The sun brushed the tops of the old, rolling hills to the west as they trotted into Portsmouth. He could smell the ocean just to the south, wet and salt and cold, but less wild than its Highlands self. This part of the Atlantic had been tamed a very long time ago, and only dared raise its head when it had the might of winter at its back.
Ignoring the rows of wee houses and shops, they continued toward the port and its accompanying warehouses, taverns, inns, and whores. Finally he slowed, gesturing with his chin toward a well-lit tavern resting on a wide, well-traveled lane. “The Briny Deep,” he said aloud. “I reckon that looks to be a place for a naval lieutenant or two. Ye remember what I need to know?”
Niall swung out of the saddle and tied Kelpie to the nearest hitching post. “Aye. I’ll see ye back here at two o’clock. Dunnae get knocked over the head and end up on some ship bound for the Orient.”
Aden nodded. “I’ll start at the other end and work my way back toward ye. Six hours is all we have; I need to be back in London before the gossips are awake.”
He continued east and south, closer to the water. Niall would look for officers, equals of Vale whether the captain had seen them as such or not. As for himself, he wanted to chat with some common sailors, the ones who would have had to follow Captain Vale’s orders. His father had always said that to know a man’s character, speak to those whose lives he’s responsible for. Or something close to that, but with more profanity.
With the piers and docks and the ocean—gray and flat at twilight—in sight, he stopped in front of the Mizzenmast tavern. It wasn’t even fully dark, yet, but the tavern already spewed fiddle music and loud men’s voices and a few female ones amid the clutter of sound. Wrapping Loki’s reins around a hitching post, he patted the chestnut on the neck. “Dunnae let anyone make off with ye, lad. We’ve a busy night ahead.”
At the Mizzenmast he received only blank stares, even after he purchased a round of drinks, at the mention of Captain Robert Vale. It made sense; Vale had served in India, while the royal navy had men stationed all over the world. This lot seemed to have bonded over their travels to the southern Americas and the Caribbean tobacco plantations. When he inquired where he might find lads who sailed Indian waters, they gave him the names of three additional taverns—the Public House, the Punjabi, and the Water Buffalo.
The latter two taverns, he subsequently discovered, were owned by former sailors who’d each been in the employ of the East India Company. Finding one of them, though, took him nearly an hour amid the maze of building and shipbuilding yards, supply wagons, piers, and broken old sailors lurking in doorways and ready to pounce for enough coin to purchase just one more drink.
Finally he rounded yet another corner, beginning to wonder whom he could bribe to guide him without worryover whether they’d try to murder him in some alley, and a dingy sign with a very large, fierce-looking black cow came into view ahead.
As he drew closer, faded lettering beneath the malformed bovine proclaimed that he’d found the Water Buffalo. It reminded him of some of the worst gaming hells in London, but even more run-down looking. Thank the devil he’d come himself to this one, instead of asking it of his newly married younger brother. Aye, Niall could charm the stinger off a bee, but the inhabitants here weren’t honeybees. They were more likely to be drunk, angry wasps.
Making a quick check to see that hissgian-dubhremained sharp and hidden in his boot, he pushed open the door and walked inside. No one played music here, except for the cymbals between the fingers of the old woman standing on a chair in the corner, her middle bared and brown, intricate tattoos winding up both forearms to vanish beneath the faded red and gold silk she wore above and below her belly. Her feet were bare beneath the calf-length skirt, and decorated in more of the same ink as was on her arms. The old, gray-haired woman rolled her hips to the left and swayed to the right, then the opposite, in a slow, rocking dance accompanied only by the tinny chink of the cymbals. With every sway of her hips she lifted one foot a few inches above the seat of the chair.
“My wife,” the short, bald man behind the counter grunted, and pulled a cork from a barrel to pour a stream of brown liquid into a tin cup. “You looked at her dancing, so you owe me a shilling and I owe you a mug of Indian cider.”
Aden flipped a shilling onto the counter, and it disappeared before it could finish moving. “What’s Indian cider?” he asked, lifting the mug and taking a sniff.Apple, cinnamon, and something musty smelling. Not unpleasant, but not something he’d scented before.
“Apples, cinnamon, blackcurrant vinegar, and ginger. And a dab or two of whisky. I make it myself.”
Elsewhere Aden might have downed the entire cupful, but even up in Scotland he’d heard the tales of men being drugged in taverns and waking up halfway across the Atlantic where they would be declared a stowaway and given the choice of either being tossed overboard or signing on as a member of the crew. Keeping his gaze on the tavern keeper, he lifted the tin and took one tentative swallow. “Hmm. Nae half bad. Ye werenae jesting about the whisky, either. That’s a Scottish dab, nice and potent. Ye dunnae water down yer brew.”
The old man chuckled, clearly flattered. “You’re a brave man, Highlander. And I haven’t helped the merchants or His Majesty recruit crew in a decade. You keep putting coins on my bar top, and you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“Just don’t eat any of that stew he’ll be peddling next,” one of the dozen men scattered about the dark tavern called out, and the others laughed.
“Just for that, Weatherly, I’m giving your supper to Duke.”
“Heh. I thought you liked that dog.”
Amid the continued laughter, Aden stuck out his hand. “Aden MacTaggert.”
The old man shook it. “David Newborn.”
“I’m looking to hear some tales about a particular man,” Aden went on. “And I have a bit of coin if the stories turn out to be true.”
“Which man’s made you so curious, then?”
“He goes by Vale. Robert Vale. Calls himself a captain, late of theMerry Widowout of India.”
“Vulture Vale?” asked one of the men seated at the long wooden table dominating the center of the space.
“From what I’ve seen, aye, that would be him.” Taking his mug, Aden strolled over to take a seat on one of the worn benches. “Are ye acquainted with him, or just his name?”
“How much coin is it worth to you if I answer that?” the tall, skeletal man with a startling shock of ginger hair asked.
“That depends on how much ye actually know.”
“I’ll tell you he’s a right bastard for free,” a second, red-faced man seated toward the end of the table stated.
“I reckoned he was that, all on my own,” Aden returned. “Tell me someaught more interesting. More personal.”
