Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 207

‘Does anybody know to what use he is putting his marvellous ship? That he is using it to steal and smuggle?’

‘I don't think so. If they did, I think the Queen might have refrained from her congratulation.’

We were almost directly underneath the large, red letters now. The Nemesis loomed over me like a spider in the centre of its web, ready to strike.

‘Lord Dalgliesh really means business this time,’ Mr Ambrose said darkly. ‘Nobody would be stupid enough to get in his way while he is on this swimming fortress of steel.’

I shuddered. Mr Ambrose’s nemesis travelling on the Nemesis… it was fitting, in a poetic sort of way. How unfortunate that I had always detested poetry.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but quickly, Mr Ambrose grabbed my arm from behind and pressed. Thank God I understood the signal! He had to have heard something, for a moment later, a figure in a dark cloak appeared above us on the deck of the ship. Underneath the dark cloak, I could see a thin strip of bright red. Another soldier of the Presidency Armies.

The soldier made a quick upward motion with his outstretched hand. Mr Ambrose nodded. Non-verbal communication - this was one thing in which he was an expert. A moment later, a ladder was lowered from the ship onto the deck.

Blast! I would have to go up first. My heart hammering wildly, I reached out for the rungs of the ladder.

Do you know the fairy tale about Jack and the beanstalk? You know, the one where this silly chap ends up in a land inhabited by giants by climbing a mile-high beanstalk that leads all the way to the sky? Well, let me tell you, the fellow had it easy! Beanstalks are nothing! The ladder I had to climb to the deck of the Nemesis was at least twice as high as the sky. And all the time while I was climbing, and climbing, and still climbing, I knew that something far worse than giants awaited me at the top. Giants were usually really stupid, and not armed with guns.

Finally, I reached the last rung. My hand reached up to grasp the ship’s railing - and another hand, large, coarse and hairy, gripped mine. I almost jerked back my arm, and remembered just in time that this was supposed to be the hand of a comrade. Before I could think another thought, the powerful hand pulled upwards and hauled me over the railing, onto the deck of the ship. Immediately, I was pressed down and forced to my knees. An angry red face appeared in front of me. Stinking breath full of garlic and alcohol hit my nose, and I gagged.

‘What the hell are you thinking?’ the soldier growled, his voice low but seething with rage. ‘What are you doing here in that getup?’

I stared up at him, eyes wide.

What the heck is happening? What have you done, Lilly? Have you given yourself away somehow, you silly idiot?

The angry soldier grasped a piece of his black coat that was hanging over his shoulder and waved it in front of my face. ‘Completely in red and blue? People will be able to see you from the other side of the harbour!’

Suddenly, I understood. All the other soldiers on the deck, who stood around us in a semi-circle, sinister expressions on their faces, were wearing similar dark cloaks, so as not to be seen by people on the docks. And I didn’t have one.

Blast! Of course they were angry! How long would it take for anger to turn into suspicion? How long before they realized who I really was and-

Thud!

Two feet landed on the deck beside me with an impact that resounded through my entire body. I could see the ends of familiar black trousers peeking out under the blue uniform trousers of the Bengal Army. Without looking up, I knew who it was. But I looked up anyway.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose towered over me, glaring down at the man who had his clenched fist just under my nose. I swallowed. He looked a lot more menacing from this angle. His granite aspects increased a thousandfold, he stood there like a true monumental statue, immovable and awe-inspiring.

The soldier beside me seemed to feel the same. Slowly, he drew back his fist.

Mr Ambrose nodded and gave the man a look that made him retreat a yard or two. Crouching down beside me, my employer looked at me. He didn’t raise an eyebrow or otherwise disturb the perfect cool smoothness of his face, but somehow I got the impression that his eyes were asking: are you all right?

I nodded.

He nodded back at me, and surreptitiously squeezed my shoulder. Warmth spread out from the spot his fingers had touched. Deep inside I knew he had just made the gesture to keep me calm, to prevent me from ruining his plans - but still, this small gesture sent an unfamiliar ache through my heart. An ache that was at once both soothing, and painful.

Mr Ambrose turned his eyes on the red-faced soldier again. And this hardened warrior, used to the glares of dozens of drill sergeants and the hate in the eyes of the enemy, drew back before the cold threat in those arctic eyes.

I couldn’t blame him.

Raising his hand, Mr Ambrose made a quick gesture encompassing the two of us, then he pointed below.

The soldier hesitated.

Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, and the cold force of his dark eyes intensified.

Hurriedly, the soldier nodded. His thoughts were as obvious as if they had been painted on his blue hat: the sooner these two strange fellows were below deck, the sooner they would be out of his way.

Grasping my arm, Mr Ambrose pulled me across the deck, towards the stern of the ship. There, I could just make out a wooden superstructure in the moonlight, with a small door in it.

‘Keep your head down,’ Mr Ambrose said in a low voice. ‘We wouldn’t want to be spotted, now, would we?’

The double meaning in his words was evident - and he was right. I didn’t want to be spotted by people on the docks. And I definitely didn’t want to be spotted by the people on the ship for what I really was.

There was a guard at the door we were approaching. Mr Ambrose made a motion with his head, and he opened the door for us. Without saying ‘thank you’ or even nodding, Mr Ambrose pushed me past him and down into the darkness. The door closed behind us.

We stood in a narrow passageway, its walls made of dull grey steel. A lamp dangled from a hook in the wall, painting the steel with flickering stains of red and yellow. Turning around, I jabbed at the insignias on Mr Ambrose’s uniform.

‘Do you have a higher rank than those fellows out there?’ I demanded.

‘Higher rank, Mr Linton?’

‘Yes! They keep doing what you tell them to do. Well, actually it’s worse. They keep doing what you want without you having to tell them. Are you a lieutenant, or colonel or something?’