“I have wondered that myself,” said I. “And I know not which answer I would find more comforting—either she cares enough to put me in a cell, or she had nothing to do with it and I am here through my own misfortune.”
“If misfortune,” said Kevin, “that fortune may be reversed with a little effort and, perhaps, money. Whereas if you are pursued by divine vengeance, I know not what may be done.”
“Find another god,” said I, “who would act as my champion.”
He raised a hand and made a gesture that encompassed the wide world beyond the red-brick walls. “Where should I find such a being?” he asked, half in jest.
“Don’t bother asking a Philosopher Transterrene,” I said. “I’ve already looked in that quarter.” I looked into my cup of wine and swirled it in thought. “Though I do not relish the thought of two gods playing tug-of-war with my person. According to all the old stories, this sort of thing does not end well for mortals. Consider Agathe, loved by one god, and torn to bits by the hunting-dogs of another. Or Herodion, the mighty son of heaven’s King, who was driven mad by the wife of that selfsame King, and drowned himself in a lake, thinking to fight his own reflection.”
Kevin looked at me soberly. “I think too much musing on these subjects will do you no good.”
“Nor will contemplating anything else,” said I. “For consider the ancient tales, those epics and fables that have come down to us, of gods who love mortals, and who war with one another. Think of the Siege of Patara, where the gods chose sides and scarcely a mortal survived, even on the winning side. Or the War of the Champions, where the gods played with warriors as if they were chess-men, and the only victor was Nikandros the Lame, who did not fight.”
“Nikandros had at least the best mind of them all,” said Kevin, “and deserved to be King if anyone did. But brother, we know nothing really of that time, nothing beyond poet’s fancy. If a poet chooses to say an idea, or an action, was inspired by a god, is that not merely to make human thought divine?”
“Or make human action worthless,” said I. “For if we are as men in the stories, with divinities and demons whispering into our ears and prompting every action, does that not call into question our every deed? Can our lives have any meaning, if our very thoughts are not our own, and our actions prompted by others?”
Kevin’s gaze was searching. “You have drunk too deep of this draught, my friend. Perhaps in your current situation it would be best to abandon philosophy for—say—the law.”
“I will.” And then I threw wide my hands. “And in the meantime, find me a god!”
Kevin rose and began gathering the remains of our meal. “One must hope that gods are susceptible to bribes, or at least that jailers are.”
I embraced him in farewell, and then he knocked on the cell door, and passed money to the jailer on his way out. I threw myself on the bed, and abandoned myself to my metaphysical labors.
I spent another uneasy night in my cell before the thick oaken door opened, and the provost appeared to tell me that Sir Andrew had ordered my release. Very civilly he offered to share his breakfast, which consisted of raveled bread, cherry jam, salt pork, and a sweet, rather syrupy wine from southeast Loretto. “A miscellany, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I wished to give you a more civil welcome to the Island than you have got till now. A deal of the food is being reserved for supporting the population during the siege, and this is the best my varlet could do.”
“Give him my compliments,” I said.
“I imagine your meals are a good deal less varied on shipboard.”
This question gave me the opportunity of adopting the character of a much more seasoned a sailor than in fact I was. “We’re not undergoing a long voyage,” I said. “We’re rarely out of fresh food.”
“You may find that this will change,” said the provost. “Now that we are blockaded.”
That last word attracted my complete attention. “Blockaded? Clayborne’s army has arrived?”
“Not yet,” said the provost. “But one of his galleons has appeared off the coast, has already captured one of our supply ships, and will probably capture more.”
“There are many ships in the harbor,” I said. “Can a sally not be made?”
“It is a very large warship, greater than any of ours. I don’t think our captains will want to risk a battle when we can wait safely till the navy arrives from Selford.”
Indeed, the warships at Selford, which at the beginning of the war had been laid up in ordinary, were now ready to sail, and not unwilling to fight an enemy. But who would tell them to come to Longfirth, if they did not know the enemy were here?
“They will know when none of the supply ships returns,” said the provost.
“But any ships coming to the city will be captured,” said I. “Clayborne’s forces will be enriched by supplies intended for the Queen’s army.”
The provost shrugged. “You are a privateer, sir. If you wish to engage the enemy, no man in Longfirth will prevent you.”
I had no desire to take the little Meteor out to engage a great warship, but neither did I wish to be blockaded until Clayborne’s army turned up and made it impossible to leave. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said, and rose. “I hope to repay your kindness on some other occasion.”
“I apologize for the short commons,” said the provost. “And—beg pardon—I know not if you have a tender stomach, but if you have, and you want to retain your breakfast, you might not want to look up over the gateway as you leave. For that old man of Sir Basil’s hangs there by the neck, and Sir Basil in a cage, as a warning to thieves and traitors.”
“Who was that hoary old fellow?” I asked. “Did you find out?”
As the provost escorted me to the door, he explained that the old man was named Hazelton, and had been a servant in Sir Basil’s family who had known him since he was a boy, and who out of love for him had followed him in all his adventures. Hazelton had been the only one of Sir Basil’s company trusted to accompany him on Star of the North, the galleon bound for the Triple Kingdom, where Sir Basil had hoped to start a new life as a rich and law-abiding gentleman. But the ship had been damaged in the storm and sought shelter in Longfirth, and there Sir Basil had his fatal encounter with his own dirk, and never had the chance to enlarge his knowledge of legal systems by taking his new neighbors to court.
“What has become of Sir Basil’s knife, by the way?” I asked. “Might I examine it?”
“It’s been sent to the city armory,” said the provost. “It will probably be issued to some soldier. But I have your own knife just here, in the gatehouse.”
I was handed my knife, and I thanked the provost again and was on my way. I did not glance up to view Sir Basil and his servant, not because I would have been unsettled by the sight, but because my mind was already fully occupied by the matter of the outlaw, and his ransoms, and his escape. On my way to the waterfront, I met Kevin coming to see me, and we returned to the quay together.
“If he was planning on establishing himself abroad,” said I, “Sir Basil must have been carrying a fortune with him. Have the authorities searched for it? Do you know?”
Kevin was amused. “You mean to plunder the outlaw? What does the law say on the matter?”
“Insofar as the money arrived on a damaged vessel,” I said, “it might be viewed as flotsam, and thus the property of whoever finds it. However, if the money is to be viewed as a treasure trove, hidden animus revocandi, that is with intent to recover later, then half would belong to the finder, and half to the Crown. Though sometimes the courts have ruled that lost property quod nullius est fit domini regis, that which belongs to nobody belongs to the Queen.”