Contrary to Wayland’s prediction and Kit’s expectation, their would-be saboteur arrived outside the workshop in the dead of night.
Kit woke to the sound of the heavy chain securing the door softly clinking as it was carefully pulled free of the heavy handles.
Instantly awake, he rolled out of his hammock and landed, light as a cat, on his feet. He didn’t dare call to Wayland. He had to trust that his friend’s senses were as acute as his own.
The doors slowly parted, drawn back to reveal a moon-washed scene inhabited by dark shadows—the trees of the Grove and, in the distance, the buildings on the other side of the Floating Harbor.
Then a large, dense shadow appeared around the edge of one door. Other than that the fellow was wearing a heavy coat and, beneath a wide-brimmed hat, appeared to have a muffler wound around his face, Kit couldn’t tell more from the man’s outline as he stepped into the workshop and tugged the doors closed.
Blinking furiously to readjust his sight, temporarily impaired by the moonlight, Kit held still and silent. A second later, he picked out the moving shadow as the man walked several paces into the workshop, then halted and fumbled with something.
Kit seized the moment of the intruder’s distraction to steal closer to the open doorway of the office.
Then light flared. Kit swallowed a curse and dropped to a crouch—an instant before the beam of the lantern the man had lit swept through the windows on either side of the office door.
The beam swept through at chest height, showing the intruder nothing but empty space. The intruder swung the beam on, playing light through the open door of the design office, and the man paused.
For several seconds, he stood staring at whatever he could see. Given his lack of reaction, Kit surmised it wasn’t Wayland who had caught the man’s attention.
Then the fellow muttered, “Later,” and swung around to train the lantern beam on the hull taking shape within its frame in the workshop’s first bay.
In the backwash of light, Kit saw that, in addition to the lantern, the man was carrying a large sack. He set it down with a clink and a clunk.
The man straightened; he remained standing, playing the lantern beam over the hull—for all the world as if admiring its points.
Keeping low, Kit crept through the doorway, then edged sideways, along the office wall. He crouched and glanced to his right and saw Wayland inch out of his office. Wayland glanced his way, then tipped his head toward the man—who seemed engrossed in studying the keel.
Kit nodded and slowly rose.
The man crouched. Setting the lantern aside, his back to Kit and Wayland, the man opened the sack and started pulling out whatever was in there.
They couldn’t hope for a better moment.
In a rush, Kit crossed the yards to the man, Wayland a heartbeat behind him.
The man sensed them coming and started to rise.
Kit lunged and, ducking his head, took the intruder down in a ferocious tackle.
The man’s head hit the floor. “Ow!”
Kit rolled up and off the man and regained his feet as Wayland reached them.
The man was groaning and clutching his head between his hands; he remained flat on his back on the floor. Wayland bent and picked up the lantern. He fiddled until the flame flared strongly, casting a wide circle of light around all three of them, then set the lantern down to one side.
After a cursory glance at the man—his hat had fallen off, but his muffler was still in place, concealing his features—Wayland left Kit, the stronger and more physically powerful, to stand intimidatingly over their prisoner and crouched to see what the man had brought.
His gaze on the man, Kit heard Wayland’s sharply in-drawn breath and glanced fleetingly his way.
From the sack, Wayland had pulled out a quantity of rags, a large glass jar of what looked like black oil or perhaps creosote, and a long length of fuse.
For a second, Wayland stared at the items, then his features hardened, and he rose to his feet. He looked at the unknown man with utter contempt. “Not content with simply damaging timbers, this time, you planned to burn us out.”
Before Kit could react, Wayland strode to the man, reached down, tangled his long fingers in the knitted muffler, and violently wrenched it from the man’s face. “You fiend!”
The jerk brought the man half upright, gasping like a landed fish; Kit had winded him, and he was still trying to catch his breath.
As the light washed over the intruder’s face, he closed his eyes, groaned again, and slumped back on the floor.