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Isaac awoke the next day to find one of the foretopman standing over him, gently shaking his shoulder.
“We're at port, running a little ahead of schedule. There's some man who wants to see you, he was waiting when we docked.”
Isaac rubbed his eyes and rolled out of his hammock. “Who is it?”
The sailor shrugged as the youth pulled on a linen shirt and trousers. “He's waiting out there, go take a look. Big fellow.”
Isaac emerged from the ship's hold, squinting in the bright sunlight. A flock of gulls circled in the blue above; other birds ambushed fisherman with nets full of haddock. Sailors and hawkers mingled on the docks, shouting in a multitude of languages over the din of Portsmouth's harbor. His eyes were drawn to a tall figure standing near a stack of crates; he had long, dark hair and impossibly broad shoulders. His eyes were fixed on Isaac, and he nodded as the younger man acknowledged him.
Why was this man so eager to speak to him? He didn't look familiar to Isaac – he was quite sure that he had never set eyes on the man in his life, and yet he must have asked for him by name. Perhaps he was mistaken; he considered returning to the hold and asking the sailor what this “big fellow” looked like. Eventually he decided against it and forced himself down the boarding plank. The man was no longer looking at him, but was staring out over the water.
“Storm is brewing,” he said, though not in English. Isaac's mind numbed. The last time he had heard another speak that language was about ten years ago. The man turned and looked at him expectantly.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” Isaac replied slowly, using the same language he had been addressed in. “The sky is clear.” A cold trickle of sweat dripped down his neck.
“It won't remain that way for long.” His voice was low and difficult to discern over the noise of the docks. “I have something rather urgent to explain, if you wouldn't mind a short walk.”
Isaac glanced upwards, the sun had already crept halfway across the sky. “This isn't a matter that could be discussed here?”
“I'm afraid not. It's rather confidential.”
“Kind sir, I'm not entirely sure that we've been introduced,” he said, an irritated note trickling into his voice.
“Forgive me,” he said, snatching his hat from his head and pressing it to his chest. “I am Osborn Carlisle of Dale, messenger of Eoghan Lynch, esquire, who I am sure would appreciate your cooperation.”
“What do you know of my father?”
“More than you, undoubtedly.”
Isaac wanted to spit on him.
“Follow me, if you please.”
He bit his lip and fell into step with the shadowy figure, winding wordlessly through the streets of the port city. Every impulse he had was telling him to turn around and run. He had unwisely left the ship without a weapon, and this figure, though he spoke of his father, had a less-than-friendly aura.
Eventually they reached a row of terraced houses. They both paused as Osborn turned a key in the lock, eventually forced to lean into it with the weight of his shoulder to push it open. He lit a small oil lamp in the center of a low table and locked the door again before taking a seat.
The drawing room was small and dank. Forest green walls offered little of interest aside from a large mirror, which reflected the dim light allowed by the small windows. The room had evidently been well-furnished at one time, but a thick layer of dust suggested that it had been neglected for several years.
“I must apologize for the state of the room,” Osborn said. He sat down, dwarfing the small chair.
“It's not a problem,” said Isaac, drawing his chair toward the table. He attempted to discreetly loosen his collar; he felt unbearably warm.
“I'm sorry if I've been hostile, but I have very little time to explain a very foreign concept. It is absolutely imperative that when your ship leaves port this evening, you are not on it.”
Isaac paused, mouthing the last few words of the sentence to himself. “Excuse me?”
“There will be a mutiny on your ship tonight.” Osborn leaned back; the chair creaked in protest. “It won't be a quiet one, either. If you remain on board, your life will be unnecessarily jeopardized. Your father has asked that I retrieve you.”
Isaac paused. “I'm not sure I trust you.”
“I've noticed. Even though I speak your language, I know of your estranged father...”
“So did the men who killed my mother.”
“I see.” He paused, staring into the flickering flame.
“Even if you were to tell me how you learned of this mutiny and were able to convince me that you're certain of your sources, I don't think I would be able to accept your offer. If there is to be a mutiny, then I wish to remain and defend my captain.”
“As I feared.” He shook his head. “You are much like him.”
“Captain Branwell?”
“Your father.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled envelope, which he tossed into the table.
Isaac leaned forward to examine it. His own full name was printed neatly in green ink, the a's slanted in a manner curiously similar to the way he formed his own. A lump rose in his throat.
“Take it. You may read it later, if you wish.”
Isaac picked up the letter and held it nearer the lamp. There was a wax seal on the back, with the same coat of arms that he had seen many times on the documents he found in the attic of his childhood home. He traced the edge of the shield with his finger, marveling at the intricacy of the stamp.
“Is there anything I can say that would convince you not to put your life in danger?”
He took one last glance at the letter before carefully wedging it into his pocket. “No.”
“In that case,” he said, “allow me to leave you with this.” He removed a ring with a large green stone from his finger and set it down on the table. “I ask that you wear it until we meet again. It will allow you to contact me, should the need arise.”
“How does that work?” he asked, skeptical that the large ring would fit him at all. Surprisingly, it fit snugly on his finger.
“You will find out in time. I need something from you in return, though. The silver chain around your neck, could you spare it?”
He touched the silver chain that held the small cross tucked beneath his collar. “I... would rather hold onto this.”
Osborn nodded. “It doesn't matter what it is. I just need something that belongs to you.”
Isaac fished around in the pocket of his trousers until he found a small bronze key. “I have two of these,” he said, pushing it across the table. Osborn picked it up, examining it in the light.
“I still don't see how that helps.”
“It's magic,” he said flatly. “You'll figure it out eventually. For now, just keep that ring with you.”
He slumped back in his chair. Was the man a lunatic, or was he serious? However, Isaac wasn't one to deny the existence of magic – there was, after all, the scar on his shoulder that no doctor could ever explain. He held up his hand to the dim light, watching the stone sparkle as the light caught it at different angles.
“If there's anything I could do to convince you to...”
His words trailed off. Isaac looked up, he pressed a finger to his lips in reply. “There's someone outside the window. Leave through the back door as quickly as you can.”
“What? Why?” Isaac whispered.
“It's you they're after. You're unarmed. I'll hold them off.” He drew something from his jacket; after a moment Isaac realized that he was loading a pistol underneath the table.
“Are you sure?”
“You'll have to trust me on this one,” Osborn said. As he spoke, the front door was forced from its hinges, throwing splinters of wood in all directions. A man with a wooden club stood in the narrow frame; he lunged toward Isaac, who leaped onto the table. The heavy man stumbled over the chair where he had been sitting. Isaac picked up the lamp and threw it at him, and it shattered as it struck him in the head, throwing hot oil and shattered glass across the room.
Two more men plowed through the door frame; one of them held a gun. Both Osborn and the intruder opened fire. The gunman crumpled to the ground, his weapon clattering onto the floor. Osborn clutched his shoulder in pain, a red stain was already beginning to blossom. Isaac knelt to pick up the discarded weapon.
“Run,” Osborn said, already on his feet again. His adversary caught him underneath the chin with a vicious uppercut.
“I can't leave you when-”
“Go!” he shouted.
Isaac stumbled over the glass shards and made a break for the end of the hall. He pulled the back door open violently, looking back briefly to see Osborn hurl a chair across the room. He tumbled into the alleyway, heart pounding, and noisily shut the door behind him. He looked down the street: one end was deserted, a group of cloaked men stood at the other. One of the men had turned to the others and was gesturing toward Isaac. They did not look amiable.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He still had the pistol, but it was useless now – he had no means of reloading it. Of course, they didn't have to know that. He hurried toward the open end of the street, his feet pounding the uneven ground as he ran. Turning the corner, he found himself in the midst of a market. Hoping that the crowd would provide some cover, he turned to see that he was being pursued. One of the cloaked men had just overturned a cart of fruit and was hurrying toward him.
He ducked down a side street and into the courtyard of a church. Crouching behind a lilac bush, Isaac listened for any sounds of his pursuers. The murmur of the marketplace drowned out all but the voice of the vicar inside, mumbling prayers. He sat still for another few moments, his breath eventually returning to an even pace. Who were the men? They were too young to be the same men who had killed his mother, but their dress was almost identical. He hadn't been close enough to the men to see the color of their eyes – a blessing, in Isaac's opinion. He stood and leaned into the street. None of the haunting figures remained.
His chest fell into a sigh of relief, and slowly he began his walk toward the docks. As much as he had disliked Osborn, he couldn't help feeling guilty for leaving him alone. Isaac turned and looked down the street behind him. He had deserted him, there was no way around it – but Osborn had insisted that he leave, hadn't he? The heaviness of regret sat like a stone on his stomach as a clock tower struck six. Was it really that late? He didn't have time to return, unless he wanted the ship to sail without him. Dragging his feet, he continued toward the sea, fiddling with his necklace as he tried not to think about the tall man and the red stain that flowered on his sleeve.
