“Perhaps our leader,” said Johnny, guffawing loudly. “Yes, a Ram. That would shock the neighborhood!”
The Ram ignored that bit of levity and said after a few moments, “We will not meet until the first Thursday of October. At that meeting you will enjoy a surprise. That evening, after the surprise, I will tell you of our plans for All Hallows’ Night.”
Paul Keason, who had drawn the fourth position, felt in private moments that any emphasis on satanism, on cults, and on warlocks and covens was bloody nonsense. He didn’t want to be a budding satanist or warlock. He wanted to push the limits of what was wicked and unlawful and leave it at that. He suspected that most of the men felt the same way. But to achieve what it was they wished, they had to pretend serious interest in all the Ram’s rites and rituals, which were becoming more elaborate and complex as time passed. All Hallow’s Night was a night for an innocuous party, that was all. He looked at the Ram, relieved that he couldn’t see his expression. Then he recalled the promised surprise. Another girl, more than likely. Perhaps he would draw the first lot instead of the fourth. He looked over at the Ram, sitting silently, looking as dignified as one could in the ridiculous black hood and long full robe. He wished the Ram hadn’t made that particular rule. No one was supposed to know who any of the others were, which was silly. All of the men knew each other, with or without the hoods.
But no one knew the identity of the Ram.
The Ram saw that the girl was slowly regaining her senses. She was twisting a bit and ruining the artistic position he’d arranged her in after the eighth had spilled his seed in her. He frowned. He didn’t appreciate her detracting from the solemnity of the group, from their quiet fellowship. He waited a few more minutes, then raised her head and fed her a bit more of the drug in a cup of brandy. The brandy trickled down her chin. He shut her jaw. She would sleep now through the night. He rearranged her limbs to his liking.
At precisely one o’clock in the morning, each of the eight rose, placed his right hand on top of the red-vellum book, raised his left hand over his heart, and feeling like a complete fool, recited the speech the Ram had taught him. It was blessedly short, so despite the amounts of brandy consumed, it wasn’t beyond any of the men’s capabilities.
“We are the masters of the night. We extol each other and our power. Only we know of ourselves. We are silent. The world knows only of our deeds, and they are awed.”
The Ram nodded gravely when the recitations were finished. He said his own speech alone, his voice going deep to give the words a more moving, vibrant timbre. He was the Ram and he was the master of masters. The name suited him. He nearly forgot to keep his voice disguised, so moved was he at his own performance.
2
The Blue Boar, Falmouth, Cornwall, September 1813
To dispute with a drunk man is to debate with an empty house.
—PUBLILIUS SYRUS
“You drink any more of that swill, and Flash and I will have to bury you here.”
Rafael cocked a black brow at Rollo Culpepper, his first mate and longtime friend. “Swill, my dear fellow? This is the finest French brandy. Old Beaufort assures me he smuggles only the best. Just another little bit, I think. Lindy!”
“More like a bloody keg,” Flash Savory said, observing the huge snifter Rafael was holding. He wondered if he could snatch the snifter without Rafael knowing it. A pickpocket of the first order from the advanced age of five in London’s gin-soaked Soho, Flash still boasted many unusual talents, but convincing his drunk captain to leave the ale house wasn’t among them. He knew why the captain was getting drunk as a lord, knew as well as Rollo did. The captain was feeling cut loose and useless after five years of danger, excitement, and doing things that made a difference to the war. That was it: the captain no longer felt that he mattered. Whatever he did now wouldn’t change or alter what was happening in France or in Italy or in Portugal. And he was back in Cornwall, back where his damned twin brother, curse his eyes, lived and lorded it over everyone. A bloody shame about that Whittaker being a French spy and telling folk about the captain. Ruining everything he did. Flash felt a shiver of fear remembering that Whittaker—or whatever the bloody Frog’s name really was—had nearly succeeded in killing the captain. Well, he’d lost, damn him. And Flash was now caretaker of the mangiest, most perverse, most randy damned cat that ever sailed quite happily aboard a ship.
“Lindy!”
Flash tried wheedling. “Now, Captain, don’t you know that old Hero doesn’t sleep well when you’re not aboard? He meows and carries on, and the crew can’t sleep either, what with all his bloody racket, and—”
“Flash, go away. Now. You and Rollo just go away.”
Rollo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Look, Rafael—”
But Rafael wasn’t looking at him. He was grinning at Lindy, a toothsome barmaid whose ample endowments were difficult to ignore even if a man were sober and bent on abstinence.
“Ye want more, do ye, my fine lord?”
“I’m not a lord, Lindy. I’m not an anything now. No, wait, that isn’t true. Hero needs me, won’t sleep without me, you see.”
Rollo snorted and Flash’s fingers suddenly started itching. He didn’t understand it until he saw the prosperous-looking merchant come into the taproom with his bulging pockets. He forced his attention away from those bulging pockets back to his captain, and stuffed his itching fingers into his own breeches’ pockets.
“Well, tonight you don’t need this Hero,” said Lindy, and poured him more brandy.
Rollo snorted again, then clamped his lips shut. They’d managed to limp the damaged Seawitch into Falmouth harbor the previous day. She’d been crippled in a freak, very v
icious storm just a day beyond the Channel. Rollo guessed that Rafael, in addition to his other worries, wanted desperately to continue to St. Austell, to Drago Hall, but the papers he was carrying were bound for London, and according to Morgan, they were urgent. He looked at Rafael’s abstracted expression and knew the captain was trying his best to bury his unhappy thoughts in a brandy grave.
“’Tis a comely man ye are, Cap’n. Aye, comely.” Lindy ignored both Rollo and Flash, her full attention on Rafael.
“Balm for a man’s soul,” Rafael said, and downed the remainder of the brandy. “More balm, Lindy.”
“It grows quite late, Captain,” Rollo said. “Flash is right; you should come back to the ship and—”
“I suggest the both of you nursemaids take yourselves back to the Seawitch and sleep with that blasted cat.” He smiled vacuously up at Lindy. “I shall spend the night here in Beaufort’s very comfortable inn. It is comfortable upstairs, isn’t it, Lindy?”