The Hunt for Napoleon's Justice

The Pisador

The Pisador

Wood snapped and splintered as the remains of Sanctuary wedged into the ice. Shaky hands extended to the fallen, and able men took knives to the tangled sails until the deck mirrored the frozen wasteland ahead.

Bernardo emerged from beneath and grabbed the rail-edge, scanning the shore: There was no sign of life. Nowhere to run. His grip tightened as the two lunatics struggled behind him.

“Constance, leave me to my business. I know it was him.”

“Creedy, please,” she said, her words punctuated by an attempt to stop him. “Bernard, go back to the hold.”

Bernardo turned. “We had a deal–”

Creedy yanked him up by his linen shirt, nearly ripping it off.

“Deal?”

Foul breath melted the chill off Bernardo’s face, leaving it moist.

“You destroyed my ship, you Pisador son of a bitch.”

“Let him go,” Constance said, moving between them, but the drunkard had a firm grip. With a two-handed thrust, she sent him stumbling back.

“Go to the quarterdeck,” she ordered.

The old man stood still, his empty eyes searching for her as if the girl he once knew had suddenly disappeared.

“Now!”

Creedy’s mouth opened, but closed without another sound. He shook his head and reached for the crew, feeling a path out through the crowd.

Bernardo yanked his shirt back into place, glaring at Creedy’s back. If that old man knew anything about Pisadors, he would know their powers were governed by night. Even if the stars lit the sky, few Pisadors could cut a halyard without some sort of sharp edge.

Constance shoved a finger into his chest. “You were to stay in the hold,” she said. “That was the deal.”

“You said stay out of his sight– I did.”

Her indignant look set him on fire. She had tied and left him in the hold since their departure from France. Sea sickness kept him crumpled in a puddle of his own vomit until, every third day or so, a raven-haired boy ventured below to strip Bernardo’s clothes and wipe him down.

“Captain.” A man poked his weathered head out from the hold. “Water’s bleeding through the hull.”

Constance looked at Creedy, as usual, but the old man offered no advice as their only doctor wrapped a blanket around him.

“Salvage whatever supplies you can and lower the gangplank,” she said, and the crew, without further spectacle to watch, dispersed.

Constance snapped her gaze back to Bernardo. “Do not touch anything,” she said.

Bernardo clenched his jaw as he watched her walk away.

She knows this isn’t my fault, he thought. She knew some Pisador well enough for them to give her the pendant around her neck– she knew their limitations… but she was gone before he could argue.

He breathed in the crisp, arctic-summer air to cool his temper. He had to stay calm; Luz would never take him back as angry as he was now. Not that he would ever see her again.

The gangplank smacked against the ground. The crew shuffled across the deck with loaded carpet bags in hand, eager to flee the sinking vessel. Bernardo turned, spotting the captain as she emerged from her quarters– no luggage, no supplies, just a rolled piece of parchment in hand. She strode toward him with rigid shoulders and pressed it into his palm.