carried a lantern, the light of which emphasized the lines and crags of his face, his trimmed beard, and his grinning eyes. His tailored coat looked soft and rich, like velvet, and his breeches were leather. He might have seemed rich, but instead he seemed complicated, the richness of his clothes and the shining gold rings in his ears and chains on his neck contrasting with the worn leather of his gloves and boots. His thick, straight hair was tied in a tail with a red ribbon. He had a worn, well-used sword on a hanger at his belt—but the sword was missing the tip, the last six inches or so.
This was Edmund Blane.
You could lose a fencing bout before ever stepping onto the strip if you let your opponent intimidate you. If he had a reputation, and you let the reputation daunt you before the fight, you’d most likely lose. Fencing was as much a mind game as it was about physical skill.
She felt herself being daunted and tried to tell herself it was reputation, the stories she’d heard about him and fear left over from the battle at sea.
“Come along, then,” he said in a soft, calm voice—a tone that surprised her, and made her even more wary. “We’ll go where we can talk.”
He turned and walked away, not waiting for her response, not caring if she had one. His men fell in around her, an obvious escort for a prisoner.
Well. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
In silence, they continued. Blane and his crew didn’t seem to have the problem of not being able to walk in the straight line that Jill had struggled with. In moments, they left the forest and entered a rocky clearing.
Something crazy was going on, then. This was why no one could find them—unless Blane wanted to be found. Not that it made her feel any better.
In some ways, this seemed like a typical pirate camp, like the one that the Diana’s crew had made when they careened the ship on Jamaica. A pair of cook fires burned and formed the center of the camp; men were working repairing ropes, sails, tackle, any number of items; the smell of rum on the air was evident. But the atmosphere was subdued, taut. No one sang, no one laughed. They talked in low, anxious voices, and when Blane appeared they all fell silent and looked at him. Cooper’s crew looked on her with respect when she passed by, maybe with fondness, maybe even some love, but always respect. Blane’s crew turned wide and hungry eyes on him; they respected him and his power, but they obeyed him because they were afraid of him.
They were preparing weapons, sharpening blades on a whetstone, cleaning muskets and lining them up in a long, dark row.
Jill kept her back straight and reminded herself that she could use the sword she carried, that none of them had thought to take away from her. At least, she was pretty sure she could.
The clearing overlooked a cove, a sheltered inlet on the coast. The Heart’s Revenge was anchored a little ways off, a fearsome ship lit by lanterns and flickering shadows, its masts naked and skeletal. Blane stopped at the edge of the camp, before the overhang dropped off, a steep slope to the narrow, sandy beach below, and looked out at his ship for a moment. Jill waited.
“Where is it?” Blane asked, still looking outward.
Jill swallowed; she hadn’t had any water to drink in hours, and her throat was sticky. If she asked for a drink, they’d only give her something with rum in it. She wasn’t going to drink any rum here.
“Where is what?” she said, knowing what he was asking about.
“The sword. You’re here because you found the missing piece of my sword.”
“How do you know that?”
“I made that sword. I know everything about it, and you’re connected to it. Now, where’s the shard?”
Even broken and useless, he still carried the sword because it was important. Because he needed it, and he needed it whole, because it had power. And if the broken piece of steel had brought her here, maybe the sword it had come from could send her home. Somehow.
Before she lost her nerve, she said quickly, “If you know everything, then you know how I got here, and you know I don’t belong here. I need—I want to go back home. Can you help me? Can you send me back?”
“Perhaps. If you can tell me where the piece is.”
It wasn’t like he didn’t already know so much, or that he could do anything differently if she told him. But saying where it was—telling him directly—would be betraying Captain Cooper. Jill couldn’t do it.
“If you know everything about it, then you already know,” she said, her voice shaking a little. She wasn’t a very good liar. “Why ask me?”
He paced, hand hooked over the hilt of his sword, wry smile on his lips, polished boots crunching dirt underneath. “You could have lost it. You could have thrown it back into the sea. You could still have it. You could have given it to someone.” He stopped and looked at her, eyebrows lifted. “Marjory Cooper?”
Jill didn’t say anything.
“And she still has it? I’d have expected her to throw it back to the sea, as she did the last time. Can you tell me: Did she? Or did she keep it?”
He didn’t know where it was. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have fled the battle at sea last week. He’d have smashed the Diana to pieces, boarded her, and taken it. On some level, he must have been afraid of Cooper. Captain Cooper had stopped him last time by getting rid of the rapier shard. He was being careful because he didn’t want her to do something like that again.
But he thought he could use Jill to get it.
“I don’t know. Why would she tell me anything?” She tried to sound surly instead of scared.
“Because you’re her protégé, I gather. Her apprentice. Why wouldn’t she tell you?”
“I’m not anything to her,” Jill said, and she wasn’t entirely certain that was a lie.
“Oh, but you are, and you don’t even know why, do you? She didn’t tell you why you’re so important, did she?” He laughed softly. “I know her. She’s too soft. Her reputation says otherwise, but I know her.”
Jill thought of Jenks and knew that Cooper wasn’t soft. Blane didn’t know her; he only thought he did. He was arrogant. “She hates you. She’s looking for you.”
“And you must not think much of her if you’ve come looking for me instead of keeping your lot in with her.”
“I just want to go home,” she said.
“My dear, what happened to you was a mistake and I’m sure I’m sorry for it. But I need that sword.”
Maybe, she thought, Captain Cooper and the Diana hadn’t been meant to fish her out of the ocean at all. Maybe, if Blane had been behind the bizarre time warp, he was supposed to find her first. Or if he hadn’t caused it, he’d known that the shard had returned to his world. She’d emerged with it in that exact spot, where Blane had destroyed the Newark—had he been looking for her? Was she supposed to have been on the Heart’s Revenge the whole time? As if there was a reason that all this was happening in the first place. She thought of what those first chaotic, confusing days had been like, and imagined herself among these men instead, without Abe’s smile and Henry’s joking. Blane’s crew didn’t seem to have any women among them at all.
She was glad
that hadn’t happened. She was glad the Diana had found her.
So what did she do now? She needed a moment to think.
“Why did you bring me here? Can you send me back or not?” she said. Tried to say with some authority, as if she could persuade him.
“I didn’t bring you here,” he said, amused. “I was simply looking for the piece of my sword.”
But he couldn’t have brought it back without someone hanging on to it—didn’t he see that? It had been lying buried at the edge of the ocean for centuries without being washed back to him. He could have just brought it back—but someone had to carry it, and she was the one unlucky enough to pick it up. And now she was bound to it. She felt it like a touch in the back of her skull.
“I don’t belong here,” she said.
He looked at her askance, curious for the first time rather than just annoyed. “Just how far away did it land when Marjory threw it?”
“A long way away,” Jill said quietly.
He wasn’t going to help her. This had all been an accident, and she didn’t have a part to play at all.
He studied his ship for another moment, then turned to her, donning a bright tone. Bright, but false. “Tell me—what is your name?”
“Jill,” she said.
“Tell me, Jill—do you think Marjory will give me the piece in exchange for you? Would she do that to keep you safe?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “No. I don’t think she cares about me at all.”
“Then I think we’re done here,” he said, and waved a gesture at her two guards.
They grabbed her arms and held tight. One of them held a rope he didn’t have before, while the other wrenched her hands back. They bound her wrists behind her while she thrashed like a beached fish, uselessly.
They dragged her to the edge of the overlook, their intentions clear. With her hands free, able to reach out and brace herself or slow her fall, she might survive being thrown over the edge. Tied up, she’d tumble down until she broke.
She screamed, threw her weight back to try to anchor herself, but her two captors were stronger. Don’t parry, she thought. Don’t fall into a battle of strength—use your brain.
“Fight me!” she shouted, twisting to direct the words to Blane. “I challenge you to a duel! Fight me!”
Blane raised his hand, and the two men stopped their progress toward the edge. Jill slumped in their grasps and sighed. She’d bought herself a few more minutes, then. Maybe.
“You fight?” he said. “With a sword?”
“I’m not just wearing it for decoration,” she said. “And I’m pretty good.” That part was pure bluster.
But Blane took the bait, because he was arrogant. Jill read him right.
“Untie her.”
One of the thugs drew a knife and sliced through the rope that bound her. She hissed when he nicked a piece of her skin; he didn’t seem to notice.
They let her go. She backed away, trying to find a clear space, and drew her rapier. She spared a quick moment to wipe away blood from the heel of her left hand, where the knife had caught her.
Edmund Blane unfastened his belt, removing from his hip the broken sword that he wouldn’t let out of his sight. Another of his men—they were all servants, interchangeable—was on hand to take the broken rapier and hand him another one. A whole, functional rapier with a worn grip and a sharp, gleaming blade. He held it up to his face, pointed outward, so he could gaze down the length of it, as if he didn’t already know it was perfect. From the edge of her vision she watched the man who held the broken sword; he stood a little ways off but didn’t leave the clearing, keeping the treasured rapier where Blane could see it.
The camp had fallen quiet. The men who had been working set aside their tools and gathered closer, to watch their captain fight the scrawny girl who’d appeared in their camp.
Jill was in something of a panic—she hadn’t thought this through, she knew nothing about how Blane fought, it was dark, hard to see by wavering firelight, the ground was rocky, all of it about the worst conditions for a fight she could imagine. But at least she recognized that she was panicking. She might be able to at least stave it off before Blane ran her through—
No, he wasn’t going to run her through; she wasn’t going to let him. She breathed slowly, filling her lungs, set her body in a correct position, held her sword in a proper en garde. Habit and ritual steadied her. She shook out her legs, gave a little bounce to loosen her muscles, and looked toward Blane.
He watched her going through the motions, point of his rapier resting on the earth, opposite hand on his hip. His lips curled in a half smile.
She saluted him, bringing her sword straight up and flicking it away. He raised an eyebrow, and didn’t salute her back.
For the first five heartbeats, neither of them moved. The tips of their rapiers barely crossed, which meant they were too far apart for either of them to make a real attack. This was just to size each other up. She made a beat—quickly tapping her blade against his. He didn’t respond, merely letting his blade give to the pressure, then bringing it back on line. She tried again; this time, he disengaged, scooping his sword out of the way. She quickly responded by starting a parry—but he was only testing her, and he didn’t take the opening. He didn’t attack.
She couldn’t believe how her heart was racing. She knew better than this; she didn’t get nervous and sloppy before fights. He wasn’t even doing anything to scare her—she was doing it all on her own. If she stayed scared, if she didn’t do anything but stand here deciding what to do next, he’d pounce and she’d be dead.
Here and now, that wasn’t just a figure of speech. The edge of his blade was sharp, and ended in a gleaming point.
He beat her blade, she beat back, and the fight was on. Attacking and counterattacking, he tested her. He was careful, calculating, his movements simple and precise. Textbook, which she wasn’t sure she’d expected from someone who by all accounts was a hardened villain. Maybe she’d expected the sweeping, flailing attacks of a movie swashbuckler. But Edmund Blane had had training, and he practiced. He drew her responses, and she fell into the expected pattern, as if they were drilling. She was dancing to the tune he played.
She stumbled back, out of his reach, to break out of the pattern and reassess. She circled, aware of Blane’s followers around the torch-lit clearing where they fought. They could strike at any moment as well.
So she brought the fight to him, lunging in a feint, countering the parry she expected. He matched her, with a bare smile and a gleam in his eyes. Good fencing wasn’t just hitting; it was a conversation, move and countermove, anticipating three or more movements along until each exchange was comprised of a dozen moves or more, steel on steel ringing out. The familiar fire lit in her veins, flowed through her limbs, and her muscles found their rhythm. This was a good fight. She just wished the swords weren’t real. Her mind felt electric, otherworldly—she’d rather be watching this from the outside.
After two or three complex exchanges, she decided she could hold her own against him—for a time. If she played a purely defensive game, concentrated on blocking, didn’t take risks. But if she did that, she’d never stop him. He’d wear her out, eventually she would make a mistake, and he would finish her.
She had to get out of this. So she turned and ran.
No one ran after her, probably because they were shocked. Even Blane stood and stared. Jill planned—however much she planned any of this—to just keep running, to plunge into the forest and escape. But the man charged with holding Blane’s broken rapier stood in her path. If she stopped, if she lost her momentum, Blane would have her thrown over the cliff—nothing would change. This wasn’t a feint; she was committed. She kept going, arms bent, still holding her rapier, charging forward.
The man in front of her flinched. And maybe that brief show of fear inspired Jill. She felt a surge, the flicker of a smile on her lips—she recognized the feeling, that moment when she saw an
opening, recognizing an opponent’s weakness. The broken sword was Edmund Blane’s weakness.
She ran into the pirate, shouldering him out of the way, and grabbed the sword out of his hands. The sword caught; she felt it drag through flesh. The man screamed as a wound opened on his hand where the blade cut, and he stumbled away from her. She kept running, never slowing, keeping her eyes where she wanted to go—the shadows in the forest beyond.
Other pirates were running now, moving to intercept her and capture her. Blane might even have been yelling. Jill had her task and didn’t waver; all she had to do was run. So she did, a sword in each hand, and let the shadows of the forest devour her.
The noise she made—the breaking of branches, the crashing of foliage—sounded immense to her ears. She’d never be able to hide or escape, because the whole forest knew she was here. She only had one chance at this. The voices shouting after her seemed close, echoing all around her—surely surrounding her. But the pirates didn’t catch her.
When she traveled this path previously, she felt she’d been walking in circles. Now the way seemed clear. It was as if she’d walked in a fog before, but now the fog had lifted. Whatever Blane had done to keep wanderers from finding his camp was gone. Or maybe—she was the one who held his sword now. Maybe it was the sword.
And now it was Jill’s, and maybe it really could help her get home.
Whatever had happened to the metaphysical fog that made her lose her way when she passed through here last time, she still had to contend with the forest itself, its tangle of vegetation, crawling vines, and jutting branches. She couldn’t pick her way and choose her path; she just ran and shoved her way past obstacles, letting them claw and scratch at her. The wounds stung, a sheen of sweat covered her, and her whole body felt sticky. It was too hot to breathe. She expected that at any moment she’d hear a musket fire, and that Blane would be standing behind her, shooting her dead. She ran as if she could outrun the sound of gunfire.