When Gods Die

Chapter 51

Catching a scull from Vauxhall’s quay, Sebastian directed the boatman toward the steps near the Westminster Bridge, then settled on the thinly cushioned thwart with his long legs thrust out in front and his arms crossed at his chest.

The night lay heavy and dark around them, the thick cloud cover holding in the day’s muggy heat while hiding the light of both moon and stars. He kept thinking about the woman who had handed Portland that note. What if there had been no mysterious woman in green? What if Portland’s part in the evening’s charade had been less accidental? Less innocent?

A faint breeze skimmed across the prow, carrying with it the sounds of men’s laughter. Looking up, Sebastian saw a livery company barge, its lights reflecting in the dark waters of the Thames as it swept past. He could feel the scull rocking gently with the barge’s passing, hear its wake slap against the scull’s sides, the sound mingling with the gentle splash of his boatman’s oars.

In the pale light thrown by the scull’s lantern, Sebastian studied the man at the oars. He had a thick shock of dark, almost black hair tucked beneath a beaten felt cap, his broad-featured face weathered and toughened by years of sun and wind and rain. With every thrust of his oars the cords in his thick neck bulged, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining the worn fustian of his coat. But his movements were slow, almost laconic. Sebastian was about to lean forward and tell the man to put his back into it when he caught the faint slap of another set of oars coming up fast behind them.

Sebastian glanced again at his boatman’s closed, lined face. There was something about his posture, something watchful, even anxious, that gave Sebastian pause. It was as if the man were waiting for something. Someone.

The sound of the second set of oars drew nearer. In itself, that was in no way unusual. The river was full of wherries transporting passengers from one bank to the other. Given his boatman’s slow progress, a more energetic oarsman could easily overtake them. And yet…

Shifting his weight, Sebastian threw a quick glance over one shoulder. He saw the prow of a dinghy appear out of the gloom, its hull painted black, its oarsman a dark shadow. A man with less acute hearing and eyesight would have remained oblivious to its presence. Deliberately, Sebastian turned his back on the approaching boat.

It was the perfect place for an attack, Sebastian thought. Here he had no place to run, no hope of any assistance from chance passersby. His options were strictly limited. The shore was a distant line of black against black. They were just over midway between the banks, in a river that ran a quarter of a mile wide. The livery barge with its gaily reflected lights and laughing crew was long gone. If Sebastian could extinguish the scull’s lamp, it might be possible for him to go over the side and strike out for shore beneath the cover of darkness. Yet the tide was running strong, and a lamp could be relit. He decided to take his chances here, now.

The dip and pull of the second set of oars came closer, mingling with the gurgle of the river washing against the approaching dinghy’s bow. He could feel the closing boat as a looming presence, a thing of darkness materializing out of the night.

Holding himself tense and still, Sebastian heard the dinghy part the waters directly behind them. He heard its oars slip, heard the telltale shift of timbers as the unknown second boatman rose.

The scull’s oarsman paused in his stroke, his jaw clenched as he stared intently straight ahead. Sebastian waited until the last possible instant, until he heard the whistle of wood sweeping through the thick, sultry air. Then he threw himself forward, flattening himself against the wet, mud-smeared bottom of the scull just as the dark-coated man in the dinghy swung the flat edge of his oar at the space where Sebastian’s head had been.

The momentum of the oar’s weight carried the man’s body around and opened up an expanse of black water between the two boats, the dinghy lurching as the boatman struggled to regain his balance.

Rolling onto his back on the scull’s wet, grimy planks, Sebastian saw his own boatman ship his oars and rise, his lips pulled back in a grimace, a knife clutched in his left hand. Thrusting up his right arm, Sebastian broke the man’s forward lunge and caught his wrist in a hard grip. Beneath them, the scull pitched dangerously. Sebastian lurched up onto his knees.

“Ye bloody bugger,” swore the boatman, his breath foul against Sebastian’s face.

Struggling up, Sebastian felt the scull shudder as the second boat bumped against its side again. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the shadow of the dinghy’s oar raised to strike. Pivoting quickly, he swung the scull’s boatman around, using the man as a shield just as the oar came whistling through the air toward them.

The edge of the oar’s blade caught the boatman just below the ear, the impact making a dull thwunk. With a sharp cry he pitched sideways. His body hit the water with a splash that sprayed through the air and set the scull to tipping violently.

The sharp movement brought Sebastian to his knees again. He freed one of the scull’s oars and brought it up, driving the tip of the handle like a blunt lance into the second boatman’s chest, just as he swung again.

The oar’s tip caught the man at the junction of his ribs. He was a small man, with longish blond hair and the thin, effete face of a gentleman. For one brief instant, his gaze met Sebastian’s. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled off the scull’s prow with a splash.

His breath coming in quick gasps, Sebastian fit the oar back into place. They were near enough by now to Westminster Bridge that he could see its lights reflected in the black waters of the river. He heard the voice of the scull’s oarsman, raised in panic. “Help! I cain’t swim.”

The worn wood of the oars felt smooth beneath his hands as Sebastian settled into place. Pausing, he glanced over at the oarsman’s bobbing head. “Who hired you?”

“Bloody ’ell. Throw me a line. I cain’t swim.”

“Then I suggest you save your breath,” said Sebastian, leaning into his oars.

Swearing loudly, the boatman called after him, “The yellow-headed bloke in the greatcoat. ’E ’ired me. I dunno who he is.”

Sebastian scanned the gently heaving waters. The blond-headed man in the dark greatcoat had disappeared.

The boatman’s voice came again. “Oy. Ye gonna throw me a line?”

“Here.” Sebastian nudged the dinghy’s floating oar toward the floundering man. “I suggest you use it to remove yourself from the vicinity. The Thames Patrol doesn’t tend to look kindly on boatmen who try to murder their fares.”