Chapter 1
Sall copped the fist across his cheek and knew he was dropped. Black eyes shaded by a low, flat cap shone satisfaction down upon him. Sall went spinning to the floor. They’d told him the dockworker hit like a barge in a hurry and they were right.
The bulky figure swaggered over him. ‘Stay down,’ he said.
Moments ticked over into seconds, disappearing like the sun setting behind the other fighter. Down was easy. Sall could stay down, roll over into the easy night and pass out, but the sun still shone and the world still crawled on and so Sall made the decision to rise. He breathed in the stink of marine mud and fish baked into the planks and pushed himself upright.
Double images of the unwashed, jeering crowd danced across his vision. He blinked to settle them. He was on his knees.
The punta slipped through the crowd, coming to crouch by his side. ‘He’s wobbly,’ he said, then to Sall, ‘you done?’
Ten thousand in pure, solid gold. For a stack like that, free of tax or condition, he’d go a dozen more rounds. No man in his position held money like that.
‘Not yet,’ Sall said, pushing himself up on his knuckles. The iron taste of blood mixed with his saliva. He spat and braced himself on one knee. He rose amid cheers and danced a little from foot to foot.
‘The fight goes on!’ The punta spun away.
The dockworker puffed his chest to the crowd’s cheers. ‘Again?’
Sall raised his fists. ‘Can’t make me any uglier,’ he said, looking across at him over the top of his knuckles.
The dockworker, steady, advanced and feinted left. Sall saw it coming and ducked into the hand. The real jab shot past his face, missing him this time. Sall delivered a blow into the dockworker’s ribs, forcing him back a few steps. The dockworker gasped, stung.
Sall stole ground and came at his opponent with a flurry of strikes. The dockworker brought up his guard, deflecting them as best he could. Sall continued to step forward, driving him around the ring so the dockworker had to keep an active mind on his footing and off his attack.
Sall slipped a jab past his guard, but every time he’d thrown that the dockworker ducked to one side or leaned back. It missed again.
He wouldn’t let Sall exact his revenge, and in the flicker of a smile the dockworker knew he’d got under his skin.
Sall gave up on that strategy and switched, drawing breath and tossing jabs at his lower body. The dockworker wanted to knock him out. Every strike he threw went for it. Sall was content to work the wind out of him slowly for now. If he could break a few of his teeth, though, he would.
The dockworker threw a hook on the back of a jab. Sall brought his hands up, fending off the strike aimed at his temple, and bowed a little into his own back foot.
The dockworker felt the distance grow between them, sensing retreat. The bait was laid. The dockworker took it, making to follow the hook with a straight strike, thinking Sall was off balance. Sall pushed on his back foot. The dockworker’s eyes widened as Sall sprung.
Sall twisted his hip into launching his fist into the dockworker’s side. He could tell it hurt by theurk!the stocky fellow made. This time Sall had hurt him. The fight was turning in his favour.
The dockworker was knocked back again. He sheltered his belly and stumbled into the arms of the crowd, who with rowdy excitement shoved him back at a waiting Sall. The dockworker, indomitable it seemed, flew at him with a soaring hook and a scowl.
Sall stepped outside the hook’s swing and batted the dockworker’s temple in return. Blindsided, the dockworker stumbled sideways, but kept on his feet. He instead spun into a backhand swing. Sall leaned away as it coursed past his nose. Close. The dockworker reeled off the swinging backhand, panting in anger, readjusting his soft cap from its tilt over an eye. Sall brought his guard up and circled.
Sall came under the shade of the ship’s mainmast. Sailors sitting up on the yardarm jeered and waved their mugs of rum mixed with limes and water. He kept circling. A ray of noonday sun split between two furled sails, catching his eye and forcing a blink. A whooshing hand came left. Reflex saved him and he slipped the jab.
Sall brushed away the dockworker’s inquiring feints and kept working him around the ring. There was plenty of space on the wide main deck of the tall shipRed, whose name was stencilled in the transom above the entrance to the stateroom. On the quarterdeck theRed’s captain watched the fight with the captains of two other ships moored nearby.
Over their heads and distant were the grey nubs of broken mountains where this border country opened into the wild, uncharted waters of the Obotema. This was as far as the government navies would go. All waters past those mountains were unclaimed, and the tales told by those who fared them enough to keep them that way, at least for now. But there was money on the Obotema, enough of it, so towns like these hosted the intermingling creeds of people foolhardy or desperate enough to prepare ventures there, and this far from the center of civilisation the government’s eye missed the finer details of life on the outskirts.
Today a naval frigate was staging an illegal boxing tournament.
The dockworker clipped him good – again. He lost his focus for a second, blinking, but he’d grown up a brawler on the mean streets of St. Augustine, a grey city of stone buildings and cold hearths, and kept himself out of the gangs with nothing but his fists and his wits. He’d fought his way out of there, and now he’d come to the edge of civilisation itself. This wasn’t the end.
He twisted a heel, pivoted out of reach, and as a straight punch passed his nose by the space of an inch he threw a jab in from outside, a strike the dockworker couldn’t avoid. His knuckles drove toward the dockworker’s temple. Now he stepped into it, using all his weight to return the same blow that had almost felled him.
The dockworker’s eyes went dull and rolled white. He landed in a heap.
The largest cheer rose from the crowd, and continued as the punta dropped to a kneel and checked over the downed man. He slapped his cheek. The dockworker stirred, and in a daze tried to rise, but seeing Sall standing was enough. He lay back, groaning. He was defeated.
Now the air swelled in Sall’s victory. People flooded the ring. Sall was surrounded by gleeful sailors waving little red betting slips in cheer, dancing and clapping, coming close to pat Sall on the back. Behind them, losers cast away their slips. Dozens of losing slips littered the floor, a scrunched and crumpled confetti.
A midshipman in a shabby dress uniform sent them fluttering as he came down from the quarterdeck and hastened through the milling crowd with a small, though decidedly weighty hessian bag clutched close to his chest. He went to the punta and offered it to him with both hands.
The punta took it and thanked the boy. The tails of his burgundy coat flared as he approached sweeping through the crowd and took Sall by the wrist. ‘Very well done,’ he said, and raised Sall’s arm into the air. He projected his voice across the scrum, getting their attention. ‘The winner is decided! By knockout, the brawler from St. Augustine, who today stands before you undefeated in the fifth annual fight carnival! I present to you your champion, Sall Edwards!’
The punta raised the purse high, to the swelling cheers of the crowd. Sall needed a drink.
‘And to a champion go his spoils! The grand prize!’
The punta thrust the purse into Sall’s chest. Sall took it and the punta kept talking. ‘Thank you one and all for coming, on behalf of the Squire Party I have been-’ But already the crowd had stopped paying attention to him. Sall stopped hearing the noise of the crowd. It faded, his tiredness looming, his mouth thirsting for a drink. The punta slapped him on the back, and Sall barely felt it. The dockworker was picked up and carted off, and Sall didn’t notice. He heard only the jingle of the gold in the sack in his hands. There was comfort in its weight. He jingled it again, if only to hear that sound.
He checked the purse, to make sure they had not tried to hand him a bag of brass bolts. He always checked the purse. Take enough blows to the head and people start to think you’re stupid. He peeked inside, making sure no other curious eyes could see. Soft nuggets of gold clinked in there. He smiled.
The noise of the crowd rushed back. Sall saw the dockworker leaving with two other locals propping him up. He was still woozy, but as they came to the gangplank leading down to the docks he shrugged them off and insisted on walking himself. After a dizzy wobble he was steady, and looked back over his shoulder at the crowd. He gave an angry shake of the head and left down the gangplank.
The crowd was growing restless around a few barrels of grog being worked by sweating crewmen. Now the fight was over nobody cared about Sall, their minds turning now to filling their cups once or twice more. They’d be put off the ship soon, then drenched in the town’s taverns, but the grog was cheaper where they were now, and the sunlight was fine. Sall went to get his coat. He sidestepped the bulk of the revellers, trying to ignore the looks he was getting and holding his prize close. Many of those who had lost money on him looked at Sall like he owed them a piece. He’d left his shirt and coat with the punta before the fight, and now searched around for him.
Already a midshipman had recovered Sall’s bundle and was bringing it to him, bobbing against the swell around the bar. Sall saw him and caught his eye.
The youngun’s face glowed with admiration. He looked Sall up and down and had to crane his neck. ‘Here, Mister Edwards.’ Sall cradled the sack in his arm and let the boy help him put the coat on. He stooped and shrugged his free arm into its sleeve, already feeling the aches taking hold. The boy drew a nervous breath, intimidated by Sall’s hulking presence. ‘That was the best fight I’ve seen yet. What’re you gonna do with the money?’
Sall shrugged into the other sleeve. With the shirt next he wiped the blood and sweat off his face and stuffed it into his belt. ‘There’s a piece of land, over that way.’ He pointed east, and the boy looked. ‘It’s gonna have my name on it.’
Sall flicked a coin from his pocket. Light fingers picked it from the air and slipped it away in the folds of his uniform. At a sharp whistle the boy spun on a heel, his attention stolen. The punta was waving at him over the scrum. A rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, which wobbled as he beckoned.
‘Fucking- get over here, boy! We need more hands on the slips.’ He produced a match from a hand wadded with betting slips and lit it with a flick of his thumbnail. He puffed the cigarette alight and took a moment to enjoy the first exhale, looking up into the afternoon sky with a measure of satisfaction before doling out more winnings – minus his percentage. It was truly he who was taking home the grandest prize, and all without throwing a punch.
The punta and his helpers still faced their own battle keeping the rabble pressing around them reasonable and at bay. Quick hands ferried winnings out and snatched away slips. ‘No need to rush!’ the punta shouted. ‘Every man gets his piece! Except the unlucky, of course.’
He nodded his head as he counted. Sall turned away. The boy was gone. He looked up at the captains. They had their share. Their attention was focused on themselves, as the winners counted their fresh banknotes. Two of them had bet against the third.
The third caught his attention. He was a pirate, that much was clear. He was dressed well, but there was no mistaking the stiff way he stood, or that outsider look in his eye. He was anxious around the men with patches on their shoulders, him standing there in the wrong clothes with his hands clasped behind his back.
He didn’t belong and he knew it. He was only there on allowance of the cash he’d brought. He was a tall, proud man with black hair, wearing a simple grey vest over pressed trousers, his hair sleeked back. His face was stiff.
At something one of the others said his face flushed. With a tight grimace he reached inside his vest for a further wad of cash. He passed the banknotes over to theRed’s captain, a beanpole of a man draped in a long officer’s jacket that hung over him like a vulture’s down, who took the bills with fingers encrusted by shiny rings glittering with gems.
Running these events seemed to provide him more luxury than the service could, and to Sall the navy captain did not seem any more lawful than the pirate. There were smart pirates, Sall supposed, and today the dark-haired pirate was not one of them. Even from here Sall could tell the others were mocking him.
The loser felt he had been mocked enough. His grimace became a scowl. Penniless and belittled, the pirate decided to take no more and departed down the stairs. He kept his head high even as the other captains’ jeers followed in his wake.
The pirate pushed through the crowd and raised his voice. There was a gravelly cut to it. ’We’re leaving! All crew of theBitter Endmust be back on the ship in one hour! Anyone not aboard by then can stay in this godforsaken shithole!’ A few drunken men and women in loose sailing clothes weathered by sun and salt fell in behind their captain, and the crowd moved aside to let them through. As the crowd parted their path brought them by Sall. The captain saw him. His face hardened, and his eyes narrowed. There was a cold, calculating anger turning inside them. The brown of his flaring irises were so dark they were nearly black.
He stomped down the gangplank with his crew. Sall watched them walk up the pier and disappear into the hubbub at the docks.
‘Hey! Edwards!’
Sall stopped, hiding the sack away in his coat. The punta was calling him. ‘Wait. Wait.’ He pushed through a group of sailors. Sall turned to face him.
‘Leaving already?’ The gambling official thumbed through slips while he talked to Sall. Sall didn’t mind him. He didn’t pander Sall with attention like some of the other puntas did. Those thought of him as their investment, at best.
Sall nodded, looking out over the thatched rooftops of the new town studding the rocky slope up from the old town. The sun was setting through hills of rambling stone buildings overhanging an eroded shore. ‘I’ve booked a stage,’ he said.
‘Already?’ The punta put on a mock sadness. ‘That’s truly a disappointment. There’s more competitions out there, you know. Places you could win five times that,’ he took the cigarette out of his mouth and ashed it in the direction of Sall’s purse. Sall had heard of those places. He wanted nothing to do with them. ‘Where you headed?’
Sall said, ‘I was going to head to Serico, and make my way from there.’
The punta’s eyes flashed recognition. He nodded. ‘We’re going to Serico. We’ll get you there safely. Don’t take a stage, there’s bandits all through those hills.’ He nodded towards the town.
Sall thought this fine naval vessel probably crewed more thieves than honest men. He’d be keeping a close hand on his prize regardless, but theRedwould get him there faster.
‘I’m not afraid of bandits,’ Sall said.
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ the punta said, thinking he had Sall on the hook.
Sall put a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That captain who just left, the one Hartham brought with him,’ Sall said. ‘Who was he?’
The punta clucked his tongue. ’That friendly fellow was Granger Strommken, Captain of the pirate shipBitter End. I suspect he’ll be headed back to the Obotema, where he belongs.’ Now he sneered. ‘Sign of the times when pirates knock shoulders with naval officers.’
Sall nodded. ‘World’s not what it used to be,’ he said. He felt the purse weighing heavy against his side.
The punta gave him a mild look. ‘I’ve got to get back on these slips,’ he said.
‘If you plan to keep me aboard so you can hustle this gold from me, you’ll find I’m not much of a gambling man. I’ll sail until Serico, if the captain permits it.’
‘The captain’s a gracious man, this was his suggestion,’ the punta said. ‘He won a lot of money on you.’
Sall hoped to avoid a fee at the next port, and any other competitions the punta might stage. He grit his teeth, feeling hunted. ‘I will work for my passage.’
TheRed’s captain caught his eye. He had noticed Sall watching him. He gave a nod and raised his glass to Sall and turned back to his conversation.
The punta scoffed and clapped Sall’s shoulder. ‘Of course you’ll work, fighter. Nobody gets a free ride.’
