Chapter 33

He stepped over the human shapes held fast by mucus and approached the most tightly bound figure-the captain's coat and tricorn hat were still rising and falling faintly.

Rossi stopped and raised his face.

"Good afternoon, Captain Farid."

His tone was as calm as if he were greeting an old acquaintance.

"The fighting is over.

We might as well discuss what comes next."

After a brief pause, he added:

"For example-joining forces against the Jedi Family. What do you think?"

Several nautical miles away, three battle-scarred ships were slowly making their way toward Spandamruze Port.

At the same moment, the receiver of a certain Den Den Mushi was lifted, and a message traveled like an electric current toward a warship named the Money

.

Inside the lavishly furnished captain's quarters, "Big Bucks"

Thompson held the receiver, while "Bow Tie"

Paul stood beside him with a slight bow.

The voice coming from the other end of the Den Den Mushi belonged to Farid of the Lever.

And Lopez of the Gear.

"The man you wanted,"

Thompson said into the receiver, a slow curve forming at the corner of his mouth, "is already in our hands."

The fingers at the edge of the round table curled, then slowly relaxed.

The mustached man stared at the grain of the wooden tabletop, his voice squeezing out between his teeth.

"That... wasn't how it was worded."

The other man sitting opposite him looked away.

Outside the window, the sea gleamed iron-gray, leaving the captain's quarters half in light and half in shadow.

The air smelled of brine, mixed with old leather and tobacco.

"Every word I heard was like a nail,"

the man at the helm of the Lever finally spoke, his tone as flat as if he were describing the weather. "You said: we will bow our heads.

The next time we meet, we'll be enemies."

"No!"

A palm struck the table, making a ceramic cup jump slightly.

A vein throbbed at the mustached man's temple. He drew a breath, trying to steady his voice. "What I said was-we will never bow our heads.

When we meet again, we'll be the ones who earned credit for eliminating the opposition."

The shake of the head was slow, carrying a certain weariness.

The other man did not look at him, his gaze resting on the sliver of light coming through the door. "Arguing about this now is like counting gold coins inside a sinking ship."

The sound of the door hinges turning cut off their conversation.

Rossi entered, bringing in a stronger wash of salty, damp air from the corridor.

He did not speak immediately. First, he walked to the porthole and looked at the lead-gray sky outside.

Only after several seconds did he turn around.

"Prisoners isn't an accurate word."

Both men looked at him at once.

The mustached man was still leaning forward, while the other leaned back into his chair, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the frayed edge of his cuff.

"After Thompson hung up,"

Rossi continued, his voice quiet but every word clear, "you had only two paths left to choose from.

One led to his money pouch, and the other-"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over their faces. "To the bottom of the sea."

The captain's quarters fell silent.

From a distance came the creak of ropes rubbing against a mast, regular and monotonous.

"The Gear was three nautical miles to the southeast at the time,"

the mustached man suddenly said, speaking quickly. "When we saw the Pinta's signal smoke, the wind was from north by northwest.

To help encircle it, we would have needed to turn into the wind. That would have taken at least forty minutes."

The other man finally turned toward him, his eyes sharpening. "The Lever was to the southwest.

If you'd actually turned, we would have entered firing range within twenty minutes."

He paused. "But our orders were to stand by."

Rossi walked to the table, running his fingers over its rough surface. "So neither of you moved."

"It wasn't that we wouldn't,"

the mustached man corrected, his voice dropping. "We couldn't."

He reached inside his coat and took out a flat metal case. He opened it, revealing several crumpled cigarettes.

He drew one out without lighting it, merely turning it between his fingers. "Thompson wanted a live man.

He said that if even one finger was missing, the bounty would be halved.

If he was dead, there would be nothing."

The other man let out a short breath that sounded like both a sneer and a sigh. "He always thinks money can buy off the waves and the wind."

"But it can buy people's hearts."

The mustached man finally lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, the smoke blurring his expression. "At the mayor's ball, the tip he gave a waiter would have fed an ordinary family for three months.

Everyone revolved around him, including..."

He did not finish, but his meaning was clear.

Rossi pulled over a chair and sat down.

Its legs scraped across the floor with a piercing sound. "What revolves around him now is a pair of wanted notices."

He took two folded sheets from his coat's inner pocket and spread them on the table.

The paper was new, but its edges were already worn.

There were no portraits, only printed ship names and numbers-followed by strings of zeros.

Neither captain reached out to touch them.

They stared at those numbers as though staring at venomous snakes.

"He moves fast,"

the man from the Lever murmured. "Faster than we could turn around."

"Because he never trusts anyone."

Rossi folded the papers again. "The moment the Den Den Mushi disconnected, you were already liabilities to him.

Liabilities have to be eliminated. That's his principle."

The mustached man stubbed out his cigarette in the ceramic cup with a faint hiss. "So now we're..."

"Partners."

Rossi finished for him. "Or, more accurately, people who share a secret."

Outside the window, seabirds swept past with a string of shrill cries.

The wind grew stronger, and the ship began to rock slightly. The cup on the table slid several inches to one side before a hand stopped it.

"Secrets come at a price,"

said the man holding the cup. For the first time, he looked Rossi straight in the eyes. "What's yours?"

Rossi did not answer immediately.

He rose and went to the porthole again, this time pushing the glass open.

Cold, salty wind rushed in, scattering the smoke inside.

"Thompson's safe,"

he said with his back to them, "isn't in his residence or his office.

It's inside iron cabinet number seven in the third archive room of the Spandamruze Port Authority.

There are three keys. He carries one, the harbormaster has another, and the last..."

He turned around. "Is in a hidden compartment in the mayor's mistress's dressing table."

The two captains exchanged a glance.

"What's inside?"

the mustached man asked.

"IOUs, title deeds, bribery records,"

Rossi counted off, "and several employment contracts that have been signed but not yet carried out.

Two of them have your names listed as the contracted parties."

The air froze for several seconds.

The other man suddenly laughed, his voice dry. "So he had everything prepared long ago.

Whether it worked or not, we would end up as 'pirates who tried to attack their employer but were subdued instead,' floating dead outside the harbor with forged blackmail letters tucked inside our coats."

"That sounds just like him,"

the mustached man murmured. "At the ball, he complimented how neatly I'd trimmed my mustache.

Thinking back now, he was probably sizing up how thick my neck was and whether it would suit the gallows."

Rossi closed the porthole, and the sound of the wind abruptly faded. "So the choice is actually simple: keep playing supporting roles in his script, or..."

He paused. "Rewrite the script."

"How?"

"Play it the way he expects,"

Rossi said, "until the final act."

The captain of the Lever tapped the tabletop three times in a distinct rhythm. "We need details.

Timing, signals, escape routes."

"And payment,"

the mustached man added. "Not his bounty. Real payment."

Rossi took another sheet of paper from inside his coat. This time, it was a hand-drawn nautical chart.

He spread it on the table and weighed down one corner with the ceramic cup. "The Pinta will enter Spandamruze's eastern channel at the midnight high tide.

The Gear and the Lever will follow three nautical miles behind, maintaining communications silence.

The Port Authority archives are at the northern end of the dock district. The guards change at two in the morning, leaving a fifteen-minute gap."

His finger traced a dashed line. "Once we have it, we'll take the drainage passage into the old harbor district. A single-masted boat will be waiting there.

We can leave territorial waters before dawn."

"What about payment?"

Rossi raised his eyes. "Every document in the safe with his name on it goes to me.

You split the gold coins and jewels equally.

Besides..."

His voice dropped a little. "There's an undisclosed shipping charter in the harbormaster's drawer, covering six major trade routes in the West Blue.

The name field is blank."

The captain's quarters fell silent again.

This silence lasted longer, with only the creaking of the rocking hull and the faint sound of distant waves.

The mustached man moved first.

He held out his hand, palm up.

The other man watched him for several seconds, then extended his own hand and laid it on top.

Rossi's hand covered theirs last.

The three hands rested together, each a different temperature-one warm, one slightly cool, and one carrying the chill of the sea wind.

"One last thing,"

Rossi said. "If any one of us betrays the others..."

"We won't,"

the mustached man interrupted, the corner of his mouth twisting into something that was not quite a smile. "We're sailors tied to the same mast now.

If the mast breaks, none of us survives."

The other man nodded and withdrew his hand. "We need to get our stories straight.

What do we tell Thompson when we return to Spandamruze?"

"Tell him we've caught the man, but the Pinta is damaged and needs towing, so we're moving slowly."

Rossi gathered up the chart. "Ask him to send a ship to meet us-preferably a Port Authority vessel, on the grounds that it will avoid attracting attention."

"Will he get suspicious?"

"Yes,"

Rossi admitted. "But he's more afraid of this becoming a big affair.

A Port Authority ship meeting suspicious vessels during a night patrol-that alone could become leverage against him.

He'll agree, because that way he can control the time and place of the handover."

He walked to the door, placed his hand on the handle, and paused. "Any more questions?"

The two captains exchanged a look and shook their heads at the same time.

"Then start preparing."

Rossi pulled open the door. "Remember, from now on, every word we say and every move we make could be heard by the ears on the other end of a Den Den Mushi."

He walked out, and the door closed softly.

Two people remained in the Captain's Quarters.

The man with the small mustache lit another cigarette, drawing on it very slowly this time.

Through the curling smoke, he looked across at the other man. "Do you believe him?"

The other man did not answer immediately.

He rose and walked to the porthole, gazing at the sea outside as it grew darker.

In the distance, a bolt of lightning silently streaked across the sky. A few seconds later, a faint rumble of thunder followed.

"I believe,"

he finally said, "that someone who can learn the location of Thompson's safe, where the keys are kept, and the guard rotation times is either a madman, or..."

He turned around. "Has already won the first move."

The man with the small mustache blew a smoke ring, watching it twist, spread, and finally vanish in the air.

"Let's hope it's the second move we've bet on."

Outside the window, rain began to fall.

The air in the Captain's Quarters solidified into a block of iron.

The knuckles tapping the tabletop froze in midair. The captain of the Lever stared at the young man opposite him, his Adam's apple bobbing once.

Bolts anchored the oak table legs deep into the deck, as firmly as the ankles of everyone in the room at that moment.

"Sixteen years,"

the captain forced the words through his teeth. "Every dark alley in Spandamruze knows the Jedi Family's walking stick.

Can you hear the tide in the harbor? How many dull splashes of bodies being thrown into the sea are mixed in with it?"

The oak barrel by the door stood silently.

Vergo's back rested against the door, his shadow covering most of the barrel.

No one looked at it, but everyone's peripheral vision was tethered to the edge of that shadow.

A dry smell with the metallic tang of ore seeped through the barrel's seams in thin traces, mingling with the damp, salty air.

The corners of Rossi's mouth curved ever so slightly.

"The tide rises twice a day,"

he said. "The old bones are washed away, and new ones sink to the bottom.