Storm and Silence

87. Nemesis

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 thousand fold, 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.